Three hours with the brain of Britain, Teesdale Mercury

Three hours with the brain of Britain

Nov 22, 2007

I know, I know. Someone's had the bright idea to start a Chinese-style rickshaw service in Teesdale. In order to allow for the ever-widening girth of the average pie-eating tourist, the rickshaws may well have to be fitted with electric motors to supplement the efforts of puny-legged little rickshaw drivers, who will probably be the world's greatest know-alls.  I know. I know also that these rickshaws will be pointed towards the real tourist attractions of the dale, such as the lope blidge (or larther the plojected lope blidge) and the lefuse tlansfer station. 

But I don't want to write about lickshaws, because they're just another silly billy bit of nonsense which will be used for three weeks before breaking down and disappearing. The tourist initiative which Teesdale really needs is the one which it is least likely to get. The best way to enhance the place is to leave it just the way it is, but to do that the powers that be will probably have to employ a consultant. This person, a retired public servant, will supplement his or her pension by charging a small fortune to write a cross-community interactive listening mechanism intended to enhance a creative non-interventionist development strategy. In other words, be paid to say that things should stay as they are. No street theatre, no craft markets selling tat, no road closures, just plain good old fashioned nothing.

So there I was last week, at a rather expensive fundraising dinner in my monkey suit. My wife sat beside me as I chuntered to myself about council initiatives. She reminded me that, for once, she agreed with me and left me to talk to the bloke on her left, introducing herself by saying that her husband was  being reactionary about tourism and what did he think?  Big mistake. 

If she thought I was going on a bit, this bloke could have given me lessons. He was so opinionated he was fascinating. He went on past the cringe point, on past the going to sleep face down in one's soup stage, on past losing the will to live and out, out into outer space lack of awareness that conversation takes two territory. Listening to him was like watching a film of a car crash in slow motion. My wife is not a delicate flower; she can take care of herself, but even she became slack-jawed with wonderment at this one. She asked him about tourism, so he replied that the answer lay in more discipline in schools. The young nowadays, said he, are not so much evil as in need of correction.  They need a damn firm hand; if they're given enough rules and discipline you only have to hit them occasionally. Having solved all their problems he turned in mid-sentence to footballers' pay levels and the need for regular assassination of political leaders other than those of his own persuasion.

Over the course of the next three hours, our little chum amazed us with the width and depth of his erudition on such varied topics as the world economy (they should all have the pound), the monarchy (she'd have more respect if she wore Elizabethan dress), sport (the only thing wrong with Manchester United is that their manager is a Scotsman) and the death penalty (it's not harsh enough). He was also full of surprises (he voted Labour in 1997), thought women were wonderful (you've got to keep their little minds busy) and supported Sunderland (someone has to). Then, at last, he admitted that he was human. He was, he said, not as young as he once was. This is a startling thing to come to terms with for any man. However, he was looking for a small job to help keep his brain active. Something that would use his wide-ranging skills and give others the benefit of his experience.

So I joined the conversation. I asked if he'd ever thought of becoming a rickshaw driver.  Ha, ha, ha, he said, a humorist, but he had been to China many times and the last time he went he had told this businessman that the reason his trade was declining was that the wind never blew sideways in Seattle which he had also visited several times it's on the West Coast you know and talking of coasts I own a house near the Cote d'Azur which is in France etc etc etc.

His wife leapt to her feet, with that my mother was right look in her eyes and told him it was time to go. I know my place said he, wink wink say no more and spoke to my wife in farewell.

"I've so much enjoyed our conversation," said Brain of Britain, "so good night, Karen."

My wife's name is not Karen.

First published in the Mercury on November 14, 2007