PEOPLE don’t come much commoner than little old me.
Born, bred and buttered in Wigan, I thought I knew what it meant to grow up in a rough, tough place on the wrong side of the tracks.
Then I moved to a job on the evening newspaper in Hull – and really discovered the meaning of the word “rough”.
But the North End of Birkenhead beats both Wigan and Hull in any contest for ragged-arsed, urban bleakness.
Commonly known as ‘North Baghdad’ by those in more fortunate parts of Wirral, this blighted spot is quite possibly the most resolutely working class enclave in Britain.
The middle classes have totally fled from it.
I was in the North End the other week. I had been bound for Birkenhead town centre on the train but yet again had been let down by Merseytravel’s pathetic Wirral line so I had got off at North Baghdad station … intending to walk into town.
Nervously, my chum and I started walking the length of Laird Street and beyond into Downtown Birkenhead, where we were expected at a party.
As we passed all the loser boozer pubs of the area, a scally in trackies came out of one of them and said “hiya, lads” to us in tones of unnatural mateyness.
Seconds later, he was trotting after us, on the beg, trying to extract 50p from each of us, before he disappeared back into the pub having been given the knock-back from us pair of tightwads.
As we walked I couldn’t help imagining Laird Street as it was years ago, with lively pubs and loads of corner grocery shops, greengrocers, wet fish shops, bakers and, for all I know, candlestick makers.
But how different is the scene today. Some 90 per cent of the shops are closed, boarded up or converted into mean little flats.
The only businesses that seem to thrive are the Chinese take-aways, fried chicken shacks and the purveyors of kebabs and pizzas to the drinking classes.
There are a couple of half-arsed supermarkets, too, a Kwiki and an Iceland.
I was in the North End again just recently on an errand, and so I popped in to these stores to do a bit of shopping while I had quarter of an hour to kill.
I wish I hadn’t bothered. Neither supermarket stocked ground coffee, which I wanted, only instant.
I quickly gave up on my other intended purchases, crème fraiche, ciabbata and olive oil (Dear Readers, you do realise that this line is a joke?!)The nearest equivalents stocked by these impoverished stores were bright pink Angel Delight, Warburton’s Toasties, and lard.
Now, I don’t doubt the North End has long known poverty. But years ago there was dignity and solidarity among the working class poor.
I am quite sure you can still find dignity and solidarity and allkinds of kindness and virtue among people of Birkenhead's North End - even now.
But these days, while no-one starves, drug abuse and various types of crime are rife and quite a lot of people in this part of Birkenhead look utterly broken-spirited to me.
I do not mock. It grieves me to see the once proud, warm-hearted and educated English working class brought so low.
I come from this strata of society and am proud to do so.
Make no mistake, I know where I come from (we should all know where we come from).
I’m of the Working Class Blood Royale.
But something has gone horribly wrong for the people of our tribe and I don’t know what can be done about it.
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Ricky from Baynards wrote...
Steve, I agree with you. It's heart-breaking to see these places and to wonder where people's pride (or conversely lack of shame) has gone. It's easy to blame all this on 'poverty'. I don't make light of how poor many of these people are but in comparison with many places in the third world, where far poorer people live with dignity and pride, even Britain's poorest live in relative affluence. Contrast the attitude towards education between so many poor African countries and the war zones of English schools.
There's a spiritual malaise in so much of England that is tragic to behold. I find it strange, but also very moving, that the Archbishop of York - a man born in great poverty in Africa - should be reminding us so eloquently about our heritage and the moral standards that Britain once set and which people like him aspired to. As you've often said the worst poverty is to be found in people's souls. I've a feeling that even if you lifted the scrounging lad you met out of the Wirral and gave him a penthouse to live in he would still be an unhappy soul.
*** Well at least YOU understand where I am coming from, Ricky Lad. STEVE.
Posted by: Ricky from Baynards | November 15, 2006 2:09 PM