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WELCOME TO THE LEEDS DEBACLE Everything you are about to read was written by the fare and otherwise people of Leeds to be read by the fare and otherwise people of Leeds. Featuring stories, reviews, fiction, poetry, rants, recollections and other thoughtless drivel and thoughtful insights on the likes of music, fashion, pubs, curry, theatre, literature, tv, film, sport and owt else Leeds could think of! Issue One of The Debacle is: John Barran Ross Newsome Gareth Jones Michael Lilley Rachel Gardner Ed Teale Kirsty Garland Tom Pearson Lucy Meredith Arthritic Bear Max Patterson Chloe McGenn Keeley Egan Danny Egan Robin Jahdi David Marshall Gethyn Pugh To be part of The Leeds Debacle next time, please email thedebacle@ with your interest. Everybody welcome! Enjoy!

mid morning matters There’s always a worry when the brilliant return to their past successes. A hint of desperation maybe, out of ideas, moving backwards. Yet it’s also what many of us cry out for, lapping it up as our heroes reform to regurgetate old triumphs, crying foul if they dare to try something a little bit different. Whether viewed as an admission of failure or a celebration of success, it seems there is no end to our desire to throw money at nostalgia and no lack of willing recipients of our cheers and cheques to indulge our safest fantasies. So, it should come as no surprise that a man who created a piece of work lauded by press and public should return to said work after a decade of not being lauded by press or public. That man is Steve Coogan and only by his standards would Hollywood film roles and various sitcom series’ be deemed failure, but his standards were set when he introduced Alan Partridge to the world. In truth, the past decade has seen Coogan balance his urge for fame, with roles in the likes of Tropic Thunder and Night At The Museum, with his quest for originality, for example taking on A Cock And Bull Story, whilst keeping himself in with the brilliant and the cool, having varying degrees of involvement in 24 Hour Party People, In The Loop, Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Mighty Boosh. Yet, knowing the talents of Coogan, it is the limp The Parole Officer, the mediocre Saxondale and the insipid Sunshine that we find hard to forgive. In other words, we remember Coogan’s last decade for work we forget. Which is why news of his return to Partridge was mostly received with optimism. Not that Alan had ever retired but, after a near-perfect run of On The Hour, The Day Today, Knowing Me Knowing You and I’m Alan Partridge, he had been limited to the diminishing returns of Anglican Lives, Comic Relief and 2008’s live return. Though still funny, the Alanisms were becoming a little forced. In losing his verve to continue Partridge, Coogan appeared to be losing his ability to do Partridge. Until now, as Mid Morning Matters, a relatively low-key comeback courtesy of revolting lager giants Fosters, arrives on our computer screens in twelve short clips. Alan is presenting on North Norfolk Digital, the belittling “North”

classic Partridge in itself. Episode one is immediately a return to his insensitive, ignorant, misguided, magnificent best. Alan’s relationship with Sidekick Simon, played immaculately by Tim Key, brings out all of Partridge’s ace cards. With the two “riffing”, Alan, trying too hard, announces “this is great banter, it really is”. Of course, it’s awkward, humourless and absolutely bloody hilarious. After several quoteable moments, and a typically rude interview with Jim Jones (“not the evil one”) in which Alan talks more about massacre and paedophilia than the subject cycling, the episode culminates in Alan trying to cycle 10 miles in 30 minutes (“I could cycle 30 miles in 10 minutes”), ending in disaster just as Anthea “the body” Turner walks in.

“a very unpleasant individual, a bit like Jamiroquai” The brilliant song introductions are back in episode two with “Simon Le Bon, actually French for Simon The Good” and “Keep your clubs away from his young, it’s Seal”. Alan has a mini Who Do You Think You Are?, or, in KMKYWAP fashion, WDYTYAHQ. Finding out depressingly little, Alan tries desperately to make the non-stories interesting (“it sends a shiver down your spine”) but finally produces one of his infamous on-air attacks after being told a family member died of syphilis, asking how his guest would like to be told his “great grandmother soiled herself at George Formby’s house... and had a hump”. There is no Sidekick Simon in episode three and it still produces. The main theme on today’s show is Simply The Best of Norfolk, prime Partridge territory. Of course, Alan throws his own hat into the ring, suggests Bernard Matthews (“the greatest farmyard to table strategist”) and gets annoyed at people suggesting Delia Smith, asking “why do I bother?” when the results are exactly as he predicted.

After reading some ludicrous texts (“cats, hammers”) and admitting he used to have a “robust dislike for the gay community before meeting Dale Winton”, episode four is a wine-tasting class, a chance for literal Alan to venture where he’ll never understand. It delights as we watch Partridge panic-attack, gloat at correctly guessing one wine tastes like pepper, describe another as chewits, and ultimately become pissed-up Partridge. Episode five is pure Partridge, just him and a microphone until he is punkd by Orbital Digital, a trick that he takes as badly as expected, announcing “at least my brother’s not in prison”. A clip of him trying to book a cinema ticket uses the old “Dan” like repetition to great effect. His radio show includes an incomprensible Irish Shepherd, a nearly racist ramble, an insensitively read sad story and today’s question “how often should you wash your towels” which ends with the words “testes and bum”. Alan begins episode six with a failed attempt to hoot like a partridge then tells us “I try to maintain a healthy anus”. We revisit his desperatation to gain friends when taking to a caller who he asks for a drink, which ends up in a touching fall-out with Simon. The wonderfully broad topic “what is the best thing?” causes a brilliant idiom/idiot mix up where he calls a calller who suggests sliced bread a “smupid gim” in a fabuous trade of insults, a la I’m Alan Partridge’s scene with Dave Clifton. Alan finally suggests the caller throw himself off clifton suspension bridge; “a very unpleasant individual, a bit like Jamiroquai”. Halfway through and the BBC appear to have let another obvious opportunity slip. I guess they must be happy with Dad’s Army repeats, Gavin & Stacey outtakes, the omnipresent Graham Norton, Miranda falling over, John Culshaw’s smug impressions, the inept Armstrong & Miller, the inoffensive Dara O’Briain and the bewilderingly successful Russell Howard. Oh, and The Trip. Some qdos for being brave enough to show Coogan’s baffling Michael Caine impersonation competition, which either bored and irritated or warmed, tickled and moved, but it was hardly the past successes we were crying out for. Go on, give him another series you swines!

This miserable city sits several miles north and several miles south of several cities worse.

She is Joan, widowed, 53, already and recently, 5.30am because she couldn’t sleep again, opens her Hunslet door to her Hunslet wind, places her milkless bottles on her repetative step, steps from her Garfield slipper onto her council drive, evaporating, the bite doesn’t hurt any more, blind, numb, deaf, dumb. “Good morning!” he says, she hears, he is too nice or he is too thick to be ironic, she waves, and, for the first time since, she smiles. He is Gary, call centre advisor, 39, moves from the vandalised bus-stop to the petrified bus, squashed, sodden, smiling because his neighbour smiled. Seven til five for seven years for seventeen grand, senseless, sensible, suited, if shirt, tie, trousers and walking boots is a suit, smart. Good, the girl is here again, good. Last time he said next time he will ask, now this time is next time and she is here, she is beautiful, he is smart, suited, scented, smiling, handsome in his heyday, yesterday, yesteryear, “yes” she says. But only in his head. She is Alice, 26, hot in her heels and running, to work, not away from him, but that’s an added bonus, why does that man stare her way every day, smiles stupidly, old, ugly, odourless, harmless, hopefully. Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip, inevitable, agony, wait, painless, alone, embarassed, agony, the masses pass, ignore, she has become an obstacle, objectionable, a man stops, he smiles, not stupidly, he holds her hand, he helps her stand, she thanks the man and runs off on her heels, in love. He is John, shop-floor stander but little do they know, in retail, stylishly-suited, seemingly effortless, 30, too old for this, trying too hard. That stupid woman was bound to fall for heels for ice for him, for he has seen this all before, forcefed-fucking, fucking animal, vegetable, mineral water is too much for this wage, council pop, counting seconds, to see her, to sleep with her, not any more, yesterday he would be hot on her heels, not any more; to be with her.

