#Car for scrap in Cardiff

[williamssmith01]

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[5bcarremoval]

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[sociologyonthemove]

Walking as a Commuter Within the City and Campus: Mobility, Belonging and Identity by Taylor Trueman

‘Overslept. So tired. If late. Get fired. Why bother? Why the pain? Just go home. Do it again’ (Bissell, 2018, p. xiii, emphasis added).

We begin our walk outside of Cardiff Central train station, having just alighted from a train that I catch every week from my rural hometown, as a commuting university student. A pigeon lands in the middle of Central Square. It bobs along, searching for bits of food dropped by passengers as they go. A group of tourists huddle together, eagerly clutching their bags and listening attentively to the tour guide, who sounds knowledgeable on the city of Cardiff. A man who took the same train journey as I did, recognisable from his bright orange rucksack, appears to be munching on something. Small flows of people move in and out of the train station, most of them carrying luggage and all having different journeys and reasons for being within the city (Jones et al., 2014). They disperse in many directions; right, left, straight on, whilst some slow and stop. The smell of a warm, crusty pasty draws my attention back to my fellow passenger. So that is what he is eating. As I walk past the train station exit, a loud and impatient beep from a taxi in the nearby taxi rank catches me off guard. Scraps of litter fly around the grotty concrete slabs of the Square, the wind catching this ‘vibrant matter’ in its grip (Bennett, 2009). 

The time on my phone alerts me that I have taken too long dawdling at the train station, resulting in me being 5 minutes behind on schedule. Commuters learn certain dispositions and travelling skills, such as timed and familiarised routes, that are important to the mobilities of being a ‘commuter’ (Bissell, 2018). This walk takes me on a route that starts at the train station and ends at the Glamorgan Building, whilst moving through the spaces of the city and campus. It is how the identities of ‘commuter’ and ‘student’ interact and shift, and how the relationship of the city and the campus relate and contradict, that is of interest here (Jones et al., 2014; Haar, 2010). I begin walking hastily up the path towards the centre. My walk slows as I catch up with a group of men who occupy the pavement. Catching an odour that makes my nose scrunch up, I notice two of the men are smoking marijuana. Cautious not to be seen with the group, I keep my distance, partially because they are smoking drugs but also because I am a lone female venturing into the city (Pain, 2001). An opening is made between the group as the pavement widens and I quickly walk through them. The smell of alcohol trickles out of the nearby Wetherspoons. Rows of pubs, restaurants and shops are scattered along the street, a sign that I am moving away from the train station and entering the busy centre of city life. 

A scratching suitcase catches my attention. It is being dragged by two women dressed in big stiletto heels and short sparkly dresses. The suitcase hits and bounces off of the grooves and edges of the pavement. To the commuting student, who is tired but ready to get on with her day, their fashion does seem odd for a drowsy Tuesday morning. Maybe they are on their way to a hen do or a heavy day of drinking. I hope they have a good time, but those shoes do look uncomfortable. My attention regains back to my own reason for being within the city – my lecture (Jones et al., 2014). Picking up pace, I approach the first pedestrian crossing, which is manned by traffic lights. The pedestrian sign shows red, so I wait. The cars leave a smell of petroleum as they whizz past, burning my nostrils. Seagulls squark above me, flying around in circles and flapping their big wings. The pedestrian sign quickly turns green, and everyone breaks into heavy strides, shuffling around each other to avoid any awkward interaction or collision (Ryave and Schenkein, 1975). As we cross to the other side, the high-heeled ladies, the shifty young men and myself, the commuting student, all disperse into different directions, as we go about our day within the city. 

Those around me turn from passengers to shoppers, who funnel in and out of the many stores along the Hayes. My attention is drawn to a melodic, groovy sound of something that is not attributable to the hard sounds of the city; a saxophone (Gallagher and Prior, 2017). I follow the tune down the street, where I find a busker under the statue of John Batchelor. The clanking of coins fall into the saxophone case from a man who is enjoying the music too. I want to stay and listen, but the anxiety of being late grows in my stomach. Time to bring out the dreaded Google Maps app. The app brings up a route through St David’s Shopping Centre that will allow me to bypass most of Queen Street, knocking off 5 minutes from my journey. This leaves me feeling out of place, as I do not know the secret routes of the city, as other students surely would (Holton and Finn, 2018). My more familiarised rhythm slows as I take this route into St David’s Shopping Centre. The saxophone drones out, as does the light provided by the spring sun. Harsh UV lighting replaces it and burns down from the shopping mall ceiling, becoming engulfed by its sterile and commodified landscape. 

Google Maps directs me to take a left through a shop leading out to Queen Street. As I approach, a big red WE ARE CLOSED sign is plastered across the shop windows. Google Maps has not registered the shop’s closure. I turn around and allow Google Maps to reconfigure the route (Laurier et al., 2016). This obscures my feeling of unbelonging, as I belong in the sense that I am a student, but do not in terms of knowing my way around Cardiff. After finding and exiting from another shop onto Queen Street, I recognise the side street that leads on to Park Place; the beginning of the Civic Centre where the university can be located. I close down Google Maps and check my phone  – I am now on time. Although the side street feels like the limbo between the city and the campus as it transports me from one side of Cardiff to the other, I recognise the campus as not a separate space that is isolated from the city, rather as a place that unites city living with pedagogy (Haar, 2010). As I enter the quieter, more esteemed area of Cardiff University campus, I feel a shift whilst moving through this space, with my identity as ‘student’ rather than just ‘commuter’.  

As the landscape changes from city to campus, so do its inhabitants. I start to encounter students, recognisable from their big rucksacks and bright coloured folders. A group of girls approach, where I catch their conversation as they pass; ‘…the diss deadline is creeping up fast’ – I know the feeling! (Jones et al., 2014). The Centre of Student Life stands adjacent to my route, with its exaggerated white pillars and four-story floors filled with glass windows. Impressive, but expensive, learnt from the recent university strike action campaigns. I begin walking through the Cardiff University Main Building opposite. The history in its old walls is not outshone by the extravagance of the Centre of Student Life. The Cardiff University Main Building exudes what it feels to belong and be within a university building, with its open gallery and old marble walls, the silence eerie but the grandiose staggering (Hurdley, 2010). The receptionist resides at her desk, typing away, whilst a few people rest at the tables and chairs provided. The white statue of John Viriamu Jones sits centre stage. I cross the red carpeted gallery floor and make my way to the exit, which opens up towards Alexandra Gardens.

I begin walking the paths of Alexandra Gardens, which twist and turn around its corners. A young woman starts to jog across the grass. As she does, she creates a ‘desire path’;  an earth trail created by those who divert from the designated route (Bates, 2017). Seeming to be in a rush, she makes her way towards the Glamorgan Building – most likely another student or member of staff getting to their class on time. The trickling of water meets my ears, stemming from the fountain in the huge war memorial erected at the centre of the park. The smell of fresh grass recently cut by the gardeners, who are busy filling up their truck with clippings after a morning of hard work, remind me of the smells of my hometown. This park allows me to embody the identities of both ‘rural’ and ‘urban’, rather than only ‘commuter’ and ‘student’, as I move through the park on foot (Moles, 2008). Suddenly, the clock tower begins to dong, signalling the start of a new hour. Taking me out of the serene landscape, I return back to my lecture, which is beginning in 2 minutes. Picking up pace, I walk past those enjoying their lunches on the park benches, where I too decide to have my lunch.

A row of tightly parked cars meet me as I exit the Gardens, stretching down the road where the Glamorgan Building resides. The bright colour of yellow catches the corner of my eye – daffodils,  planted sporadically on the side of the pavement. Their heads dance in the breeze, a petal or two plucking off when the wind becomes too strong. This is a nice change from the gusts of litter encountered at the train station (Puwar, 2019). I continue down the pavement, cracked in places from the roots of the ancient trees that stand above, erupting underneath the tarmac as they grow. Reaching a gap in between the parked cars, I quickly move across the road. Arriving at the steps of the Glamorgan Building, I take a second to catch my breath, tired from the long and liminal commute (Bissell, 2018). The building, greyed and historical, stares down. Two Roman stone sculptures flank the sides of the building, one I recognise as the Goddess Athena, from her distinguishable helmet and shield. A I walk up the steps, I hear my name. Turning quickly, one of my friends, who I came to know from my lecture, runs up the steps to join me. 

As a commuting student, having the opportunity to see friends outside of class is not a regular occurrence, often leaving me on the peripheral of university life (Holton and Finn, 2018). Yet as I greet my friend, I feel a rush of belonging to the campus. The identity of ‘commuter’ leaves me as I push through the turning doors of the building with my friend, and the role of the ‘student’ takes over. As Clark (2020) moved through Brighton train station to Brighton Pier, her identity also shifted from commuter to tourist. Although I am not overly fond of the commute – from its early morning starts,  claustrophobic train carriages and interruptions on foot – it is the mundane movements of social life that constitute what it means to be within the city and the campus. The commute by train and foot can begin and lead to significant social experiences and meanings of being within the urban city (Bissell, 2018). The high-heeled ladies, the tunes of the saxophone and the smell of cut grass all make up and shape the important encounters and shifting identities of a commuting university student as she ventures into and through the city of Cardiff. 

