Monologue #1: Rob

This town used to be rough.  You only have to go back thirty years or so.  If you came for a night out from a neighbouring village, you’d get your head kicked in for the pleasure of a few pints.  You were better off pretending you were visiting from Devon.  Somewhere far enough away that a territorial local found you too boring to waste any energy on.  These things happened because there was nothing else to do.  And the youth were angry.  Now all those hellraisers are old and the rage has burnt out and their sons haven’t got the same need to fight.  But where does that rage go?  Does it just dissipate into the atmosphere?  Does it skip generations?      

This town has changed.  For the better some would say.  No one fights in public anymore.  Not really.  Not like they used to.  Two-faced battles are fought online and so much of everything else happens behind closed doors.  Bring back fisticuffs, bring back hair-pulling and things decided by stepping outside and having a little dance.  These things clear the air, brings people together.  Eventually.  After a little trip to the hospital.  This area’s turned into a lifestyle emporium, servicing the old rich and the new rich, one pretending to be poorer than they are, the other pretending to be richer.  Fall over and you’ll land in a coffee shop.  Patisserie, coffee shop, gastropub.  But you can’t blame anyone for wanting a better life and you can’t blame this town for catering for them.  Everyone always ends up following the money. 

The pub I drink used to be called The White Hart.  Now it’s called The Flying Squid.  My first pint after it reopened was an interesting one. I was like a fish out of water, and the irony wasn’t lost on any of the old regulars.  And the cost of a pint had gone up by two pounds, and all to feel like you’re drinking in an aquarium.  I told them straight they overdid it on the décor.  Why would they listen to me?  It’s the same across the board.  People call it gentrification.  I call it Disneyfication.  And with it comes price hikes.  And it’s always going to hit the pockets of the lower and working classes the hardest. 

I like having my saying every now and then and Lissie knows it.  Just to keep things down to earth and respectful.  We were in The Flying Squid having our Sunday roast and a young family came to sit at the table next to us.  I guessed they’d just moved into the new build estate because I didn’t recognise them.  They had a Red Setter with them and a boy of about seven or eight.  When they sat down, Lissie offered a hello.  The woman responded but the man was on his phone.  I offered another hello, specifically to him and he was forced to look up to respond.  In this economic environment, I’ve accepted that this is what happens.  Cost of living isn’t getting any cheaper and if a young family wants the car, the house, the holidays and all the trimmings, you have to work like a lunatic.  The man was probably busy with a works e-mail.  Fine. But then he allowed his dog to get up on the bench next to him, which was more or less next to me.  Lissie’s eyes told me not to cause a scene.  I stopped cutting my Yorkshire pudding and considered the situation.    

I love dogs, I really do.  We’ve had dogs in the past and they’ve come into the pub and sat quietly at our feet.  But gentrification has allowed dogs to have a seat at the table.  But they’re still as dirty as they’ve ever been.    Excuse me, I said.  Would you mind if you got your dog down?  Lissie leant towards his wife, attempting to diffuse the situation before the fuse was lit. It’s the hairs, you see, she said. It’s just the hair. He’s okay as he is, the man replied.  He likes it there.  I started nodding.  No dogs on the bench, I said. He’s not doing any harm, he said, putting his phone down and looking at the menu.  I loved a dramatic pause and I rolled it out silently like a great character actor.  Daniel Day Lewis came to mind.  You know that performance in There Will Be Blood.  I loved him in that.  I looked at each of them in turn: I looked at his wife, I looked at his son, I even looked into the eyes of his dog before I looked up at him.  I smiled and relaxed my shoulders.  No dogs on the bench.  It was a little quieter this time.  Quieter and slower.  He’s settled now, the man said.  I continued staring at him as he switched uncomfortably between the menu and his phone.  Thirty seconds had passed of me staring at the side of this man’s face.  Lissie turned to the man’s wife again and whispered a please.  The woman hesitated for a second and then took a treat out of her handbag and the dog followed it to the floor.  Thank you, madam, I said, and I could tell the man was fuming.  I didn’t look at him again.  We ate the rest of our Sunday lunch in a silence that I found blissful.  Justice had been restored.  All things will eventually be turned into a Disneyland castle before it implodes and eats itself.  But not today, I thought. Not today.