Why I Hate Yorkshire Day

Image courtesy of James Longhorn

It’s Yorkshire day - the day that the Mail, the BBC, Buzzfeed and all the other bastions of marketo-media bullshit take the opportunity to bombard us with pictures of flat caps, whippets and other relics of a Yorkshire culture that was last relevant before your grandparents were born.

See I hate Yorkshire day, I hate Yorkshire day because Yorkshire actually feels pretty good to me right now. After several years of my own personal post-recession hurt – having been on the dole, without any aims, longing for a life outside the post-industrial Leeds shitscape – I finally feel like things are on the up.

There’s no denying that the north was battered by the recession – jobless, skint, flagging behind the south in recovery – reverting to the “grim up north” archetype that it seemed 90s regeneration had done away with. But it’s over now, or at least it’s coming to an end.

Right now Yorkshire is buzzing. High off sunshine, cycler’s latex and pint after pint after pint. We’re heading into August off the back of one of the biggest cross-county raves in years – Tour de France, Tramlines, the Sculpture Park. The eyes of the world are on us.

The nostalgic 'parkin and Emmerdale' view of Yorkshire life that Yorkshire Day represents is a denial of this. A denial of these current realities of life in the county. It’s a mixmash of ee-bah-gum stereotypes and stuff that never happened. It says nothing to nobody about most peoples’ lives in the county.

If you took the assumptions the hype around Yorkshire Day at face value you’d think that the life of anyone under 35 consisted of drinking John Smith to bonk remixes of Ilkley Moor Bah'tat, before stumbling home to chips and gravy. It’s a marketer’s wet dream of Yorkshire. But it’s self-perpetuated.

It’d be nice to think of Yorkshire Day as having been dreamt up in the south, but the truth is that whilst Buzzfeed might be running their quizzes asking, "How northern are you?" from their London postcode, it’s you and your northern mates sharing the shitty copy.

Why?

If there’s one stereotype of Yorkshire people that rings true, it’s the understated mentality. A ‘best not to brag’, self-deprecating way of thinking which ensures Yorkshire stills appears from the outside to be the world of Billy Liar – a world where success still means moving away, a world where ‘elsewhere’ is the place we aspire to go and home represents a continued, dull existence.

If Yorkshire is to move forward we need to break away from this mentality, we need to stop clinging to and perpetuating an archaic ‘Yorkshire Day’ identity. An identity born out of self-deprecation, us choosing to laugh at ourselves- pretending we’re all “ey’up”s and Yorkshire pudding, rather than the inhabitants of the banging northern metropolises we are.

Yes. It’s grim up north, it’s grim that you keep chatting this same boring Yorkshire Day shit.

5 Five Things Tramlines Taught Me

Image courtesy of Adam Menzies

There’s not much else so intertwined with British summer than music festivals. You only have to scroll through your Facebook feed to realise that festival pics are important social signifiers. Posting a selfie on Facebook in a camping chair is the way retail workers demonstrate they’re still alternative, and trainee geography teacher demonstrate they still have personality.  Festivals and the culture that surrounding festivals  have come to represent our breaking the monotony of our everyday life, it’s for this reason that inner-city festival holds a awkward position within festival culture.

City centre festival represent a deviation from the camping festival norm, because not having a camping sites means we are unable to truly get away. Maybe this is why whilst prices at camping festivals boomed in the noughties off the back of our buying into the  ‘festival experience’- Carlsberg guitar bands, teddy-bear onesies and £10 posh showers- inner-city festivals have remained relatively cheap.

Where camping festivals are insular, lawless places where everything goes and nobody's around to tell you no, at inner-city festivals festival-goers still have to stumble past parents pushing buggies back from Primark and coppers on horses.  Students with dreadlocks might play bongo drums round campfires at Glastonbury, but at inner-city festivals blokes in check shirts still drink tinnies of fosters round the back of tesco metros. Maybe it's in this way that inner-city festivals better reflect British life than the modern British camping festival.

With this in mind that I headed to Sheffield’s Tramlines festival, the north’s biggest city centre festival, to see what I could learn about myself, the music and whether going without camping would offer me anything different.

