by Marian Halcombe

Ah, Broadstairs! That sparkling jewel of the Kent coast, now revealed by the Daily Express as a tragic tale of plummeting house prices and disillusioned Londoners. Once touted as the pandemic escape of choice, a seaside haven where weary urbanites could swap artisan lattes for fish and chips served with a side of existential despair, it now finds itself abandoned. The fleeing hordes of Down from Londoners (DFLs) are reportedly selling up in droves, driven out by the looming spectre of doubled council tax and the dawning realisation that Broadstairs is, well, Broadstairs.

Of course, The Daily Express has its finger on the pulse, describing the local housing market’s collapse with the breathless urgency of a tabloid Cassandra. But I wonder, is it really such a surprise? Broadstairs’ charm, if it can be called that, is the kind of charm that only a certain demographic appreciates — specifically, those assured of only two weeks left to live. For them, the town might offer some grim appeal: a place to shuffle off this mortal coil while gazing at the sea through the rain-spattered windows of a boarded-up café. And if there were inheritance tax advantages involved, well, all the better. But for anyone with a longer lease on life, Broadstairs seems about as appealing as an extended stay in the Gaza Strip. At least in Gaza, the weather is consistent, and you don’t have to worry about being mugged by a seagull.

The plight of the DFLs, those pandemic pioneers, deserves a moment of sympathy. Lured by the promise of coastal tranquillity, they exchanged their overpriced London flats for a slice of Broadstairs bliss. What they found instead was a town where the high street doubles as a retirement home, the beach is a breeding ground for despair, and the nightlife is limited to a particularly lively Tesco car park. Now, faced with doubled council tax bills and the dawning horror that their second homes have become financial millstones, they’re retreating back to the capital faster than you can say “stamp duty holiday.”

And yet, as Londoners pack up their Cath Kidston mugs and flee, who remains to hold the fort? The good people of Broadstairs, of course. This noble populace is a veritable tapestry of British social strata. The elderly form a stalwart majority, tottering along the promenade as they wait patiently for death. Their younger neighbours, who fall into the more vibrant “local trash” category, spend their days ensuring that the town remains a reliable hotspot for drug deals and burglary. Add to this the colourful influx of failed asylum seekers and London’s displaced underclass, and you have a community that might generously be described as “eclectic.”

But let us not forget Broadstairs’ natural beauty — if one squints hard enough through the perpetual mist, there’s something to be said for the endless greyness of the sea and sky merging into a single monotone slab of despair. It’s a monochrome palette that perfectly matches the mood of anyone unfortunate enough to live there. On those rare days when the sun does make an appearance, it’s mostly to taunt you as it sets behind the industrial wasteland that passes for a skyline.

The Express does touch on an interesting point about local councils’ cunning strategy to double council tax on second homes. Ostensibly designed to claw back revenue, it has had the rather predictable side effect of tanking property values and driving out the only people with a modicum of disposable income. One wonders if the next step will be to introduce a seagull tax, given their central role in maintaining the town’s distinctive charm.

Still, Broadstairs isn’t all bad. For those in search of adventure, it offers a unique experience: the thrill of finding your car on bricks after a peaceful stroll along the beach, or the joy of discovering that your holiday cottage has been thoughtfully redecorated by squatters. And let’s not overlook the educational opportunities it provides for children. A visit to Broadstairs teaches them valuable life lessons, such as why you should never trust estate agents or the weather forecast.

In conclusion, while the Daily Express may lament Broadstairs’ property woes, perhaps it’s time to reframe the narrative. Broadstairs isn’t just a failing seaside town; it’s a crucible of human resilience. It’s a place where you can truly test your mettle, whether by dodging aggressive seagulls, surviving the high street charity shop gauntlet, or enduring a winter so damp that it makes Noah’s flood look like a passing shower. Broadstairs may not be for everyone, but for those with a masochistic streak and a love of grim seaside aesthetics, it remains unmatched. If you have two weeks to live, I can think of no finer place to spend them — as long as you’re assured of that inheritance tax advantage, of course. Otherwise, the Gaza Strip is still looking pretty good.

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