Category Archives: community

Big business; good for the community.

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I’ve commented a number of times in the lifespan of this blog about the wonderful place in which I live. Despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe, and even more dangerously, the 50′s and 60′s town planners, Canterbury remains a beautiful, engaging and pleasant place to live.

Yes we have our problems, rough sleepers begging are a bigger problem than in most places in Kent, traffic is a bitch (especially since the introduction of the Westgate Towers trial, which hopefully will have the plug pulled tonight), we have more than our fair share of chuggers on the High Street, but all of these are a by-product of a vibrant, profitable shopping scene which is based in the centre of the town and has a high number of independent stores along with the ubiquitous national chains. The city is very much alive, and very pleasant it is too.

The area of the city I live in is just at the bottom of the main drag, outside the city walls, if that portion was still standing. As an aside we have a good portion of our old city wall still standing, and a walk along it where it overlooks one of the very pleasant gardens we have in the city is a real treat. Anyhow, my area of the city is like a little village, mainly because it was originally a little village. I’ve commented before on our valiant greengrocer, but we’ve also got a butcher, farmers’ market, chemist, four pubs, two newsagents, a pet shop, a printers, some restaurants/takeaways/chip shop, a barber and two hairdressers, a dentist, an off-licence, a bookies, a bank, dry cleaner, soft furnishing shop, hotel, a riverside garden, a baker, a mechanic, everything you could want. Indeed the high speed train to that there London also stops in our little village in the city. As it stands at the moment it would be possible to live and work in St. Dunstan’s and only have to leave to visit a doctor.

I may be guilty of painting a picture of Utopia, projecting my own deep affection for the place onto this, and I make no apologies for it. Like all bloggers I moan a great deal, but when I stop and consider how lucky I am to live where I do, it gives me a nice warm glow.

So, to the point. A few years ago a venerable old petrol station that was sat on one corner closed down. This was a bit of a pain in the arse, it was open 24 hours a day and the shop, whilst a little expensive, was useful. When it went, it was replaced by one of the payday loan/pawnbroker shops and an oriental grocery. They didn’t last too long and the site sat empty for a while, becoming a bit of an ugly derelict. Then the big wooden boards went up around it and they demolition crews moved in, pulling it down along with the old coach works that sat behind it.

Canterbury is a city with two universities, and it was announced that the building going up in its place would be student accommodation, except for the ground floor, which would be given over to retail. Locals looked nervously, wondering what would come into the premises, and then it was announced that it was going to be Sainsbury’s, a Sainsbury’s Local. Some people were up in arms about it. We didn’t need it, and it wasn’t desirable. There is a Sainsbury’s supermarket just over half a mile away down the road in Kingsmead, why did we want another one here? Of course this isn’t a supermarket, there’s no trolleys, it is little bigger than a convenience store, and it is slightly more expensive than the big one down the road, but why would they come and muscle in on our little village?

You see, there is a conditioned response that big business is evil, ruthless and greedy, the big supermarkets will not rest until the indies have been ground into the dirt. But it ain’t so.

It’s now been two months since the little Sainsbury’s opened. They’ve got a cash point, which saves walking up to the NatWest part time branch at the top of St. Dunstan’s, they’ve managed to get six parking bays in the station car park which are free for 20 minutes. The effect it has had on me is startling. You see, whilst I could go to get most of my stuff in the little shops on my doorstep if I wanted farty about stuff, bin bags, washing powder and washing up liquid, a multi-pack bag of crisps and the like, I’d have to go to the big Sainsbury’s, and whilst I was there I’d pick up the stuff I could get from the small shops. This morning I’ve walked out of my front door and gone to the greengrocers and bought some fags, milk, cornflakes and apples (my wonderful greengrocer has diversified, you can’t move in there now but it’s wonderful), I’ve been to the pet shop to get some dog biscuits, the baker for some bread rolls, the butcher for some sliced ham to put in them and some of his criminally good minted lamb burgers, and to Sainsbury’s for some washing up sponges and some ironing water (our water here is so hard it’ll break windows, filling the iron from the tap will leave it a furry mess in a week).