She is Sam, formidable for so young, 30, sits at her sanitised city desk, stares from her high head to her low applicant. Is this me or is this my act? Poised, preened, power. Pathetic. Concentrate, focus, tonight is handsome but today is now. She knows he wants to marry her but he’s a shop-floor stander, she knows she wants to marry him but a Hyde Park house is not a home... concentrate. When she is with him her hair falls. She is Patricia, wound tight but is it any wonder? Half her age, half frowning, half a world away. Her hair was too tight and her highness said no. She doesn’t even want this job but that doesn’t matter. A milkman can’t keep a family and 26 is too old to still be at home anyway. Shaking but she’ll be alright. A free five o’clock bus is no way to leave an interview. She composes, a nice man smiles and lets her sit down, she compliments his shoes for such weather. She should set her daughter up with this one instead of her friends son. He is Richard, nervous and arrogant, a strange combination. 28 and past it, except he hasn’t got started, a catch, so why does he need mums to set up a date? Accidently celibate, over-compensating, underwhelming. Rings on the comedy doorbell on the Morley door and rubs his deceptively weak hands. The wind is too strong for a pound umbrella and the rain beats his pointlessly prepared hair. “Good evening” says her dad. He hopes so. He is Pat, 60 and sound, thirty years in a dying trade, alive. 5am is an early start when you haven’t slept. Because he can tell she’s in love with someone else again because he’s in love with someone else. At least it’s not the limp-handshaker. The Hunslet wind bites, fresh, beautiful. Whistling, he removes the milkless bottles from the repetative step. Smiling, he places full, perfect bottles on the repetative step. Everything is correct. And so it goes, day by day, inside and out, together, happy, safe in the knowledge that this miserable city sits several miles north and several miles south of several cities worse.

j barran


o I guess tv can be a pretty powerful persuader. For the previous hundred per cent of my life I had not once entertained the idea of eating a plate of food (copyright Greg Wallace) without the stench of death on it. Knuckles, shins, necks, ears, cheeks, kidneys, livers, shoulders, ribs, legs, thighs, backs, bellys, breasts, butts, bollocks... I mean not to offend our sensitive mungbean-munching friends, but I just bloody love bloody blood. Yet here I am, sitting meekly inside a vegetarian cafe. And to whom must I thank for this departure, but none other than bollock-headed, grammardeficient, failed-footballer, Gordon Ramsay. Of course, secretly, that reads none other than twelve michelin-starred, world renowned, respected and influential restauranteur, Gordon Ramsay OBE.

And so it was that both Gordons stepped foot into our delightful neighbouring city of Bradford for his latest tv series, from what I can gather either a watereddown or spiced-up version of that last tv series he did where Leeds’ very own Salvo’s, as usual, won something or other. This time the restaurant that had worked hard enough and been brilliant enough to be the latest lucky recipients of Gordon’s vile spittle and screams, it seems, was Prashad, a seemingly lovely, authentic, family-run Indian. Now, at this point I should probably say that I did not even see the programme. I flicked it on near it’s end, saw where it was and texted my friend, with whom I have endured the atrocities and braved the battlefields of Bradders weekly for years to try it’s many fantastic and more below-par curry-houses. In my premature

Prashad excitement at discovering this unknown contender, winner!, I had failed to notice that one, ever-sobering fact: this was not the f word, this was the v word. Awakening in embarrassment, I advised my chop-chomping currycompanion of my foolishness, only to receive a reply suggesting that we go there anyway! After all, what’s the harm, maybe there’s something in it. Lentils, aubergines, coconuts, cauliflowers, corgettes, chickpeas, mushrooms, sweetcorns, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, peas, peppers, paneers... OK, it may not be as saliva-inducing as breasts, butts and bollocks but give it a chance.


his restaurant is a revelation for a number of reasons, the most notable being the exceptional food it serves. It could be easily missed even if you walked by it every day. Prashad is a Vegetarian Restaurant, as a carnivore, I was initially apprehensive about going, however the food is so outstanding so please do not let this put you off. Don’t let the first impressions of the restaurant you walk into fool you as although it is small and rather basic, this cafe-style feel only adds to the atmosphere. We had booked a table for five and when we arrived we were greeted with a very warm welcome. The choice on the menu is vast, and we took quite a while to make our order as we were spoilt for choice, however the waiter was extremely helpful.

I must mention, that Prasad does not have a alcohol license and nor can you bring your own, this did come as a disappointment to some in our party. We ordered a selection of starters from Mixed Vegetable Pakoras to Corn Rolls and some others came highly recommended by the waiters. The poppadoms and chutneys were a great start with a couple of nice surprises as well as the usual favourites you expect. The starters were delicious and lived up to the waiters’ recommendations. I would highly recommend the Corn Rolls, but they aren’t for the faint hearted, they have quite a kick! My main surprise when eating was the variety of flavours tastes and textures that we were eating with no meat in sight. Within the group that was eating that night there was a wide range of palettes that enjoy a selection of mild to spicy hot food. The

waiters and chefs were very helpful in adapting any of the dishes to suit everyone’s needs. The main courses didn’t disappoint, with everyone hugely impressed with their own dish. All the food arrived piping hot and you could smell all the great aromas from the mixture of spices used in the dishes. I initially booked to go to Prashad after watching Gordon Ramsays’ Best Restaurant and I would absolutely agree that this is one of the best Indian restaurants I have ever eaten in. I have since gone back to another popular Indian restaurant, which had previously been one of my favourites and I have to say I was disappointed. After finishing our meal at Prashad, we walked straight back in to book another table two weeks later. I think that says it all.

m patterson

Vegetable Curry 2 tins of peeled plum tomatoes 2 Clove of garlic, crushed 1 Glug of vegetable oil 1 Inch of ginger, finely chopped 3 Handfuls of new potatoes 1 Onion 2 Carrots ½ Squash Large handful of greens Spices 2 Teaspoons medium curry powder 2 Cardoman pods 1 Teaspoon coriander powder 1 Teaspoon cumin powder 1 Teaspoon turmeric

1) Chop all the vegetables into medium sized cubes. 2) In a large pan heat the oil and add all the spices, garlic and ginger, gently fry for a few minutes. 3) Chuck in all the vegetables and give it a good stir. Then add the tins of tomatoes giving them a little mash with the back of a wooden spoon. 4) Cover the pan and leave on a medium heat for 40 minutes stirring occasionally. The curry is done when you can easily pass a knife through one of the pieces of potato. Serve with naan bread, no need for rice and a dollop of sour cream, mango chutney and lime pickle.

CONSTELLATIONS FESTIVAL Leeds University on a Sunday in November definitely does not sound inviting. Freezing cold in a characterless hallway with a warm, crap, expensive pint, the crowds of people don’t quite know how to behave. Pissed in the daylight or sober in a club, it all feels slightly strange. Welcome to Constellations Festival, a new one-day music event hosted by Futuresound. Kicking off at 2.30pm and running until 11pm on a school night, this could only work if they’ve somehow pulled in a stellar line-up. Lucky for us then. The main problem, in fact, proves to be who to miss rather than who to see. Spreading across three rooms, Mine, Stylus and Refectory, the continuous line-up throws up inevitable clashes. I decide to begin locally with iForward,Russia!’s Whiskas’ new project Honour Before Glory creating an atmospheric post-rock surge to an otherwise atmosphere-lacking half-empty room. iLIKETRAINS brooding gloom transfixes and their new material uplifts yet fits in perfectly alongside their weighty tales of death and deception. To complete the Leeds hat-trick, Sky Larkin’s schmindiepop is remarkably enjoyable as they bounce and beam infectiously. The cardigan-clad home crowd fill with a mixture of pride and vomit as singer Kate Harkin announces that we are the village that raised this child.

We’re not alone in moving rooms for Brooklyn big boys Liars’ twisted, disjointed rock and brilliantly hilarious titles. Mixing their more accessible, if only by their own standards, new album with old favourites, frontman Angus Andrew prowls and dances his way from the beautifully menacing It Fit When I Was A Kid to the gloriously vicious Scarecrow on a Killer Slant, where the crowd scream along “stand ‘em in a street with a gun and then kill ‘em all”.

