Slough

My Bill Bryson and John Betjeman MASH UP

Britain’s cities in a fortnight- A vacation

Thursday 23^rd September 2004- Slough

 The next day was, unfortunately, very different to my travels through Oxford, I visited the southern-English town of Slough... I suppose somebody had to.

Actually, the day started quite well.  I drove there, through picturesque English countryside, passing pubs with names like ‘The Cock and Comfort’ and ‘The Ferret & Trouser Leg’ in my comically petite British hire car – a ‘Rover 400’. I spent the morning feeling very much like Mr. Bean and was optimistic about the day ahead of me. Things only really started to change when my cheerful motor chugged into Maidenhead- a town slightly to the west of Slough. Maidenhead foreshadowed Slough nicely, grey. I followed my map and the road through faithfully, wallowing in car fumes and observing other commuters in their cars bemusedly. To this day, I remain impressed by the Brit’s ability to presume they’re invisible when driving. I observed one particular Sloughian, who happened to resemble a boiled egg compacted into an M&S suit, pick his nose so ferociously that I was, at points, convinced that he had actually got his finger firmly stuck in his brain (although thankfully, I was wrong). Maidenhead proved to hold no hidden driver’s bounty; and disappointingly, the highlight of my brief encounter with the town was probably leaving.

Things got marginally more exciting when I was stuck in traffic on the M40,  between the two towns, where I was entertained by the famous scents of the Slough Sewerage Treatment works (locals know that particular stretch of the highway as ‘The Slough Stench’).  This provided a perfect opportunity for the display of one of my favourite British traits, not a single other passenger even flinched at the foul Sloughian cologne. The British seem to be born with the knack of being unaffected by anything, determined (I assume) to maintain their reputation as the most durable of nations.

Eventually, I reached the town itself. If you want to know what Slough was like in the 1970’s, go there now. The place appears to have stubbornly fixed itself into the decade of concrete, perms and the cassette recorder. If, like me, you enter Slough from the west road, you’re welcomed by the humongous & spectacular sights of the infamous concrete bus station. As well as rows upon rows of identical, 70’s terraced council housing; the front gardens (where lawns and flowerbeds would have once blossomed) were all neatly tarmacced over; each one fully equipped with expensive ugly cars proudly parked on crazy-paved driveways.

Despite the feeling that entering the town was a similar experience to being smacked in the face by a deflating space-hopper, I drove on, hoping that I’d simply entered the wrong district. I followed the signs to the parking-lot much like a fly to one of those electric, neon-light killing machines they have in dodgy restaurants.

 Within moments of clambering out of my car and into the dimly lit multi-story car park/ communal urinal (I wasn’t sure), I was spotted by Tony.  I only knew he was called ‘Tony’ because of the plastic name-badge that flashed towards me as he pounced. “Can I ask you a few questions about your car, sir?” He was the kind of man that you could assume had never seen a field or the seaside, people like Tony can only naturally occur in congested cities. It’s their natural habitat- you might say.   Stunned by the attack, I muttered something about the car being a hire car, and stepped towards the exit. Unsatisfied with my answer, he clawed at me with his bulging, gold-watched hand and continued his sale pitch. Twenty minutes later I was wearily released and allowed back into daylight, newly equipped with seven different Skoda brochures and a desire to throw myself from the top floor.

I dragged my feet past concrete office block after concrete office block, occasionally peering in. There only seemed to be three career paths in Slough, money-driven businessman, money-driven businessmen’s secretary, and the being professionally miserable route. All the businessmen were bulging and bald, their secretaries were too thin and barely able to hold their heads up under the weight of the make-up they had applied. They bathed in the synthetic light of their concrete office, and giggled flirtatiously at one of the businessman’s gags. Disheartened by the cosmetic heartbreak of the secretaries, and encouraged by my grumbling stomach, I quickly scurried on.  It was time for breakfast.

By 10.30 I found myself sitting at the window of a greasy-spoon cafe, watching with great interest as weary commuters clumsily hauled their briefcases through the crowds. Unfortunately, my bemused gaze and reverie was quickly shattered by Tracey, my waitress, a plump, thirty-something woman who appeared to have not slept in a good year, as she dumped my oily and wrinkled English breakfast onto the laminated table. I instantly regretted my ‘cheap’n cheerful’ choice of breakfast venue- ‘The Classy Touch Cafe’ had turned out to be neither classy, jolly nor economical. Touched it may have been. Or at least Tracey was.

11’o’clock, As I paced down the sidewalk, a little mad, I decided that this was the kind of time that a guy needs to pull himself together and look at the positives. I was in England, the place I had come to readjust my perspectives on reality;  a place with so many dumb yet brilliant customs that would be considered simply ridiculous anywhere else. Take for example, the weekly pub quizzes, baked beans, village fetes, rambling... I was in the birthplace of both the English language and (equally importantly) Marmite. There was plenty to be joyous about! So I quickened my pace towards the town centre, trying very hard to be enthusiastic about everything I passed, including a rather glorious set of traffic lights and a simply brilliant display of tantrumming children at a bus stop.

As I looked closer, Slough revealed all the traits I love about this country, the grossly enormous grey, concrete art-deco library turned out to be run by a very amusing team of elderly ladies and spotty teenagers who all said things like ‘Bob’s your uncle’ and ‘It’s jolly good’ and one particular lady who I forget the name of, who referred to me (and everyone else )as ‘Sweetpea’.

It was far from perfect; yet is was still powered by English attitudes and people, and those people were still powered by beans on toast and tea. A town that some would argue is unnatural, in my eyes, in fact turned out to be an example of nature itself, trial and error, sometimes we build a habitat wrongly, we learn from it and start again, evolution you might say. Yet this town was built for the English, a nation who proudly abide to a “That’ll do” attitude, and so they’ve lived in it anyway, embracing its concrete structures and filling its art-deco heart with politeness, warm, sensible clothes, weekly Saturday soccer extravaganzas for the men, and a good old chat over a cup of tea for the women. Slough was a microcosm for why I love England, although I’m not sure I’ll be going back there anytime soon. Going on vacation for a living has its risks too. Only some of which I’m willing to take.