Market
Forces
By
Dominic Horton
On
Thursday I popped to the Frankfurt Christmas Market in Birmingham to
see the Phantom, the Mexican and other ex-work colleagues. It was
only my second visit to have a drink at the market this Christmas and
on the last visit (with the Stottles two weeks ago) we only had one
pint before retreating to the warming comforts of the Post Office
Vaults pub. When I visit the market I only ever go for a drink, I
never actually do any Christmas shopping as I see no appeal in buying
gifts that people mostly do not want for twice the price of their
normal mark up. In fact I haven't visited any stores to do Christmas
shopping this year as I have done the entirety of my purchasing
online as in the words of any self-respecting Punch & Judy man,
“that's the way to do it.”
 |
| Sleepy Tom Parker, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
Why
in this internet age people want to suffer the aggravation of
fighting their way around bustling stores to suffer Christmas
shopping is beyond me; it only leads to the panic buying of naff
and inappropriate gifts for Auntie Doris that she
won't thank you for. I wouldn't accept all the tea in China to be
tasked with enduring Christmas Shopping at Merry Hill on a Saturday
afternoon whilst suffering from booze terrors. It would be my worst
nightmare. Just imagine. It would drive one to drink. But some odd
individuals actually enjoy Christmas shopping.
“Let's go Christmas shopping for the day at Merry Hill dear, then
afterwards we can put our feet up at home and watch X-Factor will a
cold can of Carling Black label.” No thank you, on all fronts. I
am having cold sweats just thinking about it.
A
young, talented saxophonist pitched up at the market on Thursday and
started to play popular tunes. Although his music added to
the ambiance he was quickly moved on by security guards as
he didn't have an official permit to busk. When I was walking
down New Street later in the afternoon there was a bloke dressed in a
sort of Star Wars character costume standing on a box, purporting to
be a street entertainer. This fella must have a council permit as he
was not moved on and I have seen him there on a
few occasions previously. There is no doubt he is on the
street but I am not sure where the “entertainment” bit comes in –
he doesn't even stand perfectly still like some statuesque
entertainers you see. In fact I think he has circulation problems as
he was stamping his feet and waving his arms when I walked past him
and he wasn't even doing it to music. Needless to say I didn't
donate any of my pennies to his coffers. So how council officials
decide what applicants to bless with a street entertainment permit
gawd only knows; it could well be the case that you need to be a
relative or associate of the official who wields the
relevant stamp to get the thumbs up.
It
is a shame that busking is so tightly controlled in Birmingham city
centre as it could be seen as a basic human right for those who are
down on their luck but have a musical, oratory or visual talent
to share, however basic. If all else fails one can dig out a guitar
and play Lola by the Kinks on the street in the hope
of gaining a few shillings. Busking of course is not like begging,
the busker is working, providing an entertainment and you don't have
to pay the busker if you do not want to. Buskers are passive and do
not implore you to give them money but rather subtly invite you to do
so by drawing you in with their entertainment. And buskers make the
city more colourful and vibrant.
 |
Punch & Judy Man Professor Clive Chandler
(tiptoppuppets.co.uk).
|
But
the council might argue that if they do not regulate busking and
street entertainment that the city centre would be swamped with
buskers, who would get in the way of shoppers wanting to spend money.
But this point seems contradictory as the council have allowed the
city centre streets to become awash with nagging charity fundraisers
(known as 'chuggers'), who block your path every few yards that you
take. To get up New Street these days you have to be more fleet
footed that a rugby union winger in order to negotiate your way past
the obstructing chuggers.
The
allure of drinking at the Frankfurt market has worn off these days
and I have little desire to go there. On Thursday I again only had a
single pint as I was driving but a few years ago, when I used to work
at a bank in the city centre, I used to frequently drink at the
market and often give the German pilsners and weissbiers a bashing,
usually with the Iceman. We would think nothing of standing in
sub-zero temperatures for hours after work quaffing pint after pint
of cold pilsner interspersed with the odd bratwurst and hits of
schnapps to keep out the cold. The coldness of our feet and the
tipsiness of our persons would progress at roughly the same rate so
by the time our trotters were frozen we hardly noticed it at all. We
only withdrew to thaw out at the pub after the market had shut at
2100 hours and the hour being early we continued with more of the
same but just in a more temperate setting (temperate in relation to
climate, not drink consumption, that is.)
The
routine at the time dictated that we would end up in the short order
'restaurant' McDonalds in a desperate attempt for nourishment and I
would always order four cheeseburgers to nibble on the train on the
homeward journey. While waiting for our food we would amuse ourselves
by dropping 10 pence pieces into a twirly thing whereby the coin
would slowly spiral downward in the fashion of a motorcyclist on the
wall of death whose engine has failed. It was a simple enough form of
recreation but as we were three sheets to the wind it was more
transfixing that a sober man watching the Northern Lights, so we used
to stare goggle-eyed, in a state of complete engrossment, at the coin
spinning downward. And it was for charity after all and it
was infinitely more pleasing than being accosted by a
chugger.
 |
| Birmingham's Frankfurt Christmas Market |
A
number of years ago, one Friday lunchtime near Christmas the Iceman
and I decided to nip to the Frankfurt market for refreshment after a
stressful morning at work studying the English and Scottish football
league tables ahead of the hectic Yuletide programme of fixtures.
Sleepy Tom Parker contacted me and declared that he would be located
in Birmingham at lunchtime and he suggested we meet at the market for
a festive drink or two. There was a great deal of bonhomie and
japing, which must have made us thirsty as before we knew it four
pints of pilsner each had gone down, one each for the four English
professional leagues. As we didn't want to leave the Scottish
leagues out we followed it with four rounds of schnapps interspersed
with a few toasts of “Prost! - Zum
Wohl!”
 |
| Anthony Andrews as The Scarlet Pimpernel |
Although
it was Christmas time the Iceman and I knew that the goodwill of our
boss would run out if we did not get back to the office soon as we
were late getting back from our allocated lunch hour. But as we
hastily made our way through the market back to the office we passed
El Scrumpo's cider emporium and it was one of those rare mystical
moments in life when you look at another person and no words are
needed to communicate as telepathy takes over and you both know what
the other is thinking – the devilish look in the Iceman's eyes told
me that a quick pint of 6% still scrumpy was in the offing. Scrumpy
in hand we had a dawning moment of paranoia as we didn't want any
tell-tale colleagues who might be roaming around the market to spot
us, so we quickly ducked around the back of the cider hut and hid
from view among the generators and electric cables that serve the
market stalls. We stood there like naughty school boys gulping the
cider, enjoying our illicit drink, which is of course the
best drink of all.
We
snuck back into the office in the style of the Scarlet Pimpernel and
expertly enacted the charade of looking busy without actually doing
anything, counting down the clock by drinking coffee and eating Mini
Cheddars until it was knocking off time, when we could once more
return to the market for a drink to perk us back up. All in all in
was probably the best day of my working life and that lunch time was
one banker's bonus that I shall never forget.
©
Dominic Horton, December 2014.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com.
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