Gateshead town centre has faced brutality since the 60s.
Much of the 60s improvements have recently been demolished, with 21st Century developments taking their place.
However, remnants of an earlier era remain. Not for long, though.
Gateshead High Street hasn’t been much of a high street for a long time, but one must question why it’s been allowed to fall into its current state of virtual dereliction.
Now, I’m aware of the long term plan for the high street, but I can’t understand why restoration gave way to demolition.
We’re now left with a town centre which is effectively a Tesco supermarket. Without doubt, this will one day go the same way as its 60/70s predecessor. It’s more brutal than the former brutalist buildings.
A few years ago, I compared the high street to a mouth made up of decayed teeth. It’s now virtually toothless.
With another extraction in progress.
It’s probably time to rename Durham Road. New Gateshead High Street.
I’m (very slowly) plastering the main bedroom and decided to push on with the work this morning. While waiting for a firewood delivery and a boiler man, I mixed a large batch of plaster. For ease, I use one of those general purpose plastic tubs; the sort meant for use in the garden or for building work. It has convenient handles, which are great to hang the tub from a ladder.
On opening the front door when the firewood arrived, I heard a loud bang from upstairs. Afraid of finding the inevitable, I put the wood away, delaying my return upstairs.
My assumption was unfortunately correct, a snapped handle had resulted in the tub falling from the top of the ladder. Naturally, there was plaster pretty much everywhere. Floor, wall (not the one being plastered), the bed, even the ceiling.
Dentistry can be pretty barbaric, you know. After 50 minutes in the dentist’s chair, it was decided that I need to be referred to the hospital to have ‘some bone’ removed. That’ll be jawbone I’d imagine.
Meanwhile, I need to avoid hot drinks, solid food, cigarettes and alcohol.
1. I’m still numb
2. I brought a straw
The above is needed to address my post dental trauma shaking.
For our second beer of the day here. Liverpool, that is.
We should actually been enjoying our fifth or sixth pint in one of the excellent old pubs in Belfast. Unfortunately, our flight was cancelled and the next available flight is first thing tomorrow. From Liverpool.
So we were packed off into a cab from Newcastle airport. After food in the hotel, we sought refreshment. And here we are.
I’ve had separate text message exchanges with two blokes this evening. About Cheburashka.
That’s the weird little thing with big ears in the middle.
My first encounter with Cheburashka was at an Eels gig. An old film was the support. The dialogue was Russian, but some Eels content had been cleverly added.
Anyway, both myself and my mate Ian have a Cheburashka condiment holder. I fear that mine may be radioactive. I’ve never asked whether Ian’s might be. Both were bought from Russia, mine from the Ukraine.
An old mate, Tom, is currently in the Crimea. He’s not yet encountered Cheburashka.