6/7: Light at the End of the Estate

Chimneys drawn sharply against the darkening sunset, the sky bade goodnight. Under a flat roof on the edge of town, shift worker and machine bathed in halogen daylight.
.

5/7: Hours after Mam's service

Her parents had moved 200 miles north such that an adoption, 'at their age', could be effected. Now, overlooking a blustery North Sea, she clasped the hand tight - the good man, the one who would not get away, the one who had already decided to leave.
.

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.'
.

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.

fowl

We have become friends with a really rather cool mother and son, plus grandparents, who live in a massive, rambling, tree-lined property that's close to us. Having done a lot of running about last week and over the weekend, by Sunday afternoon I felt the need to unwind. So we took up an invite to join said mother and son, at their place - for drinks in the shade.

As I looked over some outbuildings, Emma was given the formal tour of the gardens, and Alex took a turn towards the vast hen enclosure (later showing off at being able to gently gather up the more dull-witted of hens). Later, as we exited Rambling Manor, I mentioned that I'd needed that break. The Lady of the Manor seemed glad for the remark.

Then. Yesterday evening. Just before bed-time.

Alex: (casually having a wee) Shane.

Shane: (pasteing up the toothbrushes) Mm?

Alex: Y' know when I was with the hens yesterday?

Shane: Mm.

Alex: Well, now don't tell me off for this cos it wasn't my fault -

Shane: (not impressed) What did you do?

Alex: I didn't do anything, it was the hen.

Shane: (oh Lord) What?

Alex: Well I needed a wee, so I went down to the bottom - behind the shed, near the weeds. I weed in the weeds.

Shane: Did a hen peck your pecker?

Alex: (amused) No. It tried to peck my wee.

Shane: What?

Alex: The hen tried to peck my wee! And I ended up weeing on its head.

Shane: (he weed on the hen's head!) A tiny bit funny, but really not very cool.

Alex: It wasn't my fault! It was too lazy to go up to the water buckets, so it tried to drink my wee.

Shane: That's foul. And that was it, was it?

Alex: I turned the tap on for it, but it ran back up to near the gate, so I turned it off.

Shane: Hmm.

It is with the 'Hmm' expression that I convey the moral significance of non-human animals. This, I imagine, is what The Boy reads from the Hmm, too.

If you were out, I hope you wore sun-block.

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.

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.

touch

Saturday 13.02.10

Elspeth is dead. She'd been in residential care for the past year.

The call came at 8:40am - the mobile said 'Dad', and I knew before he spoke.

'Bit of upsetting news, son.'

'Go on', I say.

'Your -', he wasn't clear - emotional, 'Y' grandma died this morning - died in her sleep - in the home. We were with her, like.'

A pause. 'Mm. You alright?'

'Aye - we came up in the night - Matt brought us.'

Bleary eyed in a Manchester hotel room, 'I'll be up later', I say.

'Y' don't have to come up straight away.'

'I'll phone you later.'

'Aye, do that. D' y' wanna speak t' y' mam?'

'Yeah.'

'Hello?' she whispers.

'Y' alright?'

'Ye-es, uh-huh. Died in her sleep.'

'Best way to go, really.'

'Oh yes - she didn't suffer.'

Didn't suffer. It's too early for me to hear the nonsense of that statement.

'I said I'll call later -', I say.

'Yeah, let things settle down a bit, here. Mind, y' don't have t' come up straight away.'

'I'll talk t' y' later.'

'Alright, son.'

Click.

I think for a moment.

'Elspeth is dead', I say. And I'm remembering September 2002 - walking round to Ashford Street, after hearing of George's death. I remember a feeling of love, and of touch, and the colour purple.


It is now 11 hours later, and I'm on my third train of the day, heading east through West Yorkshire, writing this.

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.

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.

Caring

Whilst reading Rebus, earlier, I was reminded of the times when, as kids, we would makes ramps for our bikes. A plank of wood from the garden and one brick - easy, two bricks - getting serious, three bricks - one for the crowds. The crowds would generally have been my brother - 'No, just one brick - you're too small for three'. I was caring like that. And the more impressive stunt-rider for it.

Mm.

