#Bristol -"Progress," They Said. It'll Be "Transformative," They Said. Didn't they?
Yes, the very heart of Bristol is being handed over to 'private developers', a benevolent entity that will undoubtedly prioritise the public good.
So, you woke up from a "Green-er Than a Gnome's Pants" hangover, did you? Welcome to the daily grind of a Bristolian, where existential dread is served with a side of organic sourdough. Indeed, Bristol is a city where "well-meaning Herbert" isn't just a term, it's a job description. Squirrels armed with climate change leaflets? More like a well-organised guerrilla marketing campaign by Extinction Rebellion's rodent division. You're right, forget sleep; Bristol's circadian rhythm is dictated by protest schedules, usually involving interpretive dance and placard waving, preferably on a Saturday, so the artisan-crafted protest attire can be properly showcased.
The statue toppling? Not just a historical amnesia moment, but a masterclass in selective outrage. Yes, the Vikings took slaves, but Colston's legacy is more photographically convenient. Bristol's history is curated like a trendy Instagram feed: only the photogenic bits make the cut. And don’t forget, Bristol is a city that somehow breeds adult-nappy wearing individuals who will cry over the least little thing that gets them sobbing for mummy over any minor, or major injustice that upsets the poor ‘dahlings’. However, on the plus side, if indeed there is one, adult nappies are at least a practical solution to the city's chronic lack of public toilets during peak protest hours. Let's be honest, it's a niche market, but a growing one.
Forget Butlins, you say? Bristol's "Protest City-Break" is a niche tourist market ripe for exploitation. Imagine: "Experience the thrill of being kettled," a genuine police tactic often employed during demonstrations, "the aroma of burning sage," an essential oil in the Bristolian protest starter kit, and "the dulcet tones of a vegan drum circle," a staple of any self-respecting Bristolian gathering. Complimentary megaphone? Standard issue, along with a laminated guide to local protest chants. Chants that are so well rehearsed by now, only the name or cause changes, while the rest remains ‘bog-standard’ so that any visiting protesters can be singing along almost instantly. Think of ‘Jack Sat On A Mat’ - except in Bristol it’ll be more like, ‘Jack Occupied A Busy Major Road’.
Manchester's building space elevators? Bristol's still debating whether indoor plumbing is gentrification. Their "modernisation" strategy? Demolish and replace with student accommodation and the elusive, ahem….. "affordable housing," a concept as mythical as a sober stag do in the city centre. Broadmead, once a retail hub, is now becoming a construction site performance art piece, that, in my humble estimation, will become a decade-long project that’ll test the patience of even the most zen Bristolian. Expect a fine layer of demolition dust, a new city scent, and the soothing hum of diggers, a soundtrack to the shopping ‘experience’.
Well, having laid out plans to pedestrianise Park Street (refer to yesterday’s blog piece), well, they're not stopping there. Now that sufficient traders are up in arms on Park Street, threatening to flee like rats from a sinking organic compost heap, because the Greens, in their infinite wisdom, want to pedestrianise Broadmead too. Never mind the businesses that rely on vehicular access; think of the vibes! Imagine, if you will, a serene, car-free boulevard where the only traffic jams are caused by impromptu drum circles and interpretive dance flash mobs. Who needs commerce when you have performance art, right?
Well, it doesn’t stop with this. Oh no! The former Debenhams building, St James Barton, and now the Galleries are all to become fast fading memories, and replaced by a post-apocalyptic aesthetic. Think Beirut, but with less explosions and more high-vis vests. Cribbs Causeway? Too mainstream. Bristol prefers the "authentic" experience of navigating a rubble-strewn wasteland while shopping in what little of Broadmead will remain. And from these ashes? Among other things, student accommodation, naturally. Dean Street Works is indeed already ahead of the curve with a five-star student hotel, complete with cinema rooms and Wi-Fi that could download a small nation. No masseuse or comforting alpaca to stroke when exam stress hits, though. Clearly, the developers are missing a trick here..
Our "esteemed civic leaders," those masters of public service and artisanal delusion, visualise the rebuilt Galleries as a "private urban oasis" in Broadmead. Because privatising public space is the solution to all urban ills. It'll be a miniature principality where the "upwardly mobile" sip artisanal coffee, while the police are "invited guests," ensuring only the right kind of disturbances. Think electric scooters and oat milk latte tantrums.
Meanwhile, the "council estates" – those vibrant hubs of "Nutritional Tetris" – will engage in the thrilling sport of maximising calorific intake with beans and bread. A masterclass in performative philanthropy, indeed. The council assures us all is well in the planning, by ignoring South Bristolians in the main. You know, those living in deprived, squalid areas, documented in Council surveys, neatly filed under "Inconvenient Truths of The Future."
The "rebuilding projects"? They'll unfold at the speed of geological plate tectonics. Each brick laid with the deliberate slowness of a snail on Mount Everest. By 2037, Broadmead will be a myth, a cautionary tale whispered by cyborg historians who have their shopping delivered by a mere thought.
But fret not, for now, at least, the students are thriving! Priorities, people! This is a satirical opera, a tragicomedy of urban planning, and Bristol is giving a performance that would make Shakespeare weep with a mix of pride and utter confusion.
Bristol, my dear, delightfully schizophrenic city. You're a bit like a flamboyant peacock wearing a threadbare cardigan, though, aren’t you?. One half of you, oh, you're positively preening! Shiny new paving stones, glass-fronted cafes whispering promises of "artisanal" delights, and those towering cranes, like metallic storks delivering the latest trends in urban living. It's all very "ooh la la," isn't it?
Imagine it: tourists, eyes wide as saucers, snapping pictures of the "reimagined" waterfront. They sip their overpriced coffees, dreaming of living in those sleek, glass boxes overlooking the harbour. "Urban chic," they murmur, a phrase as smooth and polished as the new marble benches. One can almost hear the collective sigh of property developers, a sound like a cash register serenading a spreadsheet.
But, oh dear, Bristol, you can't quite hide your other side, can you? You're like a grand dame with a smudge of soot on her cheek, a tear in her silk stocking. Just a hop, skip, and a stumble away from all that glittering progress, you'll find the corners where the paint is peeling, the cobbles are uneven, and the stories are spray painted in the brickwork like ancient runes.
These are the places where the real magic happens, mind you. Where the laughter is a little louder, the music a little rougher, and the community a little tighter. Where the murals tell tales of resilience and rebellion, the pubs where the regulars know your name (and your favourite tipple).
It's a bit like a theatrical set, isn't it? One side, all spotlights and glitter, the other, the backstage where the real actors are having a good old natter over a cuppa. Tourists, bless their hearts, they often peek into this backstage, drawn by the authenticity, the raw, unpolished charm. They want a taste of the "real" Bristol, the one that isn't curated for Instagram.
And isn't that just the way of things? We chase the shiny, the new, the "improved," but it's the worn, the loved, the lived-in that truly captures our hearts. Bristol, you're a glorious mess, a beautiful contradiction, a city that knows how to wear both its crown and its scuffed boots with equal aplomb.
So, next time you're wandering through Bristol, take a moment to look beyond the gleaming facades. Step into the shadows, listen to the whispers, and let the city tell you its stories, both the polished and the wonderfully, wonderfully messy. Because, let's be honest, a white elephant painted with whitewash is still just a white elephant, isn't it? And sometimes, the best stories are found in the corners where the paint is peeling. Isn’t it?
