22.6.08

Taking issue with the Big Issue

Published by Qmunicate Magazine, 9 April 2008

You've probably seen Jamie around. He sells the Big Issue on Byres Road, and whether you're heading for your eleven o'clock lectures, some shopping or a cup of coffee, he's probably the one you either walk straight past or give £1.50 and some small talk to. As far as Big Issue vendors go, he's quite eccentric – known for his leather jackets and his quiff – and he often seems less subdued than the students he's selling to. “Doing this job can be a laugh,” he says, wiping the rain off his forehead as we dodge a crowd of umbrellas. “But there is a certain input of ignorance in the west end, people can be quite patronising and ingenuine – they sometimes ask questions to be polite, but then don't listen to the answers I give. Selling the magazine can be good though, most people in the west end are friendly.”

It's around eight o'clock when Jamie sells his last Big Issue of the day, and after often twelve hours of selling, he catches the subway to something like home. He currently stays with a friend in Townhead; a grey, concrete paving slab of redevelopment near Cowcaddens, from which he commutes daily.

Jamie's life reads like a Hollywood script with the wrong ending. He was born and raised in the Drumchapel district of Glasgow, and left school when he was 15. “I think that so many young people from areas like that face a glass ceiling when it comes to education in their chances in life,” adding, “so I spent ten years travelling the world. I lived in lots of different places in Europe doing odd jobs, just making enough money to move on again – Munich, Istanbul, Morocco. It just became my life.” When he returned, Jamie then began studying for a degree in social and economic history as a mature student. “I was the first person in my family to go to university. Nobody suggested it, nobody expected it.”

However, when he was in his early thirties, he found it difficult to find real work, and spent years in low-paid jobs. But he shared a flat with his girlfriend, where they both paid their share of the rent, and he got by. Then one day, his girlfriend left to visit her family in Dublin, and never returned. At around the same time, Jamie's landlord wanted to redevelop the area and then let rooms out to the new Polish workers. “I didn't really mind,” says Jamie, taking a drag off a cigarette. “I've been a guest worker in lots of other countries so I know what it's like to come to a new place and look for somewhere to stay. So I lost my flat, and the rest is history.”

Jamie's been without a permanent home for over a year now, and he got the idea of selling from another homeless man. “Before I knew it, I had my own badge and it's a good opportunity, but selling the Big Issue should only be a stop-gap in between different circumstances. I know people who've been selling for fourteen or fifteen years, since the Big Issue began in 1991, but I'd feel very cheeky if I was still doing this for another five.” He's optimistic for the future, but admits that it's difficult to progress with so many barriers. “There are all sorts of obstacles, the main one being the lack of a permanent address, which immediately prevents you from getting beyond an application form for most jobs. No fixed address, no chance of a job; no job, no chance of a fixed address.”

“I've tried to find work in restaurants, hotels, but I'd much rather be learning again. Still, an address is needed by most educational institutions, which is why I've applied four times for teacher training. I think I'd be a good teacher because of my outlook and life experience. I'm not giving up,” he adds.

On our way down to the Tennents bar, Jamie greets another seller, and tells me that “there's no professional rivalry at all, all of us are in the same boat and have either temporary homes or live in hostels around the city. We help each other out where we need to.” The Big Issue sellers in the west end share a camaraderie, exchanging pointers on new housing incentives, job opportunities and occasionally, going out for drinks just as students do. “The only problem lies with,” Jamie adds, “the Romanian sellers.”

Jamie reflects a recent tide of disgruntlement which has been seeping into the change bags of Glasgow's local Big Issue sellers. Ever since Romania and Bulgaria entered the European Union in January 2007, a new demographic has crash-landed on Glasgow – and in this case, our Big Issue sellers are feeling its tremors. “They give the Big Issue a bad name,” argues Jamie. “They can't engage with the public because they don't speak a word of English and they're not local.”
Another Byres Road vendor added, “we try to take it up with the [Big Issue] office, but it's dismissed as racism. Political correctness? Political crap.”

As many people understand, the Big Issue serves to give local homeless people the chance to work themselves out of poor conditions, but as the Big Issue Scotland national sales manager Michael Luby describes, it's homelessness in general they are trying to find a solution for. “When the EU expanded its borders, in many ways they left us to pick up the pieces. Over 7,000 Romanians have arrived here in the past year. They expected the streets to be paved with gold, but they aren't, and a lot of them found quickly found it difficult to find a home, just like the local sellers did. In that way, the Romanians met our criteria, and nobody who meets our criteria will ever be turned away. If their only other options are begging or stealing, I'm proud that we've given them a chance.” But Michael concedes that the Big Issue has attracted negative publicity for doing so.

This isn't the first time the Big Issue has been vulnerable to criticism. In Oxford, there were around ninety registered Big Issue vendors – quite a large number for a relatively small city. For the local vendors, it was difficult to sell effectively because of the disproportionate number of sellers to streets to sell on, and they found this to the detriment of their own profits.

Michael also admits that there's an increased number of “blaggers with mags”, or fraudulent sellers, since the European enlargement. “This is something we work with the police on. We have an outreach team who check badges and who stop people begging whilst selling, which is against our rules. We have a very rigid code of conduct, but there will always be a minority of rogue sellers.”

Oddly, when Jamie was giving his interview, there wasn't a single Romanian seller on the street. Apparently, some members of the Big Issue's 'outreach team' had come to the west end to check badges that day, so a few of them hadn't turned up. “They didn't want to get caught. They'd been informed by someone,” claims Jamie. “By who, I don't know.”

In a largely depoliticised society where popular culture is more prone to discuss Pepsi v Coke than most wider issues, many people simply pop up their umbrellas to shelter from the drizzly political weather. But if you buy Big Issues – make sure you know exactly where the money is going, or else the meagre profits of many in “homelessness or vulnerable housing” kicked into the long grass.

Totally Tongue Tied

Published by Qmunicate Magazine, 25 February 2008

There are many things to write about in Glasgow – the International Film Festival has just drawn to its end, with the Comedy Festival on the city's damp horizons (the 5-day forecast is still bleak, sorry folks); but there is scarcely a topic so universal in our academic lives that it is any observer's crime not to pay it some sort of attention. So it's within my great taboo -breaking pleasure to introduce a subject which is hardly ever on everyone's lips – the mobile-clicking, room-gazing, paper-rufflingly awkward seminar silences, probably taking place right at this moment just down the road.

I'm reminded of my 'first time' on every occasion I set foot in the first seminars of a new semester. I'd just worked out when the traffic lights would change on the Byres Road crossing, and I was still wiping away the crumbs from the free cake stall when I found the right room, which turned out to be the venue for a scene Harold Pinter never wrote. I think we were actually studying Pinter at the time, but the irony of the situation was lost on us all – the silence stretched out until the tutor arrived, unhindered, for what seemed like an ocean of time.

Week followed week, and the silences were given a bit more depth with the notable creation of inventive silence-slaying tactics. Our class began gazing around the room, aimlessly tapping buttons on our mobiles, ruffling sheets of paper, or prolonging the experience of opening our bags in order to replace conversation with movement and noise, and to appear otherwise occupied – too busy to talk. The ten seconds we were given to introduce ourselves were quickly forgotten, and over the weeks, attendances began to suffer, and people began to arrive late to soften the blow. But by this time, the hanging, visible awkwardness seemed annoying and unnatural.

Despite the fact my seminars were for arts subjects, I felt like I'd walked out of the building with a master's degree in human psychology. Seminars do grow more relaxed from term to term, but they're a clear microcosm of the vast and ugly obstacles that divide one stranger from the next – a cornerstone of any advanced society; one in which work and leisure are rarely mixed, and one in which we're fed individualism to the extent that it becomes blurred with isolation.

Now, if you'll excuse me – I'm running purposefully late for my history tutorial.

A travel writing competition

British Airways Writing Comp - 21 November 2007

This is my entry into the first British Airways travel writing competition. The winner will be commissioned to go on an expenses-paid travel assignment for their 'High Life' magazine, and the resulting 1800-word feature will be published next year.

Write a 500-word feature covering any element of travel.