‘Overexcited. Energised. All smiles. Time flies. Come, brother. Much to gain. Just be proud. Do it again!’ (Ibid, p. 161, emphasis added). 

Methodological Note 

This walk from the train station to the campus highlighted the mutually constitutive connections one can have with the city through the method of walking (Bates and Rhys-Taylor, 2017). Mobile methods emphasised the affective, embodied and mundane experiences one can have as they move through the city, both as a commuting university student and a social researcher. Using walking as a sociological tool in this instance facilitated an intimate perspective to the sensual processes of everyday life within the city (Spinney and Jungnickel, 2022). Walking as method was significant for the route from the train station to the campus, as it reignited what it meant to ‘be there’ as an ethnographer, and offered insight into the negotiation of identities and sense of belonging as a commuting university student who passes through the city of Cardiff. As Cresswell says (2010, p. 2), this shows how ‘…sociality and identity are produced through networks of people, ideas and things moving rather than the inhabitation of a shared space…’. As I walked the streets of Cardiff, this was achieved by focusing on four concepts of walking research which illuminate the value of walking as method: place, sensory inquiry, embodiment and rhythm (Springgay and Truman, 2019). It was the city centre and the campus, the sounds of the dragging suitcase, the identities of ‘student’ and ‘commuter’, and the change in rhythm from the familiarised route to the unknown path that allowed me to enact a walk that was relational and evocative to my sense of place within the city.  

It was important to consider how to account for the mundane experiences of the city through writing (Bates and Rhys-Taylor, 2017). To grasp the everyday moments of walking in a way that appreciated the multi-layered and multi-sensual, the walk from the train station to the campus was approached through ‘literary sociology’, which was used to illustrate how writing is just as creative and imaginative as the walk itself (Back, 2007, p. 164). This was done by explaining the small details of the walk, such as the bobbing daffodil heads, and also through capturing the wider landscape encountered, by taking photographs along the commute. Working with visual images was important here, as it situated and brought meaning to the differences between the urbanised city and the quiet green space of the campus (Grady, 2004). This enhanced my understanding of how I, as the commuting student, experienced a shift of identifies and belonging to the city and the campus. This shows how ‘Written accounts and visual representations…provide a valuable insight into the embodied practices, events, spaces and experiences of…a particular activity’ (Merriman, 2013, p. 4).  Therefore, the commuting journey from the train station to the campus emphasised the importance of accounting for the experiences, emotions and thoughts had whilst on the move, rather than merely documenting the result of the walk. This highlights how the ordinary yet significant experiences encountered as a commuting university student within the urban city can be realised through walking as method.

Bibliography

Back, L. (2007). The Art of Listening. Oxford: Berg. 

Bates, C. (2017). ‘Desire Lines’, in Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. (eds), Walking Through Social Research. London: Routledge. 

Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. (2017) (eds). ‘Finding Our Feet’, Walking Through Social Research. London: Routledge. 

Bennett, J. (2009). Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Durham: Duke University Press.

Bissell, D. (2018). Transit Life: How Commuting is Transforming Our Cities. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. 

Clark, S. (2020). ‘The conflicting twin personalities of the Brighton seafront’, Cardiff Ethnography Walks. Available at: https://cardiffethnography.tumblr.com/post/190288602323/walks (Accessed 18/04/2023). 

Cresswell, T. (2010). ‘Mobilities I: Catching Up’, Progress in Human Geography, 35(4), pp. 550-558. 

Gallagher, M. and Prior, J. (2017). ‘Listening Walks: A Method of Multiplicity’, in Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. (eds), Walking Through Social Research. London: Routledge. 

Grady, J. (2004). ‘Working with Visible Evidence: An invitation and some practical advice’, in Knowles, C. and Sweetman, P. (Eds), Picturing the Social Landscape: Visual Methods and the Sociological Imagination. New York: Routledge. 

Haar, S. (2010). City as Campus: Urbanism and Higher Education in Chicago. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. 

Holton, M. and Finn, K. (2018). ‘Being-in-motion: The everyday (gendered and classed) embodied mobilities for UK university students who commute’, Mobilities, 13(3), pp. 426-440. 

Hurdley, R. (2010). ‘The Power of Corridors: Connecting doors, mobilising materials, plotting openness’, The Sociological Review, 58(1), pp. 45-64. 

Jones, H., Jackson, E. and Rhys-Taylor, A. (2014). ‘Moving and being moved’, in Jones, H. and Jackson, E. (eds), Stories of Cosmopolitan Belonging: Emotion and Location. London: Routledge. 

Laurier, E., Brown, B. and McGregor, M. (2016). ‘Mediated Pedestrian Mobility: Walking and the Map App’, Mobilities, 11(1), pp. 117-134. 

Merriman, P. (2013). ‘Rethinking Mobile Methods’, Mobilities, 9, pp. 167-187. 

Moles, K. (2008). ‘A Walk in Thirdspace: Place, Methods and Walking’, Sociological Research Online, 13(4), pp. 31-39. 

Pain, R. (2001). ‘Gender, Race, Age and Fear in the City’, Urban Studies, 38(5-6), pp. 899-913.

Puwar, N. (2019). ‘Walking through Litter’, Life Writing Projects. Available at: https://reframe.sussex.ac.uk/lifewritingprojects/place/nirmal-puwar/ (Accessed 22/03/2023). 

Ryave, L.A. and Schenkein, J.A. (1975). ‘Notes on the art of walking’, in Turner, R. (Ed.), Ethnomethodology: Selected Readings. London: Penguin Books. 

Spinney, J. and Jungnickel, K. (2022). ‘Studying Mobilities’, Sage Research Methods. London: Sage Publications Ltd. 

Springgay, S. and Truman, S.E. (2019). ‘Introduction’, Walking Methodologies in a More-than-human World: WalkingLab. London: Routledge. 

[johdinag]

Why You Must Employ A Firm To Buy Junk Cars In Newcastle?

Best means to do away with such a lorry is to sale it, there are lots of companies on the market that would simply buy junk cars in Newcastle. There are numerous companies which buy scrap lorries at practical prices. Having a scrap or unused vehicle in your yard is not a good idea. Oftentimes, it can prove to be undesirable and unsafe for the people living because of place. These type of points can verify to be an excellent shelter for dangerous animals as well as insects. All that can have an adverse impact on your health and wellness and end up being a protection threat if not controlled in time.

Lots of individuals presume that so as to get eliminate their automobiles and also trucks, they need to spend a great deal of cash money which is only ideal if you remove your vehicle on your own. Yet when you collaborate with an organisation for this work, they will certainly pay you pay for your scrap automobile. They will absolutely acquire your trash automobiles as well as truck for cash money and they will absolutely reuse it. So by supplying your garbage to a service, you can earn a good deal of cash. You can similarly improve the worth of your vehicle.

Prior to you call a company to buy junk cars in Newcastle from you, here are a number of ideas which would certainly assist boost the resale worth of your extra automobile. You have to keep these points in mind before going into a deal.

If you just recently had a crash as well as your car is a collision, all you require to do is spend some money on it to make it operatable. Get it to a garage and also they will absolutely handle all the issues. Afterwards, you require to work a little bit on its body such as paint in addition to damages elimination. Afterwards, it will definitely look virtually fresh and also you can sale it. Several individuals may believe why they would certainly require to spend cash when they are about to offer it.

So it is great if you get it taken care of. If you do not plan to spend any money, time as well as handle any type of trouble of getting it repaired you can likewise market it to a scrap car elimination company. There are numerous companies which obtain junk lorries in Newcastle. Many people try to eliminate their car by themselves which is not a wonderful principle due to the fact that it will certainly cost you a lot of cash money as well as you will definitely require to take care of a great deal of headache and additionally difficulties while doing this job.

Whereas, when you market it to a scrap elimination organisation, they will certainly remove it with extremely little disturbance and likewise no hassle. Particularly if you are an active person, they will definitely involve your area at a time practical to you, and within no time in all, they will certainly remove your yard as well as also get rid of the car. On top of that, they will certainly furthermore pay you to spend for your scrap vehicle.

When you employ them, they will certainly establish a hauling truck then they will check the problem of your automobile as well as deal you a quote. If you like the money offered by them, they will remove the vehicle in addition to pay you pay right away. So if you have a garbage automobile remaining in your garage, you merely need to get in touch with any one of these companies and also obtain a handsome amount in return.

[raygoodwinmajournal]

301 - Epochal Territories - 21/4/2022 Shoot #2

Going further afield...how further can that be? Previously, I had mentioned that Plymouth as a location has been exhausted, and felt bored of being around the same locations. Completely unrelated to that, me and Harriet decided to get away for a few days to recharge the batteries after a hectic few years. As a couple, we have never been able to get away due to our degrees, COVID lockdowns and working. We managed to find some time and we decided to go to Cardiff, a place I have never been to and a country I have never visited. Wales has always interested me, because of it’s contrasting landscapes of moorland and industry. Naturally, I found an area that I was interested in via Google Maps whilst looking for places to eat, which was Celsa Manufacturing UK. 

The morning of 21/4/2022, a couple of hours before we were going to check out of our Premier Inn, I walked to this area with the Mamiya RB67 around my neck, loaded with a roll of Ilford XP2. The route was rather strange, as to get to this area (Splott), I had to walk by an busy A-Road being pelted with dust kicked up by constant HGV traffic. The walk was worth it, as I was rewarded with a fantastically bleak area, which was partially marred by heavy traffic. 

