labskaus

[labskaus]

Something I View as a Victory

I was in my element, in a café, reading a novel, when he walked in. He hadn’t changed: he still looked like the ooze that leaked out from a scab. A feeble excuse of an individual with the audacity to speak to the waitress like she was something that he had shat out earlier that morning. He walked, talked and breathed as if this was another one of his vacuous businesses. I felt sorry for the poor waitress, not just because of the way he was talking to her, but because of his breath. I remember how rancid it used to be. All that money and he never thought to buy any mints. I could already see her nose retreating for cover. His hair was bit thinner and greyer these days, yet he was still trying to stride around like an ersatz-youth in his trendy shoes. He was not fooling me, of course - I’d seen his date of birth!

 He obviously hadn’t noticed me. That didn’t surprise me at all actually. He was never the mindful type. If it didn’t concern him, he wouldn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to anyone in his immediate environment, even if they were in peril and he was the only person able to save them. I definitely spotted him though. I watched him slime down into his chair a few tables away. He was facing opposite me. I decided to close my book and read him instead.

 What he did to me all those years ago was unforgivable. It’s never been out of syndication in my mind. How could someone have been so selfish? How could someone have done that to another human being? How can someone like that sleep at night? Ideas have cropped up and festered. I’ve constantly wrangled myself thinking about how I could have handled it better, how I could have stood up to him and not let him get away with what he did. I didn’t deserve to be the victim in all of that. He was the villain. I should have been the hero. I should have been the one who came out on top.

 To be honest, at this point in my life when I saw him in the café, I had moved past all that. I was living well. Even though I knew that he still had more money than me (a lot more money), I could guarantee that I was happier and more fulfilled. In my own way, I suppose that I had come out on top. I climbed through the avalanche that he had launched down upon me. I knew that I had stayed true to myself. I knew that I had the ability to love and I knew that I had loved ones around me. He had none of those things and it manifested itself in the choleric air that hung around him. Or maybe that was just his breath.

 Safe in the knowledge that I was/am a decent person and that he was/is a bastard, I should have just let him be. I could have just left him there slowly tightening the noose around his own heart as he banged his irate messages into his computer. That would have been easier. However, part of me was convinced that I had to do something with this opportunity and that part of me ultimately prevailed. I took a final sip of my coffee and stood up.

 My mind shifted and I was now watching myself. I watched as I lunged over, pulled out the chair in front of him, squatted down into it and stared him dead in the eyes. His mouth was agape; I was energised.

 The words came rolling out: ‘I just want you to know that you are a weak, weak man. What you did, if you even remember what you did, was completely unjustifiable. I’m not hurt anymore by your actions but I am hurt by the fact that I let you do it. I wouldn’t let you do it now because I’m bigger than you, I’m stronger than you and the life that I have now is worth more than all the money in your bank account. My foundations are tougher than the bricks that make up your houses. When I die, people will hopefully say that I was an okay person. When you die, people will say that you started a business that everybody has forgotten about. I hate you but I forgive you but I never want to see you again. I’m done.’

 I watched as I pressed myself up and towered over him. I watched as I took a powerful step back, turned and walked away. I also watched as I shot back around.

 ‘Oh, and by the way, your breath stinks!’

 Was it the right thing to do? Should I have confronted him at all? Did it achieve anything? I have no answers to any of those questions. All I know is that it felt right at the time.

 And it feels right now as I re-watch myself leave that café with a smile on my face.

[labskaus]

Leaves

Another prompt. This time, a friend gave me the following: ‘One day, a young artist, who been having a hard time being creative, took a moment to look at the leaves on a tree during a walk. Eventually, he felt as though the leaves could see him too.’

  Someone must have got a big slab of concrete, dropped it on my head and then wedged it between my brain. The block is killing me. It’s certainly suppressing my finances. No new cartoons for the newspapers soon equates to no money. No money makes it difficult to pay the rent, buy food that you don’t just shove in the microwave, take regular hot showers and smell nice. The girlfriend leaves you and then that’s the start of another cycle that’s constantly got you in a headlock. Your heart is shattered and you’re feeling depressed and you have no drive whatsoever to get up and draw a stupid picture that no one probably wants to look at anyway. I’ve wasted my whole like drawing those cartoons. What a joke!

    I’m sitting here now staring at a blank three-panel template and it’s like each panel rises up and jabs me in the face. I give up and start making some coffee. As I’m waiting for the coffee, I spark a cigarette – that’s about the only spark that I have in my life at the moment – and I surprise myself by how quickly I finish smoking it. I feel a part of my lungs fold-in and die but I don’t do anything to fix it. It is what it is.

    The post arrives. Same old: bills, junk, etc. This one pisses me off though. It’s a message saying that there’s a parcel for me but that’s its too big to put through the letter box so I’ve got to go and collect it myself from the post office. Why couldn’t they just leave it outside my door or ring the bell? And who is sending me a parcel anyway? I’ve got no money to order anything. To make matters worse, the message says that the post office shuts at midday. It’s eleven o’clock already. Great.

    I put my feet into some shoes, throw a jacket on and head out. The post-office is a twenty-minute walk away. I cut through the park. Leaves keep falling on my messed-up hair and my head and my shoulders. I fight them off. I hate autumn. I light another cigarette.

    I get to the post-office and head over to the counter.

    ‘Parcel for Walker’.

    ‘Have you got your confirmation slip?’ Replies the fudge cake of a woman taking up all of the space behind the counter.

    Shit. I left it at home.

    ‘Ah no, I haven’t. My name is Michael Walker though and I can confirm my address.’

    ‘You name and address is not good enough. You need the message too.’

    Her fat breath on the screen between us revolts me. I mutter something under my breath and walk out. I won’t be getting that parcel today - whatever it is. It would take me too long to go home, get the slip and come back. Well, that was another waste of time.

    On the way back, I sit down on a bench in the park deflated. I light another cigarette (too many today, Michael) and think about how a homeless person probably slept on this bench all night and drooled all over it. That could be me soon.

    These bastard leaves keep falling. They’re getting on my nerves now. I’m hunched over, looking down at the cigarette between my fingers, contemplating life by inhaling my death, and one of the bastards falls right on top of my hand. I shake it off and drop my cigarette. That was the last one in the pack! ‘Fuck!’ I spit out. Next moment, it’s like a thousand leaves all come storming down at once. It’s raining leaves! I duck away and run over to the other side of the footpath.            

    So now I’m facing the bench I’ve just sat on and I’m staring at the tree that hangs over it. It’s a great, big oak tree. And, I can’t believe this but it’s autumn and its leaves are green. “Green” doesn’t do it justice. It’s a vibrant green – full of life. And another thing: this tree literally just rained leaves all over me and yet it’s still somehow full of leaves. It doesn’t look as though it’s been affected by autumn at all.

