Plymouth's West End Makeover

I've always viewed life as a continuous stream of gambles, so I never saw gambling of any kind as an enemy. What a mistake. It's horrifying how much one man can loose when a thoroughbred has a revelatory moment and discards her rider before the first jump! Nowadays, if I can scrape enough kazoo-busking cash together, I only gamble on lotteries - it's safer that way.

If I ever won a lottery I'd spend a generous portion of the winnings on developing the eyesore areas in Plymouth. It'll be no surprise for you to learn that I have yet to win big, so you could imagine the joy I felt when I heard, back in 2007, that BID (Business Improvement District) was embarking on a multi-million 20 year plan to redevelop the city.

But whether all that money is being spent wisely is questionable.

Last December the west-end of the city centre had a £3.2 million revamp. It took 8 months to complete. The aim was to make the area more attractive and accessible to shoppers because Drake's Circus Shopping Mall's magnetic pull on consumers had proved too strong.

Now part of an area which had been pedestrian for 20 years has became a one-way road with car park spaces, the pavement has been badly repaved and a crucial zebra crossing has been erased! Madness! Inevitably, there has been a slew of falls and near misses, thanks to the unevenly raised cobblestones and confusing open spaces which fail to clearly mark out the boundary between pedestrian space and car space - as if they want us to co-exist harmoniously!

But why was the pavement cobbled? Why wasn't tarmac used? One cobblestone fall victim was Babette Doolin (86!). She tripped and fell flat on her face leaving an "abrasion to the head." Is this the price of a pavement going retro: pedestrian pensioners are getting hurt.

This issue got on my tramping moobs, not just because our elders were tumbling but because falling in public is one of the ultimate faux pas. Personally, I find the sober falls the most cringe-worthy because, you either hit the deck like a tonne of lead, the shock of which can leave you speechless for a minute or two, unable to communicate with the public that's literally looking down on you; or, rather than your body submitting to the forces of gravity, you're actually arsed to try and rescue yourself, which means you have to endure a humiliatingly prolonged, bent-legged stumble before finally skidding onto the concrete, and if there's somebody in front of you, well, try not to grab them or else next time you need to be CRB'd you might find you have an uncharacteristic, irremovable blot on your record!

But, just thinking about it, maybe that was the intention all along: get people to trip up and they'll conveniently stumble into the nearest empty independent trader’s shop. In which case, the developers are mischievously ingenious.

But I doubt that.

Get it right next time people.

A Cold-fisted Catharsis During the 'Big Freeze'

Thanks to my background, I attuned to this month’s prolonged cold snap faster than most. I know how to survive these exceptional conditions. In fact, I enjoy the challenge. It's about focusing your mind, keeping the fire inside burning and always knowing where to find food and shelter. I remember one year I had to hide in an abandoned badger’s sett, or was it a fox hole? Either way, as I lay sandwiched between earth, it didn’t take long for my body temperature to warm up the tight space. But I digress...

During my winter wanderings on the edges of Dartmoor, it was warming to see families out in the newly whitened landscape, making the most of it before the thaw, sledging, having snowball fights, creating snow sculptures; and you can't beat the look of wander in a child's eye as they take in the spectacle of snow for the first time - absolute magic!

Also, people seem to have been particularly artistic and generous this year: I saw my first snowsheep and a hefty, Hattie-Jacques-like snowwoman wearing a sizable bra and skirt, hats off to their creators.

As I walked into Plymouth I began to notice how the snowpeople* changed as I got closer the the city centre: on the outskirts, snowpeople* wore traditional items such as a top hat, flat cap and tartan or plain scarfs; closer to the centre, I came across snowpeople that I can only describe as snowchavs, draped in Burberry hats, scarves and 'bling'.

I must confess that under the cover of night, as I passed some of these snowchavs, I couldn’t help using them to vent my frustration. You see, I’ve had so much verbal abuse in the past from teens and sometimes kids as young as five, calling me names, telling me I smell (imaginative!) and to piss off out the county (no chance!). So when I saw these snowchavs I couldn’t resist applying a swift undercut to their stomach, or a sharp blow to their temple. Such swift Ali-esque moves inevitably lead to the casual disembowelment and decapitation of the snowchavs. But I had to take advantage because I had a lot to get off my tramping moobs and I could never hurt an actual person - unless in self-defence.

Tip: If it's icy do what I do and wear a rucksack filled with clothes so should you fall backwards, your coccyx will be spared a rattling. If you fall forwards, err, try and roll mid-fall.

* I say snowpeople not to be pc but because saying snowmen would do an injustice to all the snowwomen I saw - they may have even been in a majority.