A performance that would be hard to follow for anyone but Tim Harrington, lead singer and mentalist of Les Savy Fav. On record, a wittier, rawer version of any number of New York cool bands, cannot prepare for their live show. Entering in university dean robes, we are soon treated to a close-up of his not insubstantial frame. He strips to his pants, he leaps into the crowd, he dry-humps a stage diver, he runs

all over the venue, he swings from his microphone lead, he hangs from the balcony, he massages a foot, he climbs on the sound desk, he steals a shoe, he gives my girlfriend his chain. Oh yes, and he sings. The music, remarkably, does not suffer, thanks largely to his band standing still and playing whilst all this is going on. New songs, particulaly Let’s Get Out Of Here, fare surprisingly well alongside the likes of rapturouslyreceived previous single Patty Lee, before finishing with the aptly titled Who Rocks The Party. And now for something completely different. Following a fat, bald, bearded man has never been so daunting and this task is handed to Four Tet, one thin, curly-headed, clean-shaved man standing still DJing. The contrast should be exactly what the sweaty students need but his hipnotic beats weave over the heads of a sparser audience. A great talent but maybe not for this occasion. Broken Social Scene add another member to their ever-changing always-many group as Johnny Marr joins ludicrously-hatted Kevin Drew and co. onstage, immediately after a beautiful Lisa Lobsinger doublewhammy of All to All and Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl, for Cause=Time, a brilliant but underwhelming headlne grabber, much like their performance as a whole. A slightly subdued ending to a hugely successful day. Long may Constellations continue.

: Norwegian greats back in Blackjazz 2010 eh? Bloody hell. Hidden among the leaked diplomatic documents, failed World Cup bids (complete with heads of state and future kings prostrating themselves in front of football’s fat cats) and riots, some among us managed to find time to release music. And some others found time to listen to it. Among the latter group was me, and the former included a band called Shining. There are two relatively popular bands of that name at the moment, and both hail from the wintry environs and, currently, perpetual darkness of Scandinavia, so it comes as little surprise that they are both rather dark bands. I’ll not bang on about the Swedish Shining and their emo-black metal, but instead about their ridiculously exciting Norwegian brethren. This Shining started life as a pure jazz group, tangentially related to Ninja Tune jazzy post-rock supremos Jaga Jazzist. The lead instrument was the sax, so the idea of their evolving into what they are today was dubious at best. and what they are today is a sleek, efficient and staggeringly good amalgam of futurist metal and the aforementioned jazz. What shouldn’t work (images abound of a very noodle take on Iron Maiden, with fringes replaced by long beards) actually does, incredibly well, thanks to the vision of their main man Jørgen Munkeby. He took them from the aforementioned early jazz sound into a more cinematic, energetic and densely layered take on post rock with albums In the Kingdom of Kitsch You Will Be a Monster and Grindstone (2005 and 2007 respectively). They brought in the dynamism and energy of rock, and married that to the scale of a Mancini or Elfman soundtrack. Grindstone hinted at a slightly darker sound, but was no real preparation for what was to follow.

Lead single ‘Fisheye’ was the warning shot, combining thick, pendulous, riffs with more aggression than before, and it still found time for some sax, though Munkeby had largely moved on to the guitar. At the start of this year, fittingly surrounded by snow ice and general bleakness, Shining released Blackjazz, and it has cast a shadow over everything else that came out in 2010. An epic in terms of length and ambition, this record maxed all possible categories of quality. Way smarter than any other metal for years (since at least the sunnO)) and Boris collaboration in 2006), with more hooks than Ke$ha and as well produced as any electronica, the tech-jazz-metal onslaught of Blackjazz was hard to beat. Worse still for the competition was when the band visited the UK, bringing their massive energy and insanely tight playing into the live arena. Their presence, along with Japanese pop-grindcore supremos Melt-Banana, made Brainwash Festival in Leeds an event you really should have been at. Hosted mainly at the increasingly vital Brudenell Social Club, this was a grassroots event that put most larger shows to shame. Local bands mixed with international cult favourites, and the weekend was packed with talent.

One of the bands helping to make the event such a success was Leeds-based band Chickenhawk, who released a fine album this year, and whose profile is increasing by the day. Last I heard, they had a poster in Kerrang! Magazine. Not bad for a non-emo band, and even more surprising when you consider most successful Leeds bands these days are pretty poor. (Yes, I do mean Pigeon Detectives and Kaiser Chiefs.) Chickenhawk have only really been at it for a couple of years now, and since hooking up with the local Brew Records label (home to the likes of Castrovalva and Humanfly), they have both gained in notoriety and in effectiveness as a live band. Preferring to ply their trade on the venue floor, surrounded by punters, they bring a punky energy to their Botch-inspired metal. Their latest release, Modern Bodies, is a blur of fun and riffs, but doesn’t quite capture their live intensity. It’s still the best Leeds album since - the last LFO one? - and they will only improve from here. So get on board before they really make it big, and you won’t be able to like them any more.

r jahdi


Since opening its doors in May last year, Nation of Shopkeepers has readily established itself as the in vogue alts, music, art venue in Leeds city centre. Already having given way to the likes of Monotonix, Double Dagger and Cold Cave, expect your diary to be full, with the quirky monthly zine, providing all event and gig listings. Reg weekly club night ‘No Bones’ (Sat) and art Vis night LIMN (Thurs) a must. The refreshingly unique décor and charismatic surroundings make SHOPPIES distinct. Comfy sofas and a colossal courtyard, perfect for hanging out on lazy summer afternoons or undercover on autumn evenings, you’ll feel right at home. If you’re a hip kid about town n you aint been here, sort your life out man! Certified crowd-pleaser, decent drinks selection, and watch out for the regs cards (£1 a pop = eternal discount). Nation of Shopkeepers encompasses a certain vigour you won’t see in every bar, like every time you turn your head, raise your glass, see a band unlike the last, to say you’ll return is a bona fide 100%... and oh the roasts, tell your momma to watch more masterchef!




Describe your bar in one word




Describe yourself in one word


Explain your influences in one word


Sum up Leeds in one word


If you could take one word to a desert island what would it be?



Directly on the periphery of Leeds in Hyde Park lies a social with bags of returning qualities. With mostly independent promoters plugging the shows, check the listings start of the month, for you won’t face disappointment. The last year alone has seen ‘Jonathan Richman’, ‘Times New Viking’ and ‘Why’, that’s just a standard. The social club itself is as free n easy as they come, cheap drinks, a huge pool hall and a bigger selection of crisps than ever Lineker laid eyes on. Oh and the foot’s a good watch on a Sunday.


Host of many a DIY night, Baby Jupiter is a unique little beauty in the Leeds music scene. Hiding itself away between the solicitors and strippers of York Place, this basement bar is far cosier than it’s three rooms suggests. Alternating weekend club nights and gigs pack in an in-the-know crowd to it’s corridor-like bar and, whilst it may seem cliquey on entry, you’ll soon be welcomed onto the continuous sofa or the tiny dance-floor. Decorated with retro 60’s & 70’s kitsch and cool without trying too hard is a rare feat! Head on down, escape the usual tunes and keep the genuine indie alive (just don’t tell too many people about it).


Situated on the thriving bar street Call Lane, Oporto oozes character and regard. The relaxed atmosphere runs the veins of the staff, or perhaps that’s just jager, as it is the first UK bar to serve the stuff. The comfy couches call for a chilled one or, if your pockets can handle it, more. Oporto packs a real punch venue wise, with the flourishing record label ‘Dead Young Records’ showcasing the new talent that will pull your trigger, or at least send you back to the bar for the next round, Definitely worth a visit but, beware, you may never leave!


Escape Leeds’ busy Brigatte, and follow the road down the other side of Leeds Bridge to the idyllic Adelphi. Poignantly opposite the long established Tetley/Carlsberg brewery, this old Victorian pub is a sure fire visit. More than accommodating with four spacious rooms downstairs, equipped with charming furniture and high ceilings (you’ll forgive the tacky shabby chic interior additions) and a magnificent recent remake of the upstairs nest, which offers regular comedy and acoustic nights, sumptuous sofas and amazing city views. Beer wise an ever changing array of ales on offer with Leeds Pale & Landlord a standard, flawless bottle & spirit range. Food wise Woooaaaaah!! New updated menu rocks, honest pub grub with that bit of je ne sais qua! Big up on the roasts but, FYI guys, it’s a pricey boozer so bear this in mind on all counts. But, in saying that, once you’ve sunk your first, you won’t wanna leave.


