I wrote a wee while ago about returning to Birmingham and how that felt and all, and I suppose while this is undoubtedly all exaggeration given the fact that I’ve only been away from there for five or six weeks I got a chance to test out my theories last weekend when I actually went back. The train journey down there might’ve been the best bit if I think about it. Trains are great. It’s so nice to be able to see distant fields suffused with great globs of sunlight through gaps in the clouds while you remain in the shade. The skewiff spire of Chesterfield cathedral. All that. Home is luxuries though. A bag of pic n mix, roast beef flavour monster munch, which even vegetarians can eat and that new fanta which tastes a bit like sweetened sick, but is a really pleasant colour, stuff like that. I got the bus a couple of times and the thing that stood out most, more than ever, because it always did at least a bit was an old shop, long since closed down, that used to sell computer parts. The faded sign, still in the window, which used to be royal blue, but has gradually faded to a more appealing pastel shade bears the names in angular typefaces - what might nowadays be called retro-futurism – Amstrad, Atari, Spectrum, Commodore 64 all emblazoned in white across the window, and beneath them torn and yellowed net curtains half-hiding the bare interior. If you look closely inside you can see the dusty remains of shelves, and what might’ve been a counter in the corner, and who knows what visions of the future changed hands there all those years ago. I remember once, on the way home from town, a boy wearing one of those fashionable Atari tee shirts got on the bus and sat down in the seat right in front of me. The shirt was much too big for him, perhaps two or three sizes, the Atari logo in bright yellow on a forest green background. He was tall himself though, and awkward with it, the picture of gawkiness with cropped and thickly gelled black hair and thin-framed glasses, his movements were indecisive and he stumbled along the stationary bus before sitting down. His face was covered in acne, little peaks of white and yellow surrounded by vast drifts of red all spilling into each other and feeding off each other. Like a toadstool, or a forest. All this detail about him isn’t so important really, but it has stuck with me. I can picture him almost exactly, or at least I think I can, and I watched him as we trundled along, the little rhythmic glint of the sun on his frames through gaps in the buildings. The tee shirt looked like a concession, a treat, it was so pristine looking – how proud he must have been. I waited for us to get to the old computer parts shop, to see what his reaction would be. But as we passed, and I was quite sure he was looking directly at the place, he didn’t even blink, not one tiny hint of a nuance changed. How disappointing. Perhaps his mind was reeling at the sight of it, but he kept it hidden, I can’t rightly tell of course, but there was a potential clash there – perhaps it only existed in my own mind but I felt it deserved its own half-second of drama. And how irritating is it not to be able to know things? Does it ever bother you that there are things you will never know? Not just big important things either, but tiny trivial things too. When I was at school, and I tell you this by way of example, some teacher’s would make their classes put on house assemblies (if you’re not au fait with the house system then basically the school is split into chunks, usually four, though there were only three at my school, and each one is a house, they then play sports against each other. Every week on Wednesday mornings each house would have an assembly), they’d have to choose a topic and then perform a short talk on it in front of about a third of the school. This wasn’t a fun thing to do really – I had to do it myself once, though it was an entirely unremarkable event, I can’t even remember what our assembly was about. But this particular one does stick in my mind, if only for what happened after it. The assembly itself was given by a group of troublemakers from the year above me – you could tell they resented having to do the thing; so unenthusiastic were their utterances. The topic was school dinners, the relative merits thereof and they half-heartedly presented the various well-worn clichés and jokes, anything else would have reeked of effort I suppose. But the rubbishness of the assembly is not really the point, they were all rubbish really, even if the speakers were actually interested in the topic they had chosen. I recall one on Pokémon cards a few years ago which was unintentionally hilarious – it’s probably best not to devote a section to ad-libbing about your favourite cards, that’s a tip for you all in case you’re ever in a similar situation. But anyway, one the way out of the assembly hall you had to pass through quite a narrow doorway, which was a squeeze even if there were two of you, so getting a whole third of the school through meant that there was usually a bit of a wait before you could leave. This occasion was no different, and as I stood there waiting I lazily eavesdropped on the people in front of me – it turned out that they both knew one of the people who had given the assembly, and so most of the discussion was devoted to how crap he had been and how much they were going to insult him when they next saw him. Fair enough. Then, as we approached the doorway one of them turned to the other and stepping forward a little way, so as to be the next people through once a gap emerged he said “You know, the real problem with school dinners is…” and with that they both pushed through the throng and were gone, while I stood stranded just yards from where the end of the sentence was now being said. Now, thinking realistically, what he actually ended up saying was probably not that interesting or insightful – after all, how interesting can the topic of school dinners conceivably get? But, stricken there amongst the people clamouring to get through the doors, and too frail and small to push my way past I thought the worst thing that you can think in such a situation: ‘I’m never going to know what the end of that sentence is, and it’s going to bother me forever’. And, well, here I am some seven or eight years later writing about it. I went out last Wednesday night to see a friend of a friend DJ at this awful gothical rock night club and although the music was decent – he even played a couple of B&S tunes for me (if I worried about such things this is where I would put a cheery note saying something like ‘See?! Content!), there was virtually no one there, only fifteen or so people, which sort of put a dampers on things. Now, the night out isn’t really the important thing. Because of high taxi fares and the fact that I live on the other side of Birmingham from all the people I was with that night I decided to go back with them, which I duly did and stayed the night at my friend’s house. That’s not the important bit either. Next morning in the kitchen of this rather plush house I was sitting with another friend, who had also stayed over – I’m not mentioning names not out of any desire to maintain anonymity or anything really, they both have the same name and things just tend to get confusing