Unexpected Findings

“That’s it, we’re lost” declared Mark, throwing down the Mountain Warehouse rucksack his mum bought especially for this Duke of Edinburgh expedition.

“What do you mean we’re lost?” said Jason, ridding himself of his own rucksack. Jack and Evelyn took their leads, glad to be rid of the weight of their borrowed camping equipment. 

“As in, I don’t know where the fuck we are. According to this” he squinted at the laminated Ordnance Survey map “we should be approaching a town called Sutton Bridge, but we’ve been in these woods for a good ten minutes”.

“Well, are there woods anywhere near Sutton Bridge?”

“There’s a golf course just north of the town”

Jason leaned over him to study the map and swore under his breath.

“The only woods I can see are closer to Long Sutton” he used his fingers to calculate the distance “approximately four kilometres away”. 

Mark groaned “So we’ve walked about an hour in the wrong fucking direction. And because it’s October, we’ve only got about two hours of daylight left to finish this bloody trek” 

Evelyn inserted herself between the boys, keen to be included in the discussion. “It’ll be fine. We just need to retrace our steps to the farmhouse, then take the correct fork this time. Then we’ll only be a kilometre or so away from the Foul Anchor campsite”

“You’re a genius” Mark kissed his girlfriend softly on the lips, much to Jason’s bewilderment. 

“I still don’t know how you made such a rookie error,” said Jack, pointing his vape accusingly at Mark “You insisted you knew what you were doing.”

“And I did!” Mark exclaimed “But I couldn’t concentrate between Jason and Evelyn singing about a Yogi Bear, and you harping on about your Crown Jewels”

“Hey! If you’d paid any attention, which you clearly weren’t, you’d know I was on about the Legend of The First Crown Jewels of England. King John lost them in quicksand somewhere around here and I was hoping we might have a little treasure hunt” 

Once again, Evelyn inserted herself in between the boys “Mark, don’t rise to it. Jack, if you want to keep your Crown Jewels, I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

Fed up with the latest instalment in the feud between his two friends, Jason wandered over to a pile of leaves, kicking them in frustration. A blend of yellows, oranges and reds rose up around him. Suddenly, his right foot hit something solid. He shouted out, falling to the floor in pain. 

When the pain subsided, he looked up, slowly unwrapping himself from his doubled over position. His friends, unconcerned about his throbbing foot, were instead gathered around a large wooden chest. On the lid, a red wax seal with a man sitting on a throne holding a sword in his right hand and an orb in the left. King John’s seal. Jason recognised it from a school trip to see the Magna Carta in Lincoln Cathedral.

Jack’s eyes lit up in glee as he opened the casket. “The Legend. It’s True!”

Tonight, Tonight

In for a count of one, two, three, four. Hold a count of one, two, three, four. And exhale for a count of one, two, three, four, five, six. And repeat. Inhale, hold, exhale. I feel my chest expand with each inhale, and my lungs empty with each exhale. I’m lying on the forest floor, an autumnal pine forest. The yellowing leaves are rustling in the breeze and the birds are singing in the trees. And is that a squirrel burying its acorns for the winter? I’m just being, still at the heart of nature. I’m letting the forest fill my senses with each breath I take in. And out.

I’m rudely interrupted by a Scouse drawl. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, you’re on in five.” 

The forest disappears instantly, replaced by the dim lighting of the dressing room. Us five band members are crammed in the small space, made smaller by a defunct amp collection. Rob strides further into the room, his large beer belly taking up the remaining space. I force myself to sit up and shuffle into the closest corner.

“Right, let’s get this show on the fucking road. I’ve got a full pub out there dying to hear you. I’ve even invited John Bradshaw to do a writeup” 

Oh bloody hell. Tonight’s stakes are suddenly a lot higher, with the NME watching, which can make or break bands like us. Those that, like us, started in a tiny box room listening to and studying the greats - Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Brian May - and then all those hours spent with Ben experimenting and writing songs with our own sound. The ads for a second guitarist and a bassist. Staying in this too-small town rather than going away to university or travelling like everyone else. And tonight I’m going to be playing them not only for those who were just expecting a quiet pint on a Tuesday, or for our family and friends who know the words inside out, but the fucking NME. This is what my life so far has been building towards.

It’s too much. Instinctively, I curl into myself, hugging my knees towards my chest, trying to be as small as possible, as if that would make the situation any better. My palms begin to sweat. My breathing becomes shallower and it’s taking all I have to remain upright. 

