“Get your motor runnin’, Head out on the highway, Looking for adventure in whatever comes our way…” The open road, the wind in your hair… Is life in the fast lane over for Jed Novick? 

“We could make turn it into something interesting” said My Fine Wife. “You know, an objet”. Pause. “Maybe a plant pot. Apparently when the Berlin Wall fell, they sold off Trabants to garden centres, cut off the roofs and filled them with soil. We could do that” she said rather too brightly.

I looked at my stationary soft-top. “We wouldn’t even have to cut off the roof”.  

We’re looking at my very fine Mercedes CLK 200. It’s, of course,  the “Avantgarde” model which isn’t to say it’s experimental, radical, or unorthodox nor is it characterised by aesthetic innovation and initial unacceptability (thank you Wikipedia) but it is very lovely. It’s metallic blue with contrasting light leather interior, a top of the range digital sound system. Electric everything. It’s also not well. Really not well. OK, it’s dead. The car is dead. 

“That’ll be your timing chain then”, said the nice garage bloke. “You’ll need to take it to the Mercedes garage. It’s a specialist job.”

He looked at me and we both knew. No one goes to the Mercedes garage. If you can afford to go to the Mercedes garage you can afford to have a car that doesn’t need to go to the Mercedes garage. God knows why there even is a Mercedes garage or even what happens there. 

“You’ll have to take it away”, said the nice garage bloke. “It can’t stay here”. 

There’s something I find unutterably sad about all this. The Mercedes. It was my car. It was everything that “practical” wasn’t. A boy car. A soft top that did about three to the gallon – and that wasn’t great even in the days when we had gallons. It was a soft top and come on, we get about three days of sunshine here. I used to keep a faux fur coat in the boot because as soon as the sun came out, the roof was down. And as anyone who’s been in one of these things, as soon as you take down the roof you let in the cold.“ Cold schmold. It was cool. 

“Roadrunner, roadrunner, 

Going faster miles an hour, 

With the radio on

I’m in love with Massachusetts

And the neon when it’s cold outside

And the highway when it’s late at night

Got the radio on

I’m like the roadrunner”

Jonathan Richman’s not ever going to be writing a song about a Nissan Leaf. Chris Martin might. 

My Fine Wife feels no sorrow really. Her favourite words are “the planet” and a car that moves from one petrol station to the next, it’s not her idea of fun. I can see her point. Having a car, it almost feels a little last century. We live in the centre of town. We walk everywhere and if even we got cabs everywhere… we could get cabs every day and it still wouldn’t cover the cost of insuring the Merc. Then there’s petrol, nearly £1.50 a litre and rising. And, as My Fine Wife reminds me, the planet. Simon Kofe, that Polynesian politician who gave a speech about the impact of climate change standing in the sea, is probably up to his waist by now.   

So, yes. I can see her point, but what a joyless, soulless, heartless, miserable point. Have you ever had sugar-free cake? Where’s the joy? Cars are extraordinary, iconic, beautiful. American Graffiti. Alvis. Bristol. Triumph. 

My first car was a Morris 1100 my father bought off Mr Trupp, who lived next door and sold cars on the side. I’ve no idea what he did on the other side. Who cares? Increasingly I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, but I remember the day Truppy – everyone called him Truppy – turned up with the Morris. £100. Deal. 

It had clearly been owned by some boy racer type because – and Truppy made a deal about this – it had two Webber carbs. No, me neither, but it went. Really, it went. We could beat almost anything off the lights. But then it stopped, got to about 30mph and stopped. Lost interest. Remembered it was a Morris 100. “Perfect, you’ll never break the speed limit” Truppy probably said. 

The other thing, the thing he didn’t mention, was that while there was a handbrake, it wasn’t actually attached to the floor of the car. You pulled it up, it just came up. The handbrake, the plate it was bolted to, some mechanism thing and… And we lived on quite a steep hill and, well that’s how my dark green Morris 1100 came to have a white boot. Do they even have breaker’s yards now? 

You think about your cars and they’re like photo albums, each one a rush of memory, each one with more stories than miles. But that was then and this is now. And now is different. Now is “the planet”. 

Maybe it’s time to just accept that the future’s now and proper cars aren’t now. Maybe everything else is a little bit King Canute. 