Previously I’d have had to go the big Sainsburys for the ironing water and washing up sponges, and my bread rolls, lunch, dinner, dog food, milk, fags, fruit and cereal would have all be bought there. So not only have I now got it yards from my front door, from local shops selling local produce at cheaper prices and better quality than the supermarket, but also saved money on petrol, saved the planet (give me strength), and, more importantly in my book, had the opportunity to catch up with the people who run these businesses, people with whom I now find myself on first name terms, who will ask after Mrs. Snowolf and the Snowolf herself. We discuss the council meeting about the traffic trial which is being held tonight, we discuss the fortunes of Kent County Cricket Club, if I’m 50p short they’ll let me off it, or at least let me bring it in next time, they ask what I think of this product, that line and so forth. It is so much nicer than ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’. I actually find myself smiling as I do my shopping, it is nice. It is pleasant, it isn’t a chore. I don’t do a weekly shop, I go out every day and do this. It’s saving me a bloody fortune because I’m not hoovering up the junk that is banged out as special offers. I’m losing weight, because I don’t see the two for one chocolate fingers.

I know I’m not the only one who has found this, because I find myself having conversations with the shop owners and other customers they have in there. There’s no rush, it brings it all back down to a personal level, and the independents I mention are all delighted, because they’ve found their takings increase as more people just stroll out rather than going down to the supermarket.

Ruining our little village? The arrival of Sainsbury’s Local has made it stronger, it’s pulled our our community together, and it is really quite wonderful.

But how? Surely this is impossible?

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A Kent pub is reopening for business after villagers gave it a facelift in just one week to prevent its closure.

I wonder what help they had?

More than 100 residents donated their time and money to refurbish the pub.

What? No grants, no loans from the council, nothing like that?

They were encouraged to take action by resident Eileen Dickinson.

But how did Eileen Dickinson manage to do this? Surely this sort of thing can only be done a council employed community cohesion officer or a fourth sector volunteer coordination manager or something?

She said: “I’ve lived here for 20 years, and in that 20 years I’ve seen seven businesses disappear, and I wasn’t prepared to sit back and let this happen again.”

She added she decided to muster up as much support as possible, and 120 people came forward.

I’m amazed the BBC has covered this story. This is an example of people getting together, off their own bat, identifying a problem and then setting out to solve it.

No doubt that if the council had become involved, there would have been conditions attached, the whole thing would have taken six months as everyone involved would probably have had to have been CRB checked, in case anyone brought their kids along to do a spot of painting, and then they would probably have had to have sourced their materials from a preferred supplier at four times the market cost. At the last moment the plug would have pulled, or their licence revoked as it would probably have been offensive to Muslims, too near a school, not had a lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans-gender engagement policy, or something else.

This will never do.

I wish them and their pub well.

The One That Does Not Own Himself. . .

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A momentary departure from the World Cup, which, despite the bloody awful football we’ve served up, is taking a large amount of my time up. Back to real life for a moment.

We’re still in that strange sort of cusp period, trying to figure out how much of what this government says it will do, it will actually do, how much of it is good intention but not possible on closer inspection, how much of it is lies and how much of it they’re not going to mention at all because some of the toys Labour had fashioned are just too exciting and fun to put back into the box.

One thing is for sure, even under this new regime, you do not belong to you. You may have a bigger share in self-ownership than under Labour, but at the end of the day, you do not get the final say in anything.

Two stories that I’ve seen in a most perfunctory recce over the news sites illustrate this perfectly. Firstly there are the CCTV cameras in Birmingham, commented upon recently by Old Holborn. Well, not surprisingly, the predominantly Muslim population in the area of Birmingham were these cameras where installed are significantly unchuffed at being spied upon 24/7 just because they have a penchant for beards and like to prepare their meat in a different fashion.

CCTV cameras are a blunt instruments used to cow the whole area. Terrorists couldn’t give a toss about them. It will make no difference to their plans at all, they’ll simply re-locate. But for the rest of the population, the inference is clear. ‘For your own safety, you are not to be trusted. You are to be measured and recorded and monitored.’

This is how diversity is valued, by telling one section of the population they are suspected terrorists. Oh, don’t worry, Muslims, it isn’t just you, the Irish have been there, as have the South Africans over here during the apartheid regime. We’ll all have a go on this particular fun fair ride before the park closes. Anyhow, the community not surprisingly has decided that this is not what they want and have kicked up a stink. Good. Say what you like about the Muslims, they may be women oppressors, mentalists, and all other things, but they still have a community, in its proper sense, not in some Nicola Murray DOSAC sense. Community has power, that is why successive governments try to break them up.

