WASTED SPACE

How Scotland’s booze culture is putting our cities in a bad light

It’s fairly common knowledge that Samuel Johnson didn’t have the highest regard for Scots and Scotland, at least according to his public utterances. One of these suggested that the ‘noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road that leads him to England’.

However, here’s one ‘ Scotchman’, to use his description, who reckons that one of the noblest prospects I’ve seen lately is the high road that leads me away from Lichfield, the birthplace of the good doctor.

Now, I admit at once that my knowledge of that fair city is based on a solitary visit, made recently to see my daughter perform in the wonderful twelfth-century cathedral.

First impressions were favourable; Lichfield has a rich history and is generously provided with beautiful and ancient buildings, including a museum in Dr Johnson’s honour.

However, sad to report, it wasn’t long before we could see that the city is yet another attractive place that’s bedevilled by the current British curse – otherwise known as the Booze Culture.

Trying hard to find somewhere for a meal or a quiet pint and glass of wine before the concert was almost impossible, as everywhere seemed to be packed with determined boozers. One barman admitted to me that his attractive establishment had given up serving food after six o’clock on Friday and Saturday evenings as ‘everyone just wants to get pissed’.

I admit it is a bit unfair to single out Lichfield for special criticism; it’s just that it really is – or should be, were it not for the mass of drinkers thronging all its city centre streets – a stunningly attractive place. But in that respect, it’s not really all that different from all manner of British, including Scottish, towns and cities.

But the most amazing phenomenon of Britain’s Booze Culture takes place almost every weekend on our railways. Trains head south from Scotland, full of stag and hen parties making for Newcastle and York and passing, en route around Alnwick I’d guess, other trains heading north from England, full of stags and hens making for Edinburgh.

The result? Hundreds of bizarrely-dressed people parade around our city centres, dominating the bars and restaurants on Friday and Saturday nights before packing the trains home on Sundays.

The transformational effect t hey have is incredible. Edinburgh’s Royal Mile and George Street are generally delightful environments in daylight hours, but are ruined come nightfall by the roaring of the stags and equally cacophonous squealing of the hens.

I’m certain that, as someone who likes a refreshment, I’ll be accused of base hypocrisy in decrying this current alcoholic happening. But what’s equally certain is that many of our city centres are being distorted beyond belief.

What’s to be done? Various towns and cities are trying to keep things in check. The city fathers in Bournemouth and Brighton have tried to restrict the revellers and Newquay has banned ‘inappropriate clothing’ on its beaches.

It really is a great pity that so many of our best and most beautiful cities are so despoiled by the shock troops of Britain’s booze culture.

Still, with this year’s Edinburgh Festival and its Fringe now with us, we’ll see the partaking of open-air refreshment in a much more civilised way in coming weeks. Won’t we?

And as a cultured Dundonian, all I can say is that we’ve always known how to behave. Haven’t we?