    I take a step closer to inspect exactly what is going on. Just then, it’s like all of the leaves slowly start to turn towards me. They curl slightly. Their tips invite me closer. I stand below that massive tree looking up at those leaves for what must be a good ten minutes. I’m in a kind of awe. There’s something so beautiful about them. I can’t remember the proper name for them but I can see the veins of the leaves, carrying life through them. I can see different shades of colours. Slightly different shapes, each with their own character, meaning, purpose and story. I reach up and pull one off. I smell it and I scent a world that is rich and plenty. I hold it carefully in my hand and take it home.

    I return home with a new spirit within me. A new vitality. Within five minutes, without even making a coffee, I put together a rough sketch for a cartoon. I think this will be a good one. People might like it. I phone the boss and tell him I’ll have it ready by tomorrow. He sounds pleased.

    I actually finish the cartoon within the hour and send it over. Then I do another one and clean up the apartment. After that, I feel a bit bored and restless. I feel like I want to do something else creative and fulfilling. And that’s how I ended up writing this. I want to record what happened to me today and the growth that I feel inside.

    I’ve just skimmed over what I have written. The whole thing is in the present tense. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I’ll come back to this tomorrow and make some edits. I’ll close this notebook over now. My leaf will be my bookmark.  

[labskaus]

The Heart, The House and The Stone

     I recently attended an improvised writing activity and was given this prompt: ‘A big stone is carried by a glacier from the Himalayas all the way to Beijing but it is locked inside a small house for people to visit. And the stone feels...’ I had an hour to write a story and this is what I wrote.

     As a child, in his hometown, he walked around in a bubble and every day was a rainy day. He always wanted to break out, and, when he got the chance to do so, he ran! He moved abroad. Bogota, Berlin, Moscow and now Beijing. Yet, he still felt as though his life was only ever 90% full. That remaining 10% gnawed away at his soul and he was constantly trying to find ways to fill it. 

     Using Beijing as his base, he threw himself around Asia looking for the answer. He learnt Chinese, backpacked around Thailand and did the yoga instructor course in India, but nothing satiated his desire. That was until he stumbled across Everest. 

     Everest was there so, of course, he had to conquer it. Once he did, he knew that all the agony would be gone. He would finally be able to settle down and relax and forget about that nagging 10%. 

     The training was tough, the expedition grueling, but he was on his way to triumphing over Nature and ultimately Himself. He took those final lunges, salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs, anticipating the victory, the relief. But, when he summited, he felt neither ecstasy or tranquility. Instead, he felt a cavity. A cavity in his heart. In that cavity was a house and in that house was a stone. A minute stone but a heavy one nonetheless. Its rough and ragged surface scraped against the interior of the house, which, in turn, bulged inside his heart. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said. 

     There was certainly some initial confusion at Peking Airport when the customs officials asked him if he had anything to declare and he said that he had a stone in a house inside of his heart. However, after deciding that the stone was not a politically sensitive issue and did not pose a threat to the security of the state, they let him in and he finally got back to his hutong abode. 

     Here, he tried to figure out exactly what to do about this problem. He had no idea. If only he could open the door of the house, maybe he could take the stone out and then he would only have a house to deal with. That wouldn’t be so bad, except he had no key so he was back to Square One. To make matters worse, the more and more he thought about it, the more decrepit the house became and it started to hurt.

     Before long, the house was so worn-down and ugly that he had no choice but to conduct some essential repairs. A patch-up here, a little bit of plumbing there. He was actually quite surprised when he took a step back inside his mind’s eye and realised that he had done so well. He enjoyed this. 

     Next thing he knew, he was going beyond the essential repairs and doing more work than was necessary. He was painting, decorating, rejuvenating. The stone was still inside – sometimes it kept him up at night – but, on the whole, things were certainly feeling better now that his house was in such good order and looked so presentable.

     At first, he thought that maybe he was the only one who could see the house. However, that all changed that night in the bar. It wasn’t a drunken night. It fact, he hadn’t had a drink at all. It was very chilled. He met a pretty girl, they talked, and she had a smile that stretched his heart so much that he knew that she could see the house inside. Intuitively, he wanted to back away, but she only had to go and give him another one of those smiles and his heart was pried open even further. She said: ‘Do you know what? You have such a lovely house!’

     As the bar closed, they started to say their good-byes. He had not done this in a long time but he wanted to swap details so that they could catch up and meet again. He indirectly raised the possibility by fumbling his way through a joke and was glad that she agreed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, but, whilst going through the ordeal of working out whether he should scan her WeChat or she should scan his, he felt something else inside his pocket. He reached in again and there he found a little key.

     It was a little key for the house that contained the stone that resided inside his heart.

[labskaus]

Growing in the Time of Corona

Over the past few weeks and months, we have been given the opportunity to do something that we rarely ever do: stay at home. This has led to many people, in my opinion, engaging in three different kinds of activities. There may well be some overlap between the three, but, on the whole, I think that they provide an insight into varying approaches towards this time of relative hermitage.

 1.     Chores. This involves doing all of those jobs that were nagging away at us before the virus. For example, cleaning the cupboards and blitzing the bathroom. Essentially, the kind of jobs that parents relish and children loathe.

2.     Binge. This describes the feeling when all you want to do is lie down and soak up the latest TV series that everyone is talking about. Alternatively, you might want to immerse yourself in a video game. Either way, you seek the kind of pleasure that the aforementioned parents view with scorn.

3.     Grow. ‘Growing’ combines the productivity of ticking-off chores and the bliss of an indulgent binge. This is when you seize the chance to develop your mind, spirit and body. You may practise yoga, learn a language, play guitar or finish that half-read novel that that has been reaching out to choke you every time you walk past the shelf.

 For me, striving to ‘grow’ is the most important activity that we should engage with during this period. Of course, some boring tasks will need to be done and sometimes we do need to just switch-off and relax. However, whilst we have the opportunity to stay indoors, be flexible with our working hours and not waste time travelling to and fro, let’s try to develop ourselves as much as possible. Through this process, I genuinely believe that we can discover more about ourselves by finding out what we actually like and by reflecting on what these interests reveal about our identities.

 This may sound soft and impractical, yet the opposite is true. What this pandemic has revealed is that the routines and systems that have surrounded us on an everyday basis for what seems like an eternity are not as constant as what we had once thought. Indeed, the world can change incredibly quickly. In order to respond to such changes, and ultimately survive, we need to be both flexible and adaptable.

 To be flexible and adaptable, we first of all need to have a strong sense of who we are. From this basis, we will be able to decide what needs to be modified. The lever cannot move without a pivot. Crucially, we also need to make sure that our perception of who we are is accurate or our decisions may be misguided. The lever will never work if the pivot is water.

