2020 vision

Disjointed notes from a Tier 3 north east coastal town.

2020 has been a challenging, clusterfuck of a year for everyone. If we’d had the vision to predict what this year had in store on December 31, 2019, most of us that live in the disunited kingdom that rotten old no deal Brexit-lovin’ England is a part of would probably have elected to fuck off to the sunshine, where at least we could have stocked up on Vitamin D while we were isolated from the friends and family that make life worth living.

Everyone has lockdown misery to share but still not that many people, right now, to share it with. We’ve lost people, we’ve lost work, income’s gone down, bills have piled up, short term plans have become mid term plans at best, long term plans can’t be made, we’re miserable, we’re alone, cut adrift, and a lot of us are still trying to work out ingenious ways to stop our glasses steaming up when we don a facemask. Still, at least our hands have never been so clean. Nobody has escaped this, even the nutjob “it’s on the internet, it must be true” coronavirus deniers, conspiracy theorists and anti-vaxxers going out of their minds trying to put a date on the day of reckoning, stupid fucks (I do hope they come out of this ok, then go on to learn how to discern fact from fiction).

Of course, when all this started, it had that sense of fun of 1970s three-day-week power cuts, that previous occasion of Britain’s Blitz coping in a crisis spirit rearing its pathetically arrogant head. Except those power cuts didn’t go on for almost a full year, did they, nor prevent you seeing anyone outside your immediate circle, while gathering around a candle collectively humming the theme tunes of Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em and The Generation Game would hardly have eased the sorrow and heartbreak of not being able to visit your old mum in her care home when she was dying. An article on the Express online about the jolliness of Britons throughout the winter of discontent, in a rather predictable ra-ra-ra ain’t we an amazing nation manner, points out that “With no late-night television people went back to doing things they used to do. Nine months after the blackout winter there was a baby boom. The three-day week also enabled families to spend more time with one another.” So, there’s a symmetry with that bygone era, and I’m sure you’ve spent several months copulating like rabbits between either getting on each other’s tits in a more understandable stir crazy way or watching boxsets via that contemporary version of the contraception that is ‘late night television’ – Netflix. I’m sure those that live alone and have struggled much more as a result can hardly wait for the rise in births in the coming year. Although my gut instinct is that there’ll be a rise in separation and divorce once one can get hold of the required legal representatives.

As for weird changes and surprising moments… Now, I’ve embraced working from home for the most part of two decades and I’ve never got on well with being in an office of any description because, mostly, I dislike having to indulge in inane conversation with people I haven’t chosen to be around. Part of me is somewhat aghast that everyone else is suddenly seeing the benefits of remote working – people muscling in on territory I’ve quite clearly crafted a delightful pissy circle around – while part of me is very pleased that office life will never again be regarded as normal. As my youngest son, whose various computer, console and online device screens are merely an extension of his eyes, pointed out, we were made for this. I do hope other people are made for it too, because it’s nice being able to work within easy reach of the fridge, not get dressed, smash a day’s work and then fuck about. Yet that lack of social interaction can take its toll on mental health, so it’s not for everyone. And obviously employers struggle with trusting employees when they’re out of sight, so the biggest change is yet to come, and, rather than getting that, employers are no doubt already cooking up plans to further their exploitation of the people that fill up their bank accounts.

The biggest, and most unfathomable surprise during all this is that, amid attempting to learn the piano (rather than busk a few chords and indulge in one fingered noodling. Sort of getting there, still grappling with lines and dots), promising myself but failing to get through a pile of unread books, promising but failing to watch all the films and TV I’ve missed out on, promising but failing to be creative but, other than Discomposure, stuttering along blindly and mojoless, especially when it came to writing a collection of short stories, promising, but failing, that I’d blog about this everyday, promising but failing that I’d write a series of essays capturing the spirit of these times, mostly abandoning the noise of social media, admiring how bored I look in zoom and teams meetings, missing dancing and live music more than I thought I would, missing mates, the pub, holidays, my old mum, is that… is that Taylor Swift’s album folklore has been my cultural highlight of the year.

I know. Weird, huh?

Not sure how it happened.

Not sure why it happened.

Not sure what it means.

I mean, I’ve eaten a lot of music in the last few months. Should my favourite album of the year not be one from a more ‘credible’ artist? Should I be banging on about the brilliance of IDLES’ big shouty unit shifter Ultra Mono? Proving how down with the youth I am by giving an immediate response to Loski’s Music, Trial & Trauma: A Drill Story? Convincing you how much I adored Ed O’Brien’s debut solo album Earth? Providing a breakdown of Tony Allen and Hugh Masekela’s Rejoice which, it has to be said, did keep us company in the garden during the summer months (along with Michael Kiwanuka’s 2019 eponymous effort)? Pretending that Nicolas Jaar’s Ceniza, Caribou’s Suddenly and Autechre’s Sign all shook me to the core? Should I not be wittering on about all the glories to be found on the Super Deluxe reissue of Prince’s Sign O’ The Times? Shouldn’t my choice be more aligned to my self-confessed constant craving for heart-pumping, hip-shaking, arm-raising, foot-stomping funk, disco and big beat? Or as angry as any anarcho punk I’ve digested? Is it even acceptable for a grey-haired old white man to adore the mature work of a 30-year-old who released her first album when she was 16, an artist whose only previous work that has lodged in my brain the god-awful nursery rhyme, teen-targeted We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together. Some indie record that’s much cooler than hers would have been a much more obvious, nay sensible and street cred-enhancing choice, here. Or at least convincing you of the merits of some rhythmically mechanical, industrial crunchiness at 120bpm.

Still, there it is. Taylor Swift’s folklore. An album that’s arrival was announced 17 hours ahead of its release. The timing caught my attention and I bought it in a moment of boredom, to add to the pile of tunes I was working through in the hope that I’d find something to wallow in for a while, or at least to add to an ironic playlist, learn on the piano for a Christmas singalong or simply dismiss from a position of high art superiority – “you’ll never guess what shit I listened to during lockdown”.

