Copenhagen: World leaders dish out toothless climate change deal

©Twiggs Bakery and Coffeehouse

THE Copenhagen climate change conference was a bit like a stale Danish pastry served at a fancy coffee shop - dry, unfulfilling and failing to live up to expectation.

The two week COP15 which reached its anticlimax on Saturday of last week was a chance for politicians to save the world's bacon - preferably unsmoked - and forge a roadmap for cutting global CO2 emissions.

But despite hours of wrangling and bickering, world leaders failed to agree on a binding treaty to replace the 1997 Koyoto Agreement - instead launching the flimsy, hastily put together Copenhagen Accord.

The new deal, thrashed out by the USA, China, India, Brazil and South Africa, like a bunch of countries teaming up in the Eurovision Song Contest aside from the 193 other nations is merely an acknowledgement and fails to enforce laws to slash carbon emissions by 50% by 2050, as set out in earlier drafts.

Although there is a recognition to limit global warming to 2°C above pre-industrialised temperatures, and a promise to donate $30bn (£18.5bn) for developing countries in the next three years, rising to £100bn a year by 2020, this is a drop in the ocean and far too long and drawn out.

Meanwhile, despite unveiling methods to measure emissions in developing countries there is nothing to measure targets in the Third World (due to outrage from China) so how can we reliably keep tabs on progress?

President Barack Obama and Chinese President Hu Jinatoa. © Kevin Lamarque/Reuters.

But the conference was dead in the water before the first delegates even arrived. Leaked emails from theUniversity of East Anglia's Climate Research Unit from unsrupulous scientists did the "trick" in dangling a red herring in front of climate change sceptics eager to discredit the theory, and the slimey attempt by Danish Premier Lars Lokke Rasmussen to select a core group of "important" countries was as slippery as a smoked eel.

The conference left me with a bad taste in my mouth - science aside, we have reached a period where people realise their actions are having an affect on the environment of the planet we come home. This was a chance for world leaders to pull together to promote renewable energy sources and globally sustainability and they failed. If politicians cannot agree then how do they expect the every day man in the street to embrace a greener life?

Meanwhile developing countries need extra investment to help to cut their emissions, espcially in the case of China, where pollution pouring out of their factories to manufacture goods and materials for our overbloated, commercialised Western lifestyles.

Like a stale Danish pastry served in a fancy coffee shop we should protest, stand firm and demand the waiter bring us something more satisfactory.

Banksy artwork near Oval bridge, Camden, London. © Zac Hussein/PA

Dreaming of a white Christmas?

Prospect Park, Reading (24.12.09) © Aries the Dreamer

THE parting words of a tweed-clad pensioner before he trudged away from an out-of-town supermarket's petrol station yesterday (Christmas Eve) failed to ring with festive cheer.

Slipping his wallet into his jacket pocket and zipping up his dull green anorak, he turned back to the cashier and said: "I wish this bloody snow would go away. I've had enough of it."

But the bespectacled moaner, far from being a 21st Century Scrooge, seemed to sum up the thoughts of an entire town collectively recovering from a battering from the elements.

Arctic conditions gripped Reading on Monday soon after 1.30pm, with more than four inches of snow blanketing the town within 12 hours, causing mass panic transport chaos.

As I frantically broke the news on the Reading Chronicle website the entire bus network ground to a halt at 3.55pm, lorries jackknifed on slippery motorway interchanges and Royal Berkshire Hospital nurses and doctors were stranded at work. Abandoned cars littered dual carriageways and hillsides as motorists fled, ambulances struggled to reach pregnant women trapped in their homes and the sheer weight of snow snapped electricity cables causing black-outs in outlying villages.

With all major roads gridlocked, motorists trapped for up to 14 hours in their vehicles, finally threw in the towel and bedded down in churches, service stations and even supermarkets.

My housemate's text sent through to our BT landline summed it up: "It's - like - the - Day Aft-er - To-morr-ow - out - here," the robotic voice proclaimed appocolyptically. "I'm - ditch-ing - the car - and walk-ing - home."