anyway. But there we were – the fact that the house is ‘rather plush’ is something you should hold onto, it will become more significant a bit later. So, we were sitting there, just having a chat and in walks my friend’s mother. Now, I don’t really know her and I imagine she probably resents the fact that her children invite so many strangers to come and stay without consulting her first, but she was breezy and pleasant enough to us. I suppose you have to be. Anyway we chatted with her for a while and she mentioned that she had a new car, or well, she corrected herself, second hand, not new – you know. We nodded. Taking up the thread I mentioned that my dad had a new car too – he can’t shut up about it - I added jovially. Perhaps I jumped in with that a little too quickly, or perhaps my tone was accidentally condescending, or perhaps she had inferred something from my mannerisms, perhaps my awkwardness or awkward over-politeness, I can’t say, but in that instant as I was saying that innocent little sentence and a half she flashed me a contemptuous look that so took me aback that I stumbled over the last few words. She checked herself though and asked what sort of car it was, I told her and told her how old it is as well. Oh. She seemed unsure what to say next and swiftly changed the subject. But in that moment where she looked at me, as though I was in some way trying to somehow belittle her, I wanted to show her my house over the other side of Birmingham. Perhaps coming downstairs on a Sunday afternoon into the living room, my mum by the window doing the ironing, a bit pile of crumpled washing around her, the football results on the telly, my dad and my brothers draped variously across the settees, eyes fixed. Toys and stuff strewn across the floor, the lunch things still not cleared away, the stale, dry heat from the iron and the glutinous churn of the classified results, the lethargic looks on my siblings’ faces. I wanted to show her all that, just briefly, wanted her to know. In truth those grim Sunday afternoons spent in stasis, where escape outside, whatever the weather, or back upstairs were all I could opt for are the only times I can honestly say I don’t like living at home. But my friends mother looking at me like that in the pristine kitchen of her spacious home, her new car parked in the driveway next to her husband’s as though I were passing judgement on her, as though I were scorning all that – I wanted her to see differently, to see the truth. And it’s not a case of who’s most hard done by, because how pathetic would that be? It’s pretty pathetic anyway I suppose. Perhaps I feel most sorry for my dad, almost turned gloating villain of the piece either goggle-eyed in front of the football in our stuffy living room or in the mind of my friend’s mum, lording it up over his new motor, or whatever it was she thought. A constant war, wrote David Hare, a war of attrition. We should keep that in mind. And then today I felt entirely disorientated by things. There was yet another anti-war protests organised by the student committee today, more chants of “Warfare? Welfare!” and the like rang aloud as I came out of my lecture today, and then they started marching up towards town. I was on the way there myself so I followed them at some distance; they were walking in the road, blocking the traffic. I couldn’t sympathise with them – they got in the way of a sticky bus full of people going to Halfway (I didn’t get that joke until one such bus almost hit me the other day). And then halfway up the road they all sat down, but only for a few seconds, egged on by shopkeepers and passers by, drawn out by the sunlight and the noise. I sort of know one of the organisers of these protests – his name is Jethro, I’m sure he wont mind me mentioning it. I can’t imagine he has much time for the interweb anyway, besides indymedia dot org. He stood for union president just last week actually, but was beaten by the captain of the rugby team. So it goes. And yes, there he was at the head of the line, megaphone in hand, leading the chant – “I say warfare…” etc, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to get involved, not that I don’t think protesting is a good thing – quite the opposite really, but I felt as though the focus of that today was not my own. The focus has shifted. And I couldn’t match Jethro in his boundless enthusiasm – I kept losing my train of thought and wondering if his dippy parents (that’s an assumption by the way, I’m sure his parents are very nice people) had so named him after top prog rockers Jethro Tull. I sort of hope so. It can’t have been after top Cornish comedian Jethro I wouldn’t have thought so. He fascinates me anyway; he’s like a cartoon character in that he always dresses in the same regulation clothes, grey fleece top and black drainpipe jeans. The top has the flag of Norway on the shoulder of one of the sleeves, perhaps both. He tops off the ensemble with a Eurohike bag decorated with a couple of Socialist Worker badges, bits and pieces like that. But on went the march with whistles and giggles and chants and banners being waved and I followed them along the road reading the banners and watching the people, but still something seemed faintly unsavoury about it. The focus, as I say. But I don’t think I could put my finger on how it has shifted, or from what to what. Perhaps it’s just the sense that the ace card has now been dealt, perhaps it’s not that the protests or protesters have changed but that circumstances have changed, but the protests stay the same. How they’re supposed to resolve this is beyond me I’m afraid. I followed the up into town anyway, this hazy sense of unease with me and they filed past the various shoppers and so forth, including a guy who’s often knocking around Sheffield – quite old he is, and he wears one of those luminous yellow jackets, the sort that cyclists wear to stop cars hitting them and he carries a placard saying ‘Repent and Turn to God’, or words to that effect. Past him and everyone they went and stopped, appropriately, at a place called the Peace Gardens. I wandered around for a bit, still unable to put my finger on quite what had irked me about the protesters. I got charged 65p for a can of Coke. It was such a lovely day too. It was one of those days where, if you’re at school, you can take your jacket off and walk home with your shirt hanging out, and it’s probably still just a little bit chilly to be going around with just a shirt on, but the principle of the thing is more important so you dare not put your jacket back on, lest winter return. I saw a good few schoolkids doing that today, there’s little more satisfying. There were a few still with their coats on though. But before that I sat in the sun outside Virgin Records and waited for my friend to turn up. Which he didn’t actually, but it was ok because we rescheduled for a bit later. In other news I now have a ticket to see popular Scottish band Belle and Sebastian in concert. And I’m going to the London thing in April. Words cannot express my excitement. Maybe I’ll get to meet you there. - Kieran _________________________________________________________________ MSN Messenger - fast, easy and FREE! http://messenger.msn.co.uk +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+