Careering off the tracks

My Bradshaw's Guide tells me that Bridgwater is "A port and borough in Somersetshire, on the Great Western Railway, 29 miles from Bristol, a bay, and the mouth of the Parret. Common red bricks of an excellent quality, and the white scouring “Bath Brick” as it is called, though peculiar to Bridge water, is only made here by two or three firms. They are manufactured from the slime deposited on the banks of the Parret, where untouched by the salt water (which spoils it), and burnt at the top of the kiln, above the red bricks.' There was a fortress on Castle Hill, built after the Conquest, by Walter de Douai, from whom, or from the bridge which he began, the town takes its name, Bridge-Walter". So why the lack of an 'E' in the current name? At this point I'm tempted to make a poor joke about the simplicity of finding an 'E' in Bridgwater but looking at the people who hang around the high street after nightfall I'd say heroin is more the local delicacy. In fact Bradshaw goes on to state that "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. A visitor must be cautious.", he'd taken a stroll up the high street too I'll wager. I don't know if Simon & Garfunkel had read Bradshaw's guide before they penned their 1970 grammy award-winning album 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' or if, indeed, they had visited the town but they have never stated that they didn't. Songs like "The Boxer", "Baby drunk driver" and "Why don't you write me ('cause you can't write)" do seem inspired by the place.
Feeling weary and small I find myself in this town of slime and brick, of betting shops and Wetherspoons whose heydey was two hundred years back and I wonder what the decisions were that lead me here. It feels like there weren't any particularly decisive moments at all and I've just been swept along against my own weak will. Not the first time I've felt that way but there is a pandemic on this time around which has had more than a small say in matters. I can say it was prudence and insecurity that got me here. Companies swiftly cut loose their contractors when covid hit while my own employer decided it would be a good time to shift some dead wood via the medium of redundancy. Fearing I might be counted amongst that dead wood it didn't seem wise to say no to work be it in Bridgwater or Belarus. So with the merest support from the company I have made my way to the place where Walter built his bridge and Art and Simon mused on dissolution.
I have chosen to host my one-man pity party in the 'pub' attached to the temporary accomodation in turn attached to the vast construction site on which I now toil (the sitting-in-a-warm-dry-office sort of toiling). It is, as is sensible with nuclear power stations, miles from anything. So when I say I am in Bridgwater it is really just a stopping point on my way here and only a distant light of civilisation on the horizon. Hotel California starts playing over the pub sound system. I am fairly sure only 1 of my colleagues knows where I am right now and even fewer than that care. I have fallen through the cracks of this hard industry where emotion is a ball and a sense of injustice is the chain. I shan't ever thrive I would say. People pass my table and I instinctively look up as if there is any chance I will recognise them. But if course I don't and my nearest company is a group of Irish with, frankly, incomprehensible accents. The project has pulled people in from far and wide and skilled labour from across the continent underpin the grand endeavour. It is a faux-bar decorated with signs on the wall advertising beers that they have never sold in an effort to evoke an experience it can never offer. Reproduction pub mirrors, piles of 'old' suitcases, empty books and meaningless pictures complete the confected look. I don't know whether to give the designers some credit for an attempt at familiarity or to grind my teeth at the frippery, this clichéd veneer of normality. But it gives me an idea either way. I can't live at work, that way lies madness, so I'll find accomodation in Bridgwater and commute. At least there I have the chance to find some semblance of life and perhaps a decent pub or two in which to while away a few hours. After all as the wise Dr. Johnson said “There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern.” Alas, i'll probably find some shit ones too but since I will likely be whiling on my own I'll take up the long-forgotten pen and review all these public houses where I never thought to find myself. Throw in a few observations on the habits of the natives and it might even be amusing. The point of these reviews won't be to be snarky but they will carry a 'may contain snark' warning just to be safe. I'd better add a score for science so here is my proposed scale or 'fire rating' (out of 5) -

1. On fire
2. Lit
3. Fire in a hole
4. Smouldering ruin
5. It should be set on fire

And to see how in touch I am with local feeling I'll start with the best (most entertaining) review taken from Google Maps.
Eat your heart out Jay Rayner.