Retail Therapy

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As my computer course was cancelled yesterday, S suggested that we go “up to The Mall”, a huge retail park north of Bristol. There is nothing we need to buy, but as it was, by now, sleeting, and the ground is very wet from all the melting snow, a vast shopping mall offers somewhere warm and dry where you can walk for a mile or so.

I know, I know, it’s all very sad. The idea of “retail therapy” is now seen as just a bit pathetic, but was so popular a decade ago. But that was when politicians, even some economists, were describing retail, and other services like banking, as an “industry”. It is not. Of course, we need shops. But the idea that we can sustain an economy by (mostly) importing stuff and then just selling it to each other (often on unsustainable credit) has always struck me as ridiculous.

This idea began (I would suggest) in the nineteen-eighties when the almost racist idea that dirty stuff involving factories and working outdoors would be best done by poorly-paid foreigners, usually in the far east, and the really clever stuff, like product design, banking, share-dealing, property speculation, going on holiday, eating out and funding the arts would be our responsibility in “The West”.

No-one told the foreigners, though, who, blimey, found that, they were quite able to do “the clever” things for themselves actually, thanks very much. In the meantime, Western countries are now up to their necks in debt, and desperately trying to “balance the economy”, i.e. get back to making and growing things for themselves.

I like the new regime, or “current climate” as it’s now known. I like the idea of saving up for, say, a really good quality, and therefore expensive, jacket which is going to last years, if you look after it. And repairing things rather than throwing them away. And making things, and growing food, in this country instead of transporting everything around the world.

CribbsCauseway

Back to The Mall. As these places go, it was looking bright and clean and there are fewer empty units than I was expecting. But many shops were empty of customers, some big names have closed down recently: Jessops (of which more in a day or two) and HMV are the latest. The problem is that all the shops here are national chains; I could find exactly the same products in any town, so why would anyone come here, specifically, for any reason other than that it is the nearest incarnation of, say Next, M&S, Accessorize, H&M, Sole Trader, Clarks Shoes, H Samuel, other well-known jewellers, BHS, Boots, Waterstones (where I bought two books, actually), all the usual phone shops, Apple, Hush Puppies. And John Lewis. When you look through this list one thing strikes me: they mostly sell things that we don’t really need – blingy clothes, garish jewellery and unnecessary technology seem to predominate.

OK, rant over.

Jessops Camera Shops, in receivership.

Jessops Camera Shops, in receivership.


HMV, in receivership.

HMV, in receivership.

The Architects - two full size upright figures inside the Mall, in bronze effect GRP, by Aden Hynes.

The Architects – two full size upright figures inside the Mall. Did they create a huge white elephant or a useful, comfortable place to shop? We’ll know soon… Artwork, in bronze effect GRP, by Aden Hynes.

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Ella’s fund

One of the great characters of the very early days of The Bristol Hash House Harriers was Jo Tarzey. Sane, strong and clever, and lots of fun, everyone admired and liked her. Still do, I’m sure, although we have sort of lost touch over the years (possibly something to do with a running joke we had about rubber underwear, the origins of which I have fortunately forgotten).

Anyway, Jo and her former husband, Bob Redman, had two daughters, the older of whom, Ella, died last November as a result of bone cancer. She was twenty. Ella was keen to promote research into cancers that are common amongst young people and improving the facilities available for their treatment.  I know everyone has their own favourite charities and we don’t like others telling us what we should be supporting, but, if you can, please give here:

http://www.justgiving.com/remembering-ella-redman.

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Age UK

Snow in Jubilee Park
This, currently, is the view from our house. The slope is very popular with young tobagganeers. The grass should have grown back by Spring.

Today, I walked the half mile or so to our shiny new public library where I teach technophobes how to use computers once a week. This is for AgeUK, a charity for older people. Actually, the idea that people have similar needs because they are of a broadly similar age seems vaguely ridiculous to me (like “black” music), and this is being born out by experience. The people I have been teaching over the last few years are varied, enthusiastic and, mostly, interesting. They are as capable as anyone else, but have simply never got around to taking the plunge into the intimidating world of information technology. (Too busy fighting wars and raising children!) Often, they have always had their children or, now, grand-children to do it for them.