And also earlier, in a rare moment of thinking 'Lordy, I'm being a good professional right now', the chap who I was speaking to caught me quite off-guard. He'd said that he had to go back into hospital... back into hospital. And so having forgotten the detail of his previous hospital trip, I murmured a cool murmur and asked if it would be a long stay. I asked out of caring for the man, nothing to do with 'This has the potential to be damned inconvenient'. And before I know where I'm at, he's all 'big ones', 'internal', 'haemerrhoids' - but I didn't ask, man, I didn't ask! The arse.

As these blog posts have become much more rare, I think it's important that when I post, I should post with gravitas, with thoughtful purpose.

Mm.

I think the word julienne is gorgeous. Words like julienne make me want to cook. Properly - no cheating with gadgets that do the art for you, I mean proper hand-crafting of the food - careful and caring. Julienne.

Handling

Such a lot going on, such a lot.

Anyway.

I find myself talking to a couple of actors - a married couple, nice people. And they're telling me about how he has to do a parachute jump as part of a film project that they're working on. He strikes me as the sort of chap whose likeliest form of exercise would be the run to beat closing time at the off-licence. I can tell that he didn't wash his hair this morning. She washed her's, though. Neither of which hair observations are related to jumping out of aeroplanes, but there you go.

We talk about their funding and about timescales. And then, dimly, distantly, I recall:

Shane: I think the strangest thing about parachute jumping was watching the ground get further away through the space where there should have been a door.

Him: The aeroplane doesn't have a door?!

Shane: No. It felt stable, though - tiny but stable. Bit breezy.

Him: No door?!

Her: (to Him) You didn't have to agree to it. Say you've changed your mind.

Shane: Thing is, after a day of training, I had such absolute faith in the people training us, that I felt very few nerves - it was just about doing what they'd said to do. And actually, the movement, as you come down - putting on the brakes - the side-to-side - kind of swinging down in great graceful arcs - even if you were a big ball of fat, it could feel like the most elegant thing you'd ever done.

Her: (mildly amused eyes)

Him: (murmurs)

Shane: Assuming the straps aren't digging into your arse, of course. There was one jumper - a woman -

Him: Yeah. I've heard it can be a bit uncomfortable.

Shane: It's like fastening your shoe laces. Too tight - loosen off a bit. Too loose - tighten up. The whole thing can be fairly profound... I'm not a scientist, but I found the stuff to do with movements of warm air - the thermals that'll lift you right back up as you cross over a heated runway - to be absolutely fascinating. Got to play with the brakes - the toggles - a bit as you're coming down, though - to get the measure of them, to trust them for the landing.

Her: Mm.

Shane: Mm. Wouldn't want to brake too early and go smack-down on your face.

Him: (frowning) You're not helping.

Shane: (thinks sideways, thinks about this chap being an actor) When I was a kid - through the teenage years, up to about twenty - I hated public-speaking. I mean hated - panic attacks, nausea, no belief. I ended up realising that it had to be dealt with and that only I could do that, otherwise I'd be really pissed off with myself - so I just flooded it. Any opportunity, I stepped up and spoke - I became a Master of Illusion - scared shitless for the first few goes but got away with it - quickly felt the circularity of the whole thing - fake confidence, get away with it, breed real confidence. But the nerves that I had to handle to get through that, I promise, they were off the scale compared to the jump 'plane going up.

Her: (raised eyebrows)

Him: (thinking) Yeah, but you see, public-speaking versus jumping out of an aeroplane - there's only one of them that...

Her: ...could kill y'?

Him: Yeah.

Shane: Mm. Strange, isn't it. Like I said, the whole thing can be quite profound.

This felt like a rare kind of conversation - one of those where you don't really know the person or people who you're talking to, but you sense that there's something slightly deeper going on - there's a... a puzzled warmth. It felt good. They said I could be in their film.

Okay, so I did ask to be in their film - which isn't cool, but I was joking. I was, really. But they weren't, I could tell. I'm not an actor, I don't want to be an actor, but I'll be in a film - it's something to tick-off. There are more important things to tick-off, but it'll be something.

I'm going to Morecambe tomorrow. I've never been to a Morecambe, before.
.

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 - ]

Left-sided

I'm feeling a bit nervous - got a football tournament tomorrow, which offers three possible outcomes:-

A - Creditable display by self and team (have been trying to pace physical exertion this week, for fittest finest preparation), leading to feelings of contentment.