"Travel – travel in the narrowest sense of the word, as I know it – is a world apart from holidaying. Travel is a challenge that first spits you out into an alien civilisation, then tries to drown you in the perhaps murky waters of other cultures, and finally, when you resurface, gasping for breath, it gives you only foreign air to survive. It is the cultural equivalent of the bends, but from the departure lounge, to the check-in desk, from the goodbye drinks, to the foreign greetings, the challenge offers an incomparable lust for adventure.

The most gratifying element of travel is, for me, the interaction with other travellers. Last year I met some American backpackers at a hostel in Interlaken, Switzerland. One day, we visited a the small town of Lauterbrunnen, in the Alps, and that day I recognised that despite being complete strangers, we all shared something in common – an invisible string which bound us together, and to every other traveller in the world. I came to realise that those seeking to escape a community, those who travel, create a community of their own in doing so; a thread connecting people striving to do things differently, one which makes tracks over any national and cultural boundaries, and embraces the most relentless passion for discovery, not just of other places, but of other people. Without intending to write a utopian hymn, the experience of interaction between travellers is one that changes your perception of humanity for life, where the artificial walls of nationality crumble in one benevolent, inclusive, global society.

The community is one which embodies three different traits – one based on empathy; the passion and enthusiasm to acknowledge a patchwork of different peoples, and in doing so, adding width your own global consciousness, another despising those who spend lots of money on package holidaying, only to check into somewhere with all the comforts of home – with the designer suitcases, the sunscreen and the ignorance to boot.

Interaction between travellers is riddled with cooperation and respect of all kinds, which can take the form of exchanging maps, recommending places to visit, communal cooking, and talking over bunk beds until the sun rises. An interesting aspect of the interaction is the lack of permanence – the checking in and checking out, the coming and going – which is where it stops short of friendship, as because the inclination of travelling is simply not to stop, it is silently accepted.

The third common trait is the belief that no matter how much time spent submerged in the swamp of alien cultures, you always feel cleaner when you come out on the other side again."

In no more than 100 words, review somewhere you have stayed.

"Budapest is a tale of two cities. The two boroughs and the bridge which connects them, are the visualisation of a post-Communism timeline in a history lesson – the developed, and the developing. In Buda, vast office buildings create a modern, business-littered skyline, where western-minded men scuttle around carrying briefcases and sipping lattes. On the other side of the river, in Pest, the homeless lay, begging and broken on the curb outside MacDonalds and chain fashion shops – which comprise the first floor of the grey, Stalinist buildings. It is a city of extraordinary contrast."

Skip Surfing USA

Published by Glasgow Guardian, 7 October 2007
The freegan community across the Atlantic share similar stories, with blogger ‘Madeline’ explaining how “with friends this week, I served Rondele cheese with crackers, followed by a pasta with tomato and eggplant sauce, a lovely big salad, and strawberries with whipped cream for dessert. The following morning I had a big glass of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, then an omelette with shitake mushrooms and fresh sage, accompanied by whole-grain sourdough toast.”

There are freegans all over the world, but New York City has emerged as a freegan hub, boasting a vast community of dedicated followers and volunteers. Earlier this year, following NYU’s class of 2007 graduation, a group of around thirty men and women assembled to take advantage of the end-of-year move-out – and pocketed free televisions, desk lamps and other objects for re-use.

Most were there in response to the NYC-based freegan website (http://www.freegan.info/), which posts details and listings of such events and rendezvous ‘dumpster diving’ points in the city, as well as information for followers across the globe. The site, run by volunteers, has become a database for all things freegan – including a recalled products and food safety alerts list (updated daily), a reuse/recycle directory and even an ‘internship and opportunities’ section. The website also posts a fanzine, a 34-page tirade against capitalism and globalisation, with the occasional quirky cartoon – sort of a bizarre marriage of Karl Marx and Quentin Blake. They claim that there are “at least 400 to 500” freegans living in New York who are part of their network alone.

But Adam Weissman, activist and co-creator of freegan.info, is however quick to dispel the notion that his movement is a brainchild, instead preferring to emphasise the collective nature of society. “We did not begin the freegan movement. The website is simply an organisation that exists to promote freeganism and to teach people how to live as freegans. The term ‘freegan’ goes back to (I think) the 1980s, and the practices and ideas it refers to are even older.” Speaking to the New York Times, he continued, “it has resonated around the world with people who love community, cooperation, and our planet. We believe that the survival of life on this planet requires a shift to the replacement of industrialism, capitalism, and globalism with a society that consumes less and shares more.”

The success of the movement in New York may also be owed by the quantity and quality of New York waste. According to the Environment Protection Agency, 245 million tons of municipal solid waste has been produced by individuals, businesses and institutions since 2005 across the whole of North America, equating to 4.5 pounds per person per day. New York’s equivalent figure is 7.1 pounds. Poverty statistics are just as alarming – one third of the city’s children live below the poverty line, every day 2,500 are turned away from food pantries and soup kitchens and 400,000 New Yorkers suffer from “moderate or severe hunger”, according to the website’s own findings.

Freegan Fighters

Published by Glasgow Guardian, 7 October 2007

They strike in the early hours, while most of the city sleeps; sometimes alone, sometimes in crowds of a dozen. Anyone is a suspect. Put this paper down and have a look at the nearest stranger – could they be? Meet my new favourite community of people – Freegans.

You might think that consuming waste food lies deep in the preserve of the impoverished or daring, but it's also a rather practical alternative to extortionate weekly shopping at Somerfield and Iceland, as many Glasgow students and residents have found. Supermarket waste bins in particular have become free-of-charge vending machines in the last few years, because of the excess amount of unsold food and goods thrown out to waste at the end of the last shift – their lids forced open and their contents raided by night by the munchie-craving. But it didn't stop there. The practise has become so popular throughout Britain that it has snowballed into a phenomenon known as 'Freeganism' – and the ethical backlash against British supermarkets has been rattling teacups in their head offices ever since.

The Freegan lifestyle involves salvaging discarded, unspoiled food from supermarket waste bins – food that has passed its expiration date, but is still edible and nutritious. They salvage the food, not always because they are hungry, poor or homeless, but sometimes as a political statement against the over-disposability of consumerism.

“To be honest, part of the appeal is that it has to be done in the cover of darkness, and it's a lot more exciting than your average supermarket experience,” comments Ailsa Kay, 21, a Glasgow student. “However, the more I frequented the bins, the more food I discovered. It made me determined to undermine huge supermarkets by using their waste and not spending a penny more than I really needed to.”

The Marks and Spencer bins on Ashton Lane in particular served as Freegan youth clubs last year, with sometimes up to a dozen taking anything they liked the look of – giddily burrowing through plastic bags like a bunch of seven-year-olds dizzy on lemonade. At best, you could come out with anything – currys, juice, new potatoes, pies, salads, sandwich fillers, Yorkshire puddings, (including my favourite – two chicken breasts wrapped in bacon, topped with a creamy white wine sauce) all hitting their expiration on the day or the day after; at worst, a few loaves of bread to cram into the freezer. So why buy their crap if you can eat their scrap?

“The first time I went I found an Irish soda bread and a chocolate Swiss roll, both still sealed in their packaging and their sell-by date was the following day,” says Ailsa. “It's a great feeling when you manage to feed yourself and a group of friends without spending a penny, and re-using food that would otherwise just be taken to a landfill site. I've come across many characters in the early hours – some in suits, some in kilts, some curious and some who either look extremely confused or disgusted.”

However, the Freegan party has recently been busted by a harsher enforcement of wastage policies. Marks & Spencers have begun locking their bins at night, and are known to now purposely open the packaging of waste food, to prevent people like Ailsa from taking it. “It's common sense to know what's edible. I find it particularly frustrating when you find a bin choked with food, only to discover that an employee has slashed open the packaging, making the food unusable.”

A supervisor from Marks & Spencers claimed that new health rules had been in place for a number of years, but only recently had head offices begun issuing preventative measures to combat freeganism. A moral pulse exists however, in their 24-hour stores, who occasionally have food waste picked up by the charity Rainbow, and distributed to the homeless. This progressive agreement is exempt from such wastage policies as the waste in 24-hour supermarkets is thrown out minutes after being removed from the shelf, when it is left for sometimes a full day at room temperature in stores with opening hours. The Greggs bakery on Byres Road was also until recently partial to giving away a few unsold sausage rolls and on mornings they are collected – but now the delivery driver is explicitly forbidden from giving any food away, on the same health grounds.

