Me and my big mouth (I regret nothing)
I think that the title of this blog post would lend itself well to the name of an album track for Pink Floyd, or to the name of a piece of godawful conceptual art.
I’m writing to tell you of a going-on which I endured about a month ago. I didn’t write about this event when it happened; in my mind was a strong image of my dearest mother rolling her eyes at the latest minor pickle which I had gotten myself into. But, as is tradition on my blog, I’ll update you with the details of an event about which you presumably care little.
I was sat on a train heading towards Hitchin from London King’s Cross after a night in Shepherd’s Bush at the War On Want Comedy Gig 2010. For several reasons, the topic of conversation between my friends and I had moved on to the merits of Stevenage.
When I say ‘merits’, of course I mean ‘lack of any remote trace of a morsel of a merit’. Stevenage is patently awful.
Consider the town centre, which seems somehow more befitting of Airstrip One (England in Nineteen Eighty-Four) than Hertfordshire. It is dominated by a clock of wince-inducing ugliness. Next to this is a fountain, which made gave the vicinity a potent smell of ‘eau de public swimming pool’. Nearby are some public toilets, the closer to which one gets, the more one starts to crave the miraculously more pleasant smell of the chlorine.
Elsewhere in the town are plenty o’ sixties tower blocks, and several estates where each house looks more or less identical. This is owing to the fact that Stevenage new town, of which I am talking, was built mostly after WWII on a large scale. Stevenage old town cannot, thankfully, be tarred with the same brush as it’s younger and more brutish brother.
A long walk around the new town gives one a feel of a large social experiment which plainly failed. It’s bizarre.
Anyhow, to return to the train conversation. I was unwisely critiquing Stevenage on a train which passed through Stevenage. Thus, people local to Stevenage were in nearby seats. My words were significantly less stinging than those written here, and were more balanced about the strange feel which a new town has. (That said, I may possibly have referred to it as hell, by stating that if hell turned out to be on Earth, it can only be Stevenage. The truth is that it’s more like purgatory).
I contrasted it favourably to Milton Keynes at least, which is a town of such ugliness that you might find yourself reaching for nearby rusty cutlery with which to gouge out your eyes and thus prevent you from witnessing its ugliness ever again.
I also noted the quite odd, but not bad, cycle lanes which you find around the city. They go over and under roads, meaning it should be easy to get from A to B with pedal power.
Following my balanced summary of the delights of Stevenage (okay, my tongue is currently in cheek), I noted to my comrades that I should have maybe considered that nearby persons might overhear and object to my verdict.
This last point proved as accurate as my ones about Stevenage’s ugliness – as a woman got up to leave the train, and angrily barked at me “have you ever lived in Stevenage?”. I said ‘no’, for I had not. I don’t remember what she said next, but she was presumably going to question the validity of my opinion as I had never resided there.
Before she left, she justified to a co-traveller of hers – “Sorry, I was just really offended by what I heard”.
I now offer a few points of response to the mystery angry female resident of Stevenage.
Are you seriously implying that you have to live somewhere to pass judgement on whether it looks nice or not? That is imbecilic.
Have you considered that you are angry because you live in Stevenage? I’d be angry.
If you’d have seen the sympathetic glances I received from fellow travellers, and a comment about your rudeness from one of them, you might consider that you had been more unreasonable than I.
I’m from Ipswich. I know what it’s like to hear people criticising a town which I love. It’s just others’ opinions on something inconsequential. It doesn’t matter. Let it go.
Even though I take great amusement in pretending that my own worthless opinions are in fact the most important proclamations of truth which a human ear would ever receive, I’m not so arrogant to think that people should share an opinion of mine about a place I have no attachment to.
As well as Ipswich, people often cite the ugliness of the University of York. Like Stevenage, if you’re not a fan of sixties architecture, you ain’t gonna like it. But I have personal attachments to the U of Y, and I love the place. But I don’t get annoyed if people describe it as hideous. I can reflect on it enough to see where they’re coming from.
But no, not mystery angry female resident of Stevenage (MAFRoS). MAFRoS simply descends into blind fury that someone’s opinion of her hometown could feasibly differ from her own.
