the hidden cost of regeneration

joe moran’s thoughts on liverpool (see 8 jan) and the dwindling of much that was idiosyncratic about the city in the run up to its year of carnival/consumerism, sorry, culture, got me thinking the hidden cost of all this regeneration. never a day goes by without more announcements of investment and renewal in erstwhile declining cities and towns. these days the smallest conurbation has urban pretensions – even whitefield, a sleepy and somewhat unfashionable suburb in north manchester on the way to bury has been boasting of its city-living apartments – surely something of a contradiction in terms (can the suburb genuinely have city living?). it’s all part of the ripple effect – as prestwich, the ‘didsbury’ of north manchester, grows out of reach to the first time buyer and ubiquitous buy-to-let landlord, the carpet baggers search out the nearest potential investment goldmine, and so the merry go round continues.

this selfless bestowing of new life and opportunity to otherwise declining areas has long been the repost to killjoys like myself; the nostalgic anti-progress brigade that im mistakenly identified with. the official line is always that without investors moving in and rescuing us from inevitable slow death by neglect and decay, the whole country would evaporate or rot away. in this scenario a terminally ill backward-looking Britain is heroically rescued by brave entrepreneurs and visionaries of the future. but this isn’t the whole truth – perfectly well organized, vibrant and locally sustainable economies are in fact prey to the greedy clutches of outside profiteers and carpetbaggers.

take hebden bridge, long the haven of vegan hippie communes, ‘retired’ lesbians with kids from hulme and whalley range, and lefty lecturers craving the inspiration of the former residence of sylvia and tom, has sadly succumbed to the ‘march of progress’ with lofts and riverside warehouses springing up, buy-to-let landlords snapping up property for cash, and house prices hiked up more than double in less than 5 years. and of course its not just house prices that are affected, the whole local economy gets a boost or setback depending on your point of view, on whether you are a stock and shares speculator or a small local business.

hebden bridge was already a thriving community with an enviable high street of independent businesses - family run cafes, organic food stores, bakeries, butchers and fishmongers, several bookshops and second hand treasure troves, and a host of locally produced clothes, arts and crafts and jewelers, all providing a living for the indigenous and adopted community and adding to its regional status as a great day out destination. this hebden bridge was the result of just the kind of ‘pioneering’ gentrification way back in the 1960’s that joe moran so astutely deconstructs in his new statesman article, ‘the gentrification of 1960s London produced, albeit briefly, a genuine social mix. Many of the knockers-through saw living on "the front line" as a way of combining their left-liberal credentials with a bohemian cachet, and professed to relish encounters with "the locals". No wonder the likes of Alan Bennett and Michael Frayn found this such a rich seam for their comedies of manners. But the idea of a brave, groundbreaking group of gentrifiers was not simply a myth. They were less risk-averse than most professionals, buying and renovating their houses in the face of sceptical bank managers’

really, he could almost be talking about hebden bridge and neighbouring todmorden - that gentle and hands-on process by a generation of drop-outs and hippies created just the kind of idyllic retreat that ironically has become a victim of its own success. a couple of years ago the developers moved in, its hype plain for all to see, with its sudden surge of ostentatious hoardings on waterfront warehouses advertising the benefits of regeneration and investment to a community that genuinely didn’t need it; as moran puts it – ‘new-builds are emblazoned with logos, telephone numbers and a warning to the nervous buyer: "Only two apartments remaining" '- all the aggressive signifiers of new style regeneration, driven now by anonymous out of town conglomerates and investors rather than the previous post-war style individual pioneers with a genuine and long term stake in the area.

two years or so on, visit hebden bridge and most of the quirky little shops, thriving in equal measure due to cheap rents and actual local need, have disappeared – the craft shop is now an upmarket jewellers, part of a chain, the charity shop a fancy new restaurant, the junk shop long gone replaced by yet another restaurant, the antique centre now a glamorous wine bar, the bookshops shut up and replaced by interior décor shops to furnish the rash of new developments; all reflecting both a hike in rents and the bourgeois requirements of the incoming new ‘gentry’ with bigger incomes and fancier tastes, who attracted by the ‘authenticity’ of the place only hastened its demise, as they destroyed what initially attracted them in the marketeers’ brochure.

as moran concludes, ‘i doubt there is much liberal hand-wringing in Urban Splash refurbs. according to the new Identity in Britain atlas, produced by the academic geographers Daniel Dorling and Bethan Thomas, neighbourhoods in the UK are less socially integrated than at any time since the second world war. the idea of a frontier class, colonising up-and-coming areas, no longer makes sense when the housing market is largely sewn up by established homeowners. but people carry on talking as though they can control the market by deciphering it - as though it were about individual knowledge, rather than collective politics.’

parvus est...

in a world where we are constantly exhorted to super-size, persuaded that bigger is most definitely better, i feel its high time to come out and plead the case for the humble, small cappuccino – you remember small, it came in a cup, with good deep foam and a rich creamy taste; not tall or the preposterous grande in a cumbersome mug or bucket, all milky, weak and insipid…when did we start getting super-sized on our coffee, as well as everything else???