After the Boxing Day Tsunami in 2004, I wrote a long letter to the Co-op I used to work in – challenging the wastage policy of our store and suggesting that some of the waste be sent over to the worst-off parts in East Asia, or at least be put to some other use. One of my points was: “Surely starving people would appreciate countless loaves of bread and other goods, regardless of their expiry dates, and would rather have their lives saved and have a stomach bug than starve to death.” All I received was a chuckle and when I suggested that they send the letter to their head office, my manager said that no-one would read it. The following day we threw away twelve stacks of bread and five full bags of snack foods, all of which had 'gone off' over the Christmas closing period, and all of which was delivered to a landfill site – 34 miles away. And to achieve what, exactly?

When it comes to food waste, shops and supermarkets have two options – one costs something and achieves nothing, the other costs nothing and achieves something. I've not set out to flood these pages with hyperbole, and I've tried to avoid churning out yet another hymn to recycling. The redistribution and availability of unsold food in Glasgow should be given the green light, or even debated in the relevant circles – when it is a glaring truth that our supermarkets cannot contain the issue by simply locking their bins.

Down and out... on MySpace.

Truth Telling E-zine - 9 January 2006
Glasgow University Magazine - 14 April 2006

MySpace may be the preserve of wannabe models and nerdy teenagers (my MySpace name is theunknownsoldier1) but as of January 2006, the number of MySpace-ists hit 47 million. That’s enough people to replace the entire population of Italy. Imagine that - the People’s Republic of MySpace, with spear-gripping indigenous tribes like the 28,000-strong ‘I Luv Pink’ clan and hardline political forces such as the ‘Decriminalise Weed Club’ (population 5,543) and the ‘Republicans Are Better In Bed’ Party (5,996). The State owns the mass media and the arts (‘MySpace Records Vol.1’ is out now) and inhabitants are kept updated by web bulletins from their Head of State/Webmaster – who goes solely by the name of ‘Tom’.

Tom Anderson, the 30-year-old techie-genius who co-founded MySpace, sold the site to media-hawk Rupert Murdock for $580m last July. Afterwards, he sent out a weepy (and very American) bulletin to all of his then-22,500,000 friends declaring: “Many of you have asked about NewsCorp buying MySpace … everyone seems scared that MySpace is going to change. I’m not leaving, I’m still going to make the decisions about the site and I’m not going to let things suck. MySpace has been an important part of my life for almost two years now. I know it’s as important to others as it is for me. I won’t let it get jacked up.”

Click onto MySpace. You’ll find 47 million people with their own profile pages, over 500,000 bands and solo artists (including a 63-year-old Jimi Hendrix?) and almost 2 million discussion groups. I think I’d throw up if I knew how many hits MySpace.com received every day. For those of you who don’t know, MySpace is a web service that allows people to connect with other people. It trumpets itself for “making ordinary people famous and famous people ordinary” (it’s true – pop stars like Ashlee Simpson and Nelly have public accounts). Users can find friends by searching their email address, real names or their MySpace names, and they can create ‘profiles’ filled with their interests, their biography, their top eight ‘friends’ and who they’d like to meet.

It’s an online palace where the vain meet the shy, the lonely meet the culture-vultures and the stars meet the fans. On a typical 5-minute scroll through the mazes of online egos, I found a young female singer humming about her new folk album, a dyslexic narcotic blogging about his concerns with democracy and a young girl with as many spot-the-difference webcam pictures of herself to cover the surface area of Argentina.

According to Tom’s own statistics, the average registered MySpace user spends an hour and a half on the site per week. Some of my friends log on more than quadruple that time per day – but what is the appeal? Can we imagine the hypothetical MySpace island, governed by Tom himself – a society of many different cultures, a society of many different talents, where everyone is nice, eloquent and civilised? Perhaps it’s this notion of utopia that keeps people logging on and blogging on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and reply to my friend from Tokyo.

Facing the enemy - in my home town.

6th Magazine - 6 December 2005

I casually bulldozed through the human traffic that is carried by my town’s Monday market today. I passed the usual medley of men haggling over shoelaces and kids perusing fake Smarties, rounding the pungent smelling fish stall at the end. Except it wasn’t the end. There was newcomer to the usual market stallers – a group of men stood behind a small wooden table. On the table lay dozens of folded newspapers entitled ‘The Voice of Freedom’. Hmmm, I thought. I glanced at a copy of my dusty ‘Communist Manifesto’ that I planned to read on my imminent bus journey to York. But this looked like a worthy read – probably a fanzine or an ‘underground’ journal or something, or so I thought. “I’ll take one, please,” and handed over 50p to a young skinhead. “Better still if you join,” an older man snarled. The penny had dropped – I gazed down at the paper I’d just bought. The beaming red, white and blue of the BNP logo stared me in the face. A woman came from my right and thrusted a leaflet in my other palm. This one read ‘Islamic Terror Labour Failure – How right was Enoch Powell? How right is Nick Griffin?’ I’d had enough. I fled the scene before you could say ethnic cleansing and crammed the diseased trash in someone’s wheelie bin. I needed a fix; I read Marx from cover to cover as though I were a Communist junkie, all the way to York…

My struggle: Two years of double standards on the shop floor

Website - 7 November 2005



I’ve taken some time off from my meagre chores of replenishing the bacon section and slapping half price stickers on oranges to scribble some notes on the reverse side of some advertising for ‘Jumbo Salted Peanuts’. People around me are contently placing own-brand beans on shelves and mopping up wine spills while the 80s-biased radio is humming Nik Kershaw’s ‘Wouldn’t it be good’ for the thirteenth time over the Co-op airwaves. But if you don’t like new wave music, it gets much worse here.

I applied for a job at Co-op when it was a Safeway store just over two years ago. I over-eagerly wrote my details on an application form that bore the shiny, plastic grins of two ‘workers’, handed my form in and then waited. Within a fortnight I was jogging around with milk dollies in a pathetic effort to please my superiors, but within a few months, my enthusiasm was fading like the colour of my lime green uniform. I’d befriended a few other young people in my position – students who had been working just a few months. One of them jokingly remarked: “I’ve got amnesia. I can’t remember why I applied here.”

Working at my local supermarket has also completely reversed some of my economic views. In two years, I’ve gone from being a ‘free-market freak’ – babbling about efficiency and the importance of profit – to a soft Marxist. My political views have also been dragged over to the left and I now have a problem with authority.

So why did things change? Let me explain. Three people call the shots at my work – the managers. Just below them in the hierarchy are the supervisors – the people in charge of particular departments. Finally, there’s me and the rest of the proletariat, or “the bottom of the barrel” as we are described by the Human Resources Manager. We unload the goods that are delivered from the depot, fill shelves with it and then go home, with a few added menial tasks sandwiched in between. The next day we do the same, starting as early as 7am, finishing as late as midnight. If we finish the job before the end of our shift, we do someone else’s job until we are scheduled to finish. We are granted three (unpaid) breaks per day for a nine-hour shift, and I earn around £170 for a 37-hour week.

And the unwritten rules… we cannot chat – to neither workmates nor friends; we are picked up on things like “working with one hand”; people from the same department cannot take simultaneous breaks; we cannot take more than our allotted breaks; we cannot use mobile phones on the shop floor; we cannot chew on gum; we cannot work together – to name a few.

And here’s the day of a manager: they turn up to work no earlier than 9 o’clock, hold a meeting with supervisors, tally up their profits and costs (incidentally as a store we do quite well). They have no allotted breaks – but this works to their advantage as they are not deducted pay from the breaks they do take (as their breaks are unrecorded). One of my workmates spotted one manager take eighteen breaks in one morning. At around 2pm, they begin filling shelves like the rest of us. They always work in twos (what rule book?) whilst they chomp on Wrigleys (rule book…) and check their mobiles. The manager is paid a fixed wage of £3,000 per month and works less than I do.

For people like me, it is easy to spot inequality, double standards and hypocrisy – we are earning disposable income, not a living. But for people who have made a career out of stacking cheese, it is a lot easier to ignore the issue. A woman I work with has been working here for fourteen years – whenever I raise a conversation about this she ponders me for a moment, before shrugging and sighing “I know…” she continues to open boxes of tomato juice while the managers pocket the receipts upstairs.