 Thus, ‘growing’ is not something that should be treated as an afterthought once we have washed all of the dishes with a toothbrush and re-watched every episode of ‘Friends’. ‘Growing’ should be at the top of our list. It is beneficial to us and, in turn, it will be beneficial to those people around us. We need to develop the habit of ‘growing’ now so that it becomes something that we don’t even have to think about when the time comes to go back to school and work.

 However, there is a major problem with everything that I have written so far. Inevitably, there will be those people who do not have the luxury of time to be able to ‘grow’. They might be single parents struggling to remain sane and get food on the table; they might be health care workers fighting selflessly for the potential ‘growth’ of strangers. For these people, it is vital that we ‘grow’ by finding imaginative ways to help them and offer our support (e.g. collecting donations, sending messages of gratitude etc.).

 We all have a duty to ‘grow’ ourselves and assist the ‘growth’ of others. If we can manage to make the most of this opportunity, we will all be able to step outside one day soon and hopefully ‘grow’ together.

[labskaus]

Bears, Black Balzam and Beijing: Two Years as an Englishman (Scouser) in Riga

I believe in fate, and I believe that it was fate that brought me to Latvia. As a teacher in the UK, the work was tough and you felt confined by the classroom and the endless cycles of planning, marking and reviews. There was no room for you to do anything else with your remaining time and energy. I was convinced that greener pastures lay beyond the cliffs of Dover and I thus dreamt of opportunities further afield. I started to conduct initial searches online and came across a charming, little school in Riga, Latvia. At the time, I had a very limited knowledge of the region and the word ‘Baltic’ only ever appeared in my vernacular as a local slang term referring to cold and bitter conditions. Yet, for some reason, despite the connotations, I was compelled. I wasn’t ready to move straight away, but, one year later, when I was resolute in my desire to leave my homeland, a job was available in the same school. I applied. Subsequently, I met with the director and, before I knew it, I had accepted the role that was offered to me. Not for the first time in my life, fate had prevailed. For two years, Latvia has been the land that I have been privileged enough to call my home. The two years have brought with them all of the challenges that you can inevitably expect when moving to a different country (for instance, I vividly remember my first week, intrepidly riding my bike to Jūrmala, getting lost in the woods, not being able to speak a word of the language, and genuinely fearing that I would be eaten by a bear). However, I can honestly say that each difficulty has made me better as a person and, for every obstacle that I have been confronted with, a thousand doors of exciting possibilities have been opened along the way. I have found Riga itself to be a beautifully mesmerising city. There have been many times when I have crossed the Vanšu Bridge on my way to work in the early morning and have had to stop in awe of the hearty orange sun rising above the landmarks of the Old Town and stretching out over the river. In addition, the architecture of the place is simply stunning and is nothing like the grey, concrete metropolis that I dreaded it to be. I walk the same streets over and over again and am frequently surprised when I notice the intricate attention to detail that is evident on a building that I have walked past, but never really appreciated, many times before. Riga is definitely a city where you should learn to look above your eye-level as there are so many minutiae to be admired. Riga is also a city where you need to explore beyond the centre and discover all of the nightlife spots and cultural scenes that won’t be mentioned on most ‘Top Things to Do’ lists that you may find on the internet. Compared to the extrovertly hipster capitals of London and Berlin, the City of Čaks is a Rubik’s Cube: you need to tackle the word-of-mouth puzzle and, stage-by-stage, you will be rewarded with the kind of café, bar, bookshop, exhibition or event that makes you feel as though you are the only one lucky enough to know that it exists. I wish that I could recall them all but the pugnacious Latvian beers and notorious Black Balzam has occasionally got the better of me! Moreover, there have been times when I have ventured out of Riga and explored other parts of the country. My favourite such memory was a trip to the humble town of Bauska. Unsure how to reach the town’s famous castle, I approached a young waitress in the square. To get her attention, I greeted her with ‘lab dien’ (‘good day’). In a true testament to Bauska’s character and friendly atmosphere, she unhesitatingly turned around to me, smiled, said ‘Lab dien’ back and walked away. It was as if I was a local and we had known each other for years. Later that day, I found myself lying in the bliss of the meadows behind the aforementioned castle and pondering how perfect life can be. Latvia has given me a great base for further travel too. From trains to Russia, planes to Israel and Scandanavia and coaches to the other Baltic states, I have regularly been able to go abroad and experience a whole host of interesting adventures. Each journey has been memorable for its own particular reason, but they have all been similar in the sense that I have come back and felt at home. The fate that brought me to Latvia is now taking me away. After a chance conversation with a colleague, I am now moving on to Beijing. Having already enjoyed the thrills of my time in this country, I am eager to see what awaits me in China. Of course, there are so many things that I am sorry to leave behind in Riga, mainly the friendships that have been built and the magic of the surrounding atmosphere and environment. Yet, I am hopeful that these blessings will stay with me even after I finally show my passport and board that plane. The lifeblood of the River Daugava will always be a part of me now. I can feel it flowing and meandering through my veins and wrapping around my heart. And, although that stream inside of me may be frozen for a while, I am sure that I will one day return to Latvia and the ice will melt away.

[labskaus]

Is Christianity a Racist Religion?

    Christianity and racism: two terms that surely don’t go hand-in-hand. However, despite Christianity’s constant proclamations of ‘love thy neighbour’, there are those who think that it is a discriminatory religion that advocates ideas of white supremacy. For many reasons, this is a sensitive and controversial issue. The aim of this work is to get to the root of this debate by exploring both sides of the argument. So, is Christianity racist and, if so, how?

    At first glance, it is quite hard to fathom that Christianity is a racist religion. After all, this is the religion that is dedicated to the life, death and resurrection of the original hippy Jesus Christ. Jesus is the man who supposedly broke through the barriers of his highly segregated society in his Birkenstock sandals and spread his messages of love, peace, forgiveness and harmony to everyone in the Holy Land. His promise of eternal paradise was all-inclusive and he welcomed disciples from many different walks of life. There is seemingly no way that a religion based on such ideals could ever turn in to the racist Nazi-esque machine that some people think that it has now become. The Pope is not the Führer.

    What’s more, Christians donate millions to charitable causes. Think about all of those collections that take place on a Sunday morning. Now, yes, some of that money will inevitably be spent on repairing church roofs, or sending old Mary-Ann to Lourdes in the hope that she will be cured of the corns on her feet, but lots of it is actually sent to severely impoverished communities in Africa. And guess what? Most Africans are black! If Christians truly do want to be racist, then they should probably seek advice from some tattooed skinheads straight out of jail, or maybe even Donald Trump, because, at the moment, they are doing a pretty bad job of showing it.

    Visibly, too, Christianity does not appear to be an all-white affair. Christians come from all over the world and some of the most notable Christians belong to different races. Think devout Latinos or Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act. There are also many church leaders (e.g. bishops and priests) from ethnic backgrounds. Quite simply, this is just one of the many ways in which Christianity is the complete opposite of a racist religion.

