Bohemia Village Voice

A Short History of Hastings Pier

Opened in admiration, with anticipation, to acclamation: 1872.

Closed by dereliction, in disgrace, to dismay: 2006.

The end?

 

Crossed Wires

“Is that the publisher?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“It’s about the competition. Free entry, it says.”

“Ah yes.”

“Do I qualify?”

“Well, do you live or work here?”

“No, but I visit the House of Plenty.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know that particular establishment. Where is it?”

“On the London Road. It’s right on the London Road.”

“Well part of the London Road is certainly in our catchment area.”

“But I don’t live there. Or work there. I just visit. I’m there looking for work, you see.”

“Looking for work at the House of Plenty?”

“That’s right. They have advisors, telephones, computers and everything. Well, everything but jobs that’ll take me.”

“Ah, I think I see. You mean the DHS office.”

“That’s the one. The House of Plenty on London Road. Do I qualify?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question. The boundaries of the area aren’t fixed in stone, so to speak. Perhaps we should change the rules – make it open to anyone who reads our newsletter.”

“So do I qualify?”

“I don’t see why not. So you’ve got a story, then. Or an idea for one.”

“Story? A story? Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do? I’ve already told you, I’m looking for work, me.”

“Thank you so much for calling.”

 

Hotel Paradiso

The pigeons came home to roost.

So too the vandals of the home-grown, not the corporate breed. Still, there was no satisfaction: where once townsfolk bemoaned the dereliction of a beautiful building, they now shook their heads in disbelief at the state of its successor.

The genesis was not without promise: once the objections were buried, petitions acknowledged and ignored and deals stamped by unaccountable committee, the local landmark, formerly workplace of hot-metal minders, engineers, typesetters, scribes, secretaries and executives (bosses, we called them then), the object of acquisition was reduced to rubble.

In its place, glowering and maximising every inch of airspace, a ubiquitous link in a chain of hotels, its facile façade dominating, standing out like a sore, well, like a sore.

Few complained then, when the chamber maids and bright sparks, plumbers of every origin and administrators of all hues and hierarchies had been hired. A boost to the local economy, it was said.

Then the takings dropped, focus groups dissolved and the clientele followed en-suite. Letters in the paper revealed all: ‘Never go back’. ‘Used to love this town, but…’

It was that noise, apparently. Despite the hi-tech, the architect, planners and PR, there was this constant booming, a rhythmic pounding.

The sea, perhaps, striving to reclaim its shore. Or the coastal wind, harmonising off-key with the shoddy superstructure.

Only old-timers discerned the clank of the presses, the ethereal and enduring agony of metal fused with man. Only the pigeons didn’t give a hoot.

 

The end of the road

It had been an uphill struggle and now came the ineluctable descent to destruction.

Apposite words, Jack thought, given the terrain around here. Yet he remained enraged, frustrated.

Why hadn’t he seen it coming?

All the signs were there, obvious now in retrospect, with the benefit of hindsight.

Hadn’t she been increasingly unresponsive to his touch? Despite his coaching, his coaxing, the old spark just wasn’t there. In truth, the relationship had been running into trouble for some time.

Why hadn’t he acted earlier?

Full of self-loathing, matched only by unrestrained ire against his soon-to-be departed partner, Jack began to count the financial cost of this breakdown. An extension to the mortgage? A personal loan? Just what would it take to see them through this painful change?

She didn’t care, unfeeling cow. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t paid her enough attention, lavished hundreds, thousands on her, taken her to all the right places. All to no avail.

Now it was time to split. There was no turning back. Maybe it had been a clash of cultures: when the going had been good, he’d given little thought to their different backgrounds, styles, tastes.

Now, as Jack coasted downhill towards the Garage on the Green, he was determined not to make the same mistake again. He was going to trade in his faithless Honda for a Rover.