The roll started by Pierhead Street, looking out to Roath Docks which houses Hanson Aggregates and EMR Cardiff, a scrap metal works. The 50mm on the RB67 is incredibly wide for 6x7, but perfectly suits my style of landscape photography, as it offers a wide POV style frame from where I am standing, and the detail of the 6x7 negative means that despite areas being further away in comparison to a longer focal length, they are still visible and detail is retained. 

This is the view from the other side of the A4232, looking towards the other end of Roath Docks. Walking across the overpass on the right, I was struck with the notion that it was the most non-place area I have ever visited. It felt like a never ending road, with the wall just above my eye-line, surrounded by concrete and road debris constantly blown into my face, and upon returning, my ears were filled with black dust. A crane claw was in operation at EMR Cardiff, shifting masses of scrap metal creating large crashes and rusty dust emanating from the docks. I was concerned by the constant traffic, as I was worried that it would congest my imagery.

Ocean Way, looking towards Celsa Manufacturing UK. The train tracks and gates creating leading lines which end up at the main processing plant of Celsa, which deals with steel manufacture for industry. The roads running adjacent to Celsa consists of constant HGVs going to the industrial estate and cars driving to a Tesco further up the road. Class 09 locomotives shunt around stock, with Class 66 locomotives moves stock from the plant to the mainline. The trees create a juxtaposition of the industrial setting, with the trees surrounded by litter and other human detritus. 

Opposite Celsa, is a water treatment plant. This was just off of the main road, and was quiet enough to take a photograph. I was constantly looking out for traffic and security - anybody to discourage someone with a camera taking photographs of something that people don’t want photographed. This area was incredibly fruitful, and I wish I had more time and more film with me, but I was limited with time and a single roll. It was the kind of area which I could’ve spent a day walking and taking photographs. 

Celsa Manufacturing UK. I had intended to walk further up the road, as opposite the main site (on Google Maps), looked as if it was full of slag heaps. But the traffic was constant, and I had to wait at a crossing for five minutes just to get this shot. Again, if I had more time I would’ve been able to get the shot I wanted. I have never really been in the vicinity of a plant like this, but I found it fascinating walking past and peering through the fence into the plant. Celsa is the biggest producer of reinforcement in the UK, and one of the largest manufacturer of longer steel products. Yet despite it being a large producer of steel, it has some incredibly bad reviews from lorry drivers, with mostly Romanian and Polish drivers complaining of extremely long waits, terrible waiting areas, poor road quality and drivers from the UK getting instant access to deliveries instead of following a set itinerary of drivers, causing those from the mainland to feel alienated. I cannot say that I am surprised, but it shouldn’t happen. One would’ve thought that an industry as big as this would respect all clients and workers, but favours some. I am only a photographer, but I feel bad for those having to weight several hours when others get fast track status, when one would assume that some steel deliveries would be going back to mainland Europe and would have to drive further in comparison to internal deliveries.

Adjacent to the plant is Splott Beach, an area of outstanding unnatural beauty and often attributed to asbestos and waste. This was an area that I also wanted to visit, but due to the traffic congestion and no way to cross the road to the ‘beach’, I was unable to get to this location. Again, if I wasn’t limited by time, I would’ve been able to visit it, as from the muddy beach, one can see the industrial structures which I found interesting from a compositional, and photographic point of view. 

A coda. Shooting in another country has cemented the idea that Plymouth - to me - is completely exhausted as a location. Half a decade of shooting in the vicinity of Plymouth has left me wanting more, and shooting in Cardiff has given me the urge to travel further afield. Visiting new locations is obviously going to me more fruitful, as you’re seeing locations with a fresh eye, instead of knowing a place like the back of your hand and knowing what to expect. It has given me the idea to return to Wales in the near future, by catching a coach and staying a night in a hotel to cover certain locations. The Megabus seems to be around £40 for a return in comparison to just under £100 for the train, which is only around an hour quicker (if it isn’t delayed). Hotels seem to hover around £50 a night for a decent room which is worth paying for instead of a hostel if you prefer creature comforts like myself. I am seriously considering doing this, as it would give me a fresh view on new locations which I have never explored, instead of trying to cover the same location at a different angle. This is something I would like to look into and get sorted before the end of the academic year in July, possibly in May or June. I am incredibly excited in travelling to new locations, but my main concern would be affording the travel. I hope that I can get a bargain and get myself to sunlit uplands. 

[5bcarremoval]

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[hunterautorecycling]

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[inexpensiveprogress]

John Nash in WW2

At the beginning of the Second World War Nash served in the Observer Corps, moving to the Admiralty in 1940 as an official war artist with the rank of Captain in the Royal Marines. He was promoted acting major in 1943, and relinquished his commission in November 1944.

 John Nash - An Advanced Post, Night, 1918

There is so much written about the paintings John Nash produced for the First World War but little on the Second. In a previous blog-post I noted that John Nash and Eric Ravilious both painted docks together in 1938 and also their letters to each other on both being invited to be war artists.

In a long interview given to the Imperial War Museum on a reel-to-reel tape machine, Nash explains this time:

The First World War paintings were the result of actual vivid experience, Second World War paintings were really more commissioned and hadn’t a very war like aspect at all. 

Questioner: You were sent specifically to do a particular subject in the Second World War?

Yes I was sent to Plymouth to paint objects in the Dock Yard, and of course it’s a very beautiful dockyard and was then full of very handsome figureheads both outside in the grounds and also in some of the buildings. †

 John Nash - Study of ‘Pump Room’, Plymouth Dock Yards.

But the trouble was there was a spy scare at the time, it was the period of the ‘phoney war’ and I was constantly being asked for my papers and in one case positively arrested although I was dressed up as a Royal Marine Captain, and after a time this rather got me down. In one case I actually felt afraid to do any drawing and didn’t do it when the ‘Hood’ battleship came in. I thought I must go and have a look and see if anything can be done about the ‘Hood’, I was really in a state of nerves by then that I didn’t do it - I didn’t do anything at all. 

It was largely the fault of spy scares, especially amongst the dockyard ‘maties’ as they called them (men working the dockyard) who report one to the marine police on the slightest provocation. “These’s an officer there making plans” they said, I was drawing in a sketchbook you see. So at Mountbatten - the seaplane base I was arrested and marched around the camp until released by a friendly R.A.F commandant who told the officer who arrested me he got the wrong man. 

But I got rather tired of this and I decided to go on elsewhere and leave Plymouth and I went to Cardiff, where they said they had nothing for me to do and from there to Swansea. I put up in a hotel in Swansea and the Staff Officer of operations there knew something of my work and knew something about me and he came out straight away to see me at the hotel and said “we don’t like you to be in this hotel (I won’t mention it) on account of security reasons, we’ll find you somewhere else to go to” and they installed me in a delightful hotel in Mumbles. But I had a very good time at Swansea because they had a awful lot to do at Swansea and were quite prepared to welcome official War Artists as a sort of additional pleasurable occupation. He kept thinking up things for me to draw and sending cars around to take you here and there, it was really very pleasant. †

 John Nash - HMS Oracle at Anchor

 John Nash - Study for HMS Oracle at Anchor

I was taken up to draw a very big merchant ship which have been toed up one of the rivers there and split in half by a bomb I think... I drew this thing high and dry on the mud and then went again with the Naval numbers to see her dragged off the mud by seven tugs and then went in a car with them and drew her as she was being toed Triumphantly down the river by one tug by then. †

 John Nash -  Bristol Channel, with Tug Boat in the distance.

When we came back from this trip up and down the Bristol Channel we tied up in the dockyard and everybody got ready to have a (party) changed their clothes and the port was bought out and having a nice sort of evening when there was a ‘Purple Air Alarm’ and we went out on deck to see what was happening and there was a terrific explosion and everybody fell flat on the deck and the bomb landed at the end of the dock. 

After that the number one officer said “I must go out and see what the Captain is doing, I think he’s gone out firefighting” ‘cause fires had started in the dock and I said “well I’ll come too.” And we spent the whole night- up to three o’clock in the morning - firefighting, dragging hoses about and what is really illustrated in that painting there. † ‘A Dockyard Fire.’

 John Nash - Study for A Dockyard Fire

 John Nash - A Dockyard Fire.

(I was) drawing in a detached way, but didn’t seem much to be like war, not that I am a fire-eater in any way. It seemed to be rather (like a) peace time occupation in the middle of a war. †

The pictures that come from the Second World War were observational documents much in the style of the Recording Britain project. During WW1 Nash was a young man but by the time of WW2 he was in his late forties and the army were less interested in giving him an active brief and they refused him opportunities to serve with the troops overseas. It maybe that the pictures Nash did for the Second World War became detached and stylishly posed but have little might or drama to interest the museums and thus also the public too.