    Yet, on the other hand, it is undeniable that there is evidence of some racism in Christianity. Of course, the most notable example of this is the notorious Klu Klux Klan. Hiding behind their white hoods and carrying burning crosses, this organisation has a long history of racist violence. It is associated with horrific images of lynching and, even today, members are known to spread their despicable and bigoted beliefs. Their acts have scarred modern America and have resulted in many non-whites living a life of fear.

    Unfortunately, the KKK is not the only racist group that claims to be implementing God’s will. In recent years, the Westboro Baptist Church has rightly attracted negative media attention. This church is infamous for its vitriolic placards that are branded with slurs like ‘GOD HATES ISLAM’, ‘THE JEWS KILLED JESUS’ and ‘RABBIS RAPE KIDS’. Thankfully, the actions of this group are often met with scorn, but, nevertheless, the fact that this group still exists proves that some racism is present in Christianity.

    The KKK and the Westboro Baptist Church are obviously just two extreme fringe groups, and, in the same way that ISIS does not represent the whole of Islam, their activities do not reflect the vast majority of Christians across the world. However, there are perhaps some underlying aspects of Christianity that stem from some kind of racist sentiment. These tend to go unnoticed. For instance, why have some missionaries in the past insisted on indigenous people converting to Christianity when providing them with much needed aid and relief? Also, although Jesus was from the Middle East, why do most crucifixes present him as white? Is there really something so disturbing about worshipping someone with a bit of brown in their skin? Questions like this can be incredibly hard to answer, but, if Christians do want to prove that they are not racist, then these are questions that certainly need to be addressed.

    This is clearly a debate that may never be resolved. Though, in the short term, it is worthwhile for us to ponder why this is a significant issue. The western world is still very much steeped in Judeo-Christian traditions, and any racism that is evident in Christianity is arguably indicative of racism in society as a whole. We can see this in a number of ways.

    Primarily, Christianity is not one cohesive unit. It is made up of many different denominations, which are often at loggerheads, and sometimes even war, with one another. Consequently, there is no way of ensuring that racism is eliminated from all aspects of the religion. Likewise, planet Earth is divided into hundreds of countries and regions that do not all act in the same uniform manner. A world without racism would be perfect, but enforcing egalitarian values on over six billion people must be an organic process and cannot be imposed.

    That is not to say that people should turn a blind eye to racism within Christianity and, indeed, their own societies. Fighting racism with aggression will only contribute to the ever-turning cycle of violence. Therefore, anti-racists need to reflect on the causes of racism and open up a Road to Damscus for those who have prejudiced views. Only then will discriminatory Christians get back in touch with the original values of their religion. Only then will discriminatory humans get back in touch with the core values of their humanity. It is the moral duty of all decent global citizens to make sure that this happens.

    So, irrespective of whether we believe in God or not, let’s write our own gospels, let’s shout the good news from the top of the valleys and let’s rejoice with all those that will listen.

    Over time, racism can be diminished. Christianity will be a better religion; the world will be a better place. And I say ‘Amen’ to that!

[labskaus]

A Call

It was what she wanted and she had finally got it. She met him two years ago, in a wine bar, at a time she had thought not to expect it. And now she had settled down, opened a joint account and moved in with him. A genuine sign of commitment.

She was happy. This kitchen was hers and, on her days off from the office, she would take ownership of her space. Her long, brown, luscious hair was held in a donut bun and she waved through the kitchen and tapped her feet to whatever sound was being transmitted by the adult contemporary station. At this present time, she gently removed the rock from her slender finger and placed it in a neatly folded napkin on the worktop. She withdrew a cookery book from the thoughtfully positioned shelf and proceeded to flick through the recipes. What would she make her man for when he came home? Eventually deciding on pork belly with parsley sauce and lovage potatoes, she sauntered over to the coffee machine and turned it on.

Simultaneously, or at least that’s what she thought afterwards, her mobile phone lit up and that embarrassing ringtone that she kept meaning to change drowned out the acoustic guitar on the radio. She knew that it wasn’t her fiancé; he had already rang her that day. So, intrigued, she picked it up. Could it be an old friend from school or university? No. She hadn’t spoken to them in ages.

‘Hello?’ she enquired.

‘Charlotte, it’s me.’

Her heart became the refrigerator in front of her. Her stomach rotated like a washing machine. She was not sure of how long she had been suspended by that voice.

‘Charlotte?’

Half of her wanted to hang up there and then, to throw the phone against her freshly painted kitchen wall and run out of the house and into the garden. However, the other half of her digested the situation, filled her with some resilience and flung it out of her mouth. ‘Michael, go away. It’s over. I told you never to ring this number again.’

It had been six months since the last time he had called. Maybe it was the pictures in Paris or the change of relationship status on Facebook that sparked it. Either way, he became a nuisance. She had to explain to him that it had been a great four years but she had moved on, they had moved on, and, if he wanted something more than that, then he should have taken advantage of the opportunity when he had the chance instead of going ‘travelling’ or whatever it was he did. The message was clear and she thought that he had understood. Obviously not.

‘I’m going to put this phone down now and you’re not going to…’

‘Charlotte, listen to me, it’s serious.’

For the first time, she realised that there was something different in his voice. It sounded a bit more desperate, a bit more forced and exerted. She waited for his response.

‘I crashed the car. I’m not going to make it.’

‘What? You’ve crashed?’ She didn’t even know that he had learnt to drive. ‘Where are you? What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I was going too fast. I lost control. Hit a tree or something. I’m stuck.’

Surely he wouldn’t say something like that just to get her attention, would he?  But he said ‘stuck’. It must be ‘serious’. Any frustration that she felt for him dissipated. She instantly reverted into her former role of lover and expressed her concern for the only other man that had ever touched her heart. Quite possibly, he was the man that had touched her heart the most. She noticed that there was a stain on the microwave. ‘Michael, you’ve got to get out of there. Have you called for help?’

He breathed heavily. ‘No. It’s no good, Charlotte. There’s something inside me. I can see blood. No one could get here.’

Frantic, she threw her questions at him: ‘Blood? What do you mean blood? Are you okay? Why won’t they be able to get there?’

For a moment, she thought that there was some disruption to the connection but she soon realised that it was the din of Michael’s pants getting louder. ‘It’s too far away. The weather’s bad. There’s no one round for miles. I don’t know where I am, Charlotte.’

She pressed him. He must know where he is. ‘Scotland’ was mumbled back to her. Why on earth was he in Scotland? She looked out of the window and saw the light kiss of spring in her garden. After a momentary daze, she snapped back and felt the cutting cold of that dark Scottish road. The graveness of the reality took over her. ‘Michael, I’m going to hang up and phone 999. They can track your phone signal or something and they’ll come and get you.’

‘No!’ It seemed as though he was using all of his energy now. ‘Don’t. It’s too late. They won’t help. There’s something inside me.’ Michael took a breath; it was a deep inhalation. ‘Look, you can do what you want. You can phone somebody, get help. But I know I haven’t got long left. I want to speak to you. Once I’m done, you can do what you like.’

