The Leeds Debacle

LEEDS

issue 17 - ÂŁfree

oct - dec 2014

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H e l l o P o e t r y P o l i t i c s

M u s i c S t o r i e s F i l m

A r t i c l e s Independents M e d i a

U n i v e r s e L e e d s The End

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/ JOHN BARRAN

hello.

I

t was around this time four years ago that I sat in the drivelling din of a plastic city bar ripped soulless by over-trained barmen leering at under-aged girls looking for over-paid yuppies lying with under-educated abandon about over-opinionated guff.

Encouraged by my surroundings to drink as many tongue-stripping, aptly-named ‘cock-tails’ during doubly-inaptly-named ‘happy’ ‘hour’ I soon found myself bellowing and back-slapping with the worst of them. Several games of gobshite-tennis later, I stumbled home with a depression that my city had become an egotistical, short-sighted, fat-bellied void.

The next morning, shed-headed, I staggered to my overflowing post-box; adverts masquerading as information, adverts masquerading as invitations, adverts masquerading as menus and adverts masquerading as magazines spew forth. Barely concealed deceit by which the only degree of separation was how low one would stoop or how high one had mastered their amoral pursuit of material, money and madness. This was not my city.

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In true Yorkshire tradition I bleated about it. Then I did something about it. With a belief that beneath the bluster and bravado lay like-minded, goodhearted humans silenced by the cacophony of consumerism, my intention was to provide an inclusive platform to give the good people a voice and to create an honest product to be freely enjoyed. So I started a magazine and called it The Leeds Debacle.

Somehow my regular social media badgering for folk to send in their writing in all shapes, sizes, subjects and styles worked and local wordsmiths of all skills and experience created 36 quarterly pages of all-sorts. A £10k printing quote for issue 1 nearly derailed the whole thing, a distributor barred the magazine for calling Mr Blobby the ‘c’ word, some articles offended the wrong people and some words were misjudged or misspelt or rubbish. But on the whole the ramblings of Leeds revealed a thoughtful, interesting, passionate and talented city.

Now all good things must come to an end. Yet after announcing its demise, The Leeds Debacle has been unexpectedly resurrected by Independent Leeds, a big shiny new project to create a definitive guide to independent businesses, where we will be hosting a blog with the same methodology as the magazine. You are hereby invited to email words to john@ independentleeds.co.uk and if this thing succeeds you will be read by many more eyes. But before this turns into an advert masquerading as an article I’ll stop.

This little magazine changed little; the powerful remain corrupt, the media remains distorted, the Machiavellianism remains potent and the public remain ignorant. But what also remains is overwhelming good humanity and it engulfs and it empowers. Thank you to the 154 names opposite who contributed and to the many more who supported. It’s the end of The Leeds Debacle as we know it and I feel fine.

this is not the end.

Issue 1 to 17 of The Leeds Debacle is: John Barran Ross Newsome Gareth Jones Michael Lilley Rachel Gardner Ed Teale Kirsty Garland Tom Pearson Lucy Meredith Arthritic Bear Max Patterson Chloe McGenn Keeley Egan Danny Egan Robin Jahdi David Marshall Gethyn Pugh Adam Lee Jones Ringo Mountbatten Lee Peaks Sarah Francis Emily Hallewell George Quinn Stuart Pearson Matthew Allen Harley Ellis Richard Sykes Luke Moseley David Barlow Tom Dean Kyle James-Patrick Rebecca Elliott Gareth Tantram John Gandy Glen Pinder Appyman Ian Bavill Jacqueline Howics Joseph J Wood Azar Ashraf Damien Knightley Stevie Rigsby Michelle Dalgety Emily Ward Lisa Darbyshire Tom E Twisted Jo Watson Steve Lunn Darren Driver Laura Taylor Dan Clark Thea de Gallier

Elaine Park Winston Plowes Tim Chapman Ian Gant Keely Brightmore Chris Hill Nathan Velayudhan Charys Ellmer Joe Scrase Emily Phipps Chris Turner Nicola Stewart Mik Artistik Matt Wilson Mason Henry Summer Katriona Gilmour Adam Littlefair Ellie Golder Tim Roberts Jimmy Gregory Fraser Morris Neil Balmforth Gabo Barreto James Golledge Robert Endeacott Deb Johnston John-Paul Craven Rebecca Jackson Sophie Hyland Joe Tarpey Steff Higgins Stephen Vigors James Loosley Michael Garcia Simon Carr Tom Sparke Lola Wilson Matt Abbott Charlotte Miller Lauren Whysall Laura Mace Jen Hendry Eli Allison Caleb Parkin Carley Centen Jaiwantika Dutta Dhupkar Matthew Riley Matt Charlton Matthew Stoppard Hannah Dawson Jonathan Eyre Philip Regan

Donna Iliffe-Pollard Gareth Durasow Ian Pepper Gabrielle Owen Hollie Richardson Rob Lowe Nathalie Blonder Tim Knight Lakshmi Vishwanathan Kate McDonald James Wall Chris Worfolk Criminonymous Paul Crossley Stuarts Photography Howard Marks Sarah Whitehouse Mark Brown Hannah Fahy Matt Andrews Dave Wilson Bill Hayter David Pike Sarah Statham Christopher Cambell Laura Furniss Dan Cook Jimi Daniels Heather Fox Steve Leonard Paul Jobson Leroy Lo Conal Siddall Antonia Lines Adam Read Mark Parker Vivienne Duke Oliver Suggitt Adam Stroyan Chris Canavan Dexuality Valentino Giuseppe Caringella Jake F Burger Yunus Pandor Keri Flynn Richard McLean Anna Walsh Laura Masterton Laura Fawcett Chi Mera Thank you all.

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/ MARK PARKER

goodbye.

Tomorrow never knows Tomorrow never shows I don’t know where I’ve been But I know what I’ve seen Some people paint the sky Some people say goodbye Do you paint the sky Do you say goodbye I don’t know the truth But I’ve seen the proof Some people paint the sky Some people say goodbye Good day bad day Old day new day Orange sky Die die Bye bye Yours Enola

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HOLLIE RICHARDSON \

A

utumn is a notorious bringer of change. It sweeps in with golden hues, juicy beef stews, hoards of fresh faced students and high streets brimming with beautiful new season coats. When summer ends we generally welcome autumn’s charms, using it as a time for reinvention and the perfect excuse to swap skinny salads for stodgy grub. However, this year’s autumn changes are poignant both locally and personally.

News of the Cockpit permanently closing its doors has saddened club goers old and new. For twenty years it has provided a space to dance silly to an array of alternative music and host some amazing gigs. Where else can one inconspicuously dance to System of a Down’s Chop Suey!? On a night spent here it was inevitable to leave with black gunge on your shoes, there was a guarantee of no toilet roll in the bogs and going a Jagerbomb too far was all too easy. These are the reasons we loved and will miss this city icon.

Over at Leeds Metropolitan University, its name has now

changed to Leeds Beckett University. As a former student I am proud to hail from a metropolitan education but Vice Chancellor Susan Price feels it has outgrown this status. Some see the reinvention as an admission of shame and disconnection from its roots, others perceive it as a strive for success and recognition.

Whatever way you look at it, alumni have to accept that the beloved Leeds Met name is gone but know that its spirit remains strong.

On top of these alterations in the city I have to cope with the personal woes of my best friend moving to Canada with a boy and a favourite flatmate leaving for Ireland. (All I have to show for autumn 2014 so far is a yetto-be-bought burnt orange M&S woolen coat and an extra layer of unwanted body fat.) But my sadness in seeing them go is tied to an excitement for their future.

Each end brings a new start and that’s why autumn is a bittersweet time of the year.

The new season also marks the end of Leeds Debacle magazine: a publication that invites writers to share their views, stories and, well, pretty much anything they have to say. It is also a platform to proudly promote independent businesses, emerging musical talents and local events. A Loiner doesn’t ask for much more than sitting at the local wateringhole with a pale ale in hand and copy of some freshly squeezed commentary and reporting of the city. I will miss writing for Leeds Debacle as will everyone who made it what it is.

Let’s celebrate the burgeoning music scene that Cockpit helped build, with the plethora of clubs that are still playing beats of every type of genre.