Sooooo. . .


Bags are to be put over scores of surveillance cameras in parts of Birmingham with large Muslim populations, after local objections.

A small victory, but a victory nevertheless. Except. . .

The cameras will not be used until consultation has been carried out.

Sorry? Consultation with whom? I thought the local community had made their feelings on this matter quite clear. What it should have said was this: ‘The cameras will not be used until everyone’s had a little while to calm down and had it explained to them that unless they shut up that new medical centre will be refused planning permission, or that community centre will have its funding withdrawn, or the council will embark on a full on audit of small businesses adherence to trading laws etc, etc. At which point the cameras will be used anyway.’

No reasonable debate or reversal of decision can be made. Whatever the circumstances. You’ve done nothing wrong, but you must still be punished. Pour encourager les autres.

I’m being cynical. Of course this will absolutely stop terrorism. Just as this sort of thing will stop gangs of feral youth shooting each other (and innocent bystanders) into shreds.

A grandmother has been jailed for five years for possessing a “family heirloom” World War II pistol.

But of course. I can now sleep safely at night because an old WWII pistol, which has been sat quietly in an old shoe box in the bottom of a drawer and probably hasn’t been in a serviceable condition for twenty five years, is no longer a threat. Phew. Thank God for that.

This sort of thing is good, that woman could have struck fear into the hearts of the hard working school leavers, about to embark on a life long career of wearing trousers with the waistband around their knees, talking in some bizarre patois and intimidating old ladies on their way to the shop to buy twenty Lambert and Butler and a lotto ticket.

Thank God there are no guns on our streets. And thank God there are no guns sat quietly in an old shoe box in the bottom of a drawer that probably haven’t been in a serviceable condition for twenty five years.

Everything is OK. Just do as I say, don’t ask questions, don’t make a fuss, take your punishment like a man, it’s for your own good.

The One That Wishes They Would Mind Their Own Business. . .

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At the end of my road is an old fashioned greengrocer’s shop. If this were an Enid Blyton story it would be run by a cheery, ruddy-faced old man in glasses with a big green apron. But this isn’t an Enid Blyton storybook, it’s 21st century Britain.

This means that my greengrocer’s is run by a Bangladeshi couple. These Bangladeshis are people we want in this country. They are hard working, considerate and very pleasant people. Their shop opens at 8 (at the latest) and closes at 7 (at the earliest), their stock is fresh and (excluding the ingredients used in their ethnically specific cuisine) locally sourced. It is fairly priced and I know that when I go there I will get a friendly reception and will walk out with exactly what I want. My life is infinitely better for having this shop at the end of my road, especially since they started selling cigarettes.

Next to the greengrocers is a newsagent. This is run by a national chain and is staffed by a seemingly perpetual rotation of disinterested, rude, ignorant white school leavers who I doubt can spell their own names.

The difference between the two shops is remarkable. The newsagents are more expensive. The newsagents will open at 8ish (at the earliest) and will close at 5.30ish (at the very latest). There are no smiles, no good mornings, just a vacant stare and a ‘what’? Lord knows how much stock they lose as you often have to shout in the direction of the door to the stock room to get the shuffling idiot out to serve you. You could walk out with £100′s in stock, they wouldn’t notice, nor I suspect care. I’m especially pleased that the greengrocer has started selling cigarettes as they are 10p a packet cheaper, and don’t use a till with a CCTV camera attached which shows you it taking a still photo of you buying any age restricted item, this is probably then stored on the till’s hard disk to be uploaded to some gummint website showing social undesirables. Doubtless it’s for my security, but I don’t like it, so now the only thing I bought in there is sold cheaper elsewhere, I don’t go in there any more.

Strange, isn’t it? I speak the same language as the people in my newsagents (the couple at the greengrocer are 1st generation, they speak English, but you have to listen hard and concentrate) and have more in common with them culturally than the Bangladeshis. Yet, because of the sort of people they are and their work ethic and business manner, I’d much rather put my money in the Bangladeshi till.