Recycling bottles, West Reading (18.12.09) © Aries the Dreamer

So after years of Dreaming of a White Christmas, it was finally here. Yet the heaviest snowfall in the area for 26 years seemed to resemble hell on earth rather than a seasonal blessing.

So why the misery? Politicians instantly slammed Reading Borough Council for failing to forsee the disaster, with Reading East Conservative MP Rob Wilson accusing the authority of being "woefully underprepared".

Council chiefs argued they had previously gritted the roads but blamed large businesses for letting staff leave work early - clogging up the roads already bursting with Christmas shoppers - before gritting crews could get to work again.

Arguments aside, there are so many reasons why the Victorian postcard image of snow-swept festive season doesn't wash well in the 21st Century as our lives have changed so much in the past 120 years.

Christmas is, of course, a religious festival but it's traditionally a time of family and friends re-uniting to spend quality time together. In 1889 this would mean a short walk across blizzard swept fields in a pair of galoshes. But in today's mobile society, people are more spread out, meaning an over reliance on the motor car, the railways, and even air travel - transport networks which struggle to cope with adverse weather because they have been developed in a relatively snow-free climate.

Meanwhile, the dominance of car travel means major shops and supermarkets are further away from our homes making them treacherous to reach in poor weather. While I abhor the commercialisation of the festive season - Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without food and presents.

So as I raced down the M4, A34 and A303 I was glad to see the white stuff melting and thinning out until all I saw were miserable rain swept fields - at least I was on the move.

Sure Scandinavia, Canada, USA and Eastern Europe do a better job preparing themselves for heavy snowfall - but they are used to it. Britain could spend money bolstering their infrastructure but it would be millions down the drain if the snow storms failed to return for another two decades.

The recession is hardly the right time to stock-pile tonnes of salt in newly built warehouses when there are more pressing needs. Consider the weather an act of nature - one that is thankfully over.

Channel 4 Dinosaurs?

THIS looks like the kind of movie which would have kids grinning at the prospect of guts and gore or screaming in fright and ducking behind the sofa.

The 1993 "Official Video of Dinosaurs" features 3D computer graphics and live action of the most fearsome creatures ever to walk the earth.

The Revelation Film Production, which I plucked from the vaults yesterday, was released in partnership with the Natural History Museum and billed as "the finest Dinosaur video for 65 million years."

Viewers could step back in time to walk alongside T-Rex and co by popping on a pair of futuristic shades with cardboard frames and red and blue filters.

So imagine my surprise to discover Channel 4 3D Week - a series of shows offering mind blowing footage never seen on TV thanks to - yep, you guessed it - a pair of 'futuristic' shades with cardboard frames and red and blue filters - available free from Sainsbury's.

But as I settled down to watch (minus the specs because my local store had run out) de ja vu struck as I remembered BBC1 had shot a 3D episode of EastEnders for Children in Need, also in 1993.

Furthermore, as the night wore on "The Queen In 3D" programme revealed the first ever film of this kind was "The Royal Review" shot at the 1953 Coronation and intended for cinema viewing.

Yet despite a 56 year history, techno dweebs are drooling at the prospect of Sky's high definition 3D system, previewed at August's Edinburgh Festival 2009, which hits customers' screens next year - if they own an HD box or compatible TV.

So why, after more than half a century and the invention of the cassette tape, compact disk, internet and, er - the Tamagotchi - is 3D vision being hailed as a brave new world of entertainment? If it was that groundbreaking the first time, surely it should be part of everyday life by now - or like a couple of examples listed above - old fashioned and rendered obsolete?

Admittedly I didn't have the specs, but I've heard from friends the Channel 4 shows were disorientating and nauseating - tacky at best. 3D TV sounds like a good idea, but really, the only thing it has going for it is novelty, which wears off, until everyone forgets and you can bring it back again in a roaring fanfare.

"The Royal Review" was never seen and left to gather dust in a British Film Institute stock room, despite showing colour footage of one the 20th Century's most magnificent celebrations.

