No Gentry

Prior to my work meeting, the rain coming down with typical September gusto, I went mooching around the factorytastic roads between St Paul's Square and Livery Street. Then found a pub in which to get dry and read my book, and be charged £3.65 for a pint of Mad Goose. My constructive criticism about the establishment - "if I wanted to listen to non-stop Amy Winehouse and buy pints dearer than train tickets, I'd move to fucking London" - not well-received by the proprietor.

I wouldn't mind so much if they at least clearly declared at the front of the pub that it was catering to a more-money-than-sense crowd. Perhaps hang a banner saying THIS BAR HAS NOW BEEN GENTRIFIED. STRICTLY PROHIBITED: YOU; YOUR MATES; EVERYONE YOU KNOW. Then we'd all be clear where we stand, and additionally, would have a handy target to piss all over on our way back from the good old-fashioned boozer down the road.

I also have to wonder if the next step is to start gentrifying factories and warehouses. Wouldn't every industrial unit benefit from being entirely staffed by blokes in suits and ties whizzing around in forklifts? I bet they'd enjoy it; it'd be like a little theme park for them, especially if they could pop some M People on the stereo and replace the teapot in the canteen with a cappuccino maker. Of course, there'd probably be an almighty wailing when they realised they couldn't afford to eat and drink in their favourite wine bar and bistro anymore, but they'd just have to cope with that sacrifice.

Either that, or gentrify Bargain Booze and KFC. Whatever works best.