Phil Woodford's REDUCED TO CLEAR

2010-07-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

After the Second World War, apocryphal bands of Japanese soldiers were supposedly hidden so far in the jungle that they’d never heard the conflict had come to an end. For all we know, some of the Emperor’s aged legions may still be kicking around in a makeshift camp they constructed before the mushroom cloud went up.

A similar phenomenon can be observed at the railway station in Weston-Super-Mare, where the proprietors of the platform refreshment stop seem unaware that old-style British Rail buffets surrendered in the 1980s. As a result, they continue to serve unappetising, unbranded sandwiches from an unknown supplier and have kitted the place out with fruit machines that flash so fast that there should be a warning to epileptics on the door. Toddlers with earrings, left unsupervised by their tattooed and pierced parents, mess about with grubby machines selling ‘toy capsules’ and bouncing rubber balls.

It could easily get depressing, but the clientele is having none of it. Patrons sing along loudly to a jukebox hidden at the far end of the buffet – an area which has been converted into a bar. One lady knows ALL the words to Kim Wilde’s “Kids in America”, which dates from the era that the wipedown table mats were first issued. If any buffet-bar has regulars, I suspect this may be the one.. Shortage of staff unfortunately means that the guy who serves the sandwiches also pulls the pints. He moves from one end of the counter to the other in a seamless operation which would do Basil Fawlty proud.

Most of the time, I suspect the antics are good-natured. A cheese and pickle sandwich is washed down with Merrydown and another Johnny Cash number gets the punters’ feet tapping. Before long, there’s a harmless stretching of the vocal cords, as the Taunton service rolls by 10 metres away. There is just a suggestion, however, that things may – on occasion – get slightly out of hand. The clue is the security man who paces the platform and occasionally pokes his head around the buffet door. Dressed in black paramilitary fatigues, with his trousers tucked inside his boots, he wouldn’t have looked out of place with the police in Rothbury during the recent hunt for crazed letter-writer Raoul Moat. Unarmed, probably due to over-officious health and safety regulations, he is forever vigilant.

To say that the rest of Weston is an extension of the buffet is probably unfair to the buffet. Within three minutes of leaving my hotel, I was jumped on – literally – by a gaggle of female teenagers. One grabbed me around my waist and a short while later, when I thought I’d successfully made my escape, another ran up and leapt on top of me for a piggyback. There aren’t many things about the UK that throw me (I once encountered two young women in Cardiff simulating an indecent act with a sex toy in the street), but I admit to being slightly disconcerted by my popularity among the drunken young women of a rundown seaside resort.

I beat a very hasty retreat to the seafront and inspected the new pier which is ‘Opening Summer 2010’. Given that we were already well into July and the place is still a building site, it has to be assumed that the local council made the mistake of employing British contractors. In compensation, 40 multicoloured donkey statues have been erected around the town, although what proportion of the population will recognise them as works of art remains to be seen. I suspect the real donkeys, which still traipse the beach and roll in the sand between rides, will be more popular.

Close to the pier is Weston’s answer to the London Eye. A nice piece of kit that must have taken a fair bit of corporate or government money to set up, but the queues aren’t on a par with the South Bank. The smart lorry hauling a racing simulator is also out of place. It sits uneasily alongside the huts which promise tea, coffee, hot dogs, refreshments, beach goods, chips and jacket potatoes. In that order.

The seafront meanders past a parade of hotels which are low-level in every conceivable sense of the term. Residents can look out over the sea, provided they’re prepared to crane their necks over skips piled high with rubbish, parked cars, a slip road and a newly created arch which seems to borrow its architectural influence rather inappropriately from a Middle Eastern souk.

There is in Weston a strong sense of a town unsure of where it is going. As the old seaside resort decays physically, new sea defences are planned. As the town’s wider raison d’être disappears, the solution is to plough money into fancy piers and fairground wheels in an attempt at reinvention. The pounding beat of music from the local bars, however, where hens in full fancy-dress regalia strut their stuff, suggests that the investment will be in vain. Those who visit Weston today actually like what it has become. They arrive for beer and spirits, fish and chips and pitch and putt. The new attractions will be neither here nor there to many of the young revellers whose obvious intention is to have no clear memories of their visit. The new-look rides and amusements may also prove prohibitively expensive and rather alien to the working-class families and pensioners who appear to be the lifeblood of the town in high season.

A good parallel perhaps would be the pubs in the UK that are closing at the rate of approximately one a day. Is there anything they can do to change their image and attract new trade? Almost certainly not. In many gentrified parts of the country, people just don’t want to go to pubs any more – they don’t socialise in the same way, spend time at home, talk to people online and choose to visit restaurants and other more upmarket establishments instead. And in those areas where boozers are still a staple part of an evening’s entertainment, people like them just the way they are.

