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.

Through a child's eyes

Limehouse Basin, Tower Hamlets

 Last week me and about thirty noisy kids went for a walk around Limehouse Basin, an upmarket marina in Tower Hamlets just off the Thames. I was there in my capacity as a (new) education volunteer for the Canal and River Trust (CRT), the organisation which looks after Britain's inland waterways. The class-load of children were there to learn about canals, locks, boats, water and wildlife.

It's been many years since I worked with eight and nine-year-olds (I did qualify and work as a primary teacher for a while) but I can tell you that basically not much has changed; they are still curious, noisy, well-behaved and unruly, easily distracted, and excited by the simplest of things. Not that I was in charge - my Barring and Disclosure clearance hadn't come through yet, and until it does (and certifies me as not wanted by the police and free from convictions) - I cannot take charge of the kids. I was there mainly to observe.

And anyway, their teacher - 'Miss' (some things never change) - was officially in charge, supported by a handful of parent helpers to ensure the correct adult-child ratio.

With observation sheets and pencils in hand, the gaggle of gongoozlers was led by Travers, a well-established CRT education volunteer. He began by drawing their attention to the various pictures in their sheets, to pique their interest in spotting coots, swans, historic structures, a lock, bird rafts (floating reed beds for nesting), and so on, and then we set off around the basin.

I was tempted to challenge the kids to see how many millionaires they could spot, since the borough of Tower Hamlets is definitely pricey, but that wasn't part of the observational tasks. Instead I joined in the coot-count (16 for me). Turns out that coots are the most common birds at Limehouse, their black feathers highlighted with a blob of startling white just above their equally white beak, which makes them easy to distinguish from the other wildfowl such as mallard ducks.

Eurasian Coot (Wikimedia Commons: R H Walpole, UK)

We stopped at the lock that enables boats to drop down from the end of the Regent's Canal and into Limehouse Basin. Hoping to introduce the concept of canals and locks, Travers asked the kids, 'Where do you find locks?' 'Doors!' came the chorus of answers. He looked a bit tired at that point.

The lock at Limehouse isn't the best example to illustrate how boats can move up or downhill - it's actually two locks side by side, but one is now redundant and has been turned into a weir. The other was empty, with no boat activity to show it in action. We moved on, the concept of locks best left for the warmth and whiteboards of a classroom.

The murmuration of marine explorers had their attention directed to the boats moored in the basin. Travers pointed to one older boat which would have been used to ferry goods up the Thames 'in the old days'. 'What would be carried in old ships like these?' he asked the kids. 'Treasure!' came the enthusiastic replies. 

An old working barge (actually based at Ellesmere Port).

We established that 'cargo' was the word we used when generally talking about goods transported by boat. It wasn't as exciting as treasure, but it is in fact the prime reason our canal system exists; boats in the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries carried all manner of cargoes on the inland waterways, from silica for glass-making, cotton, and coal, to grain, cement and fertiliser. And passengers.

 

The orbit of Limehouse also included some basic science. In the guide sheet there's a section on water quality. The kids have to predict, by placing a tick on a scale from one to five, what they think the water clarity might be (without having seen it up close at this stage). Only one ticked box five for 'Very Clear', all the other ticks were in boxes one to three, ranging from Very Dirty to Average.

While they were doing this my job was to nip down to a pontoon and fill a clear drink bottle with water from Limehouse Basin, and keep it hidden from the kids until they were ready for 'the reveal'. After a countdown of three I brought the bottle out from behind my back and flourished it like a magician does with a bouquet of flowers pulled from his sleeve. It was sparklingly clear, much to the surprise of my entranced audience.

The Thames from Limehouse - not so sparkling

Our conversation then centred around swimming, whether it would be safe, whether you could drink the water, and why the answer is no to both (way too cold, plus the clear water could still harbour nasties that could make you sick), but the point we were highlighting is that the water is certainly clean enough for fish, eels, and dragonfly larvae. Hopefully back in the classroom Miss would expand on the environmental aspects, but the opportunity for detailed discussion at the basin was limited.

As I walked with the children from point to point they chattered excitedly and inquisitively about some of the boats they could see, and when they found out that I'd lived on board a boat for a whole year they wanted to know all about that too. 

For me it was a delight to work with these future adults, particularly at an age where, for them, the world is still intriguing, still potentially mind-blowing. Cynicism has yet to emerge, and (hopefully) it will be another three years or so before social media takes over their lives. I'd like to think that this one brief visit to Limehouse Basin might actually help deliver an environmental scientist or two about twelve years from now.

Maybe it will be the little girl who asked me right at the very end of the visit, 'Why do boats float?' There wasn't time to go into weight and displacement unfortunately, but I hope there was enough in my brief answer that she'd follow up that excellent question back in the classroom.

Anyway, as a field trip it was great; if kids like these can, over the next critical five to ten years, retain their curiosity, their sense of wonder, and maybe continue to noisily communicate with each other face to face instead of cryptically by texts and messaging, the next generation will be something to really celebrate.

Gunpowder, No Reason, and Rot

Last evening London was rocked by explosions near Parliament, and although no suspects were arrested we know who was responsible: the city's mayor Sadiq Khan. Oh, and some guy called Fawkes.

Guy Fawkes - a non-event

It was (as you guessed) the occasion of the Mayor's firework display on the River Thames, and Liz and I had front-row seats on a boat mid-stream. Well, when I say seats what I mean is we were standing in the bows of one of the many Thames tourist boats, jostling shoulders with dozens of others as we watched the display light up the sky just beyond Waterloo Bridge.