But you know… A couple of weeks ago I got Covid. What can you do? Just rest up and… Did you know that on Sky Dave Gold or somesuch channel at 4pm every day they’re showing old episodes of The Sweeney. Now the Ford Granada Mk 1, that’s a car.  And as chance would have it, there’s one on the net for £4,750…

The secret of the programme’s success, of course, is that castaways choose not the eight best records but the eight records that mean most to them. And they tell the stories that go with them.

And so it is with wines. My choice of wines that have meant most to me in life is dictated by the situation in which I drank them, even more than their excellence. 

Take my first choice: Clos de Vougeot 1965. A friend and I, both aged 21, won a scholarship to spend six weeks in France studying the wine trade. (Don’t ask how such a thing is possible; this was the 1960’s – it probably isn’t any more). It gave us a little money but, much more important, it gave us introductions to key winemakers in Burgundy. We were working our way down the Côte d’Or, visiting cellars and tasting wine. One lunchtime we’d reached the little village of Vougeot, home of some of the most famous vineyards in the world, where there was a little bistro, packed with men (as was the way then). 

We ordered the cheapest possible meal and asked for water – it was all our money would run to. ‘Ce n’est pas possible’ shouted a man two tables away. ‘When in Vougeot we drink Vougeot!’. The waitress was called, a half bottle ordered, and the whole bistro nodded with approval, of course this was how they do things here. The wine was exceptional – elegant, fragrant, almost perfumed. And it went on our neighbour’s bill. I’ve never forgotten that man’s generosity and whenever someone complains about the arrogance and disdain that the French can show to foreigners I think, no, it’s not necessarily arrogance. Sometimes it’s a justified pride.

My next choice was also first tasted in a restaurant, but we were paying this time. Alghero is the loveliest old town in Sardinia, and the best spot in Alghero is a restaurant on the sea wall where you dine outside at tables with white linen tablecloths, watching the sun go down across the Mediterranean. I was there with my wife. Our first night we had a wine from the largest co-operative on the island, called Santadi. It was so good the next night I ordered the best Santadi they had. The waiter, previously polite, became suddenly interested. “Perfetto” he said and headed off to the other waiters to tell them this foreigner had ordered a bottle of Terre Brune. They nodded their approval, outrageously big wine glasses were brought and the Manager appeared with the bottle. Activity stopped across the restaurant while the bottle was opened. A little was poured; I tasted. I don’t usually cry when asked to taste a wine but I wasn’t far off that evening. It was divine. It was a Carignano del Sulcis – pure Carignan grapes on old vines, matured in oak barrels. It was an impossible combination of power and elegance. I don’t think I said anything, just nodded helplessly in a way the waiter seemed to understand. I’ve had it since, and it wasn’t just the setting; it really is that good.

I

 was 19 and living alone in Rheims, working all summer in a department store to learn French. In those easygoing days all the great Champagne houses opened their cellars to visitors, with the tour of the cellars, refreshingly cool in that hot summer, followed by a dégustation gratuite. I did so many of these tours that I really could tell one champagne from another. Pommery was my favourite tour. They changed the guides so often I could always get in without being recognised as a repeat visitor; and they had acres of caves packed with champagne bottles, each one being turned every few months by hand, deep in the limestone under the city. 

But my favourite champagne was Veuve Clicquot, with its distinctive orange label. I liked its rich, full, biscuity flavour. Some years later, driving to the south of France, my wife and I stopped in Rheims to visit the now elderly couple who had found that job for me and tried to keep an eye on me. In the conversation I mentioned my liking for Veuve Clicquot and, without a word, Pierre got up, put away the bottle of something else he already had on ice, went down to his cellar and came back with a 10 year old bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The aging had changed it from the luscious full bodied fresh bubbly I remembered to a more complex wine, but unmistakeably Clicquot. Nothing brings back a memory as powerfully as does taste and smell.

W

hen Gordon Ramsay opened his restaurant at Claridge’s he offered an extraordinarily cheap lunch deal; so I booked for the two of us. The hotel was as opulent as we had expected, the food was good though not great, and the wine list was very, very long and expensive. We headed for the area of France we know best – the Languedoc – and chose the cheapest, called, intriguingly, ‘No.7’ from a domaine called La Croix Belle. It was splendid: full, fruity, complex, totally honest and well made. I asked the French wine waiter what the grapes were and, without a pause he said ‘grenache, syrah, mourvedre’ which was no surprise because they are typical grapes for that area. Next time we were down there we called in at La Croix Belle and spoke to Mme Françoise Boyer who runs the sales side of the family business. The waiter had just been guessing. It’s called No.7 because it’s made from seven grape varieties, including the three the wine waiter had guessed. A Frenchman doesn’t admit he doesn’t know.