Twenty or thirty years from now, there will still be a Weston. But no amount of ‘super’ in the form of cash injections is going to make any fundamental difference to the unfolding mare.

It's not just the expenses that need to change. It's the MPs.

2009-05-16T02:55:00.000-07:00

When I was first selected as a Labour parliamentary candidate at the age of 26, I won’t deny that an MP’s salary would have seemed a pretty attractive proposition. Even hard-done-by Parliamentarians tend to earn more than middle-ranking copywriters in ad agencies. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it that the cash wasn’t my primary motivation for thrusting myself into the political limelight.

My opponent was a gent called Sir Archie Hamilton – the then Chairman of the Conservative 1922 Committee of backbench MPs. He had a rock-solid seat in Epsom, south-west of London, and wasn’t likely to be troubled by my challenge as young Labour pretender. (I did actually manage a swing of 12.4% against him in 1997, which wasn’t too bad. To the consternation of the local Liberal Democrats, I also managed to come second. But second, as we all know, don’t mean diddly squat. I didn’t give up the day job.)

The reason I’m dusting off this ancient and parochial piece of political history is that the issue of MPs’ outside interests was quite a big one in those days. Leaving aside their generous and unpoliced expenses, British Members of Parliament – particularly Conservatives – have traditionally worked as lawyers, consultants and company directors in their ‘spare’ time. These interests are declared on a register and today usually generate little comment.

I remember Sir Archie, who declared a number of such interests, being quoted in the run-up to the election as saying that no professional person would expect to earn less than £100,000 a year. And that was in the mid-90s. His observation gets right to the heart of the current expenses crisis, in my view. MPs often believe that they deserve more money than they are actually paid. Some, such as Sir Archie, choose to find additional paid employment outside the House of Commons, which is at least open and above board. Others just bung the extras on expenses. Eton-educated Tam Dalyell was exposed by The Telegraph as having requested £18,000 for bookshelves, just two months before he was due to retire as an MP in 2005. Interviewed on the BBC, the veteran socialist Baronet was unapologetic. He had a lot of weighty volumes of the Hansard Parliamentary record and needed somewhere suitable to put them on his 200-acre estate. He was given £7,800.

The British Parliament is broadly populated by three types of people. First, there are those who are already wealthy through inheritance, privilege or corporate success – a rather arrogant group for whom Parliamentary commitments are seen as a sacrifice. These businessmen, barristers and barons of the shires claim that they are foregoing lucrative employment elsewhere in order to serve the public and feel they’re entitled to proper recompense.

A second group consists of former public servants, such as teachers, local government officers and so on. They have worked hard over many years and received little reward in return. And while many are no doubt very honest, I’m sure there may be some who feel it’s now payback time.

The third category of MP has never been employed in any role the public would recognise as being a proper job. These are the trade union bureaucrats, policy wonks and party apparatchiks who are probably well meaning, but arrive with few reference points for what might be acceptable or unacceptable in the outside world.

I’m prepared to accept there may be a handful of MPs who defy these stereotypes, but you’d be hard-pressed to fill a Commons committee room with them. All in all, Parliament is hugely unrepresentative of the general public. And this is the other core issue that needs to be addressed.

If we want our Parliament to be full of people who are already ‘successful’ or who have a track record of achievement and now aspire to real financial security and reward, then we have to accept that they are never going to be satisfied with the basic salary currently on offer.

So what are our options?

Well, we can increase the salary to Archie Hamilton’s suggested £100,000 or maybe £125,000 in today’s money. This is, however, completely unacceptable politically. The British public won’t stand for their politicians being paid these kind of sums. And on an international comparison table, it wouldn’t make any sense, as British constituencies are very small. We have far too many MPs for the population.

Alternatively, we can continue the abused system of allowances and expenses. But that’s been blown wide open in The Telegraph. The gravy train has hit the buffers and the wreck is unsalvageable.

So here’s a radical suggestion that would really shake things up. What if we discarded some of the current motley crew in favour of real people? In other words, lose a few lawyers and add a few administrators. Get rid of the intellectual elite (I do use the term advisedly) and replace them with shop keepers, office workers, self-employed caterers, students and old-age pensioners.

I remember the maverick former sports minister Tony Banks once arguing that some of the Commons chamber should be selected by lottery rather than election. I have to say, in the light of recent events, that I am coming round to this point of view myself. What if we elected half the Parliament, but other members were selected randomly in the manner of jury service? It would be a civic obligation to serve.

Of course, there would be many practical obstacles. Jury service usually lasts a couple of weeks, whereas a Parliamentary term is up to five years. How could employers be expected to keep jobs open for people who disappeared for so long? What if the people selected had no relevant experience for serving constituents or no inclination to represent the public interest?

