Beestonia State of Mind.

Apologies for the sudden change of direction of the focus for this piece, because its a departure from the usual fodder of political shenanigans of Fair Beestonia/ unsober observations on Beeston life/ tales of Malaysian con-ladies and their promises of Fire Engines, away from all that, and down onto my protrusive belly, and its navel, where I shall be gazing for the next few hundred words. I will ignore the accumulated weirdly blue fluff and, with your permission dear reader, now go all introspective.

Heres a psychedelic optical illusion to illustrate my  TRIP INTO THE RECESSES OF MY MIND

In the mood? Cool. Maannnn…

I’ve been spending an awful lot of time away from the Epicentre of Wonderfulness of late, and thus not been posting with the frequency I would like. Yeah, stop cheering.

Spending so much time in other locations, generally stupendously leafy, pretty places that drip with perfect Englishness: Surrey, Suffolk, Cheshire, Derbyshire’s bucolic glory…..well, it leads me to think my Avalon may not be that special. Lit with the effortless summer sun, I have seen Non-Beestonian geographic glory

Yes, recoil. Yes, drop your cutlery as you see that your certainties that made you feel so special to be a Beestonian are questioned. Yes, look at me as Judas, accepting my silver bounty for the delights of  places that aren’t the Eldorado of the East Midlands.

I know, I feel like Lord Haw-Haw. But let me try and explain. You owe me that, yes? After all I’ve done for you?

I am not a true Beestonite by the correct classification system. I was born in a little town on the Clyde in Scotland, moved to St. Apleford a few years later , and never took residence in Beeston until I was well into my twenties. I only declared myself Lord Beestonia about five years ago, via an article in LeftLion (a great read, google it cos I can’t be arsed to link it, and avoid the such bloody awful poetry). My claim to be Benign Dictator of this Hallowed District? Merely a gap in the market, coupled with an ego impervious to even the sharpest of needles.

This enthusiasm has led me into trouble before. When living in Kent, I was once rang up by a London journalist on the grounds that I was a ‘Kentish Historian’, merely because I’d spent a few hours in Tonbridge Library reading up on local landmarks. In Portugal,during my two years impersonating Catweazel there, I wrote an article for a local English-Language newspaper which gave me the byline ‘Matt Goold, Portuguese Tourist Expert’, a title bestowed on me despite once getting sacked as a resort rep. for not correcting a couple when they told me they were going to ‘explore the north coast of the island of Algarve’, merely cos I was morbidly fascinated to see if they would end up on the northern shores of Norway before they checked a map.

So forgive me this wobble in confidence as your Divine Leader. Maybe this is just me being all coyly vulnerable in a cynical attempt for you  to accept me deeper.  I read Blair’s rather surreal auobiog. today and his use of such a conceit is sickeningly apparent-but no, thats not me, yet it made me think. Made me think why I love this place, love it that I miss it moments after I leave it, love it to the point I shed all dignity to promote it. Made me think how I convey this to you in a sincere manner.

There are two types of Beestonian. Those who live here and those who don’t. Those who do, you know how wonderful it is to live in a town that can be so diverse one point of its compass dips into West the Bohemian curiosity of Chilwell World and The Crown, another East into the calm of the riverside Rylands, then n North  into the  China Town .  I am fascinated by those who don’t: you live all over not only Britain, nay, the world, yet you tune in. You’ve never been to Beeston.

But you know Beestonia exists. If you adore where you live, if it fascinates you, if you look at it and can see crystals growing on the rocks others see as gathering moss, then you are Beestonian. If the dulling thud of regularity others hear is to you a pulse to cherish and check, never take for granted, you are Beestonian. If you look at a barren piece of grass, incongruous on a heartless, hateful housing estate yet still looks like a shining emerald spread….you are Beestonian. If you can see Venus rising, hair grubbily asunder, from the dankest of muddy puddles, you are Beestonian.

I am soon to leave Beeston, and thus, this blog may die. But if you are willing to accept Beestonia is not where you are,but where you’re at, then I shall never relinquish my self-appointed, self aggrandising title.

Beestonia. Its not just about the NG9.