The flagship EastEnders episode attracted 13 million viewers, but despite 16 years of punch-ups in the Queen Vic, no fan has ever recalled cowering behind a cushion as a projected pint glass flies out of the screen and across their living room - unless someone has spiked their TV dinner.

Meanwhile "The Official Video of Dinosaurs"? Sure it sounds cool - but if I can't remember watching it and the glasses are lost it can't have been that hard hitting. But of course, I'm running out of time to find out as VHS is almost obsolete - just like T-Rex.

Short Circuit

IT has been a while - 2009 has been a lean year for Aries the Dreamer - but with a flick of the switch it's back to business.

This is the first post in 11 months - a poor show - but there's been cutbacks. Less time for sleeping, eating, socialising, and writing. An erosion of creativity, inspiration, focus and sanity.

An accelerating cycle of work, work and more work, as the big hand sweeps across the clock's spinning circular surface like a ticking time bomb or a gilt edged guillotine.

There's been sleepless nights, scant leftovers, microwaves and takeaways, plus flaky friendships, frayed edges and time at the bar. The days, weeks and months have flown by.

But, as if submerging from a heavy hibernation, battling swollen lids, pounding temples, tired muscles and stuffy sinuses - I am back on back on track.

Leaner is meaner, and in these challenging times Aries is breaking it down, mixing it up and packaging it into byte-sized pieces - short, sharp and to the point.

With a striking new look less is more and more is less.

So let's get to dreaming...

A Brave New World

SOMETHING spooky is happening in TV world, as news channels churn out credit crunching headlines, drama shows depict social breakdown and the end of the world as we know it.

Spurred on by dystopian movies such as Children of Men and 28 Days Later, apocalyptic programme makers have jumped on the bandwagon to offer a glimpse of humanity’s bleak future.

If the story-lines of two recent television series are anything to go by, it won’t be pretty, and judging at these poor attempts at recreating hard hitting films as budget drama series – you might want to end it now to avoid the day after tomorrow.

Surviors - BBC1 - (The Drama Strain)

Britain’s population perishes after a mystery virus ravages the globe, leaving only a group of amateur actors and a wine drinking naturist.

The group, featuring Abby Grant, a middle-aged mother in search of her son Peter, and strong silent type Greg Preston aka: Jonson from Peepshow, face a world without electricity, clean running water or law and order.

The pair, who form an unlikely extended family, hole up in a country cottage and battle for food and supplies with a bunch of grotty pikies led by ‘dangerous’ Dexter a snarling pantomime villain slinging a shotgun.

Meanwhile, a Government minister, with the charisma of Alistair Darling on Valium, has set up an isolated bunker community, acting as a kibbutz where everyone has a part to play and trespassers will be prosecuted.

Likely Outcome: Faced in the nightmare situation of a never ending sitcom - the virus turns on itself.

Dead Set – Channel 4 - (Dawn of the Dunces)

Reality television contestants leave the Big Brother house to discover a terrible wasteland patrolled by bloodthirsty zombies.

“Does this mean we aren’t on TV anymore?” asks a dumb blonde as she watches mindless creatures chomping on the carcasses of their compatriots.

Whilst several house mates argue with a cross dressing Asian pretty-boy about whether or not to move an overweight woman who is “in shock”, three others leg it to a supermarket where they are confronted by two police men with the mental age of a couple of four year old boys.

Meanwhile, the show’s producer, who is trapped in an office, gobbles finger food, guzzles champagne and pisses in the corner, before collapsing on the floor in drunken stupor.

Likely Outcome: The zombies couldn’t possibly last 28 days because they’d run out of brains to feed on.

"Hallelujah" for Saturday night TV?

FORGET the G&T, make a cup of tea, swap your Carlsberg for a cardigan, party choons make party goons, don't be a Red Bull glutton, just push that red button.

Yes, staying in is the new going out and with temperatures plummeting and the credit crunch tightening its jaws Saturday night television is booming.