Many things would need to be ironed out, for sure. But the basic principle is a very good one, because it would lead to a House of Commons that was much more representative of the British population. More women, more people from ethnic minorities and more people with an understanding of real life. Above all, a large group of Parliamentarians who would actually be grateful to receive a salary that is between twice and three times the national average. My bet is that they’d have a much better grasp of the issues facing the country. Not to mention fewer moats to fill, gardens to be cleared and bookshelves to be built.

© Phil Woodford, 2009. All rights reserved.

Going to the seaside? Don't forget your tie.

2007-09-27T16:13:00.000-07:00

No one knows Eastbourne quite like Chris Mannion. Every night, the popular veteran entertainer makes his way between seafront hotels, plugs in his double-deck electric organ and entices the elderly residents to the dancefloor. For an hour or two, the clock is wound back as they tango their way around the room to tunes like O Sole Milo – popularised in the 1980s Cornetto ads. Mannion dresses to impress his clientele in the elaborate garb of an old-style variety performer. But his schedule doesn’t allow for a trip to the London Palladium. Just a half-mile drive down the coast and another of his regular evening appointments.

Predictability and tradition are important to most of the holiday-makers who make their annual pilgrimage to the south coast. At one particular three-star hotel, gentlemen are politely requested, out of courtesy to the ladies, to remember their tie for dinner. Most male guests seem happy to comply with this quaint regulation, but there are a few unchallenged renegades who appear determined to show their female companions the ultimate discourtesy. If reports are to be believed, their faux pas has nothing to do with social class, as there is no direct correlation between tie-wearing and the ability to hold a knife and fork correctly.

You don’t need a PhD in sociology to realise that this resort is posher than its visitors. The architecture of the buildings says Telegraph, but the average occupant screams Express. Of course, the majority of the fun-seekers are elderly. And while younger people do show their faces in the hotels, it tends to be for events such as wedding receptions. Something old, something new, something borrowed and a tattoo. After Chris Mannion, or one of his fellow entertainers, has tapped out some classic tunes of yesteryear, the old-time dance troupe retire to bed and the youngsters get to strut their stuff.

There’s an interesting division between young and old on the front during the day too. The beach is for teenagers, twenty-somethings and families – many of whom may well be local – while the promenade is for those who remember the days when the Warmington-on-Sea Home Guard were on patrol against possible German invasion. (Trivia buffs may be interested to know that the Victorian camera obscura on the pier was actually dismantled during the war to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy. What exact use the Nazis would have made of it, I really don’t know. For that matter, I’m not sure what they would have made of the pier itself. But back in the 1940s, I doubt that it hosted a nightclub or shops selling outsized floral blouses.)

Today, the young walk, while the old drive. It would be cruel to describe mobility vehicles as the transport mode of choice for visitors. You only use a mobility vehicle when you don’t have a choice. Nevertheless, there’s an unusually high proportion of pensioners who propel themselves down the front at a speed approaching 10mph. Prom rage seems to be a rare phenomenon, but may be under-reported to the police.

The Wishing Well cafeteria is centrally located at a slight vantage point and has special parking arrangements for the one-seater motors. For this reason, old-timers seem to make a beeline for it. The trappings of the modern world are there in the form of bottles of mineral water, but the seating, signage and ambience would probably be familiar to ageing mods and rockers. T J Hughes – a local department store – is similarly languishing in a bygone era. The furnishings and fashions are desperately out of date and although it boasts a café that seems superficially to have been given a 21st century makeover, the cashier won’t countenance a debit card.

Notes and coins are the common currency in this town, although quite what currency we’re talking about is hard to make out. Across the road from Hughes is a shop selling all kinds of tasty morsels from Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union. One senses that roubles and newly-mined euros are more familiar to many of the town’s workforce than pounds and pence and that the fragile economy of the seaside resort would collapse were it not for the influx of migrants. The hometown girls dream of being pole dancers, while the Polish girls dream of their home towns.

Does it matter that Eastbourne today survives on elderly visitors being served by Eastern Europeans? Probably not. But the first group is going to die out, perhaps never to be replaced. And the second will be moving on, as better jobs and better prospects lure them elsewhere. This is a town that’s clearly surviving in 2007. I suspect that a number of hoteliers still turn in a decent profit. But what of 2017 or 2027? And what of Chris Mannion and his fellow performers? Relegated, I fear, to a battered seaside scrapbook, along with donkey rides, Punch & Judy shows and a walk along the pier.

© Phil Woodford, 2007. All rights reserved. www.washedandreadytoeat.com

Eastbourne captured on a Canon A95 Powershot

2007-09-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

Let the party begin... the stage is set for another evening of entertainment from Eastbourne's very own Chris Mannion.

And that's a long way if you've left your mobility vehicle at the bandstand.

Dance the night away. With senoritas who don't mind swaying 40ft above the sea.

Don't do it! A friendly warning for local residents.