Françoise had merely placed her wines in the hands of a broker and had no idea they were on such prestigious wine lists. I think that was the end of the broker as far as she was concerned. We still drink a lot of No.7. It sums up for us what Languedoc red wines are all about. They get a lot of sun and the stony soil drains well; so the wine is naturally concentrated, rich, and fruity. Knowing the people and their vineyards brings a whole new dimension to enjoying their wine.

l This is Andrew Polmear’s final wine column for The Mighty Whistler. But he can’t get away that easily. We organised a 38 Degrees Petition  – to say how many votes it got would embarrass Andrew – but suffice to say you’ve not seen the last of his byline 

You have to go a long way to eat by the light of a roaring fire on a winter’s evening these days, but find it we did at Brighton’s favourite out of town pub half an hour down the A27, The Ram Inn at Firle. 

For the walkers heading back down the Beacon, there’s no need to wait for nightfall for the fires to be lit and the pints to be poured in this quaint old country pub. Dusk falls early here as locals join walkers in a Covid?WhatCovid? huddle around the proper old bar, and fires are set in all three dining areas. No wonder The Ram is pulling in more than 300 covers a day at the weekends. No mean feat as the pandemic has paralysed so many of its competitors.

Everything is quaint in Firle; the 11th century village dates back to Edward the Confessor, and backs into the Beacon itself, stalling any possibility of through traffic and herding cars into the central car park to give its single road over to the walkers. Owned by Lord Gage and his ancestors since the 15th century,  the village and everything in it is picture book pretty and packed with artists and writers whose rent lines his pockets in a feudal system that hasn’t noticed the passing of time. 

No matter for the hordes of visitors who can’t quite believe that a place like this still exists. Suspending reality, as the village itself seems to have done, is rather a pleasant pastime, it seems. 

Happily, the menu has managed to straddle Firle’s old-fashioned values and Instagram’s core requirements with beautiful dishes sourced locally and seasonally from some of the best farms in Sussex. The pan roast venison loin from nearby Heathfield is just about the most sustainable of meats you can eat – unless you fancy squirrel – and perched on dauphinoise potato with braised red cabbage and a red wine jus is a wintery dish just made to be snapped in Portrait mode by a roaring fire.  The twice cooked confit duck leg with smoked pancetta, braised puy lentils and red wine jus or the grilled cod fillet with celeriac puree, roast hispi cabbage, caper, lemon and parsley oil are a picture of country gastro pub 2022. But it’s the Stout Cake, deep, dark malt and chocolatey with a rich Guinness sauce that brings Old England to the table in this timeless hostelry. 

Prices are unsurprisingly modern, and with a good wine list, it’s an easy £100 for two. But if you gaze long enough into the flames licking the ancient chimney as you sip your digestif, you might just see the ghosts of former villagers Virginia Woolf, John Maynard Keynes and Katherine Mansfield who were known to pen a few lines over a half on a winter’s night. Priceless.

It’s Valentine’s Night in Brighton, and the skies are full of love birds and solo flyers.  Swooping into The Lanes and North Laine, your Gull’s heart is pumped as she peers in through the windows of pubs and bars, restaurants and cafes as the city celebrates the one night of the year that’s all about LOVE. 

But what’s this? The Feedback column in your trusty Whistler which should be overflowing with reader recommendations of where to eat on this special occasion has been usurped by a list of hobby workshops! How can that be? Well, a quick peck in the editor’s bin and it seems that the usual squawk on social media has resulted in an outpouring of cynicism. It sticks in the craw for this bird to read you some of the hostility towards her favourite night of the year. Wendy asks ‘Has anyone ever had a good but not overpriced meal on Valentine’s Night?  Not the night to go to a restaurant.’ Lou, normally so chipper, says; ‘‘Fraid not. We don’t do Valentines over here, but sure we could come up with some sexy places to have a meal..?’ ! Kari adds: ‘Maybe something on what us Sexy Singles could do as well…!’ Jo: ‘Most depressing day of the year. Fuels loneliness, over consumption, flower importation, and is the cause of miserable couples rowing over forced romantic meals. ‘Ban it’ say I.’ Nick: ‘I learned a long time ago never to go to a restaurant for Valentine’s Day.’ Peta: ‘Sounds like should be renamed doom’n’gloom day’.

Well, your Gull is all about bringing you the richest of pickings from the best of Brighton so, with an eye for top value, excellent company and the best food in town this Valentine’s Night, she flew down to The Gingerman, favourite of The Whistler’s food editor to see what’s cooking. At £65 per person plus wine pairing at another £35 per person, this is a treat any time of the year. There’s no Valentine’s menu or inflation of the price, but then there are no tables left for Feb 14 either. And that’s because the Ginger family is a legend in Brighton, its bin bags cawed about in hushed tones by the elder gulls who have trained their palates on the winter truffles accompanying the local ceps, the roast fallow deer with salsify, smoked bone marrow, walnut and chocolate and the blackberry souffle, still pretty as leftovers for a discerning scavenger. This is the top of the tree for food fans in Brighton. 

Heading up towards Western Rd, Market is a-buzz with cool tunes and counter culture as the windows steam up with happy foodies. Again, there’s no Valentine’s menu, but there’s a party any day of the week out the back for us feathered foodie fans. As we peck at the morcels in the bins, our migratory chums, freshly back in balmy Brighton from warmer climes, share exotic stories behind our titbits; the cheese from La Mancha, jamon from Teruel and spiced pork from Monroyo as we dream of riding the thermals across the Spanish plains.

A last flight across to the sea (and an almost full moon this Valentine’s Night), and Moshimo is packed to the gills. News of its ethically sourced fish and seafood has sent its reputation soaring, especially among the younger gulls who are also pretty impressed with its vegan menu and high welfare meat sourcing. Its Fishlove campaign to end overfishing has done much to protect fish all over the world, which goes down very well indeed among seabirds. 

There’s no Valentine Menu so Brighton’s love birds will be sharing the most ethically farmed salmon in the UK, grilled with a teriyaki sauce or a Cornish crab and cucumber crispy seaweed handroll, as they always do. 

But if Valentine’s Night is but a cruel reminder that life is a bicycle made for two, remember that this Gull flies solo. Find yourself a thermal, even if it’s a night in with 6Music turned up, and enjoy the ride.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

It’s Valentine’s Night in Brighton, and the skies are full of love birds and solo flyers.  Swooping into The Lanes and North Laine, your Gull’s heart is pumped as she peers in through the windows of pubs and bars, restaurants and cafes as the city celebrates the one night of the year that’s all about LOVE. 

But what’s this? The Feedback column in your trusty Whistler which should be overflowing with reader recommendations of where to eat on this special occasion has been usurped by a list of hobby workshops! How can that be? Well, a quick peck in the editor’s bin and it seems that the usual squawk on social media has resulted in an outpouring of cynicism. It sticks in the craw for this bird to read you some of the hostility towards her favourite night of the year. Wendy asks ‘Has anyone ever had a good but not overpriced meal on Valentine’s Night?  Not the night to go to a restaurant.’ Lou, normally so chipper, says; ‘‘Fraid not. We don’t do Valentines over here, but sure we could come up with some sexy places to have a meal..?’ ! Kari adds: ‘Maybe something on what us Sexy Singles could do as well…!’ Jo: ‘Most depressing day of the year. Fuels loneliness, over consumption, flower importation, and is the cause of miserable couples rowing over forced romantic meals. ‘Ban it’ say I.’ Nick: ‘I learned a long time ago never to go to a restaurant for Valentine’s Day.’ Peta: ‘Sounds like should be renamed doom’n’gloom day’.

Well, your Gull is all about bringing you the richest of pickings from the best of Brighton so, with an eye for top value, excellent company and the best food in town this Valentine’s Night, she flew down to The Gingerman, favourite of The Whistler’s food editor to see what’s cooking. At £65 per person plus wine pairing at another £35 per person, this is a treat any time of the year. There’s no Valentine’s menu or inflation of the price, but then there are no tables left for Feb 14 either. And that’s because the Ginger family is a legend in Brighton, its bin bags cawed about in hushed tones by the elder gulls who have trained their palates on the winter truffles accompanying the local ceps, the roast fallow deer with salsify, smoked bone marrow, walnut and chocolate and the blackberry souffle, still pretty as leftovers for a discerning scavenger. This is the top of the tree for food fans in Brighton. 