Here are the five lessons I learnt whilst I was there:

If you keep playing long enough you’re gonna get cut off

Playing on Saturday afternoon, Northern hip-hop act Clubs & Spades lap up their hometown reception, announcing themselves as from the ‘city of the owls’ and rolling through a selection of tunes that demonstrate a big future.

Either caught up in the atmosphere- or not giving a damn - their set overruns, eventually brought to abrupt end when a festival organiser takes to the stage to tell them enough is enough. They look disappointed, wishing they’d had enough time for one more song. But with the crowd cheering, they leave the stage with smiles on their faces.

Politics at festivals is always pointless

Public Enemy still bring the noise, their 5pm Saturday performance being one of the highlights of Tramlines. From classics like ‘Harder Than You Think’ to newer tunes like ‘Rise’ the crowd is stoked throughout, but things take a turn for the worse when they decide to offer the crowd their views on the Gaza conflict.

Public Enemy have spent 25 years spitting power fighting recording records against segregation and racism, but this doesn’t save their post-performance tirade against war being as vacuous as any speech by Bono.

“Fuck the war”

“Fight the power”

“Say it with me- peace”

At the other side of the world Palestinian civilians lie cold in their grave, but having 5,000 fucked Sheffieldians raise their hands in salute achieves nothing besides easing their collective consciences. In future leave the sloppy international relations stuff out Flava - but stick to the tunes and everything will be fine.

Image courtesy of Adam Menzies

Having to sleep in a Costa Coffee is rough

Caught between the last train home and watching Annie Mac later in the night, me and the magazine’s photographer make ad hoc plans to stay at the house of a friend of a friends.

After Annie’s set - run through of student anthems - Sheffield becomes the Sheffield it’s renowned for: Niche classics and sleazy chavas. Amid the bright lights, fists pumping and bottles being swigged I lose the photographer. I want nothing other than a sofa to sleep on, but the friend of a friend renegs on the promise of a sofa leaving me drunk and alone. I head down to the railway station and find it’s a four hour wait for a train.

Desperate for warmth and having no luck prostituting my body for a bed via Tinder I give up and find a bench to sit on, three hours later I head to a Costa Coffee and find some shut-eye on one of the sofas. Give me a blow up bed and a rain soaked tent any day - unless you book a hotel or live nearby sleeping arrangements at city festivals are a living hell.

Bad acoustic music is rougher

Hungover and terrible, with an hour and half’s sleep, I wonder around Sheffield city centre trying to find an act that inspires me. At the peak of my hangover I wonder over to the Main Stage and find Lewis Watson- a grown man who makes his living from making teenage girls weep. His music is not just insipid, it draws me into an existential crisis.

Does Lewis believe his own lyrics? Surely his  heartfelt whimsical is just a put on for the $$$ and the teenybopper… but the longer the set goes on, the more I begin to doubt that Lewis is self aware to me making it up. What is life? What is love? If god exists why would he allow such music to be made?

To me The Cribs are Yorkshire's ending for a Sheffield festival

“Yorkshire, Yorkshire, Yorkshire”- the crowd expects and the band delivers. The final night crowd might be hungover from the days before and know they have work in the morning, but as the Cribs reel off their best tunes - Girls Like Mystery, Men’s Needs, and fan favourites like early b-side You’re Gonna Lose Us - nobody cares about tomorrow.

Any thought that the crowd will disperse early to catch the last trains home is quickly dispensed of. For my part I spend the set jumping around with a bottle of rum, remembering that while guitar music have died with landfill indieb- The Twang, The Wombats, The Enemy - some bands resonate beyond that… for me the Cribs will always remind me of being a teenagers, so when I see them live they will always kill it.

“I’m a realist, I’m a romantic.”

And for one night, as they sing along, so is everyone else in Sheffield.

Leeds Queer Film Festival 2014 - A Preview

Held at the Wharf Chambers in Leeds from the 10-13th of July, the Leeds Queer Film Festival celebrates the best of queer cinema from around the world. Following previous incarnations in 2005, 2010 and 2013, the 2014 edition aims to build on last years successes- championing LQBTQI rights and providing a platform for queer independent filmmakers to showcase their work.