I sat down with a cup of coffee and pressed the play button on the expensive device one now plays these things through. I was expecting plenty of pop hooks and stupidity, tunes that would work in a distant future when stadium shows are allowed again, and loads of stolen elements from current genres hoovered up and blasted back out of the commercial homogenisation tube, post misappropriation, in a slightly wonky fashion. I wasn’t quite prepared for the intimate, haunting and cinematic journey that starts with opener the 1 and continues right through to closer hoax. From the opening soft touches on the piano, the lo-fi glitches, clicks and pops, rattles, flutters and wackiness that could have been created in the BBC’s Radiophonic Workshop of yore, the odd sounding pads and wobbles, the fragility of the vocals, the ghostly under-production, the ‘why use too many notes when three will do’ approach to melodies, through to the space that’s left hanging in the air, the mix of reality and myth held in the lyrics, and the fine storytelling, all of these tunes demand attention – and close your eyes while you listen and you get a rather fantastic accompanying film. In an era where sitting down and listening to anything from start to finish often feels like a chore from which any distraction is welcome, and from someone who’s trajectory to singer-songwriter pop stardom was pre-paved, mapped out and hardly a struggle, pretty unexpected. Isolation’s been good for Swift, she should be left on her own more often if this is the result, while continuing to collaborate with The National’s Aaron Dessner. The use of lowercase titles, annoyingly ee cummings as they are, is a reminder, in case you missed it on listening or simply by looking at the cover art, that this woman is in a mode of stripped back understatement, aside from the occasional ladling on of strings or unnecessary doubling of vocals. Taylor Swift is searching for something, all on her own, in the same way that we are. She’s looking backwards, forwards and contemplating what it means to be here, now, with or without people. “Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me.” Existentialism has never been so listenable.

Obviously I’m happy if you feel the need to laugh out loud at me, part of me realises how silly this might all read. But I wonder if, when I look back on this clusterfuck of a year, and all that was snatched away from us, whether I’ll continue to hold Swift’s effort in such high regard.

Like everyone else, I’m bracing myself for a raft full of dystopian efforts from creatives working across all artistic disciplines trying to make sense of a world coming to terms with the impact of a global pandemic, the twisted ideology of neoliberalism, mass unemployment and what a great big looming depression will mean to our lives, and a planet doing its best to dispose of what’s doing it the most harm – us – but I reckon this slice of what is, essentially, escapism, and more of this ilk, is what I’d prefer to spend my time with. I’ve had enough of politicians in the UK failing to answer direct questions on their mismanagement of the nation’s health and wellbeing and bunging millions/billions to their mates in this corrupt chumocracy, and all the stupid fucks on social fighting each other rather than the targets that deserve it. These are worrying, challenging times. So more folklore, more tales of compassion and understanding passed through generations, more holding hands and holding on to each other as this unfathomable juggernaut picks up speed, more stories and art that connect and protect communities. Yes, more folklore.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve just read that Miley Cyrus has released a new album.

Blogging cycle

There was a time, many moons ago, when I wrote a blog entry each and every day. It was mostly during my heady days at the local newspaper when, if one was seen typing furiously, you could get away with pretty much anything, including blogging every day and also writing editorial for other publications on a freelance basis, merrily in opposition to one’s contract of employment. If you look busy and have somewhat oblivious and self-centred managers, they think you are busy. Life hack, all yours.

The daily blog was the result of interviewing Richard Herring on his Talking Cock tour, when he told me that the reason he blogged daily on his site Warming Up was that, well, it’s obvious now given the title of the blog, it warmed him up. Richard has written 6,500 consecutive entries (I’ve just had a look). So, having marvelled at his screen saver during the interview which announced ‘Richard Herring is Gay’ (recently changed to read such, Herring claimed, by Stewart Lee). So I started blogging every day to ‘warm up’ although the only thing it warmed me up for, in reality, was firing off 1,000 words to some magazine or other and an accompanying invoice for same, whilst ignoring all of the tasks that my employers assumed I was busy with.

Richard Herring, incidentally, gave me one of his sandwiches during the interview (maybe to distract me from his screen saver). When I interviewed Stewart Lee a couple of years later, I mentioned this and Lee was a little taken aback, “I’m surprised you got anything out of that fat bastard, well done,” and also denied any knowledge of the screen saver. A harmonious double act, those two. I have sat next to and within stroking distance of Stewart Lee on a couple of marvellous occasions – once on the back row of the Pleasance, at Edinburgh Festival, when he directed the Mighty Boosh’s Arctic Boosh, and more latterly at a gig in Brixton when he was working up his material for Content Provider. On both occasions I wanted to touch him and tell the real life, actual Stewart Lee of my love for the on-stage character Stewart Lee but didn’t because, well, I’m sure he didn’t want bothering because he was a bit busy. I’m nice and empathic like that. Lee is, perhaps, the only hero I have left in my life and the next time I find myself sitting next to him, which I probably won’t, I will tell him.

Anyway, blogging. We’re all told that the internet keeps things forever but, pleasingly, a lot of those daily entries have evaporated to an unavailable corner somewhere and, lo, my internet footprint is less than it should be. Some of it is still there, on an old blogger, but even the old wayback machine can’t find a few years worth of later entries. Most of my efforts in the ‘blogosphere’, as many a fool thinking diaristic daily writing was the future once described it, charted irritable encounters in corner shops and supermarkets where retail staff determined to hold conversations with each other left me waiting for more time than was necessary as I stood at the tills with a hot and spicy Peperami stick and a can of San Miguel. Occasionally, I’d document my interactions with the many racist Daily Mail and Express readers of York. That, or stuff about people coughing loudly in theatres (mostly the people I went to the theatre with).

I started writing this blog post, if they’re still called that, with some sense of where it was going. For last night, I had an encounter that reminded me of the stuff I might have blogged about and I thought, oh, if only I had a blog to capture this moment, then realised I do and that this is it.

It was a cycle-related incident. Now, cycles are a big deal in Hull right now as the council just splashed a load of government money on creating, at a fast and furious pace, pop-up cycle lanes here, there and everywhere. The money came from the £250 million emergency active travel fund, at the point when the new normal was being envisaged as a utopia where we’d all cycle for the rest of the limited life remaining for humanity on planet earth, before it’s done with us, and cars, rather than simply being convenient metal death traps oozing carbon and other toxic filth, would be consigned to the scrap heap faster than a nation could extract itself from the European Union. The first stage, I read, of an eventual £2bn investment to encourage alternative ways to travel, such as walking and cycling, thus relieving the pressure on public transport, which doesn’t and never will, serve the people that might like to use it if it ever turned up on time, got you to your destination and didn’t smell of wee, armpits and faeces.