Smoke and Noise

You’ll have to excuse me if you find typos; I’m swiggin’ Captain Morgan’s at the mo, trying to keep warm and hoping the guy running this internet café won't notice. If only I had a St Bernard's by my side, then I could relax.

Anyway, talk about wrong place at the wrong time! Two nights ago I was at an inner-city hangout with some friends, we were minding our own business, keeping warm by a makeshift fire when a flock of coppers swooped down on us and bundled us into a van. Apparently they swore there were thieves in our group – that was news to me!

Luckily, down at the station, I avoided being swabbed; the copper that pulled back my hood recognized me and let me go – he used to be my pupil. But I digress…

That night, I avoided the inner-city and trundled over to the outskirts of Plymouth only to be reacquainted with an old enemy: Centrica’s Langage Power Station. Talk about a puss-filled eyesore. This monstrosity has been over 3 years in the making and it’s huge, more than double the size of anything else on the industrial estate! Yes, it will create hundreds of jobs and supply a million homes but do people really want this ugly silver phallus here? No! It's too close to South Devon's Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (the South Hams) and Dartmoor National Park! From a distance the chimney deforms the skyline! It has the same catastrophic effect a Hitler moustache on Jenny Agutter would have! It makes me so angry writing about it, I feel like I'm going to burst a blood vessel!

Oh and get this: a month or two ago they tested one of the two turbines without warning anyone, not even the residents who live down the road. Don't Centrica know the simple equation: fuming chimney = fuming residents!

What a sight it was: a massive cloud of smoke hanging over the edge of Plymouth. People were choking on it. It could be seen from miles away. When I saw it, it was how I imagined the airborne toxic event in Don DeLillo’s White Noise to look like! Talk about Armageddon! You see, I love Plymouth and anything that hurts it - like this power station and its prudent bloody antics - gets on my tramping moobs!

Honestly, when I see all this madness I sometimes think Plymouth's falling apart, but when I step back to look at the wider picture I realise it’s just the world falling apart, it’s ok, it’s not just me, it's all part of the process! What with climate change, tornadoes in Britain, the economy (not that that makes much of a difference to me nowadays) and what's this Swiss experiment that's costing billions? 'The Large Hardon Collider'? Can't they spend that money on something more important than a bunch of viagra-ized Swiss blokes running around an underground metal circle, bashing their erections together? I don’t know, whatever, the rum's gone to my head, but at least I'm warm.

My money's just about to run out too, so, got to go...

Incidentally, my copy of White Noise is in the charity shop nextdoor. It cost me £6.99 back in 1988, now it’s 50p – wota bargain!

The Gypsy Travellers

All too often there’s a group of gypsy travellers that come to these parts. They arrive in their droves, find a bit of land and, not caring for its upkeep nor its surroundings, plonk their caravans, cars, trash and God knows what else on the land.

It's an insult, it's unacceptable, it's polluting yet they get away with it thanks to big, gapping loopholes in the law.

The clearing up of this camp has cost about £6,500! The taxpayer pays that. And I know how frustrating that is, though I'm no taxpayer now, it still gets on my tramping moobs!

I went to the area where they'd recently moved from; a bit of land in Estover not far from Wrigley’s and Twofour. Before the gypsy travellers arrived it was just grass where dog walkers and children would throw sticks and Frisbees and kick balls. Now the grass is churned up with muddy tyre tracks.

The bins and skips provided by the council are still there too. At least they got rid of the portaloo.

But somebody - maybe the council - has created judiciously placed mud mounds to stop anybody returning. Good on whoever's responsible, but how many other places need that same treatment before it's too bloody late?

I may not pay my taxes like these gypsy traveller types might neither, but I would never disrespect the land. I’m at one with nature and Plymouth.

The Isolated Sign

Because I have no home I'm always on the move, moving in and around Plymouth which is the place where I was born. It's a nomadic existence and that's how I like it; at once I am an insider and an outsider.

Life was normal once. I know what it's like to have money, a family, a wife, a career and I also know what it's like to lose them all in one week. But I digress...

Just look at this sign. It's there throughout the year! But there's no ice factory or ice rink around the bend. Nor is there a freak, ghostly cold-spot phenomenon occurring there, which is fortunate: the last thing I tramping want is that schizoid Derek Acorah investigating it with all his grey hair gelled back like rows of egg noodles, channelling dead scousers from his multiple personality disorder!

So why is it there? Why was money spent on it? Is it a joke? I don't find it funny. I have a sense of humour but this sign, well it gets on my tramping moobs!