Set within the uni campus, The Faversham is a wee gem, music venue, relaxing spacious restaurant by day. Come night time it transpires into a bustling bar and cracking club in the small hours. Expect a whole lotta students, put don’t defer. Previous guests to hit the stage include ‘Black Lips’, ‘Arctic Monkeys’, and ‘Animal Collective’ to name a few. Always expect an awesome Sat night courtesy of the prestigious ‘Bad Sneakers’ plugging those tunes you just can’t resist. New interior makeover sees the stage ripped out making the open space echo that of a warehouse party. The laid back milieus you’ll feel at ease, hit the terrace & greenhouse in summer, and bag a bargain in your mouth, tasty food at even tastier prices, especially the burgers.

a lost

Analogue World


h, you should have used a different film” was the knowing comment left on a friends vintage-looking photo. Alas, this was no ordinary photo, no this was from Hipstamatic, the ‘smart phone’ app that gives your photos a vintage feel. It’s a neat little app which can be configured with different lenses, film types and flashes, all the fun of proper photography, but without the massive bag of equipment. My intention is not to write about the joys of a phone app, no sir! I found mild amusement in the ensuing discussion about which ‘virtual emulsion’ should have been used to best highlight the work my friend had done in his garden. But similarly, I was pleased that this app was getting people thinking about the effects that can be created using different films and cameras. I’ve become somewhat obsessed with film cameras, I’m a sucker for good build quality (my Granddads Ross Ensign Selfix from the 50s still works perfectly), I like waiting to get my prints developed and having photos to hold and pass around,

the inherent costs involved make you appreciate what you shoot, no ‘reshoots’ because someone was blinking. Life as it happens rather than being staged. these are the reasons film seems to be hitting a revival (at least I think it is). A big player, if not the biggest, in this revolt is Lomography Society International (LSI - www. This company sells quirky ‘toy’ cameras, Russian classics, a vast array of films and accessories galore. I have their Diana F+, it has a cheap plastic body, cheap plastic lens and despite all of this… they’re rather expensive. I have a few add-ons for mine, such as a full fisheye lens and 35mm film back (as the standard camera takes 120mm roll film). This is probably about as close to the Hipstamatic as you can get in a real camera. Things that make it unique are being able to take multiple exposures, exposing the 35mm sprocket holes, the ability to take four different 35mm frame sizes and three 120mm frame sizes, pinhole shots and, due to the cheap nature of the camera, light leaks can occur (don’t worry, this is a good thing!).

The LSI community is great, people sharing tips, reviews and photos, regular competitions and discount offers. The only issue I have is the cameras aren’t particularly well built and they’re expensive, their LC-A compact is about £200, where as you can buy an original Russian model for about £60 on eBay. On eBay you can soon find classic cameras with great lenses for a nominal fee. I’ve become partial to some older Olympus models mostly due to the quality lenses. The Olympus Trip 35 is a simple camera but produces great shots and is semi-automatic, meaning it has a built in light meter to determine exposure. Moving up from this the Olympus 35RD which has a ‘coupled rangefinder’ for more accurate focusing and a really fast lens to help in low light situations. This is just the tip of the iceberg, but I would really recommend picking up an old camera (car boot sales can be a goldmine) and having a play, it’s much more satisfying than taking a photo, looking at it on a tiny screen and then putting it on a computer and forgetting about it.

r newsome


A pint of ale in front of an open fire in a traditional pub is the only way to deal with winter. But what type of ale to drink? Pale? Amber? Dark? The choice is endless; never mind choosing where to drink it. A great starting point has to be Centurions Ghost Ale from the York Brewery. This fantastic ale is dark in appearance yet light and smooth to taste. The broad appeal of Ghost ale means it is quite rightly, growing in stature amongst the ale drinking public. Originally only found in Leeds (if you were lucky) as a guest ale in Baroque (before the Headrow location settled on the name Mr Foleys), nowadays as a testament to its quality, a semi-permanent place in Wetherspoons is more likely.

The Kelham Island Tavern in Sheffield has won the CAMRA national best pub award for the last 2 years. Such an award can only be won by a pub selling the finest of ales. One frequently returning guest to the Kelham Island Tavern is Pale Rider, from the Kelham Island brewery, the name being the only connection between the two. Pale Rider is an award winning ale for an award winning pub. This light and sweet, yet strong ale is bound to satisfy a newcomer to ale on a summer’s day, and an experienced session drinker in equal measure. While in this part of Sheffield, why not visit The Fat Cat and The Harlequin to complete your trio of some of the finest pubs you could wish to find. There is only one way to finish this article, and that’s with Leeds Brewery’s superb Midnight Bell. This dark mild is stronger than your average mild at 4.8%, but the strength only contributes to the mix of wonderful flavours it leaves you with. The added beauty of having three Leeds Brewery-owned pubs in the city is that you are never too far away from your next pint of Midnight Bell. Go in peace, enjoy your ale.

e teale


ince I was 10, I’ve been ‘indie’. My approach to everything was coloured by my mother, who believed that anything which someone else has is a bit boring. I can’t remember the amount of times we went into shops, and my mum wouldn’t buy anything from there either because ‘there are loads of those,’ or, more likely, ‘we could make that ourselves’.

To get indie music and zines, you had to use the postal service. The person who had the zine you wanted to read would usually live miles away, Belgium in one case for me, so you’d tape a 50p piece to a piece of card, get an A4 self addressed envelope and send them a letter asking for the zine. You trusted them to send it to you,

My brother listened to John Peel, and introduced us all to Wire and The Wedding Present and I realised independent bands existed, and not all songs had to be in the top 40, or about love. We formed our own ‘band’ despite not being able to play instruments, and sampled games on the computer to create drum loops, while I plucked out crude tunes on my acoustic ¾ size guitar.

I made issue 5 of my zine, Pocket, by using the publishing program on the university computers, and was roundly abused by just about every reviewer. ‘Pocket has lost its heart’ and ‘Chloe clearly has her eye on the 4th floor’, zine speak for wanting to write for the NME. For me it was just a way to keep the people at the copy shop happy, because I could print double sided on a sheet of A4, which would be easy to feed through the machine. It amazes me that this was only a little over 10 years ago. To tell someone in another country what you thought of a CD, they had to somehow find out your zine existed, usually by your flyer being resent to them by another zinester, and then send you some money in an envelope. Now zines are available for sale on

Zines and Independence Independent music, led to independent publishing, and around this time I produced a fanzine for our band, which sold 7 copies, one to someone who decided to book us to play a gig, which we thankfully turned down. Later at university, I took up writing a zine (as they were now called) to connect with like-minded people, as most people on my course weren’t anything like me. I reviewed music, drew cartoons, and eventually my zine had such a readership that I was getting invited to gigs as press.

and 99% of the time they did.

Etsy and you pay by Paypal.

Most zines were ‘cut and paste’: you’d create a backdrop of images cut from papers and magazines, write out or type what you wanted to say on a piece of paper, cut it out and paste it onto the backdrop. Distributing it would lead to needing a copy shop, who would hate your thick chunks of A4 which wouldn’t feed into their machine. To get people to know about your zine, you had tiny flyers you’d stuff into envelopes when requesting a zine from someone else which you’d trust them to pass on.

Have zines lost their heart, as I was accused of doing 10 years ago? I’m out of touch with the DIY scene these days and it makes me sad. I know people who write zines, but I read their blogs instead of ordering their zines. I’m still indie – I run a shop selling handmade items inside a building of likeminded people. But I’ve stopped being independent in my reading matter, because I’ve started being lazy. I want to change this.

c mcgenn

KIRSTY GARLAND Describe your photography in one word

Animated Describe yourself in one word

Curious? Explain your influences in one word

People Sum up Leeds in one word

Home If you could take one word to a desert island what would it be?




Say what you like about modern cinemas - say they’re bland, say they’re souless, say they’re a bloody rip off, say the film choice is unimaginative, say the spotty kid who served you is rude, say the annoying kids you’re queuing behind are morons, say... - but I can’t say I’ve ever found my chair half the size of my companion’s chair, wooden, and facing the wrong way. This is what greets me at Leeds Film Festival and it is a situation that I am grateful for as I quickly notice that these are pretty much the last two chairs available. We are at Nation of Shopkeepers to watch a film called The Folk Singer followed by a performance from Serious Sam Barrett, a folk singer. Having bagsied the emergency christmas dinner seats and turned them screenwards, I take advantage of the real benefit of this venue, the ability to watch a film whilst drinking alcohol. The Shopkeepers card bags me a bottle of wine for £8 and I’m set. The Folk Singer is the kind of film I assume I’ll dislike but have to see. Not because I don’t like the subject, quite the opposite in fact. I may be alone in this theory but film to me is, not always but often, the dumbing down of it’s subject, a two hour summing up of a much longer story. Not necessarily a bad thing, maybe two hours is all most subjects ever need anyway, but, similar to when you watch a film of a book you already love, it can’t help but miss out much of what made you love it in the first place. To cite three suitably American examples: The Great Gatsby, my favourite book, I couldn’t bare the film simply because it wasn’t exactly as the book is in my head. Revolutionary Road, recently read and resonated, I couldn’t bare the film because it was almost word for word exactly as the book is. I’m Not There, the film about the unbeatable Bob Dylan, just didn’t have a chance and, needless to say, whilst those around me loved it, I recoiled as if it were an insult. Of course, this says a lot more about me than it does about the films.