Let’s celebrate the history of our internationally renowned education establishments and recognise their potential for the future. And let’s say a fond farewell to this magazine, while continuing to explore the city it puts the spotlight on.

If someone could also fund my new coat to help step into the new season with full-on funky flair, that would be great too.

the end.

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/ MARK PARKER

GROW THE LIGHT // DAN COOK In the end, I’ll see the truth from the prison of the prism.

My experience justifies nothing this second.

Grow the light from the multiple corners And see the patterns emerge from the dark Pause, take a rewind, Take a chorus and reattach it to the centre of the universe.

Then let it all out, Cause the circles to disperse And the ambience to take hold.

Take me back to where we belong.

But are you even listening?

You can see I was warped under the neon And the cloud patterns eternally.

You can see the tasks were made easier But harder with the weights around the truth.

Feel my soul burst when the song works this time.

So pause, take a rewind, steal a chorus, Reattach it to the centre of the universe.

Then let it all out, Cause the circles to disperse And the ambience to take hold.

Take me back to where we belong.

Then let it all out, Cause the circles to disperse And the ambience to take hold.

Take me back to where we belong.

But are you even listening?

WHO BROUGHT ON THE DARK NIGHTS // DAVID PIKE Who brought on the dark nights – You? And you merging into them With the Summer of Love behind, lingering As an afficionado to the parochial hall Played Roy Orbison’s, She. A mix of all the darkness with the rain On the cloth that was once in vogue; Did you plan to say good evening With a different phrase?

Diminishing, came the hellos.

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/ HANNAH FAHY

‘There are two types of people in the world: those with the potential to be funny and those with the potential to be happy. You cannot do both’

leeds international film festival:

comedienne T

he Leeds International Film Festival will be in its 28th year this year.

The full list of films included in this festival will be announced Light Night on 3rd October.

Being the largest film festival in England, outside of London, it screens around 200 films each year varying from mainstream to foreign and independent cinema.

Independent filmmakers enter their films to be included in the set up and there are always great independent and local films to get behind and support. Kubrick’s 2001:A Space Odyssey is one of the major pictures being included in the festival. Being re-shown at the Town Hall due to ‘popular demand’. Previous films have included; Gravity (2013), Argo (2012) and Shame (2011). This year promises the same exciting film names as well as some up and coming filmmakers.

The film festival is something Leeds is incredibly proud of and furthers Leeds’ reputation as a city rich in art and culture. It allows international, national and local filmmakers to display their work and allows film buffs to appreciate new and old cinema for a reasonable price. It is proudly supported by Leeds City Council.

Leeds citizens and those that travel for the showings should be very thankful that they have an opportunity to see so many amazing films in some of Leeds’ great cinemas including Hyde Park 8_TheLeedsDebacle

Picture House. The inclusion and recognition of Yorkshire film in the Leeds International Film Festival make it a perfect platform for home grown and county-based cinema Comedienne is one such independent Yorkshire film hoping to be featured in the 28th Leeds International Film Festival.

Created by Thomas and James Pickering it follows the relationship of Charlotte, played by Lucy Dixon (Hollyoaks and Waterloo Road), a struggling comedienne and Bob, played by Roger Bingham, a veteran comedian. Centred around a fictional comedy club called ‘The Electrified Donkey’, the film begins with a disastrous attempt of stand up by Charlotte interrupted by Bob heckles. This is the beginning of an unlikely but heart-warming friendship where Bob helps Charlotte develop as a comedienne.

Thomas and James Pickering are definitely ones to watch when it comes to local cinema. The script is unique as it captures natural speech and realistic scenarios and conversations, which a lot of filmmakers find really difficult when creating dramas. It works with a little cast and few extras to create a film exploring human relationships.

The film follows Charlotte’s comedy career from failure to being a success thanks to the relationship with Bob. The

trailer has been released and it really captures the story and the essence of the characters. The film drives that Ken Loach-esque social realism, capturing intimate snapshots into everyday human relations. This film displays human stories in an inner city setting.

Focusing its lens on human interaction and relationship building in a naturalistic style. It effectively creates a simple story that is portrayed into one of many layers by a strong script and a natural acting style from both of the main characters. The use of just two main characters ensures the emphasis is solely on the development of the relationship and the issues that arise from this relationship. The argument of the role of women in comedy is always a hot topic. The age-old sexism of ‘women can’t be funny’ is really explored in this film. It develops into a discussion of whether you can be happy and funny and where we seek guidance in life.

After all the tag of the film is Bob exclaiming that you can either be happy or funny, you cannot do both. Can Charlotte prove him wrong? Or can you really only be funny or happy?

The 28th International Film Festival listings will be announced on 3rd October at the Town Hall. I hope that Comedienne is included and I hope that you all go to see it. If you are really lucky, you may just glimpse my face in the pub scene, drinking a fake beer and

LEEDS ROLLER DOLLS POEM // KERI FLYNN Ba bhum bah bhum bah bhum A whistle, a wince, a brace, a scrim The pace changes, the beat changes, Focus Shoulders down, chest out, bent at the knees Charge Battle begins See her, feel, her know her every move.

You are not alone On, on, on, out, in, dead Repeat Reform, regroup, holler, Don’t lose your head Can’t get through, you will not pass No Balance, pace, move, think more, do more Protect, destroy, 2 minutes, a lifetime Reset, repeat Derby.

MUSIC MAN // NATHALIE BLONDER I first heard that you came to town To teach the young ones about the pia pia piano, Little did I know How much I would learn.

You carried me through the dark, When all life’s lights went out The silence amongst the noise And the noise amongst the silence.

No matter where I am you’re there too, Telling me ‘hey it’s alright, here’s hope, here’s joy’, Sometimes you appear in the trees and in the rain Other times you’re wrapped around the fingers of the blessed.

I hear you now louder than ever, Weaving your melodies into my soul, Warming my bones till tears fall from my eyes, Music man I thank you, for then, for now, for ever.

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/ PHILIP REGAN

trial by media I

t took six months of adjournments, testimonies and cliff-hangers but Judge Thokozile Masipa has finally delivered her verdict in the Oscar Pistorius trial. To the surprise of many legal experts, she cleared ‘Blade Runner’ of murdering his girlfriend Reeva Steenkamp but later found him guilty of culpable homicide (similar to manslaughter).

On October 13th, Pistorius receives his punishment of up to 15 years but a suspended sentence is possible depending on mitigating circumstances. How refreshing it would be if ‘justice has been served’ is the dominant discourse following sentencing.

Unfortunately this doesn’t always apply after a trial by media.

Throughout the process, Twitter and other forums were full of unnecessarily tasteless comments from armchair pundits who ignorantly disregarded the tragic circumstances of the shooting.

Guilt will remain with Pistorius until the day he dies regardless of public opinion or perceived ‘crocodile tears’.

Almost immediately after the verdict, the International Paralympic Committee announced they ‘would allow him to compete again in the future’. Other (less likely) post-trial suggestions have included Pistorius becoming an ambassador for anti-gun or domestic violence charities.

However he chooses to rebuild, will commentators be disciplined, classy and refrain from mentioning the obvious. Time to move on? I’m not holding my breath on that one.

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South Africa allowed television cameras access to key court sessions to demonstrate their legal system is fair, efficient and free of corruption. They partially achieved those goals, even if the showboating, general rudeness and judgement method (one Judge, two assessors, no 12-person jury) was unfamiliar to Western audiences.

In the UK, cameras have been banned in court since 1925.

That’s why our trials have media scrums outside and often only provide hilariously inaccurate sketches for visual stimulation.

The entertainment value is considerably lower but our integrity, privacy and fairness remains intact.

In recent years, Operation Yewtree uncovered numerous celebrity abuse scandals and as a result high-profile trials have become commonplace. If a guilty verdict matches newspaper gossip, radio phone-ins and public expectations this type of feeding frenzy can retrospectively seem justified.

Rolf Harris, Max Clifford and Stuart Hall are rightfully now in jail for their crimes. However there is another side, involving celebrities who were cleared of any wrongdoing. These include Coronation Street actors (William Roach and Michael Le Vell) and comedian Freddie Starr.

