“I am a proud Lancastrian. I hate London”, said Madam X recently to a friend of mine. It is the kind of remark you could write a book about, if you were so inclined. What, if any, is the connection between the two statements? Apart from the obvious, what does it signify? If addressed to a Londoner it would be intended to cause offence. If the other party were a Lancastrian it could be a clumsy attempt at bonding.

I don’t think Lancastrians are particularly parochial and passive-aggressive; for example, you could replace “Lancastrian” with “Scotsman” and “London” with “England”. I’ve heard similar sentiments over the years. “Do you like living in London?”, is a question frequently put to me by Birkonian taxi-drivers. I find myself on the back foot. I’ve been living there for 40 years so if I didn’t it would be pretty sad, wouldn’t it?

Defining oneself as not-someone-else has a long and ignoble history. Self and Other. Chip-on-shoulder, inferiority-complex posturing. Fear and loathing. Not very grown up. Rude and potentially dangerous. That’s how I tend to see it.

How to respond?

I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t have joined the conversation with this proud daughter of Lancashire. Although I am a “Northerner-in-exile”, my gut reaction would have been to retaliate with something equally inane and even more offensive, such as “I’d rather live down here than in a shit-hole like Burnley or Blackpool”. Or perhaps I would have said nothing at all. But for the purposes of this blog, let’s imagine that I would have responded with an open question, such as:

“What is it about Lancashire that you are particularly proud of?” (No sarcasm intended.) Or “what is it that you dislike about London?” (Brace yourself because we could be here a while.) We might find some points of agreement. There are lots of reasons to dislike London, such as:

Everything is so expensive. As in Paris, New York, Venice… But if you know your way around, you don’t have to pay what tourists pay. Yes, housing here is disgracefully expensive but that is a complex issue involving, inter alia (as we metropolitan elite have it) international capitalism, money-laundering and tax evasion.
The streets are mucky. Are they worse than Manchester’s? What part of London are you referring to?
People are rude. But not as ignorant as you, Madam X. Most people you come across aren’t Londoners anyway. They are tourists like you, clogging up Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus. Or trying to earn a living serving in shops and bars on a minuscule wage.
London gets everything, e.g. better transport. To be fair, London is a megacity, by far the busiest in the UK. But it’s certainly worth debating. Maybe you should lobby the Government.
The Tube is hot, smelly and packed. Most of it was built over a century ago. And have you ever been on the Paris Metro? Try using it less and walking more. Or take a bus. Also… see above.

But this is not an argument based on logic, evidence, pros and cons. Madam X doesn’t want to hear about the positive aspects of life in the capital, she wants to reassure herself that she’s living in God’s own Lancashire.

Yes, one can live well there

It’s a big, varied county, with lots going for it. In general, I think the North of England is great; although so is the South. I’d be the first to agree that the UK is too London-centric.

***

Most people come to London because they need a job, and they stay. It is a national failure that it still has to be that way. I made the move in 1984 and I was very happy to come. After Birkenhead and Oxford I felt I needed a change and it was an exciting time for me, even if I didn’t have much spending money for the first few years.

I’ve had my problems. Many years ago I bought a nice big house in a slightly edgy part of London. I was burgled, and had my front door smashed in another attempted break-in; I was punched in the face by three teenage muggers; I was robbed outside my house at gunpoint; my car was broken into at least three times… then I moved about a mile to Herne Hill and it all stopped. My advice? Try to avoid roads with a crack house.

I’m still excited to be here.

I love strolling by the Thames. During the last 40 years I have been to almost every museum, gallery, arts venue and historic church in London.

I’ve never denied that I am an elitist, believing that you should aim as high as your circumstances allow. I had the huge privilege of working in the British Museum and the British Library. You don’t get rich working in places like that, but life is not all about money. Not as far as I am concerned.

This week I visited “Sargent and Fashion” at Tate Britain. The portraits were superb and the curation was very enlightening. As I’m retired I can go to the Tate, the Royal Academy or any of these wonderful institutions any time I like and be home an hour later. As Lord Kitchener’s calypso goes, “London is the place for me”. No question about it.

***

Sometimes I do behave like a tourist, seeing the exhibitions and the shows. But then I go home to my “village”. Most people who visit London only experience the packed city centre, unless they are staying with friends. This is not how we live. We do not shop in Oxford Street. We do not pay to traipse through the Tower of London or Westminster Abbey.

When I return from trips Up North I usually take the 68 bus home from Euston. The route takes me south through Bloomsbury, then down Kingsway to the churches of Aldwych; over Waterloo Bridge, with lovely views of the river, the South Bank Centre, Tower Bridge, St Paul’s Cathedral, London Eye and the Houses of Parliament; to Waterloo station, round Elephant & Castle (recently rebuilt), along Walworth Road (working-class London still exists); then to Camberwell Green, uphill past King’s College Hospital and Ruskin Park to the top of Denmark Hill; then downhill where I get off, with views of Sydenham Hill to my left. The 68 continues down through Herne Hill, past Brockwell Park and up again to Tulse Hill; and finally to West Norwood, with St Luke’s church and the Victorian Norwood Cemetery (a tourist attraction less celebrated than Highgate).

That £1.75 journey could tell you much more about London and its individual communities than an open-top ride up Piccadilly and Regent Street. Then you could take a train from West Norwood and be back in Victoria in 20 minutes.

From my home in suburban Herne Hill I can walk to the world-class Dulwich Picture Gallery and three magnificent parks. We have a good selection of local shops. I get on well with my neighbours, whose origins are from all over the world. I know a lot of people, from the councillors to the pub manager and the florist. Traffic is usually light and it is not noisy, though neither is it a rural idyll. I live in the biggest city in Europe.

And yet a few years ago some upstart lawyer took it upon himself to tell me that he didn’t like South London because it was “dirty”. He was, of course, a North Londoner. I responded in kind. It was rather pathetic, playground stuff. I let myself down. Did he really mean that South London was full of Black people? Parochialism knows no bounds – or do I mean the opposite?

***

If you live and work in London, many people assume that you can’t wait to get away when you retire. You could sell your modest terraced house and buy a nice place in the country with a huge garden (which you’ll spend all summer mowing). Almost anywhere would be better value for money – most of Lancashire, for example, excepting the footballers’ enclaves.

I do love the seaside and the countryside; the Scottish Highlands, Cornwall, Dorset, Sussex, Somerset, Cumbria, Yorkshire all have their attractions and I have had memorable holidays all over the country.

But living there is another matter

Always having to get into your car when you need to buy something. Driving miles to the nearest cinema down country lanes where you can’t see further than 50 metres. In the Lake District, snowed in; in Cornwall, freezing gales; in Scotland, rain and more rain, plus the dreaded midge. And almost as many tourists as London.

Picture a charming West Country 17th-century pub with a beer garden, a roaring fire and a Sunday roast set before you. Perfect, until you realise that everyone is a Brexiteer and that, if it were your local, you’d have to make small talk with these idiots on a regular basis. They probably all hate London. Maybe they once lived there; they’re glad they escaped. “It’s all changed. It’s overrun with foreigners.” They hate London, they hate the French… as for the Asians and the Africans, better not go there.

They stand in their Barbours and brogues nursing a pint in a handle glass. You’d have to bite your lip. What’s the point of engaging with these bigots?

I am overdoing it as usual

I don’t really think “life in the provinces” has to be like that. But just in case, I’ll continue to live in The Great Smoke and sit in my little garden when the weather permits without feeling the need to call myself a proud anything. And when I visit someone else’s city, town or village, wherever it may be, I’ll endeavour to keep an open mind.