Rob either doesn’t seem to notice, or notices and doesn’t seem to care, and carries on with his pep talk, like he’s Brian fucking Epstein rather than the landlord of this godforsaken pigsty.

“You guys are local legends. Joy Division and Oasis rolled into one. Sleeping Beauty over here could be the next Johnny Marr” Now the band turns towards me, trying to play it cool in front of Rob, but I can see the nerves written all over their faces. Ben gives me a concerned look, mouthing “you ok?”. I give him a shaky nod in return, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Rob, who strides over to me.

“What’s going on here then? Don’t tell me Sleeping Beauty is also being a pussy” 

I’m in the forest. I’m in the forest. Not two inches away from this madman, who’s breath smells of Carlsberg and pork scratchings. A rancid combination, and it takes all I’ve got to keep down the little food I’ve eaten today.

Thankfully Ben chooses this moment to come to my defence “Can’t you see he’s having a panic attack?”

“Hmph. In my day, we didn’t have panic attacks. We just got the fuck on with it”

“And where did that get you? Cocaine and alcohol addicts with high suicide rates?”

Rob pretended not to hear. “Right, so in a couple of minutes, I’m going to go out there and introduce you. That should give Sleeping Beauty enough time to pull himself together. Then you’re all gonna walk on and play those songs we like so much. And in about a week’s time, when John Bradshaw writes a raving review, you’ll all be rockstars. So go out there and show them what you’re fucking made of!”

Finally, Rob leaves. Shakily I pull myself up to my feet, trying not to let on how much Rob’s words have unnerved me. I grab my trusty Fender, an 18th birthday present from Mum. She’ll be in the front row tonight, as mine and Ben’s proudest supporter. Knowing that  makes me feel a bit better.

Outside the audience cheers as Rob starts his introduction, his booming voice filling the room without a microphone. “They’re a four piece whose influences include Teenage Fanclub, Mogwai and Pavement. They’re also a bunch of smartarses. So please give it up for “The Flying Pigs”. The audience cheers louder as Ben steps out, the rest of the band following close behind, leaving me alone in the room. 

Breathe. I can do this. I will do this. Let’s fucking do this. 

Before I can second-guess myself, I step out to the biggest cheer of them all. I take my position at the front of the stage, right in front of Mum, who gives me a big thumbs up. Behind her is a man I would recognise anywhere. John fucking Bradshaw, with his trademark tweed jacket and thick-rimmed sunglasses, even though it’s already dark in here. 

I glance over towards Ben on the drums behind me, my small nod saying what words can’t. He counts us, counts me, down.

Together we launch into our first track ‘Barnacles’, coincidentally the first song we wrote together. The crowd starts moving, forming the beginnings of a mosh pit. John Bradshaw finds himself in the middle of it, and just smiles and goes along with the strangers around him. And Rob’s in there too, moving as if he owns the place. Which in a way, he does.

People are enjoying themselves. And I’m the one making that possible. It’s a surreal feeling, and one I will never tire of. I let the muscle memory take over, as I relax into it, into the music I know so well.

All too soon, the first track is over. The crowd wants more. We give them more. We give them forty minutes of our finest material, and some that’s never seen the light of day. The crowd loves it all, lapping it all up as if it’s the best music they’ve ever heard. I’m sure it isn’t, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

There’s an encore. I’ve never done an encore before. The five of us go back into the small cramped room, give each other congratulatory hi-fives and walk back out to the biggest cheer of the night. We launch into a cover of The Smashing Pumpkins ‘Tonight, Tonight’, before finishing with ‘Wigan Pier’, our best-known track, if you can call it that. Last time I checked, it had 634 plays on bandcamp.

And then it’s finished. I remove my guitar from around my neck, and wave to the crowd. Mum’s grinning manically. I spot Rob and John Bradshaw having a very one sided conversation by the bar at the back of the room, with Rob doing all the talking. Even from this distance, I can hear him shouting “Didn’t I fucking tell you so” and “they’re going to be huge”

I hope so, Rob. This is what I was made to do. Yes, I need to try to manage my pre-show nerves a bit better. Yes, I’ll probably need to get used to critics in the crowd. Yes, I’ll probably have to deal with a few dickheads like you. But in the end, it’s worth it for this rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins, this feeling that I could move mountains.

Because in a way, I already have.

A Little Life

Isn’t it weird how your time on Earth is eventually defined by only a few dates in the archives: the date you were born, the date you enter a union with another individual (if indeed you do), the date that union breaks apart (if indeed it does) and the day you die.