A few months ago I would have rather walked over hot coles (I mean coals) but due to lack of money, lack of energy and general winter blues I popped over to a friend's house to settle down with a stack of blankets,a glass of red wine and a mammoth cheese platter to watch ITV's X-Factor final.

The show, which was avidly watched by more than 13.2m viewers, climaxed in an epic duel between London-based boy-band JLS and 20-year-old crooner Alexandra Burke from Islingston.

Both acts performed covers of the Leonard Cohen's single "Hallelujah", a classic, heart rending tune, also imortalised by the revered folk singer Jeff Buckley. Alexandra was victorious.

But although I got home relatively sober without having to pay through the nose for over priced drinks, costly cabs and crap Chinese takeaways, I still felt as if I'd been ripped off...

Ripped off! Well imagine how poor old Leonard felt? I'm sure the American idol (no pun intended) would have felt shocked that he spent hours slaving over tear jerking chords and deep religious lyrics, only to hear his work belted out by an emotionally incontinent R'n'B diva all these years later.

To be fair, Burke has a great voice, and judging on the success of the Buckley version, covers aren't always a no-no. But if the judges and programmers knew anything remotely about music they would have steered clear of using such an iconic track to round off a tacky talent show.


Here's a couple of comparisons:

- If Alexandra Burke's cover of "Hallelujah was a film, it would never have been released in the UK.

- If Alexandra Burke's cover of "Hallelujah" was a video game, middle class parents would be lobbying for it to be banned - screaming that it would ruin the lives of their already retarded children.

- If "Hallelujah" was a third-world country and Alexandra Burke was a crack-pot dictator, the free world would be calling for pre-emptive air-strikes and mobilising tanks on the borders at dawn.

Lay off 'Ebooe'

FOOTBALL fans are becoming as misguided as the over-paid players they idolise - or not in the case of Emmanuel Eboue.

Arsenal FC supporters unsportingly heckled and booed the defender after he made a catalogue of errors in their 1-0 win against Wigan Athletic last Saturday.

In the game’s final frantic minutes, the 25-year-old, who had come on as a substitute for injured winger Samir Nasri, foolishly blocked his own player, gifting his northern opponents a glorious chance to equalise.

As a barrage of abuse rang out from the 60,000-seater Emirates Stadium, manager Arsene Wenger hauled Eboue off the field to be replaced by Michael Silvestre.

Those fans should hang their heads in shame although Arsenal have been crap this season, booing your team is disgraceful –especially when they are leading (for a change).

Yet it seems to be coming all too common these days, as the spiralling costs of tickets, wages and transfers leads to a clamour for success. In the 1980s, footie fanatics were notorious for sinking pints of lager, bellowing abuse, and punching people in the face. But at least they backed their own teams.


Ok, players who are paid sky high wages and fail to perform should expect stick, but at the end of the day, it’s just a game, and games are all about sportsmanship and camaraderie.

After the match, Wenger had said of the right-back (yes right-back Arsene), who had just returned from a six week injury: “He has to come off as he had lost a lot of confidence - he would have been even more unhappy had he stayed on, given the ball away and cost us a goal."

Well, let’s talk about “confidence” shall we? Eboue came out of nowhere in 2006, a flying wing-back renown for speed, stamina and tough tackling.

True, he’s a fine athlete but his passing is not great, he can’t cross for shit and his shooting is erratic - hence he's only scored one measly Premiership goal.

Why then does Wenger insist on playing him on the wing, or in the centre of the park? How “confident” is anyone going to be if they are placed in a position which exposes their weaknesses rather than their strengths?

Eboue is an unfair scapegoat. The team need an effective midfielder. Maybe his boss should think about hiring reinforcements, before he himself is booed from the stands – although I would find that deplorable.

Great Scott!

ALISTAIR Darling took Britain ‘Back to the Future’ when he promised to kick-start the country’s ailing economy.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer announced plans for a £20bn rescue package in his Pre-budget report last Monday in the wake of the global financial crisis.