I gave it up. I got tired of the whole thing and gave it up. I asked the Royal Marines Office to get me a job which was not an artist's job, and so I was sent to Rosyth. It was an absolute change of life and I didn't do any painting, really, for four years. ‡

 John Nash - Study for 'Destroyer in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Destroyer in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Study for 'Scrap'

 John Nash - Scrap

 John Nash - French Submarine “La Creole” in Swansea Dock, 1940

 John Nash - Convoy Scene

 John Nash - Study for 'Small Vessel in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Study for 'From the Wheelhouse'

 John Nash - Study for 'Timber'

 John Nash - Study for Arming a Merchantman

John Nash would be able to return to his war work in 1947 when making an illustration for the Handbook of Printing by W S Cowell. He was illustrating The Harbours of England by John Ruskin. The figure head from the ship is clearly taken from Study of ‘Pump Room’, Plymouth Dock Yards.

† IWM -  Nash, John Northcote (Oral history) ‡ Ronald Blythe - John Nash at Wormingford p12 W S Cowell - Handbook of Printing, 1947

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song - part five (ongoing)

You sleep with your phone under your pillow and turned up full volume out of habit. Even though he never calls. Even though it's been months since he last rang you at three am.

(You're still 'there'. You're still 'his'. And you've a horrible gut feeling that no matter how many types of fiery hell he drags your friendship through, you always /will/ be.)

So when your mobile suddenly rockets Ian Brown into your dreams to rouse you from sleep, it's a damn good job you're a man of routine.

Rolling onto your back, screen flashing 'Elvis' pressed to your ear, your mouth wrestles with both a 'yes?' and 'what?' at the same time, as your half-awake brain tries to find the right greeting.

No 'hello'.

No 'mate'.

Even working at barely twenty percent brain capacity, you don't think he deserves it.

Only it's not Elvis who speaks. The voice mumbling down the line is way too soft, way too lilting, a little bit gormless round it's edge like the voice of someone who might forget their own name, and it takes you much longer than it really should to place it.

"Noel..." Your stomach sinks.

As far as your aware, the last time Elvis and Noel spoke to one another was the day Elvis moved back to his mum's. And the last time you saw Noel, the sketchy little bastard had been E'd out of his tree. You don't think it's unreasonable to have a bad feeling about this.

"Come pick your lad up..." Noel's voice is muffled into the mouthpiece as though he's trying to eat it, but his words are distant somehow. Faraway. Like he's speaking on autopilot and his brain isn't engaging.

Somehow, you're not surprised. Somehow, you'd expected this.

You snarl down the line, as you cram knuckles into your eyes. "Fucks sake, Elways. It's two in the morning. Just stick him in a taxi, or somethin'. Can you lot not wipe yer arse without me?"

Quiet on the other end. Just snuffled breathing and distorted trance waves on the wind.

"No can do, mate..."

"And why not?" You scoff, his incompetence sparking you enraged. Even ten storeys high on a mixture of what's likely MDMA cut with dog wormers, he should be able to shove Ellie in a taxi. "Knob stuck in a sheep?"

But when Noel doesn't bitch back and just /sighs/ instead, it suddenly clicks with you that maybe he's not the one being the cunt in this.

"Three reasons..." He finally says, in that rolling run-on voice of his, "Number one: he's on the floor... Number two: I can't wake him up... And number three: he won't stop bleeding..."

---

You remember little things.

Key moments.

Brief seconds in life that your memory locks away before they're burnt to dust by time and age.

They're rose-tinted, definitely. Perfect in every way the reality never could have been. And they're filtered with the sepia glow of nostalgia that awakens an ache in your chest.

They're unfaithful. (Like he is.)

Romanticised. (Like his is.)

But preserved. Protected.

Like Elvis in '95. Kicking his ball about in your front yard, skin sunburnt a colour to match his United footie kit.

And Elvis in 2000. Slouching outside the headmaster's office, blood smeared across a swollen but still snarling, burst upper lip.

Like Elvis in 2005. Sewing the first patch onto his leather jacket, stabbed raw fingertips dying the white cotton bright red.

And Elvis in 2010. Arguing with Noel over the redecoration of their living room, clothes flecked with wet oxblood paint.

Kneeling now, straddling Elvis's unconscious body with both your hands pressed hard into the groove of his boney hip, stemming the flow where a previously light t-shirt has turned magenta, though, you think...

(You hope. You pray.)

"Please, don't let me remember this."

---

You shout at Noel.

You don't meant to. You know, logically, that it's probably not his fault. You know, logically, that Elvis gets himself into fights he can't win all the fucking time. And you know, logically, that he's a dead man in these scraps without you.

But Noel's there. Conveniently. Looking ten shades of shit in the A&E waiting room.

And there's blood on your hands right now. Elvis in big red smears all flaking right down your forearms and every time you catch a unwarranted glimpse of it you have to swallow back the urge to throw up.

"Fuck's sake, Elways. He goes out with you for one night. ONE. FUCKEN. NIGHT. And this is what happens? THIS is what I have to wake up to?! You can't even take him out for a couple of hours without him gettin' knifed?? Without him nearly gettin' killed??"

It's early hours Saturday morning. A&E's swarming with obnoxious staggering drunks. You have to raise your voice over the noise to be heard.

Noel, decked out in a shredded Madonna t-shirt with a polka dot silk scarf knotted round his throat, and sitting a bit glazed eyed on a bench where you're pacing — waiting, worrying — barely makes a sound when he opens his mouth.

"I'm not his babysitter..."

"No, Noel. No, you're not." You agree, nodding, before suddenly leaning down to eye-level with a snarl, "But you're his fucken MATE."

Or supposed to be. You don't know what mad thought possessed Elvis to make him wanna go back to knocking about with Elways, but you assume the two of them put past grievances behind them, kissed and made up.

Exasperated, you go on, "Where the shitting hell /were/ you while all this was kickin' off? Standin' back, watchin', scratchin' yer balls?? Because you sure as fuck didn't help him out!"

Noel, slouched forwards with wrists clattering full of bracelets hanging between his knees, drops his head in a response you hope is meant to signify shame.

"Wasn't my fight..."

"IT DOESN'T FUCKEN HAVE TO BE!"

He yelps, surprised, when you grab his scarf.

Then yelps, in pain, when you use it to yank his head back up.

"YOU TWO-FACED, SPINELESS LITTLE CUNT. It's not my fight either! Elvis hasn't even talked me for the last three weeks. But I still came straight down, didn't I. I'm still fucken' here, aren't I. I still give a shit, don't I. 'Cos I'm his /mate/, and that's what mate's /do/. But you wouldn't have a slightest fucken clue about that sorta thing, would you?"

Noel doesn't answer.

Noel doesn't even appear to be registering.

Instead, his glassy dew-drop eyes drift sideways and it takes you a moment to clock that he's focused on something else.

"Mr Wood. Mr... Elways?" The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then chances a timid look around your bristling shoulder at Noel. "Would you both like to follow me? We've got some news."

---

You're not the first one to speak.

Sitting in the doctor's office, fingers steepled as though in prayer beneath your chin, you're ready for it. Mentally and emotionally prepped.

Armoured. Waiting.

You can hear it. You can take it.

You've already planned out how to break the news to his mum.

You're not soft. You won't break.

A phantom sting round your ear, from a hand that isn't there, makes you wince.

("Stop crying like a big girl, for fuck's sake. You want everyone to think yer a poofter? You want me to put you in a dress?! 'Cos I fucken will, if ya don't stop. I'll parade you round the whole bleedin' estate in it!")

But it's Noel who reacts to the news first.

Noel, perched on the edge of a cheap plastic chair next to you, who suddenly slumps against the backrest with his hands over his face.

Noel who breathes a loud, over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well... at least he's not dead."

Not.

Dead.

It doesn't start to sink in for you, until you're the one filling out his medical forms with a hand that shakes.

Until you're writing your own name and contact details into the little space provided for 'Next of Kin'.

He's alright.

He's not dead.

Lucky. The doctor had said. Extremely fucking lucky, from the sound of it.

Half a centimetre away from a punctured liver.

Five minutes away from a blood transfusion and you heroically giving up however much he needs.

But he's sound (kind of). Okay.

He's alright, of course he is.

Because he's Elvis. Flirting with the devil. Dancing a razors edge. Iggy Pop for the new generation and you fucking lovehate him.

Out in the corridor, Noel isn't fast enough — or sober enough — to dodge when you grab him.

"Don't think this is over, Elways."

"Awh, gerroff my back will you, Wood. Only went out with him 'cos he called me up suggesting it, and I was tryin' to be his /friend/."

---

You don't realise how anxious you are (how anxious he's /made/ you) until you nip outside to get your cigs from the car, and all of a sudden begin throwing up.

Doubled over, one hand flat on the car's hood for support, you retch hopelessly into the grass verge until your throat's all acid and your stomach's all knots.

Then, when your chest muscles hurt and there's nothing left to puke, when you've slumped down onto the concrete because your legs no longer want to work, when you're leaning back against the front tire, dropping your lighter over and over again as you try desperately to spark up, everything you've been hiding from for weeks — for months — hits you full force all at once.

You don't expect to spend your Saturday morning sitting knees up in a hospital carpark, sobbing your heart out into your elbow, but you do.

And you don't expect Noel to come out later and sit down silently on the ground beside you, but he does.

And it's not comforting.

It's not helpful.

But it's human. And it's enough.

And when the sky's threaded purple and the streetlamps click off, when you've soaked and snotted all over the sleeve of your hoodie, Noel pipes up.

"I'm going back to Cardiff."

And when you halt in the middle of wiping your nose to give him a quizzical look, he takes it as his cue.

