Saturday, January 03, 2004
Come to Darren Country
What's Bilborough like? A mixed council/owned estate, it's not as bad as many I'm known but it's still a bit, erm, frayed at the edges. I wouldn't call it rough, perhaps a little dodgy, but I'd certainly call it grotty. I really should have given it a proper once-over before I offered on this house, and taken a couple of hours to walk around it, but I didn't and am paying the price for the error. In terms of facilities, the place isn't too bad: a shopping area with a large Co-op (but no proper butcher's, to my amazement), a library, two medical centres, and I would add a dentist's except they've a sign in the window saying they've buggered off to Wollaton, a far more salubrious (and no doubt profitable) patch.
Trouble is, it's all so grotty. It's obvious from the dire state of the roads and pavements that Nottingham Council has written Bilborough off and isn't spending a red cent to keep them up to scratch. The pavements are covered in litter and copious dogshit, so that you have to walk along looking at your feet to avoid stepping in a little present left by one of the pack of resident Rovers. The street signs are mostly defaced with graffiti or vandalised. All the shops have shutters that are pulled down at closing time, and of course are also covered in graffiti - you can always get a feel for an area by the precautions, or not, shopkeepers take. In Clifton, a sprawling estate south of the Trent which I often passed through on my way to work when staying in Clifton Village, all the shops and churches board themselves up come night-time, and the place looks like it's under siege. Contrast this with Beeston, an affluent area populated by students and university staff, where the shop windows remain unshuttered with goods on display.
I wouldn't even mind the graffiti if it was at all artistic or imaginative, but it's just the spraycan equivalent of dogs pissing on posts to mark out their territory. I/we woz 'ere, this is my/our turf. As decorative, artistic, and imaginative as a dog turd, but unlike a turd non-biodegradable.
Another depressing feature of the place is the number of petty arsonists around. Every other bin seems to have been set on fire. When I went to the Strelley Road Co-op recently, some Darren had torched all the recycling bins which were still smoking. Even traffic bollards on the street next to me were burnt down a couple of months back (and of course haven't been replaced), which I really should have taken as a warning when I came down a little while before the move, and should have pulled out of the whole deal then.
A marked feature of the estate is the roaming mini-packs of Darrens that patrol the streets looking for something to relieve the tedium of their lives. They're not threatening as they can be on other estates I've known, but there's no question that they set a tone. When you've bunches of bored, sallow-faced, thin-lipped, pasty-skinned, baseball-cap-wearing young white lads roaming around aimlessly looking for an outlet for their testosterone and for chances to move up the pack hierarchy, then you've always got potential trouble, and that gives a place an edge and a certain feeling of hopelessness and dodginess. By default the Darren packs tend to colonise the streets, not so much by actively being menacing - most seem fairly harmless to me, although I've only been here a short while - but by generating a perception of low-level apprehensionin the population. People tend to stay indoors rather than go for a walk or for a drink down the pub, which makes the Darrens more noticeable and populous (by proportion), which in turn discourages non-Darrens from venturing out, and so on until you get to a kind of Darren Event Horizon. Come to Darren Country...
In a word: bleak. In two words: bleak and grotty.
Dire on the pub front - only two pubs on the estate, and both are shite in their own ways. The Poacher's Pocket is nice enough decor-wise, and does at least have one guest cask ale on, but is absolutely deadsville even on the thrice-weekly karaoke nights, and when there's no karaoke on they put the local commercial radio station on the blower so you can't even read the paper in peace and quiet. The Pelican, newly-reopened (brashly dubbing itself "Pride of Bilborough") after burning down in suspicious circumstances last year, is one of those typical large, brightly-lit, sparsely-furnished, Sky Sports pubs that you often find on large council estates. Without question it's a hard man's pub - you just have to see the tattooed big fuckers behind the bar let alone the punters. It's definitely not a place to relax in, but I'm sure you could get a fight any time you wanted and be in with the chance of a knee-trembler after closing with a pissed-up Darren or Sharon (depending on your sexual preference and level of desperation). You certainly can't get any decent ale.