Starr’s ordeal included four arrests and an investigation lasting 18 months. Many supporters of the innocent celebrities criticised Operation Yewtree as a ‘Witch Hunt’. As for the soap actors, false

allegations caused a career slump as ITV wrote off their characters.

They adopted a ‘no smoke without fire’ attitude, ashamed to be associated with even the possibility of such crimes.

At university I studied a final-year module called Law for Journalists.

One of the assessments involved an essay about whether or not anonymity should be granted to those accused of sexual offences as well as the victims.

In a post-Savile era this question is harder to answer and more relevant than ever. If things stay the same, other victims of the accused may come forward with additional allegations and provide testimony. This proved invaluable in exposing the true horror of Savile’s crimes and led to the disturbing ‘Giving Victims a Voice’ report.

The public interest argument is often used when media organisations report about celebrity scandals. Richer people can often afford costly libel battles to clear their name. When a regular member of the public is falsely accused the damage is irreversible. Relationships are broken, trust is questioned and jobs end abruptly.

To finish, adopting vigilantism or a ‘guilty until proven innocent’ attitude isn’t productive because with bad luck, any of you reading this could end up in a similar situation. One person with a grudge to ruin your life and reputation. In general, stay away from psychos and thanks for reading.

JONATHAN EYRE \

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/ PAUL JOBSON

old meets new T

he taxi pulled up outside of Bridgwater Place. Albert leaned forward from the back seat: “How much please?” “£12 mate” Albert handed over a tenner and a fiver, hand outstretched for his change. The driver deposited three pound coins into his waiting palm, Albert returned one: “Here’s your tip” “Cheers pal” Albert clambered out of the taxi, pausing, but it was no good, he couldn’t for the life of him recollect how much the tram used to cost from Moortown corner to the central tram shed just off Swinegate, before a quick walk

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round the corner to Tetleys.

Nor could he recall when the trams stopped running to be replaced by buses. He’d have to ask Molly to look it up on the internet. Come to mention Molly, bloody hell, the wind fair whips down Water Lane, me best trilby will be off and away and there’ll be hell to pay if Molly thinks I’ve lost me titfer. A brief glance up at Bridgwater Place in all its splendour, they’re right, it does look like a dalek.

Albert ambled up the steps, stepping into the revolving doors.

His impatience overcame him and he started to push to assist the speed of their trajectory, immediately they stopped. Albert withdrew his hands and the doors re-started rotating, Albert again started to push, the doors stopped

again. A very well dressed man in the next compartment, who looked tetchy, bawled “keep your hands away”, charming thought Albert before ruminating, no wonder young ‘uns are all getting fat, they can’t do anything for themselves, everything’s automatic.

The revolving doors deposited Albert into the reception area, all marble, a hive of activity full of bustle. Taking time to find his bearings, he saw the Reception Desk and moved gingerly across.

“Can I help you Sir” “Err, yes please, I’ve come to see our James” “James! James who and which company is he with?”

“James is my Grandson, James Todd”

Albert thought back to Tetleys, the Reception ladies would have known straight away all of the James and which departments they worked in, but hey ho, that’s progress as they say.

Albert hadn’t anticipated needing to know which company James worked for, he was sure he’d been told umpteen times and again Molly loomed large in his head, “it’s BDO and our James is a Trainee Accountant, soon to be Accountant, once he’s done with his studying and passed all of his exams”.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hiya Grandad, you found it ok, then” “Hello James, I did. You ok young man?”

“I am Grandad” Albert, always a fastidious dresser, had been meticulous in choosing what he was wearing today – his best trilby and overcoat, one of his tailor made tweed suits, a maroon v neck jumper, one of his Barbour country shirts he only wore on special occasions, a green knitted tie and brown brogues, so wellpolished that you could see your reflection in them and clean enough that you could probably have eaten your tea off them.

“You all set Grandad?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be lad” “Let’s grab the lift” “The lift?”

“Grandad, we’re going to the 27th floor, it’ll take all day to walk up” Albert thought back to Tetley Headquarters, admittedly it was 3 or 4 storeys but it was Directors and pregnant women only who were allowed to use the lift.

The lift arrived and no sooner had they climbed in, they were alighting on the 27th Floor.

Albert’s tummy had felt a little

woozy as they’d been catapulted skywards but the journey was without the clanging and creaking that had accompanied his two trips in Telteys’ lift, once on the day of his 25 year service award and the other on his final working day, his day of retirement, the day he’d been summoned to the Boardroom for the only time in his 41 years working there.

James led Albert out of the lift and used his identification card to open the door into the floor occupied by BDO. Albert was confronted by a sight not dissimilar to that encountered when he used to collect Molly from her work at Montague Burtons, row and row of desks as far as the eye could see, only instead of noisy sewing machines, there was a screen, telephone, keyboard, mouse and laptop on each. The tap, tap, tap sound of keyboards and a low hum of people talking on the telephone.

That’s a far better environment than what Molly had to contend with. Albert’s reminiscing was interrupted by James’ voice.

“Grandad, workstation”

here’s

my

“Workstation, son?”

“Yeah” “You mean desk?”

“You’re so old fashioned Grandad, they’re called workstations now” “Hmm, you could make it more homely, put some photos out” “It’s flexible working Grandad, we don’t have a designated workstation, you plonk yourself at whichever one’s free when you get in”

pointing to see an office screened off by glass occupied by a solitary figure deep in conversation on the telephone, sat at a workstation exactly the same as those in the main office, only with tables and chairs perpendicular to form a meeting room.

Suddenly, Albert’s was taken back to Thursday 21st April 1994, his retirement date at 55 years old, 41 years’ service at Joshua Tetleys, man and boy as they say.

The only time he was summoned to visit the Boardroom - the decision making heartbeat of the company. A room steeped in centuries of brewing tradition and power broking. Albert had been intoxicated by the wood panelled walls, the high ceilings with their exposed beams, the oil paintings of illustrious leaders past and present, the ornate tiled floor, the cast iron radiators, the cocktail of cigar smoke and the bouquet of vintage port, the huge sash cord windows that overlooked the building he was currently stood in (God only know what was stood there then) and the huge leather topped wooden table dominating the centre of the room. Me Albert Todd, in the Joshua Tetley Boardroom. A glass of port was offered and accepted, a cigar declined, handshakes exchanged with men whose names he’d only seen mentioned in despatches in the Company newspaper or whispered in hushed tones in corridors as they breezed past on route to their chauffeur driven cars. All gathered together for him, to celebrate his retirement.

He remembered feeling like he’d grown a few inches in height, he was proud as punch. He didn’t walk out of there, he floated.

Albert was busily surveying the rest of the office.

James looked at his Granddad and noticed a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step.

“Where we having our meeting James?”

“Granddad, you ready for our meeting?”

“In the Boardroom Grandad”

“Let’s go to work, James”

“Where is it?”

“That room over there” Albert followed where James was TheLeedsDebacle_13

/ TIM CHAPMAN

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JAKE F. BURGER \

dear facebook You may use my photographs for whatever means you like, though why the hell you’d want to is a mystery.

You may access my contacts list, Facebook without any contacts is just talking to yourself online. Or Myspace as some people used to call it.

You may access my phones microphone if I’m using your service to make a voice call. Yeah FaceTime! I use it, like, all the time.... (you might want to turn it off if I stub my toe or if someone leaves a Baked Alaska out of the fridge.)

You may use my phone to call contacts in my phone, in fact I think that is how Messenger works right? Please don’t use it to ring up a premium rate sex line or your cousin in Zanzibar though, I know it’s tempting and being down to your last $33 500 000 000 I can hardly blame you for trying, but just don’t do it alright?

My written consent is not required for you to do any of this, but then you probably know that because I presume it’s in the user agreement that I didn’t read but told you I had, sorry about that.

What I will ask of you though is to kick anyone cutting and pasting that stupid, non binding, mock lawyers letter prohibiting you from doing the above off Facebook, or at least off my feed? So I can get back to watching people pour buckets of iced water over their heads and clicking on links where I’m not going to believe what happened next/what was under the chimneys/where that shark came from/what is wrong with the picture of the two girls etc.