Earlier, before the pyrotechnics, the boat had cruised upstream past Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, about which our lovable Cockney skipper shared a few interesting tidbits. Blimey, the stories that came out of his north and south, you wouldn't Adam and Eve it. 

But no mention of Guy Fawkes or the plot to destroy Parliament, which I guess isn't necessary now anyway since it's falling down on its own without any gunpowder or treason (just rot) and costing a few billion in restoration and conservation that we can ill afford since we have an NHS that's also crumbling and needs rescuing. (Enough rant; get on with it - Ed.)

The Thames was hugely busy on this particular evening, with large tourist boats, super-fast RIBs, the usual floating obstacles like rusty barges and anchored hulks, and even a flotilla of hardy kayakers battling the chop. Our plate of kipper (that's Cockney rhyming slang I just invented to reference the captain) had his hands full a) not hitting any other boats and b) maintaining our position midstream in the fast and choppy murky waters. He did well, and the life rafts and buoyancy aids remained unused. When you think about it, sending up a distress flare in the middle of a fireworks display would likely have been useless anyway.

The fireworks started, and - thank you Mr Khan - it was a cracking good show; taxpayers' money literally going up in smoke. But it was also the first fireworks event I've experienced in the proper context. I mean, the primary reason we have fireworks in November is to 'celebrate' the failed attempt at blowing up Parliament in 1605, and here we were, within a banger's throw of Westminster watching a commemorative display of controlled and colourful explosions. 

But it's a wibbly-wobbly upside down concept when you think about it - a massive display of potassium nitrate, sulphur, carbon and a few other chemicals - all designed to bang and swoosh and cackle and light up the sky in acknowledgement of an event that didn't happen. 

What are we missing here? There must be plenty of other things in history that failed or never eventuated as planned - why don't we celebrate them as well? The flying saucer crash at Roswell in 1947 for example; why not a day to celebrate this unsuccessful attempt by aliens to invade Earth? We should, every year in the first week of July, be lighting little burners under saucer-shaped paper balloons and sending them skyward into the night.

Canute Day - worth celebrating

And, a thousand years ago, King Canute allegedly sat on his throne and waited as the tide slowly came in and lapped around his ankles and calves, proving to his sycophantic courtiers that in fact he didn't have any divine powers and couldn't stop the water coming up the beach. Surely each year we should all go down to the seaside with our chairs and plonk them along the tideline, celebrating Canute's failure as we are slowly but inexorably - yet delightedly - soaked.

If someone had the time and inclination to do the research, we could probably be celebrating things that didn't happen virtually every day of the year.

It's a shame really that the fireworks barge wasn't moored directly alongside the Houses of Parliament, since that's where all the fuss was 412 years ago, but then it doesn't bear thinking about if it suffered a catastrophic malfunction and blew up.

Then again, that might have solved a whole lot of problems in one glorious spectacular go, and given us something to really celebrate. Remember, remember the 11th November...

Winning and Losing

We won the lottery last week. It's about time, given the amount we've contributed to other people's winnings - to finally reap a reward is only fair - but please, no begging letters; the winnings are accounted for already. (Ooh, that sounds a bit Jewish, sorry. See what happens when you inadvertently put the 'already' at the end of the sentence?)

When we moved to London a couple of months ago, it was in the gut-churning knowledge that the place is expensive, horrendously expensive. It certainly didn't look like we'd be able to afford anywhere to buy, so we decided to rent for a year and give ourselves time to do some research. Which we have done (it didn't take long), confirming that even the lowliest doer-upper in the worst street in the baddest of asses neighbourhood was beyond our means. In fact, we personify the mean in means.

That said, we did find one place right on Stockwell Road, though very small. We quite liked its proximity to transport. Liz even started making curtains for it. You'll recognise it if we get it - it's not often you see a bus stop with curtains.

On a more serious note, we did go and see a classic 'worst house in best street' place in Sunbury-on-Thames a couple of weeks back, and it really was on the Thames - the back garden had its own boat mooring. But oh dear oh dear - saggy, smelly, creaky... and that was just me; the house was worse, having had the same people living in it for about a hundred and thirty years. It oozed lots of things - damp, mould, strange slime - but most of all potential, because its location was hard to fault.

Worst house, best street (the one with the green balcony)

We did some sums (read: Liz did a heap of research and calculations, a spreadsheet, a PowerPoint, two white papers and a projected financial flow chart), found a mortgage broker with a sense of humour, and put an offer in, which sank and disappeared as quickly as a pebble kicked into the river at the bottom of the garden. The estate agent’s laughter could be heard as far away as Clapham.

Half a million quid will buy you a one-, maybe two-bedroom flat in inner London (inner, not central, don’t be daft), £750,000 a small two-bedroom terraced house in Brixton in need of a paint. Dream of an elegant three-storey Georgian edifice and you will wake up with a start when you realise you don't actually have £1.5 million. And even that's for a wreck that needs full renovation by a team of Polish builders. And where are you going to find them with Brexit in progress? (You can't use 'Brexit' and 'progress' in the same sentence - Ed.)

Living on a boat, a possible option...

You could live on a boat of course - don't think we haven't considered it - but even then you need to buy a boat with a mooring, otherwise you're forced to do what's called 'continuous cruising', which means that under the Canal and River Trust's rules you aren't allowed to spend more than a fortnight in any one spot. You must move every two weeks, and not just a boat's length down the canal - you're supposed to cruise somewhere else. And keep doing it, an itinerant afloat, endlessly haunting the waterways in search of a place to hang your skipper's hat.

However, there could be good news, as we've found a place that’s only just come on the market overlooking the Thames and Kew Gardens out Brentford way, which we're going to see this coming Saturday, our lottery winnings in hand. The £2.50 should just about pay for Liz's train fare.