"You were right," he admits, a bit too easily, a bit like it's a speech that's been well rehearsed, "you and Ianson. You were right. I don't have any mates. I don't have anything to stick around up here for. I'm a cunt. So after I sit my final exam, that's it. I'm off. I'm going back home."

You don't know how to react to this. It's rare you ever get anything poignant from Noel. You've got a niggling little feeling he's waiting for either devastation or applause.

You don't give him either.

Just sit perplexed, brow pulled low, waiting for more.

And he gives you it, because he's Noel — the fucking master of drama and excess, and you knew he would.

"He loves you, you know."

"What?"

"He loves you." He repeats, as though it's the most flippant thing in the world, "God's sake, Wood, everybody knows."

And before you can react, he's already up.

And before you can scramble to your feet, with a bellowing, "KNOW'S WHAT, NOEL?!" the irritating little shithead is already halfway across the carpark, replying only in shrugs.

You've got no fucking idea who or what he's referring to.

But the abrupt tightness in your chest feels a bit like both panic /and/ hope.

---

You watch him, watching the sunrise.

Little shafts of infant orange light sliding through the gaps in the blinds, slicing across a face swollen tender and bruised.

Little specks of dust caught in the up-draft, sparkling in the early rays like swirls of glitter in front of his eyes.

Little consistent mechanical beeps, muffled into melody, reminding you both where you are.

He doesn't talk.

You reason it probably hurts too much to open his mouth.

Or he's embarrassed. Regretful and ashamed of himself.

(You hope so.)

He knows you're there, though.

Leaning in the doorway to his private room. Arms folded. A man ready to take on the world.

He knows you're there, because you can tell from the way his head's positioned at a complete ninety degree angle towards the window and away from the door, doing his best to avoid eye contact and avoid your inevitable onslaught.

You want to be mad at him.

You want to shout.

It's all there, building tension in your stiff, squared shoulders and clenched, set jaw.

You wanna tell him he's an ignorant, selfish, intolerable arsehole. You wanna scream and call him every derogatory insulting name you can think of.

You wanna give him a bruise to match the black eye on the right side. You wanna demand he man the fuck up.

And he's waiting for it.

You know he is.

Because /he/ knows /you/.

But for some reason the words are sticky.

For some reason, propped up in a hospital bed, narrow shoulders and bird-like collarbones, pale and sickly and wretched and worn, Elvis — Mr. Big Mouth and Bigger Ego, Mr. Big Dreams and Big Grand Tragic Fucking Gestures to Break Your Heart Apart — looks /small/.

And it occurs to you that you never really thought of him as something transient, something mortal, something with a finite amount of resources before.

Your best mate is — and always has been — invincible.

(You both are.)

"I thought I'd lost you." It's out before you realise. Soft-spoken. All feeling.

A sentence you immediately wish you could scoop back into your mouth and replace with the spitting confrontation that you really want.

It hangs heavy in the air between you. Sentimental words like an awkward gift neither one of you wanna take home.

Until Elvis closes his eyes.

And bows his neck.

And replies at a length, voice no more than a fractured half sob in the back of his throat, "I thought I'd lost you, too, man... I thought I'd lost you both..."

--

Your coat pockets rattle with Elvis's painkillers, when you take him home on day three.

He's not better, but he's managing (not complaining) and you make a pointed effort to drive extra slow over all of the speed bumps to minimise his stoic wincing.

You think he appreciates it.

You're not so sure he appreciates you driving straight by his house without stopping, though.

And you're not so sure he appreciates you pulling up in your mum's driveway, instead.

And he /definitely/ doesn't appreciate the patronising glare you gift him.

"You're stayin' wi' me for a bit."

He responds with a questioning pull of eyebrows and you elaborate, gruffly. "I want you where I can keep an eye on yer. You're fucked if you think I'm leavin' you on yer own with a shit ton of morphine."

He waits in the car while you climb out, then saunter round to his side.

Through the windscreen, hunkered and half scowling, he reminds you of that sulking kid, eleven winters ago, who smacked a busy in the face and got you both arrested.

You wish your world was that simple, that straight-forward and innocent, again.

"I'm not gonna off meself, if that's what ya think." He grumbles, when you open the door for him.

Leaning down, anchoring an arm around his back for stability, your reply's muffled in a lank mess of unwashed hair as Elvis lifts himself slowly, cringing. "Don't believe a word that comes outta your mouth lately, mate."

In the house, your mum fusses, naturally.

In the house, Elvis huffs and puffs and pretends he hates it.

You busy yourself upstairs, making up the spare bed in Chantelle's old room, smirking.

Your mum's always doted on Elvis like he's her own son.

And Elvis has always secretly loved the way she's a mum who'll actually /hug/ him.

Later, as you help him up to the bedroom, taking one stair every two minutes because he won't let you carry him (you tried. And you're counting.) he shakes his head in frustration, then elbows you in the ribs.

"I don't /want/ ya lookin' after me."

It's biting. Viscious. Like the last warning snarls of a wounded animal caught helpless in a snare. And it hurts you. Not because he's ungrateful or thankless, or because you've gone to all this trouble and he doesn't give a shit (you can deal with that, you've had a lifetime of it.) But because even after everything he's been through this month, after everything with Mattie and the fight and almost ending up dead, Elvis /still/ won't drop the bravado, /still/ won't be kind enough to allow himself to be /weak/.

You pull him tighter against your side. Lift the majority of his weight as he clutches at his stomach and braves the next step.

"Yeah well, I didn't wanna come save your arse from bein' buried six feet under at three in the mornin' 'cos Elways is incapable of thinkin' like a human bein', an' I don't /particularly/ fancy standin' about 'ere for three hours while you climb these bleedin' stairs, but sometimes — me lil fuckwit of a friend, you just 'ave to put up with shit."

---

You fetch it. All of Elvis's shit. Trudge up the street to what little remains of the Ianson family household, tooled with a clumsily scrawled list of everything he 'needs'.

Phone charger.

Laptop.

Crap to wear.

That one big tattered poster of Joan Jett that you're convinced is even older than him.

"I'm not bringin' yer entire wank bank." You'd told him, earlier that morning, when he'd swapped the list for a tray of your mum's breakfast in bed.

"Oh, come on," He'd whined, puppy-eyed even above a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointing a fork to the Westlife collage completely covering one bedroom wall — a fading ode to Chantelle's obsessively romantic teenage years (years in which you'd had to accompany her to more than one of their shitty concerts, because your mum had /insisted/. Years in which you'd been needlessly excited when you discovered a picture of Alex Turner as her phone wallpaper, only to have your heart broken when she'd admitted she didn't like his band, and only had it there cos she /fancied/ him...), "I can't sit lookin' at those grinnin' paddy twats all day, I'll do meself in."

And so that's you, off to pick up clean clothes and electronics and fucking Joan Jett.

And that's you, anxiously pressing the Ianson's doorbell and hoping Elvis's mum actually lets you in.

As a kid, you'd never really liked her.

As a kid, you'd been convinced that dislike went both ways.

And as a kid, your Chantelle referred to her as 'the witch' on account of the sharp nose and cutting cheekbones Elvis later grew to inherit.

And growing up, Elvis's name for her had been solely 'the bitch'.

Nowadays though, you think you understand her.

Nowadays, you think you kinda get it.

After suffering four miscarriages and an unfortunate cot death, there's only so much of Elvis one mother's nerves can take.

When she opens the front door, however, you're surprised at her immediate inclination of head, gesturing for you to come in. And when you step into the living room, you're surprised to find a sofa scattered with Elvis's belongings. 

"I packed up a few bits I thought he might want. Clean clothes, toothbrush, computer... things..." Elvis's mum is so quiet you can barely hear her and she doesn't look you in the eye when she speaks. "Probably loads of stuff I missed, though. So you're welcome to go upstairs and pick up anything else you think he needs. You'll know better than I do. I don't know anything about him these days..."

Half an hour later, after you've fished Elvis's phone charger from the colony of wild socks underneath his bed and return downstairs with Joan Jett rolled up under an armpit, you find his mum in the kitchen, hunched tense over a cup of tea at the table, head in her hands and biting at a trembling bottom lip.

"He's gonna be alright, ya know." You tell her. Reasoning she needs to hear it. Reasoning some fucker has to be the one who remains positive.

She sniffs and nods. Twitches a thin smile. Doesn't look up at you, though. You reason she's likely just too broken for it.

"I know..." She eventually whispers on an exhale's fragile edge, "I know he's safe with you. You've always been a good influence on him. You looked after him so well when you were kids..."

(...when you were /kids/.)

"That's right." You step towards her. Crouch beside the table so you're at eye level. So she has no choice but to look at you. No choice but to see that you're /sincere/.

You've got this. You're Dominic.

"An' just 'cos he's a grown man now, doesn't mean I 'ave any intention of stoppin'..."

--

You're going to be the death of each other.

You've always known it.

Only it hits you a little bit harder when you find him sitting on the back step, kitchen door to the garden wide open, freezing his arse off in nothing but boxers and his leather jacket ‪at three o'clock‬ in the morning.

The urge for a piss had seen you glancing through his ajar bedroom door on your bleary eyed shuffle down the hallway, and it hadn't been until you'd finished in the bathroom that it twigged there hadn't actually /been/ anyone in his bed.

