The Big Smoke

The economy, you will have noticed, is bad. Very, very bad. And it’s going to get worse. Not bad for everyone in London, of course. Some people and services will do well from these hard times: pizza delivery, painters and decorators, cobblers, dry-cleaning and alteration services. Generally anyone who benefits from the increasingly make-do-and-mend atmosphere that is settling on our hard-up city.

Others will do less well: the days of the £3 pint must be numbered; and breakfast/brunch eateries in places like Dulwich and Crouch End, where scrambled organic eggs and wholemeal jojoba toastlets retail for £6.99, are looking at dark days ahead.

No, now that we creative middle classes are all dirt-poor, the time has come to make some serious lifestyle changes. Forget £3 pints and posh eateries – this is the age of Wetherspoons and the caff.

Maybe you’re thinking: Am I ready to go downmarket? Do I have the nerve to share a table with someone who is, well, common? Don’t worry – I’ve been doing the research for you and the news is good. Common people are very nice and they can’t wait to meet you.

Let’s start with Wetherspoons. It is not the job of this column to drum up business for pub chains, and let’s face it, most pub chains are terrible, but they are selling beer for 98p a pint. Yes, 98p a pint. Impressive, but more importantly, you’ll mix with loads of common people as you drink your cheap beer, and they are all very cheerful, especially at 11pm.

This should give you the confidence for your next step. The caff. Again, I’ve got there ahead of you, so let’s join me in one.
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I’m facing a cheese omelette with bacon next to it (three rashers) and a cup of tea. I’m being charged four quid and I’m going to leave 20p in the tip box even though the Turkish lady who served me couldn’t understand what I was saying. That’s fine, I don’t talk that well and the 20p is as much for the atmosphere as the service.

At the next table, three street-sweepers are breakfasting. There are two older men and one younger; they are discussing the job and its travails. ‘That girls’ school,’ says one of the older men. ‘It’s murder when they let the girls out at lunchtime. The streets are covered in crisp packets.’

‘Yeah,’ agrees the second older man. ‘It’s pretty bad outside the station as well. Bleeding Metros and London Lites.’

The whole table nods sagely before the youngest member of the party, presumably keen to assert his street-sweeping credentials in front of the veterans, chips in: ‘The estate’s bad – litter everywhere. But I found a bag of grass and sold it to some bloke for a tenner.’ There is silence. His observation has fallen on unimpressed ears.

‘You want to be careful,’ observes the first older man. ‘There are always people watching.’

‘Yeah, watching,’ concurs the second older man, before the first older man continues his admonition. ‘It just takes one call to the council or the police and that’s it, you’ve lost your job.’

‘What you’ve got to ask yourself,’ says the second older man, ‘is: Was it worth it for a tenner?’

There is some mumbling and slurping of tea. Clearly the youngest man is asking himself just that. Eventually, after more slurping, he decides.

‘No, not really.’

So there you go, a meal for less than a fiver and a moral drama thrown in. The young man was tested, he passed. Don’t get that in upmarket brunch destinations, do you? It’s more: ‘Caroline says she can’t get a sitter for Friday night and Anthony won’t do it because it’s rugger practice.’ ‘Really? Oh, what a drag, I was going to do a pumpkin risotto.’ Interesting for the participants but lacking an existential edge for the eavesdropper.

So cheer up, London. Things are actually very, very good.