Because of the weather, though, today’s session was cancelled. So I walked back home again.

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Wilko

When I was in the Sixth Form at school in Essex in the mid ‘sixties everyone could play the guitar or drums and was in a band, or “group”.

Actually, for “everyone”, read “boys” and for “could”, read “thought they could”. Dave, Oscar and I, with a series of drummers, had a moderate success around the pubs, dives and holiday camps of south Essex, which lasted just long enough to distract us from our A-level studies.

One fellow pupil, however, put the rest of us very firmly in the shade: John Wilkinson actually could play the guitar, as demonstrated during impromptu lunchtime jam sessions. He was a good artist, took Shakespeare in his stride and, as we used to say in those days, was a nice bloke. He travelled in every day from a place called Canvey Island, where, we had it on good authority, dragons dwelt. Although we were in the same Eng. Lit. class for a while, and I think he leant me an amplifier once, we were never close friends and didn’t keep in touch. The last I remember, in the final hay-fever-filled weeks of our schooldays, was that he had been offered a job in Donovan’s backing band, which he declined, much to our amazement. We left school, I heard that he’d gone on the hippy trail to India then to university. I gave up the music business, due to the fact that the levels of drunkenness required in our audiences for them to tolerate us was becoming unsustainable, even in Essex, and a few years later I moved to Bristol.

Then, in the early ‘seventies, a band called Doctor Feelgood appeared, fronted by a robotic guitarist with a familiar lead and rhythm style: no longer John Wilkinson, now, of course, Wilko Johnson.

Well, all this preamble is because a friend told me on Sunday that Wilko has incurable pancreatic cancer. He has decided against chemotherapy but is doing a tour in March to thank all his fans.

BBC Front Row interview.

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The Mathew

The Mathew
Cabot’s ship The Mathew in the Underfall Yard for maintenance. 22 January 2013.

The Underfall Yard, in Bristol Harbour, was constructed in the early 19th century with revisions by Isambard Kingdom Brunel in the 1830s. Following restoration in the 1990s, this Victorian work yard is now a Scheduled Monument that includes several listed buildings. The harbour and its equipment are still actively maintained, and host a cooperative of boat builders.

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Weston-Super-Mare

We’ve just walked from one end of Weston-Super-Mare (the southern, golf club end) to the other (Birnbeck Pier) and back. Millions of pounds have been spent on Weston in recent years, upgrading the sea defences, Grand Pier and other facilities. The trouble is, one can’t help comparing it with Deauville or, better, Trouville, or Le Touquet, or La Rochelle or, well, dozens of European seaside towns. Admittedly, any town looks sad out of season, but it’s not helped by the lowest-common-denominator shops. Identical, down-market cafes selling low-grade, unimaginative, fast food, “Pound” shops, national chains, etc. In France, the place would be packed out with restaurants selling fabulous, fresh, locally caught sea food, with good value wine, beers. Waiters in crisp white aprons. And they’d be full of all age groups. Something to be proud of. The best we get here is a choice of battered cod or battered plaice. And chips. 

Well, is was a Monday.

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Hadrian’s Wall

Hadrian's Wall

This was taken along Hadrian’s Wall in the Autumn of 2011. More photos HERE. I’ve used the picture as a test for uploading pictures. I think the file is much larger than it needs to be and will, presumably, count towards my maximum allowed disk space. There is no need to make the file bigger than the number of dots it displays on screen, so I guess I need to reduce it and upload again. Just feeling my way with this blog at the moment…

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Life of Pi

Saw Life of Pi the other day. I read the book a while ago and thought I’d find the film rather tedious, all that time in the boat, plus I’m not that bothered about 3D.

I was wrong. It was fantastic. The animals looked very realistic. The story was bizarre, as expected, but in a good way. And the 3D! I don’t know why we should find it so amazing, given that those of us lucky enough to have two eyes see in 3D all the time, but the effect was, I thought, quite moving. Sally felt a bit sick though, with the boat movement and choking stench of popcorn, and had to close her eyes for about twenty minutes to avoid throwing up! I was desperate for the toilet for the last half hour, which detracted somewhat, but that’s old age, I suppose.

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Some pre-blog links:

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