Any efforts to encourage cycling and the abandonment of motor vehicles shouldn’t be contentious. Certainly not in Hull, a city so flat that there’s no excuse not to take to two wheels, other than the population is incredibly wary of any ride out involving an encounter with an object known as the Anlaby Road flyover, one of the few gradients on the city’s road network, a whoppingly insignificant climb that is to be avoided at all costs, as if it were K2, Everest or Kangchenjunga, lest there be a requirement to shift down to a low gear on the stolen bike you bought off some gadge at Walton Street market. There is some talk, among the city’s cycling fraternity, of the pleasure of freewheeling back down once the summit is reached – people, often those that wear clothes purchased at Sports Direct, or those with Kestrel lager fuelled self-confidence, or some with self-evident dietary problems, and often those with a combination of all three – push their bikes up to experience this thrill – yet this is an extremely rare occurrence.

Yet the recent pop-up cycle lane has been met with much criticism, some of which even makes sense.* Even from me. It appears, in the haste to create these new lanes, and in the giggly excitement around the bright future on the horizon, that the safety of all road users has been somewhat cast aside. Not least by the council, who, in a moment of temporary insanity and once the green lanes had been painted on the existing tarmac, promptly (and mistakenly, they said quickly afterwards) also painted some parking bays that meant the ‘cycle lanes’ were also parking bays and that cyclists would have to zip out of the side of the road they had been bequeathed and back into the carriageway containing a load of frustrated drivers, irritated not only by having to watch folk on two wheels sailing by much faster than their expensive cars leased via confusing personal contract hire and personal contract purchase deals but also looking at a bus lane, recently extended to 11 and a half hours (a move “to protect cyclists and encourage more bike travel under an Experimental Traffic Regulation Order.”) with very few buses in it. Grinding slowly, as they did so, on a journey towards the city centre, while also wondering why, at a time when there has been a reduction to cars on the road because a) people are still working from home and b) those that aren’t working from home have been made redundant, an effort seems to have been made to recreate the type of traffic we might have experienced back in the good old days of pre-Covid 2019.

Now I like Hull City Council, they’ve done some great things over the last two decades but on this, this road madness, they’ve fucked up majestically. It’s almost as if nobody at the Guildhall has ever been to the Netherlands – despite it being a simple hop away on a P&O Ferry, or via a quick flight from Humberside Airport to Schipol that is now faster than a trip down any of the city’s main arterial roads into the city centre – and experienced what actual cycle lanes are all about. A place where cycling is prioritised – which it should be – and a place where they haven’t simply painted green paint onto tarmac and a load of accompanying, accident-baiting white lines. No, in the Netherlands they have separate bike paths that run parallel to the roadway and everyone is very happy and safe and nobody is thinking, as they drive alongside the cyclists, I know I’ve got a blind spot but I’ll be fucked if I’ll slow down to let that man in extremely tight cycling shorts nip in front of me because he’s having to leave his cycle lane behind. Separate bike paths that run parallel to the roadway would be a very wise investment of £2bn. Green paint and white lines and endless zigzagging fuckwitery are not, government money or no. It is only a matter of time before a cyclist is killed, sadly, due to this scheme.

So there’s the context. There is friction between road users in the city at the moment and those of us, and there are many, who are both car users and cyclists, are no doubt caught up in very serious conversations with ourselves.

Anyroad, I had navigated my way past this new vehicular and transportation madness last night and, as I almost hit the home straight, I witnessed two junior cyclists ride out of a park nearby, straight onto a zebra crossing sans looking left, right, left, because it’s been decades since Kevin Keegan or that bloke that played Darth Vader reinforced the message, forcing a car to swerve around them, although in doing so he saved them from a nasty accident and certain death. Such is contemporary life that the lead young cyclist, a rather stocky, ugly looking child with an enormous, potato-like head and riding a bike that was a not cool several frame sizes too small for him, shouted abuse at the driver.

I turned a left after the zebra following this incident and, lo-and-behold, the same potato-headed youth, having crossed the road, rode his cycle across the pavement, over the grass verge and onto the road I was traveling down at a speedy but accelerating 17 mph and right into my path. I applied the brakes, as you do, as I don’t like riding over cyclists because, remember, I am one too.

I stopped and wound the window down to have a chat with Potato Head Kid, whose little friend was now at his side. Now, back when I was watching a lot of Curb Your Enthusiasm I might have been somewhat more Larry David about it, hurled some abuse to make me feel better and driven off smugly in my protective steel can. But, given that there is a lot of animosity between road users on the streets of Hull right now due to the aforementioned reasons, and that, while he was Potato Head Kid, he was also an actual child not a character I had swiftly invented with very little consideration, I thought it better to impart some wisdom, politely. I saw myself as a diplomat in this instance, the man that would, magnificently, bring road users together, one that the city would talk of for years to come.

“Hey lads. A word of advice. If you are going to pull back onto the road, don’t forget to look over your shoulder to check for cars. It might save your life.”

Potato Head Kid smiled at me, then laughed. I took him in. Having dismounted, his disproportionate body was revealed. Not only did he have a large head, like a potato, and a stocky frame, his torso was much shorter than his legs demanded. If this was an art school and I’d turned in this creature as a portrait, I’d have been asked to leave immediately, escorted off the premises and be banned from the purchase of any sketching materials for eternity.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Fuck off, you cunt,” came the swift reply.

I liked his candour. It had no doubt been fuelled by all of the reports he’d read – if he could, in fact read – about the new cycle lanes in the city and the reaction to them from motorists.

“Seriously, just pause and take a second to look over your shoulder, that way everyone is safe and sound and you’ll get home in one piece.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?”

“It’s really as simple as being aware of other road users. It just requires you to open your eyes.”

“Fuck off. I said fuck off, you cunt.”

Clearly this wasn’t the moment that I would unite the city and all that travel around it. Although I wasn’t giving up. I must have the final civilised word.

“It would be good if you listened to me. And opened your eyes occasionally, as you ride your steed through the streets of this fair city.”

He threw his cycle, way too small for him, despite his lack of height, down to the ground. I considered suggesting he purchase, or steal, or buy a stolen bike from that gadge at Walton Street market, a bike that wouldn’t accentuate his alarmingly weird aesthetic. Then thought, no, Potato Head Kid deserves some love. He clearly lives a life devoid of affection, he has no positive role models, he is left to his own devices on these tough avenues and alleyways. So I pondered suggesting to him that, rather than throw it to the floor aggressively, he take care of his cycle, and then it would take care of him.