Charlotte tried to soak it in but her mind was a buzz. ‘Okay,’ she found herself saying.

‘So, can we talk?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a pause. ‘I love you, Charlotte.’

‘I know.’

The pause was longer this time. ‘You said we had a good time together didn’t you, Charlotte?’

‘Yeah, it was good.’ What else could she say?

‘Do you know what I always remember?’

‘What?’

‘That time in Cornwall.’

Charlotte suddenly felt the Cornish waves swarm her feet and the soft sand in between her toes. It was a wonderful holiday. They had been dating for a few months and this was their first proper adventure together. The newness of their relationship danced in the air around them and they were both excited to see where the road would lead. She could remember the glow of the sun whilst drinking craft ales in charismatic beer gardens, the freshly caught mussels in the beachside restaurant and the floating walks back to their apartment. Michael was stunning back then; his stubble stood for daring and his confidence made her safe. ‘I remember it too,’ she choked.

‘That’s when I knew I loved you. It was perfect. I always dreamt of going back.’

Charlotte was moved by his devotion and upset by his use of the past tense. However, the sheer lunacy of the conversation struck her. It was absurd that she was still speaking to him on the phone when he was practically dying on the other side of it. She felt comfortable and yet, for so many reasons, uncomfortable. She had to escape the conversation. She should do something for him. ‘You can go back, Michael. We’ll get you fixed up. Then you can go back. I’m phoning for help.’

‘Wait!’ A second followed that felt like an hour. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Come with you? Where?’

Pleadingly, Michael replied: ‘To Cornwall.’

‘Yes, Michael, I’ll go with you. Just hold on, okay.’

‘You love me more than him, don’t you? I know you love him but it’s a different kind of love, isn’t it? We were special, weren’t we?’

She could not figure out why but this was simply unbearable. ‘Yeah, we were special,’ she appeased.

‘Just say it one more time.’

‘Say what?’

‘You know what.’

‘Michael, I’m going to have to go. You need help.’

‘Please, Charlotte. Just one more time. Please. I need to hear it before… before... I’m begging you, Charlotte.’

Charlotte faltered. At first, she tried but the words would not come out. All that emerged was a mumbled ‘I’. By that time though, it was too late. She had to. The situation compelled her. ‘I love you,’ she finally uttered. Shocked, by what she had just said, she waited for his response.

And then a thud. A low but distinct thud. The sound of a phone dropping. Urgently, she called out for him, she yelled. The line was silent.

Trembling, Charlotte’s own phone dropped out of her hand and bounced off the worktop. She picked it up, fingers shaking, and tried to look past the cracked screen and into Michael’s car. It was a futile endeavour. She pushed the phone away from her and bit her lip, thinking what to do. Her mind was a mess.

What was he doing ringing her? Why did he have to crash his car? Why did he have to put her through it too? It enraged her. She hated him. She absolutely loathed him. Yet, she loved him. She wanted to be with him. Hold his hand. Wipe the blood off his face. Go back to Cornwall. But she couldn’t. She was engaged now. She was happy. Was she really happy though? This house, this kitchen, these things. They were nice. They made her feel good. But was this her? Is this what she really wanted? Did she even love the man she was soon to marry? She did an hour ago. She didn’t know who she loved anymore. Maybe… Yes, she had to help.

Still spinning in a frenzy, she retrieved her phone. It would all be okay, she tried to convince herself. She was going to save him. Determined, she brought up the key pad on the broken screen and thumbed the first 9. A happy memory flashed into her mind and she pressed 9 again. Her thumb was a fraction away from the final digit when she heard the twist of a key in the front door and her fiancé’s voice echo from the hallway.

Instantaneously, her thumb retracted and the phone was shoved into the pocket of her jeans. She then straightened her cream and marine striped top and quickly fixed her hair as she looked at her reflection in the glass cabinet. Half-composed, she greeted her man.

[labskaus]

A New Britain

We are standing on a precipice. The rocks that define our usually safe, stable and, quite frankly, boring politics are crumbling away and plummeting to the ground below. We no longer know who is running the country and the Conservative party are wrecking their heads over champagne breakfasts, brunches, lunches, dinners and suppers trying to come up with an answer. Moreover, career-driven Blairites are turning Labour from an ecstasy of rejuvenated socialism into a ket-hole of in-fighting and anarchy. At the same time, UKIP (a party that surely has no need to exist anymore) are interfering left, right and centre like a racist uncle who looks over his shoulder before starting every joke. The SNP are determined to land Glasweigan kisses on the heads of any politician who denies their right to a second referendum and those remaining on the Left are crying out for co-operation but cannot be heard from their cupboard under the stairs. We are essentially in a state of chaos.

The catalyst for all of this was the recent decision to Brexit. The devastation and anger experienced when I woke up to this news require a writer much more skilled than myself to articulate. However, I am sure that many of you felt your stomach sink and heart twitch in a similar way on that fateful morning and understand exactly what I am talking about. The decision to leave an inclusive, forward-thinking and peace-maintaining union is something that I will probably never be able to get over.

In reaction, it would be easy for us all to dwell on these emotions and resort to bitterness; we could insist that 52% of the voters were wrong and keep complaining until we get what we want. Yet, this would go against the very values that are central to our democracy. As soon as we turn our back on the right to vote and the expectation to enact the People’s Will, our society will truly be in danger. What we need to do instead is to explore the reasons why Brexiteers felt so desolate and why they felt the need to run off from the European Union.

Ultimately, it all comes down to immigration. Tussles regarding theoretical economics and the sovereignty of the nation were luxuries for the well-off and did not concern working families scrapping for a decent living. Put simply, these families saw an influx of ‘funny-looking’ people that they perceived as direct competition for their livelihood. In addition, they bought into the ‘Us vs. Them’ narrative that was spun and sold by a bigoted and sensationalist right-wing media that are invested in diverting attention away from the political establishment. Maybe if our governments pumped more money into the economy and built more houses and created more jobs, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but neither New Labour nor the Tories did these things and we are now left to suffer the consequences.

What awaits is a sustained period of depression and isolation that, in my opinion, will only be reverted if we rejoin the EU. For that to happen, a radical alternative (e.g. Jeremy Corbyn) needs to observe these past mistakes and offer a future built on optimism and anti-austerity. A Britain where the pressures of immigration and recession are relieved can be a platform for calls of a fresh start with our European neighbours. Let’s fix our job market, let’s fix our education system, let’s fix our housing crisis and let’s fix our NHS. Once these objectives are achieved, a pro-European manifesto can be presented to the electorate. They can vote it in and it can be implemented by a government that we can trust has the nation’s best interests at heart – not their own pockets.