Now there's a thin strip of bruised knotted spine between leather and elastic that you wish you couldn't see, and you're standing six feet away, shivering in your t-shirt and Calvins.

"What's up?" You ask, when you've stood a bit too long, when you're certain he's waiting for you to say something, "Shit the bed?"

A plume of grey anorexic smoke. "Go back to sleep." And the hem of his jacket riding up to expose tattered ends of messy bandages haphazard with curling surgical tape.

He won't allow you to dress his wound. He'll barely let you touch him, these days. But he's sitting in your back doorway at an ungodly hour, wearing nothing but that stupid fucking jacket he left on the wing mirror of your car, so that must account for /something/.

Unable (and a little bit unwilling) to go back to sleep, you do what any discerning English gentleman would do in this situation.

You stick the kettle on.

Make tea.

Then join him out on the back step, trying to ignore the way it's so cold your nuts have practically crawled back up into your body.

"Red moon." He says, flatly, swinging the last third of his cig your way.

You take it. A straight trade for the cup of tea he wedges between grazed up knees.

Above you, hanging over the field at the end of your garden, where you and Elvis wore down the leather on footballs when you were kids, where you sprained countless ankles and wrists, because Elvis always played dirty — the United scum that he is — and where you laid the early foundations of a friendship later cemented in political fashions and music, a blood moon burns its warning.

The lunar eclipse. The end of days.

And, when you've crushed the cigarette filter into the concrete and your arse has gone numb from the cold on the step, when Elvis has drunk all of his tea and half of yours and you've both been quiet for ages, he hefts a sigh, leans back, angles up his chin and closes his eyes as though sunbathing. "What next?"

It's cryptic, like always, but you hear it — all the unspoken words overloading the single silent space in between.

The 'where do we go from here'.

The 'what does this mean'.

The 'sorry', maybe.

(Or perhaps you're just projecting.)

And you wish you had the answer.

You wish you had some security.

Wish his outburst hadn't caused you to lose your always certain, always steady footing.

Most of all though... most of all you wish you had something else to say other than, "I dunno, mate... You tell me."

--

You remember Glastonbury, '08.

Standing in a muddy field among hundreds of drunk festival goers while ‪The Verve‬ light up your Sunday. You're not dancing, you're not a bloke who does that sorta thing, but you've got your head thrown back and arms outstretched, soaking it all in. And Elvis — still wired from managing to blag a barrier position to see ‪Pete Doherty‬ on the Friday — is singing in your ear with an elbow hooked round your waist, and you're thinking (knowing, really) "I am a fucking 'Lucky Man', indeed."

You remember it being easier then.

(Happier, maybe.)

More manageable, definitely.

Even as you come across Noel later on, when you and Elvis stumble arm-in-arm back to your tent.

Noel who's come along to Glasto with you, but in true Elways style has quickly gone his own way. And who, after three days, is nothing but an indulgent mess of filthy bare feet, white jeans rolled up to the knees, rainbow body paint and strings upon strings of plaited daisy chains. Noel, who, on his way to fuck knows /who/ in fuck knows /where/, makes wanker gestures and shouts "who's on top, tonight, nancy boys??" when the sight of him running passed like some kind of Millennial-Woodstock reject has you and Elvis collapsing into one another, giggling.

You remember it being easier then.

(The word didn't sting.)

When it was just you and Elvis and sometimes, now and again, Noel Elways. Before that night down The Crown, when a five-foot-nothing blonde shoved in beside you at the bar, playing wing-woman for her scary best mate.

Before Noel and Specks. And Mattie and Elvis.

Before you could listen to ‪The Smiths‬ without thinking of a certain tacky knitwear obsessed artist.

And you wonder, if you were given the opportunity to go back in time, would you do it all differently?

And you wonder, if you could replay ‪Sunday night‬ at Glastonbury when you were nineteen — if you could rewind to that precise moment Elvis wrestled you down onto the tarpaulin, still cracking laughs on the back of Noel's comment, and jokingly suggested; "Ohhh, Dominic, KISS me." would you do it?

Probably... probably.

--

You're down town, flicking through the stacks in Sound on a Saturday, trying to find something decent to buy for Elvis as some sort of 'get well soon, ya twat' present, when he turns up.

You don't even need to see him, to know when he shows.

Because Liam Gaffney, Sound's sixteen-year-old weekend 'record assistant' and your own personal shopper, who's been trailing you about the aisles regurgitating every article he's read in this week's copy of NME word-for-word, standing way too close for comfort and constantly getting under your feet, suddenly exclaims, "JUDE!" so loud he almost bursts your ear drum, then rockets off in streaks of smiley faces and tie-dye.

You don't turn round. You don't even look up. Just slouch a bit further and sink your head a bit deeper, and strategically navigate your way towards the very back of the shop.

It doesn't really work. You're not sure why you bother. Sound's no bigger than a shoebox, so there's nowhere for you to hide at six foot two. You've also just gravitated into the Northern Soul corner, and if there's anyone who's gonna be browsing round that bit in a parka on a Saturday, it's you.

(Or Polly, you suppose.)

You hear snags of conversation between the gaps in the same Happy Mondays album Liam's /always/ got playing on repeat in the shop. (Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches. Released five years before he was born and playing over and over again every weekend for the last twelve months. You're surprised his manager hasn't broken it in two.)

"Saved summink special just for you, la..."

"How much you robbing me, this time..?"

"Jussa tenner now for you innit, like. But don't be tellin' 'em all, right. Mates rates an' that. Can't 'ave everyone wannin a bidda de Gaff..." And then, mixed with the ringing of a till and rustling of a carrier bag, "Cheers. Ta. Your Dom's over there, ya know."

And you /feel/ it.

The hesitation.

The weighing up of the odds.

The 'should we/should we not'.

But he's gotta keep up appearances in front of Gaffney.

(In front of the whole fucking world.)

You both do.

And so he's there, a few seconds later, leaning against the rack next to you, with a smile that's more like a grimace and an upward acknowledging nod, "Alright, mate."

"Alright."

"Anything good?"

"Not really. You?"

"Couple of bits. Just picking up some stuff Liam put behind the counter for me during the week." He doesn't offer to tell you what they are. Beyond Morrissey and The Beatles, yours and Julian's musical tastes don't overlap that much. He's long since gauged your disinterest. So instead, as you side step down the aisle to flip through the next stack, he offers up a sudden, "I heard about Elvis." in a tone somewhere between sympathetic and sore.

You pause in your browsing. Feel the muscle tense in your jaw. "Noel."

Of course. You should have known.

"Well, kinda." He shifts uncomfortably on the edge of your view, "He told Sara and Sara told me, so..."

"So, Mattie knows." Because of course Specks won't have thought to keep her big fat mouth shut. Because of course the news that Elvis nearly died just has to get back to the poor fucking girl.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're the only one in your group of mates who actually possesses forethought and common sense.

Sometimes, you wonder if you were beamed in from a completely different planet to them all.

Julian doesn't confirm or deny this information. And you know he's doing that irritating pacifist thing again, where he's dodging questions because he doesn't want anyone to get hurt.

There was a time, many naive months ago, when you mistakenly found this quality a bit endearing. And there was a time, many naive months ago, when it was quite nice to meet somebody who possessed a genuine moral code.

Funny how everything that was once attractive about him, bugs the absolute shit outta you now.

"How is she?" You ask. Because you've got manners. Because you do care. Because it's been way too long since you visited and there's guilt collecting in your gut like a reservoir. "Not good..." he says.

(Not long, you hear.)

"I'll visit." You say.

"You should." He nods. And then, when the small talk's over and you've both put on enough of a show, "I should get off, anyway. I'm meeting Polly round the gallery at two. Don't wanna be too late. /Scary/ that girl."

"Right, yeah, course. Don't piss 'er off, will you."

As he turns to leave, relief allows your teeth to un-clench.

And as he turns to leave you think 'thank fuck'.

Only for him to suddenly turn back again with a mumbling, "Uhm, actually... Dom..." frowning and rifling through his Sound carrier bag and catching you completely off guard.

You don't know what to say when he slides out a copy of Radiohead's album 'The Bends'. And you don't know what to say when he slides it into your hand, track-listing side up, a paint-stained fingernail bullet-pointing 'High and Dry' just a little bit too long.

"Really good on vinyl, that one." He offers, looking you in the eye for the first time since he entered the shop, "Just so you know..."

--

You spend the rest of the weekend conjuring a tension headache from the furrow in your brow, stomping about the house and grunting like a Neanderthal whenever Elvis or your Mum try to strike up conversation. Because you know what Julian's implying. You know exactly what he's trying to say. You've heard High and Dry so much on the radio at work you're pretty sure you've absorbed every inch of it's meaning.

And you know you're a dickhead. You know you're struggling with this. You feel like you're fucking drowning, most days.

You don't need a reminder of your shortcomings.

So when Elvis confronts you, late ‪Sunday evening‬, you're laying across your bed pressing the heels of your hands into your eyeballs, trying to push the aches out of your skull.

"What's up wi' you, mard arse? You on your period?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Creaks on the floorboards. The soft brush of sliding cardboard. Paper, crinkling. And you know.

You - "Put that back."

Him - "Get lost."

The whir of the arms rotation. A dull drop of the needle. Static that reminds you of air before a thunderstorm.