(What is wrong with that picture by the way I never worked it out, the wall is a different colour? So what, big deal)

I’m sure if those people need to get in touch with me they can use Whatsapp, Snapchat or Instagram all of which I’m sure don’t require such access to my devices. Or maybe they do, I didn’t read their terms of use either. Wait a minute how does Whatsapp know who all my friends are and how to get in touch with them, that’s just weird?

So y’know, just get over it. Or send a letter, buy a pager, or send a Fax- actually Faxes are cool but not if you just want to share a witty pop cultural observation with 3000 mostly like minded people. That would take ages, and be a bit weird.

As we used to say on Facebook last year. That is all...

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IMAGES OF EARTH // WINSTON PLOWES The sky is clear over the Sahara Desert It seems I am leaving the planet forever The bond between Earth and its inhabitants must be defended like a holy relic I used to have dreams when I was a kid Like an infant in the womb of my spacecraft The night before you went up – did you sleep? the rustle of my muscles moving over each other The Earth was absolutely round I could hear the sound of pipes whining below me moving further and further away from the ship and you are yourself a satellite Only in my soul is there something unquiet Enhancing our pleasure in these shapes Then, of course, the realisation hit me I waved to her, she didn’t see me All the above complete lines were found in The Home Planet (Images and Reflections of Earth from Space Explorers). Kevin W.Kelley. Macdonald Queen Anne Press 1988

FORGOTTEN FEW // YUNUS PANDOR And all along I dreamt of you That pearly night from mountain view, And all along my heart raced too Beneath those starry avenues.

The morning came as moon did set And light upon the landscape crept To shadows keen its friendship kept In minds that woke just as they slept.

And came the sun all fresh and new To soak the seas with golden brew And pledge its soul, to make it two Combine and find forgotten few.

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PERSEIDS AND THE TINY TYRANTS // CHARYS ELLMER On the second try we finally get to see the comets.

The wind squalls through the chevin, Piercing and wild without the tall buildings and trees to soften it’s bite.

Leeds, Bradford and Otley make a tiny galaxy of their own below, a twinkling streetlight amber nightscape.

We settle on a wall, lying head to head to await tonight’s performance.

It doesn’t take long before we catch the first darting silver streak We scream, then laugh at our excitement.

(This is not the dignified behavior of star watchers.)

Tiny tyrants that we are, we demand more, shouting encouragement and Pleading toward stars that shoot and streak for our entertainment.

Hundreds of miles above tiny rocks tear at the atmosphere and burn up in shock of combustion, just for us.

They slash and burn and die in the night sky while we call for more.

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/ ANNA WALSH

things i’m going to miss about leeds

I

’ve been in Leeds for 15 years, and although I’m very excited about the next stage of my life across the Pennines, I’ve become increasingly mawkish about the place I’m leaving behind. Here are the ten things I’m going to miss about Leeds – please, go to these places, and do these things, in my absence.

Restaurants Leeds might lack Michelin starts compared to other cities, but the abundance of interesting, innovative and good value restaurants of all different types is something that we take for granted. Once a month for the last five or so years, I’ve been going out to different restaurants with a group of friends, trying to go to a different place each month.

Not only have we barely repeated any, but the number of places that have been disappointing are very low. My favourites are two quite ordinary unprepossessing places, Fuji Hiro and Fairuz. Great food, great service. I also absolutely loved the Food Academy when it was in Flannels.

Sport Maybe it’s the lack of a Premier League football team that means Leeds lacks a little bit of sparkle compared with Manchester and Liverpool and, um, Burnley and Hull. When I first arrived here, David O’Leary was plastered all over the buses, making the frankly ludicrous claim that he got out and about around the city by using a West Yorkshire DayRider.

Despite this, his team had an impossible glamour. I can still remember shrieking with glee at a sighting of Robbie Keane outside the townhouse, and showering an embarrassed and bomberjacketed Robbie Fowler with giddy praise only to find myself having to go three floors in the lift with him and his family soon after, in a suitably toe-curling silence.

Leeds misses that, and I hope the incredibly weird Cellino manages to move them further towards the Premier League once more. I really think that a city’s fortunes improve when their club is doing well, and nothing makes me feel older than remembering that people came to my 21st birthday party (in Tequila Tequila no less) having watched Leeds play Real

Madrid in the Champions League.

The fans deserve a revival!

I’m sure, though, if I liked rugby league or cricket, I’d be delighted to have rocked up somewhere that seems to have brilliant venues and teams for both. Now if only Leeds’ planners could actually manage to build an official Olympic size swimming pool…

Green spaces I took up running a few years ago, and until then I’d never really considered how blessed Leeds is with its green spaces. Gledhow Valley Woods, my nearest running route, has a little trail set out through the woods. On a weekend it’s abuzz with human Wombles, cleaning and clearing the space and keeping it nice for people. Of course Roundhay Park is another local delight, and the magnanimity of its gift to the people of Leeds should not be underestimated.

The steps up from one lake to the other are a killer though. And if you want a quick running time, try to run from the main gates down to the lake – it’s the speediest and prettiest of manageable descents!

Leeds could definitely do, though,

with some more green spaces in the city centre – or to make more use of the ones it has. Park Square and the bit behind Nash’s are really not enough for a city of this size.

Jump on a train though, or even a bus (the 36 would be my recommendation – it has leather seats and pictures of aspiring young professionals in the adverts) and go ten or fifteen minutes out of town and you can find yourself in the most glorious countryside.

It took the Tour de France – and the reaction of the rest of the country – to realise how lucky we are to live somewhere with so much natural beauty.

Shops It’s easy to take the shopping paradise of Leeds for granted, but it really is a lovely place to spend your hard earned cash. The arcades – Queens and Thornton’s in particular – and the Victoria Quarter showcase not just gorgeous architecture, but also a thoughtful nod to our inclement climate with their undercover nature. Even the new Trinity complex has been quite thoughtfully done with its impressive roof and weird, meaningless statues. It would be good to see the Grand Arcade rejuvenated alongside the rest of the Northern Quarter into a go-to place for independent shopping.

One tip: when you’re shopping in Leeds, look up. Briggate’s mixture of chocolate box pastels (near Queens Arcade) and austere gothic is best demonstrated closer to the roof. Harvey Nichols, Angelica and the bar in the Everyman Cinema can help with this: looking over Leeds’ lowrise rooftops makes the city look almost Parisien-pretty.

Four while six I’m from Rotherham so I didn’t think there would be much difference between my accent and the Leeds one, given that it’s thirty miles up the M1. I was wrong. People here say ‘won’ when they mean ‘one’, ‘kirk’ when they mean ‘coke’, and unfathomably, things happen from one specific time WHILE another. Last time I

went out at home I was told my accent had ‘gone all Leeds.’ I take this as a compliment.

Chapel Allerton I’ve lived in Chapel Allerton since 2003, and seen it change a great deal. Although I think I may be getting a bit too old for most of its night time attractions, it’s still a lovely place to while away a couple of hours. Looking back, I wish I’d spent less time in the Regent and more time in Further North, but as regrets go, that’s a small one. It was quite depressing for a while to live somewhere with three delicatessens and no fruit shop, but now they do have one and it’s lovely. Also a great place for eating out and take aways, despite theunspecific moans of a strange man at the bus stop this morning.

For young professionals in their expensive house shares, living in Chapel Allerton is definitely a good way to extend youthful exuberance. At one glorious point, 90% of my friends lived within a five minute radius, and whether it was Friday pints in the Hulats, a celebration in Sukhothai or nipping round someone’s house to share a hangover while watching Come Down With Me, Chapel Allerton was a marvellous host. I’d recommend its 2008 incarnation, but the modern one’s not too bad either.

University I went to Leeds University for the first time in 1999. I stayed in Montague Burton halls and went on my first night out to Po Na Na behind the Townhouse, dressed in a denim and Velcro dress over wide legged trousers and a pair of Air Max 95s. We drank sea breezes and ate nothing, and felt like the most sophisticated teenagers on earth. I then avoided the university for most of the next three years except for compulsory lectures due to a vague fear of germs and the more compelling desire to stand gormlessly in a shop earning money. So it was only when I returned as an earnest mature student in my 30s that I really began to appreciate what

a glorious set-up the university has. From the admittedly niche delights of the brutalist Red Route, Roger Stevens building and Edward Boyle library to the more straightforwardly awesome Brotherton Library and Parkinson building – the latter changed lately beyond recognition with the addition of a café and plenty of plug sockets - no longer austere and cold, but a genuinely pleasant place to learn and to misuse the word ‘literally’ very loudly. A far cry from being a quick stop off at the computer cluster to spend forty minutes logging in, checking Hotmail and constantly reloading the Guardian website until it would have been quicker to walk to Dixons in town and check the screens in the window to find out the news headlines. I also loved the quaint little houses that made up the English department with their aspirational sky lit offices lined with books. It’s still an aspiration of mine to work somewhere like that.