I already know the first two dates. I was born two weeks late in a hospital that has since been demolished. Take That was number 1 in the charts as my poor mum, who had already been through a lot throughout her pregnancy and long labour, pushed me out into the world with a scream and a second degree tear. 

Then nearly thirty years later, I married my long term partner in a working office in the town hall of the city we met. On the day it was just us, the registrar and two close friends as we said our vows and signed a piece of paper to cement our relationship in the books, despite having been together over ten years. We met in a dingy basement bar just ten weeks into our first years. I was instantly drawn to his encyclopaedic knowledge of the post punk scene. He was drawn to my bum. Our friendship evolved into a relationship, which eventually grew into a marriage.

I know there'll be at least one more date next to my name in the archives. But I don't know when it will be. I hope it will be at least twenty years in the future. But it could be next week. I've got no way of knowing.

How will I die? Will my brain and body succumb to dementia like my grandparents, slowly shrinking away until I can't couldn’t remember my children’s names, and eventually forget to breathe? Or would it be fast and quick like my friend's dad, who collapsed one day whilst out running. One minute his feet were pounding on the pavement, the next his heart ceased pounding in his chest. I don't run, so that's one less way to die. Or will I be on the one plane with a mechanical fault and plunge 35,000 feet into the Atlantic Ocean?

My ideal death, I've decided, is aged about 85; enough time to have lived, but not so long to be too much of a burden. Old enough that my grandchildren will remember me. It would be in a hospice with my family dropping in to talk and reminisce to and about me as I die. I would be in a bay by a window, and listen to the leaves rustling in the breeze, and birds chirping in the trees. I had a cancer, a slow growing tumour that had initially responded to the chemotherapy, but had since metastasised to my lungs, my brain, my bones. I would have worked hard to keep active during the treatment, keeping up my regular coffee dates with friends, until they’d eventually started coming to me as I weakened. Eventually, I would be so weak that I would be moved to the hospice as per my final wishes. And there, I would drift in and out of consciousness, until one day I simply stop breathing and return to nature.

Do You Realize???

Content Warning - war, death, genocide.

Before you read, I just want to add that this a creative non-fiction piece that heavily criticises the UK government's role in the Israel-Hamas conflict. My aim by writing this piece was to spread awareness. If you find yourself feeling uncomfortable/offended by anything I’m saying here, please ask yourself why. And then think about what you can do to change your viewpoint.

Title credit to the Flaming Lips.

Do you realise the UK government has committed £100 million to Gaza in aid?

That’s what the headlines say. And it’s lovely stuff. It’s the stuff that keeps the electorate content and the government in power. But that’s not all. Let’s look beyond the headlines to what else is actually happening. 

Do you realise that Israel accepts arms exports from foreign countries?

Do you realise that the UK is one of them?

Since 2015, the UK government has exported over £448 million worth of arms to the Israeli army. That therefore means that the government is committing aid to the conditions that it itself helped cause.

Do you realise how fucked up this is?

When the government committed to providing shelter to those displaced by the conflict, its arms were used to forcibly displace people from their homes.

When the government committed to delivering food parcels to feed 275,000 people, its arms were used to flatten a similarly sized town, wiping it off the map. 

When the government committed to providing medical care to those who needed it the most, its arms were used to destroy the last remaining hospital, killing those at their most vulnerable. 

Do you realise the hypocrisy?

But of course the government isn't going to jump in and put a halt to things, because the attacks are helping to line their pockets. 

Do you realise the direct conflict of interest?

The people march for Gaza, for ceasefires, for increased aid, for the Palestinian people. But what people don’t realise is that their own government is directly involved with the attacks. People don’t realise that the government is using their taxpayers money to build these weapons, which are then being used to commit war crimes. 

Do you realise that through the government’s actions, we all UK taxpayers are involuntarily complicit in a genocide?

Thought not. 

Perhaps you should. And then together we can do something about it. We can put pressure on those in charge to do the right thing, for once in their fucking lives. And when they don’t, we can simply get rid of them. We are a democracy. We vote for the people in charge, the people responsible for where our tax money goes. The members of parliament, government ministers and secretaries of state. One simple cross in a box can change a lot. 

Because the people of Gaza won’t forgive and they certainly won’t forget.

Because the people of Palestine won’t forgive and they certainly won’t forget.

Because history won’t forgive, and it certainly won’t forget.