B - The whole thing is a badly organised shambles (teams from all over England will converge on the West Midlands for it), leading to feelings of frustration.

C - Our team just doesn't gel on the day (we bomb), leading to feelings of frustration (variety II).

Aim: Eat well, sleep well, be sure to take footballing brain as I leave the house in the morning.

If Tuesday's training session was anything to go by, we just might be ok.

Kingdom

Particularly Relevant to the Beautiful People.

Perhaps overdoing it on the Take-Opportunity-To-Get-Away-And-Relax-Goddamit-Relax front, my return from the north east was but a stepping stone to a dive south (just don't even go there, sniggerers).

On Saturday morning, I took breakfast at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park - with its leafy green outlook to the west. Deftly egg-dipping a hash brown, I was roused by an unusual bird call. And thus, I spotted - clear as the blue sky - my first ever wild ring-necked parakeet. There were many of them. And later, a trio came and perched in the tree of a property next door to where I was staying.

It's good when the Red Deer faces competition for my weekly 'Most Favourite Bit of Nature' prize.

Other observation, of human nature: In the cosmopolitan centres - Manchester, London, Stoke-on-Trent, it is easy to feel surrounded by the body beautiful. On fine sunny days, the work that goes into the body beautiful is there to be seen - the doggedly determined clomping round the park, the gritty extra lap on the 21-speed racer, the comedy of the power walk. Maybe it's because much in their lives is taut, and edgy, and competitive, and all a bit brow-furrowing, but a lot of these Body Beauties look like they ought to relax a bit. Look at the ring-necked parakeet or the red deer, their's are paces that seem to be much more well-adjusted - culturally-speaking.

I'm also liking deadwood - it's likely to be a contender for this week's prize. Never to be overlooked, though, is the mid-evening goldfinch rhapsody.

Keepin' On

Alex joined his Dad on Tuesday, so I took the opportunity to visit the clan up in County Durham. Meanwhile, Emma continued to fend off the rockets and shells of writing hard stuff, and of herself. County Durham seemed like a safe distance.

The Wexford siblings converged on the parental home and, as ever, I enjoyed the ferocious banter and acidic put-you-downs that we count as love.

As sister and brother discussed music festivals that did and respectively didn't interest them, I recalled something utterly inconsequential that I thought might interest them.

Shane: You know Neil Tennant?

Sister: Mm.

Shane: He's got a house in County Durham.

Sister: How d' you know that?

Shane: He mentioned it in an interview that I listened to. In fact, it's an interview that's upstairs right now - on the iPod that's under my pillow.

Sister: Hold on! You've got an interview with Neil Tennant - from The Pet Shop Boys - under your pillow?

Shane: Yeah. It was from Front -

Sister: Other Brother, Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow!

Brother: I did wonder, like.

Shane: It was from Front Row.

Sister: Mutha, (pointing) that one's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Mother (distractedly): It's 2009 - each unto his own.

Shane: Hold on a minute. I just -

Sister: Fatha - Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Dad: Who's Neil Tennant?

Sister: Never mind.

It amused me.

It was also amusing to hear that an old familiar of brother and I was currently appearing on The Apprentice. Sister crossed paths with (not so) young (any more) Phil, in Durham, at the weekend. A nice lad.

And apart from foregoing Porto versus Manchester United (0 - 1), in order to take in Durham City versus Woodley Sports (5 - 0), the only other item of note concerned maternal grandmother.

I've got used to the further extensions of frailty that the old bird exhibits - each visit presenting new expressions of vulnerability, fallibility, fading - very much reminiscent of her husband's end of life. Entering the second week of a stay at Bishop Auckland's General Hospital, the violence of grandma's Parkinson's Disease - the tics, the strains, the jolts and jerks, they seemed to show no mercy. Memory was playing tricks, too. I felt like I was talking to the echo of a person.

This morning, on the drive back to the Midlands, the subject of jolts and jerks, tics and strains returned. Would I like to join Alex and his Dad at a local theatre, to watch Thriller Live - this evening. It was one of those questions where what the boy wants to hear, is probably the best answer. So here I am, jaded of an early Thursday evening, waiting to Beat It. Meanwhile, I hear another shell fall as Emma grinds on. The theatre seems like a safe distance.