Artistic Corporation

Homecoming

It had been 40 years since I left England and now, for fortuitous business reasons, I was making a grand return.

Having only the memories of a youngster, I was curious to find out how truly accurate these recollections were and more importantly, I was eager to see how much the island nation had changed over four decades.

I’d been following news stories of Britannia for decades and watched the rise of socialism and the decline of the Empire with great sadness, but how much of this was sensationalism via the media and how much was reality? Based on what I’d read, England was a bankrupt socialist haven where half the people worked in some manner for the state and the other half eagerly awaited funds from the state to survive. Essentially Britain is depicted as a multigenerational welfare society that had long since lost it stature as a strong manufacturing nation steeped in “can do” attitude inherited from the war years. Now just a victim of an open immigration policy and liberal welfare handouts, this once proud country was just another example of European collapse.

My memories of course were very different. As a young boy I knew nothing of economics and politics, instead my country was comprised of green grass, football fields, corner pubs and fish and chips (in newspaper of course). I wore a uniform to school and received a ruler to the hand or backside depending on the nature of my academic crimes.

My parent’s decision to emigrate to Canada was a mystery to me as I never understood the desire to trade Mushy Peas and Chips for a minus thirty degree wind chill and maple syrup.

My parents spoke the Queen’s English and chastised me for any “aint” that came out of my mouth. The three channels on my television overflowed with the likes of Python, Dr.Who and all manner of comedy and variety shows from the Goons to Rolf Harris – from “Some Mothers Do Have em” to “Are you being served”.

My trip to England was split into two distinct portions – A few days in Manchester at the European headquarters of my employer, and a few days in London to relax and see the sights. Joining me was a good friend and colleague who was eager to discover what London had in store for us.

Travel

After leaving Toronto in the evening and flying all night, we arrived at Heathrow at 6AM with an expected layover of two hours before the flight to Manchester.

After waiting like fools for quite some time for our bags that never emerged, we were finally told that they were checked through to Manchester, even though Air Canada specifically told us that could absolutely not happen as we were changing airlines. So we meandered our way through spectacular Heathrow in search of a British Airways ticket counter to check in. After multiple tunnels, elevators and terminals (I believe we changed time zone at one point) we found the domestic check-in and were promptly informed by a lovely young lady that we had no seats on the flight as it was oversold.

Watching British Customer service in action was a delight, despite our exhaustion. At one point I believe we had four individuals including a Manager working for our cause. Phone calls were being made and computers were being scrutinized, however, all for nothing as they could only give us an 11AM flight coupled with sincere apologies and a pass for the lounge - a lounge, it turned out, that was nothing short of a five star resort experience – hot breakfast, drinks, comfortable lounge chairs to nap in and an amazing view of a beautiful sunny morning (first British stereotype shattered).

Arriving in rainy Manchester we took a taxi to our downtown hotel. Although Manchester was a mere thirty minute flight from London it seemed like another country altogether. This is what I expected from reading all those stories about the British economy. Dreary street after street went by with more stores closed than open. While driving down one particular main artery we stared in disbelief as every single store front was boarded up and in decay. Depressing is too lively a word for what we were experiencing. It was obvious why the sun didn’t follow us here from London – nothing worth seeing in better light.

Although we had wonderful meetings with great people in Manchester, we were happy when we boarded the flight back to London after two days of work. Obviously I did not see the entire city in that time and no doubt there are beautiful areas, but the general malaise and hopeless feeling that surrounded Manchester were enough to solidify my negative feelings for this once giant manufacturing hub. Many tried to persuade us that two Premiere Football teams and strong prospects for regrowth made the city very desirable - they seemed very genuine and hopeful, but we just wanted to know why they stayed in the first place.

“The country of London,” One fellow declared, “is too expensive to breathe. But sadly, top talent goes there, and we lot are left to sort through the leftovers. Much cheaper to live here though!” He exclaimed with a smile and a swig of his dark ale.

Cheaper to live perhaps, but at what sacrifice to mental health and happiness? Who am I to judge? A sunny day and a different street may have made all the difference, but we just wanted on that plane.

Before leaving we were advised by our colleagues that we should avoid using a taxi from Heathrow to downtown London and instead take the Heathrow Express – a modern train that went from the airport to Paddington station in less than twenty minutes. They were right, what a wonderful experience – one thing the Europeans have perfected is train travel.

London

Paddington was sensational! Pictures of this historic Station were all I had ever seen prior to stepping out on the platform. Looking up I was transported into a clear recollection of a place I’d never actually been. Huge metal and glass ceilings above my head with dirt and grime from decades of arrivals and departures. I imagined the billowing black smoke of the old steam engines as they would have pulled into that very spot a lifetime ago. No doubt that some of that soot still clung to the rafters and walls of this magnificent place.  I thought about the war and what this station must have looked like during the blitz. I wondered how much of it had survived and how much was rebuilt.  The Brits could handle anything back then!

We were booked at the Marriott hotel downtown, beside the London Eye. While currently a hotel the building was clearly once a center of commerce and social importance and still remained a beautiful example of British architecture conveniently located within walking distance to Soho and the theatres. This convenience came at a nightly price just under an uninsured hospital room in New York (surgery included).

This was our first monetary shock in London but by no means our last. My friend and I chuckled the next morning at breakfast in the hotel where our toast (singular) juices and coffees came to the pompous sum of sixty dollars after currency conversion. Despite that it was the best cup of coffee I’d ever had – the irony being that I needed to fly to this tea loving nation to enjoy it.

The concierge was kind enough to find us tickets for the Theatre on our first night in town. He advised us that we may want to consider staying at the hotel instead of venturing out as it was their annual Christmas Lights event and the ceremony would be overseen by Henry Winkler himself. While tempted to watch the Fonz bang his fist on a switch to power up a Christmas tree, we stuck to our plans to see Book of Mormon and hopped into a waiting cab.

Taxis in London have two commonalities, they all look like a traditional 1940’s style hearse and they are all driven by cockney Londoners (at least the ten we found were). Perhaps this was one of my more pleasant surprises, but after many visits to New York or Montreal and being driven around by the ubiquitous Haitian or Jamaican cabbies, I assumed London would be similar. Instead we got a steady stream of Brits who were fascinated with our accents (first question was always, “Yanks”?) and why we were in town. So friendly was one bloke that he regaled us with stories of his professional boxing career. Wonderful chap but by the time he got to his theory on why the Scots can’t box we just wanted out of the cab.

Theatres and pubs filled our evenings, museums and historic churches our days, almost erasing the mental images we had of Manchester, but which, we wondered, was the real face of the country?

 

Dead Guy



Alien Landing Zone

The England of my memories still exists, albeit sequestered in downtown London, but it left me with sadness and foreboding. For a steep price you can still feel and live the traditional British lifestyle, but it’s now mostly reserved for the tourists, bankers and real estate developers.

The pubs were full and money flowed all around me, from Piccadilly Circus to Oxford Street, but I instinctively knew that beyond those boundaries the real England began. Manchester is without doubt the real Britain; London is now an entitled nation state oblivious or willingly ignorant of what lays beyond her boarders.

The news stories were not wrong - the horrible economy, unemployment, cost of living and social collapse are all very real and very well disguised to the London visitor. If London represents the cultural epicenter of England then the squeeze is on, for there will be no expansion of this city state, more likely the rest of Briton will slowly encircle and erode what is left of the empire.

Back in my room I turned on the television. “Are you Being Served” was playing and I watched it with no joy or humor. That England, like me, has gone, never to return.