So, having been brought up around folk music, The Folk Singer was already on choppy waters with me. The folk singer is Jon Konrad Wert or, on stage, Possessed by Paul James, whom, through a combination of documentary and pre-conceived scenes by film-maker M.A. Littler, we follow around the southern gutters of America as he earns his pittance doing what he was born to do. Which is the premise for much of the film, Wert’s constant battle of continung this lone journey towards his destiny or selling his soul to provide for his family, a dilemma brought into focus by his five month pregnant wife. Along the way we meet other musicians on the same journey as Wert, mainly Scott H Biram, heartwarmingly reminding us that, however isolated and seperated from the modern world, there are always like-minded brothers out there to “rejoice in one another’s sharing of pain”. Those he meets provide varying contrasts to Wert’s darkness, embracing the simplicity of this life of drinking and making music, aswell as providing a soundboard for each other to bounce their soul-searching off. The themes are familiar; Reverend Deadeye brings the slow start to life with his surefire positive take on religion; the musicians keep returning to the age-old truthful art versus commecial viability debate. And, of course, Wert gets no closer to finding his own answer. Which is partly the point, the constant questioning and searching.

earns his

pittance doing what he was born to do.

The Folk Singer is cliched, slow and meandering which is not ideal to keep a largely standing or sitting on the floor, drinking audience attentive. Yet, these genuine, troubled troubadours warm as the film continues with their very personal quest, ultimately proving that theirs are the same issues we are all puzzling out withing ourselves. For the first half an hour I wasn’t too disappointed that there was a massive head on a higher than and directly in front of mine chair. Towards the end, I felt I was disturbing the peace as I moved a bony bum off my foot to nip to the toilet. Maybe that’s why you can’t buy alcohol in the cinema.

It is to the credit of Littler and Wert that the music in the film suggests that the singer is correctly following his god-given talent deapite all of life’s necessities arguing otherwise. Wert’s voice is an honest one, rasping with pain but also with life. And Littler’s voice is an equally honest environment to showcase this. The music, if anything, is underplayed, making it all the more striking when it does enter. Whilst certainly nothing new, the songs deserve to tread folk’s and blues’ well worn paths. It seems unlikely Wert will ever become a folk Anvil but few would begrudge him a bit of extra popularity the film brings. So, after sitting / standing through one man and his acoustic guitar, do we really want to watch one man and his acoustic guitar? The answer, it seems, is yes, as the crowd move to the other end of Shopkeepers to scrutinise Leeds’ very own folk troubadour Serious Sam Barrett. A bottle of wine in, my own scrutinising may not be up to scratch but his combination of American and English, traditional and modern folk music provided either a pleasant backdrop or a mesmeric delight, depending on your wish. Whilst occasionally entering into impersonation as he flits between the admittedly very specific genres, it is an impersonation that would win Stars In Their Eyes, that is the Stars In Their Eyes as it exists in M.A. Littler’s world. Barrett’s guitar work is exemplary with his occasionally banjo-like fingerpicking, his strong voice and his open heart leaving us in no doubt that this modern Yorkshireman very much has old Americana running through his blood.

One Word With... SERIOUS SAM BARRETT Describe your music in one word Yorkshirecana Describe yourself in one word Daydreamer Explain your influences in one word Dad Sum up Leeds in one word


If you could take one word to a desert island what would it be? Love

some leeds folkies have 5 words with us... Describe your music in one word

Ewan McLennan: Folk! LeeSun Clark: enchanting Gary Stewart: Folksy Rosie Doonan: Sugarfolkpop Michael Peter Kerr: Simple

Describe yourself in one word

EM: Socialist LSC: freespirit GS: Hobbit RS: Red MPK: Simple

Explain your influences in one word

EM: Folk....? LSC: random GS: Acoustic RD: breezysixtiesfolk MPK: Great

Sum up Leeds in one word

EM: Grounded LSC: underground GS: Home RD: Settled MPK: Smashing

If you could take one word to a desert island what would it be

EM: Recombobulate LSC: Love GS: Declare RD: Mantra MPK: Weed

hit Me urban urban sprawl sprawl


Sprawl is a good thing. Of this there can be no doubt and of their type there are too few. An organisation set up to help the homeless, not through lazy, thoughtless and ultimately unhelpful handouts, but through engagement in arts, theatre, drama, music, satire, dance and poetry. By using subjects close to their lives, such as mental health, ASBO’s and runaways, Urban Sprawl manages to attract and hold the interest and emotion of those it it there to help, whilst resonating with it’s often more fortunate wider audience. Their new show, Hit Me!, tackles heroin addiction, an issue visible to to many of us, I’m sure, by the limping, charmless groups that hang around the streets of Leeds, intimidating the naive to hand over their pennies and pounds. In other words, the type of homeless person we choose not to give money to because they are homeless

through choice, they are lazy and they will only spend it all on drugs. And anyway, they’re not really homeless with their government-paid mansions where they go back to take their me-paid heroin after they’ve probably earned more in a day than I do in a week. Or something.

presenting it as the same world we all live in. All of which could make a review of the show itself redundant. Haven’t they already achieved their aim by putting it on in the first place and by bringing it to our attention? Well no, of course not:

However preposterous those sayings felt when writing them Smoke and rubbish greet the (and I hope when reading audience as they enter. On one them too), that is undoubtedly side a park bench and bin, on the opinion that is easiest to the other a dirty unmade bed. hold for those of us who have All overflowing with rubbish, in enough in life not to have to a way that is both immediately beg strangers for money. It convincing and unnerving. is easier to see them as a nuisance, as bad people, as not After fading to black, we people at all. And it is easier begin and two housewives still to see their situation and spread spiteful gossip about their addiction as their fault a bereaved young woman, and their choice. Because if we ‘Lauren’, who sits alone and didn’t, we might not like the withdrawn in her room. We reality, we might sympathise go on to learn she has had and we might find their pain a miscarriage. Her internal too much. So, Urban Sprawl is to We come to realise that be applauded for Lauren is using drugs to entering this world, imagine a motherhood improving it, and





monologue revealing she is in lonely denial about losing the child. Lauren, played by Lucy Meredith, who gives a moving and authentic performance, is soon joined by the ghost of her child, played by Sophie McWhannell, who’s performance is the most striking part of the whole production. Continuingly returning in varied series of stylised vignettes (including a Jeremy Kyle parody appropriately called the ‘Lobotomy Smile Show’) that have become a hallmark of the writer/director Damian Coleman. Lauren finds little comfort from her insensitive boyfriend, who’s thinly veiled concern is merely an attempt to solicit sexual favours. After this encounter Lauren lets forth with a litany of loss and the ghost child returns. We come to realise that Lauren is using drugs to imagine a motherhood that might have been. At one point a rose tinted picnic scene is juxtaposed with the real dialogue of Lauren and her companions high on drugs. The tainted dreamlike moment is the most powerful part of the play and the most disturbing.

In addition to the two principle performers are a successive series of characters played admirably by Holly Hauri and Samantha Richardson. Be it as gossiping housewives, policeman or other authority figures, their presence serves to illustrate our failure to deal with the issue. Neither sympathy or distain are adequate solutions.

wonderfully performed.

Hit Me! is a solidly written and well performed piece of theatre, dealing with a difficult issue in a way that is imaginative entertaining and thoughtful. There is a sequel to Hit Me! being written that will explore the Afghanistan side of the drugs trade, continuing to highlight Urban Sprawl’s It is an issue that has no continued growth as a theatre easy answers, and Hit Me! company. deliberately takes a mature non judgemental attitude to the subject. There is no easy way out offered for Lauren, despite the many opinions given by everyone who encounters Lauren and her peers, none of them are sufficient to prevent her death at the end of the play. As an antidote to the sadness, the performance closes with a rousing song and dance routine, including The Lion Sleeps Tonight. With its line “We Could Have Been Anything We Wanted to Be”, the second song, Bad Guys from Bugsy Malone, is a very poignant choice and

l meredith & a bear


ocal Leeds lad Gareth Jones began his adventure when two years ago he set suddenly off on his travels across South America, a thrilling roller-coaster of a trip that, thankfully, he diarised for us all to read in his hugely entertaining book SemiDetached.

