7/7: His Latest Period of Absence

'It is a decision for you and you alone,' counsel explained, 'we need an answer.' Unyielding, apparently unmoved, the client continued to stare into the oak beams, it dawning on counsel that no decision would - or perhaps could - be forthcoming.
.

4/7: I think, therefore it is

With the utter conviction of one who had never been inclined to reason, the emerald dress leaned forward with an inelegantly raised hand. 'Thing is,' she whispered, 'I happen to know someone who works in a college just like that, and believe me, many of these kids are lost from day one.'
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3/7: The Giveaway

Barely perceptible, but there, a flicker of something - no doubt about it, the eyes flashed alert. Half-baked hypotheses now queuing to be made sense of, the older man rose, made his excuses, and headed out onto the street.
.

A Post on the Subject of a Weekend of Lurid Cultural Learnings

Privy to flirting
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames

What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned

A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.

A Post on the Subject of Mundane Violence - Spiritual, Physical, Memorial.

I felt – interpreted, sensed, imagined – a disjuncture, as I recently listened to the cremation service of my mother’s aunt. At one point, biblical references were creatively and affirmatively related to the dead woman always having ensured that the (food) cupboards were well-stocked – something about providing for the family, et cetera, et cetera, and so I’m sitting there knowing that this was a woman who was a generally prolific consumer… often received as communicating pride in her personal appearance, in her home, and in much else that no one (except her) really cared about. I found this vulgar, and dubious, to say the least, in what it and she communicated in terms of the Christian values that were said to underpin the service, throughout which, the speaker – a collared churchwoman – spoke without the merest flicker of embarrassment or irony. And so it goes.

Whilst in the north east (above), it was good to reacquaint with the deceased aunt’s husband, daughters, and their families. I also got to hear my mother and sister discussing various local folk’s trials and tribulations. For much of the time, I was left with the sunken feeling (sinking didn’t last very long) that these locals were the cast of soap operas that were routinely so violent, far-fetched and lacking in basic humanity that no outsider would wish to endure their grim narratives. And so I went. Leaving early, my drive back to the Midlands coincided with quiet roads – good thing, autopilot, quick. Whatever it was that I had on the radio – maybe podcasts, possibly Saturday evening Radio Four, I failed to take in – distracted. Sister’s casual mention of the young woman who’d just skipped out of town with her own sister’s husband, that was nothing – that occupied me as far as the end of my mother’s street. The matter of the house with the big shed changing hands, that was with me through to somewhere in North Yorkshire – say, Leeming Bar. It wasn’t so much the house, but more the previous owner. ‘What happened to him?’, I’d asked. ‘He went to prison, didn’t he. D’ y’ not remember?’, said mother. I didn’t remember, I’d never been told. She explained, sort of - ‘Prison - somethin’ t’ do with his step-daughters… y’ know’. His step-daughters, yes, I remembered them - the ones who my own sister used to play with. But for much of the journey, I was thinking about the old friend who I’d run into at the town’s football club earlier that day. As teenagers, we’d played football and knocked about together. At around 16, maybe 17, we drifted apart. My pathway was study and getting away, his was different. He didn’t have the scar when I knew him. Of course, as we caught up, I didn’t mention the line across his face. We talked jobs, where we now lived, and how our footballing allegiances had shifted over the years. His physique told me that it was a long long time since he’d last played football. As sister and I later departed the football club, she explained the old friend’s changed appearance - ‘It was Lenny Fulton that did it’. The name meant nothing to me. ‘He’d be about 40 now, lived down at the bottom of Chapel Street. They got into an argument one night, Lenny just slashed him.’ As sister sought out her car keys, I asked more – why did Old Friend and Lenny Fulton argue, why the violence, and what happened to knife artist Lenny. She explained, ‘It was nowt – drugs probably… He went to prison for it, though he’s dead now - alcohol.’ All of that, and the perfectly horizontal register of it – from just behind the ear, through the ear, across the left cheek, falling just short of Old Friend’s top lip – consumed me across the M62, to the M6.