Those are the only two pubs in short walking distance. A little further along there's the Rose on Strelley Road, which looks from the outside to be a Pelican clone and certainly doesn't have any cask ale. You have to get on the bike to get to nicer places outside the estate, in particular the Broad Oak in Strelley (10 mins uphill bike ride there, 5 mins freewheel back) and the Wheelhouse in Wollaton. Or you can get on the bus to the Beechdale on Wigman Road. It's notable, though, that you have to get on your bike to get a decent drink without risking getting glassed, and that there are only two pubs on what is a bloody big council estate - that probably says a fair bit about Bilborough, but I'd only be guessing if I were to say what. I'm sure I'll figure it out in time.
Surprisingly for such a large estate, on the whole the people here are kind and approachable, and you only have to go down the Co-op to know that there's a real community here of people who've known each other much of their lives. The women in particular seem to be strong and to run the place. This makes it all the sadder that the place is being neglected by the council, and being fucked up by a minority of vandalising braindeads too stupid to twig that you don't foul your own nest. The folk of Bilborough deserve better.
Even the kiddies are nice, at least those in whom the hormones haven't let rip. On a rough estate you'd expect the rugrats to all have 'attitude', to have surly expressions and only speak in mumbled monosyllables, to be suspicious of everything and everyone, and to generally be anti-social destructive brats. Instead, the Bilborough kids are open-faced and smiling and well-behaved.
Adding to my woes, there's my next-door neighbour, whom the previous house owners conveniently neglected to tell me about until I'd committed myself to the sale. She's a single mum with 3 little girls, aged between 4 and 7 I think, someone with whom I'd normally have a lot of sympathy because it must be a tough old life bringing up young rugrats on your own. Unfortunately, this mum isn't capable of speaking in less than a shout, and regularly screams and bawls at the kids, who themselves aren't exactly wee quiet mouses. Screaming, shouting and wailing regularly filters through the mercifully thick walls, accompanied by the banging of doors, cupboards, drawers, heads, and of course the stomping of tiny feet up and down stairs, sounding more like rampaging hippos in clogs than sugar-and-spice little girls. Oh, to be able to afford a detached house...
Unfortunately, it's plain that the minuses of Bilborough far outweigh the plusses, and it's certainly no place for a soft, quiet middle-aged wimp who's idea of fun is a night reading the papers at a real ale pub, and who needs quiet and peace as a staple diet. It's difficult to not be on edge here, and/or to be plain depressed by the place. It's certainly not a place to relax in. Although it could be worse (hell, I grew up in worse in Luton) it could certainly be a lot better, and it's plainly going downhill. From a financial viewpoint house prices are likely to rise rather slower here than in the rest of Nottingham, if they rise at all, and if the 'housing market' does go tits-up in 2004 as some predict then in a buyer's market Bilborough properties - old grey concrete 50s prefabs - are going to be a good way behind in the desirability stakes compared to more welcoming and less bleak areas of Nottingham. It might be a wise move to go walkies whilst the market's still buoyant enough that even these dumps are being snapped up.
At least, I think it's likely that I'll be moving from here in the coming year, for the sake of my nerves, mental health, and bank account. In my mind, a good test of how good, or not, a house/flat is, is to ask the question: would I look forward to, and enjoy, spending the day at home? In Mayland Avenue the answer to that was an unqualified yes. In Bilborough, the answer's a definite no - I'd rather be at work, where it's quieter and there's less aggro. And when you prefer being at work than at home, then it's plain that you don't have a home worthy of the name.
I really don't look forward to going through all the arsehole of moving again, but at least this time it'll be within Nottingham to somewhere I've been able to scope out thoroughly. I moved to Bilborough as much out of desperation to move somewhere in Nottingham as out of liking for the house. Had I known more about the area and the frayed-at-the-edges state of the house, and had I not been living out of a bloody suitcase for months, I'd not have come here.
