I’m a provincial lad at heart and I’m proud of it

IF the streets of London really are paved with gold, it’s been gouged from the teeth of visitors.

Six pounds and 10 pence for a pint of local bitter! I could get a passable bottle of plonk from my Co-op for that.

The capital has always been a dear job, but it’s become a rip-off in the 20 years since I returned to my native heath.

Going back for a brief encounter was an eye-opener. Imagine, a snooty pub that won’t take cash and demands payment by card. In our village, it’s the other way round. The chippy will only take cash (and less of it, too).

My work-related gathering, as we must now call parties in the aftermath of Partygate, took place in Canary Wharf. I have worked there, mostly on Saturdays, but the place is utterly unrecognisable, like something out of science fiction.

I half expect King Kong to appear over the tops of the towering steel and glass monstrosities. They deserve him.

Travelling on the Docklands Light Railway is a nightmare. No ticket offices, nobody there to help you. Canary Wharf DLR is confusing: you can’t tell where the station ends and the shops start, the final triumph of retail over rail.

I’m no hillbilly. I lived and worked in

London for more than 40 years, and it was great to see so many workmates. Emotional business, sometimes, newspapers. But I was glad when the rattler from Leeds took me back up the Aire Valley, even though the familiar village landmarks of Lund’s Tower and Wainman’s Pinnacle on Earl Crag were obscured by thick cloud.

You can take the lad out of the provinces, but he’ll always be a provincial lad at heart.