In the meantime, we need to unite and take advantage of the chaos mentioned at the start of this post. A number of things can be done to make the path back to Europe easier and make our country a much more positive place to live in:

Get active (and preferably support a Progressive Alliance supported by Jeremy Corbyn)! The best thing about Britain post-Brexit is that people are now genuinely interested in politics. Kids are talking about it in the playground and it’s getting discussed in the pubs. This must continue. We should forget the idea that politics is something that brings down the tone of the evening. We should be loud and proud about our views and regularly drop them into conversation. We should get the flags and banners out, attend meetings and join the demonstrations. We can’t change the world by thinking to ourselves in our bedrooms and preaching to the converted.

Campaign for electoral reform! Sixteen-year-olds must be allowed to vote. They have an important role to play in the future of our society and we cannot afford to disenfranchise another generation, especially when nostalgia-drunk pensioners currently have so much sway. Also, get rid of the senile FPTP electoral system and bring in PR. There should be a direct correlation between the number of votes and the level of representation in parliament. It is a disgrace that fringe parties are totally misrepresented and this is probably one of the reasons why we had a referendum in the first place. We might not have had one if UKIP voters felt as though they had more say in Westminster. Wipe out the House of Lords too because that’s a load of bollocks.

Fight for your rights! You deserve a welfare state that is fit to help you in your time of need and you should not be subjugated to draconian and vindictive measures like the Bedroom Tax. If you are not happy, get off your arse and do something about it. Harass your local politicians, utilise the power of the internet and don’t pay white men in Whitehall to do something that you clearly don’t want!

Don’t buy The Sun! Enough said.

The road ahead will be a long one but, as with all challenges in life, it can be overcome by pulling together and keeping our heads held high. We may be living in chaos but it is up to us to grab this chaos by the scruff of the neck and turn it into something revolutionary and wonderful: A New England; A New Scotland; A New Wales; A New Ireland; A New Britain.

[labskaus]

The Achromat

Achromatopsia = a visual defect marked by total colour blindness in which the colours of the spectrum are seen as tones of white-grey-black.

His father found peace in the solitude of the place, especially after Mum died. His father also seemed to find peace in his regular outings around the neighbouring fields.

Though, the young Robert noticed an irrevocable change in his father when he shot in one night after a visit to the pub. For the first time in a long time, his eyes were moon-like in their width yet pointed as if they were ready to spear something in front of them. Without any attempts at explanation, he marched through to the field immediately behind the house armed with a torch and a shovel. Fervently, he hacked away at the sodden ground.

Every time Robert tried to broach the subject of what became his father’s inveterate behaviour, he was always met with a splash of alcohol saliva and the same cutting response: ‘You wouldn’t understand, ya colour-blind fool - get to ya room!’ So, for years, a disconsolate Robert would have to watch from his bedroom window as his father incessantly dug in the emaciated fields. The acts of semi-violence and expletives that accompanied this scene indicated to Robert that his father was unsuccessful in his mysterious endeavour.

It eventually killed him. Pneumonia. He shouldn’t have kept going outside in those harsh winter months but he refused to listen.

Robert, eighteen, struggled to comprehend the dogged determination that led to his father’s demise. On a cool Sunday afternoon, a few months after the death, he decided to take a stroll around the fields and give thought to whatever it was that his father had meaninglessly given his life to. It was on this pensive walk that Robert stumbled across a conspicuously subtle ditch in the ground. Could it be? Bending down, he fondled the edges of it and discovered that it went deep. Before he knew it, his arm was completely immersed in the earth and he could feel something hard but dislodgeable at his fingertips. He wrestled it from its resting place, pulled it out, shaded his eyes and held it up to the sun. Fist-sized and lurid, the rock struck Robert as unusual, yes, but spectacular, no. There was no way that his father would have wasted the last decade of his life looking for this. Nevertheless, he took it home and put it in his room. It might be a part of something greater that his father was looking for, he thought.

Over the years, Robert’s mind shifted and he decided that his father was the victim of lunacy, possibly precipitated by his dear wife’s death. However, there were further occasions, whilst on recreational rambles around the comforting fields, when Robert came across more rocks like the one that he already had in his room. He kept them all as a reminder of his father and the frantic activity that drove him to the grave. Soon, he used a tattered shoebox to store them all in. Scribbled on the lid was the following: ‘Big rocks (some shiny)’.

[labskaus]

Jeremy Corbyn: Fashion Icon

In recent months, Jeremy Corbyn has caused an unparalleled stir in British politics. The mass public interest and mobilisation he has achieved in a relatively small space of time has blown Cleggomania out of the history books and reduced Farage’s self-proclaimed ‘political earthquake’ to a mere mumble in the racist distance. Bursting into people’s homes via impassioned television interviews and refreshingly honest statements of intent, he has added new meaning to the word ‘Jezza’ and looks on course to claim victory in the upcoming Labour leadership election.

Though, as the nation collectively evaluates the merits of the Islington North MP, it is nigh-on impossible to ignore his stark choice of clothing.  Adorning a wardrobe that is perhaps as bold as his socialist views, Corbyn has been derided or dismissed as a novelty by some opponents and commentators.

However, I take a completely different stance on this matter – I think that Jeremy Corbyn is, in fact, a fashion icon. This is because he epitomises three things that are craved by all dedicated followers of fashion: distinctiveness, timelessness and authenticity.

Distinctiveness

First of all, a fashion icon never fades into the background. Fashion icons always go against the flow. Corbyn has most certainly done this during the leadership campaign. His clothes have caught our imagination and challenged our ideas about how politicians can present themselves.

This is very noticeable in the picture below where Liz Kendall, Andy Burnham and Yvette Cooper are all huddled together with a safety-in-numbers mentality tattooed across their faces. For me, Kendall, Burnham and Cooper represent a modern school of politics that has managed to disengage an entire generation. On top of no one knowing what they stand for, they all look the same, their smiles are too refined and their clothes are quite simply straight-cut and boring. It is unclear whether they are dressed to impress or on their way home from Cilla Black’s funeral.

Jeremy Corbyn, on the other hand, really stands out. The key to this is his audacity. Start off by looking at his pants. Brown, polyester – no doubt ordered from one of those companies that advertise at the back of the newspaper. If somebody bought you these for Christmas, you would cautiously enquire if they still had the receipt. Yet, somehow, Corbyn manages to pull them off and they just look perfectly suited to the individual (even with the high waistline and ‘wait-till-I-get-hold-of-you’ kind of belt).

Moving up, we have a creased shirt that was probably once as white as Burnham’s and Kendall’s but, out of protest against rising energy bills, hasn’t been washed since the Tories won the election. It is unclear if the buttons at the bottom have even been fastened. All of this gives off the impression that Corbyn is laid-back or can’t be arsed. However, this is then counter-acted by his rolled-up sleeves, which indicate that he is a working man ready for a fight. In addition, the absence of a capitalist tie noosed around his neck shows that he stands for an alternative approach to politics that doesn’t include favours for bankers and financially-motivated wars.