“Fuck off. Fucking get away from me,” he shouted, winding up his arm like a cliche from a first generation console game fighter, “fucking get away from me now, drive on, you fucking cunt, drive on.”

So there we have it. When I blogged on a daily basis, often events like this would happen and I started to wonder if I was making them happen just so I had something to write about. For example, I was rear-ended, had my car written off and was hospitalised by a Kwik Fit lorry once, and once I’d recovered from the shock of said lorry introducing itself to the interior of my car, almost breaking my wrists due to clinging like fuck to the steering wheel on impact and had the glass removed from my hair, I thought, hey, what a great blog that’ll make. Which is why I don’t blog so often these days.

*But not that recent criticism from an ‘actor’ who was affronted by cyclists choosing to ride on the pavement because they didn’t want to risk their lives by riding in the cycle lanes, and shouted at them “there’s literally a cycle lane, right there, next to you,” as if they didn’t know. They did know, they just didn’t want to die that day, and would much prefer Netherlands-style bike paths that run parallel to the roadway and for every road user to be happy and safe.

£1.57bn: Getting out of this arts hole

The £1.57bn ‘rescue package’ (as it was described by Chancellor Rishi Sunak) announced by the government clearly offers some hope to arts organisations, venues and institutions, including those in Hull, who were facing a rapid descent into oblivion, closing their doors and winding up their operations. Thousands of people in the arts are facing the threat of redundancy and I don’t want to see any organisation going out of business and their staff thrown on the scrapheap so let’s hope they all get the urgent help they require so that the show goes on.

As a freelance, I’m used to living a perilous, hand-to-mouth existence and never knowing where my next source of income is coming from, so it’s clearly important that those that might provide this stay in business. Yet, looking at the amount on the table and the battle ahead, £1.57bn, which on the surface looks like a tremendous amount of cash, won’t go too far for too long once it’s divvied up. It will clearly enable many organisations to stay operational but, with so much uncertainty regarding what ‘normal’ might be when we return to it, I’ve got serious concerns about how much of that money may, or may not, trickle down to those of us that bounce idiotically from project to project.

For context, in the couple of decades that I’ve worked in the arts, it’s been a game of diminishing returns. While commissioning fees have generally moved upwards, there’ve been less and less commissions, and a declining amount of scraps thrown our way. Despite guidance on fees and payments to artists, often artist’s fees are palpably laughable when you consider how much time it might take to, in my case, write a piece of work. So, in real terms, income was already getting smaller and I know, because I talk to lots of other artists, that this was already the case for lots of us way before Covid-19. So, with the dramatic changes to life, and the arts only just hanging in there, the real concern is that things will get worse and it will be decades before everything recovers and we can get back to the business of being underpaid at the same levels as previously.

Like many artists, I have some revenue streams that I’d have the audacity to regard as ‘regular income’ – projects and work that are stable enough to allow me to plan long-term, pay some bills and buy food to eat. Yet even that work is under-threat right now and is serious cause for concern. If other industries are fighting for survival (which they are) and employees in other sectors are facing redundancy (which they are), then this amount of support for the arts sector is nowhere near big enough because, if the choice is between putting food on the table for kids and paying the rent or mortgage or buying a ticket for a gig, or an armful of books, or getting lost for two hours in an immersive performance, or going to see a play, we know where that’s going. 

Naturally, I’d be looking at the big arts organisations in Hull to take a lead once they’ve steadied their own ships but they also need to consider this changing landscape, rather than pick up where they left off. It’s time for them to reset and reimagine their purpose and role in the community. If the many freelance and self-employed artists that this city has, who do so many wonderful creative things, are to survive, then this resetting and reimagining also needs to factor their talent in and conversations going forward need to include them. We need to smash some of the old hierarchies apart in order that we’re strong together and to ensure that we’re all doing something that’s relevant to the city that we serve. Hull Truck, Artlink, Absolutely Cultured, Freedom Festival, Hull Jazz, Back To Ours, all good organisations who do good work, need to continually consider, and reconsider, how they work with freelance talent and grass roots artists as we all battle to get out of the other side of this mess.

I’d encourage freelancers to share their homework right now. I’ve spoken to a few other writers about their many concerns and fears for the future, what they’re doing for work, how they’re generating income, if at all. Lots of us have fallen through the gaps, that’s the nature of freelance work and life, and many have not been eligible for the Government’s Self-Employment Income Support Scheme, or found applying for the Arts Council’s Emergency Response Fund too difficult, and welcome the re-opening of Arts Council’s project grants but are already in fear of form-filling and rejection. We have to face the sad fact that some freelance artists, and other freelancers who make arts and cultural events happen, will turn elsewhere in order to survive and leave this industry which, even at the best of times, offers little in the way of security and stability.

I’ve spent time in the last decade reminding influential people whenever I can of the importance of investment in the arts sector, through the What Next? movement and during other conversations, so reminding politicians of the need for ongoing investment and support in the arts is nothing new, even in these unprecedented times of emergency. The argument for investment in the arts is an easy one to make and win but, sadly, the case has to be made with infuriating regularity. It’s always worth reminding ourselves of the numbers – the arts contribute £10.8billion a year to the UK economy and the sector contributes £2.8billion a year to the Treasury via taxation, and generates a further £23billion a year and 363,700 jobs. For every £1 of funding in the arts, the government recoups £5. Not my figures, those of the most recent report from the Centre for Economics and Business Research based on ONS stats. More broadly, the wider creative industries contributed more than £111bn to the UK economy in 2018, which is almost £13mn every hour of the day. Suddenly, £1.57bn looks like small change, doesn’t it? There’s no further case to be made here, no sob story, it’s a proven model of success.

Personally, I’m worried about what a future working in the arts might look like. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m a working class Hull kid who was encouraged to find his voice, battled hard to get it heard and wants to help others to do the same. I’m not in it for the riches – there aren’t any to be had, most of us just get by – but because creativity is the only way to make sense of an increasingly confusing world. The arts have never been more important than right now.

Missing people

There seemed to be a large, and somewhat banging, gathering of people last night somewhere behind the house. And who can blame them? Seeing other people is important for mental health reasons and, judging by the amount of fucking shouting going on, they were all at a cautious and state-approved public distance from each other. It was rather nice to listen to.

Earlier in the day I’d sent a text to a mate of mine. “I’m at the missing people stage.” The response was rapid. “Why don’t you come to the garden for a socially distanced beer next week?” Which was nice.