The people whose careers are made from this place divide into two groups. In group one are the people who ignore these issues and simply want to earn their living, when in group two are those who view the inequality as something they can skew to their own advantage. Patronage has been an active hobby among the staff at Co-op – one woman who supervises her workers on the Delicatessen is given huge amounts of time off work (to share with the managers) in return for her maintenance of the double standards. Other manager cronies call their customer friends over to have a chat, but are quick to separate us from a casual chat, which we are not entitled to.

In a very real sense, they are stamping out the very things that make mundane jobs bearable. A chat with a colleague, a sneaky fag break – they’re fast becoming rights confined to the dustbin of history. And so now we are faced with the very cold ambiance of the smoking room – the break which a workmate and I share with a couple of managers. “No one talks. There is no morale here. To them we are just human resources, not people,” my friend comments as the two managers vacate the scene, chuckling.

Recently, I found myself voicing these concerns to someone above my level for the very first time. I’d been taking a break, defiantly, with a friend (who was a member of a different department) – we were heading back to work when two managers (the only two working that day) objected to us being on our breaks at the same time. I was about to utter “practice what you preach” but instead, like on so many occasions, I spoke to someone else. My Human Resource Manager listened closely. The essence of his argument was based around maintaining and increasing profits, and the basis of mine was the concept of morale, and how it would improve productivity if we gain more respect. At the end of my “rant” he said: “Why have you not told any of the managers about this?” I replied, “I’m a coward and I want to keep my job.” “Well they definitely think it’s a case of you versus them. Do you want me to mention it?” he said. “That would be nice,” I replied.

But why on earth would they listen? In December last year, I wrote a letter that highlighted my concerns with the large amounts of good food we throw away – I was motivated by the terrible scenes of starvation in the Boxing Day tsunami aftermath. I proposed that we try to distribute the food over there somehow, or at least to the British homeless, rather than have it burnt like we currently do. Indeed, one manager did speak to me about this – only to tell me “it’s more efficient this way” before shredding my letter.

I’ve since found comfort by attempting to organise a workers’ revolution, or a coup. The idea is very much pretend – my workmates and I joke about using trolleys as makeshift trenches and pork pies as weapons. But, if I’m honest, I’d love to fly the red flag over this place.

A review of 'Withnail and I'

Glasgow University Magazine - 11 April 2006

'Withnail and I’ was one of those films that everyone but me had seen. Just as with ‘Napoleon Dynamite’, my friends mimicked the film’s slapstick moments to death – so I feared that the over-hype would naturally result in a huge disappointment for me when I finally got around to watching it.

The tale follows the miserable lives of two anarchic, shabbily dressed, ex-public school out-of-work actors at the wrong end of their twenties; Withnail (played by Richard E. Grant) and I (Paul McGann), who’ve somehow found themselves in the dank slums of London in 1969. The opening few scenes lend themselves to describing the mundane lives of the pair – a living hangover of booze, pills, insomnia and paranoia – portraying Withnail as the eccentric alcoholic, and ‘I’ as his fed-up, going-insane lodger with a twinkle of ambition in his eye. The early scenes are an odd cocktail of semi-slapstick comedy with melancholic undertones.

After an aggressive encounter with an Irishman in a pub, ‘I’ suggests an inspiring trip to the North, to a Penrith cottage belonging to Withnail’s gay uncle. The pair head off with suppressed enthusiasm to the rattle of the dodgy exhaust and Withnail swigging whiskey and howling at pedestrians. Their enthusiasm fades, however, as the “holiday by mistake” comically descends into a farce as rain, lack of food, inhospitable locals and the bitter cold generate yet more desperation and misery. The pair resume their continual fight for food and warmth by killing a live chicken and badgering a local farmer for wood and coal.

Uncle Monty returns to the cottage in typical flamboyant style, with ‘I’ having to fend off his attentions – but he gives them food and money, which they squander on booze to escape from the relentless penury and discomfort they were trying to flee in the first place. When they return to their flat in London to sign on for another week, Danny (their friend and drug dealer) is talking philosophically about the hippy dream gone sour, the end of the sixties, whilst smoking the infamous ‘Camberwell Carrot’ – a half-foot, inch-thick spliff. “They’re selling hippy wigs in Woolworths,” he says poignantly. Shortly afterwards, ‘I’ finds work in a play, and as a working thespian, he moves out to earn a living. An emotional farewell leaves Withnail toasting his departure - but now living alone in squalor.

So as the end credits rolled, I gazed down at the borrowed DVD case – and realised what a well-rounded film this actually was.

A review of 'Headache Hotel' by Karen Cheung

Aesthetica - 1 February 2006

Ever wonder why you have a certain song in your head? I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve mind-sang my way through entire albums during work shifts – but the wondering is over. Karen Cheung has the answer: a small black-and-white bird crawls through your earlobe, checks into a cheap hotel in your brain, bashes away at its piano and you hum away.

But this amusing 2-minute animation is also artistically pleasing, as well as psychologically pondering. The sheets of music that seep from the piano aptly fade into the rooms of Mind Hotel – and we can see the protesting heckles of the other ‘guests’ – a barking dog, a banana-drumming monkey and two chirping birds – who are simply adding backing sounds to the tune played by the bird.

Unfortunately, the bird is booted out of the hotel and thus from the ear of its human host. “I’ve just ‘ad this awful tune in my ‘ead,” the man says.

A review of 'Family Portrait' by Rob Brown

Aesthetica - 1 February 2006

Behind every instance of domestic violence, psychological torment and neglect in families sits a patchwork of happy memories – but also a myriad of sad ones. In this snippet of gripping drama, Brown serves up a monstrous plate of murder, with the very vivid cocktail of fear and revenge that washes it down.

Throughout the short, we are shown photographs and home videos of an average nuclear family – the usual medley of weddings, birthdays and Christmases, to a backing track of the mother and wife, Denise, screeching for help to an emergency service operator as her husband breaks into their home after shooting their son. Brown cleverly juxtaposes the happy memories with the reality, so much so, that if you close your eyes, you weep in fear for Denise – when if you mute the sound, you smile in awe of their scrapbook of family love.

Chu Ma Shu - a profile.

Chu Ma Shu on MySpace - 7 December 2006

Chu Ma Shu are everything and nothing you’ve ever heard. Formed in Pickering, North Yorkshire in 2002, the band’s recreational habits form a pillar of the culture we know as ‘rock n roll’, whilst they are both innovative and creative with their ever-evolving musical output. Marrying influences from bands like AC/DC, Led Zeppelin and Del Amitri, the band has won Battle of the Bands contests in both Helmsley and York. They recorded an E.P. in 2004 with 6K Vision, which was mixed at the infamous Abbey Road Studios in London. The band has also played at a cluster of diverse live venues since its birth – from the smoky pubs around the area, through the swanky music bars of York and Scarborough, to open-air events at Pickering Castle.
But Chu Ma Shu have changed three members in as many years. Twins Dan and Mike Harding (who co-founded the band back in ’02) left the band in 2005 to pursue their interests in A Dog Named Hero, whereas Rob Lumby seemed to follow the fate of the Manics’ Richie Edwards and promptly vanished into the leafy York suburbs. In one fell swoop, the band was robbed of its drummer, bassist and rhythm guitarist. But as the months wore on, Chu managed navigate their way back into the limelight with new bassist (Jake’s brother) Max D’Alquen and new drummer Andy Wardell.

Now, after an era of music drowned in side-partings and black-rimmed glasses is drawing to an end, Chu’s roots in the classic rock camp are making themselves heard again.

A review of 'Just Passing Through' by Ruth Nicklin

Aesthetica - 24 November 2005

You could expect this documentary to be the music video for The Kinks’ infamous ‘Waterloo Sunset’ – a city where 7 million strangers hurry past one another every day. As the camera darts up and around the station, we see a huge mass of concrete and tyres, and one countryman comments: “One feels like a matchstick man”.

Nicklin plays us candid footage of the systematic arrival of trains and the patter of commuting feet alongside a backing track of her interviewees’ lives. A woman picking her son up from his girlfriend’s, a newspaper salesman and a platform worker comprise the mundane routines of the Londoners we see snippets of. Nicklin cleverly films her subjects going about their day-to-day businesses as the fast-paced station operates in black and white behind them. She makes her characters seem bigger in this way, shedding their anonymous skin for just a moment.

