Originality seems to be lost in Devon.

If you haven’t been to Plymouth recently, a new monstrosity has developed on the Hoe, a fresh eyesore to grace the quasi-beauty of Plymouth seafront. And to add insult to injury, it’s been done before. This ‘Wheel of Plymouth’ is now a scar on the horizon.

To put the record straight, I have nothing against ferris wheels in particular. The Millennium Eye is a fantastic addition to the London skyline, providing us not only with an exciting way of soaking in the city in a way that you couldn’t possibly do on foot, or in a day for that matter, but also as a spectacular platform for the New Year fireworks. It’s just the idea of it. It’s like Plymouth is the slightly less intelligent schoolmate cribbing the answers to a test from London. In fairness, he is the Head Boy.

However, a city can’t rely on another’s ideas and assume they are going to work in the exact same way. While I can justify spending a few quid on the London Eye, on the justification of seeing the Thames sprawling beneath you, St Paul’s downriver, the Houses of Parliament in their Gothic glory over in Westminster, I can’t see how spending £6.75 on the Wheel of Plymouth could benefit my day. What are you going to see that you can’t see on foot, or at the top of Smeaton’s Tower? Which is a genuinely interesting place to go, if you haven’t been to the top.

Perhaps if Plymouth thought of a refreshing new idea for an urban attraction, they might have come across less flak. But this ‘Wheel’, half the size of the London Eye, just doesn’t cut it. Rant over.

Home is where the heart is.

With only a couple of months to go until I set off travelling, I’m starting to wrap things up in Plymouth. I’ve lived here for three years now, and a part of me is wretch to leave it. Sure, it has got its crime, and every morning there is a fresh layer of obscure fast food with a Jakes or Fat Mama’s logo emblazoned on a greasy paper napkin, but it’s pretty fun. The drinking establishments on North Hill, with their perennially sticky floors, the odd drunken student you see having a nap in the middle of the road, or the minefield of seagull faeces spattered over the Barbican.

But Plymouth is home! It’s a mess, but it’s my mess. Only in Plymouth can you minesweep a full Kryptonite from someone at the bar and get away with it with no repercussions, because the said patron is too busy trying to mount the stripper pole in Bac Bar. Only in Plymouth can you have eight (or ten?) different burgers in Fat Mama’s that claim to represent different culinary tastes from all over the world, but are in fact some of the most offensive pieces of food possibly ever conceived. Like, why does the French burger have onion rings? I’ve never eaten onion rings in France, ever.

Plymouth is the only place I’ve ever been that has the perfect marriage of good history – the Spanish Armada, and not so good history – the Blitz, and yet manages to completely erase this epic narrative of Devonian heritage in a wave of concrete and tarmac. Drake Circus was designed by several architects who couldn’t decide what to build, so they must have decided to take their body weight in obscure Kyrgyzstani drugs and build a Primark ‘that represents the fire erupting from Charles Cross Church’. In reference to the horrors of the Second World War, that’s almost as tasteless as calling the American Football team ‘Plymouth Blitz’.

So here’s to you, Plymouth! As desultory, stagnant and dirty as you are, you will always have a special place in my heart, and it will be very difficult to replace you. Sincerely.