"At least turn it down."

To your surprise, when the music kicks in there's no frenetic drumbeat, no growling bass or snarling guitar Elvis always favours, though.

Just the gentle lullaby notes of Lennon's white grand piano backed with that warm, vintage vinyl hiss you've always loved. And when you move your hands, Elvis is smirking. And when your frown starts to let up, he flops down beside you on the bed, deeming close proximity safe once more.

He lays in silence next to you with his eyes closed. Not touching. But near enough.

Just a presence.

A reminder.

("I am here for you, you know.")

And it takes a while - three songs in fact - but by the closing notes of 'Jealous Guy' you don't feel like you want him to fuck off any more.

"D'ya ever worry you're turnin' into your old man?" You surprise yourself with your honesty. It suddenly feels as though you've been carrying the weight of your entire twenty-one-year existence on your back at all times and now you're unpacking it, one hoarded forgotten object at a time.

Elvis huffs a laugh, "What? No? Worried about turnin' into me Mam, more.” It takes a few moments for him to clock on, but when you stare at the ceiling in silence he figures it out, "You're nothing like your Dad, man."

"I don't know..." the hands are at your eyes again, the bridge of your nose feels sore, "...I wouldn't be so sure."

You try to explain the rage dwelling deep inside of you. The ruthless aggression stamped like a branding into your bones. The way that every day feels like being stranded in the middle of a war zone, fighting uselessly between what you want and what you /are/.

You were made in your father's image. And while you want to believe that you're not a bad person, you know -- inherently -- that you are.

"Why don't you go and see him?" Elvis suggests, when the words have run out and you're not sure how to put your tormented thoughts into comprehensible sentences any more.

"Are you havin' a laugh?" The thought tightens like a pair of hands around your throat.

"Seriously, mate," he continues, "If nothing else it'll remind you just how different you’ve become..."

--

You're eight.

You're eight, when you ram Sareem Akhtar's face into the school gates and leave him needing four stitches in his eyebrow.

You don't remember why you do it. You're not sure you really have a good excuse. Elvis recalls something about him pulling Chantelle's ponytail to get her attention and kicking it all off, but in all honesty you'd been searching for a reason to batter him for weeks. Maybe even months.

You'd just been waiting for him to put a toe out of line and get on your nerves. Because you don't like his face.

Don't like the colour of his skin.

And he regrets it, whatever he did.

Because when he's curled on the concrete in a puddle of his own blood, and you're standing over him spitting "dirty paki cunt!" with half the school crowded round behind you, he wails his little heart out, the poor sod.

And when Chantelle — the fucking loudmouth, blabs about it all when you get home, your Mum shouts til her face turns tomato then sends you straight to your bedroom.

But your Dad, sitting in his chair by the telly, hunched over shining his Docs, just listens silently and smirks.

That night, Chantelle, Mercedes and Chelsea all climb into your bed.

That night, Natalie and Rachel — the two eldest — stand at the top of the stairs earwigging as your Mum and Dad fight. "It's about you, bro." Natalie calls down the hall.

And Chelsea — the only sister in your bed not currently curled up in your arms and sobbing into your neck, huffs a scathing, "Fuck's sake, it's /always/ about you!" then throws the duvet over her head as she turns her back.

Your Mum spends the next morning crying in the kitchen.

Your Dad thumps about the bedroom, stuffing clothes into bags.

And when you pause in the doorway, frowning.

(Worrying)

He gestures you in, then tugs you into a gruff hug.

"Proud o' you." His chest rumbles against your face as he holds you tight, rubbing the top of your shaved head, "So fucken proud, son."

You don't hug him back. You don't know how, or even if you should. The most affection you've ever had from your Dad is a clout round the ear. And he's always beat it into you not to be soft.

He's never — not once — told you he's proud of you before.

So when he pulls away and holds out his hand, old National Front tattoo faded to a red and blue smudge on his palm, you stand there a bit clueless until he grabs yours.

"Take care o' yer Mam an' sisters." He says. And it's not a request, but a command. "An' take care o' these bad boys." He goes on, plucking up your other hand, balling your fingers into fists and kissing each set of knuckles in turn, "Your best mates for life, these two. "

And then, as the realisation dawns on you.

As you become suddenly startlingly conscious of the massive fucking shoes you're required to fill.

"Don't you dare cry, lad. Don't wanna see none of those tears, now. Not today an' not ever. Understand? You're a fighter. You're not a puff an' yer not soft. You're a proud Englishman, born and bred. Hard as nails. An' yer /my/ son."

--

You knew he'd bounce back.

Week three and Elvis is out in your back garden, playing footie with all your nieces and nephews. Getting tackled into the grass by seven boisterous five-to-ten year olds. Getting tickled half to death and mass sat upon. Much to the delight of the toddlers, Poppy and Rose, who are parked in a double pushchair by the back door and gleefully smearing chocolate biscuits all over each other from the excitement of it all.

You're gazing out the window above the sink, over a mountain of soapy bubbles, while Chantelle stands next to you, armed with a dishtowel, the pair of you reenacting the ‪Sunday afternoon‬ duties from when you were young.

"He'd make a great Dad, you know." She says, as Elvis suddenly leaps up roaring, sending the kids scattering in fits of screeched giggles across the yard.

"He's engaged." You remind her. Reacting on autopilot.

A deterrent.

(Or he was. At one point.)

"I wasn't implying anythin', ya div. I don't /fancy/ him. I'm not after his /babies/, Dom. Just pointin' out he's good wi' kids, that's all."

"Well, obviously..." You direct your attention back to the washing up, "'cos he never bleedin' grew up."

It's quiet for a bit. Just the sound of you scraping the remainders of a steak pie off the bottom of a baking pan, Elvis mimicking a T-Rex outside and the muffled audio of the telly from the next room.

Until, "You'd make a great Dad, too."

And you're not sure if she's saying it because she believes you — like Elvis — have a special way with children, or because you — unlike your own Dad — stuck around to actually look after your sisters and your Mum. But either way it's honest. And either way it's a thought that both surprises and scares you.

"We're two players down for Elvis's football team." She goes on, grinning to herself. "When're me and you gonna contribute?"

"Never." You grunt, "I'm not 'avin kids. At least not after how /we/ grew up..." And then, because the opportunity's right there. Because the conversation's wide open. Because you know you'll regret it if you don't seize the moment. "I'm gonna go see him, ya know."

And Chantelle looks up at you, pencil thin dark brows pulled low beneath a poker straight curtain of yellow-blonde. "Who?"

"Dad. On Wednesday. Called the Visitor Centre last week an' they rang me back with his confirmation this mornin', so..."

"Oh..."

She's silent then, for ages.

So are you.

She stares at the plates slotted into the draining rack and you stare down at the bubbles enclosed round your hands.

Outside, Elvis performs keepie-ups for his adoring crowd.

When your sister speaks again her voice is quiet, /thin/, "You sure that's a good idea?"

And you huff a sardonic laugh, "Hah. No. But I have to... It's somethin' I /need/ to do."

You know she doesn't understand your mysterious, undisclosed motive and in all honesty, you don't expect her to. As far as Chantelle's concerned — as far as all of your sisters are concerned for that matter — your old man is just a cunt who abandoned his family right when they needed him the most.

And you know Chelsea, who was always closest to your Dad and who's never quite gotten over it all, still pins a large fraction of the blame on you.

Chantelle, though...

Chantelle's always fought in your corner. Even if she does have a massive gob on her that's got you into shit more than once.

"Anythin' you want me to tell him?" You ask, when you realise she's not gonna pursue the conversation any further on her own, "Got anythin' you want me to say from you?"

And at first she shakes her head. At first she scrunches her little pig-like upturned nose in disgust.

Until suddenly her face changes, and her jaw squares and her brow crumples into a scowl just like yours, and she looks you straight in the eyes and goes, "Yeah... Yeah, actually, I do... Tell him I hope he never gets parole. Tell him I said he deserves to sit in that cell 'til he /rots/."

---

You won't let him wonder 'what if?'. It's not something you're going to allow.

Because you know that feeling. You live with that uncertain wondering — the sometimes wishful thinking — every day of your life. And you know it's no good.

No good for you.

No good for Elvis.

So when he starts uhm-ing and ahh-ing and bitching and moaning and making excuses that are a bit light on their facts, you pick him up. Physically, pick him up. Then carry him, bridal-style, out to your car.

There's nothing even remotely fucking romantic in it, not when you're struggling to restrain him cos he's kicking off and mouthing off while simultaneously trying to knee you in the jaw. And not when you're dumping him carelessly on the backseat with zero concern for his comfort, then kicking closed the auto-locking door.

"I'm not fuckin' goin'!" His boots ramrod your backrest as you twist the key in the ignition then reverse out of the yard.

"Get a beef on all you want, mate," you say, flashing a nonchalant look in the rear mirror, briefly eyeing your bristling barb-wired boy hunkered in the reflection, all tongue and teeth and too much gum, "it's not gonna change anything. You're goin' to see her and that's that."

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, Elvis sits sullen and sulking and refusing to get out of the car.

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, you grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him out.

"She doesn't wanna see me!" He protests as you frog-march him down the garden path.

"How the fuck d'you know?"

"I don't wanna see her!" He insists when you're the one knocking on the door. "You can't kid a kidder, man."