What we essentially have here is a multi-dimensional man who has little interest in conforming to the style of the one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs standing next to him. Corbyn’s clothes are distinctive and eye-catching. They draw us in and compel us to listen to the revolutionary points he is making.

Timelessness

Over the years, Corbyn’s sense of fashion has hardly changed. The clothes he wore in the 1980s, when he was ‘ludicrously’ protesting against apartheid and nuclear weapons, are incredibly similar to the ones that he wears today. Rather than being a scruff, this suggests that Corbyn is a die-hard loyalist who stands by what he believes in (in this case, his clothes). It also represents a massive two-fingers to the tidal waves of fads that have come and gone over the years. Unlike the hypebeasts of today, who get their fashion tips off blogs made by the shops in which you can buy the products, Corbyn has known for a long time what he wants to wear and has persisted with it.

Running with the theme of time, it could be said that Corbyn’s fashion harks back to many uncelebrated corners of this country’s past. On one level, he looks like a farmer demanding more money for his milk. On another level, he looks like a striking Orgreave miner clashing with the police in 1984. Equally, he could be a retired mod in his Harrington jacket or an energised nursing home resident in his comfortable Deichmann shoes (purchased in conjunction with the brown, polyester trousers, of course).

It may even be the case that Corbyn’s style will have an impact on the future. In light of the support that he has received, we may see a subtle move away from the traditional look of politicians in impeccably tailored suits.  I’m not saying that you’ll now see prospective careerist MPs flocking to vintage shops, rummaging through a deliberately tarnished suitcase and picking out Corbyn-esque berets, but they may well look for new ways to communicate their own manufactured originality

Overall, it is clear that Corbyn sports clothes that permeate time. Although his choice of attire may not suit all, it has certainly worked for him throughout the decades and may influence others.

Authenticity

The video above reveals a lot about Jeremy Corbyn’s class. In spite of opposition from what you might call the political establishment, he is clearly proud of what he wears and will vocally defend his right to express himself via fashion.

Perhaps his clothes are so important to him because they serve, not only as socially appealing garments, but as extensions to his core policies and ideals. For example, in the video he makes the point that his shirt is from the local co-operative (a political movement that he actively supports) and his jumper was made by his mum (a family member whom, I presume, he also supports).

Looking further, his beard could be read as a symbol of his left-wing nature. Think Marx or Guevara. Indeed, in contrast to the twenty-first century hipsters who have groomed, plucked, shampooed and conditioned their beards to GQ perfection, Corbyn’s beard-rearing skills seem effortless yet sincere – he has not grown it just so he can appease his peers and look cool with a stein.

On the whole, it appears that everything Corbyn wears has some sort of meaning to the man himself. One could even hazard a guess that his blazer was measured by Tony Benn and stitched together by militants from Hamas.

Personally, I believe that this is what fashion should be about. It is a form of grassroots art and should be driven by individual purpose. When that purpose is lost, the authenticity quickly dissipates and the wearer becomes just another walking mannequin for mainstream philosophies and high-street stores. Jeremy Corbyn, through his clothes, rejects this trap and leads the vanguard for the spirit of the alternative.

So, for reasons of distinctiveness, timelessness and authenticity, it is my opinion that Jeremy Corbyn deserves his place amongst other fashion deities such as Oscar Wilde, James Dean, Michael Jackson and Andrea Pirlo. I am a Corbyn supporter; I hope he wins the election. But, even if he doesn’t, it is obvious that he has made an indelible mark on politics and fashion in this country. For a 66-year-old man, I think that that should be applauded.

[labskaus]

Town

Might as well wear me smart shoes.

Check you’ve got everything. Turn off those tunes.

Taxi’s outside waiting.

Alright, mate. How’s it going?

Town, please. Bombed-out church.

Hope tonight’s booming.

Nice one. Ta.

Keep that there. T’ra.

Right, first bar. Sound.

I’ll get the round.

Vodka

Vodka lemo

Vodka lemo coke

Coke

Ey, get started on that coke.

Sort it out. Giz a stripe.

This is the life. I’m feeling it tonight.

I’m feeling lucky tonight.

Hey, are you okay? Where’ve you been tonight?

Where you from? Where you going?

Bifter? Lend’s your lighter.

Fumar mata.

What’s your number?

Fuck ya. See ya later.

And who are you looking at?

See him giving me dirty looks?

I’ll cut him up!

Nah, mate. He started it.

Get off me. Get your hands off me!

Your place is shit anyway.

I’ll be back here tomorrow night.

Yeah, watch me.

Fuck off lad, yas left me on me own.

Nowhere to be seen.

I’ll make me own way home.

Do one. Knobheads the lot of yas.

Can’t stand the lot of them.

Combo box and a water. Just a water. I said a water.

Alpha. Delta. Davy Liver.

Fucking half an hour.

Taxi! Taxi!

That’s it! They don’t stop unless you’ve got tits.

Oh, well look who it is.

You come round here following me, have ya?

Brought your fucking mates?

Think you’re hard just cos there’s a few of yas?

C’mon then, I’ll knock yas out, all of yas.

What? Is that all you’ve got?

That didn’t even hurt.

It doesn’t even hurt...

[labskaus]

Mischief Night

     Mischief Night, the night before Halloween, and ghost-like figures already roam the city streets.

     A band of faceless hoods emerge from the back-entries of their cast-off estate and leave a trail of funky-smelling smoke as they hover towards their destination. By the disused railway, they meet a mirror image of gaunt, shaven youth. They are similarly clad in black and immediately drawn to the opportunity for confrontation.

     Armed, the smallest of the lot, a kid in an oversized tracksuit, lifts up his weapon and is ready to ignite a postcode war. His shoulder jerks but the spectre standing next to him stops him from carrying through. He says, ‘Not yet la, not yet,’ and points out how everybody else is clutching identical weapons. The two groups then share nods of mutual recognition and walk off separate but in the same direction.

     As the groups keep moving and the city skyline crawls into view, they are joined by more tribes of fed-up individuals. Hip-hop heads, indie rockers, public service workers and old age pensioners, all equipped for the night’s events, add their weight to what has become a candle-less vigil of the might-as-well-be-dead. In a subdued mood, they soon reach their destination of Saint George’s Plateau and find their space amongst fellow members of the city’s disaffected.

     Although tightly packed, the atmosphere is at first compliant. Yet, feet eventually start to shuffle and the People begin to get restless. This persists for seconds that feel like minutes until the clock strikes the hour and a blanket of silence suddenly descends across the scene. Unsure what to do, most are clamped to the spot.

     But then, the kid in the oversized tracksuit looks up to the scallywag spectre that restrained him earlier and is met with the response he has been waiting for: ‘Go ‘head’.

