Spoons: The Orwellian community order.

Is the local Wetherspoons the real community hub where the human condition is fed and watered?

Whenever I consider matters of a fiscal nature, value for money is always a significant driving force. Being born in the 60s, I have inherited the values of my parents which instilled the notion of financial probity. Moreover, I can still recall the individual tins that my grandma lined up in her sturdy hallway bureau containing cash to pay all manner of household bills. Frugality is the not-so-secret passion that has allowed me to flash the cash later in life in order to enjoy another desire: freedom. Control me at your peril! In typical Braveheart style my inner cry proudly proclaims, “They’ll never take my freedom!” But who am I kidding?

Accrington: The Big Apple.

Supping my second pre-match beer at The Commercial Hotel in Accrington – part of the footballing ritual – it latterly dawned on me that my strings were being well and truly pulled; but not before I drank in the community narrative that leapt out at me from the fabric of the building. Typical of many Wetherspoons, local history seeped from every corner of this packed pub. The picture of the Empire State Building got me Googling; I was amazed. Thousands of Nori bricks produced in this corner of Lancashire had been used to build the foundations of this iconic structure. The stability of Blackpool Tower and the Sellafield nuclear site stand on the back of these mighty blocks too.

After the match – in which Notts County convincingly beat Accrington Stanley 3-0 to maintain our promotion bid – I headed back to my hotel in nearby Blackburn, a short walk away from The Postal Order – another Spoons with a similarly rich community conversation and scope for me to indulge in people watching and casual eavesdropping.

It’s 1984.

In the classic tome, “1984,” George Orwell describes how the ruling party keeps the working class (the Proles) distracted and controlled by providing them with, amongst other simple pleasures, beer and football.

I was being controlled. However hard I fought this notion, I had to accept that pure agency was a figment of my imagination. Yet I was surprisingly sanguine about this epiphany. Notts County have been part of my DNA from my childhood. My tribe. My community. In the words of Owen Paul “My favourite waste of time.”

Conflicting emotions nonetheless danced inside my head as I tried to rationalise the sense of community belonging that the Wetherspoons chain embraces so elegantly, whilst meeting my engrained economic enterprise. All of this mental activity meanwhile resting uneasily on the fact that I dislike the owner of the chain. He and I will never reach a compromise over BREXIT; however, being human means – in my humble opinion – holding more than one fixed view of the universe, and compromise should always prevail.

The local Spoons is, from my extensive field research, more than a place to grab a cheap pint. It’s a cultural icon. A place of unity. But in any commune, control will inevitably be threaded throughout the connections that bind us together. And, if I ever stand for election again, I will undertake my canvassing in the local Wetherspoons where community, legacy, lager, and Orwellian overtures remarkably occupy the same space.

My abiding hope is that the ruling party are more compassionate than they are cruel.

Cheers!

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