And then, when you're pushing him into the Linnington family's living room like a reluctant toddler, pressing your mouth to his ear and a ring into his palm, "I'll come back in a few hours when you've sorted it out."

"Wait, what?! Wood! No!" And when he spins to face you he's less agitated, more helpless. Just big childlike worried eyes and incapable pleading hands. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go!"

Because you're better at fixing shit that's damaged than he is.

Because you're the one who's always puzzled back together all the shattered pieces of his life before.

Because he's fucking terrified of his own inevitably built up, inevitably broken, perpetually battered, rapscallion heart.

"I can't, mate. Sorry." You've got an appointment at Strangeways in an hour. Today, both you and you best mate are facing up to shit in your lives that hurt. "It's all you now, son. Just you..."

---

You remember Elvis' first month at university.

Not because he tells you about it — but rather, because he doesn't.

There are no text messages. No phone calls. No voice mails left in the stupid hours of the morning when he can't sleep because he's bitten his own wild mind bleeding and raw.

And you don't call him. You want to. You pull his name up in your mobile's address book and sit with your thumb hovering over the 'call' button more times than you care to recount, but you don't do it.

Because not too long ago, you laid side-by-side, the world growing slowly beneath your bones, as you stared up at the stars. And you'd told Elvis you'd visit. Told him you'd come down all the time to hang out. But since helping him move into the flat — since you hauled four bags of crap and guitar up the stairs while he arsed about getting to know his new friend 'Noel', he hasn't invited you to come over once.

And you're not the type to drop in on somebody /uninvited/.

And you reason he's likely found a whole crew of mates cooler than you, by now. He always was the popular one.

So when Elvis does finally call you, howling laughter down the line like a wolf, before informing you that he and Noel are planning to throw their very first 'party' and asks you to come along, you realise you're probably just trying to spite him when you tell him that you can't.

You're covering a late shift that particular Friday for a guy at work, you say. Then an early shift the following Saturday morning.

"Sorry, mate. No can do."

And Elvis lets out a sigh so full of disappointment, you can practically hear him deflate on the other end, like a balloon.

"Aw, Wood... Seriously? Really wanted you to be there... It's not the same without you, you know..."

And it's not so much that you're jealous of all Elvis' new mates getting to spend time with him — you swear you're not.

More that you're just envious of Elvis himself, with this exciting new life unfurling at his feet, full of incredible opportunities that you can never have.

And yet... despite your excuses, despite the fact you know you're not going to enjoy it, despite the way you know you're gonna hate everyone, you still find yourself picking out and ironing a decent shirt the night before...

At Elvis and Noel's, it's all bodies.

Bodies clustered round the entrance doors to the building, smoking. Bodies dotting the stairwell, half throwing up. Reams of philanthropically drunk teenagers spilling out of the flat and down the hall.

You have to step over a couple wrapped around each other on the floor, doing thorough investigations of one anothers back molars, before you can get in through the door.

"Thought you had to work?"

A nip on your right arse cheek, hard enough to hurt, incites both a yelp and a warning bare of teeth as you spin around.

It's Elvis. Obviously.

Elvis, all crinkled laughing eyes and lolling teasing tongue and ballsy rogue-like hands that tear the world in two.

"Brought you a present." You say, conveniently side-stepping away from your excuse.

His attention is immediately diverted as you lift up the carrier bag from the off license.

His  smile slides into the corner of his mouth. "How thoughtful of you, Wood."

And you know that he knows it was all a lie. And you know that he knows exactly why.

Because he knows you, just as intimately as you know him.

But he's not going to challenge it.

You know that, too.

Elvis doesn't take the bag holding the six pack. Just rustles about, peels a can from the ring-holder and cracks open the tab. Around you, the bustling crowd in the flat churns like whirlpool.

"Made a lotta new friends." You remark.

It's not a surprise. Everyone has always known and loved Elvis. He makes it too difficult /not/ to.

"Lotta new birds, you mean." He grins, leaning conspiratorially forward.

Elvis is all warm body and cold can, and you're not sure if the goosebumps erupting on your arms are from the chill of the Carlsberg suddenly pressed against your chest, or the close proximity of his mouth.

"Come on. Lemme introduce you."

And while you'd like to believe that when he hauls you round the flat by the arm, parading you proudly from one cluster of party-goers to the next, beaming "Remember when I was tellin' ya 'bout me best mate, Dom?" and "Have ya had the honour of meeting me best boy, here, Wood?" at anyone who'll lend an ear for a second — you know, deep down, he's doing it because he knows you're unbelievably jealous of all of this. And you know, deep down, he wants to make you feel included. Like you're important. Show you off. Make you a part of all this too.

Because while he's laughably blind to things sometimes, (most times), Elvis isn't stupid.

And while he sometimes (a lot of the time) suffers from tunnel-vision, Elvis isn't selfish.

And by parading you about like a trophy, excitedly introducing you to all of his new friends, sharing funny anecdotes from when the two of you were young and making you sound much cooler and put together than you really are — he's resetting the balance. Cleverly easing away your anxiety and re-establishing your existence as the centre of his universe.

And later, in the quiet moments when the night's not quite over but all the frayed seams of the party are starting to gently come undone, he lays next to you, horizontally, on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, head on your thigh.

Across the room, Noel's wedged into an armchair with a girl on his lap. She's giggling. He's grinning. And then he's saying something you can't hear into the exposed skin of her collarbone, as he slides both hands beneath her skirt.

"How does he do that?"

You assume Elvis is not commenting on Noel's fingering technique.

(You hope he isn't.)

And that Elvis really means how does Noel /pull/.

You shrug. "Low standards." You suppose, you don't exactly know him much, "Surprising how much you can put it about when you don't care where it ends up."

Elvis' hair brushes your knuckles as you pick up the can wedged between your knees, then bring it your mouth.

"That why Dom Junior's not allowed out to play? Standards too high for the common woman?" He snatches your drink before you're done. And you don't think you're imagining it when you drop your hand and he leans his head into you, tangling hair around your fingers as though seeking out your touch.

"/Impossibly/ high standards." You say, looking down.

At him.

Your firecracker. Your minefield. Your thunderstorm.

Effortless and ignorant here, with a slowly sideways slipping smile and head in your lap.

Your best mate stacking another /feeling/ onto that emotional pile of dry kindling still waiting for a spark.

The teasing — mildly flirtatious — half-panting tongue is back.

"I know, I know," he banters, "it's not every day you run into a bird as perfect as I am."

[johdinag]

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Resolution

I don’t get why they switched to New Years but whatever.

My cable is rebooting because it doesn’t want to play BBC-A. Hasn’t for a few days, super annoying since it’s been a Doctor Who Marathon. Watching this on my computer instead.

I kind of missed a bit of the explanation of the 3 Custodians... Hopefully I didn’t miss much. Awww, they’re cute. They’re gonna die aren’t they... Yeah ok ew it’s wiggling in the bag. I missed a line because mom was trying to talk to me. But I’m glad Ryan enjoyed 2000 in Sydney. Sheffield is the new Cardiff. DON’T TOUCH IT WHY WOULD YOU TOUCH IT. Greaattttt it’s gone. IS SHE PART DALEK NOW OR SOMETHING? OR SHE HAS IT WITH HER? *Opens door* “No.” I was spoiled that Ryan’s dad would show up, so I’m assuming that’s his dad. I’m glad the Doctor’s like “I don’t like you.” Immediately.

My cable finished rebooting, and it still won’t play BBC-A, so mom’s unplugging the cable completely. 

Oh great it’s on her back. Oh no not the Black Archive. I mean. Dressing like a police officer and stealing the car is very smart. It’s not very often a non-companion gets to go into the TARDIS. So there’s an Order of the Custodians? Maybe that was the line I missed at the beginning...

Unplugging it worked! BBC-A is back on my TV for the first time in a while yay!

Oh the Black Archive, I was just making my family watch the 50th Anniversary last night so this is relevant. My dad predicted that it was laughter. Dad stopped paying attention and was like “Who’s that?” when he saw the help center lady. And he thought I was being annoying when I told him I don’t know. Also I’d been spoiled for UNIT being suspended. Slight redesign of the Dalek since it’s from scrap. I love when a Dalek is scared. The way it backed up when it saw the 2 hearts was great. Oh great, it can still fly. Awww that was so cute telling Aaron to prep himself to see the TARDIS arrive. See, if UNIT had been around, they’d know that a couple of guns can’t stop a Dalek.

BBC-A just played a turbotax ad that was literally THE stupidest commercial I’ve ever seen. Oh my god.

Ugh and they did another 

I had a feeling the microwave would become a bigger part of the story, but I was like nah I’m wrong. BUT I WAS RIGHT. “He’s shut down the internet” “On New Years Day when everything’s closed and everyone’s hungover.” “What a monster” Amazing. I literally glanced at the time and was like “Oh 10 minutes left” then we heard the Dalek laughter. Literally I went from smiling at “Extended fam” to my smile dropping. Dad hadn’t payed attention and was like “What’s happened?” when he saw Aaron had the Dalek on him now.

That episode was very sweet. I’m glad Ryan’s gotten the chance to have his dad back in his life. And the archeological couple was very cute.

No more Doctor Who until 2020... ughhhhh

[cristian-randieri]

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