It's
the Culture, Stupid
A two litre plastic bottle of white wine bought in a
Belgrade supermarket can cost as little as GBP 1.50. Not for the sophisticated
palette perhaps but it hits the spot when chilled. In Vienna, parting with as
little as 50p for a can of 5% beer is not unheard of and it too can be
refreshing when put to the lips.
But the likelihood of you witnessing or being the
victim of a drunken assault in public is very slim in both capital cities. If
this fact is anything to go by, the Tories’ proposal to introduce minimum
pricing for alcohol is completely misplaced.
What David Cameron et al have failed to recognize is
that the inebriated brawling that is a fact of life on Britain’s streets has
nothing to do with the availability of cheap booze but can be attributed to a
drinking culture that has become uncivilized. The Conservatives’ laissez faire
policies have much to answer for this more than anything else.
In Europe people sit down to drink and their beer or
wine is generally bought to them by a waiter. Alcohol lubricates conversation.
In the UK, in many city centre establishments, furniture is at a premium and
people stand in close proximity. They also jostle one another at crowded bars.
Add booze to this simmering cocktail and it is little wonder that things kick
off.
The concept behind these ergonomics is clear, pack
them in and get them drinking. Turn up the music full blast so that
conversation is limited and consumption maximized along with turnover. Then
spill all these frustrated drunken punters out on to the street and let others
deal with the consequences.
Access to alcohol in Austria is restricted in that
supermarkets close early and bar prices are considerably higher than in shops
but in Serbia’s main cities booze is available 24 hours a day, seven days a
week and a night out is one of the cheapest that can be had anywhere in Europe.
Belgrade also has an annual beer festival, which, naturally enough positively
flows with the amber nectar. But during my visits to the event I have never
seen a fist raised against anyone. The most illicit act is men relieving
themselves in the bushes when all the portaloos are occupied. And this in a
country regarded by many as war criminal personified.
I have lived and worked in a number of cities in
Europe, most of them in the post-Communist part of the continent, and while
alcohol-induced anti-social behaviour is not unheard of in some, it pales into
insignificance compared to what can be seen on a weekend night in the UK.
While you can generally chug to your heart’s content
without any bother in Belgrade and Vienna, social imbibing can, admittedly, get
complicated in the likes of Warsaw and St. Petersburg, two other cities I have
been a resident of. The Polish capital has its drunk tank nightmare to be wary
of and Russia’s window to the west is home to a police force that have been
known to relieve western foreigners of their cash, particularly if they are the
worse for wear. You may also turn the wrong corner at the wrong time and run
into a group of lary lads who might want to make your life uncomfortable for a
while. But in general any tangible police presence you see in these places will
be due to a political demonstration or post-football match disorder, not
because people are out ‘enjoying’ themselves.
It is surely one of the great anomalies about
contemporary Britain that when the police cars and vans gather routinely it’s
because people are trying to escape the daily grind by getting ‘hammered’,
‘smashed’, ‘pissed’, ‘bladdered’ ‘bollocksed’, ‘arseholed’, ‘slaughtered’ or
‘shitfaced’. We have more terms for getting drunk than the Eskimos have for
snow. The process of softening the mind towards a more pleasant disposition
towards your fellow man has become vulgarised by an end result that the rest of
humanity doesn’t much care for.
Despite the perils that exist in Poland and Russia
during a night out, as a rule I have felt completely at ease once I have
entered a pub or club, though this might be misplaced confidence at times. But
in the UK, the tension is unremitting. Both outside and in the pubs on Broad
Street in Birmingham (where I am from) the menace follows you around. Young men
traverse the bars in large groups. Unfortunate eye contact with one is a sour
invitation to them all. You are going to get punched. Money is no object.