This is not some ringing endorsement of muli-culturalism. This isn’t me proclaiming to the world that I am a glorious non-racist. Multi-culturalism is bunk, as the Levellers sang, there’s only one way of life, and that’s your own. Someone’s skin colour and religion is as important to me as their eye colour or choice of footwear. Not hurting anyone? Carry on.

It’s great here, it’s like living in a little village where everyone helps out and looks out for each other and not a government advisor or leafelet in sight.

My community likes the Bangladeshis. The psychiatrist that lives next door to me uses them, as do the Brazilians that live on the other side. The Bangladeshis will go over the road to the chip shop run by the Greeks to get change, and the Greeks will go to the barbers run by the Iraqi Kurds to get their hair cut, the Iraqi Kurds will go the white butcher who orders in halal meat for them and others like them. Does the butcher do this because it is the nice multi-cultural thing to do? No. He does it because there is a gap in the market and he can make money out of it.

The Righteous would probably be up in arms, the nasty white man exploiting the religious sensibilities of the Muslims to make money. But the butcher isn’t the villain of the day. There’s worse, there’s much, much worse.

It’s the Bangladeshis.

They’ve come into this country and have neither sought nor taken any help from the State and their righteous minions. These graceless newcomers have set up business, learned the language, inserted themselves right in the middle of the community all by themselves. And they regularly lambast this government and local council.

Not only that, but now they want to do more. They want to expand, they want to make more money. This isn’t supposed to be how it works. They are supposed to be pathetically grateful for the things that are given to them. They are supposed to do as they are told. Well, there’s a storm on the horizon.

You see, the greengrocer’s sits on the corner of my road and the bottom of the high street of this fair city. The main train station lies a 3 minute walk from the door of their shop and to get from the station to the centre of town you must walk right past them. So they came up with this wizard idea. From 8-9 they would make and sell takeaway hot breakfasts for the workers walking past their door to work. From 1-2 they would make and sell takeaway hot lunches for the workers and residents nearby. From 5-6 they would make and sell takeaway hot dinners for the workers going back to the train station to take home. Three hour long sessions of doling out hot, healthy, nutritious, locally sourced, cheap food (and given the aroma coming from the food that Mrs. Greengrocer eats, it would taste bloody fantastic) all made with produce they sell in their shop.

Mr Greengrocer had negotiated terms with the butcher to supply the chicken and lamb, he had made sure the kitchen in the back of his little shop came up to scratch, he and his wife had attended the evening courses, after the shop had been open all day, 7 days a week, to get their food handling certificates. He thought it odd that he had to go to the council and ask permission to sell this food. He understood about having to comply with food safety and kitchen cleanliness standards, but to go and ask for permission to sell stuff? Like he says: “S’my blinking bizzniss. What does counzil man know of bizzniss?”

The council, of course, have refused permission for this venture. Their policy on takeaways round my part of town are clear. There is already a kebab shop, a Chinese and a chippy that cater for the late diner. They don’t want anymore hotspots of people hanging around late at night.

Mr. Greengrocer points out that they close at 7 and he isn’t going be open at 2am, he has to get up at 5am to sort his stock and shop out, have his own breakfast, do his paperwork, pay his taxes, get his kids ready and off to school. He isn’t interested in the lager brigade stumbling over his mushrooms and mangoes on their way back from the clubs.

It is irrelevant. Council guidelines equate takeaway food with rowdy pissheads, flashing neon signs and a sea of discarded poly food trays. There is no room in the rules to distinguish. There is no will to change the rules.

Mr. Greengrocer points out that a new Chinese has opened across the road from him recently. They got permission. He asked them how. They told him. They made four applications, and made four appeals. That cost them £9000 before they even opened for business.

Mr. Greengrocer is not a fool, he’s joined the dots. “Counzil just want my money.” It’s not about the drunkards. It’s not about the mess. It’s not about the neon. It is about these unelected grey council mongtards showing you that they are in charge. It is absolutely about taking as much of your cash as possible.

Mr. Greengrocer has realised what 21st century Britain is all about. It can be summed up thus: Be thankful for what you have. Be more thankful that we don’t come and take it all from you.

Mr. Greengrocer says that in Bangladesh you’d just bribe them. In the UK you pay a £2000 bribe up front, they even give you a receipt, then they still don’t let you do it.

Mr. Greengrocer knows bad business when he sees it.