once upon a time nero (who claim to be italian) regularly served a small cappuccino, ‘eat’ offered 3 sizes, small, tall and grande, prêt had only one size and it was mercifully small for a takeaway cup, and kro somewhat reluctantly served a cup instead of a huge mug if you asked nicely. i cant claim to know what starbucks served then or now, but i’m guessing from what i see in the streets that they pioneered the demise of the small option. anyway the thing was, it wasn’t hard work to purchase the simple classic coffees – cappuccino, espresso, latte if you wanted something a bit longer. it might sound slightly pedantic but its all about the ratio with coffee; coffee is based on the rule of thirds. espresso, short, black and intense; cappuccino, essentially an espresso with a third of milk and a third of dense foam; latte, an espresso with two thirds milk, swirl of foam…simple formula, perfect every time.

then something went horribly wrong, and cups disappeared, swiftly followed by any ‘small’ option - pop into one of the countless coffee emporiums in the city and try to spot the word small on the ever more complicated menus. you won’t find it, its simply gone, been erased, rubbed out…it might seem a tiny thing and not worth getting ‘het’ up about, but it’s symptomatic of a much greater problem and i have had to start boycotting all outlets that have infuriatingly expunged the classic cappuccino from our collective consciousness. suddenly coffee sizes start with ‘tall’ or the euphemistic ‘regular’, increasing to the gargantuan ‘grande’ -the inevitable pail of milky, vile slop. obviously this self imposed embargo is presently only inconveniencing me, but all great social/political movements have to start somewhere!

those age-old proportions are crucial – if my first fix isn’t sufficient, i can just ask for a second cup. drinking a giant version isn’t the answer; sometimes quality is more important than quantity. plus, like eating out, it's really about the ritual, the occasion, and the aesthetics of cup, saucer, tiny teaspoon and even the tiny biscotti on the side. its all part of the essential difference between making a big old thirst-quenching cuppa at home and paying for someone else to make you the perfect beverage that you would never bother to replicate in your kitchen.

this particular bee in my bonnet has only been exacerbated by my recent visit to rome, where coffee is always served one way – small and perfectly formed. coffee in rome is everywhere. it’s the home of coffee and they know their stuff. like their pizzas the secret is to keep it simple – the margarita, in england merely the base for a dizzying array of complicated, absurd ingredients, is in italy centre stage, embellishment – free. so it is with coffee, where even my innocuous vice of a small cappuccino after lunch is viewed as a milky over-indulgence!

coffee in rome is a revelation. sold to britons as a cultural indicator of urbanity and sophistication, served by specially qualified ‘baristas’ who like vidal sassoon stylists only create their complicated masterpieces after years of intense training, with not much change from a fiver, in rome it is truly democratic, served in tiny corner shops that look like tobacconists in miles platting, by men who could easily turn their hand to the plumbing or rustle up the local delicacy of fried offal in equal measure. its handed to you in double quick time no matter how many trillions of other romans are huddled up by the counter also quaffing espressos and snacking on a mini croissant or sandwich, and its drunk there and then at the ‘bar’. no seats, no take outs…just drink and go. it’s a joy and at under a euro incredibly cheap.

i realise i’m back home now and none of the above rules apply, but i’d just like a classic cappuccino in a small cup. we are in danger of drowning in a sea of overpriced, super-sized brown liquid, as the big chains cluster the city, opening more and more branches but offering less and less quality or choice, dominating the high street with bigger and ever stranger pseudo coffees. in the process they invariably see off the local independent, increasing the rapid homogenization of our city, and diminishing its unique character, what little is left of it.

perhaps oklahoma is the only place in town to get a real, small coffee. elsewhere there is loading bay behind sandbar, but everyone else has sized up, it seems, scared of the big boys coffee breath on their necks. wise up, people, actual coffee might be close to extinction…

manchester new years eve debacle...m.e.n report

lonely firework at town hall at midnight!

sometimes it’s reassuring to find that you’re not totally out of synch with the rest of the world…or in this case the mighty m.e.n!

you might recall my confusion in a recent posting about the mysterious absence of any focus for new years eve celebrating. there i was wandering about the city centre as the clock drew nearer the midnight hour, waiting for friends to finish their pizza express shifts, and hoping that there might be some fireworks or a bit of a singalong in albert square to join up with…but nothing, not a sausage, nowhere for our assortment of waifs and strays to warm our metaphorical cockles!!! once home and in front of the tv it seemed that just about everybody else was enjoying the countdown to a brave new year in squares and plazas around the globe, sharing goodwill, fireworks and best wishes in the night air, surrounded by fellow citizens. why if manchester celebrates christmas so heartily, ferociously even, does it see in the new year with little more than a whimper…?