Not sure, though, that socially distanced meeting up will quite have the desired effect. If I’ve learned anything these past *sub, please insert the correct number of weeks here, I have no idea how long it’s been. But it feels like another lifetime ago since I sat in a beer garden wishing I could escape from the horrors of being in other people’s company because, ultimately, I don’t know how to behave appropriately in the company of other people, and return home to do nothing* few weeks, it’s that I’m rather tactile. I like a hug. I like to give a hug. I fucking adore a group hug. Without that tactility, it’s just talking/shouting/acting like Brian Blessed at someone two metres away.

Anyone that does creative things for a poor excuse of a living and/or that is on the autistic/artistic socially awkward ‘do we have to go out?’ spectrum will no doubt have found themselves convincing themselves of late that they have been preparing all of their lives for this moment in history. We live in our heads, we like our own company, we don’t like to get dressed and washed, there’s nothing better than escaping into our blank canvases and filling them up with the madness that runs through our minds.

There is that but if, like me, you mostly string words together in the hope that they might resonate with other tortured souls, kindred spirits and rather odd people you wish didn’t come see your work and email you feedback afterwards, it’s always useful to get out and about at some point (even if you don’t get washed first). If nothing else to fill up a notebook, like the thieving magpie that you are, with overheard conversations from beer gardens, cafes or public transport. And to keep your finger on the pulse of what people are worried and concerned about, or who they’re fucking. That kind of thing.

Mornings are usually productive for me. By 1pm, on a writing day, I’m usually throwing in the towel and pondering where to go and have a cold one and stare at and eavesdrop on other humans. With that out of reach, I’m now obsessing about who the dirty cereal bowls belong to at the side of the sink, or ordering shit I don’t need with money I don’t have from ebay. It’s not a healthy state of mind, is it? It’s insular and tedious and there’s only so far I can dig inside myself to yank out terrible memories before I realise I’ve already mined that seam for all that it is worth.

Anyway, it is Mental Health Awareness Week, which might never have been more important than this moment in time, as I imagine that we’re all suffering to a lesser or greater degree with anxiety, stress, depression, hopelessness and my favourite of all the French words, ennui. You’ll get more sense out of other people than me on the subject of mental health but, if it helps, I’ve rebooted the filing system that exists in my head on two separate occasions after total mental collapse and I can tell you that, however down you might be, however nonsensical and difficult life might appear right now, the light will shine on you once more. As Leonard Cohen wrote, there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So hang in there. Other people can’t wait to see you again.

So, yes, I’m at the missing people stage. That’s not to say I’m not seeing anyone else – luckily there are a couple of important others around me right now (most definitely their bowls sink-side). Sadly, my mum died in the early hours of April 5th, passing away to a dreadful and tasteless soundtrack of Aled Jones which, I hope, made her laugh in her final moments in her care home. We were not with her as she danced her way towards the afterlife to whatever tune she’d selected from her inner playlist to drown out the sound of the disgraced Songs of Praise presenter. I imagine the Glenn Miller Orchestra or something more kick ass. Yes, I’m missing her. She made me laugh. A lot. And encouraged silliness at every turn in life. And not being able to give her a hug at the end, and having to attend a funeral with only seven other mourners, has added to the surrealness of losing someone that meant everything.

I don’t write the above paragraph for any sympathy – I’ve had some tremendous and meaningful support, love and affection thrown my way so don’t feel in need of any more – but to serve as a reminder that, behind all of our closed doors, people are dealing with the normal pain and twists and turns of life right now. You included. All of us have shit going on and some of it is unbearable.

Life is more real and raw than ever. Yet, these moments are so much more difficult to deal with when our support networks are only reachable via Zoom, Skype, Whatsapp or by standing at the garden gate, flicking open a letterbox with a long stick and shouting at each other. People are losing other people, and not just to coronavirus, and realising that grieving is so tough right now; access to children that don’t live with parents is impossible; people are losing work; incomes are shrinking and bills are piling up; people are realising that those essential payment holidays will make living as hard as fucking nails on the other side of this; people are suffering, collapsing, feeling fragile, at a loss; so many people are falling through the net and have no support at all. And to think, we thought the only thing we needed to do was stock up on toilet roll and order a facemask off the internet.

So, yes, I’m missing people. Because people, and being there for other people, these are the only things that matter. In Mental Health Awareness Week we need to think about others and to work out how to best help them out. Don’t be like the shoddy state, who were willing to sacrifice some of us because they’re fucking inhuman, self-serving Eton educated toffs. Be the very best human you can be because, come the great day when we can enter the new ‘normal’, having each other’s backs and giving a shit might be the only thing we have left to sustain us as a species.

A trip to a place in my heart…

Those people that end up returning to their old schools on programmes like Who Do You Think You Are? always trot out the cliché that “it’s a lot smaller than I remember.”

Some parts of Paisley Primary School, where I attended 1970-1975, are a lot bigger than I remember. There’s certainly more space outside, more green, I think the two-storey building that housed the classroom that was home to most of my addled memories (including that time David Holland pooed himself in class) met the bulldozer a while back.

The office, where I sat after flying headfirst into an uncompromising radiator prior to dripping blood all over the then head’s rather beautiful beige Rover P6 en-route to Hull Royal Infirmary still appears to be in the same place. There’s a familiar looking Victorian-era corridor that has echoes of my former footsteps.

The kids are about the same size as I was. Thinner, maybe. The undersized furniture too. The place is a lot cleaner. There’s no sign of the bottles of milk that Thatcher snatched just after my time there and, as a result, there’s no residual sour stench hanging in the air. There’s a thoroughly modern whiff around this Newington ward, west Hull primary. It’s mostly the same but different. Fresher. The staff are super lovely, the pupils the epitome of attentive and well-behaved. Just the odd remnant that is as confusing now as it was then. The separate but never used for their intended purpose different entrances for Boys and Girls. “What was it like in your day?” Like this, really. Only with more dangerous, head-splitting methods of heating the room. Boys and girls all went through the same door. More running around the place, despite the staff telling me otherwise. Less order. A different coloured uniform. No, no, we didn’t use the separate entrances.

A member of staff reminded the gathered Year 5s that it was the Victorians that liked to segregate the sexes at the point of entry. Dave is not a Victorian.