As the haunting tannoy booms: “Calling at…” a frenzy of trains and people come and go in fast-forward, until daylight fades.

Two lovers lay across one another on the station floor. The male describes how “On Valentine’s day, I was waiting under the clock with a red rose … we fell in love.” A contrast with the earlier countryman – two people managed to find love in the station, where he just feels lonely.

London’s large homeless community is also represented – tramps who sleep underneath the station are content with the surrounding cafés and tea stalls – one man explains how “If we ain’t got money, he let us off – ‘cos he knows if he gets mugged, we all jump in.”

It puzzles me to think how a short documentary about a train station has gripped me. A social document which echoes of Orwell’s ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’ – and as the light darkens over Waterloo, I feel enlightened that someone has put faces to the faceless strangers of London.

A review of 'What Barry Says' by Simon Robson

Aesthetica (submitted but unpublished) - 24 November 2005

We are led on a lightspeed journey cross a sea of stars and stripes, when Barry asserts: “The United States of America is the most powerful nation on earth.” At this point, we can expect Barry to go one of two ways – either he will describe the U.S. as an economical phenomenon, led by humanitarian free marketeers, or will portray it as a nation led by neo-conservative, belligerent demagogues. Barry chooses the latter.

Barry begins his rant on U.S. foreign policy by describing the recent ‘War on Terror’ as “a campaign against opposition to U.S. domination”. We can only hear his voice, which is spoken with a calm sophistication. Visually, key words in Barry’s argument such as ‘Exploit’ glisten in black and blood red. We are subjected to a speedy slideshow of globes, tanks, bombs and caricatures of Cheney, Rumsfeld and, you guessed it – Dubya himself.

Barry’s argument is clear – the U.S. has developed an “insatiable appetite for conflict” as it is simply feeding its own financial interests around the world.

Barry argues that the U.S. aims to turn the world into “its very own enslaved global market”. He controversially asserts that “the attacks on the world trade centres by Al Queda were just one response to it.” Barry uses the idea that the Iraq war was a business trip to develop his concept of ‘War Corporatism’ and explains how “September 11th was merely a pretext.” Barry then turns his attentions to the U.S. Administration, Inc. He describes politicians Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld as a “sinister group” and explains how George W Bush is “merely the figurehead” of this monstrous war machine.

‘What Barry Says’ reeks sourly of Michael Moore’s ‘Fahrenheit 9/11’ although it is considerably shorter (under 3 mins). It’s Globalisation For Beginners, a bite-sized flick of world affairs that could politicise a sheep.

A Leeds Festival diary

Website - 1 September 2005

This was my first time at the 50,000 capacity festival and I was looking forward to four days drowned in beer, spliffs and decibels. I was not disappointed and the level of enjoyment surpassed even my optimism. The festival lineup was, admittedly, not entirely to my taste (I hadn't heard of many bands that were on the main stage - and a lot seemed of the samey indie sort, Razorlight, Kings of Leon etc etc) but I could hardly have expected a perfect lineup. Like all weekenders, I got there on Thursday. I was camping with Lianny, Hayley, Adam, Jake, Rowan, Gaby, Freer, Ashley, Kairo, Umi and Stacey. I brought my own beer, but my money was soaked up by burgers and the arena shops. We didn't meet anyone new this night, which ended around 3am. THE BANDS-- Friday in the arena was fantastic - I was looking forward to Marilyn Manson, but found myself liking the My Chemical Romance and Incubus performances which seemed to weigh up the quality of the rather dire Alkaline Trio and Turbonegro. I managed to make it quite far forward for Manson avec Jake, Rowan and Lianny - and the end result made me thirsty for headliners Iron Maiden. Now, I'm not a big Iron Maiden fan; I only really know two songs: 'Run to the Hills' amd 'Number of the Beast'. But as I watched the set with Rowan - I certainly grew to love them. The singer was marvellous - it was made clear that the band hadn't toured for 25 years, but it certainly didn't show. The pyrotechnics were incredible - including the definitive 'Maiden Monster' which was awesome theatre as well as a fantastic musical performance. In comparison with the songs I've heard on CD, his voice was even better live, 25 years on. That is some achievement and the show left me buzzing until about 5am. 666! Saturday had a slightly different feel. Goldie Lookin Chain (GLC) opened at midday and had most of the crowd in fits. Afterwards we all went back to the campsite for b urgers and beer, before myself and Freer, Adam and Kairo drove to Tesco for more beer and cleaner toilets. I inadvertantly missed Graham Coxon. I got back for QOTSA though, who stole Saturday for me with dire competition from The Killers, The Coral and even headliners Pixies. I only caught a glimpse of Pixies before we headed for the Kasabian tent; annoyingly we could only watch (hear) them from outside as it was nigh impossible to squeeze through the slippery bodies that comprised the crowd. Even so, some were catching crowd surfs as if they were public transport. I woke on Sunday (from two hours' sleep) with little recollection of the night before. The day in the arena was fun. My 'The Who' band t shirt drew the attention of one or two drunk sycophants, and I sat and watched Roots Manuva and Dinosaur Jnr with Lianny. I stood with everyone else watching Razorlight and Kings of Leon, who both played well. Immediately following the supporting KOL, I dived into the crowd for the headlining Foo Fighters. In between songs, I noticed Dave Grohl embodies plenty of Jack Black traits. He's a funny guy, and he played with such energy. The quality and the visual effects almost levelled with Iron Maiden, but not quite. They were awesome though, and got everyone singing and jumping. THE BURGER GYPSIES-- We were pitched right next to a burger van, which served for obvious advantages. One day, they took down a wooden wall that shielded their supplies van. Adam and Ashley invaded the van and sounded the horn. This happened, unfortunately, as a worker was returning to the van. He threatened to unpeg our tents, even though he didn't know which tent neither Adam nor Ashley were stopping in. Late on Sunday, the workers, who owned the burger vans on our campsite, were thrown out for allegedly selling ecstacy. The didn't leave quietly though. Before they were forced to leave, they discovered we had been 'borrowing' their ketchup for our own burgers. They washed our tents (and Jake) in the stuff. THE RIOTS-- Rumours began circulating that on the last day of the festival, people burnt tents and looted the shops. Some denied this had ever happened, but as we made our way back to our tents after FF, we found ourselves in Vietnam. I was a little afraid - would they burn our tents? It got worse. Gas cannister explosions were occuring almost as fast as you could blink. The place was freckled with fire. People tore down the campsite lights. We gave up guarding our tents at around 1am, and headed for the crossroads (just down the hill) where there was a huge fire and many other people watching. There was a small crowd of about 100 that surrounded the fire. They were feeding the fire, whilst trying to topple a pole that supported the lights, which were out. After about 20 cannister explosions, followed by rapturious cheers by about 1,000 observers, I noticed a formation of red glow sticks. They each belonged to a riot policeman. No one had really noticed them, but then there was a huge explosion that seemed to rock the whole festival. Except it wasn't Iron Maiden. It inspired the riot police to act. They chased the rioters, amidst 1,000 boos. The fireman also came and destroyed the fire. It was then relit. Over the next hour, the riot police were fairly brutal (I'd never seen this happen before) - I heard someone mutter that the police refused to touch the festival, so the campsite's own police were employed. No rules, just shields and batons. The fire was relit many times and it always grew to its former level. People were still trying to topple the pole. Tents were being thrown on. People were banging on the bins in the fire, and the tribal sound added to the madness. A red flag of Che Guevara was defiantly being held aloft, and the atmosphere certainly resembled a supressed revolution. Then, the riot police began to turn on the viewing crowd. I ran for my life, over people's tents, down hills.. I made it to the other side, and then I went back again. Someone had broken into the nearby Carling tent, and there was widespread looting of the overpriced beer. A million things were happening at once, it was a tremendous scene.

Writer's block explained

Website - 8 August 2005

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve helplessly hovered my pen over a blank sheet of paper, or stared at a computer screen with my fingers fiddling through my hair. When you write articles, you tend to find that the moment of inspiration for a particular topic stems from a moment of passing thought, provoked by anything seen or heard. It is slightly different from poetry writing or even novel writing, where the motivation is largely dependent on a more consistent mood. But the nuisance that is ‘writer’s block’ is irritating in all forms of writing, as the ideas you have can’t seem to manifest themselves on paper. For those who don’t write, writer’s block is comparable to inarticulacy among friends. You know what you’re trying to say, but your words seem to trip over themselves. And I know that it doesn’t just happen to writers. This century-old menace has plagued artists and composers too.

