I attended the first 50th birthday party of my generation at the weekend.
By my generation I’m referring to the group of people I socialised with over 20 years ago when I was a trainee reporter on The Biggleswade Chronicle.
In those days a senior reporter was assigned to mentor the green recruits and my guardian angel was Branwell Johnson.
He was named after the Bronte brother and warned me solemnly he had learned how to fight defending his name on the play- grounds of his hometown Liverpool.
I was, of course, too young and naive to realise this was basically the plot of the Johnny Cash song A Boy Named Sue and it bought Branwell – as planned – a few weeks of awestruck respect.
Now that black-eyed wolf in media journalist’s clothing has achieved his half-century and on Saturday night assorted family and friends from across the eons gathered in the Phoenix Bar in Charing Cross Road to celebrate.
There were guests there who had not seen me since I was a fresh-faced “friend of Branwell” trying to fit in with a minibus full of his Oxbridge mates heading for the Glastonbury Festival.
I had been trying to remember their nickname for me acquired after several subsequent Glastonbury trips with the same crowd.
As I arrived I heard: “Look, it’s Thing!”
Ah yes, that was it.
Thing.
An Oxbridge education prepares you for many aspects of life (driving Routemaster buses and managing the preservation of old churches among the mix here) but not thinking up nicknames.
Some of them had married each other, a lot of them had kids.
They were equally appalled and impressed that I had four.
We discussed parenting and we all agreed that hypocrisy was the way to go when it came to disciplining teenagers for things you used to do/still did yourself.
The last time we had all been together in one place we had more hair, darker hair, thinner bodies and we probably spent all night complaining about how mad our parents and our bosses were.
Now we were spending the evening complaining about how mad our children and employees are.
The star of the show, Branwell, had fathered twins, which is the kind of two for one bargain that he always had a nose for.
And as the evening wore on his expression grew increasingly concerned, which was a surefire sign he was enjoying himself.
“Having fun is a serious business” is the way he would explain it with implacable Scouser gravity.
Far too serious to leave it all to the kids, that’s for sure . . .
Businessmen told Northampton Borough Council on Monday night that the town centre needs free parking to help boost footfall in the shopping areas.
Our councils have been trying to spin the benefits of parking charges for years while out-of-town shopping areas thrived and business after business closed in the centre.
They said more people could park in the town centre if on-street spaces had to be vacated after an hour.
Viewed in isolation, this is true, but Northampton town centre does not exist in isolation.
It exists a couple of miles down the road from Weston Favell where you can park for free outside a huge Tesco and a range of other shops and restaurants.
I live in Semilong and I often drive to Weston Favell rather than nipping into the town centre which is on my doorstep.
Part of the reason is avoiding town centre traffic and part of the reason is parking convenience.
It’s not really the cost of parking that bothers me in the town centre, it’s the hassle of finding change, getting a ticket and going back to the car to stick it in the window.
At the moment the experience of being in town does not justify the inconvenience of getting there.
It’s fixable. Make it less inconvenient or more enjoyable to be there.
Preferably both. It’s not brain surgery.
 |  |