In around 1990, maybe ’91, I thought it was cute, the way sister – then aged about five or six - would tackle a minced beef pie, as I watched the town’s football team with pals. She would then go and run up and down the undulating hills that flanked the western side of the football ground – all within my sightlines. We’d later jog back home – a distance which must have felt enormous to her short legs. In the same place, now, she explained to me how one of those pals who’d have been with us happened to look like something from a horror film.

For the final, short rainy stretch of the M6, I wondered about Lenny Fulton, about the final words that would have been conjured by and for his kith and kin, and whether his mother's food cupboards would have been well-stocked. My guess was that they weren't.

dissipating

Recently, The Boy and I were walking one of his pal's home, following their after-school knock-about time (various larks and boyish shriekery, all of which sounded like a good time was being had). The unusual detail to the evening, was that this pal was not one of the usual suspects, so when I was asked whether he'd be allowed to come back with us, I was keen to say 'yes' - The Boy's sociability is one of the things that most pleases and impresses me.

As we walk, I ask The Pal whether he walks to school or is dropped off by car. He explains that for mother's walk-related schedule, it tends to be car, apart from her one day off per week. He then pipes up with, 'But I couldn't walk from my Dad's - that's too far'. He adds that Dad lives in Nearton, only a couple of miles away. And I remember there being mention, only a month or so ago, of this young lad's parents separating (I still don't know what that means... half-way house, permanent split, or otherwise). The Lad - who I'd distantly read as a bright-eyed chap, suddenly looks a bit serious, though not quite mournful. It is a sensitive moment, as I happen to catch the eye of Alex, who seems also to recognise this with the most acute of eyebrow twitches. And Alex speaks.

'There's no way I could walk to school from my Dad's house! (mock laugh) He lives in London!'

'You could' I suggest, 'but you'd have to set off about a week earlier'.

'Yeah', he agrees. Continuing, he turns to his pal, 'Imagine that - having to set off a week before we're meant to be at school - that's just nuts.'

His pal joins in with the mock laughter, and seems to relax - the frown dissipating.

It is gentle, it is normalising, it is a moment in which my love for Alex is immediate and felt.

'Race you', he calls, as he tears off from his pal and I. The Pal runs off, too, albeit bearing a school-bag weight disadvantage.

We reach The Pal's house - another first, for me. Mother answers the door, relaxed in enormous pink slippers and pleased to see her little man. I proffer the ever-pleasing complimentary remarks about her son, and The Boy and I bid these folk, plus younger brother, a good evening. The novelty of the drop-off - we grown-ups remaining largely unfamiliar, means that there is a certain stiffness, but all is fine. There is simplicity and gorgeousness in all of this.

Until.

Turning back to wave at The Pal and his mum, The Boy calls out - all high spirits and with comic intention, 'See you later, suckers!'.

I roll my eyes, sigh, and am relieved to note that this has generated a genuine smile from the mother.

The Boy and I walk home.

witness

Emma and I take our seats in the theatre, for illusionist and mentalist Derren Brown's 'Enigma' show. All about us, there is an adrenal air of anticipation. Behind us, a young couple take their seats. With thoughts towards the seeds of likely tricks, the young man speculates to his irony-free companion.

Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.

Woman: I didn't see any.

I smile to myself.

The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.

decisions

There is a definite buzz about Thursday's general election, the suggestion - a whiff in the air - that something quite unusual - historic, even - might be about to unfold. With the many and varied social media platforms awash with soundbite proclamations of political support (and apathy) and the mainstream media peddling slightly fattened versions of much the same, I will add a side note to the political aligning that is quite reasonably au fait.

On the back of the expenses scandal (in my view, the scandal being the light touch with which party leader/s were handled, and the throw-away 'we've all had our problems over expenses' euphemism), I remember raising an eyebrow at talk of one or two famous folk lining up to contest parliamentary seats. In particular, Esther Rantzen standing in Luton South seemed to get a lot of coverage. A radio programme (possibly BBC Radio 4's PM, or BBC Five Live's Drive-Time) invited discussion of the pros and cons of this kind of independents-in move. Clare Short MP, whilst acknowledging the well-meaningness of many likely candidates and the understandable public anger at the expenses furore, was not supportive of the independents' rising star/s. In short, her challenge was that independents - whilst not being aligned to any major party - could not be readily associated with a set of core principles and values, beliefs or policy intentions. On the surface, a fair criticism, it seemed - so the public would have to ask questions, or read a little deeper into independents. A problem? I didn't think so. But Clare Short's comments stayed with me, they seemed to be premised on a flawed set of assumptions.

