Having readied the Power Armour and renamed Quincy to Dogmeat, I find myself almost prepared to take on any post-apocalyptic scenario. However the thing I cannot be prepared for is other people’s inability to act rationally. As a result, supermarkets and deliveries in rural towns are both empty and virtually non-existent. I’m already eyeing up the dead fly which is stuck between the blinds and the window in the conservatory. It should increase my HP by +1 at least.
For months, on the run up to recent events, I have been saying to anyone that would listen (which is not very many people I must say) that we should be hiding weapons caches in the countryside, ensuring that there are underground networks of vital supplies and intelligence and preparing to fight the rise of fascism which, it seemed was clearly on the rise. Yet here we are, teetering on the dangerous precipice of civil liberty like a foolish Instagrammer doing the planking meme on a rotten piece of wood over a pit of hungry alligators. Scary times.
I am already using the amazing skills I spent £30k on getting during the late noughties to analyse the media and, as suggested by my tutors, question everything, look beyond the articles and read between the lines. I have been playing a nice game of predict the future :—
- the end of cash (increase of contactless payment, enabling the state monitoring of your purchases)
- the introduction of state controlled diets (rationing because of supermarket panic buying, easier to control what you consume)
- the end of independent high street business (restaurants closing, people not buying stuff and the migration to online sales, again easier to monitor consumption)
- controlled gatherings of 5 or more (closure and monitoring of people irresponsibly gathering possibly to discuss insurrectionary and treasonous topics in places they cannot be monitored)
- the introduction of home monitoring devices (Google Home, Alexa, Siri etc)
- Sweeping changes in the law disguised as “emergency planning”
- Shut down of democracy on local level (elections and “non-essential” meetings cancelled)
Isn’t this the kind of state control akin to China, Iran and other places that we have been frowning on for the past half a century? Paranoia? Me being driven completely doolally because of isolation? Overreacting? I certainly hope so.
Meanwhile, I am going to go about my respectful business in a non-subversive way. I won’t be hiding caches of food, drugs, weapons or ammo in little boxes around the area, I certainly don’t have any bright yellow exclamation marks, nor do I have any quests for you to run for me. However, I do have to ask, Do you have a geiger counter?
In February, with tensions high in the sales office (heightened by a distinct lack of sales calls, the removal of temps, a visible drop in sales attributed to Brexit, the falling pound and poor high street sales), I was called to a meeting to be told that my and five other employee’s role was at risk of redundancy.
Swanage however sits in a semi forgotten hauntological time zone where grandparents who, having retired to the seaside, now live. Independent shops, discrete amusement arcades and a well kept promenade with formal gardens show that Swanage is the Utopia of seaside towns. Even the pier, currently undergoing refurbishment, lacks the usual British Pier atmosphere of kiss-me-quick hats, the aroma of fresh doughnuts and the sound of wailing kids.
Getting to Swanage is probably best when approached from the east. Catching the chain ferry from the Sandbanks area of the conurbation of Poole-cum-Bournemouth, is like catching a ferry to some foreign country only without the need for border or passport checks. Indeed, once you arrive in Studland, even the landscape looks alien making you feel like you’ve gone abroad for the bargain price of £4.50. Then when the weirdly independent town of Swanage comes into view, the feeling of being in some weird off shore British island like Jersey, the Isle of Man or White is stronger. Moreover, possibly the biggest difference to other typical British seaside towns is the regularly audible and familiar toot and chuff of a steam engine for Swanage is home to the Swanage steam railway. Unlike Douglas in the Isle of Man, steam is not the main form of public transport to neighbouring areas in Swanage, it is, however, the easiest way to get to the eerie Corfe Castle.
The crumbling edifice of Corfe Castle looms out of the sea mist and inspires thoughts of knights, kings, princes and dirty peasants. Some say it inspired Enid Blyton’s Kirrin Castle in her Famous Five books, but you really could say that about any of the castles in the area indeed, it is clear to see why the area attracts coach loads of tourists and often the tiny streets of Corfe Castle village are riven with ambling shufflers gawping at every nook and cranny, some unable to comprehend the age of the place when compared to their own country’s history.
Further into Dorset one can also visit, by contrast, the town of Weymouth with its award winning beach. However, step beyond the hustle and bustle of the Blackpoolesque promenade and enter the ramshackle and tatty environs of the town, one can clearly see how lack of investment in seaside towns has become detrimental to the social community and infrastructure at large. Empty high street shops, lumbering shufflers and decaying buildings. Tattoo and massage parlours, the miasma of cooking takeaways and openly smoked cannabis, the sight of drugged up beggars and opportunist criminals highlights the betray and decay of a society through lack of investment promised by successive local government officials who no doubt only visit the area when official business requires their presence.
However all is not entirely gloomy. The Bill of Portland where Portland stone is still quarried is nearby, where it too attracts coaches of tourists with its lighthouse and scenery. As a young boy I would look longingly at my wall hung A0 map of the UK while listening to BBC Radio 4’s Shipping Forecast and try to imagine how sweater wearing bearded seaworn gentlemen would be struggling against the elements while putting on their Sou’westers and galoshes. The reality is dramatic but features no stereotypical fishermen these days.
Join me on Vero.
Well first off I’d have fish and chips at Mary Janes. It would be a large cod-like fish with a bread roll (buttered) and a pot of tea. Even though fish, chips and bread roll is quite filling for me these days, I’d probably have room for an ice cream. So after my meal I’d meander down Garden Street towards the Esplanade in search of ice cream.
Ice cream eaten, I’d walk along the pier to the bar at its end, taking in the smells of freshly cooked doughnuts and candy floss along the way. I’d pass young dads teaching their eager to learn young lads how to fish or catch crabs using a crab ladder from the pier. The sounds from distant penny arcades and fair ground rides mixed with the clopping of shoes against pier boards.
Again, my geography and knowledge of Cromer’s nightlife is lacking. Places to eat of an evening may be diverse but they may also be limited. The safest bet would be to head to a chain pub for a steak or something, alternatively British towns nearly always guarantee a Chinese or Indian restaurant nearby. Either way I wouldn’t really starve. If I wasn’t staying in a B&B, I might even consider a take away pizza or perhaps just something basic like home cooked bacon sandwich with sausage and chips. The chips covered in salt served from a cellar with a white plastic top, and vinegar from a fluted bottle with a glass stopper.
Me? My fantasy job would be rural Post Office clerk in a village stores, or maybe a specialist pizza restaurant, opening evenings only with dining by sitting rather than “random off the street when you’re quite ready Mr Chef” dining. Two sittings. Fancy pizzas. Expensive because they’re worth it. I would come in for a couple of hours a night, make the pizzas then go home, leaving the other staff to wash up and marshal the diners. Of course I’d get someone in to make the pizzas at weekends because only mugs work weekends. And, because I owned the place, I could choose when I worked and take 90% of the profits to sustain my lifestyle.
After lunch and a walk around Hornsea, we scooted up the coast towards Bridlington. Bridlington is kind of like a mini-Scarborough. It consists of two bays, North and South separated by the old port with an even older town slightly out of the main centre. The north side of the harbour town towards the Pavillion peters out into amusement arcades and fairgrounds, most of which, being out of season, were closed. Meanwhile, the southside, toward the former spa, beholds guesthouses (former and existing), fish and chip shops and the main residential areas.
