Whilst strolling on the Prom with Callie the whippet lurcher a little earlier, I happened upon the Eastbourne Angling Club. It’s not a particularly pre-possessing building but the glass-fronted first floor restaurant looked quite appealing, with a splendid view over the deep blue stillness of the English Channel leading to the stark horizon line where dark blue becomes a much lighter blue. It’s one of those incredibly crystal clear days where even tiny yachts in the far distance are clearly defined and the crazy folk going for a very chilly dip are all too evident. A lone girl in a one-piece swimsuit is gazing across at a group of lads about to take the plunge, wondering whether to join them or concede it was a mad idea and retreat rapidly to her beach hut. She did neither while I passed. The Angling Club had the intriguing sign outside; “Members Only. Enter at your own risk”. Do they keep tankfuls of piranhas? Perhaps they practise their casting in an undisciplined muddle of hooks and lines? Could it be they keep killer whales in a hidden pool and feed visitors to the Orcas? I’m not risking finding out. Angling has always bored me to tears anyway.
Walking around Eastbourne nowadays is like visiting the Tower of Babel…..or Babble. Most tongues from around the world are in evidence, but particularly those emanating from the Middle East. I dropped in to see Nigel Greaves, a well known local artist who has his own gallery and is always a dependable source of local news and gossip. Apparently the town’s hotels are now housing a thousand or more channel hoppers who’ve escaped the undetermined clutches of the Gendarmerie across the water before braving the perilous journey over one of the world’s busiest shipping lanes. It gives the old town a distinctly cosmopolitan feel. The owner of one hotel made £1.2m profit last year, without having to lift a finger, thanks to the Government’s largesse. Seemingly the Home Office is now spending £7m a day of taxpayer’s money nationally to house all the migrants and asylum seekers. That’s an annual bill of £2.5 billion, give or take. A knotty problem.
Nigel is something of a petrol-head as well as being a very successful artist. His stable includes a flashy 1200cc bright red two-wheeled machine that only comes out when the sun is shining, the roads are dry and there’s no R in the month, a couple of pricey Range Rovers, plus one or two other exotic charabanc, but nothing to compare with his piéce de resistance which is taking pride of place outside the gallery today. It’s an LC500. That’s a Lexus Concept 500. Which means they’ve only made 500. It’s sleek and low-slung with low-profile tyres as wide as a tractor’s. It does nought to 60 mph in four seconds; fractionally slower than the bright red two-wheeler. Should you have the nerve and a lengthy stretch of clear, camera-free road, it will hit 180 in less time than it takes for most people to tie their shoelaces. That’s limited for European driving. It can go over 200. Nigel’s only managed 140, so far…. The drivers compartment is ergonimcally designed like the cockpit of a Typhoon. I know this because I have sat in both. That’s as close as I have got to handling either machine in “go” mode, but I’ve been on flights of fancy in both. There are so many things about the 500 that are eye-popping (not least the price as you may imagine, somewhere north of £100,000), but I love it’s security. With internal cameras that recognise the owner, the car automatically unlocks as he approaches. For anyone else it’s more secure than Fort Knox. But that’s not the last barrier. The car will only start once it’s recognised his fingerprints on the steering wheel. Such is the standard of Lexus engineering, the car has a manufacturer’s warranty for 100,000 miles. It’s a heck of an investment that can only go up in value; unlike Government bonds!
ADayInTheStrifeOf 