Alleyway pubs Mainly Whitelocks. I do love Whitelocks. Mainly because, in a country where we’ve destroyed so many old pubs in the name of progress, painting everything white and putting nine twice fried chips on a plate so as to call it a gastropub, it’s a genuine joy that Whitelocks maintains its slightly dingy outlook, as befits a pub of its stature and history. It was there before us, and it will continue long after we’re all dead, hopefully.

Special mentions to the Swan – who did the gentrification bit quite well – and the Pack Horse as well. And respect to my younger self for managing to spend so much time in the Angel when it first opened.

People The people I’ve met in Leeds – those who are from here or who have happened on this location, as I did, by happy circumstance, are what makes me so sad to leave it.

As long as you’re not on Briggate at 11pm on a Saturday it really is a friendly place.

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SAD OLD TOWN // RICHARD MCLEAN The buildings boarded up The sign says ‘to let’ It’s from an era We want to forget It’s been left to rot The place is a wreck Not fit for a squat Like an old bike shed It’s from an era We want to forget The building looks sad And sorry for itself Just like your old books On the back of your shelf Covered in dust And rust And soot And shit This once former glory Is now a sad old story It’s derelict and destroyed And no longer makes noise It’s seen it all Now it’s time for bed It’s from an era We want to forget

BAD DAY BLUES // DAVE BARLOW The bank is taking my home.

I`ve got no girl of my own.

Don`t have enough cash to get blown.

Damn ex wife took everything i own.

I`m running low on hope.

Can`t buy any food `cos im broke.

I`ve got skins but no dope.

I`d hang myself but i can`t afford the rope.

Got no-one by my side.

Got no safe place to hide.

Was on a promise but she lied.

Had a doggie on a string but he died.

Don`t have the price of a brew.

Got dog shit in the hole in my shoe.

I`m coming down with flu.

Bought toilet paper but my finger went through.

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THE LAST // JIMI DANIELS When it’s over, is it the end?

Will it ever be the same again?

Because I can still taste the past, and I think we’re moving too fast Maybe we could slow it down Then it’ll always be around I’ll keep it safe in my pocket, or even hang it on the wall And it’s alright if you dance all night, as long as it’s for free And it’s okay if you sleep all day, as long as it’s easily And it’s just fine if we drink all the time, as long as it’s not on me But don’t look back too much, or you might lose your touch Just live it like it’s the last I’m seeing my old friends this week It’s been so long since I was at my peak Forget it, who could give a shit, I’m happier now, let’s get on with it And it’s alright if you dance all night, as long as it’s for free And it’s okay if you sleep all day, as long as it’s easily And it’s just fine if we drink all the time, as long as it’s not on me But don’t look back too much, or you might lose your touch Just live it like it’s the last...

When I die I doubt I`ll go to heaven, even though I`ve got Jehova`s at my door 24/ 7.

People said I had to look to the sky, I caught a glimps of sunshine and went blind in one eye.

Despite my athlete`s feet, this rat race has got me beat.

My sunshine has turned to sleet.

I scratched my scrotum on a cracked toilet seat.

I`ve got no skills I can use.

My pride is battered and bruised.

Life is shit ,but that`s not news.

I guess I`m suffering from the bad day blues

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/ LOLA WILSON

leeds indie awards T

he night of the YEP’s Olivers awards I found myself, glass of red wine in hand, entering into debate on Twitter. Yes it was fantastic that five independent businesses had won awards on the evening so why, as the founder of a blog that promotes great indie places to go in Leeds, wasn’t I entirely happy?

businesses involved but also to the public at large. There was no way we were charging for tickets, we’ve run the blog free for three years so weren’t about to start charging people for stuff now. Plus if people paid to go they might expect something good, and we weren’t sure at all how this was going to pan out.

As great as it was to see some proper independent businesses from our fair city being properly celebrated, they were still in the minority and of course lots of start-ups and hidden gems were priced out of the running (not having a budget for print advertising, let alone tickets to a swanky dinner.) Plus the Olivers only recognise those in the world of food and drink. And there my quest began. Buoyed by the tweets of a few devoted followers I announced we were going to host an independent Leeds awards. Oh God.

A form was slapped on the website and I wondered if I’d hallucinated and dreamt the Twitter hecklers that night? Steadily over 300 nomination forms were completed in just three short weeks.

Simultaneously the worst and best bit of this whole thing was the event itself. Once categories were shortlisted and trophies designed up and on the way, we pulled in over 7000 votes (never underestimate the passion people have for Leeds and all who dwells within her!) so clearly the interest was there. Trouble was I had no idea how to organise an event.

Weirdly deciding on the mechanics of the whole thing was pretty easy.

I ran the idea by my team (my partner and two ex-colleagues who volunteer a lot of their time to help me out) and we all agreed it should be a public vote.

Not just because I wouldn’t have a clue where to pull a judging panel from, but also because we felt it would mean more – to the

Local entrepreneur and creative behemoth Dirk Mischendahl promptly told me to get on with it and offered The Tetley as our venue. The Tetley team threw themselves into it with gay abandon and were super thrilled to plough their ideas and suggestions in. We ended up with an evening to be proud of, with local business owners turning up in their droves

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to celebrate what they give to the city – something more passionate, more unique and ultimately more Leeds-esque than Harvey Nichols.

The night passed in a bizarre blur. All I know is that every single person I spoke to said they enjoyed it, and when I got up and told those businesses why I’ve spent three years of my time and money supporting them the applause was insane. In that very Yorkshire way it seems we’re happy to celebrate, but we’re more comfortable if someone else takes the first step and puts their feelings out there.

The lasting impact is twenty-five businesses knowing their public voted them as their favourite place to visit, and five beaming as they walk past their winners’ trophies on their shop counter every day. Hidden away from all of that, for me, is a renewed sense of community that first brought me to develop a blog and write for it.

It fills me with utter sadness that Leeds Debacle, which I started writing for around the same time my blog went live, may be coming to end. But if this experience taught me anything, it’s that a change is sometimes needed. #leedsindieawards honestly could have been our swan song, now it feels like a dawn chorus.

A sandwich shop with a difference.

A Roasting, sandwich Baking, shop with a difference.

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58 Leeds, LS2 LS27PN. 7PN. 58North North Street, Street, Leeds, TheLeedsDebacle_23 0113 3596 0113 245 3596

/ LAURA FAWCETT & LAURA MASTERTON

women in the modern music industry R

ecent controversy has surrounded the role of women in the music industry. Some suggest this is an outdated topic especially with the success of numerous high profile female artists. The overall success of female artists is still measured by their sexuality in a way that does not affect male artists. In recent times some women have tried to bring attention to the issue but have failed to move past the prevailing image of women. The dominant self-portrayal of women in the industry still circumscribes them to a subservient role in relation to men. Beyoncé, often hailed as a strong female role model in the music industry, exemplifies this point. Her involvement in the campaign ‘ban bossy’, although admirable and worthwhile seems at odds with the message often promoted within her music and image portrayal.

The campaigns aim is to inspire young females to be leaders and to remove the gender bias towards female demonstration of leadership qualities. Yet lyrics such as, “I just wanna be the girl you like”, a line repeated in her recent song ‘Partition’, flies in the face of this very important message of equality. In this song Beyoncé surrenders her identity to the ideals of what men desire.

There are enough lyrics from male artists that support the idea of female subordination without female artists establishing the 24_TheLeedsDebacle

same rhetoric. This is definitely not the message you expect to hear from someone who expresses support for female empowerment. This also seems somewhat irreconcilable with interviews she has given in the past. In an interview for W Magazine in 2011 she stated how “In my videos I always want to be a powerful woman”. With lyrics in songs such as ‘Partition’ there is a definite disconnect, and this tells us how even powerful women will still be subordinate to men. Many times Beyoncé exudes an overly sexualised image in photoshoots, award ceremonies and especially music videos. This persona she maintains is a parallel of society in that females must be sexual beings first in order to be accepted as a person.