When it comes to distinguishing between the mainstream parties we can refer to history (recent and not so recent), we can look out for specific policy pledges, and we might ask what is the fuel (political, economic, moral) that drives Party X's agenda. All sound so far. But where does this take us? We are still resting on the hopes and assumptions of candidates sticking to what they've promised, to understanding what they've promised, and to 'filling in the gaps' positively for us. I don't believe that there are many voters who would deeply believe their election choices to amount to a 'Me versus Society' play-off, even though part of my occasionally reactionary way of thinking would tell me that that is how I hear some politicians. My point - getting back to Clare Short's assumptions regarding the oblique presentation of independent candidates: the biggest variable upon which people will make their voting decisions is trust. Plain and simple. And what this does, is it somewhat undermines the need for detailed policy presentation and party affiliation. It is for this reason that we have would-be prime ministers being analysed (by 'serious political commentators') for whether they looked into a television camera, or whether they made reference to the names of people who've asked questions. It's light, it's superficial, it's ephemeral. It seems that we are next door to - if not entirely in the land of - talk of 'gameplans', and mass readings of body language. And on these terms - the terms with which ordinary punters, such as we are, come to distinguish between political leaders - independent candidates are no different from those who carry higher profiles. We will analyse them - should they get as far as the starting line - in terms of how far we might trust them to do the right thing, whilst in office.

I do not need to know what every policy initiative would look like - that would be an unreasonable ask. What I want to believe, is that under whichever administration is formed over the coming days, that those who are most vulnerable in society will be best looked after. I want government to be big enough to be paternalistic, to be strong enough to be interventionist, and to be responsible enough to not simply allow the 'natural forces of the market' to steer us to wherever. At the level of the individual candidate, there are individuals from all major parties, and several minor parties, who convince me of their goodness of thought and spirit, that would inspire my trust in them. And sadly, there are individuals who might be aligned to broad political churches with which I am comfortable, who fail to inspire such feelings.

At risk of completely losing my thread, I will round off. On Thursday, I will vote. I won't feel any strong sense of what the next four or five years might have in store for any of us, but I will vote. And the thing that will determine who gets my 'X', will simply be that bloke (for they are all blokes) who I most believe could be relied upon to approach problems from a sound social and moral standpoint. It's not religious, it's not borne of any profound economic or even political ideology, it's just simple, human and humane.

I hope that anyone who glances over this missive will be voting too, regardless of where their X may land.

See you on the other side, perhaps for a collective sigh. Perhaps.

six movements

Friday evening:

'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.

'No', says I.

Soon after, I'm looking at this:



...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.

On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.

Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.

'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.

Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.

Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.

Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.

I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'

And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.

Kettle on.

five star

Early 2010 featured far too much death and distraction for me to commit to being anything more than a punter at the second Stoke-on-Trent Pecha Kucha event. Pecha Kucha: Japanese for chit-chat. Here, taking the form of a presentation, over 20 slides/images, each given 20 seconds - total presentation time: 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.

With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.

Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.

From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.

In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.

During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.

Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.

The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.

From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.

And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.

By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.

four tits

From recent observations, a gentle audit:

Blue - simple, pretty and common.

Great - 'Fat Blue Tit, with black belly stripe', I think to myself.

Coal - my favourite - a demure wee thing.

And now, Marsh - as we approached Doxeys Marshes, I saw the fleeting wag of a tail and proclaimed, 'Long-tailed tit' - really loud and professional, like. But on closer, quieter inspection, The Boy put me right, 'It's a Marsh Tit... (whispers) punk ass fool'.

Sunday felt like Spring, and the beginning - proper - of 2010.

two dramas

Walking into the Riverside Studios, Hammersmith, last Friday, I was reminded of the Green Room, Manchester - large glass frontage, confident contemporary air to the space, and just a hint of middle-browness.

I was there with The Professor, to see a Love and Madness production of Sam Shepard's Fool for Love.