Heading up towards Western Rd, Market is a-buzz with cool tunes and counter culture as the windows steam up with happy foodies. Again, there’s no Valentine’s menu, but there’s a party any day of the week out the back for us feathered foodie fans. As we peck at the morcels in the bins, our migratory chums, freshly back in balmy Brighton from warmer climes, share exotic stories behind our titbits; the cheese from La Mancha, jamon from Teruel and spiced pork from Monroyo as we dream of riding the thermals across the Spanish plains.

A last flight across to the sea (and an almost full moon this Valentine’s Night), and Moshimo is packed to the gills. News of its ethically sourced fish and seafood has sent its reputation soaring, especially among the younger gulls who are also pretty impressed with its vegan menu and high welfare meat sourcing. Its Fishlove campaign to end overfishing has done much to protect fish all over the world, which goes down very well indeed among seabirds. 

There’s no Valentine Menu so Brighton’s love birds will be sharing the most ethically farmed salmon in the UK, grilled with a teriyaki sauce or a Cornish crab and cucumber crispy seaweed handroll, as they always do. 

But if Valentine’s Night is but a cruel reminder that life is a bicycle made for two, remember that this Gull flies solo. Find yourself a thermal, even if it’s a night in with 6Music turned up, and enjoy the ride.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

But who is Lieutenant Landfill?? Dotty, what on earth is going on?

Size 15 clown shoes on, guzzle coffee. Head to Temple Gardens, corner of Windlesham Gardens. Dot over fading owl, artist unknown. Skidaddle for more coffee at the Dials. Retrieve abandoned space age vacuum cleaner on Clifton Hill. Take to art studio in Powis Square, paint green and dot with vigour. Reposition next to dotty wall at Temple Gardens. Head to Greek cafe at Dials roundabout for cake. Retrieve abandoned microwave and old tea set at Montpelier Cresent, hide under a tree, for journey back to art studio. On return to studio, spot an old silver gas heater and viaduct pipes in a skip on Goldsmid Road. 

Situation critical, empty a surf bag at Goldsmid Road and collect outstanding items. Drag back along Dyke Road, trying to look inconspicuous. Once in studio, layout in military fashion, spray, acrylic tubes, circular stencils, half empty tins. Kettle on, paint brush poised, prepare new finds to create robots for Temple Gardens in art studio. 

Fast forward few days later, head down to my newest and proudest outdoor dotty art.  Local neighbour runs out, your vacuum cleaner has been stolen. Slightly perturbed, I ponder this action whilst flicking vinyl’s in a cafe on Chatham Place, at which point, I noticed, directly opposite an armless mutant mannequin.  Not wanting to be accused of committing a heinous crime, I carried said find, under my arm and took the dials back streets back to art studio HQ. 

Almost there, my mind whirring the same sentence, don’t find anything else, don’t find anything else, and sure enough, I found something else. A big colourful bucket of lego, I just couldn’t live with myself if this ended up on a landfill. I turn the key to art studio HQ, armless mutant mannequin under my arm, with swinging lego bucket on its leg, just about the shut door and postman asks if I’m doing anything interesting over the weekend, I respond in an Hunch Back of Notra Damme manner, yes I will concocting art in my laboratory, I must not be disturbed.  After an evening of sticking broken bits of  lego to the mutant mannequin and bashing together two new robot creations, the realisation hit me, that an art incarnation had been born. Ladies and Gentleman I bring to you Lieutenant Landfill. 

The robots shall remain ambiguous, ambiguous 1 and ambiguous 2, which was which, is beyond me. Whilst on route to Temple Gardens with my latest creations a thunderbolt gallery name thwacked me in my brain, for I, Artist Dotty, have created the wonder that is The Tat Modern. Anyway cut a long story short, I tootled down to Travis Perkins, to grab a freebie piece of wood. Created a lovely green Tat Modern sign, with a small sillyphosical arrow, pointing to the art and the rest was history. 

Pop down folks, it should all still be there. Oh and I apologise if the mutant mannequin, Lieutenant Landfill, scares you at night, this was an oversight on my part. 

Sam Harrington-Lowe was going to talk about growing older gracefully. Or disgracefully. Or however it is you want to do it. But then life said something else 

This article was originally going to be about positive ageing. A rage against the purported dimming of the light, if you will. But actually, I’m going to write about being diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 51.