Beyoncé is by no means the only perpetrator many female artists feel the need to substantiate their talents with sexualised media ploys. Whilst supportive of female body autonomy and the right to express oneself in any way, it seems that the ‘ownership’ of the female body is taken away when subconsciously an artist feels they must dress in a particularly ‘sexy’ way to be accepted and successful. Countless instances of this mentality can be identified in the likes of Rihanna, Miley Cyrus, and Lady Gaga.

Even when artists recognise the ingrained sexism and the objectification of women in the

industry they often still fail to address the issue in a productive way. Lilly Allen attempts to bring light to the difficulties of being a female in the industry with the release of her song, “Hard out here”. Although intending to promote the reality of the industry in a productive way, lyrically it lacks a definitive message, whilst the video resorts to the same inherent representation of scantily clad women dancing provocatively.

Even if the video is dressed as irony, the objectification is magnified enough to the point of vulgarity and conflicts with the songs intended message.

Although it must be noted there are successful female artists that do not promote an overtly sexualised image, such as Taylor Swift and Adele, they are often judged by the same yardstick of sexualisation. Taylor Swift is praised for her innocence and purity and Adele berated for plus sized body image – placing them still on the same platform. Many would suggest they are being judged as commodities rather than solely for their music talents.

Many may write this off as feminist propaganda intent on fighting a battle that no longer exists but this would be ill advised. Problems of gender inequality continue to permeate society in more subtle ways than in the past, but their presence still has an important impact upon our culture.

AN UNNAMED POEM // TIM KNIGHT When Will.i.am was known as Will, and William to his mum, he said that people were killing and people were dying, children were getting hurt and they were crying.

It was 2003 and it reached number one; the radios were playing it constantly and I was 9.

His song made me warm, warmer than I had ever been, because he was saying that if we showed a bit of affection we wouldn’t have to ask the question where is the love.

The kind of cold that finds its way through all the gaps in your new winter coat, no knit fine enough to keep out that bitter front.

Now it’s 2014 and Fiona Bruce is telling us stories about people killing and people dying, children are getting hurt and they are crying and we’re being shown it constantly.

At least Will.i.am, William to his mum, set this grim reality to melody I now find myself whistling along to 11 years on.

Another correspondent is on the balcony of a once grand hotel looking over another square in disarray trying to reel off their script as quickly as possible whilst covered up to the neck in a protective vest.

They pause for a breath, chin rubbing on the piece of plating that will only protect their family in the thought that the corporation had done everything to ensure that their vital organs won’t be ripped out by a bullet shot from another gun.

The kind of cold my cheeks go when I see another image of head not on a body, instead held in the hands of a solider standing somewhere I only know about because I just Google mapped it; a temperature measured not in Fahrenheit or degrees, but how long can I last watching these images and processing their stories before I turn into one of those people that never leave the house.

11 years.

4382 days and not a lot has changed.

We’re seeing men being marched into desserts wearing nothing but socks and boxer shorts.

Images of boys being hung from crosses made from wood of the once schools they were schooled at burn in 4k resolution.

Sometimes grainy phone footage emerges of babies and their mothers sat alone in hospital corridors cooing and we’re seeing it on the 10 am bulletin, the midday refresher, the one o’clock news just after the weather, then again at 6 through to 9, and then just after 12 where it begins all over again.

Looking back we’ve learnt that the fourth Indiana Jones film probably wasn’t the best idea ever had, nor was the invasion of Iraq or Bagdad.

Brown replaced Blair and Kurt Vonnegut died, Chanelle lied to Ziggy at some point in that year’s Big Brother and some troops somewhere got released running back to their mothers.

Come 2009 and a plane landed on the Hudson riverall 155 survivedObama got sworn in and Federer delivered again adding to his string of grand slam victories.

A few years on and a masked gunman, disguised as a policeman, found his way onto a Nordic island and in the same year an unmasked madman, disguised as no one in particular, got one of his papers shut down because stealing messages made for one set of ears for your own printed ones is illegal.

Then we did pretty well at the Olympics and Peter Andre settled down and stopped been dick and that’s about it.

I’m 20 and I am left cold by it; the kind of cold that hits you upon exiting a hot hotel shower after a day of travelling.

You step onto an unfamiliar bath mat as the air-con confines of that hotel room wraps you up in a wintery shower no cheap towel can protect you from.

When I’m 11 years older than I am now I’ll play my child a song, a story that made me warm as a young one, warmer than I had ever been because the singer was saying that if we showed a bit of affection we wouldn’t have to ask the question where is the love.

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I’m a father. I’m an immigrant.

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CHRIS CAMBELL \

split infinity I’m a father. I’m a father. I’m a father.

I’m a father. I’m an immigrant.

I’m a father.

I chant this to myself this many times a day when I’m not around my son, just so I don’t forget.

While I’m at my day job, which doesn’t match the subject written on my degree. While I’m on the bus wondering whether to phone the police about the drunk man throwing up three rows back.

While I walk to the shops for more milk, contemplating how the last three and a half years since I moved to England have felt like an instant and an eternity.

Sometimes I wonder if the chanting is due to lack of sleep.

I always thought it was a myth that parents wouldn’t get much shuteye with a newborn. In the days leading up to our son’s birth, I complained to my English rose about the cynical sirs and madams weighing me down with warnings of impending insomnia sure to be forced upon us when our child would arrive. It turns out they weren’t just cynical, they were also right. I’ve found that earplugs help. Does that make me a bad parent?

I’m an immigrant. I’m a father.

I’m an immigrant.

The chanting isn’t necessarily a conscious choice, it just sort of started one day and I’m seeing where it leads me as I explore the strange world that is living in a new country. For instance, you have to learn all the cuss words and rude gestures and which way people like their tea. Then you have to decide whether you like the crude you grew up on or the local tongue. Of course a baby throws a monkey wrench right in the middle of this. Suddenly couples who swear like sailors are aghast that I use the word “fart” around my infant. It’s just not cricket, that, mate. Then they turn around and put four sugars in their tea. Ridiculous!

I’m a father. I’m an immigrant.

I’m a man with an identity crisis.

I have never felt more patriotic than I do now. Not about the USA as it is today but the spirit of the people who first ventured forth to settle there. To have left their native land in search of a better life across the sea, only to find that they were unwelcome, weary, and facing challenges beyond anything they had previously known. As I stand, holding my son on foreign soil, doggedly looking toward a strange and uncertain future in England, I feel the spirits of my fellow countrymen next to me.

For maybe the first time, I feel like I have a country, that I belong, that I finally know who I am.

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/MASON HENRY SUMMERS

H

texas, by god.

i. I’m Mason and I lived in Leeds for over twenty years, mostly on my own with a cat. Now I live in San Antonio, Texas, married to a native Texan and have three step children, three dogs and a one eyed kitten. Life is very different here in America and this is what I’ll be writing about.

Back in Leeds it used to be “That’s Asda price!” (ass slap).

Or humming the Morrisons theme tune. Or getting some annoying dance track or sincere indie pop song stuck in my head. Now it’s “We are Farmers! Dum de dum dum dum!”. Or “Ooh, Billy Bob!”.

Or “DQ, this is the stop sign for Tex-asss!”. One year in and I can hardly remember any British adverts (hence the out-dated Asda ass slapping reference). My head is full of the Geico gecko, how 15 minutes can save you 15% or more on car insurance. Everybody knows that. Floods of localised car adverts for local dealers. Fast food ads like you wouldn’t believe, torrents of them. One morning the local news channel did a feature article on the return of a certain burger to a certain fast food joint.

Right after telling us about a local shooting. There’s several of those every night.

