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.

Sirens Wailing Nine

This is my first blog. Well, to be fair, only the first under the Tightly-Furled Umbrella er, umbrella, which, for the sake of convenience and simplicity will henceforth be referred to as the TFU. (To Star Wars fans this apparently also means The Force Unleashed. I quite like that.)

I have written many, many previous blogs - so many in 2013-14 in fact that they ended up evolving into a book, called Against The Current, which is the laugh-out-loud account of how my wife Liz and I spent a year living aboard a boat in France. I say 'laugh-out-loud', but one review I received recently gave it only one star and was headed Shocking. In a way that's correct, the book is shocking in that we bought a boat without knowing what we were doing, set sail on the rivers and canals of France with little or no experience, had no qualifications, and were ignorant of many of the technicalities of full-time boating. Absolutely shocking, but we had a ball, and it was fun.

The person who was horrified by our adventures is obviously a dyed-in-the-wool sailor who no doubt wears a life jacket to bed at home in case flood waters lap unexpectedly against his duvet, which I sincerely hope they do sometime soon. Failing that, I hope an iceberg hits his bed. The book wasn't written for people like him - it's for those who want to know what it's like to take a gamble, sell-up, move to a new country, escape corporate drudgery and do something daringly different. Those sorts of people have given Against the Current four or five stars and rave reviews.

But here I am ranting about the book when this blog is supposed to be about London life. Forgive me, I will atone. Firstly, a bit of background, because I know you are begging for it.

I'm new to London. Liz and I moved here in September this year, and now live in Stockwell. The postcode is SW9 9TL. I had to use the phonetic alphabet on the phone recently to clarify this so that the S wouldn't be confused with F or the T with C, but couldn't remember my Alpha Bravos. So instead I said 'Sirens Wailing nine, nine Traffic Logjam'. That's more appropriate than Sierra Whisky, given the number of times the emergency services scream up and down Stockwell Road on a daily basis. And nightly basis.

We're actually half way between Stockwell and Brixton, so can claim dual nationality, depending on which happens to be hippest at any given time. Either a Stockwellian or a Brixtonian. Personally I favour being a Stockwell gent, not because I have anything against Brixton - its vibrant Jafraican culture is ace mon, it's just the ting - but I have big plans for Stockwell.

Given the moves towards independence driven by Brexit, the SNP, and recently even Canvey Island, I can see Stockwell becoming, for example, an independent country. I'd call it Stockland, and everyone here could claim themselves to be of Stockish ancestry. Our anthem would be Stockland the Brave, and we could all wear kilts. (Except, not wanting to upset the Scottish, we should call them klits.)

Our emblem would of course be the Stockish Thistle - like the Scottish one only a bit broader in the shoulder and with much harder pricks - and we'd have our own tartan, the colours of which would be inspired by the streets: chewing gum grey interwoven with polystyrene yellow and broken beer bottle brown. Lovely.

Or maybe not. But let's not waste some promising material; I will use some of this when I perform in a couple of weeks at The Cavendish Pub's 'Comedy Virgins' gig in Stockwell, in my other persona: ProbaBilly Connolly. You can call me Sir.

See you here next time. Make sure you have your passport ready.