Culture shock

(backblipped)

I lived in Nottingham from the ages of 12 to 18. I never really liked the place and was happy to leave. My visits over the years have not changed my opinion; it's a soulless place with little to recommend it unless you are really, really into shopping.

I prefer to draw a veil over most of today, which was a bit depressing. Suffice it to say that by early evening I was in need of a stiff gin and tonic -- not a situation I often find myself in. The barmaid in Yates's was happy to oblige. In an interesting marketing ploy, she even suggested, "You've got to buy a whole bottle of mixer anyway, so why not have a double, it makes it cheaper." Huh? I meekly concurred. In the old days you bought a bottle of tonic water and added as much as you wanted to your drink, then did what you liked with the rest. Not any more, Yates's customers don't get to have any contact with glass. She poured the whole bottle into my gin and then handed me my "glass" -- which although it looked convincing, turned out not to be glass, but plastic. As was S's wine glass.

Yates's used to be a rowdy place with sawdust on the floor, a popular choice to meet up at the start of an evening. It was fun leaning over the balcony watching the milling hordes below. It's still rowdy and popular, but the sawdust is gone, replaced by chandeliers and disco lights, and a generally more corporate look. As we drank, a large crew of bouncers started arriving for work, clad in stab-proof vests. In the as-yet quiet market square, a police van and an ambulance were already in place, ready for the first casualties of the evening. "What are those tents in front of the Council House for?" I wondered. "Field dressing stations", said S promptly. We started to feel that Nottingham city centre wasn't a place we wanted to spend a Friday evening.

Leaving Yates's, we headed off to the Salutation, another former haunt. It's off the main drag -- no bouncers here, but it hasn't changed a bit since the 1970s. Even the customers hadn't changed: long hair, beards, leather jackets, glasses of real ale, heavy metal shaking the ancient walls. We didn't stay long because it was too noisy. Instead we went for a little wander. The streets were still fairly quiet; a shrouded helter skelter incited us to have fun , but we didn't feel much like it.

Walking up Parliament Street in search of a taxi rank, on a whim we wandered into the Turf Tavern. This was the most successful find of a very strange evening. There were only a couple of customers, and the barmaid looked a bit surprised to see us. We quickly figured out that this is because the only patrons of this pub are people who know the staff. It's a small pub and the decor is completely unreconstructed early 20th century -- original tiles, bar, frosted windows, and probably paintwork too. The only change is that conventional pub furniture has been replaced with old, squashy red leather chesterfields ranged round the walls. And the music! When was the last time you went in a pub and they were playing Nancy Sinatra's These boots were made for walking? Grace Slick singing Somebody to love? The Who? Herman's Hermits singing No Milk Today (what??). This was a real time warp -- we thought we must have inadvertently stepped into the Tardis.

After enjoying the nostalgia fest in a melancholy way, S chatted to the barman who despite being 15 years younger than us claimed that this was music he'd grown up with as a teenager. Well, he was a toddler when most of it came out, but perhaps his parents listened to it. Hmm, we thought it was a lovely pub, but having googled it I find it's where all the drunks go when all the other pubs in town have closed, "a den of debauchery, violence and sin" open till 4 am. With bouncers.

This had to be my blip for today, but I actually managed a contribution to my mono project from a barely moving car on the M1. It was my last chance at a Yorkshire lone tree -- we are off back to France tomorrow.