It’s the little things. They accumulate and become big things. When you first get to America it’s so familiar that you’re initially fooled into thinking it’s just an extension of Britain, just slightly skewed from life ‘back home’. I’d traveled here several times before moving here, having experienced Los Angeles, Austin and San Antonio as well as a dull stay in Eldorado, Kansas, one of the flattest, dullest places I’d seen. When arriving in Lockhart, Texas back in 1996, where my 28_TheLeedsDebacle

brother was living at the time, a small town outside of Austin, I immediately remarked how it seemed so familiar that I felt I was living in a movie I’d seen. I was. Lockhart had been the main location for What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. I’d seen all the streets before.

So you get here and it feels somewhat like home. Like good old blighty. Except people are much more polite. The first time someone tells you to have a nice day you chuckle to yourself a little and imagine that it’s just what they say, that they don’t mean it, especially staff in stores. Then it dawns on you that they are actually sincere. And that that’s what most people are like that you encounter. When I traveled to San Antonio in March 2013 I was here for just two weeks, but when I flew back into Heathrow I was stunned by how miserable, grumpy, impolite and insular everyone seemed. Workers at the airport seemed like they were just grinding their way through their day, resentful of being there.

Travelers were rushed, silent, fuming. I has the oddest feeling that I hadn’t come home, that I’d actually just left home, where I’d been welcomed, loved and received with a strangely sincere kindness that just seemed missing in Britain.

Now to some extent I miss that grumpiness. Occasionally we’ll be in a store (not a shop, a store!) and a member of staff will be dismissive, grumpy or downright hostile. My American family members can’t help but comment, it’s such an unusual experience.

I’ll be quietly smiling to myself, relishing the experience, feeling a strange little sense of superiority that I can appreciate something

negative and somehow enjoy it.

The liberal, left-leaning working class hero in me wants some people to be like this. It’s then that I feel weird for actually appreciating how polite the staff at Walmart have been; why should they be happy and polite when they work for an evil multinational famous for locking staff inside their buildings overnight to keep them working and pay some stuff such low wages that they have to claim food stamps to survive?

Then the politeness and perfect manners seem like they must be forced, purely out of fear of losing their livelihood.

Little things; getting your bags packed for you at HEB (my new Morrisons) by someone addressing you as ‘Sir’. That continues to freak me out. Firstly, I cannot stand being called ‘sir’. I’m not a sir. And I’ve been putting objects into carrier bags for over 40 years now. It’s not really difficult. The sense of entitlement that has led to Americans assuming that someone else should be packing their bags at the check-out (not the till) and addressing them as if they are socially higher than the person ‘serving’ them worries me. There’s a softly arrogant assumption in the situation – we deserve to be served. It’s how it should be. That people shouldn’t even keep their jobs if they can’t keep up that level of service. More than half the workforce in British shops would have to be sacked if you applied that attitude to Britain.

Drive-thru banks. (Not through – ‘thru’). These freaked me out.

You pull up, you pop your cheque and a deposit slip into a plastic tube and then you put it in a slot where it whizzes up into the air in a manner reminiscent of the

messaging system in the Coen brother’s Hudsucker Proxy. A screen come to life and someone from inside the building to the side of the drive-thru lanes appears to tell you that they won’t be a minute. Sir. Madam. It feels oddly futuristic in a way that 1950’s short films about life in the 21st Century made you feel. But at the same time it’s so mundane and normal for Americans it loses it’s lustre quickly. There’s a wide lane for big old vehicles. Here in Texas that’s mainly big pickup trucks.

That’s flatbed trucks with an extra wide base. I think I expected lots of humvees driving around, given Texas’ propensity for doing things big and the Republican domination of the state and it’s mindset.

Nope. Hardly seen any. Big trucks, yes, but mainly because they’re essential. It’s a big old wide open place. There’s big yards and big backyards in almost every house.

How are you gonna landscape your garden or till your ground without a truck to carry what you need in? American garages are filled with tools. Lawnmowers.

Strimmers.

Chainsaws.

Table saws. Air Compressors. Hoes.

Spades. Multiple sizes of hoes and spades. Rakes. Ground tampers.

Power generators. For a working class boy who mainly lived in tiny back to back houses or flats in converted Victorian buildings this seemed initially overwhelmingly decadent. Growing up I had friends in the more middleclass parts of town. They had garages. They had lawnmowers.

They had sheds and tools. It seemed amazing. They must be rich! They weren’t of course, they just weren’t as poor as we were. Here in the suburbs, not the comfortably well off suburbs I guess, just lower middle class suburbs, we have all those things that those “posh” friends’ families had back then and I guess it’s a continual source of amusement that I’m slightly incredulous at this astonishing wealth of objects.

I spend so much time in the garage where I’ve constructed my own workbench over a couple of old restored cabinets in order to buy cheap furniture and restore

it. Every time I go out there and press the button that starts the automatic garage door I’m still a little amazed that this is in MY garage. Well, it’s a rented house but you get the idea. This is where I go, where I sit and work with a fan blowing on me whilst the humidity makes me sweat despite it, with an audiobook playing from my iPod. I used to do the same thing back in Leeds but then it meant having a living room (and kitchenette) covered in a thin layer of sawdust and no room to sit down and watch TV. Oh, and the size of the house!

Apparently this is a smallish house, only two bathrooms and four bedrooms. My old flat could fit in the dining room/front room. The dogs can run in here. When I grew up in Darwen, Lancashire in the 70’s we didn’t even have a toilet in the house. It was like living in a black and white film from the 40’s.

In 1984 we got an indoor toilet and a telephone. Shame we still had a sheet of ice on the inside of our bedroom window most of the year round. I guess this upbringing has always made me ultra aware of my working class-ness. I felt somehow unworthy of having ‘nice things’. I think I was scared of it for a long time. On the good side it also made me very, very appreciative of having anything good. Still today it makes me unusually aware of how lucky I am to be here, living in a nice, big house, the sun shining, lots of food in the cupboard, my garage workshop there at any time, supportive, loving family always there looking after me.

But I’m constantly reminded by all the little things that I’m in a foreign county, in some ways a decadent, comfortable country not very aware of it’s own level of comfort. I worry about the sense of entitlement that Americans are given to feel and how this is fueled by a sincerity that in turn is informed by a simple principle; you make more money if customers are made to feel happy. That has somehow become epidemic, perhaps to a point where this country whose dream is based on equality has organised a definite system of subservience

not even based purely on class.

Everybody in business visible to the public has to put on that air of politeness, to make the customer feel that it is their right, their born entitlement to receive service, to have the highest service. The only people that don’t have to do this I guess are the people not in the public eye, anyone rich enough to stay in their own office or home and not have to deal with the public.

So, little things. Different ad jingles in my head. Big, wide roads. Strange looking traffic lights dangling from overhead wires. The pavement is different.

It’s a sidewalk. Petrol stations are gas stations. Sweets are candy.

Pop is soda. Tuesday is ‘toosday’.

Pants are ‘py-ants’. I swerve between pronouncing garage as ‘ga-ridge’ to ‘ga-raj’. I can’t roll my own cigarettes because gas stations don’t sell filters. There is so much that is different here, I could go on page after page making lists of the little things and how they add up to the big things, the things that really separate out America from it’s ancestor Britain.

I always felt a little odd and out of place back there, here it’s no big deal, I’m supposed to be odd and out of place. I have a funny voice here. I find it hard to order water in restaurants. I have to as for ‘warder’. But despite all the differences, little and big, it feels like home, more and more.

Day after day, month after month I slip into being more and more comfortable with my new life. The differences are never going to go away, but I find myself forgetting little things about life in Britain as time passes. I found the small amount of British coins I arrived here with the other week. Man, did those pound coins look fake and weird. I am being acclimatised (that should be acclimatized), drawn in, assimilated into a life that is so similar to what I knew and so strange at the same time that it sometimes feels like a dream or some odd long term deja vu. But it’s a nice dream.

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YOUR COMFORTS AND YOUR SHELTER // CHI MERA I hold them now In tenderness These times I spent with you The long nights I indulged In verse The tired mornings you Urged me to stay (I feel them now in memory) And I thank you for Your endless charitable warmth Your comforts and your shelter I remember those times of Merry song and solemn Blue melodies The tears of your heart Eased my senses and In the red room the Open eyes of charity Wept for us and we sang Our channeled tune I recall the laughter The fumbling games and Treasury glances The close embrace of love And elastic tumbles of wild Passion This space and architecture Is melded to me Formed within my library I imagine in a few days I shall stand on a tall Cliff And glance out across The sea To an island away in the distance I imagine I shall walk Down long winding alleys In hot Dusty days in radiant Shining Greeting streets in The morning I await these visions With fevered Twitching delight

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MY ROWING BOAT // TIM CHAPMAN I have been sailing away from the mainland for as long as I can remember.