Mr J... tell us, what inspired you to write this candid account of your escapades? And what makes this book different from other such travel biogs? I had been travelling back in 2005 just after I finished at university. Four years on apart from a few select memories and several old CD’s full of staged photographs, I couldn’t remember too much about it. I remembered the good, had forgotten the bad, and was no longer with the ugly as she dumped me a year or so after we got back. Apparently I never listened or something like that I can’t remember. My second trip I knew was going to be a real adventure and I didn’t want it to just become a host of Hazy memories and facebook albums (though I do have those) I wanted more. My inspiration for keeping a diary was simple, those that have been travelling can testify that this line is used a lot in hostels around the world, “I’m going to write about this when I get home!” The problem is no one ever does, because they can’t

be bothered and they can’t remember. My book is different because it is not just about travelling; it’s about coming to terms with the working world, feeling bored and lost while hoping there is something bigger and better out there. Yes, it is a struggle that pales in comparison with famine, disease, homelessness, but it’s something young people particularly people I know experience. I’m not famous I’m just a kid (or should I say man being as I’m 28) that went travelling and had a crazy time that many would find hard to believe. I have already been asked by a lady at work how I am still alive and for once I wasn’t sure what to say.

Describe ‘Semi detached’ in no more than 5 words. Liberating Irrelevant Funny Unbelievable True

Which other books/authors inspire you? I love ‘An Awesome Book’ by

Dallas Clayton. It’s a simple book about dreaming big and not being so serious about things, you can actually read it online so I suggest people have a look! I really like Mr Nice by Howard Marks (who now lives in Leeds running Azucar Tapas Bar) His life was incredible and I liked the book so much that I passed on the recent film adaptation. I was delighted to give Howard a copy of my book and am still waiting for his feedback, I hoping he really is Mr Nice, I took time to read about him so he should do the same...

How did you come up with the title, ‘Semi detached’? I was sat in my flat eating a pot noodle chatting to my friend about the diary which I had just started to type up. At that stage we just joked about it becoming a book and what it could potentially be called. The name Semi Detached just came from nowhere. I’d guess it was similar to picking a child’s name before it is born. It was said, it stuck, and now the book has to live with it.

the UK. There were times I thought about giving up, but I didn’t as I knew I had the raw material and experiences to make it work. I took myself to a coffee shop in Leeds away from any distractions. It was very cliché to go there and once I got over feeling like a tit it was a lot easier. After being electrocuted by a plug socket on my second visit to Cafe Nero in town, the coffee became cheaper so it was a great place to be.

Is writing your career now? Unfortunately not; the reality is that unless you write a best seller it’s hard to make any real money, least not enough to live on. Who knows in 5 years time I could be made to eat those words I certainly hope so. I write for fun and to express myself, I enjoy it and that is the main thing.

The reason the title works so well is because when you travel for an extended period you ‘detach’ from your life back home, but its only temporary. The stories in the book also fit in well to this detaching idea but I will leave that for the readers so you will have to buy the book.

Are you thinking of/working on another project? I would love to go off again and write some tales about the world. I watched Idiot Abroad with Karl Pilkington and while some parts were funny I found it really boring. Karl moaned about toilets and

food rather than embracing the different surrounding and pushing people and situations to the limit. So anyways buy my book make me and my charity some money and maybe I can write Semi Detached 2 the extension.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging when writing? What was the hardest part of writing, ‘Semi detached’? The hardest thing was staying focused and having the belief to see the project through. As I alluded to earlier the book took me over a year to write up once I returned to

What advice would you give to budding writers? To believe in what they are writing and to stick with it, no one is born a writer and its hard work.

Do you have a specific method in your writing, i.e. when planning... or do you allow the story to flow and grow as you write? When I was writing the original diary it was all just streams of consciousness and random ideas. When I decided to make it into a book I kept to these principles but obviously then had to look at the piece as a whole and edit it accordingly. Luckily for me

I had a timeline of places I visited so the structure took care of itself. I think writing a fictional piece would take a lot more planning and time.

What book are you reading now? At the minute I’m not reading anything but hope to get a few books for Christmas. If anyone has any suggestions let us know.

Give us 3 reasons to buy ‘Semi detached’ There is a lot of information regarding locations and hotel names etc so it also makes this a great travel reference...

The book has many haveto-be-heard-to-be-believed tales. It is one for the freespirited and definitely not for the faint-hearted. It is a must read for disenchanted young professionals and travellers. 15% of the book’s sales are going to a children’s charity in Brazil that deal with homeless children. They are called ABC trust and it would be great if people could help them out, either through buying my book or making donations.

Many thanks Amigos

SEMI DETACHED is available exclusively at ON THE WALL in Leeds (near train station) or can be bought online at waterstones;

The SubjectCitizen Report Here before your lovely eyes is a revealing, surprising and invaluable undercover exclusive. I, SubjectCitizen, will over the next few months, infiltrate the music industry and posing as a talented solo acoustic singer songwriter, discover and explain how to get known, successful, signed and rich. I plan to document and share the details and secrets of my espionage gigs, telling all about the other bands, the venues, promoters and the audiences In the article Simon Cowell doesn’t want you read….. Subject Citizen reports. I begin in Manchester. The Attic to be specific at a night called “scruff of the neck“, where promoter Marc Lippman kindly let me play for 15 minutes towards the end of the night.

“SubjectCitizen, You will love him”

Marc speaks to you like he knew you were gonna say that and if you are privileged enough, he will give you a sentence which will improve your life. This is common in promoters in my experience. I may start referring to them as prophets who have come to Earth to share their endless music knowledge. Cheers god, err I mean Marc. The night is set up brilliantly with a stage either side of the room, one for acoustic and one for full band. The acts immediately follow on from one another, avoiding that 15 minute silent break watching a band pack up sending subliminal messages to onlookers that the party is over, go home. Instead a

new sound starts and you just turn round and carry on. I think this is the reason why the venue fills up every Saturday regardless of who’s on. The crowd don’t necessarily know the acts as is very often the case. It makes for an excellent night. My songs were rightly really well received by an unknown busy crowd. The organisers also film the night and produce a montage video to a song of the headlining band. The one from this particular night is well edited; I must admit I’ve watched it in excess of 20 times. A band who I know personally played also that evening; an electro indie dance band from ‘Bratfud’ called Disco Machine Gun. As many times as I’ve seen them play their set, I’m yet to see a flat performance, my friend ‘spraff’ will definitely follow me to the big time. As a result of this gig, I’m asked to play at Manchester’s Tiger Lounge. This is a full set gig, and after reading the bill on facebook I realise I’ll be headlining. Also the bill reads “SubjectCitizen, You will love him,” which is obviously a good start. Slightly buzzing and well rehearsed I walk into what is looking like a 70’s knocking shop and push open a big furry door to a bar that has a population of less than 10, including staff which at first was disappointing but what they say about books and covers is true, as the few in there are all up for a laugh, they want to hear the lyrics and this created a really nice atmosphere to play in. First up is Stuart, must be 40-50 yr old looking a bit mod/folk. I fear he will drag out some self indulgent stories with guitar accompaniment that just he alone could relate to, but no, his lyrics are original

and common, which I guess is an impossible thing. Stu and the other 9 punters love my set showering my music with drunken compliments. He tells me I have to play the following night at the B lounge round the corner; there will be a few younger lads there who kind of know the scene. A different crowd altogether, a group of lads who obviously know each other well make up the majority and everyone who keeps turning up to play all seem to know each other too. Intimidating. They all look the part too. A singer/guitarist from a band called Naymedici (Latin for ‘no money’) goes before me. He’s an excellent guitarist and decent vocalist, played a soft sombre cover of the good lord Morrissey’s first of the gang, his own tunes weren’t particularly memorable. I decide before going on to ditch the experimental set I’d planned for a safe strong set (in other words, I bottled it) but it worked and my tunes went down really well, so well Naymedici requested me to gig with them in the near future. After me was a punk 3 piece called Disco Nasties, who have got to be one of the best unsigned bands I’ve ever seen. The front man looks like he’s got tourettes and a speed problem. The bassist is playing these weird walking bass lines that if heard on their own would sound like a carnival but with the lead man’s scrappy guitar and the girl drummers relaxed tight beats it all worked weirdly and weirdly. As expected, the road to fame is opening up and ushering me down in a short space of time. The music industry can be played. I will show you how, the new year beckons, speak next time readers. SubjectCitizen.