Reviews had been mixed, and the particular hook for drawing me in was the knowledge that this was Carl Barat's first professional acting gig. Walking into the theatre space, we enter at stage level, with the cast already in position - Barat (as Eddie) sits, head bowed. On a nearby bed, Sadie Frost (as May) is curled up. Gerard McDermott (as the Old Man) is half-way up a staircase, amongst the one-tier bank of seats. A small amount of additional seating is at stage level. The capacity looks to be around 300. As the play begins, I count 23 of us and immediately make the mental note to not spend the next hour or so (it's a short play) doing arithmetic and getting distracted by the economics of such a production.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

Soon, we are immersed in the messy, alcohol-fuelled relationship of Eddie and May. There is an undertow of violent potential - with drawled cat calls and deep southern swagger the order of the pair's clashing over Eddie's time away. The motel room environment is claustrophic.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

About twenty minutes into the play, I think to myself, 'It's not entirely obvious where this is going'. By now, we've had the addition of the Old Man's third-party perspective, narrating against the main protagonists' conflict. The Old Man is drunk, and has a different kind of energy to the younger actors. The professor will later comment, that 'He held the whole thing together'. Looking at the text of the play, it would be easy to take the same view. Thus far, each of the three characters have presented the further challenge for the actors of 'doing drunk', or 'doing drinking', but they're getting by.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

Whether by design, or fluke, McDermott's Old Man makes good use of the light in the space - stepping into and out of the shadows, and at one time, resting amongst the audience.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

As the play moves on to further disrupt the Eddie-May dialogue, with Neil Sheppeck's Martin - a humble man with a romantic interest in May - entering the fray, we build to revelations surrounding the identity of the Old Man, and the conequences of this for the doomed duo. Martin, meanwhile, is a character that hardly develops - aside from deciding that he wants to get out of there.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

In all, the production was competent - unremarkable, but certainly not bad. My guessing is that some of those mixed reviews would have warded off a good degree of shot-in-the-dark footfall, and so our two dozen get to do theatre intime. Through the course of the production, I wondered at the processes that may - or may not - have been undertaken, by way of casting. I wondered about the extent to which voice coaches would have worked with the cast. And I wondered how the cast would have felt, before, during and after the play's run. The experience of playing to a packed house would surely have generated nervous energy, but might smaller audiences risk the demeanour of going through the motions. I don't know - and the answer to the question wasn't obvious from any of the performances. The one technical criticism, that I would put forward, would be regarding the use of the whole body - and movement - through the play. The Old Man gave it 120% swagger, the awkward Martin was very much a stiff character, but - especially with alcohol in the air - I found it hard to imagine that Eddie and May would have been quite as static - quite as hands-off (despite the second photograph, above), were we in the real world. But perhaps this is a detail that we can forgive, given the revelations regarding the Old Man. See how I don't spoil.

If anything, Fool for Love was drama - writ large.

And so onto Saturday, and Bette Bourne and Mark Ravenhill, presenting A Life in Three Acts at the Soho Theatre.

(Photo: uncredited)

As this image attests, the staging of A Life in Three Acts was quite a different affair to Fool for Love. I'd seen Bette Bourne about a decade ago, playing Quentin Crisp, in Tim Fountain's Resident Alien. From that show, I'd deduced a warmth and charm to Bourne, that instilled confidence.

The Soho Theatre - on a Saturday afternoon - was packed. Maybe 200 folk, covering a broad white-only demographic, sat down for the one and a half hour show.

Ravenhill bounces onto the stage and speaks to us, explaining that a year ago, he began to interview Bette, and that with the assistance of a transcriber, a picture researcher and a long self-editing process, he and Bette had reduced those interviews down into a stageable, digestible form. And that, as the title of the piece suggests, the life of Bette Bourne - and with that, a rich seam of social, sexual, identity and performance history - was the central subject matter. And so we welcome Bette Bourne to the stage. Aged 70, he had a quiet charisma, if not an entirely lithe physique. Refreshingly, there was an honesty to the production - the process through which it came about, and the matter of the performers have the 'script' in front of them, was there for all to hear and see. The professor later commented, 'Within 30 seconds of his being on stage, I was with him'. It also happened to be the case that within 30 seconds of his being on stage he was recalling - and self-parodyingly performing - boyhood amateur dramatics, undertaken with his mother, as his father was at war.