Yet Doc Darling and the Treasury Office, featuring Michael J Fox look-a-like Yvette Cooper, are taking a huge gamble in their bid to spend their way out of recession.

The deal, which is more akin to strategies of 1970s socialist governments rather than New Labour economics, includes slashing VAT from 17.5% to 15%, and bringing forward £3bn of public construction projects.

Yet it all rests on the optimistic assumption the economy will pick up by 2011, just in time for a 0.5% rise in national insurance and a hike in taxes to replenish the kitty.

But what if the recession continues? Higher unemployment means more benefits payouts and the hidden tax bombshell is hardly an incentive to get back to work. Let’s not forget that year upon year the aging population puts a greater strain on public services, something politicians need to budget for.

Part of the reason we're in this mess is because banks offered mortgage deals to people who couldn't actually afford houses, who in turn purchased expensive holidays and oversized 4x4s on cheap credit.

Is it really wise to for the government to follow suit and splash cash it doesn't have?

Whilst Labour deserves respect for their decisiveness and for brightening up the bland political consensus of recent years, there is an uneasy feeling that history may repeat itself.

In 1976, the then Chancellor Denis Healey went cap in hand to the International Monetary Fund (IMF) because Britain’s economy was, well - fucked. Let us pray the current man in charge of the purse-strings, with equally obscure eyebrows does not have to follow in his footsteps...

Say it loud, black and proud!

"THE revolution will not be televised, the revolution is now."
(Gil Scott-Heron: 1970).

TRUE, although I watched it unfold on the small-screen, and am still blissfully glued to it now.

It began on Sunday with the first ever black Formula One world champion, and continued with a landslide victory for the first US African-American President.

Chicago or Sao Paulo, may have been thousands of miles away, but as I scurried around the streets of Reading trying to cut my teeth as a trainee journo, I couldn't help feeling a part of it...

This week was a great moment to be a young black (mixed race) male.
Inspire before you expire: anything is possible...

(To be continued)

I’m off to India to become a Naga…

***

WOW! So I have my life back. After finishing my pact with the dissertation devil I can resume my favourite pleasures, namely: gossiping, partying, mooching, reading, and yoga, (but no DJ'ing as my decks don’t fit in my new room), and of course blogging – it’s been a while.

But one evening, after another 13 hour day slogging it out as a trainee journalist, I returned to a house full of ghosts, with no food in the cupboard, no money in the wallet, and the nights drawing in, and wondered whether it was all really worth it?

Retiring to my basement bedsit on the wrong side of town, I flicked gloomily through the credit crunching channels warning me of the looming recession, climate change, and the end of the world...

But something cheered me up – Channel Five's 'Paul Merton in India'.

The programme featured Nagas (the naked) who have no worries at all.

Living a minimalist life, and hanging around in tribes called ashrams, the dread-locked devotees to the Hindu goddess Shiva are devoid of material possessions, and clothe themselves in nothing but ash.

They spend their time worshiping, meditating, sun saluting, and sitting cross-legged on mats weaving necklaces around camp fires.

One evening they entered a beautiful temple to celebrate Shiva’s wedding, where they danced around whooping and hugging each other with eyes wide as space-saucers, and then jumped into a fountain - kind of like a rave without any music.

Personally, I frown upon some of their traditions, such as smoking copious amounts of weed, and balancing large rocks off their penis’ - but I guess they meditate enough to balance out the cannabis psychosis, and are too busy getting wrecked to start a family anyway.

So there you go, I’m shedding my worldly possessions and clothes, and heading for a trouble free life in the sun...

Namaste.

Red Road

LAST week The Secret Millionaire went to Glasgow to work as an undercover volunteer with disabled people.

Property tycoon, Nick Leslau left his Mayfair mansion, and headed off to Britain’s most impoverished city to help some of its most disadvantaged residents. An area that featured was the city’s Red Road estate.

I hate “reality” TV with a passion. Back in the day, when it was all shiny and new, it seemed like a novel idea, but now it’s endlessly churned out over and over again – The Diets That Time Forgot? What the hell was all that about?

