Brixton Market Under Threat

I am the harbinger of doom, seemingly - the opposite of Midas. Everything I touch turns belly-up. And now I feel fully responsible for the impending demise of Brixton Market, SW9.

It all started when Liz and I moved back to the UK from New Zealand about four years ago. We did so for a number of reasons: the proximity to Europe and the rest of the continent, the magnetic pull of budget airlines and their destinations, the extensive history and culture, to be close to those friends and family still here or nearby, and the gorgeous weather. (One of those might not be true.)

No sooner had we arrived than the nation decided it wanted to leave the EU, thanks to ‘that’referendum – or referendumb as I call it. The Great British Back Off. And what did that do to the pound? Yes, it plummeted in freefall and its chute hasn’t yet opened. Brace for impact.

Within three months of buying an apartment in my hometown of Liverpool, one of my close friends decided to move to the USA. I didn’t realise I had quite such an adverse effect on people. Meanwhile, the local council decided that the lovely little bus service that ran near our place should be closed down. Thanks, Liverpool City.

In September we moved to London, to SW9, halfway between Stockwell and Brixton tube stations. We instantly fell in love with the vibrancy of Brixton in particular, especially its market, but obviously word has got round that Mike and Liz are in the ’hood and so, just like Britain has decided to sell up and move out of the EU, Brixton market is now to be sold. To Sports Direct, allegedly.

You can see the obvious connection; Sports Direct has analysed the area and realised that within the market confines people are buying trainers, sweatshirts (admittedly with the visage of Bob Marley on them), fruit and vegetables, seafood, lattes (possibly even seafood lattes), kaftans, prayer mats, curtains, handbags, sunglasses and New Zealand wine. Vietnamese, Mexican and Caribbean food spread their olfactory invitations all around. The market fit for Sports Direct is soooo obvious.

No it’s not. They may well sell trainers and sweatshirts, but the store has all the cultural diversity and personality of a sad warehouse peopled by ghosts or robots, and a reputation damaged by accusations of alleged slave labour in the overseas manufacturing of some of its goods. The fear is that SD won’t be remotely interested in retaining a vibrant local experience, but it may well have plans to open a sports megastore.

 

Still, it’s all guesswork at this point because the company seems to be refusing to comment. Sports Indirect more like it.

I went ‘down the market’ this afternoon just to soak up some atmosphere (you also soak up the occasional waft of a certain type of herbal cigarette – bet SD won’t be supplying that) and to just enjoy the colour of the place. And before you deluge me with accusations of racism, let me tell you that the market is indisputably colourful, in every sense of the word. 

It also makes me feel good about the world. I see (please don’t say trees of green or red roses too – Ed.) lots of happy people and brisk business. Importantly, I see individual stalls of fishmongers, butchers and grocers with their food displayed, scales tipping, prices queried, laughter and jesting. As

I passed one stall the stall-keeper rushed out with a kitchen roll because the woman beside me was sniffing and had no handkerchief. It was cold, winter has arrived. ‘Here, you beautiful lady, take this’, he offered, pulling off a few sheets of blue paper towel. She politely declined, but he insisted. ‘No, really, you beautiful…’

She relented and gratefully accepted, and he went back to his stall beaming. At least he didn’t see me and say, ‘Hey – you de mon what’s causing de market to close down?’ 

I wandered the stalls along Electric Avenue, trying to remember the lyrics to Eddy Grant’s song, humming the tune in my head as I passed the leather stalls, grocers, more butchers, beauty and cosmetic shops. It was bustling, hectic, happy. I’m tempted to say it was a riot of colour. (What? Too soon?) It would be a crying shame to see it bulldozed by a corporate giant. There’s been a market here for 140 years.

When I got home I looked up the lyrics to Grant’s song. One of the lines is, ‘Who is to blame in one country?’ Well, me, apparently, the Anti-Midas.

So if you have a part of your town you’d like to see demolished, or an annoying civic service you want cut back, maybe even an entire currency devalued, please get in touch. Just rock down to Electric Avenue, I’ll meet you there, while we can.