Of white working class stock, Bourne was one that got away - or was, perhaps, rescued by himself and by the good fortune and direction of one or two of his tutors. In a life that spanned intimate and sexual relationships with men and at least one woman, a life that saw Bourne at the fore in the Gay Rights movement, and that saw his Bloolips performance troupe play through Europe and New York, Bourne had much to unfold. Beyond the drag and the suggestion of often larger-than-life self-characterisation, there emerged a thoughtful, quieter, more comfortable-in-his-own-skin individual. Particularly insightful moments came about as he discussed his decision to leave a commune, as the drug scene therein became too much, too negative, for him. And furthermore, in discussing the early 1980s, AIDS, and those who fell to it, he portrayed an individual who was fully aware of the tragedies that he had lived through. In discussing a relationship with a woman, which came to an end as he had to explain 'I'm not straight, I'm not bi, I'm a gay man', he acknowledged that he had at times been complicit in more local tragedies. 'I hurt her', he said quietly.

But heavy and profound as much of this was, there was - is - an air to Bourne, that reminds us that life goes on, and that we should make the best effort to get the most out of life. Ravenhill's discreet interventions - moving the narrative along - was a wise production decision - a constant visual reminder of the relational quality of biography. After all, what is a biography without a reader, a listener, or anyone who cares.

If anything, A Life in Three Acts was drama - writ deep.

one view

One week ago.

Mentally, I'd prepared. And I'd prepared. There were the words - mastered them, but moreover, there'd be the faces - taut, teary, and the small gestures - hands to hands, and further tissue comforts - these could be my undoing.

Following a potted biography of Elspeth, and a brief spiritual (biblical) line - during which I'd been observing the gorgeous leafy vistas from where I sat, I accepted the introduction of HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt, for what he anticipated would be a more personal account of Elsie.

Slowly stepping up to the podium, taking the script from the inside pocket, I thought, 'Right, you will do this - a wobble or two is fine, but you will do this'. And, with the addition of a few unscripted lines - [marked as such] - it went something like this:

(I glance at those gathered - there is a general stoniness. My cousin proffers a smile - though I may not have seen her in a decade, her non-verbal support is invaluable. She hasn't changed much in the past decade, despite the children. I lay the script before me - a useful prompt, a steadier of nerves, a safety net.)

'[I've a friend in Staffordshire who advised me against looking at any of you who might be having a hard moment during this piece - your tears possibly being my undoing, kind of thing. Right now, I'm feeling that that friend was exactly right. So if you'll forgive me, I may be speaking to the carpet, at times.]

The few words words that I have to say come from a perspective of having seen a lot of my grandma for the first twenty two years of my life, but having seen much less of her over the past twelve years. These words were put together during a couple of long train journeys, just over a week ago, after speaking with my mum, dad, brother and sister, about qualities that typified Elsie - about who she was, and how she was - to us and for us.

As HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt has [so elegantly] recalled, Elsie was a giant when it came to the care of my grandfather. That itself was a commitment that spoke more deeply and loudly of the kind of woman that she was, than could any words that I'd generate for you today. [That said, I'll not be put off trying.]

I think it's entirely fitting that George should be invoked, now, as I think that to a lot of us, Elsie at her best was Elsie with George not far away. And vice versa. To me, it's pleasing and romantic to imagine their being reunited somehow - catching-up - in good health and good cheer, probably sharing a late fish and chip lunch somewhere.

But not only was Elsie a chip-eating giant when it came to the care of her husband and family, for whenever the sporting moment allowed, she would describe herself as having been something of a giant on the netball court too - 'I was a goal shooter', she'd say, with an accompanying arm action and sound effect that I'm sure spoke only of sporting prowess. [And as small a detail as that may seem, it's an important one. As perverse as it may seem, upon hearing of my grandma's death, there was something oddly freeing in how I thought of her - it was like I was suddenly reminded of what a well woman - a vital woman - she'd been for the vast, vast majority of her life. No longer were my thoughts of her tied to the woman with the ailing frame who'd seen her days out at the community hospital and latterly at NineFields.] I mention the netball - we used to catch-up on various sporting matters, but as has been said already, her real passion was family and friends. That was the subject that generated the easiest and most energised talk. From my catching-up with the old bird, over the past decade or so, I'd like to share a few thoughts:

(From practicing, I knew this would be the toughest 'wall' within my piece.)