So in the next few weeks I'm going to be off down the estate agents to see if I can get something halfway-decent in a halfway-decent area (with decent bloody pubs this time!). There's no way I'm going to settle down here. The best thing about Bilborough is that it's close to the motorway, and when the best thing about a place is the way out of it then it's time to look for pastures new.
Trouble is, it's all so grotty. It's obvious from the dire state of the roads and pavements that Nottingham Council has written Bilborough off and isn't spending a red cent to keep them up to scratch. The pavements are covered in litter and copious dogshit, so that you have to walk along looking at your feet to avoid stepping in a little present left by one of the pack of resident Rovers. The street signs are mostly defaced with graffiti or vandalised. All the shops have shutters that are pulled down at closing time, and of course are also covered in graffiti - you can always get a feel for an area by the precautions, or not, shopkeepers take. In Clifton, a sprawling estate south of the Trent which I often passed through on my way to work when staying in Clifton Village, all the shops and churches board themselves up come night-time, and the place looks like it's under siege. Contrast this with Beeston, an affluent area populated by students and university staff, where the shop windows remain unshuttered with goods on display.
I wouldn't even mind the graffiti if it was at all artistic or imaginative, but it's just the spraycan equivalent of dogs pissing on posts to mark out their territory. I/we woz 'ere, this is my/our turf. As decorative, artistic, and imaginative as a dog turd, but unlike a turd non-biodegradable.
Another depressing feature of the place is the number of petty arsonists around. Every other bin seems to have been set on fire. When I went to the Strelley Road Co-op recently, some Darren had torched all the recycling bins which were still smoking. Even traffic bollards on the street next to me were burnt down a couple of months back (and of course haven't been replaced), which I really should have taken as a warning when I came down a little while before the move, and should have pulled out of the whole deal then.
Darrens come in 10-packs
A marked feature of the estate is the roaming mini-packs of Darrens that patrol the streets looking for something to relieve the tedium of their lives. They're not threatening as they can be on other estates I've known, but there's no question that they set a tone. When you've bunches of bored, sallow-faced, thin-lipped, pasty-skinned, baseball-cap-wearing young white lads roaming around aimlessly looking for an outlet for their testosterone and for chances to move up the pack hierarchy, then you've always got potential trouble, and that gives a place an edge and a certain feeling of hopelessness and dodginess. By default the Darren packs tend to colonise the streets, not so much by actively being menacing - most seem fairly harmless to me, although I've only been here a short while - but by generating a perception of low-level apprehensionin the population. People tend to stay indoors rather than go for a walk or for a drink down the pub, which makes the Darrens more noticeable and populous (by proportion), which in turn discourages non-Darrens from venturing out, and so on until you get to a kind of Darren Event Horizon. Come to Darren Country...
Atmosphere
In a word: bleak. In two words: bleak and grotty.
Pubs
Dire on the pub front - only two pubs on the estate, and both are shite in their own ways. The Poacher's Pocket is nice enough decor-wise, and does at least have one guest cask ale on, but is absolutely deadsville even on the thrice-weekly karaoke nights, and when there's no karaoke on they put the local commercial radio station on the blower so you can't even read the paper in peace and quiet. The Pelican, newly-reopened (brashly dubbing itself "Pride of Bilborough") after burning down in suspicious circumstances last year, is one of those typical large, brightly-lit, sparsely-furnished, Sky Sports pubs that you often find on large council estates. Without question it's a hard man's pub - you just have to see the tattooed big fuckers behind the bar let alone the punters. It's definitely not a place to relax in, but I'm sure you could get a fight any time you wanted and be in with the chance of a knee-trembler after closing with a pissed-up Darren or Sharon (depending on your sexual preference and level of desperation). You certainly can't get any decent ale.
