Into Bristol for a gig at the Bristol Beacon, courtesy of the excellent Metrobus service, perfect if you live in South Gloucestershire or attend the University of the West of England, and of course as a doddery old pensioner it’s free for me. It’s bus lanes for much, though not all, of the way, which sees us sailing past the gridlock at the foot of the M32 as we arrive in town. I only have time to listen to part of Courtney Barnett’s latest album, to remind me of what gems I will be hearing tonight.
I have arrived early, as I usually do, so I get off several stops early, both to kill time, to get some extra steps in and get the feel of Bristol in the early evening. The feelings are mixed.
Town as we call it consists of two shopping centres. The bright, shiny and relatively modern designer shops and chain restaurants of Cabot Circus at one end, the decaying hull of Broadmead and its dying downmarket Galleries shopping centre at the other. In truth, I don’t care much for either of them. I leave the bus at Bond Street just short of the old Bearpit roundabout.
By the remnants of the bankrupt department stores is a line of what appear to be homeless and destitute people, queuing for food and a hot drink. It is dry but increasingly cold. This isn’t a good time, if there is a good time (there isn’t a good time), to be homeless. I estimate around 25 people are waiting patiently. The food and drink is being handed out by the Sikh community of Bristol.
I am on the other side of the road, but I stop to watch, hopefully in admiration and not as some kind of poverty rubbernecker. Next to me stands a smiley Sikh gentleman who explains what’s going on and, in testament to my general unkempt and unshaven appearance, kindly offers me the chance of free food and drink. Politely, I decline and explain I am merely passing through but am genuinely touched by the kindness of this community. The man explains that they simply want to help people who have nothing and nowhere. There appears to be no proselytising, as you can get at the Christian-influenced Trussell Trust food banks, one of which I volunteer at, where I sometimes feel that God seems to be at the forefront of some people’s minds, despite the simple fact that He does nothing to combat food poverty on account on account of not existing. After a brief chat with these most friendly of people, which concludes with me thanking him for everything he does, I carry on through Broadmead.
A number of doorways contain what appear to be the sole property of desperate people, including tired old sleeping bags and ersatz pillows, made of what appear to be a bunch of rags. There are more than a few people either huddled in doorways or actually on the walkway itself and I am asked by them to spare some change. I am also approached repeatedly by other people, mostly men but there are some women, too. I don’t give anyone anything for a variety of different reasons. Or maybe they are different excuses?
If I was paid the minimum wage for my voluntary work at the food bank, put together with the weekly donations my partner and I make, we’re effectively giving the Trussell Trust, and so those in food poverty, around £2000 a year. I am not saying we are in any way generous because we can afford it, but I wonder just how much more I can do. There are so many people in the area, completely broken, some drunk on industrial-strength cider, some addicted to drugs, most heavily and permanently damaged, all of whom I fear will die prematurely. If I give one person money, how about the other God knows how many people I pass by?
I don’t carry cash so I used to buy sandwiches for some people. But people I know who work for homeless charities tell me privately that I should think twice before doing that. Give some homeless and broken people money and they will likely spend it on drink and drugs, give them sandwiches and they will likely sell them in order to acquire drink and drugs. The guilt I feel by not giving is palpable but deep down I know these are societal issues. I am happy to leave Broadmead – and Cabot Circus – behind, both albeit different symbols of modern day Britain, on one side rampant consumerism and on the other the left behind.
Leaving the shopping area, next it’s the city centre. Mostly, though not solely, pedestrianised, it’s a bit of a mess if I am being honest. Skateboarders crash around the Cenotaph – that’s all good by me, by the way: they are utterly harmless – and soon it’s the empty plinth where Bristol slave trader Edward Colston’s statue once stood. People always stop and stare at the plinth and so they do tonight. I cast a passing glimpse and wonder how on Earth Bristol allowed the statue to stand there for so long. It’s in the M Shed museum now – I saw it just a few weeks ago – and the most popular attraction in the whole place. It’s a symbol of how Bristol made its fortune – well, the traders did – but as a Bristolian by birth and having lived here all my life, I can’t feel guilty. I didn’t put the statue on the centre. Maybe we should put a new statue there, Dave Prowse from Southmead, perhaps, who played Darth Vader in the Star Wars films, which I have never seen? Or the famous ivory tinkler Russ Conway? Or even Cary Grant?
On a Monday night, the centre is buzzing. The two kebab vans are already in business, as they will be long into the early hours and people are queueing outside the Hippodrome to see the stage version of Back To The Future, yet another movie I have never seen. The plays and musicals at the Hippodrome are hugely popular with Bristolians. I have never understood why.
I am meeting some friends in the legendary Hatchet public house for a pre gig pint but I am still early, so I walk through the Bristol Beacon, formerly the Colston Hall – that old slaver’s name again – to check out what’s going on, particularly the Merchandise stall. At 7.00pm, it’s already busy, despite the fact that Courtney Barnett herself is not on stage for another two hours. Merchandise, or Merch as us hip folk call it, is an essential part of a musician’s income these days, since no one wants to pay for music anymore, so it’s incredibly expensive. You can buy a poster of Ms Barnett for £15, £25 if you want a signed one, CDs are £20, which is way more than you’d pay in a record shop and T shirts are all £35 and frankly they’re crap. I like to support the artist wherever I can, by buying their music or some Merch but where do you draw the line? The mark-up on a T shirt must be, I reckon, in the range of £25, at least. I am not going to say the artist, or their management, is taking the piss because they need to make a living and tonight’s ticket price was £30-odd, which I felt was more than reasonable. After a brief amble, I headed to the pub.
The gig was superb. Barnett is a great songwriter, a decent and very distinctive singer and a quite brilliant guitar player and has a great stage presence. The difference between the recorded versions of her songs and the live performance is vast. It’s a great rock show and very loud for a three-piece, which makes me very glad I brought my ear protectors in order to help prevent further deafness and tinnitus.
Post gig and it’s straight home. The bus arrives immediately and it’s not busy, unlike at weekends when sometimes you can’t even get on a crowded bus due to the sheer number of partying students from UWE. You won’t see the homeless and destitute from the route this bus takes. They disappear from view as they disappear from our minds, a world we know exists, that we wish didn’t but know there is nothing we can do about it.
The bus drops me off and I walk along a dimly lit path between trees and feel perfectly safe. It’s different for girls, I know, and it’s sad that they – girls and women – have to take extra precautions that mere men like me don’t. Not that I would stand a chance if I was attacked, mind you. It’s all about the perception. In 35 minutes from the end of Barnett’s final song, I am walking through my door. I have seen the world and his wife – or is it the world and her husband? – and it set me to thinking just how lucky I am to be able to be healthy and well enough to do this still, how fortunate that I am able to afford it and how tomorrow is a day I can look forward to.
Another day in Bristol over. Time for bed. Did I mention that the Christmas lights appear to be going up?