(A pause, a long pause. I can't look at the family. For a moment, I wonder whether my mum is fidgeting and about to suggest that I throw the towel in on this. That thought produces sufficient resistance to that idea, to nudge me on - slowly.)

[This, for me, is the hardest part of the speech.]

My grandma saw my brother, Mac,...

(Pause)

[In my head, right now, there's all kinds of violin music and... I don't know what.]

She saw my brother, Mac, for exactly what he is... he is big and bluff, and he was superb at entertaining an ailing elderly woman. Elsie would often remark on how he made her laugh. This was of immense importance, in ensuring that she would retain a kind of dignity and humanity, especially in recent years, as her body began to fail her. It was much the same sort of thing that she'd assured for George, through his final days.

Of my mum and dad, and Richard and Jean, she almost didn't have the words to express how glad she was of all of your love and all-round support - which I know came in many forms, could be tremendously taxing, but was always given over without hesitation. I can recall, quite vividly, our sitting in the front room at Roseberry View, and her mention of 'They're good to me' - and I know that she felt the understatement of those words. [I also remember her once whispering - not even so much to me, but more as a thinking out loud, 'I want them to know that' - the kind of line that stays with you, stayed with me. I know you know all this, but I don't think it does any harm to have it mentioned out loud.]

When it came to my sister, Amy, there was something quite broad that was communicated. Simply put, it was happiness - she seemed to be quietly impressed and amused, as she recounted the latest from my sister's time in Sunderland and Newcastle. That amounted to a definite pride in the independence - it produced the kind of glow that I'd earlier witnessed in her commentaries on Jayne (Elsie's second granddaughter - died 1998, aged 24).

And that pride thing is important - the thing that enabled her to walk tall and stand tall - that never left her. (Holds photograph aloft) It was captured perfectly in this photograph from Daisy (eldest grand-child) and Tom's wedding - here on the left, the well turned-out woman, standing tall. [I like this picture, too, for the fact that it has George in it.] [The photograph is also testament to the fact that, with age, Tom's hair improves.]

And finally, I'd just like to share one further object with you. (Holds aloft small knitted doll - niece who created it scrunches face in embarrassment.) [Bianca has no reason to look embarrassed - as with the photograph, it's not about the object, it's about what it represents.] I know that this doll was created by Bianca, and was given to Elsie as a gift. I know this, because during the last couple of visits that I made to my grandma, despite her having little strength or energy to talk, she let me know who made this, and how much she appreicated it. More broadly, this reminds me - reminds us - that my grandma really did appreciate those acts of thoughtfulness and kindness that came her way - whether [flowers from her sister, Joan,] a knitted doll, or the old-skool good neighbourliness of her neighbour, Diane, in Church Hamlet. I notice that Diane is here, today, and I'd just like to say that not only was your support valued by Elsie, but it was also a big comfort to many of our family, knowing that you were looking out for my grandma. So, thank you, Diane.

With that, before we end the service with the imminent closing of the curtain, and outplay music, I will state something that is entirely obvious. We're here today, to say a final farewell to - and to give thanks for, and to, Elsie - a proud woman, a woman of good humour, and a woman who deeply weeply appreciated family and friends. Amen.'

(I raise my head, glance over at the coffin, and on cue, the curtains close and the music plays.)

As I step down, HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt shakes my hand and pays a compliment.

I join the procession exiting the crematorium, alongside one of my cousin's children. There is a fervent tap on my shoulder. I turn to see the outstretched hand of Richard, my grandmother's son. I put my hand into his, and he says 'Excellent, absolutely excellent'. That meant a lot.

wrong

It's been a strange week, it's going to be a strange week.

In seven days time, I'll be in London.

Between now and then, I'll have part-presided over a cremation service - a new experience.

I'd like to adopt the swagger of, 'I'll try anything once, me', but it's not quite like that.

I think it was somewhere between being shocked and appalled at the original choice of minister - my brother knew what he was doing when he mentioned it to me, and my own upsetting of my mother and sister, that I may have said, 'I'll do it'.