Those are the only two pubs in short walking distance. A little further along there's the Rose on Strelley Road, which looks from the outside to be a Pelican clone and certainly doesn't have any cask ale. You have to get on the bike to get to nicer places outside the estate, in particular the Broad Oak in Strelley (10 mins uphill bike ride there, 5 mins freewheel back) and the Wheelhouse in Wollaton. Or you can get on the bus to the Beechdale on Wigman Road. It's notable, though, that you have to get on your bike to get a decent drink without risking getting glassed, and that there are only two pubs on what is a bloody big council estate - that probably says a fair bit about Bilborough, but I'd only be guessing if I were to say what. I'm sure I'll figure it out in time.
People
Surprisingly for such a large estate, on the whole the people here are kind and approachable, and you only have to go down the Co-op to know that there's a real community here of people who've known each other much of their lives. The women in particular seem to be strong and to run the place. This makes it all the sadder that the place is being neglected by the council, and being fucked up by a minority of vandalising braindeads too stupid to twig that you don't foul your own nest. The folk of Bilborough deserve better.
Even the kiddies are nice, at least those in whom the hormones haven't let rip. On a rough estate you'd expect the rugrats to all have 'attitude', to have surly expressions and only speak in mumbled monosyllables, to be suspicious of everything and everyone, and to generally be anti-social destructive brats. Instead, the Bilborough kids are open-faced and smiling and well-behaved.
The Feckin' Neighbour
Adding to my woes, there's my next-door neighbour, whom the previous house owners conveniently neglected to tell me about until I'd committed myself to the sale. She's a single mum with 3 little girls, aged between 4 and 7 I think, someone with whom I'd normally have a lot of sympathy because it must be a tough old life bringing up young rugrats on your own. Unfortunately, this mum isn't capable of speaking in less than a shout, and regularly screams and bawls at the kids, who themselves aren't exactly wee quiet mouses. Screaming, shouting and wailing regularly filters through the mercifully thick walls, accompanied by the banging of doors, cupboards, drawers, heads, and of course the stomping of tiny feet up and down stairs, sounding more like rampaging hippos in clogs than sugar-and-spice little girls. Oh, to be able to afford a detached house...
More cons than pros
Unfortunately, it's plain that the minuses of Bilborough far outweigh the plusses, and it's certainly no place for a soft, quiet middle-aged wimp who's idea of fun is a night reading the papers at a real ale pub, and who needs quiet and peace as a staple diet. It's difficult to not be on edge here, and/or to be plain depressed by the place. It's certainly not a place to relax in. Although it could be worse (hell, I grew up in worse in Luton) it could certainly be a lot better, and it's plainly going downhill. From a financial viewpoint house prices are likely to rise rather slower here than in the rest of Nottingham, if they rise at all, and if the 'housing market' does go tits-up in 2004 as some predict then in a buyer's market Bilborough properties - old grey concrete 50s prefabs - are going to be a good way behind in the desirability stakes compared to more welcoming and less bleak areas of Nottingham. It might be a wise move to go walkies whilst the market's still buoyant enough that even these dumps are being snapped up.
Ah'm fer the off
At least, I think it's likely that I'll be moving from here in the coming year, for the sake of my nerves, mental health, and bank account. In my mind, a good test of how good, or not, a house/flat is, is to ask the question: would I look forward to, and enjoy, spending the day at home? In Mayland Avenue the answer to that was an unqualified yes. In Bilborough, the answer's a definite no - I'd rather be at work, where it's quieter and there's less aggro. And when you prefer being at work than at home, then it's plain that you don't have a home worthy of the name.
I really don't look forward to going through all the arsehole of moving again, but at least this time it'll be within Nottingham to somewhere I've been able to scope out thoroughly. I moved to Bilborough as much out of desperation to move somewhere in Nottingham as out of liking for the house. Had I known more about the area and the frayed-at-the-edges state of the house, and had I not been living out of a bloody suitcase for months, I'd not have come here.
So in the next few weeks I'm going to be off down the estate agents to see if I can get something halfway-decent in a halfway-decent area (with decent bloody pubs this time!). There's no way I'm going to settle down here. The best thing about Bilborough is that it's close to the motorway, and when the best thing about a place is the way out of it then it's time to look for pastures new.