I was invited in by a pal who teaches there after I let slip that I was a former student. I was to talk about my career as a writer, part of a series of visits by former pupils talking about the world of work. They had, in advance, been prepped on who and what I was. “I hope you’ve not learned any of the bad bits,” I sent flying over their heads.

I tend not to look back. The last time I was anywhere near this place was, I think, in 1976, when I went to a St John’s First Aid class, and managed, before the class, to get my foot caught underneath a gate that used to hang at the end of the street, and had to receive treatment and a lifelong love of irony from St John’s. Clearly if I go anywhere near Paisley Street I have an accident and I can’t say the thought hadn’t entered my head that I might leave this visit in the back of an ambulance.

Anyway, what a lovely bunch. “What inspired you?” “This place.” It was true. Weekly trips from school to Anlaby Road’s Carnegie Library were the highlight of the week, then reading in class, writing, sharing stories, telling stories out loud, doing funny voices, sharing my favourite Edward Lear, encouraging teachers the likes of which I never really encountered again. Watching Mark Howard bite those teachers every other day. Being rubbish at sports (although I only remember us doing bean bag relay races and nothing else). My flights of fancy supported, my creativity nurtured, my career in the choir cut short because of my fits of giggling.

“I was one of those kids whose head was never out of a book. And that was never wrong. And then I knew I wanted to be a writer. What about you lot?” There were a lot of readers in the room. A lot of budding writers. A lot of stories to tell and voices to nurture. I was among friends, albeit short friends in extremely red jumpers (I later christened a Year 6 group I was providing with writing tips The Red Army).

Quite what they made of me I may never know, but I had a blast. They’re writing some words and I’m selecting some winners.

The head took me on a tour. Here is a school, like every Hull school, in a tough area, with a high proportion of students entitled to Free School Meals and big class sizes the norm but where, thanks to the tireless efforts of dedicated staff, a beautiful learning environment has been created. It was good back in the day but it feels much more conducive to receiving a good education right here right now. That’s a magnificent effort in the current climate. The head also told me, proudly, that the school has recently been successful in securing a sizable amount of money to purchase some new books. So the readers will have plenty to read, and the budding writers will take those first steps, and their words will make a difference in the future.

I left the school and went to see my mother, now ensconced in a residential care home. We each ate a Breakaway, another 1970s throwback, to go with our instant cappuccinos. “I’ve just been back to school,” I told her. “Paisley? Oh, lovely. You liked it there. Was it a lot smaller than you remember?” Sort of the same, really, but its heart was bigger. A lot bigger.

Accept things as they are…

“For me – and for everybody else, probably – this is my first experience growing old, and the emotions I’m having, too, are all first-time feelings. If it were something I’d experienced before, then I’d be able to understand it more clearly, but this is the first time, so I can’t. For now all I can do is put off making any detailed judgments and accept things as they are. Just like I accept the sky, the clouds, and the river. And there’s also something kind of comical about it all, something you don’t want to discard completely.”

Haruki Murakami – What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

A world of plenty…

Here’s some thinking out loud I did last year when I was working with Invisible Dust on their three-year Surroundings project, writing about vegetables. A strange but fulfilling commission. Rather than let this little essay gather digital dust on the hard drive, I’m sharing it with you, here.

Romanesco Broccoli

A world of plenty

We live in a world of plenty. Yet still there are people that have nothing. We live in world where there is an abundance of food, yet still people starve. There are a shameful amount of people now reliant on food banks. There are growing rates of ‘food poverty’.

We live in a world that is divided into the haves and have nots. And we accept this as the norm because we choose to and a lot of us are greedy individuals, or rather we’re programmed to ensure our survival at all costs and, thus, we cling on to what we have. And tabloid newspapers and governments are rather keen to persuade us that poverty is the fault of those that are in it, rather than something that we could collectively change.

I have been poor, and not just during my time as an artist, and there have been times when I’ve been down to my last few quid but have had young children to feed. For those stuck in a poverty trap – and believe me, when you are poor, everything suddenly becomes more expensive, as anyone that has had to pay for electricity or gas with tokens or keys can testify – making ethical and educated choices regarding food purchases suddenly drops down the priority list, no matter how ethical and educated you might be. So piling a couple of baskets high with turkey twizzlers and smiling potato faces and lots of fatty, processed items from Iceland or Farmfoods or the like that will fill up plates and youngsters for a week, for hardly any money, is seductive. And it’s also about survival. Storing up fat in and on our bodies for the leaner times when we might have no money at all. Imagine that. Maybe you can’t.

I don’t recall the last time I couldn’t afford food. And that I couldn’t afford good food, and all the things that are rich in the right nutrients. Foods that will help me reduce the risk of heart disease, foods low in saturated fat and trans fat, and those that contain monounsaturated and polyunsaturated oils. I know what real food is; things that grow in the ground, on a tree, come out of the sea, run on the land, or fly through the air.

Humble brag but I am educated and, also, middle-class. I know what’s good for me. Yet such is the complexity of my relationship with food that I am often tempted by naughty things that will do me harm. Late night kebabs and curries, those packets of 20 (approx.) German meatballs you can get for a quid, a Peperami stick from the corner shop. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles. A Ginsters pasty. Not only should I know better, I do.

About five years ago, when I was heartbroken after a failed relationship, I hit food and drink hard in the way that Keith Richards hit heroin in the late sixties and seventies. Wild, enjoyable, hedonistic times but then one morning I woke up alongside someone I didn’t recognise, feeling fat and bloated. And, having looked in the mirror unable to recognise myself, had a revelation that if I was to go on living, and was ever to have another long-term relationship that would end in heartbreak, rather than a string of casual flings that involved eating unhealthy food off other people’s bodies, I had to do something about it.

And so, literally overnight, I did. I bought some cook books and applied the knowledge that I had stored at the back of my mind – my personal food knowledge larder, if you will. And started to purchase vegetables with regularity from a local greengrocers, and revelled in food preparation and cooking with fresh ingredients. I ate my five-a-day. Cut down on the booze. Consumed sensibly. Stopped eating after 6pm. Actually concerned myself with ethical farming, local farmers’ markets, and reconnected with the food on my plate, and where it was sourced.

I became a cliché, yes, but one that may live a couple of years longer. Interestingly, as I returned to something resembling an average weight for a man of my height, and my body fat reduced, people asked me if I was ok. Which they hadn’t when I’d needed them too. And lots of people thought I was ill. Very ill. And possibly dying. Which I wasn’t. And they were relieved when I explained my regime, and sometimes congratulated me, but I often thought that their reaction to me revealed that they had body image issues, and food-related issues, of their own. Which, of course, we all do.