The festival boasts an impressive line-up, with highlights including: Who’s Afraid of Vagina Wolf?- a dramedy following an American filmmaker and writer's journey as she directs an all-female remake of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?; Valenica- which follows a punk lesbian searching for sex, drugs and love in 90s San Francisco; and Out Here- a documentary following the lives of seven queer farmers in the USA. The festival will also stay true to its northern roots with a showings of the short Out of Work- an animation explaining the 2003 Employment Equality Act, made in Harehills, Leeds.

Outside of film screenings the festival hosts a series of talks on social and health issues, with an impetus placed on raising awareness of LGBTQI issues, such as the plight of the gay community in Uganda and Nigeria.

Run by a group of volunteers committed to ethicality and inclusiveness, and with the prices to showings and talks offered on a ‘pay what you are able’ basis, there’s little reason not to check out this opportunity to explore the best of contemporary queer cinema.

Wharf Chambers operates a Safer Spaces policy. For more information on Leeds Queer Film Festival, see their website here.

European Elections 2014: A Voting Guide

Image courtesy of James Longhorn

Chances are you don't give a shit about politics. I mean why would you? For all the supposed drama of British politics it hardly compares to real drama, by which I mean television drama. There might be a lot of sleazy characters and underhand dealings around Westminster, but unlike in Game of Thrones the only knife they’re going to put through your back is a metaphorical one. AKA a boring one.

Voting in MEPs might have a mild influence on European legislation or whether we stay in Europe, but really it’s all just a warmup for next year. Fuck it. We should use the build up to the general election to demand more from our politicians. I want to see George Galloway and Boris Johnson in mortal combat; I want to see the Frackers locking Caroline Lucas in dungeon; I want to see Samantha Cameron birthing a demon to take out Dave’s opponents. I want to see some action, I want to see someone bleed.

But in the meantime the European Election (like winter) is coming, so for anybody who can be bothered voting, here’s a voting guide:

Conservatives

It’s hard to know where to start. Never has Britain had a weaker less effectual government than the current Tory run one. David Cameron’s Conservative Party believes in the worst kind of divisive prey on the weak politics. Outside of Grand Theft Auto, pushing over a guy a wheelchair, methodically taking a crowbar to the wheelchair, then turning to the disabled man, would be nothing short of sociopathic. The Tory’s bedroom tax is basically a financial version of that. Voting for the Conservatives is to be in the crowd egging the monster on: *“hit him, hit him harder”*- don’t even think about it you sicko.

Labour

Remember when Labour was socialist party, defending the British citizens against the meglo-corporate evils of big business? No, me neither- like you I grew up with Tony Blair as PM. In all likelihood Labour will never look back from Nu-Labour. The current breed of Labour politicians are bottom feeding, spineless, unprincipled arseholes- utterly detached from working-life. Right now a vote for Labour means a vote for some greasy-pole climbing former NUS President, their sole reason for joining Labour over the Conservatives was that they wanted to get laid at university. Frankly, it’s wrong to encourage them

Lib-Dems

It’s hard to believe that before the 2010 General Election Nick Clegg was the Don Draper of British politics. Chain-smoking through his morning briefing, seducing beautiful women. Fast forward four years to a shell of that man. A man whose word is worthless, a man schooled in a debate with Farage. Hated by students, bankers, workers, pensioners and pretty much anybody else with a pulse. The Lib-Dems are going to crash and burn, but I’m a compassionate human-being and I just want to give the man a hug- sympathy vote?

UKIP

It wasn’t so long ago that being a UKIP supporter meant you spent your days posting racist comment on YouTube videos, occasionally venturing out of the house to deliver incoherent rants on public transport against the BBC and its ‘loony-left paedophile conspiracy.’ Not anymore. Now UKIP is mainstream. Now being a UKIP supporter means being an immigrant hating, Rule Britannia singing, Thatcherite waste of oxygen. Lets be clear: if you don’t think Nigel Farage can go fuck himself, then you can go fuck yourself.

Greens

On the face of it the Greens have the most sensible policies. The problem is, there’s always that suspicion, that resistance to becoming a ‘Green voter.’ Because, lets face it, Green voters don’t behave like normal people. Normal people don’t ride bikes with baskets on the front; normal people don’t attend council organised diversity events; normal people don’t take their children to music festivals. So sure, if you’re gonna vote, then you should probably vote Green. But remember- though there’s very little to be certain of in that Leeds Fest state of lads-on-tour, 10 pints downed, drug-addled inertia. The one thing you know is you don’t want to see a child. Don’t become one of them.