Me and my big mouth (I regret nothing)
I think that the title of this blog post would lend itself well to the name of an album track for Pink Floyd, or to the name of a piece of godawful conceptual art.
I’m writing to tell you of a going-on which I endured about a month ago. I didn’t write about this event when it happened; in my mind was a strong image of my dearest mother rolling her eyes at the latest minor pickle which I had gotten myself into. But, as is tradition on my blog, I’ll update you with the details of an event about which you presumably care little.
I was sat on a train heading towards Hitchin from London King’s Cross after a night in Shepherd’s Bush at the War On Want Comedy Gig 2010. For several reasons, the topic of conversation between my friends and I had moved on to the merits of Stevenage.
When I say ‘merits’, of course I mean ‘lack of any remote trace of a morsel of a merit’. Stevenage is patently awful.
Consider the town centre, which seems somehow more befitting of Airstrip One (England in Nineteen Eighty-Four) than Hertfordshire. It is dominated by a clock of wince-inducing ugliness. Next to this is a fountain, which made gave the vicinity a potent smell of ‘eau de public swimming pool’. Nearby are some public toilets, the closer to which one gets, the more one starts to crave the miraculously more pleasant smell of the chlorine.
Elsewhere in the town are plenty o’ sixties tower blocks, and several estates where each house looks more or less identical. This is owing to the fact that Stevenage new town, of which I am talking, was built mostly after WWII on a large scale. Stevenage old town cannot, thankfully, be tarred with the same brush as it’s younger and more brutish brother.
A long walk around the new town gives one a feel of a large social experiment which plainly failed. It’s bizarre.
Anyhow, to return to the train conversation. I was unwisely critiquing Stevenage on a train which passed through Stevenage. Thus, people local to Stevenage were in nearby seats. My words were significantly less stinging than those written here, and were more balanced about the strange feel which a new town has. (That said, I may possibly have referred to it as hell, by stating that if hell turned out to be on Earth, it can only be Stevenage. The truth is that it’s more like purgatory).
I contrasted it favourably to Milton Keynes at least, which is a town of such ugliness that you might find yourself reaching for nearby rusty cutlery with which to gouge out your eyes and thus prevent you from witnessing its ugliness ever again.
I also noted the quite odd, but not bad, cycle lanes which you find around the city. They go over and under roads, meaning it should be easy to get from A to B with pedal power.
Following my balanced summary of the delights of Stevenage (okay, my tongue is currently in cheek), I noted to my comrades that I should have maybe considered that nearby persons might overhear and object to my verdict.
This last point proved as accurate as my ones about Stevenage’s ugliness – as a woman got up to leave the train, and angrily barked at me “have you ever lived in Stevenage?”. I said ‘no’, for I had not. I don’t remember what she said next, but she was presumably going to question the validity of my opinion as I had never resided there.
Before she left, she justified to a co-traveller of hers – “Sorry, I was just really offended by what I heard”.
I now offer a few points of response to the mystery angry female resident of Stevenage.
Are you seriously implying that you have to live somewhere to pass judgement on whether it looks nice or not? That is imbecilic.
Have you considered that you are angry because you live in Stevenage? I’d be angry.
If you’d have seen the sympathetic glances I received from fellow travellers, and a comment about your rudeness from one of them, you might consider that you had been more unreasonable than I.
I’m from Ipswich. I know what it’s like to hear people criticising a town which I love. It’s just others’ opinions on something inconsequential. It doesn’t matter. Let it go.
Even though I take great amusement in pretending that my own worthless opinions are in fact the most important proclamations of truth which a human ear would ever receive, I’m not so arrogant to think that people should share an opinion of mine about a place I have no attachment to.
As well as Ipswich, people often cite the ugliness of the University of York. Like Stevenage, if you’re not a fan of sixties architecture, you ain’t gonna like it. But I have personal attachments to the U of Y, and I love the place. But I don’t get annoyed if people describe it as hideous. I can reflect on it enough to see where they’re coming from.
But no, not mystery angry female resident of Stevenage (MAFRoS). MAFRoS simply descends into blind fury that someone’s opinion of her hometown could feasibly differ from her own.
