The following is a feature piece I wrote for a PR campaign designed to improve the image of the county of Essex, and more specifically, Braintree.
Its been a while since I’ve had to circumnavigate the ‘Town
Drunk’ on my way to the shops. I haven’t seen a stolen Sainsbury’s shopping
trolley in the park for months, and I’m moving freely without the stale chewing
gum super-gluing my foot to the ground with every step. Okay, there is still
the odd bit of graffiti that makes me sigh and tut with derision as I take the
scenic route through town, but there’s a change in the altitude in Braintree.
It’s on the up.
Every time I head back home, to celebrate Christmas with the
family, or to revel in the days of no University work by eating as much free
food from my parent’s cupboards as I can, the long drive is made a little less
taxing when I think of what to look forward to. George Yard, a shopping area
that mixes beautiful displays of horticulture with architecture that makes the
eyelids flutter and the jaw drop. The botanical intricacy of the Public
Garden’s, just out of sight from the hustle and bustle of the busy town centre,
a dash of eye-candy to any passer-by, and the kind of place that asks the
question ‘Where better to have a wedding?’ Quaint housing villages, un-tainted
by broken glass, doors hanging off the hinges or the sound of a baby crying
somewhere close by. Instead, they are accessorized by luscious scenery that
always seems to have the backdrop of the sun’s light belting down upon it,
red-bricked abodes that bear no messages about the weight of my mother, and the
kindly local shop-keep that everybody on the street knows.
You may feel that my opinion is somewhat biased. I have
lived in Braintree my whole life, aside from the two years spent at University,
and have been brought up in a loving family home on a street accessorized by
luscious scenery, red-bricked abodes that bear no messages about my mother’s
weight, and one of those kindly local shop-keeps that everybody on the street
knows. His name is Steve, and he attended my parent’s 25th Wedding
Anniversary. So I may be pitching my tent on one side of the ‘Love Braintree,
Hate Braintree’ camp, but I must admit, I have only recently switched sides.
The papers loved calling Essex a ‘chavvy’ county, a
derogatory term that suggests streets filled with tracksuit-clad youths
drinking Tesco Value Vodka from the bottle in one hand whilst the wind steals
the smoke from the cigarette that dangles in the other. Riding around on the
black and red bike they nicked from the small boy in the park whose back was
turned as he immersed himself in the game of football that was reaching its
dramatic conclusion at the other end of the field. Ten years ago, that boy was
me, and it was something that made me fear the very ground I trudged home on.
The police were called, the doors were locked and then double-locked, and then
unlocked to let the cat out, and we waited until someone rang the phone to tell
us that the bike that we spent a load of money on was safe and sound, and it
was okay to go outside again. No call came, but despite the lack of an
all-clear from the authorities, I went outside, still fearful that whatever I
wasn’t watching was being taken from me behind my back. Braintree was, all of a
sudden, not just a quiet town that kept a protective veil over its inhabitants.
To me, it became Sin City.
Nowadays, I’m no longer quivering in my boots. I’ve given up
the life of a cyclist for a car (with an alarm, you’ll be glad to hear), and
the man who strikes the most fear into me now is Steve the kindly local
shop-keep, because he sometimes short-changes me. It’s not his fault, he is
reaching the age when the amount of money he owes you has become a figure that
is lost in the back of the mind, along with forgotten names, how to switch the
TV over, and where you put that darned remote. Our street, the one with the
luscious scenery, the red-brick abodes without the anti-mother messages, and
yes, Steve, was even voted the best street in Essex according to a county Radio
station, a title that awarded us with new climbing frames built into that park
where I was playing football as a rapscallion stole my black and red bike.
Whilst the whole Essex being ‘chavvy’ thing hasn’t really
subsided completely, something that I blame on ‘The Only Way Is Essex’, the TV
show that instantly changed my name from Matt to ‘Essex!’ when I walk around at
University, Braintree seems to get a little closer to the sun every time I head
back home, to celebrate Christmas with the family, or to revel in the days of
no University work by eating as much free food from my parent’s cupboards as I
can. Braintree is on the up.