Writing at the rate I do currently, I experience writer’s block at least once a month. My self-made remedy never seems to work. I smoke a cigarette and think about what I want to write. What I want to say. I do this because smoking and writing seem an apt camaraderie, and it somehow makes me feel bohemian. It would be easy to write a flowing train of thought in these circumstances, but it is lethal – particularly as my articles are quite short and the scope of interest vital. If this method fails, I give up. I stop trying and continue with my normal life. But one evening, I researched this disease and made some interesting discoveries.

The website www.esc.edu offers some interesting intellectual framework on the subject. Elaine Handley, a psychology student, explains how “writer’s block is caused primarily by one thing: judging your writing before or as you write.”

Handley also describes “three entities” in your “writing personality”: the ‘Inventor’, the ‘Editor’ and the ‘Reader’. The ‘Inventor’ is the passionate, creative side of your writing. The ‘Editor’ is the critical, fussy, bossy, knowledgeable part of you who wants your piece of writing to be as good as it can be. Handley advises: “the Inventor and the Editor must never share a room at the same time”. The ‘Reader’ is the side of your writing that decides where to go with a draft.

Two key practises in writing are communication and satisfaction. Handley understands that good pieces of writing come after three or more drafts, when your ideas have been further developed: “like watching a photograph being processed and going from blurry to sharply focused.” Handley also evokes an interview of Ernest Hemingway, who said: “I rewrote the ending to Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, 39 times before I was satisfied … it was getting the words right.”

I find that the more I mentally plan my articles, the less I need to edit them afterwards. It works vice versa. At the best times my articles take about an hour to complete. At the worst, I’m tampering with them for weeks. For instance, this article took around seven or eight hours of my time, stretched over a period of about two weeks.

Writing is a ping-pong process. Write a first draft, edit it, write a second, edit it etc. etc. If you’re not used to writing in drafts, you will have to do so. If you are determined to do just one good draft for a piece of writing, well, you will be plagued by writer’s block all of your life.

Seven years in thirty-two lines - Yearbook entry

Lady Lumley's School Sixth Form Year Book - 10 June 2005

Apologies go out to anyone who thought that this piece was going to be anything other than mediocre. When I write on cue, what you tend to get with me is a rather odd train of thought, but I was never going to abstain from this opportunity.

When I walked into this school in September 1998, I had absolutely no idea what an (clich̩ coming) emotional rollercoaster life here would be Рa patchwork of side-splitting laughter, blinding hatred, physical agony, mild depression, sheer delight and occasionally, tears.

Whether it’s hairstyles in Year 7, general mischief in Year 8, plays and toilet breaks in Year 9, amnesia for Year 10, singing in Year 11 or not, I don’t think anyone can look back on their schooldays and say they were altogether unhappy.

I seem to remember the mixture of glee and melancholy on the last day of Year 11; it was melancholy for me, not least because I was leaving behind five of the best years of my life and heading into the place that dreams are made of (the common room), but I was also saying goodbye to some of my oldest friends.

Sixth form brought some new joys: new people, music, more parties – but I quickly found that its perks always failed to save it from mediocrity.

They say that your whole life flashes before your eyes in the second before you die, so I’m going to presume I’m falling from a cliff, and pretend that my whole life has been lived at school.
Mr Dunn’s lunchtime party, the quiff, ‘come on it’s Christmas!’, the bible plays, reggae song, Billy Stewart, Moulin Rouge, Gildo the singing Dildo, Keith, Heward’s lack of underwear, Outdoor Ed, Daniel Tyler, Hutchy baby, an innocent Saffin, night D’s… WOW that was quite a second! And I’m still alive.

Now I’m in a seven year retrospect, I can even cast my mind back further to a point in Infant school when Martin Myers bit Rob Sherwood in the head, and the itching powder at the bottom of the hill! But that’s quite another story…plus one that not many sixth formers would be familiar with, reducing the scope of interest.

I don’t know how people will remember me. I shall let history judge me. Perhaps I’ll leave a better legacy than Hitler did.

To complete this somewhat limited account of student memory, I shall end on one of my favourite song lyrics. With regard to education…

“All in all you’re just another brick in the Wall.” So I’m going to Uni!

Adieu.

6th Magazine closing statement

6th Magazine - 10 December 2004

Well, Christmas is coming and the coursework is piling up, but if last Christmas in sixth form is anything to go by, everyone will certainly enjoy the festive atmosphere in the common room.

During the Christmas break, endless notes of revision for January exams will be gathering dust under beds, just as the school itself will (hopefully) be gathering snow in its dormancy.

We’re almost halfway through the school year already and things have gone almost smoothly.

James Barrat-Edgecombe will assume the editor’s position from New Year 2005, and I know that he is a sufficient guy to pass the ‘6th baton’ on to. By the way, the official handing-over ceremony will be held at the Church of England in Pickering, on December 30th at 11.45am and ticket are only 10 pound each (joking).

“I do come home for Christmas. We all do, or we all should for a short holiday – from the great boarding school where we are forever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest.” Charles Dickens ‘A Christmas Carol’

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

A local tale of hope

6th Magazine - 4 April 2004

As dad Roger Johnson watched his son Peter collect a new belt in karate last week, he had more reason than most to feel his heart swell with pride, for he had good reason to believe that he would never see his son’s twelfth birthday, never mind achieve any kind of athletic prowess, after he was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of three.

By the time Peter was five, he was in remission from the disease and, at last, could enjoy swimming and enjoy other activities that he had been unable to do with tubes coming out of his body.

When he was nine, Peter started karate at the Devizes club, and, in March last year, he gained his brown and one white striped belt, two levels below black.

But in May last year, Peter had his usual blood test and the day the family were due to go on holiday, they were told that all had returned.Dad Roger Johnson recalled: “The nightmare had started again. When I asked him if he wanted to wear a hat to school, he said ‘don’t worry dad, I’m bald and that’s all there is to it’.”

Mr Johnson, who calls himself the “proudest dad in the world” also commented: “He’s an unassuming lad but he’s got a big heart and always thinks of other people first and he never complains.”

Roger also made an appeal for donors. “Please everyone, take time out of your busy lives to become blood donors and put yourself forward as a potential bone marrow donor. You will be saving someone’s life and it’s a great feeling.”

SEN work experience articles

Scarborough Evening News - 10-21st June 2002

Forget the plastic men you once saw in table football. Real people are now being used in a full-sized table football game, taking place at Hotel Raven Hall. “We are already well-known for outdoors pursuits in our 100 acres of ground, and this new fun and challenging game is part of our effort to satisfy the demands of football-crazy conference delegates – especially durinEg a World Cup month,” said general manager and Liverpool supporter, Matthew Loades. The game is provided in association with HSS event hire, a corporate leisure company. The new game uses real people as players and recreates the table-top football game in adult size.

This is roadwork with a difference. Noise and slow traffic inconveniences have been avoided whilst the 800 mile stretch of Stepney Road at Jacob’s Mount is set to be resurfaced overnight to allow normal traffic during the day. The area to be done is in significant poor condition, and will be worked on over four nights commencing 24th June. Contractors have agreed to close the road at 7pm for the traffic to be diverted via Seamer, Crossgates and the A64. The resurfacing is scheduled for completion by 7am on 28th June “This is the ideal time of year to carry out this work, when there is plenty of daylight and the weather will be hopefully fine,” said Bernard Goulding, who added, “by carrying out the resurfacing during late evening and through the night we will be keeping disruption to a minimum. We trust drivers will be as understanding as they usually are during this important maintenance work.”

Eighty-six year-old Albert Morse, of Stepney Drive, celebrated his birthday on board the Fred Olsen Liner Braemar, whilst cruising the Mediterranean. The Scarborough man received an extra bonus when he learned he would enjoy good fortune for the rest of his life. “I reckon I’ve been pretty lucky in life as it is, but it’s nice to hear this sort of thing whether you believe in legends or not,” stated Albert, looking back on the 13-day cruise from Dover. Staff upon the cruise ship told Albert that any foreigner that has a birthday on a Norwegian ship will have good luck from then on. “The bonus came when they told me about the legend,” he recalls. During their cruise, Albert and wife Susan Navarro visited Lisbon, Malaga, Barcelona, Menorca, Cueta, Gibraltar and La Coruna.