The Secret Millionaire seems to turn it all on its head though…

The standard format:

- Someone with few life skills, and who’s done little of note appears on TV.

- They spend a period of time being as nasty as possible to everyone else on the show, and bigging up their ego.

- At the end of the programme they win a load of cash and everybody hates them.

- Why? Because they desperately want people to care about them.

The Secret Millionaire format:

- Someone who’s succeeded in their chosen career, and who’s relatively famous appears on TV.

- They spend a period of time being as nice as possible to everyone else on the show, and keeping as low a profile as possible.

- At the end of the programme they give away a load of cash, and everybody loves them.

- Why? Because they desperately care about people.

They say philanthropy is a shameless form of self promotion, but among other things, Mr. Leslau gave a generous £250,000 to a centre for the elderly and infirm. One blind man was so touched with a donation to help train guide dogs, he promised to name a puppy after him.

Glasgow is miles away from fashionable Mayfair. A 2004 study by the University of Sheffield ranked it as the UK’s poorest city, with 41% of households living in poverty. Male life expectancy in the suburb of Carlton is 54, nine years less than in India (World Health Organisation Report 2008). Some blame the Curry Mile, and all those deep fried Mars bars, others underlying health and social issues.

Red Road was built to re-house slum dwellers in the 1964. The site, consisting of 1,300 homes in two 25-storey slab blocks, and six 31-storey points, dominates the urban skyline.

When first built, it was accoladed as being the highest residential buildings in Europe. Today there are no accolades. It’s notorious for crime, poverty, crack and skag, and in May 2008 the Glasgow Housing Association announced plans to raze Red Road to the ground

Despite their foreseeable demolition, the flats are eternally engrained in history thanks to a BAFTA winning 2006 self titled film. Yes, the flats will live on in the memories of residents, and in the minds of my housemates who I invited to watch it…

If the estate is bleak, then the film is bleaker. It was supposed to be a gritty insight into inner city life, and as I’m doing my MA on council estates, I thought it would be worth a watch.

However, the plot was crap, the acting was crap, there was no insight, it went on forever, and the lead female character did something so stomach churning with a condom I won’t mention it here. After the film, we all felt very sick, and Scottish Jenny told me that I was never allowed to choose a film for the house to watch again.

Here’s a trailer of Red Road, but if you choose to watch the whole thing, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Do something useful with your time and watch The Secret Millionaire instead...

Fix up look sharp...

***
YESTERDAY, I took a trip to the barber. I love going to the barber. As you’ve probably guessed from my previous posts, vanity is my forte. Therefore, I love entering the hairdressers fuzzy and unkempt, like an overgrown bush, and departing looking slick and sharp and walking on air. Yes there’s no-one I respect more than a good barber.

On the other hand there’s no-one I fear more than a bad barber. When you step in that chair, you’re at the mercy of a man with a selection of very sharp instruments…

What about the dentist? You ask. Well, I admit they are also terrifying. But you are more likely to meet a barber than a dentist. You only visit the dentist once a year if you are good, or every six months if you are very good. Anyway, with the shortage on the NHS, and the extortionate fees charged by those in the private sector, many people in this country haven’t had an oral check up since the 1980s!

However, unless you’re an aging Terry Nutkins, or a angst ridden 15 year old EMO, most people go to the barbers at least one a month. Therefore, I reckon that statistically, you’re more likely to be meet your maker after taking your turn in the swiveling seat, rather than the reclining chair.

Even if you put up a fight, and escape with a few cuts and bruises, and both ears and your neck still intact, it’s likely they’ve taken a cheeky swipe out of your barnet. Despite being unharmed, your ego will have been cut to shreds, and that’s worse than death...

Furthermore, the sneakiest of assassins will engage in polite talk with you, whilst carving an obscenity on the back of your neck. You’ll only realise when you get home and by then it’s too late…

MUM: “Don’t tell me that’s fashionable these days?”