Later, after I'd had time to think about what obvious alternatives there would have been to Minister Choice #1, I decided that some moderation, or negotiation, would be appropriate. But with this, sister spotted weakness, and the threat of back-tracking. Thus, I'm hit with a tirade that featured the term 'priorities'. That really pissed me off. For a moment, I simmer. Then I snap back - something about attitude and respect and being out of order, and about me being the only one to give voice to what everyone in the family was thinking and feeling, but that no-one had had the bottle to say out loud. Mother and brother suggest a calming, but by then, it's merely a question of whether I will actually foam at the mouth. A few seconds later, my tension is diminished, but the bite-back has seen my sister - and mother - depart the scene in different directions, both in tears. Not pretty, not a proud moment.

Days have since passed. I've written the speech that I'll be giving, and I've walked through it a couple of times. Though 'speech' is the wrong word. Homily? Tribute? I don't know.

The subject is, of course, the dead grandmother. But listen closely, and you'd hear that it's not really about the old bird. It is, as I guess these things often are, a not especially oblique tribute to the people who I'll be speaking to - mostly family, about how they sustained Elspeth.

My fellow presider, on Wednesday - He Who I'd Initially Recoiled At, well he's read the blurb that I've prepared. And he's provided feedback.

He seems like a decent sort - maybe my grandmother was wrong about him.

R

I was at an aunt's funeral, this past week, in the town of Bishop Auckland (County Durham).

It was the first time I saw a coffin lowered into a grave.

It was also the first time in about a decade that I saw my Dad's older brother, and his step-son (whose mum had died).

It wasn't until the pair of them began to really show their grief (a hand to the dipped head, the body shaking to a silent beat), that I began to show any feeling - quietly, discreetly.

They live in a massive house, with a big labrador. They lost the mother and wife who brought their gorgeously uncouth triumvirate together.

The closeness of fathers and sons, and the implications of that - cuts right to the core of my being. 'Cuts' is the right word.

Listening, I learned stuff about my own Dad, and about the Dad that his older brother continues to be - both to a step-son, and to my Dad - however awkward that younger brother might seem to feel about that. [A garbled sentence, but I know what I mean.]

It is late.

X

Maybe I'm beginning to see what so many others, so long ago, saw in David Tennant's Time Lord.

V

Into the shop, I headed directly to the fridge for my standard of skimmed. Moving to the queue, the Professor Sprout being served was in much too much of a flighty, circumspect quiver, to look up for polite acknowledgements.

And through my Monday morning daze, I see and I understand.

A purchase to explain the 'ruddy complexion', and to pop the illusion of 'outdoor type'.

First day of term. She'll need it later.

Weltanschauung

It was Christmas Eve, babe:

Manc.: (bright-eyed, amused) So? Which Premiership manager d' y' reckon it is, then?

Shane: Is what?

Manc.: Y' haven't heard?

Shane: No.

Manc.: Some Premier League manager has been caught leaving a brothel - hasn't been named, though. When I heard, my heart sank. I just thought 'Pulis'.

A conversation ensues, in which I explain that I can't believe that it would have been the Manc's beloved Pulis, manager of Stoke City.

Manc's Wife: The article said he was wearing branded sportswear as he left the building - which was on an industrial estate.

Shane: Sounds a bit Midlands, could be anywhere, though.

An alternative festive game develops, in which we compare guesswork and thinking. Our collective intellectual might forms a pointless Poirot.

Shane: So from what you tell me, we can identify three characteristics of the punter... he's high profile, with a lot to lose - so he's a risk-taker. We can assume that he's able to be fairly amoral about paying for sex, or the sex economy. And we know that he's the sort of man who's willing to be out in public in branded sportswear.

We narrow the field to six or seven.

Manc.: So if you were a Premiership manager, would you have been ruled out yet?

Shane: Great question. Risk-taker - I can be. Amoral as regards the sex economy - tricky, but yes, I can be that. Out in public in branded sportwear?

Manc's Wife: That's the one, isn't it?

Shane: I wouldn't be out in branded sportswear - no way.

Manc.: That's the measure of a man, isn't it. Who'd be willing to be seen out in branded sportswear.