Cutting your electricity costs is one of the things Sally Hepworth, a trained energy efficiency advisor, can help you do. The Energy Efficiency Advice Centre can be found in York and offers free, impartial advice to help householders nationwide keep their energy costs down. For one day only, Sally can be found giving advice in Filey Library to save the journey, on Wednesday 26th June. Backed by the Scarborough Council, the centre is also fully supported by eight local authorities across York, North Yorkshire and East Riding. Newcomers to the centre will receive a free reusable cotton book bag as a special treat.

Harbour Pictures has announced that the new feature film ‘Calendar Girls’ will begin shooting on location on Monday 24th June. The film, starring Helen Mirren (Gosford Park) Julie Walters (Billy Elliot) and Linda Bassett (East is East) tells the story of a group of Yorkshire women who set out to raise money for the Leukemia Research Fund by posing nude for a Women’s Institute calendar. The women go on to raise 500,000 before the media spotlight changes their lives forever. Helen Mirren plays Chris, the ringleader. Julies Walters is her best friend, Annie, in bereavement of her late leukemia-stricken husband. The pre-conceived comedy unfolds into a true tale on grit, sheer determination and celebrity, telling the seductive charm and the danger of the media spotlight. The production is directed by Nigel ‘Saving Grace’ Cole, produced by Suzanne Mackie and Nick Barton of Harbour Pictures. Written from true life events by Juliette Towhidi and Tim Firth, ‘Calendar Girls’ will be filmed in Yorkshire, London and Los Angeles with interiors at Shepperton Studios. ‘Calendar Girls’ will be distributed by Beuna Vista International and is set for cinema release in 2003.

A new 24-hour service for Arriva customers has been introduced, enabling people in the North of England to gain access to travel information and support at the touch of a button. Advisors can give information, deal with customer complaints, give advice on train services and organize assistance for disabled passengers by calling 0870 602 3322 around the clock. “People’s working lives aren’t always nine to five and as a result of this they may need answers to their questions and concerns at a time that suits them. By ensuring that we are available twenty-four hours a day, every day, we can meet their needs,” said managing director of Northern Arriva Trains, Ray Price. Mr Price also added, “Knowing that there is someone at the end of the phone, whenever you need them, who can help you if you have problems with your travel arrangements, is very reassuring. Since we changed to a telephone-based service, we have been able to help more people and deal with customer queries or concerns much faster.” The new system is also available, day and night, via email, at customer.relations@arrivatn.co.uk

A new movement in Scarborough was established at a Scarborough Mind Annual Meeting last Wednesday. Circle of Friends, developed by Julie Nichol, aims to aid people with mental health difficulties across the Scarborough, Whitby and Ryedale region. “The idea for Circle of Friends grew out the development of our commitment to working in the community. It’s a simple idea – taking healthy friendships as its model, it’s based on five factors – sharing information, practical, emotional and social support and advocacy. In other words, the benefits that people naturally derive from good friends,” explained Julie, who combined existing research and service models to develop the programme. Julie concluded, “Circle of Friends is a simple idea and we’re all very excited by its potential to change lives. If it helps just one individual significantly, it will be a success, but I’m sure it will do much more.”

Treasure hunts, bucket-shaking, cream cracker, pie and donut eating competitions and a student party were among the many fundraising efforts put together by several Scarborough Sixth Form College students, who chose this year to support St Martin’s Children’s Hospice, after they announced they were to open a teenage wing. Over the year, the pupils manage to raise an incredible 1,000. “It is very pleasing to see young people doing things for others and enjoying themselves simultaneously,” commented Vice-Principal Tom Potter, who added, “1,000 is a creditable achievement.” St Martin’s Children’s Hospice were also aided by the Head of Law Department, who gave a rendition of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. Other activities included the obligatory staff-in-stocks event, and the rain accompanied the sponges being thrown.

A letter to my work amidst the Tsunami of December 2004

30 December 2004

Dear Sir/Madam,

As you read this letter, countless more drowned, crushed and starved bodies are being discovered across the worst-hit parts of Indonesia, India, Sri Lanka, the Maldives and Thailand as a result of the Boxing Day earthquake tsunami. The total death toll is predicted to rise to at least 120,000 and more than a million people will be without shelter and food.

I am a sixth form student who has a part-time job at my local Safeway/Morrisons store, and every single day, vast amounts of bread and other goods are thrown away in a skip, which are collected by bin men and eventually burnt.

We are a small Safeway Compact store, but today (December 30th) we threw away five large bags full of bread and also two six foot high stacks of it, plus three bags full of yoghurts, drinks and snack foods. I understand that the food is thrown away because it has reached its expiry date and is deemed no longer fit to eat, but surely it is common knowledge that food is still perfectly safe at least for a few days after its expiry date.

This systematic destroying of perfectly decent food makes me so frustrated as it shows blatant ignorance and inconsideration towards people in awful situations, not just in the places affected by the earthquake tsunami, but also in Ethiopia and other parts of Africa where starvation has become a way of life. It makes absolutely no sense to be burning food, which costs nothing, accumulates nothing and achieves nothing, when distributing food to the starving also costs nothing, accumulates nothing BUT achieves the saving of lives on a mass scale whilst promoting the good will of British business and retail.

I talked to a Human Resources assistant at my store today, and he told me that the food has to be burnt, because if it is distributed, eaten and causes illness, the store would be in trouble. Surely starving people would appreciate countless loaves of bread and other goods, regardless of their expiry dates, and would rather have their lives saved and have a stomach bug than starve to death.

I think that if this part of store management is reformed as soon as possible, thousands upon thousands of lives would be saved in the aforementioned nations who have, in a single day, become third world countries. I also think it would promote the Safeway/Morrisons public image if that is the sort of advantage you are interested in. A lot of the staff at my store feel the same way.

The terrible events of the past few days have inspired me to write this letter. One of my friends got caught up in the tsunami in Sri Lanka, but she luckily survived where so many others did not.

I sincerely hope this proposal is considered and adopted as soon as possible. I do not think there can be any possible reason to justify this process when there is so much need in the world at this time. Thank you.

Yours faithfully,
Steve Clarkson

The Tourist / Afternoon in the Park

I come to the park where no-one’s around
The bell chimes two in the echoing town
Still it seems to me that chaos is near
Above, in the sound of the birds I hear.

I understand them, they are just like us
Moaning, singing, bickering or in love
This rush hour of birds, how I wonder much
Why nature’s traffic is soothing to watch.

Our popular emblem of peace and quiet
What do they think of concrete and tyres?

The Morning Bus

I always sit a few rows behind you.
You definitely notice me now.
We share a journey, this silent intimacy
most mornings, 7.17 till 7.47.

No-one in your life sees you like this.
But I do. He does. So does she.
One body every two seats, like a tree-lined street.
The concealing, commuting eyes, giving nothing away.

Here’s our stop; we know exactly where the other is going.
We don’t walk there too close if we can help it.
We know nothing more of each other, but we know this part well.
What a fabulous start to the day.

Wednesday Afternoons

The day your skin became softer
We'd found fire instead of heat
And beautifully on that encounter
The only thing ticking was heartbeat.

The day your kiss became smoother
We'd found oceans instead of springs
The past flavoured, making memories newer,
the future glittered, whatever it brings.

The day your eyes became more bright
We'd found jungles instead of fields
But as that day was wrapped in night
This day's fate was sadly sealed.

The day the world was free of time,
was the day we never obeyed its chime.

Bird's Eye View

I’ve seen it all, I’ve seen it all,
Winter to Summer, Spring through Fall.
Holding hands to kissing necks, virgins through lust,
Tee shirts to suits, sweaters through cuffs.

They grew up on my street, I studied them from the trees
that lined the gardens, littered with the maple leaves.
And the white picket fences, the porches lit at night –
It was power that beckoned me, and halted my flight.

We remember the nervous, sticky encounters in back seats of cars,
Sighed away on idle Thursdays
Smirked away on long walks home
Or, occasionally, relived, when grandma has the kids.