Three littlewords I

n each issue Gaz Jones will be writing a story based on any three words you care to throw at him! Issue one sees him take on glue, pork pies and Tony Yeboah. Yes, we are aware that pork pie is not one word and Tony Yeboah is not one word but you know what we mean!

Tony Yeboah played for Leeds United, the whole of Leeds he kept excited. He was a genius with thunder in his boots; the scouts picked this up when he was playing grass roots. He was a hero down at Elland Road, until his career began to erode. Yeboah became obsessed with a baker called Greggs, and before he knew it he’d lost his legs. There was no longer ‘thunder in his boots’ and Leeds began to look for new recruits. Yeboah said to the coach ‘look I’ll show ya’ but the coach just went out and bought Lee Bowyer. Yeboah sat on the bench which for him wasn’t great, eating Pork Pies and gaining weight. At the end of the season he could barely walk, the coach brought him in for a little talk. ‘Tony we are going to have to let you go; we have had an offer from Bordeaux.’

‘I’m not going to play in France, not now, not ever, not a chance.’ ‘I think you should, they’re a really good club, and if you stay here you’re only a sub.’ Yeboah didn’t want to ride the pine, but rather than be patient he chose to resign. The coach didn’t expect it, and didn’t know why? But Tony went home and ate a Pork Pie.

‘Drogba I need some Elevation, I need to save the people of our nation!’ Ten years on, Tony is on the dole, now with a penchant for a Sausage Roll. They are pretty cheap at fifty three pence, and to Tony the change was just common sense. Yeboah looked back fondly on his past glories and likes to tell people his football stories. He

now lives on the dole in a Leeds bed sit, weighing twenty five stone and is extremely unfit. Tony liked to read the Yorkshire Post and this particular week he was really engrossed. U2 were playing at Elland Road, the place that used to be his abode. Bono always raised money for charity and Yeboah wanted to show some solidarity. He got on the phone to some old football mates, and bought 3 tickets for one of the dates. The gig was at the weekend so the wait wasn’t long; he took along Drogba and Alex Song. The three of them arrived at the football ground and with all the people, nearly drowned. Yeboah wanted for them each to get pissed, but Drogba said ‘No Chelsea did insist!’ We have a game on ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ shouted Song, so to drink on a Saturday is just plain wrong.

So Yeboah got a beer and the other two drank Um Bongo, the same thing they used to drink when playing in the Congo. U2 open with ‘The Streets Have No Name,’ Drogba’s not impressed and thinks it’s lame. As the gig continues Yeboah drinks more and more, stood on the pitch where he used to score. He grabs hold of a girl ‘Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me’ he said, while stuffing his face with some garlic bread. The girl runs away and Drogba has a word, ‘Tony you have had enough, stop being a turd.’ ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,’ comes his response, ‘Looking for what you overweight nonce?’ Before he has chance to come up with a reply, Bono stops playing

and begins to cry. It’s Eleven o’Clock Tic Toc, as Bono blows his wet nose with what looks like a sock. The audience go from loud to quiet, the calm that comes before a riot. Bono looks up and begins to slowly clap his hands; the crowd give in to his demands. ‘Every time I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies’ he says over the mic, the three players look on with faces of dislike. ‘We need to do something fast,’ screams Alex Song, Yeboah runs to the stage like King Kong. ‘Drogba I need some Elevation, I need to save the people of our nation!’ The crowd and Bono are into their clap, when out of nowhere comes an almighty slap. Yeboah hits Bono to the floor, the clapping and killing is thus no more.

Before Bono can explain Drogba is up on the stage, with a tub of glue and eyes filled with rage. They put glue all over his palms, ‘the way you’ve just acted you can have no qualms!’ Bono gets Stuck in a Moment and he can’t get out of it, Yeboah starts to pant as he’s so unfit. Yeboah now takes centre stage, just like he did in his golden age. The crowd look past his grotesque weight, casting their minds back to when he was great. They all begin to chant his name, everything is different but to Yeboah it’s the same. A few minutes later the Police take him away, you can’t attack people with PVA!!! THE END

Three word requests for issue two to - whoever’s suggestion Gaz uses will win a copy of his book Semi-Detached!

ELEGY (g pugh)

HAPPY NEW YEAR(j barran)

It was one a.m. It was new years eve. Is it new years day if I long to leave? And the song’s been sung - fucking Auld Lang Syne It’s the best of times for the worst of kinds. All our lips are sore - moving cheek to cheek From the ones I bare to the one I seek Her embrace seems pure but her touch is wrong As my heart is torn my mien stays strong. In the crowded room with the vacant crowd Stands a hollow man by a holy shroud To a distant love, seven steps away God still watches you on the seventh day And I’m watching her as I stand alone We’ll be judging you - Mary please come home. Still this sullen night could be beautiful If you hold my hand, if you love me still But tonight I know, so I’ll leave you here Let us raise a glass to a happy year!

Mark with vital scribe Summon the girl who died Impel this rag-doll still Resuscitate by mason’s quill Find a pulse inside Make this slab revive Scalpel touch a nerve Dissect, embalm, life-preserve Mirror for slate reprieve Close to see her breathe Make brutal inroads lie Mispronounce, don’t petrify Shabby tributes cry Tears with plastic ties Ink-soaked wreaths are spent A wilting clichéd sentiment Fixed to roadside stocks Vagrant toys are mocked A tacky Hallmark verse Clings to death beyond the Hearse Washed in tear-jerk grime Malignant rhyme; benign Preserved in oil and grease Lest we forget, rest in peace

Seven thirty. Blinding black. Traitor clocks. Alarm attack. Five more minutes. Five more times. Fucking rushing. Chasing nine. Morbid bus-stop. Fat and pale. Skinny stench. Smoke and ale. Waiting for. Waiting more. Waiting for. Pinsent’s oar. Nine-o-seven. Losing fight. Creeping quiet. Deafening sight. Fawning faces. Hanging tongues. Rowing races. Matthew won. Congratulations. Thirty years. Dedication. Blood sweat tears. Lobster headed. Eton sold. Gold for bullshit. Cash for gold. Influential. Uninspired. Forty winks. Sober tired. Silk Cut scarf. Guinness hand. Oar or awe. Here I stand. Yellow smile. Browning brick. Terraces. Derelict. Second molar. First condemned. Once The White House. Soon the end. December. North. Dreaming. Drinking. These are the things that will keep me from sinking. Ambition. Oars. Matthew. Pinsent. These are the things that are keeping me drinking.


December. North. Dreaming. Drinking. These are the things that will keep me from sinking. Ambition. Oars. Matthew. Pinsent. These are the things that are keeping me drinking.

Abrasively aching and almost arisen


brasively aching and almost arisen, an axe held apparition accidental? Or an awesome, acquisition. Advantages absolute a blowing, and a flute, apparently acknowledgement for action also asked attraction.

For the first frontier fell, favourably forward fank fuck the fixed finesse forth came a fistful of festering feathers. faux pa and on fire first rate finish full on desire for the future awaits and your fingers are the fighters.

Braced beneath the bounding bounty of blue bed sheets, the boy’s border break only a few shakes. Bedroom boundary, beckoned beautiful bells to bong, bulbs blew bright beat the brother bastard benevolently beamed.

Gallantly gruesome grotesque and gaunt, grilled to gratification was the gilled up good-for-nothing. Go on go on give it to them you’re the god grab the goolies and be gone.

Magically meandering mice made machined motoring men moan. Meeting merrily Michel magnetically moved my mad microphone, to method mainly meek masks, maintaining measured mystique.

Headrow headed with hollow heart a heave and ho like a hoarse harp, with a hip and a hop healing hit. Having flopped high, in heavens sky haters hide, hindering the howls of hunters and of hype.

Never nobody negotiated knickers at night, kneeling knees now nautical and numb. News of nonchalant nagging nuisances n neatly noviciate naggers namely narcisissed named nobhead.

Intervention for indecision infamous interior, ice cream I dream illogically inferior. The inglorious one of intrepid income, imaginary inclination inside me rise. Justify jammy juvenile juices, juxtapose and juggle jaded jagged judgements, jack up those jaundiced jaunty jaws jazz up that jamboree of jerk jubilation jeef the jaffer joyless jester.

Optimistic opportunities overrode the opulent oaf, owner of obese obnoxiousness. Ordering oranges became obsessive obscene. Over and over…and over oranges of outrage were ordered outside.