I was recently on the phone to a fella, I won’t say who, and we were talking about this. And he made some crack about it being the latest trend. And good lord weren’t there loads of women doing this now at our age, isn’t it fashionable ha ha. 

If he’d been in front of me, I might have been tempted to punch him across the room, but obviously only in my head because ABH etc. Also I’m working on my impulsiveness, now I know that I can be impulsive. 

But as I found myself patiently explaining – again – why having ADHD, or in fact any kind of neurodiversity really isn’t a trend, nor is it usually ‘fun’ or even funny (well, maybe sometimes funny), and not something you’d want to make up having, I did feel weary. A weariness that women everywhere will recognise anyway, and I expect all late-diagnosis ND people too.

‘But you seem so normal’, he continues, unabashed. I sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And that’s taken half a century of exhausting acting.’ But I’m not ‘normal’, whatever the hell that even is. I’ve always known I was different, and always had to work hard to fit in. The reason for women being diagnosed later in life are so many and myriad I haven’t got room here. Let’s just say they slipped through the net.

Fortunately, the relief of being diagnosed more than compensates for (repeatedly) having to have idiotic conversations like this. Finding out that there was a good reason for being weird was such an emotional phenomenon, I’m not even sure I can put it into words.

Before diagnosis my day would be filled with trying to do too many things at once. Starting things and not finishing them. Working out how to do something and then not doing it because hey, now I’ve worked it out it’s boring. It was fighting executive dysfunction – I’d have a ten-minute job to do that was holding EVERYTHING ELSE up and not be able to do it. Just absolutely stuck, sometimes for weeks. By 11am I would be exhausted, unable to form clear thoughts. I was filled with panic, so I’d curl up on the sofa and hide from everything. I couldn’t talk to people. I could barely respond to text.

It was an inability to sit still, or concentrate on anything for more than about 10 minutes. It was a constant search for distraction which then led to a cluttered mind. It was being unable to decide what to wear every day, so mostly living in the same type of clothes 24/7. Offending people by blurting things out that were best left unsaid. It’s having hyperfixations and listening to the same tune or watching the same programme over, and over, and over again. It’s an inability to cope with noise and light, and an actual fear of supermarkets and the overwhelm.

There are masses more, but let’s do some positives, because there are some, and I try to be an upbeat sort of lunatic. When I’m under pressure, back-to-the-wall deadlines etc, I can turn out extraordinary things (although the crash afterwards is like the worst drug comedown ever). I’m able to paint, sing, play the piano, write, memorise whole pages of text, pass exams without actually going to any classes, run a business. I can see music; I have synaesthesia which is pretty cool. Music is coloured. I love that.

But it took almost a full-blown breakdown to get diagnosed and treated, because I’m also awful at asking for help. I’m fortunate – I’ve got a lovely GP (who I suspect is also ND), who was 100% in my corner. When I tentatively approached her with the possibility, feeling like I was being some kind of show-off for pretending I was special because yay imposter syndrome, and she took me seriously, I wept. I wept for weeks actually, as I went through the process, and ultimately had a psychiatrist diagnose me and prescribe me medication. I finally had an answer for all the things I did that made me feel such a failure. And a way to fix it.

Every school report I ever had said the same thing – Samantha would do well if she could concentrate for any length of time. Samantha is disruptive, Samantha only has herself to blame for this poor report… well finally Samantha understands why, and Samantha is getting on with shit. 

It’s hard not to feel cheated, like where would I be if I’d been diagnosed 25 years ago? But I’m here, and it’s now, and my life is opening up before me. Let’s do this thing.

#LifeBeginsAt50Sam is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Silver Magazine – for the mature maverick

www.silvermagazine.co.uk

Seven Cellars and Latina are part of the fabric of our world. They’re part of what makes the Dials the Dials. Now they’re under threat by the Co-op – maybe that’s what their motto “It’s what we do” really means. Louise Oliver of Seven Cellars explains what it means to her  

Seven Cellars is to me more than a shop. It represents a life-long dream to own my own business in Brighton. It represents four years studying Wine Business at Plumpton College. It is linked to friends and family, some whom are no longer with us, who helped me in so many ways to get it open, writing labels at one in the morning –  hurriedly getting an inadequate amount of change for our first days trade, poring over wine lists (and so many samples) to agonise which wines we should open with. It was enormous fun. And we were welcomed so heartily by the amazing people of Seven Dials I just knew it was going to be special. And it is.