All too rarely do writers open their emails in a morning to find that someone has commissioned them. An email to me from Invisible Dust offered me the chance to “write a new piece of writing on the theme of food and food sustainability” for their three-year Surroundings project. An offer so wonderfully vague that my positive response was pretty instantaneous. I could, within a certain remit, do whatever I wanted. Which isn’t always possible.

I write this having written this new piece of writing. And as I sit here having contemplated food and food sustainability in order to get that new piece of writing written, I realise that I’m still gathering my thoughts on what is an incredibly ‘big’ subject. Which might sound odd. Writers, especially those given open briefs, flounder and flounce about not really knowing what they’re doing, attempting to grasp at something mercurial and, well, non-existent, because of course until you get something down nothing does exist.

Initially, for no reason other than I thought there might be comic potential in concentrating on vegetables and because I only had a vague sense of what I was trying to achieve, I decided to keep a log of my vegetable intake. I mistakenly presumed that this long list would then simply result in an automatic poem that I could submit to Invisible Dust and we’d all be happy. It didn’t; it just resulted in a long list that revealed that I eat a lot of peppers, chillies, shallots and, erm, chips. With no poetic merit. Although, as a non-poet, it was better than a lot of my previous attempts at poetry.

There was a point when I considered the personification of vegetables as the way forward. You know, Keith the Carrot, Paula the Potato, ‘Arry the Artichoke. We’d all dress in funny veg suits, sprout from the ground, waving at the sun, and it would all be like a bad children’s TV show. This is, I think, based on my main childhood relationship to vegetables formed by the BBC television show That’s Life, on which Esther Rantzen used to flash her marvellous teeth and hold up various root crops and make us laugh at how they resembled genitalia (the root crops, not her teeth). Which is why I would never go near turnips and carrots when my mum served them up on the dinner plate.

Thankfully, I didn’t head down that innuendo-laden, waving cucumbers around as phallus weaponry in a fight scene cul-de-sac. I have, rather predictably, written a love story. Partly because the word ‘seduced’ kept coming up when I was reading and talking and thinking around the subject – we’re seduced by supermarkets to buy their ‘finest’ and ‘taste the difference’ products, we’re seduced by community food networks, container gardens, urban food projects, we’re seduced by the Fair Trade mark, we’re seduced by middle-class values that might lead to us buying boxes full of organic fruit and veg, we’re seduced by marketing, we’re seduced by the earth and all that nature offers, we’re seduced by local food producers and market stall traders. Some of these seduction techniques will transform our lives for the better. At other times, we’re being seduced by manipulative devils. How I wish I was a movement director and could cover all those bases via the medium of interpretive dance.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about our relationship to food. Thinspiration, a 2007 play, was about a young woman with an eating disorder who had come to view food as her “enemy”. She was in the midst of a battle but we didn’t present all that as binary conflict, because it isn’t. But it is interesting looking at the oppositional nature with which we regard foodstuffs and food production. Good food versus bad. Winter leaves wear a white hat in the cowboy movie, hot dogs clearly rock up head-to-toe in black. Factory farming is Darth Vader, organic veg Luke Skywalker. The whole world of food production and global resources is a battle of good versus evil.

A meeting with Dr Lewis Holloway from the Geography department at the University of Hull, who conducts research into food, farming and technology and most definitely wears a white hat, confirmed that my thinking was along the right tracks and also, ahem, gave me more food for thought.

When I worked in higher education I taught a module on semiotics but I’d never considered semiotics in relation to vegetables, until Lewis told me he taught a module on that. And, of course, I felt a fool that the cultural and religious significance of food, as well as the social, buying and sharing relationships we enjoy as a result of food, had barely registered on my radar. Even when I’ve broken bread with people I’ve barely known across a dinner table. Even when I’ve picked up unusual oddities from the world food store round the corner and they’ve explained various meanings that went with, say, the ingredients of Rendang for the people of Minangkabau, for whom the chilli symbolises ulama (the learned ones) and sharia (prescribed religious and secular duties). So, of course! Food is cultural as well as nutritional.

I left Lewis feeling wiser, as one should after having a cup of coffee and a natter with a leading academic. A lot of our conversation revolved around trust and how people currently have a need to rethink their relationship with food. For instance, supermarket food is intentionally disconnected from the soil, and their packaging and the clean, hygienic goods within were developed to gain consumer trust. But for others, that can’t be trusted at all because the dirt on something you’d pull from the ground yourself is a guarantee of authenticity and connects our food back to the earth.

We’re taking back control via ethical consumption, but also this is happening due to the rise in the number of middle class people, or people who perceive themselves as middle class, and the perception that to be middle class means certain things. Such as the pressure to buy, say, organic, and rejoice in that and tell everyone you bloody know that is what you’ve done, wearing it like a badge of honour.

Still, there’s a growing number of us asking those big questions of our food. Where’s it from? Is it safe? What damaging chemicals have been used in the growing process? Has it been ethically produced? And what about labour relations and bad working conditions for farm workers in some parts of the globe where our produce hails from? What negative environmental issues have been brought to bear getting this stuff to our plate? What’s the environmental cost of importing all those unseasonal foodstuffs we now demand all year round?

Then there’s the Commodity Veil that shrouds our consumption where, for our own psychological reasons, we actually like not knowing where the food we consume comes from. Especially when we think about cattle getting slaughtered or radishes screaming when they’re pulled from the soil.

We are clearly living in a world of re-attachment, after years of being detached from food production. The rise of alternative food networks and people taking pride in their purchases from farmers’ markets, buying veg boxes, the number of people on allotment waiting lists or developing veg plots in their own gardens. That’s all back to want to trust in produce and these alternative food networks are bridging the gap between people, place and production. And along the way farmers are changing their knowledge and thinking relating to farming and animals in order to keep pace with consumers, while developments in robotics, IT, and genetic science are all impacting on the food sector globally in positive ways.

Which is all very nice, isn’t it? And it offers us all hope.

Vegetables are mind blowing. It’s very easy to take them for granted and to stop marvelling at their magnificence. I genuinely recall the first time I saw a Romanesco Broccoli. Mainly, I think, because it was relatively recently and it arrived in the food box we have delivered weekly. And I held it in my hand and got lost in it for quite some time. It was quite a work of art. Psychedelic. Visually stunning and a maths lesson all in one. Fennel’s always thrilled me. And I rather appreciate a beetroot colouring my fingers.