last week on my usual mooch round this peculiar metropolis, doing my rounds like an old hound sniffing its territory, i stopped to have a cappuccino with norlander toast and jam at the divine oklahoma, home of the pointless, quirky yet must have item, such as the spinning, multi glow eyeball or bag of bones, eye-sockets and bits (my own guilty pleasures!!), lip salve by burts bees and that essential 7-day moustache pack. its here that i like to sit awhile to watch the world go by and eavesdrop into the lives of the lovely young things who frequent and work in this little emporium to the ordinary. often i take a book or write in my notebook but today my eye was drawn to an abandoned manchester evening news and its curious headline tucked away on p14…

it seems that i was not alone in feeling a little miffed and disappointed by our absence of civic merriment – a poll reveals that 76% of people asked by m.e.n would have liked an organized celebration, and were left feeling flat by the lack of music or fireworks in albert square. council chiefs say it just cant afford the 125k it would cost and that emergency services unwillingness is also to blame! a lead article by alan gardner run in the m.e.n early in the new year makes an interesting read - http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/s/1030148_new_years_eve_falls_flat

bah humbag i say and for once i’m not alone…lib dem leader paul shannon told the evening news, ‘many cities across europe hold successful and enjoyable new year’s eve celebrations. i’m sure here in manchester we would do it even better than them.’

fighting talk mr shannon, fighting talk…

cyclists dismount – here be dragons!

in a city where property is king and it seems that every square inch of manchester has become a ‘vibrant quarter’ or ‘bohemian district’, i have constant trouble describing where i live – its just behind the met, i say, or its just past the station, by the bt building! sometimes i try ‘..you know, behind the bbc and paradise factory..’ or ‘keep going past sandbar, cross the main road and behind the big car showroom…’, but its always a struggle to pinpoint quite where i mean, and it seems that unless you live here, chorlton on medlock or brunswick doesn’t really exist.

from the outside, brunswick is something of a liminal, transitional space – an M1 postcode, but hardly the M1 lifestyle as promoted by the city marketeers. chances are you’ve never heard of it. it’s everything the glossy city centre dreamscape is not. in many respects it’s a forgotten bit of manchester, literally a corridor on the way to or between other more solid locations, traversed by commuters taking a short cut from piccadilly station to oxford road or to the collegiate triangle (umist, uni, and met) that surrounds it, an obscure island behind the city. somewhat off the beaten track it’s been largely ignored and left to its own devises; a hazy nether world, its pre-generated rubble grassed over and covered in brambles like some secret garden or sleeping beauty’s ruined kingdom…

this here be dragons feeling is heightened by its proximity to a gamut of key vehicle arteries - oxford road and upper brook street to the west, and london road to the east - where endless traffic carries travellers to other more salubrious parts of town. add to this the brooding, burly presence of manchester’s ring road cutting a swathe through the neighborhood, and effectively separating it from the outside world, and you have all the hallmarks of auge’s ‘non-place’. guided by campus landscaping and signage, flood lights and high railings, students and staff are conspicuously funnelled away from the estate behind the flyover, and only the foolhardy or pioneering pass the ‘cyclist dismount’ sign beside the muddy underpass, and onwards into the uncharted terrain beyond. a nearby map steering people across college grounds depicts the estate unnamed and curiously blank, like the unexplored territories of medieval cartographers…the world ends here; there be dragons!

within its confines however, life has its own unique rhythm. the mancunian way, shorthand to many of the ills of the modernist social housing experiment, is a incessant presence in brunswick life, a brutalist 60’s concrete flyover fundamental to the flow of the city, its urban ebb and tide. built on the ruins of old chorlton on medlock, it destroyed the neighbourhood that was, and created the present incarnation – a hinterland and quiet backwater that’s home to a largely settled community, in the main the first residents of the brand new 70’s estate of maisonettes and its towering trio of silkin, lockton, and lamport courts, shelter also to a more transient population with sometimes more than its fair share of pimps, hookers and dealers alongside a cluster of assorted creatives, attracted some years ago by the cheap rents and short waiting lists. classic ‘hard to let’ territory, it became home to writers, musicians, artists and designers moved on by the regenerations of nearby hulme and moss side and the rise of the over priced private sector. soon lo-fli magazines, micro recording studios, a rash of bands and gaggle of artists from the nearby art school were fermenting and incubating in the towers tiny flats.

into this heady mix of diy creativity came Apartment, a gallery that’s simultaneously not a gallery, an actual lived-in space, recreating or performing the idea of a gallery, a physical and metaphorical manifestation of the separate and intertwined artistic practices of its two founders, a place to reflect and comment wryly on the dominant discourses of the current art scene; a most clever accident that has supported a generation of artists and fostered a still expanding international network of creative practice.

its latest show is Horst by berlin based painter Nikola Irmer, which was being hung prior to my little trip to rome, the eternal city. since my return the preview has been and gone, and visitors are popping in and out for viewings and cups of tea. i confess to having become quite used to Horst’s massive presence in the living room, and even forget about him in the bathroom, but he is only here ‘til the end of february so i suggest you rush to see him before he packs up and makes his way back to berlin.