Do you remember that time in Brighton (and here, I'm talking especially to those people that don't remember because they weren't there), in 2013, when the binmen went on strike during one of the hottest, most tourist-laden weeks in June?
I do.
I remember places like St James's Street in Kemptown, already narrow streets and pavements, already difficult to navigate, with residents, tourists and the occasional cluster of chuggers to fight through. And now, there were the growing piles of rubbish everywhere to contend with, as well.
First it was just that the bins were full. Then there were cans and bottles balanced on top of the bins, empty crisp packets and plastic bags strewn around the sides.
Then... slowly... it started mounting up, so you couldn't be entirely sure if there had ever been a bin there in the first place. On practically every corner in the town centre and on the seafront, the piles could be seen, often so large that there was only a narrow space of pavement left to pass them by.
Occasional bits of furniture had been thrown in, rousing only slight interest among the otherwise boring collection of household and tourist waste.
And there was the smell. Oh, the smell. In the middle of June, at the height of summer, with several events happening that very week, the binmen had chosen wisely for an effective statement. Brighton and its sunny beaches were packed with people. Throngs and throngs of people. And the rubbish dropped by all of these humans was starting to rot and fester in the heat of the June sun, leaving an unwelcome tang in the noses and throats of pedestrians. The strike was supposed to last a whole week, and surely, so would everyone's mounting disgust.
The tourists could go back home, and forget the sights and smells they had experienced, but for those of us who lived there, already cramped in our rooms in shared houses, our tiny studio flats, our tiny bar stools in tiny corners of tiny local pubs, we had to live with it. Our rubbish was kept indoors during that week because everything was already full, or so it seemed. Whether we stayed at home or ventured out, we could not escape it.
Why? I (don't) hear you ask,
why did this happen?
Because Brighton and Hove had to learn the hard way to value its binmen, rather than cutting their pay, their livelihood in a city that was already ridiculously expensive and edging ever closer to London living expenses.
The strike was supposed to last a week.
A week went by.
And then another week went by, but the mountains had not disappeared, neither had they diminished.
They had grown.
June became July, and the binmen were nowhere to be found. Were they in hiding, had they gone on holiday (if so, how could they afford it?). No one knew. Brighton and Hove seemed to have learned their respective lessons, but the binmen would not return.
The pavements soon became unusable, the rubbish overflowing onto the streets, causing some actual and many near-accidents. Temperatures were still high, but the people of Brighton had taken to wearing scarves and masks to soften the harsh blow to their smell receptors.
By August, neither pavements nor roads were visible anymore. Everything seemed to be coated in a layer of rubbish, though it may have still been thin in some places. People seemed to have given up, not bothering with rubbish bags anymore. Wrappers and cartons would rain from the sky, having been thrown out of second or third story windows.
At the beginning of September, the beaches started to feel the effects. So far they had been the last refuge and source of hope, and although they had been crowded beyond comfort, there had been a sense that everyone was entitled to a speck on this plane of forgetting reality.
Now, the avalanche had encroached upon Brighton and Hove's beloved pebbles. The sound of the waves washing up to the shore was no longer accompanied by the soft re-arranging of the pebbles within, but by an ugly cracking, hissing, folding, creaking of plastic, paper, cardboard and tin.
The last bastion of hope had been taken. There was nothing left.
By October, the city's population had halved, and most businesses had ceased to operate. Those that remained lived harsh, unforgiving lives, defined by their daily struggle to navigate through swathes of waste. Some had taken to living on the rooftops of houses, the interiors of which had filled up to the brim.
What was now left of the memories of generous tourists boosting the city's economy, of parks in the summer, of buskers in the Lanes, and refreshing pints in pubs on every corner? They were but a distant shadow in the crumbling, stinking remains of this once much-loved place.
No one would ever go into Brighton or Hove again. Eventually, the surrounding communities resolved to build a tall, black wall around the city, so that nothing and no one would ever come out again, either.
They simply walled off the problem. Out of sight, out of mind. It's that easy.
Now, Brighton is no more. Neither is Hove.
May this tale be a lesson to all of you. Love your binman and your binwoman, lest they ever decide to not be your binperson anymore.
*** Based on a true story. Photos by Milk McKenzie. ***