BNP

Seriously? Fuck off.

Bradford International Film Festival 2014 - Highlights

(Originally published for Champion Up North)

For the last two weeks I’ve been at the Bradford International Film Festival. It occurred to me before my final screening, Rushmore, how important comfort is to the cinema experience. How all distraction and discomfort inhibit immersion in the film’s narrative. I wonder how often black-tie impedes a member of Hollywood royalty fully enjoying a feature’s premier: picture Tarantino losing concentration during the ear-scene - his collar too tight; Scar Jo missing that ending - a pin sticking into her back; Heston fidgeting during the chariot race - he needs to readjust his underwear. Just think what could only be solved were tracksuits socially acceptable. Maybe the Oscars, Cannes etc. should take the BIFF’s lead, focus less on the ceremony and more on the films.On that note, here are my BIFF 2014 highlights:

Coal Miners Day

Our perception of coal mining is shaped by the 80s - deindustrialisation, strikes, Thatcher. Directed by French filmmaker Gael Mocaer, this documentary provides a human-centric view of the life of Ukrainian coal miners. The life is hard - a minute’s silence during the opening reminding the viewer of the mine’s dangers. But the film shines through the humour of its subjects, at its best when the miners bicker amongst one-another or joke with Gael and his crew.

Thriller

With Sally Potter collecting the BIFF Fellowship award, a selection of her early short films were shown. Unfamiliar with her early work, I expected to find hints of the filmmaker who later won critical acclaim with Rage and The Last Tango Dance. Instead I found Thriller.

Thriller is Sally’s 1979 deconstruction of the opera La Boheme - rewritten from the perspective of seamstress Mimi. The film explores the question of why Mimi must die at the opera’s conclusion. The film is considered a seminal work of feminist film criticism, and watching the piece made me question why film isn’t employed as a critical medium more frequently. The criticism was never dry, appropriating the music from Psycho to both dramatic and comedic effect - eventually reaching the conclusion that Mimi is murdered by her creator so she may remain her creator’s ideal woman.

A Fountain, A Festival, A Future

(Originally published for Champion Up North)

In northern England water fountains are synonymous with regeneration.  Where other EU countries used taxation from the late-90s/early-2000s boom to improve infrastructure (build high-speed rail-links, motorways, etc.) the UK chose to build fountains and Ferris wheels. Bradford’s fountains are the largest public fountains in the UK. 

Whilst the fountains are impressive, their story encapsulates the recent history of the city. Where Manchester opened its fountains in 2002, Bradford’s were delayed- opened over a decade later, by which time the bubble of optimism that began the century had all but burst.

I’m in Bradford for a screening of Sally Potter’s Thriller, part of the 20th Anniversary edition of the Bradford International Film Festival. The festival is one of the city’s largest cultural events. Film has played a big part in Bradford’s cultural history, and the National Media Museum is one of the city’s greatest assets. In the years where there seemed to be no regeneration, where the city was perpetually on the cusp of being revitalised but never was, the pulse of the Media Museum beat on.

Pudsey, my hometown, is situated a few miles away from the centre of both Bradford and Leeds. Every time I want to go shopping - for a drink, to visit a museum, a gallery - I’m presented with a choice between two cities an equal distance away. For the previous two years my choice has been the same. Leeds.

Image courtesy of James Longhorn

It has not always been this way. When I was younger Bradford was the city I was taken shopping to - dragged to buy school uniform, pencil cases, rulers, that sort of thing - the train fare was cheaper. Spending time there as I grew up, I’ve adopted the same attitude towards the city as Bradfordians: habitually slagging the place off, but defending it ferociously from anybody I judge as an outsider, the same attitude the bully at school has towards their geeky kid-brother.

Bradford Internation Film Festival - A Preview

Image taken from: http://www.nationalmediamuseum.org.uk/

Growing up between Leeds and Bradford, Bradford has always felt like Leeds’ younger brother. In the late-90s, as New Labour began the process of regenerating the Northern cities, Bradford was left behind. Where Leeds graduated and got a PhD in Business and Economics, Bradford was left to fester. The city where building projects were began but never finished, the city where charity shops replaced local businesses, the city where racial tensions led to race riots.