All these things apply in different ways to Adelia at Latina café too. We were stunned to receive a call from our landlord, Bob (Patel – not his real name, his business name) to tell us he had sold our protected leases (I still don’t know how that can happen) to the Co-op for £1.5 million, thus making the Co-op our landlords.

The Co-op sent us both a letter which simply told us to change the bank details for rent payment with Immediate effect.  It was a bit rude to be honest because there was no attempt to introduce themselves, no niceties whatsoever.

They sent inspectors to “review” the properties – along with structural engineers and architects. They used a third party to tell us that they will be seeking to remove us from our properties. Under a protected lease there are only two reasons you can do that: non payment of rent or redevelopment. The redevelopment will happen. They will increase the size of the second co-op and force us to move out.

I did write to our MP but she said there was little we could do unless we can get an effective campaign to get them to back off. The expansion into our little shops is inevitable because it’s completely legal.

I wonder if it will cause consternation if we use their twitter hashtag #itswhatwedo to ask them if what they really do is put two well-loved family-owned shops out of business? I can confirm that whatever happens we will try to stay in the Dials and relocate as soon as we can if new premises can be found. We have three years yet so we are not going anywhere soon. The wheels of corporate business turn very slowly indeed.

Thank you so much for the support. So many of you are asking what you can do to help. We have been overwhelmed by the sentiment and people coming in to offer words of encouragement. Some people have sent letters to the MP and the council, some have offered to design posters. Some have offered their company on a lock in protest!

We’ve put a lot of planning and energy into Seven Cellars and Latina Café and now it feels as though all our plans are on hold and we have to live with constant uncertainty. We don’t take it personally but whether the co-op group intentionally or unintentionally are failing to give us clarity on what the next steps are the result it exactly the same and we are left worrying night after night about what the future holds. 

The irony is that Seven Cellars and Latina Café have been and still are successful and popular shops and yet they face an existential threat. On a final point and putting our own issues to one side the Seven Cellars and Latina Café premises go back to 1841. And I often wonder how many families have spent their lives trading from there and serving the community. It seems a bit brutal and unnecessary to bring it all to an end. When the Co-op already have a bigger shop just a few hundred meters away.

We are not powerless. We have a voice. There’s a petition at change.org. 

https://www.change.org/p/save-our-shops-from-the-co-op-corporate-greed-and-keep-seven-dials-in-brighton-independent?recruiter=903926200&utm_campaign=petition_published_onboarding_0&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=share_petition&fbclid=IwAR3Vqslf_2SZAArcbzV6C3we5Sb4yKn1gakgpx6kY6pU42Og3uMWhQhgLSY

Write, shout, put it on your social media platform. Don’t be passive, be active. You have a voice. Use it. 

If you’ve ever wanted to learn how to play acoustic guitar, this is the class for you. Tutor Zac will guide you through step by step in a fun and friendly atmosphere. 

The course covers the acoustic guitar through a variety of musical styles from rock and blues to world music. Learn a vocabulary of chords and simple technique that will get you enjoying your guitar from week one! 

Zac Hooper has been playing guitar for 30 years and comes from a family of musicians. He’s got a degree in jazz guitar and is an experienced teacher.

Testimonials

Zac’s style of teaching is superb! He takes each individual student’s needs and ensures that everyone understands, allowing for speedy learning while maintaining a relaxed and fun atmosphere. Molly

I have hugely enjoyed this class and learning the guitar with Zac.  He is an excellent teacher and somehow managed to cater for everybody’s levels and needs.  I will definitely go on to level 2.  This is the best course I have ever done in Brighton.  Karen

Zac is excellent at breaking things down to absolute basics whilst encouraging us to experiment and be spontaneous.  He also makes is a lot of fun! Sonya

Zac’s teaching style. Relaxed, informative, very easy to follow.  Even came away being able to play some tunes.  Aidy

Fantastic! Zac is a brilliant teacher – thank you for your enthusiasm and amazing talent. The whole course was brilliant. Kate

Zac has a unique way of teaching you guitar, without you realising, until you are doing it. You can tell he loves guitar music, his passion is infectious. Pirate Zac Rocks! Rhys

A great range of material and well crafted lessons that dovetailed together to help me create a confident playing style. I can’t believe how much I’ve learned and how much fun I had while doing so. Cheers Captain Zac!