Shane: It's one measure, that's for sure.

I spend moments through the rest of the day wondering about how the story - such that it is one - will be played out elsewhere. In various football managers' households, in pubs and clubs, and in the 'wider press and public', I imagine many shrugging shoulders. Later, I notice in the Daily Mail coverage, a reference to the brothel as a 'Scene of Disgrace'. 'Disgrace' in what sense, I wonder.

Lapwings

Soft shit, I'm a bit of a soft shit.

Stanley Matthews Way is a road that takes pressure off the A50 through Stoke-on-Trent, close to the main football team's Britannia Stadium. It's a road that offers an escape to the south, towards Stafford. I often use it as a short cut when heading north for the University Quarter. Ordinarily, it's a massively unaffecting corridor, with its industrial units, anonymous modern office blocks ('To Let') and JCB markers of devastated grasslands by the Trent and Mersey canal.

Accelerating off a roundabout, heading north along The Way, all it took was the glimpse of a father and son, walking hand-in-hand, to produce an emotional spike. Within seconds I was past them, but I still had open road on which to ponder how utterly ridiculous I can be... all it was, was a man and a boy, walking. No. Big. Deal. Yet I manage to contrive something poignant and gorgeous, troubled and troubling from that. I mean really, what a fuck-up.

I didn't used to be like this. I used to go to lots of random football matches, in peculiar backwater places. Every minute of every day, I'd be doing something that was ultimately about what I wanted to do. I lived for no-one, but myself. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I'm sure there was none of this high-sensitive paternalist lark. But you know what, it's actually not only about paternalism. In that scene, where the boy and his Dad are just walking along, all casual and big coats, I think it's the possibilities of 'But where's Mum?' that pricks at me. Maybe they walk to meet her, as she finishes a shift at the factory, maybe they're off to spot lapwings, as Mum has Saturday morning to herself, maybe maybe.

I reach my destination, the local Tesco enormo-mart. It's as I'm scanning for tomato puree that I slide by a couple, both hollow cheeks and skin that's aged beyond their years. A young boy, gazing into the distance, sits in their trolley. And another emotional spike is thrust from within. By the time I locate the double concentrate, I'm tremendously distracted and realise that I need a break. I gently place the basket on the floor and leave the store.

I take a different route home.

Lashed

The British Artists' Football Tournament:

Saturday, 23rd May, 2009.

We played well - won 4, drew 0, lost 2, during first phase of the tournament. Both defeats were to the eventual finalists, 0-1 and 0-1. The wins were 3-1, 2-1, 6-3 and 3-2. I scored twice (one back heel, one outrageous first-time lash - following good team play down the left and a quick squared cross). Largely, though, I played a defensive, sweeperish role. In the semi-final, we drew 0-0 against Eastside Projects (Birmingham), then lost on penalties (*whispers* though I scored mine - hard and low). And so we were knocked out. We call that an honourable exit - for self and team (AirSpace). It was pleasing to hear newfound and amusing support from the sidelines. As with all teams and most players, our attitude was good, '...appreciate the effort that others have put in to making the day happen, now get on with it and play fair'. The tournament was won by another Birmingham team, 'Jibbering' - a collective of street artists and DJs - they played well, and used their squad intelligently. As we drove back up the M6, the mood was good - we'd done ourselves justice.

Number of teams who participated: 7
Number of teams who failed to show: 3
Number of instances of dissent / bad attitude: 2
Number of my legs experiencing thigh strain (Sunday - Tuesday): 2
Best kit design of the tournament: AC Tortured Birmingham (white polos, with AC-style logo)
Best team name of the tournament: Real Worcester
Number of natural left-footers in our team: 2
Number of miles to venue: 42.7
Mark out of 10 for satisfaction with the day: 10
Minutes delayed in getting to venue (Bank Holiday traffic): 20
Number of people who've seemed interested in my in-person reportage: 3
Number who haven't...: 3

There was a photographer on site for the whole tournament, though I have yet to get access to their handiwork. Thus, you'll have to imagine it... no no no, more attractive than that, surely.

Embodied by self, Saturday was a good day for north east football(ers in exile).

Sunday wasn't.

[ - Photographs may follow - ]