YOU: “Oh no! No wonder strangers were walking up behind me and kicking me on the way home!”

Thank goodness my barber was of the first kind. Sadly, yesterday was my last trip to Errol’s as I am leaving Sheffield shortly.

Errol is great. He is swift, friendly and hooks up a fade with precision. Despite being the sole member of staff, people are happy to wait as he lets them watch DVDs and martial arts videos. The price is reasonable, and the chat is intellectual…

“Da parents, dem no discipline the kids. Dat’s wha’ gwaan wrong wit society dese days,” he laments.

“We need to teach dem yoots respect. Ye get me?”

I nod in agreement - although not too avidly or I could end up missing an eyebrow.

Yes, Errol is a legend. He even has a claim to fame: He travelled the USA with former featherweight boxing champion Prince Naseem as his personal barber!

Therefore, Errol is officially my favourite ever hairdresser. Here’s the others who make it into the runners up places…

1. Dan – He’s cut my hair more times than anyone, and kept me entertained with jokes about Eddie Murphy, Luther Vandross, and Fresh Prince of Bel-air.
2. Gemma et al – Manicured my afro for free at the Vidal Sassoon salon. Applied funky colours as I strutted my stuff on the catwalk.
3. Jeff – Had endless fun sculpturing Kid and Play flat tops and B.A. Baracus mohawks.
4. Nariba –Braided and twisted whilst teaching me the grace of the gospel.
5. Bev – Pulled my cornrows so tightly, I couldn’t smile for a week.

Finally, here’s an unconventional barber from Memphis, Tennessee…

Skylight...

***

THERE’S so much I’m going to miss about Sheffield. From an early age, I’ve realised that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone – so make the most of it. I've always try to do just that, but it's nice to reminisce…

...In this reflective frame of mind, I’d like to thank Justine and the Words Aloud team, and their community of artists and writers especially Jude for all their support...

http://wordsaloud.org/
http://judecalverttoulmin.blogspot.com/

...Words Aloud run a great night in an awesome venue, and I'll really miss them. I’ve loved having the chance to read my work on stage in front of an amicable audience in the cosy Lescar pub. I’ve loved the support of my adorable friends, and the talented poets and thespians who have cheered me on…

...I hope to continue to read in the future. Here’s a copy of my parting reading, and ends my fleeting moments of fame in the Steel City…

******************

SKYLIGHT

I’ll miss my windswept attic up in the clouds, in a house on the hill overlooking sprawling Sheffield…

Homes tumble down the slope to the church tower, then a shallow drop to the landscape below. A panorama of cranes, multi-story glass towers, defunct industrial chimneys, wasteland, and 1960s prefabs…

The Tinsley cooling towers standing like nuclear reactors and the mighty M1 pencils a border on the brooding horizon…

I’ll miss jumping out of bed, pulling back the blind and letting the light flood in. Of feeling the fresh air on my face and the wind in my hair, and loving life – the life of the dreamer up in the attic...

I’ll miss the rain thundering down in sheets, mocking corrugated iron huts in South East Asia, awash with hail and spinning cyclones…

Or the October wind howling round the chimney pots like witches on broomsticks, and their cats with glassy green eyes…

I’ll miss lying on my back in winter, upside down watching snow flakes rushing towards the cold pane from the blanket white sky…

I’ll miss watching the snow pack melt like a retreating glacier as the pallid January sun radiates its tepid glow. The snow shrinking to sugary crystals, then draining in a web of braided rivers…

I’ll miss the warm summer twilight. The sunset in the west, a golden peach haze, turning salmon as each second slides by. The scudding cumulus clouds ripening to blueberry, and down below the darkening landscape is lit up by thousands of street lamps…

I’ll miss those same street lamps as I stumble up the spiral staircase at 7am as the dawn advances on the sleeping city, and ghostly party people return to their graves. The stars fade and Venus orbits…

I’ll miss those drab days of deadening northern drizzle, when my attic is shrouded in cloud like a castle on a misty mountain, and I’d rather just snuggle under the covers of my four poster bed…

I’ll miss spinning tunes, getting ready to go out, and late nights struggling to meet deadlines typing deliriously on a laptop that glows like iron in a steelworks…

Yes, I’m going to miss my windswept attic up in the clouds, in a house on the hill overlooking sprawling Sheffield…

Kids of today...