A guitar god. You’ve made each lesson good fun and informative at the same time. I’ve learned so much in this course but in an easy way for me to remember. I will definitely be signing up for Level 2. Alice

Excellent course – well structured, very enthusiastic teaching, friendly and approachable tutor. Non-intimidating. Helen

BOOK HERE: https://www.evolutionarts.org.uk/acoustic-guitar-course-brighton-hove

Location: Westhill Hall, Brighton (Seven Dials) 
Next start date: Tuesday 10 May 2022, 6.00pm – 7.15pm, 6wks (there will be a break on 31 May)

So it’s up to us now. The government is happy to advise us about “safer behaviours” (masking, distancing, hand washing and, above all, getting vaccinated) but nothing’s mandatory. Individual transport companies, shops, or concert halls can demand that we mask as a condition of entry but it’s rare to see it enforced. But how do we decide what is safe?

The first point to make is that COVID-19 is very much around. At the beginning of April 2022 there were 4.5 million active cases in the UK and 20,000 active cases in Brighton and Hove, according to the ZOE Covid Study. With a population of 290,000 that means that 1 in 14 in Brighton and Hove will have COVID-19. That’s a bit worrying. Not all of them will be out in the street or on the buses, of course. Those with symptoms are more likely to stay at home. But one third will have no symptoms and quite a few more will have such mild symptoms that they haven’t thought to have a test. It means that, if you get on a full bus, it’s quite likely that there’s someone on board who is shedding the virus.

The second point is that it’s still not a trivial illness. Even those with mild symptoms find it can last a couple of weeks and knocks them out. Those with more severe disease can take months to recover. Even with the Omicron variant, 1 in 200 are admitted to hospital. Then there’s Long Covid, which is no joke and may last years. The Office for National Statistics reckons that 1.5 million people in the UK have it now. Strangely, it’s commonest, not in the elderly, but in those aged 35 to 49.

But how useful are those “safer behaviours”? Let’s take them in turn.

First, mask wearing. A recent study from California found that those who wore a mask all the time when indoors in a public place were half as likely to be infected as those who didn’t mask. And the ones who wore the best masks (KN95 masks) were the ones most likely not to be infected. But which mask should we use? I’m not keen on disposable “surgical” masks – they are single use plastic and we are trying to stop using such things. KN95 masks are stronger; you can reuse them till they start to get dirty. If you go for a fabric mask, choose carefully. The Consumer Magazine Which? did a survey which showed that reusable fabric masks varied in ability to trap tiny particles from 99.9% to 7% effective!  To read it search online on ‘survey of face masks by Which?’.

Second, what about distancing? It’s not as simple as 1 metre or 2 metres. It depends on whether the person shedding virus is masked or talking or shouting; outdoors or indoors, and if indoors how big the space is, and how well ventilated. Put simply, the  greatest risk is with lots of people, unmasked, in a small space for a prolonged time with poor ventilation, who are singing or shouting. Sounds as though a nightclub is the perfect venue for spreading virus but it could be the church choir practice.

What about hand hygiene – washing or sanitising? SAGE looked at the evidence recently and found that it can reduce respiratory virus infections, including COVID-19, by 16%. Rather than doing it every two hours (or whenever), do it after touching a surface that could be contaminated (e.g. a rail or door handle used by lots of people) and especially before putting a hand to your nose or mouth (e.g.eating).

Does vaccination protect us so we don’t need to bother with these safety measures? NO! It’s very effective at protecting us from serious disease, but full vaccination plus a booster only gives us 67% protection against catching COVID-19. How much the safety measures add to that protection depends on too many factors to give a single figure. For most people, however, they would bump their protection up to 80% or above.

What do I plan to do? I’ll take any boosters I’m offered. I’ll mask with a Which? recommended fabric mask if I go indoors in a public place, unless it’s practically empty. I’ll go to the cinema but not to the gym at a busy time. I’ll carry on sanitising my hands if I’ve touched things others have touched. And then we get to the most controversial change the government has made: no compulsory isolation for cases or contacts. I’m still going to isolate if I get COVID-19 and if I’m a close contact of someone who has it.

This brings me to my final point. This article has been about how to protect ourselves. What about how we can protect others? Some of those others will be people who could be killed by the virus. I can’t tell if the person next to me on the bus or in the queue in the supermarket is at high risk. So I’m going to behave as though they might be, and as though I could be carrying the virus.