What do you think of it so far?

What do I think of it so far? ...Well....

One of the things that Britain has got going for it is that it is old.  It’s knocked about a bit, done a few things.  It is a country that has a lived in feeling.  This produces so much to marvel at: the history, the innovation, the landscapes and the landmarks that have built this country are remarkable.  That a country the size and shape of a small country and with the characteristic reserve of a haughty nocturnal bird could manage such feats is, simply, majestic.

But it is old.  Age brings with it fatigue.  Britain is a fatigued country.  It is a grimy country.  And, I don’t understand why.  Recently, my daughter was asking me about the idea of the word “detail”.  We spoke about the intricacies of a pattern on some material or the use of punctuation in writing.  It is in the detail that you can see how fatigued and grimy Britain is.

A detail that really shows how fatigued Britain is is the rubbish.  I was going to use the word litter but that carries a sort of euphemistic harmlessness about it that does not truly convey the significance of this detail.  Rubbish is ingrained in Britain; literally worn into the ground we walk on - gum, chip wrappers, food wrappers, crisp packets, lighters, receipts, labels, bottles, cans and the ubiquitous cigarettes.  It’s like it’s a convention or old charter or something (Thank you Robert Rankin) that insists that buildings must now be outlined in fag.  Fag and bird crap.  They are everywhere and there isn’t a single reason why this should be the case.

I’m currently using exercise to mask all manner of insanity in my head.  As such, I’ve had the pleasure over the last month to run through some of the streets of Britain.  They are resplendent with rubbish.  This country appears to be content with the fact that rubbish is now part and parcel of the environment we surround ourselves with.  I’ve run past a garden over-flowing with household rubbish, and not just goods being readied for a journey to the tip, I mean over-flowing bins with kitchen waste, food packaging, etc lying ugly and permitted on the ground.  I’ve run past a pizza box papier-máchêd onto the pavement’s edge, beautifully moulded on, a mosaic of footprints pummelling it to grout the paving.  That’s it actually; the rubbish is becoming the grout of the pavements of Britain.

There’s one pathway in the town where I grew up that is edged by rubbish.  So much so that on one of my last visits home I came across what appeared to be the contents of a bedside cabinet dumped on the path’s side.  The rubbish there appears as a grotesque blossoming or bloom to accompany your walk.  Another main road has a hedge line mulching rubbish as a pathetic fertiliser, unable to decompose and laying there all beer can and soft drink bottle, brilliant silver metalled food package, refusing to move.  Not being moved.  One most affecting moment came in the form of an otherwise neat and tidy garden, obviously maintained (no weeds, a nicely paved driveway, edged flower beds to the side) but with a coke bottle sat, day after day, at the foot of one of the rose bushes there.  It was soul destroying to see each day.

Coming to a pavement near you.

Britain is old.  It does not have to be tired and grim.  I can’t work out why the population are content with this rubbish all around them.  They must be content with it because the fix is so easy.  During the time it took me to complete a run today, another cigarette butt was on the floor, on the pavement, at the entrance to the road I start my run from.  It will have been tossed or dropped there just like all the other fag-ends and packets have been tossed and dropped by countless people all over the town in which I’m living and all across the country.  This casual disregard for the look of the land is scary.  If we’re content to disregard the look of the land, what else are we content to disregard about Britain?  The “Great”, obviously, goes without saying.