All of which is a long-winded way of writing that, if I were to now start writing the piece of writing that Invisible Dust commissioned, then it would probably be a different piece of writing altogether. Because I’m still thinking, and I’m thinking more, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of my own thoughts on the theme of food and food sustainability, never mind being able to take those thoughts and turn them into something that might be useful to someone who would read or hear them. So I wrote a love story. Girl meets market trader. Falls in love. He gives her a bite of the apple. It goes a big wrong. But she learns something along the way and is much the better for it. That old trope.

And that is a long-winded way to get back round to the beginning of this essay, because I do like circular writing. I only ask questions, I’m not claiming to have any answers.

We do live in a world of plenty. There’s more than enough to go round.

You’re probably so intelligent that you’re ahead of me but we can’t expect supermarkets and freezer centres to lead us to a better world of food sustainability and ethically sourced produce, or to worry about the exploitation of farm workers, or to present alternatives to current models of food provision; they’re too busy locking food producers into terrible deals, capturing and attempting to monopolise the food market and constructing the demand they tell us we are asking them to supply in order to perpetuate their own myths and boost their own profits.

And we most definitely cannot expect governments to do anything other than pit us against each other, and encourage us to blame the poor for their stupidity because being poor is the fault of the poor, right? And being uneducated is their fault too. And you, from your middle-class, boastful organic food buying position are happy to go along with that, right? Because that way you get to hang on to what you’ve got and not feel guilty that you might, just might, be part of the problem.

Maybe that’s what needs to change, then?

Don’t worry. You’re off the hook. I’m actually addressing myself. Unless, of course, you recognise something of yourself in all this, in which case it’s most definitely all about you.

Surviving on this planet has always involved working together. Give a woman a three-pack of courgettes, and you feed her for a day. Give her the keys to your allotment and not only do you feed her and her family for a lifetime, you change their relationship to every other living thing we share the planet with, and we all get to live happily ever after.

That was the year that was…

What a year, eh? Never before has Hull played host to such a party, nor its people partied so hard.

2,000 events in more than 250 venues, galleries, museums and performances spaces, as well as countless other events on the fringes. I’ve not been to all of them, obviously. But we did see loads of things. Loads of different things. Loads of extraordinary things. It’s been a mind-blowingly different, positive and exceptional year of spectacles, shared moments, intimate events, world class artists and local purveyors of cultural shenanigans.

Hats off to the team that pulled it all off and, in the process, played a big part in restoring the sense of pride and optimism in the city that I recall this place had when I was growing up. What a city in which to be a youngster right now, surrounded by cultural activity and a can-do attitude and with arts high on the agenda in classrooms. May that bubble never burst.

In the weeks and months and years to come we need to keep riding the wave of momentum set in motion by Hull’s year in the spotlight. Can’t wait to see and experience what happens next and what the long-term positives for Hull’s citizens are. To contort a Ghandi quote, a city’s culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people, so this ride doesn’t stop just because 2017 now resides in the memory; the year is a gift to the future of Hull.

Happy New Year and all the best for 2018 and beyond.

And while you deal with your 365-day induced hangover, here’s a nice boilerplate…

  • At least 9 in 10 residents have experienced the hundreds of new commissions and artworks created to celebrate the UK City of Culture year.
  • 2,500 volunteers have given 33 years of activity, or more than 300,000 hours.
  • More than £32m raised to deliver the year, made possible by 80 funding partners. Building on Hull City Council’s £3.6 million investment as Host City, this represents a 9:1 return.
  • 79 per cent of Hull 2017 funding is dedicated to public facing activities, including the widest range of cultural events in every corner of the city and legacy.
  • 60 projects across the city involving local people and artists funded through the Hull 2017 Creative Communities Programme.
  • 85 events in the Back to Ours Festival, which took place during three half terms as part of Hull 2017, bringing circus, comedy, theatre, music and film to schools, shopping centres, community centres and other ‘on the doorstep’ venues, and seen by more than 8,000 people.


The Last Jedi…

The Dorchester Falcon

I dislike nostalgia. I’m never sure where looking back gets any of us. Very little gets me dewy-eyed about the past.

But there I was, in Vue, Hull, as the opening titles of Star Wars: The Last Jedi crawled in that familiar way, and I couldn’t help thinking of that time, in 1977, when I turned to look at my dad as the X-Wing Starfighters leading the Rebel Assault on the Death Star went on their dizzying trench run only to see he’d fallen fast asleep. He was 46. I was 11. 11 years of being my dad had taken its toll so who could blame him for taking the opportunity for a nap; the Empire could be defeated without him and he looked very comfortable leaving me in the capable hands of Luke Skywalker. Besides, we were in the safe and secure surroundings of Hull’s Dorchester Cinema, an 1800+ seat barn of a place, a cinematic Millennium Falcon, all faded-glory, dusty, smokey and specially re-opened for the occasion (it had closed earlier the same year) and not the kind of place where Darth Vader was going to rock up.

Back in Vue and the nostalgic wave continued throughout the next 2 hours and 33 minutes. I was struggling to calculate whether I was the same age my dad was back in 1977 (I’m not, I’m older), then I got caught up thinking that Luke, or rather Mark Hamill, might be that age (he’s not, he’s older than me), which would have been romantically convenient.

But there was some synchronicity; we’d taken an 11-year-old with us who happens to share a name with my dad. Roles reversed, I wondered if there’d be enough going on on screen to keep me awake so that his overbearing memory in 40 years wouldn’t be me dropping off mid-Haribo. I pretty much gave up on Star Wars after Return of the Jedi, have only glimpsed Episodes I-III on DVD out of the corner of my eye and was underwhelmed by The Force Awakens. Still, I needn’t have worried. I loved every second of The Last Jedi. The complexity of it all, the inventiveness, the fine plot, the new aliens, the endless convenient ways out of tricky situations, the SFX, the wit and humour, Carrie Fisher’s fine swansong, the return of Luke, Snoke’s rather pathetic and simplistic end (#spoiler – cut him in half!). This is Star Wars as it was meant to be; as it was 40 years ago; as George Lucas intended. It’s so watchable, enjoyable and in parts thrilling that my dad would have slept through the bloody lot.