The Gin-ification of Everything.

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The noble march of progress. One minute you’re popping into your local shop for a packet of Hobnobs and a scratch card, and the next you’re standing in the exact same spot, being offered a £14 artisanal gin infused with regret and rosemary by a man named Jasper who ironically wears suspenders.

This is what urban renewal looks like now. It used to mean fixing potholes and maybe painting a bench. Now it means replacing anything remotely useful with a place that sells alcohol in a way that makes you feel like you’re failing a chemistry exam. You ask for a gin and tonic, and they say, “Do you want that vapour-distilled, oak-rested, or emotionally resonant?” I just want it wet and in a glass, thanks.

The shop that closed down had things. Real things. Batteries. Plasters. That weird brand of biscuits that only exists in corner shops and possibly Belarus. It had a guy behind the counter who knew your name, or at least pretended to, and who would in the old days sell you a newspaper.

Now we have a gin distillery. Which is great if you’re a Victorian ghost or a lifestyle blogger. Less great if you need toilet paper or a Twix. The place smells like juniper and existential dread. They host “tasting evenings,” which is code for “standing around pretending you can detect notes of elderflower while secretly wondering if it’s okay to ask for crisps.”

And the clientele? Oh, they’re lovely. They arrive in packs, like wolves, but with more tote bags. They use words like “mouthfeel” and “botanical.” One of them tried to explain the distillation process to me using interpretive dance. I haven’t been the same since.

So yes, the shop is gone. But in its place, we have a shrine to hipster alchemy. And if you need a lightbulb or a loaf of bread, you’ll just have to settle for a gin that tastes like disappointment and pine needles.

Cheers to progress.

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