Everlasting night lies beyond the sun, holds stars like bubbles in an infinite sea.

Artificial worlds aggressively sustain purpose w/out addition.

We are aliens in artificiality: nature favours collaborative mutation.

My rowing boat has become a wishing well for seagulls and rain clouds.

My oars cut deep into surrounding sands and I laugh like a madman at the bare blinding sun: Everything was endless in all directions.

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something to do every day..

OCT 1st Mark Watson (Varieties) 2nd Future of the Left (Belgrave) 3rd Light Night (various) 4th Brewers Market (Canal Mills) 5th Vintage Fair (Town Hall) 6th Gego (Henry Moore) 7th New Analog Exhibition (Outlaws) 8th The History of Apple Pie (Oporto) 9th Shopping Affair (Victoria Quarter) 10th Sunshine Underground (Stylus) 11th Steampunk Market (Armley Mills) 12th No Gloss Film Festival (Temple Works) 13th Tim Key (WYP) 14th Speed Dating (Living Room) 15th John Hegley (CafĂŠ Lux) 16th Love Arts Festival (various) 17th Innervisions (Canal Mills) 18th Rejuvenation: Keep The Fire Burning (BeaverWorks) 19th Anushka (HiFi) 20th DJ Snoopadelic (Control) 21st Ladyboys of Bangkok (Millennium Square) 22nd The Crucible (WYP) 23rd Jungle (Beckett Uni) 24th Grayson Perry (Temple Newsam) 25th Lee Evans (Arena) 26th Klaxons (Wardrobe) 27th The Coronation of Poppea (Grand) 28th My Leeds My Culture (City Museum) 29th Johnny Marr (Academy) 30th Alan Davies (Town Hall) 31st Eagulls (Brudenell)

The Governor battles brandy

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90s Liverpool midfielder... or Alan Davis NOV 1st Leeds Print Fair (Corn Exchange) 2nd Headingley Beer Festival (New Headingley Club) 3rd NME New Breed Tour (Brudenell) 4th Elin Jakobsdottir (Art Gallery) 5th Bonfire Night (various parks) 6th Leeds International Film Festival (various) 7th La Roux (Beckett Uni) 8th Jamie T (Academy) 9th WWE (Arena) 10th The Specials (Academy) 11th Dirty Dancing (Grand) 12th Thought Bubble (Armouries Square) 13th Rehana Zaman (Tetley) 14th Arnold Schwazenegger (Elland Road) 15th Bearded Handmade Marketplace (Crowd of Favours) 16th Abbey Dash (city centre to Kirkstall) 17th Jack White (Arena) 18th Tim Hecker (Belgrave) 19th Hookworms (Brudenell) 20th John Bulmer (White Cloth) 21st Yorkshire Carnegie v Plymouth Albion (Headingley) 22nd World of Wine (Radisson Blu) 23rd Morun (Roundhay Park) 24th Mac Demarco (Irish Centre) 25th Meet The Brewer (Tapped) 26th Parquet Courts (Wardrobe) 27th John Smith (Howard Assembly Room) 28th Ting Tings (Belgrave) 29th Gorgon City (Canal Mills) 30th Christmas 10k (John Charles Stadium)

Old Romantics, gone are the shoulder-pads and wonky barnets.

DEC 1st Sun Kil Moon (Brudenell) 2nd The Who (Arena) 3rd Blip Blip Blip (East Street Arts) 4th Oysterband (Irish Centre) 5th Gin Festival (Corn Exchange) 6th Viva Warriors (Warehouse) 7th White Christmas (WYP) 8th Human League (Academy) 9th Event Sculpture (Henry Moore) 10th Christkindelmarkt (Millennium Square) 11th Wild Beasts (Canal Mills) 12th Yorkshire Business Awards (Queens Hotel) 13th Leeds Utd v Fulham (Elland Road) 14th Christmas Craft & Gift Fair (Corn Exchange) 15th Snowflakes and Schnapps (Dock) 16th Shezad Dawood (Art Gallery)

17th Peter Pan (Grand) 18th Macmillan Winter Wonderland Ball (Elland Road) 19th Christmas at Twilight (Howard Assembly Room) 20th Simply Paranormal (Armley Mills) 21st It’s A Wonderful Life (Town Hall) 22nd James and the Giant Peach (WYP) 23rd A Firm of Poets (Seven) 24th Christmas Eve (pub) 25th Christmas Day (mums) 26th Boxing Day (in-laws) 27th Regional tasting (Salvos) 28th Rob Dylan Band (New Roscoe) 29th Roman Empire (City Museum) 30th La Traviata (Grand) 31st New Years Eve (can’t remember)

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”It fails to truly capture what made The Leeds Debacle worthy of such a mythologising.” (Neil Queen) “You had the good sense to stay out of The Leeds Debacle and advised him to do the same.’ (Virginia Henley) ”Response to The Leeds Debacle owed something to that quintessential English comedy series Dad’s Army: ‘Don’t panic!’ he repeated.” (Simon Hughes) ”We even had a warning before The Leeds Debacle.” (Greg Meyer) ”District audit must investigate Leeds Debacle!” (Leeds Liberal Democrats) ”On the war path after Leeds Debacle.” (Bill Mann) “He is SHITTING himself. When this lot gets published The Leeds Debacle will feel like a picnic for him!!!!” (RobbieS) “Damages could apply, avoiding repeats of The Leeds Debacle.” (Merlin Fulcher) ”The Leeds Debacle called into question the quality.” (Patrick Murphy) “Owner ‘ashamed’ over Leeds Debacle.” (IanJ) ”Not all together, like the disastrous Leeds Debacle.” (Win) ”Still he repeats the same mistakes but The Leeds Debacle has just got to be the last straw.” (Simmo13) ”Explaining The Leeds Debacle he said simply ‘I didn’t think it out’.” (Tom Lamont) ”This could be a blind spot when we consider not just The Leeds Debacle but the unnecessary and damaging rift.” (Paul Ashley)

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”He failed ignominiously then suffered The Leeds Debacle.” (Sir Steve Redgrave) ”Because of The Leeds Debacle it looks like we have missed out.” (Neil Parsley) ”He is grounded after The Leeds Debacle.” (Alison Graham) ”I don’t hold him responsible for The Leeds Debacle, he was really thrown in at the deep end.” (jimbowfc) ”Thankfully after The Leeds Debacle he apologised.” (Anni Townend) “There are lessons to be learned from The Leeds Debacle.” (Eoin O’Callahan) ”Happy to get away from Leeds Debacle.” (Josh McLoughlin) ”Calls to do more in the wake of Leeds Debacle.” (John Fallon) ”Fail to bounce back from The Leeds Debacle.” (Delme Parfitt) ”I take it that short-lived renaissance following The Leeds Debacle is well and truly over.” (Kosh) ”After The Leeds Debacle I’m sure the process is null and void.” (itsonmyhead) “I’m sure we all don’t want to see another Leeds Debacle.” (Mark Shaw) ”The Leeds Debacle was the final nail in his coffin.” (Chris) ”Clearly shows your misunderstanding of The Leeds Debacle, the Nick Griffin interviewer happened to be a homosexual.” (Luke Goodger) ”Basically I don’t know enough about The Leeds Debacle to write a clear informative sentence.” (BobFromBrockley)

a google obituary

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Issue 17 of The Leeds Debacle is: John Barran Ross Newsome Tim Knight Hollie Richardson Lola Wilson Mason Henry Summers Hannah Fahy David Barlow Philip Regan

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Charys Ellmer Nathalie Blonder Tim Chapman Jake F Burger Yunus Pandor Keri Flynn Richard McLean Anna Walsh Dan Cook

Paul Jobson Jimi Daniels Winston Plowes Laura Masterton Laura Fawcett Mark Parker Chi Mera David Pike Chris Cambell

THANK YOU FOR READING THE LEEDS DEBACLE