Storage Wars

I always giggle when I hear and even when I myself recount the joke about the pimp who bought a warehouse.

That means nothing until I remember to mention that he was unfortunately stricken with dyslexia.

Perhaps it is not so funny a story after all unless told in a hushed tone to the wife of the Bishop around a dinner table as was the last time I felt brave enough to roll it out in the most polite of company. Her reaction made me feel like I had stumbled across the funniest joke in the whole world, or at least at that moment in time at least.

Warehouse.

Amongst a younger generation this descriptive word may in fact draw a blank expression or at best conjure up an image of a large out of town DIY depot as many of the original and true warehouse structures have been lost to urban clearance, other redevelopment, obsolescence and arson.

In my home city the old dock area was until the outbreak of the second world war completely dominated by huge red brick warehouse structures filled with every type of goods and chattels that the British Empire could despatch to the Old Country. Unfortunately the sheer scale of the buildings and their strategic value made them a) easy and b) prime targets for enemy bombing so much so that only one now survives, ironically named Warehouse 13.

In other parts of town the softer, non industrial and prettier examples have been converted into offices or flats thereby giving them a new lease of life. Equally suitable warehouse buildings are however in the wrong location to attract development and remain in a very sorry state or their instability and partial collapse has forced them to be made safe or demolished and cleared.

I was in Scarborough, North Yorkshire today to have a look around a large three storey warehouse.

It was under the invitation of a local business woman who saw the expansive internal floor area as the ideal space into which to expand and consolidate her Dance Academy.

Upon seeing the place from the narrow street approach I had immediate doubts as to whether her plans would be viable either economically or physically. It was a sorry sight.

The roof was a shiny silver usually an indication that something had been applied to the surface to improve poor watertight performance. The peaks and troughs under the metallic sheen indicated asbestos cement materials positioned around the large wired glass panes of the north slope. External walls had a thick creamy coloured render applied like the layer of icing on a wedding cake using a heavy trowel. This generally signified that the original brickwork was perished from age related weathering or had been so altered and scarred by works over its lifetime that there had been no option other than to conceal it and hope for the best.

Traditional warehouses are just receptacles for stock and by definition do not require openings for windows and in the interests of security a minimum of doors is also preferred apart from the loading bay entrances and perhaps a wicket gate for the movement of personnel.

This particular building had at some time been broken open and arched apertures knocked out to be glazed and part timber infilled. On the church-like front wall there were two very grand dressed stone windows although likely to have been salvaged from a nearby derelict as they were so out of place.

There were signs of occupants of the building with a shop front onto a fruit and vegetable wholesaler and in some of the upper floor windows advertising boards for a martial arts club. The retail unit had its own entrance but other users had to share a steep bank of cast steps to reach the first and second levels.

There were recesses in the render where I could see exposed brickwork, This was following longstanding removal of a mounted steel staircase or fire escape which may have just rotted away in the very corrosive salt spray infused air of the seaside town.

The building was detached now but residues of masonry on two elevations were the only clues of an historic attachment to former neighbours.

I was understandably nervous about going into the warehouse after piecing together a very poor opinion of its stability from the external observations. Similar buildings in other parts of the world often featured in news bulletins when collapsing with significant loss of life after having been patched up or unintentionally weakened by modifications to maximise economic potential.

I was unsure who would accept responsibility for the disrepair and hazard imposed in this case.

I clambered up the slope of the steps into a narrow and claustrophobic stairwell which bypassed the first floor and spilled me out onto the second (top) floor. I was in a cathedral-esque cavern of a space.

Above me was the dull grey underside of the asbestos roof supported on a spiders web matrix of blood red oxide painted steelwork. Under foot was a proper concrete load bearing floor testifying to past suitability for the heaviest of heavy storage or industrial operations.

I came face to face with a life size replica in resin or fibreglass of the Predator figure from the Sci-Fi movies of the same name and through a haze of airborne plaster dust I could make out busts and moulds of Star Wars and other film characters. Two equally plastered individuals loomed out of the murk. It was sub zero in temperature and I then realised that part of the atmospheric ambience was from rain coming through the roof in a fine mist, not just in an isolated drip but like a blanket across the whole floorspace. The workers complained bitterly about the indoor shower but only to me. The rough conditions were matched by a cheap rent and so were tolerable.

The rainfall had increased outside and the interior mimicked the climate. There were makeshift canvas troughs strung in the rafters to catch the worst leakage and then channelled out to the nearest available hole in the wall. The same micro-system was apparently experienced by the occupants of the middle floor as the precipitation seeped through the cast floor and found the path of least resistance in the brick supporting columns and steelwork stanchions. I could see the advantage of these glaring defects to the fruit and veg wholesaler on the ground floor whose produce would stay fresh for longer in the atomised moisture.

By this time the dancing lady had arrived on the scene and although she had set her heart on the premises she seemed relieved in my advice that she would be best to just walk away given the problems and liabilities that would be an unfortunate aspect of ownership. I am generally a supporter of giving old buildings a new lease of life but this one just needed to be put out of its misery. The on line files at the Town Planners confirmed my opinion in that a few years prior they had given permission for the warehouse to be demolished and the site redeveloped as 16 apartments. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts.