Sinister: unplugged

[Kieran Devaney]

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











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