With this stagnation, Bradford threatened to become a cultural wasteland. It is thanks to the work of individuals who believed in the city and refused to accept it’s negative public-image that Bradford has sustained a cultural vibrancy. Beyond the Brontes and Hockney- it’s National Media Museum promotes the cities historic connections with the film industry- some of the first films having been made in the city.

Since 1995 the Bradford International Film Festival has championed films from around the world as well as the best of British cinema, with previous festival selections having included: Sexy Beast, Four Lions and Trainspotting.  Held this year across three venues: the National Media Museum, Hyde Park Picture House and Impressions Gallery, the BIFF will celebrate it’s 20th anniversary  this year.

The anniversary is a testament to the tenacity of it’s organisers, organisers who felt the city deserved the recognition an international film festival would bring. Throughout its tenure the festival has been set against adversity. In the summer of last year there were fears host-venue the National Media Museum would be forced to close, it’s future only secured following a petition. And the city centre has had continued problems: namely the 15 year-old ‘hole’ in the city centre- the result of  council/developer disputes over  the construction of a Westfield shopping centre.

Yet in spite of these problems the BIFF has thrived. Partnered this year with Virgin Media and linked with Leeds Metropolitan University's Northern Film School, the festival has attracted a wide-variety of films and industry speakers.

This years lineup promises a varied selection, with Sally Potter and Brian Cox’s set to collect the BIFF Fellowship and BIFF Lifetime Achievement award respectively, the programme will feature screenings of their best works. They’ll also be retrospectives of Yoshitara Nomura’s post-WW2 crime films and particular anticipation will greet the festival’s closing feature Locke, directed by Steven Knight on the back of his debut Hummingbird, and starring Tom Hardy and Olivia Coleman.

One of Bradford's premier annual events, the BIFF once again promises to attract film-lovers to the city. 2014 has begun as a year of growing optimism for Bradford. With long-promised regeneration coming to the city centre and the Media Museum’s future having been secured, Bradford is seeing the beginning of a well overdue resurgence .  As the BIFF’s 20th annual festival commences, the younger brother steps out of its Northern sibling’s shadow.

The Bradford International Film Festival begins on the 27th of March and continues until the 6th of April. Listings for screenings and events can be found on the website and bookings can be made here.

Being Rich: Stop Making Your Poor Friends Feel Like Shit

Image courtesy of James Longhorn

So according to the government, politicians, economist, and every other wanker-in-the-know, the country's back on the up and London’s thriving again. Which sounds good right? Well since you live in the North, not really, the North’s still on its arse and un/shit-hour employment’s still a massive problem. Which is a massive problem for FRIENDSHIPS. 

That’s right, whilst you might be flying high with your 22-hour contract at Asda, I bet there’s still a whole lot of your friends with zero $$$- sitting on the dole or doing 4-hours a week. Chances are the wealth disparity is making you be a massive dick towards them and it’s driving a wedge into something that used to be so beautiful. 

It’s time you started considering your poor friends. Here is some shit you and everybody else need to cut out to make their dealing with poverty more bearable.

Alcohol

I’m not sure at what point somebody decided that alcohol served any purpose other than to get you drunk. But there they stand. At every bar, at every house party- insisting everyone in earshot have a sip,  peacocking that bottle of micro-brewed and/or imported exspenso-shite. 

Sound familiar? Well you’re not a connoisseur, you’re a cock. Not just that, you’re making your poor friends feel real bad about the drinks they’ve been minesweeping and glasses of Frosty Jacks they’ve been pouring themselves under the table all night. It’s time you re-evaluated your life and made it less awkward for everyone by getting back on the Fosters.

Clothes

So you’re still dressing for style rather than comfort? That’s great but try sitting around on your arse watching Jeremy Kyle with an inbox full of ‘thanks for the application, sorry we’re unable to give you feedback’ rejection emails, then see how stylish you feel. Forget what smart-casual used to mean, now it’s all about jobcentre chic: trackies on the bottom and a shirt on top. 

So help make it more socially acceptable (ie bouncers start letting people in wearing it) by dressing smart-cas like your poor friends do. With all the grunge fetishism at the moment it’s bound to become cool. Have you not watched Nirvana Unplugged? One of the saddest things about Kurt’s death is he never discovered joggers before he kicked it, they’d have definitely been his bag.