    With that, the little kid in the too-big, handmedown North Face trackie pulls out his weapon and sends it crashing into the spectre that’s been haunting him, telling him what he can and can’t do. The spectre looks down and, in almost slow-motion, realises the worst – egg on his hoodie.

     ‘Get ‘ere, ya cheeky lil bastard ya!’

                      And now, the mayhem commences. Noise wells up from the ground and the lifeless spark into life. Fighting against the norms that have been forced upon them, they revel in the excitement of random anti-social behaviour and throw eggs everywhere.

     A militia of zero-hour sales assistants are egging the shops that they work in, contingents of Liverpool Pride and Liverpool Unite are exchanging free-range eggs to the face and the trade unions are hurling eggs at each other. Amongst this chaos, boys in polos and Nike Huaraches are making a mess of the prinnies’ curly blows, the wannabee wags are giving up their eggs to the footballers and the people that don’t usually have a cause at all are juggling eggs and tossing them backwards. 

     In soaked-through Tap Out t-shirts, steroid-raged males and MMA enthusiasts are launching egg whites from their protein shake bottles whilst Purple Aki grabs a hold of their biceps. University graduates that can’t get a job are ripping up their degrees as they get engaged in the crossfire.

     From the top of the Empire theatre, Cilla Black, Les Dennis and Sinbad from Brookside lead a washed-up celebrity alliance dropping eggs on a crowd that never turned up to their pantomime performances. Next minute, they are assaulted but they are not sure from where.

     ‘They’re behind you!’ someone shouts from below.

     Ray Quinn is the first to catch sight of the onslaught and quickly ducks for cover. Lunging at them, he sees a mob of angry young artists, actors, musicians and entertainers that never got their chance in the limelight; they are wielding their eggs and they are ready to lash out. The washed-up celebrities thus disperse and some dive off the building. Poor Pete Price doesn’t quite make it and is left to wallow in a puddle of tears and yolk that strangely tastes like chicken.

     It is at this point that the police turn up in full riot gear and create a sea of helmets at one end of the plateau square. Anonymous behind their propped-up shields, they try to kennel in the eggers. Though, treat humans like dogs and they’ll only bark back. As such, the eggers stand tall and refuse to be contained. ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved’ is the chant that drives them forward as the Annie Road Crew and the County Road Cutters, red and blue flares alight, pelt the overpowered bizzies into a muddled retreat. Some remark that they have never seen Matrix vans move so fast in the city of Liverpool.

     The police now gone, the atmosphere becomes one of ecstasy and jubilation. Fireworks are rocketed in from ChinaTown and spray egg fried rice into the infinite night sky. The rice then rains down and the Campaign Against the Bedroom Tax catapults scrambled eggs from a modified mattress. Meanwhile, DJs brush the shells off their decks and proceed to blast music from all corners of the plateau. Everybody is happy, everybody is dancing and, for a moment, there is a sense that this La Tomatina of eggs will never end. 

                 However, as night draws back and the sun re-establishes its authority over the earth, most begin to remember that Halloween is not a Bank Holiday and the impulse to chuck eggs promptly slumps into a shadow. Expectations to be places that they don’t want to be, and to do things that they don’t want to do, transform the eggers into gormless bodies that load onto buses and hand over £2.10 for a service which is both late and unreliable.

     Of course, there are some who remain (the drunks outside the pubs and the ketamine fiends, huddled around an egg, waiting for it to hatch) but, on the whole, the Mischief Night rebels are soon locked back up in the dire monotony of their everyday lives.

     Then, later that evening, when young children that they don’t even know knock on their doors in fancy dress costumes, ex-eggers are left to consider whether the events of last night were just part of some horrible trick that they played on themselves or, indeed, a treat – a glimpse of a potential future.

[labskaus]

Life as a Scouse Student can be Problematic and Rewarding. Discuss.

I’ve regrettably had to sidetrack this blog of late because I’ve been chocker with uni work. However, it’s all over now and it’s a relief to finally write something without having to throw a last-minute bibliography at the end of it. So, to get back into the swing of things, I thought that it would be apt to reflect on my three years at everybody’s second choice: John Moores University.

On one level, this was a taxing time for me. By turning up on my first day in black Spezials and Fjällräven jacket, I immediately felt alienated from the swathes of other students who’d decided not to have a wash since that summer’s Leeds festival. Indeed, they all seemed to operate within some sort of fashion limbo that simultaneously saw them removed from the trends of their hometown yet not quite in touch with those of their new city. Their style was thus dictated by the halls in which they lived in and resulted in a mix-match / ‘ah fuck it’ attitude to attire. My lack of beanie hat or Supra trainers was not accommodated.

                         There was then a complete breakdown in communication. I was simply unprepared for the hype-laced, YOLOistic banter that surrounded me and was constantly cut off by talk of Med Weds and Mad Mondays. I tried in vain to change this but a certain brick wall would always get in my way…

ME: So where about do you live then?

WOOL: Grand Central, man. You?

ME: Ah I’m still at home, you know.

…And BANG! That was it! Just as quickly as it started, the peak of the conversation was over. It was as if some people just couldn’t get their head around the fact that I hadn’t moved out and then doubted my very student status because of it. Attempting to explain where I actually lived proved pointless too because, despite all their time in the city, these were the kind of folk who had never ventured further than the Brookhouse on Smithdown Road and had little, if any, knowledge of the local region.

As a consequence of these differences, a huge gulf emerged between me and a number of my academic peers and I started to seek refuge with other Scouse students in a similar position. Identifiable by their uniform library rig-out (consisting of fleeced trackie, Adidas trabs and Nike holdall), it was easy to spot such comrades and engage in in-depth discussions about non-Rudimental dance music and Luis Suarez. For a considerable period, this is how I went about my day-to-day business in Higher Education.

Yet, as the course progressed, everyone eventually opened up and I became increasingly receptive to those around me. Likewise, my fellow students appeared less intimidated by the slightest hint of a Liverpudlian accent and began to involve me more and more in their activities.

This culminated in a random trip of lifetime to Istanbul earlier this year. Here, I somehow found myself in the crowd of a Fenerbahçe game with a group of students that I never expected to get along with. In an ironic twist to my initial university experiences, we were standing, laughing and singing together as two honorary Scousers, Dirk Kuyt and Joey Yobo, played togger on the field below us (or tried to, at least).

My worlds of ‘inside Liverpool’ and ‘outside Liverpool’ therefore combined and showed me that, when need be, two separate realms can co-exist with one another. Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean that you’ll see me with a half-faded Raz stamp anytime soon but it has taught me that it’s good to take the positives out of all the varied social environments we encounter and add them to what we’ve already got. Accordingly, we can all become more rounded and cultured individuals who, in turn, can contribute to an ever progressive society. Through my three years at LJMU, I suppose that that is the best lesson I have learnt.

[labskaus]

Thatcher, you messed with the wrong city luv!