He once had a bit on the side,
An ugly lady, on Tuesdays for a while.
I knew; she once suspected, and he twice lied,
Never raised his hand, though hardly ever smiles.

Her parents didn’t like him, too coarse, too dim.
But he did make her laugh, and she quickly fell in love.
Round for lunch every Sunday she was, giggles and grins
Now it’s tears half the time, the innocence flown away on the wing of a dove.

< / LIFE >

Man, holding briefcase, waits for traffic.
Dirty, late sun casts his lame, bleak shadow on road;
a modern orgy of fumes, concrete & tires.
(And misery.)
Ambulance shakes him, (from his melancholy),
he is angry.
Looks at watch, (almost mechanically),
Jerks arm into polyester, trouser pocket –
(With visceral aggression.)

He will never realise the significance of his watch.
The lights change.

Bench Sitters

A mother and her child
Sit silent, side by side.
Gazing in unison
at sky then at stars.
Two candles on a beach
Suspicious of strangers
Human traffic, passers by
Memories shared of memories had
Mostly awful, mostly sad.
I pass them one day in every seven
I'm shot a glare, that comes with their territory.
What if someone were to sit next to them?
The boy, aged thirty, decides to go home.
He shuts the door softly behind him.
I wish I could be like them
At times.

Old Photographs

The sky opens
upon a thousand photographs
a tiny river of time, dusty
spreading into an ocean of existence.
Reflected in the river
in its sparkle
a patchwork of moments
stretched out like a rainbow
but ruined, by the rippling water.

A boy watches
in grief
as two wilting roses
flow down the river.
Into dusk.
And he is powerless to prevent it.

Silver-plated Snippet

I often remember
holding your hand
skipping in the rain
dancing on sand.
Never such innocence
before nor since,
that spread
like the wind through trees
or like some city and some disease.

I often remember
holding your hand
sat down in long grass
so high I could not land.
When the future and past
were frightfully far away
and the leaves of the blossom
became brighter, day by day.

War Wounds: Auschwitz

We file in, one by one by one
"An exhibition of unprecedented inhumanity."
The tattooed prisoner numbers
The Watchtowers
The mountains of hair
Myriads of bloody spectacles and broken dolls
Amid a thousand gasps.
The barbed wire
The roses that hang and wilt
The grey and red-bricked halls of ghosts
As the sombre rain falls.
The haunting lanterns creating sinister spotlights
Pictures and photos make it even more vivid
The stony paths A palimpsest of all that was.
Fallen, beaten, punctured people
Like litter, discarded like pebbles.
The bunk beds
Standing cells
The scratches.

The shower heads
That never worked.
And nor did that gas taps.

"He who forgets history is destined to live through it again."

Untitled Travel Piece

Angelically and menacingly the foreign waters sweep
Over lost sandals and old compasses
Is this really a country?
Or no more than a line in a notebook?
Mountains stretch off into the sunset
In front and behind me
Accomplished and postcarded
Stamped and franked Discarded.
Is there anything more life can bring?
Just damp walls, dank toilets, broken tiles, day bags
Homesickness.

Revellers in the sun
Faceless birds with big bags on their backs
"When are you going home?"
"When I feel alone."
Ashes scattered
Over four corners of the earth
And a dusty map
That some guy drew for you
The sun is setting
But I'll be somewhere new by tomorrow

So turn on the news
Get a plane to Belarus
You're in a traffic jam
And you can't see a way through
Comfort zones
Just stay at home?
It's all too scary

Is there nothing more you can see
Than your own face reflected in the TV screen?
Necessities
become Luxuries
Oh, please.

New Strangers

We sit like bookends
Avoiding stare
The haunting tick of the clock
Rings like bad tinnitus.

Frozen in fear
or humiliation
New strangers in this world.

Silently bound by past
Silently divided by present
Silently yelling at one another.

Communication severed
Miles of pain
Lakes of tears
Choking the minds
of the two former lovers.

I get up
And leave

Home.

Published by Now Then Sheffield

Jackets, jeans, sneakers litter the room
A half-stubbed cigarette withers in the Sergeant Pepper ashtray
Books choke the bookcase
A Stalin book sits lonely beside a maze of academic litter
Freckled photographs line my wall
Surrounded by Orwell and Shakespeare quotes
A Pink Floyd poster, a backwards clock
An idle novel dances on a hi fi,
Kicking out a bassey Smiths song
‘Ask me why and I’ll spit in your eye’
An ocean of strangeness hides under my bed
Old broadsheets, birthday cards, a suitcase.
Old jeans droop from the wardrobe above stripy shirts, ties and sweaters.
Empty shoe boxes and a river of laceless trainers
Emerging onto the carpet is an air freshener.

First Night

The cool jewel moon
Wrapped in dotted night.
Sparkles on waves in the ocean
Glistens on pools of rain.

Glaring with sore eyes
and sleeping skin.

The Thought Express

Wrap puckered lips around
Suck the chopped dark haven
Infect clean lungs with harsh wind
The only light in a dark world

Breathe in the icy mornings
Jolt back and keep inhaling
You’re at Woodstock now
With bleary eyes and pounding flesh

Taste the fear
Taste the warmth
Taste the break from the relentless storm

The ghost thinness of sprinting disease
Spading inside you

Taste the sound
Taste the trees
Taste the sun
Taste the seas

Taste the ink
Taste the paint
Taste the inspiration
Undress your ideas
Plant the seed
Let it rise and let it be

Smudgy fingers dirt the page
This is art
This is yourself
This is your blood

Let the ink scream
Let the ink dream
Let the ink shout
And then, dock out.

Old Flowers

October 2005

Once, there were some bright flowers
Red and white roses
A healthy green stem on perfect grass
The people gathered to see it blossom
The petals grew richer
The stem grew taller
The sun shone, and the birds sang.

Then, an oak tree sprouted, eclipsing the sun.
The roses wilted and bowed
The petals peeled off one by one.
People laughed and tore out its root
Threw it into the dirt and turned their backs
The flower had died, but a tear trickled down
The lifeless brown stem, into the earth.

The years passed, the winters came and went,
The oak tree stood tall, watching the spring.
As the roses grew and the people watched
The old stem appeared out from the earth.
This stem was still brown, unlike the others
And the tear was still there, but no one had noticed.

"Yesterday meant nothing to me."
Is that what your mother told you to say?
The breaking of my earth
Is that happened, you see
For what it's worth
It meant something to me.

First Light

August 2005

Seeing the world through dirty Windows
A creeping of light behind dusty curtains
A new day, spoilt by scornful cliché
The innocence of the pure clouds that stretch the skies.

Memories line the wall, the future another.
One moving in, one out the open Window
As the first light shines on freckled photographs
With a steady ambience of pure wind and time.

A Window of danger, a Window of hope;
All dreams dashed and all dreams made.
All lives lost and all lives saved.
A powerful frenzy of love and hate.

The oceans of text that are a future
Have stacked themselves and opened doors
But they lay sleeping for now, or it is me
As the first light fades, fades away.

Pendulum

May 2005

I can often find shelter in your arms
The sharks and vultures from the world around
The uncertainty of an impending future;
Sedated in a room of anxiety.

The flick of a switch and I’m fine;
Marvel in the being you did inspire
In thought, in speech, in action undone
You mark the time passed, lighting the time to come.

The Corner

May 2005

Bright skies open over trampled turf
Scars have healed, tears long dried
Melancholic air smells sweeter
Wind and Sunlight have turned the tide.

A path called desire
Cries my name from beneath your feet
And as I gaze back at the boulders of the past
I take your hand and we run from the shadows.

No Man's Land

April 2004

Sweat merges with the dirt on your forehead
A friend climbs over – another one, dead.
It’s your turn soon, you think in fear
You’re about to get the all-clear
This is it, you’re never coming back
The final moment of your life, you step back
Ready to go now, taking a last breath
Receiving the order, you climb to your death

Tyne Cot Cemetery

April 2004

Visiting our lost brothers who fought for us
A palimpsest of fallen courage
Turmoil and anguish, half a generation destined
To a doomed path for a worthless cause
‘The war to end all wars’?

Four long years of fighting and dying
For the hundreds of thousands of graves we are treading
Patriotic pride grips our hearts
The pride they felt initially, before another year made a start
A tear and an intake of breath as we realize the cost
At these very places where so many young lives were lost.