A FEW months ago I made a solemn promise to myself that I’d challenge IDIOTS on public transport. Last week, I broke that promise, for two reasons…

• The boys in question might have MASHED me up
• These were child GENIUSES.

Let me explain:

Back in the 90’s, when I was growing up, we had these gadgets called WALKMANS. They were portable cassette tape recorders. So if you were on the move, you could still listen to 2UNLIMITED through earplugs. Clever, eh? The device was named a PERSONAL STEREO.

Kids of today? Well it’s all I-pods, and flashy mobile phones that double up as mp3 players. But it’s not personal anymore. Every time you get on a bus you’re subjected to whatever garbage the spotty, greasy adolescents are listening to…

But wait! Hypocrite, you say! What about the GHETTO BLASTER? Well yes, kids of the late 20^th Century did sometimes bring BOOM BOXES on the odd public transport trip. But that was different: with one of those babies you could blast out KRISS KROSS (or other hippety-hoppety) loud and proud, at a decent decibelage. Now, groups of pikeys slouch on the back seat, listening to something that sounds like it’s coming out of a TIN CAN…

....Come on! If you can’t keep it PERSONAL, at least you should play your tunes through a device with a decent amount of bass!

Anyway, I promised myself that I’d challenge these fools next time they got on the bus.

The problem is, EVERYONE on board can’t stand the rackett but NO-ONE does anything. Rows and rows of grown-ups sit there and cringing, or playing with their mobile phones as if they were video games. How many texts are you sending? Adults have become COWARDS these days, and it’s EMBARRASSING…

…I mean, ok there is a rise in STABBINGS and SHOOTINGS over the last two years. However, when I turned towards the back seat once, it was only a pair of 13 year-old girls with pig tails. GANGSTERS? Please! No somebody’s got to be grown up and take action.

Yet last week, as two HOODIES sat down behind me, I didn’t kick up a fuss, but got out my pen and pad. You see, this summer I’ve immersed myself in the life and culture of residents on a Sheffield council estate as part of my degree`. These two, with their swaggers, wonky baseball, and coarse language, set the scene of urban life perfectly.

As I looked out of the grubby windows, the rattling BASSLINE HOUSE, pumping from their pathetic MOTOROLA’S provided a gritty backdrop the grimy streets that flashed by. I was even nodding my head and tapping my feet to the beat. YEH BWOY!

Little did they know, but they were actively engaging in an MA in Print Journalism! I really wanted to congratulate them on how clever they were, but then stopped myself – I didn’t want to get SHANKED!!!!

Why?

BRIGHT young minds have encouraged me. Many infamous bloggers have set the script over the past ten months...

The ginger ninja with killer cooking skills, the naturist who chews twigs whilst playing the clarinet, the talking haggis, and of course the English rose who laughs in the face of authority, and has trouble eating marshmallows.

This summer, as we sit in a house on the hill, drinking port, eating cheese, and gossiping about our social circle, I realise that I know a special group of people:

Over the past year spent my moments with many gifted characters. The pixie from the East End, who is always late, the handsome tractor boy who loves soggy biscuits, the Yorkshire lad who dreams of being an anchor man, and the Irishman with an indestructible, or invisible liver – I can’t tell which one.

So why I am I writing this? I guess, as we all part our ways, it’s a way of keeping touch. A way I can share the hopes and dreams of these beautiful people. I love them so much, and blogging means we can all see how our lives unfold.

They have given me some great times that I’ll never forget: except when I was woken up at 3am on a freezing pavement by a stranger who paid for my taxi home. So if you are on my wavelength, and catch my drift then read on, if not you don’t know what you’ve missing out on...