Calm and collective cautious and cool the contemplation of communication, to catch the community fools. Campaign for contemporary capacity, clearing a cunning cause, capsizing those cocky cunts from there cradles slam shut the door. Deep in Dreams of drunken dodos dipping, dinosaurs dancing, dignified dicks prancing. Disgraced distrusting donkeys, droned out dooshbags diversion to displacement and dying in disgrace. An easy going entrance for a euphoric, exhaling an enigmatic energy each embellishment electrocuted employed and educated, extradited from elsewhere, egg eating entrails encapsulated an empty headed essence within engagement, English English, English.

Keen to kick the killer, kamikaze keeper knowing knuckled knockabout. Kidnap king Kong knowledgeable kid knotted. Lucid lacklustre lilacs laughing, lovely and lingering, leaving little

lovers looked and laundered likened to labour listened to later. Laidback landscape Long lines lifted lady lighters licked, loosely loathed lice’s lips.

Pragmatically patient with pursue and poise, pulling persuasive personification posed predominant problems for pacifist prick. Picturesque presequal pondering protruded potential pack up paradise. Questioned queries quakered qualms of quebecs qualification. Quant quickies in quietened quarter’s quandered quarrelsome quavers to quack (quaff).

Rampant rabbits rustled raucheous romps. Rounded ragamuffins radiated room, raked and raged ragged raids raising the ranks rallying rapidly to reach realistic reason. Rosebud reprobates recessed rebellion reassured recently in receipt of romantic reward runaway regression. Secretly sacking off sabotage stood the satire shit. Sound and subdued stupid sick surface stewed. Surplus and singular scornful or seared, the sacrifice seemed so suffice, solemn, sarcastic somehow in speech scared. Today’s terrible tactics took tangible traits. To taper turbulent tests, tasteless takeovers teeming with totalitarian teenagers, teased by tarts tawdry in technique teetering tearaways trampling to thwart. Undeniably uncontrolled were the unassuming udders. Ugly in unison urban uproar unmasked the upbeat underneath unworldly upkeep. Utilise the useless uptight upstanding uniform under-handing, unfinished upside down urged underbelly usher.

Voluptuous in volume vegetate validity of valuables, vacuuming valley of vain vigour, vague off vexing vagabonds and vagrants to vent and vandalize velocity. Your vast variety of vengeance vanished a veneer of venom, victorious was the victim verging on vibration in vessel’s verdict. Witch in the wilderness wild women whirling wounded walrus wombed worrier, watched wonderful warriors walk, whilst withholding, wonky wizards wanked wobbled and worded wisely while working worldwide wrath, wrap up worn out wreckage wretched wrongful wretch. Xboxing xxin xylophone playing xylander also XX’d the XXteen but not the XX or Xmas Youthful Yankee yes man yesterday yodelled but yet young and yielding yesterday while inbetween a yell and a yawn yelped to York. Zebras and Zeros and zonked out zany Zulus zealous zips stay in zones zoomed in and zesty.

m lilley

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living with anorexia


norexia is an eating disorder. It means “loss of appetite due to your nerves”. It is a serious illness which affects all sorts of people. Anorexia is very common – about 1 in 20 teenagers have it. However, it affects people of all ages and has become more common in boys and men in recent years. People with anorexia often find that they do not allow themselves to feel full after eating, therefore restricting the amount they eat and drink. People with anorexia are underweight. Sometimes, the weight becomes so low that it is dangerous to health. I’m a recovering anorexic and have been a sufferer for 12 years now. All cases of Anorexia are usually triggered by something within their life; however, this varies hugely to that individual person. I’d like to tell you about my experience and how, with the help of music, I am a healthy “Recovering Anorexic”. I grew up with 2 sisters and a brother, a father who is Iranian and a mother who is British. At 12 my mother tells me that my father, who I have called DAD since the minute I could talk and who has been there since birth,isn’t my biological father, but he is my siblings ‘real’ father. A second blow was that my ‘real dad’ died when I was 5yrs old therefore I would never be able to trace my roots either. This didn’t change how much I loved my family, it did however strip me of my identity and make me feel the ‘odd one out’ from that day forward - THIS WAS MY TRIGGER. I started rebelling soon after. I loved punk music so I was going to be a ‘punk’, I wore doc martins with everything, did the opposite of what people told me, and started smoking at 13yrs old. I bought 10 Lambert and Butler with my dinner money everyday and totally by accident never ate lunch again. Slowly but surely I started trying to avoid eating my tea, although whenever I did eat I made myself sick, so you could say I was bulimic in the beginning.

Over the years it got worse, then better, then worse again and no one really seemed to notice because everyone just thought that, as I was turning into a young woman, I was obviously just naturally slim. I grew thinner and thinner, cut almost everything out except coffee and the odd low fat milkshake, At 21 I landed myself an amazing job, working for BMW MINI as a trainee sales executive alongside 3 stunning girls, who in my eyes were massively thinner. This made me ‘Up the ANTI’ and I became consumed by the need to be thinner. I would go to the gym for an hour and half before work, survived all day on coffee and cigarettes, once I was home, id run on my cross trainer in front of the TV for another 2hrs allowing myself a few glasses of wine after. I was so pleased with my progress but at this point, I weighed just under 7 stone, I couldn’t sleep and being drunk sorted that problem out. After well over a year of this strict regime, I collapsed at work. I was admitted to hospital that day and doctors started their tests. The doctor knew as soon as I got undressed that I was Anorexic, I remember seeing it in his eyes, the problem was, by some sort of ‘doctor practice law’ they aren’t allowed to ‘suggest’ it, YOU the sufferer

I became consumed by the need to be thinner

has to admit it. I weighed in at 5 stone 10 pounds. After a week in the hospital, the only nurse I liked came onto her night shift, she came and sat next to me and through her cleverly worded conversation, I tearfully opened my heart and on that evening of Wednesday 4th August 2004 I admitted that I Keeley Heravi was an

Anorexic. The weeks, months and next couple of years were a massive struggle to say the least. Whenever I felt low, id write songs and poems, listening to my fave Clash album ‘London Calling’ singing along wishing I was Joe! One of those nights I saw an ad on a ‘forming bands’ website for a singer, I nervously applied, soon after I was auditioning (I sang Oasis’s Wonderwall for the audition!!) surprisingly sailing thru and joined the band as the lead singer, ME… A LEAD SINGER! We gigged locally round Leeds venues such as New Roscoes, The Primrose, and Burley Liberal Club for ‘cloth cat’, Josephs Well and so on. Music was my lifeline. Joining ‘The Bonbons’ really shot my confidence higher than I ever remembered it being and I started to believe in myself. I started eating better and found a purpose for my recovery and a distraction away from my illness: Because ANOREXIA IS AN ILLNESS, my parents tried to make me believe it was all in my head or ‘”just a phase” and I’m sure they still believe their opinion! Writing lyrics and poetry helped me through the hardest times, most of the things I wrote, I will never use or show to anyone, however, it felt like writing my thoughts, struggles and frustrations into a song just helped to deal with everything I was coping with. I am where I am today because of my music and I’m pleased to say, after a few relapses, I’ve been in full recovery for around 4 years now. I’m no longer in a band as I moved to Manchester, but I am actively looking for musicians to start a new project, im still writing songs, and doing open mic nights on the Manchester scene. Regardless of what it is you are going through there is a way of release and music was mine. You will find song writing becomes a passion for a lot of people dealing with life’s rocky road, I say accept yourself and finally.. Accept Rock and Roll! Peace Keeley Egan (oh yeah I got married

THE SEASON SO FAR LEEDS UTD V DERBY COUNTY The hum of anticipation of a new season, a new league, new signings, new formation. Live on BBC, 25000 dreams turn quickly into reality as former favourite Rob Hulse rubs it in. Some say we looked good, I say we lost at home and our goalkeeper was man of the match. NOTTINGHAM FOREST V LEEDS UTD Lunchtime on Sky, a nice excuse for a pint or few of Ghost Ale at Foleys. Ten minutes in, lucky to be 1-0 down, by the end I wonder if the ale has gone to my head as I’m sure I’m seeing last week’s disasterous Lloyd Sam destroy. There’s only one winner, except there isn’t any winner. Better. BARNSLEY V LEEDS UTD Four years ago I did a foolish thing. Throughout that time I have lived inside myself with the knowledge that I was capable. Aiming for amnesia, my mind could not lose itself completely, the images always creeping, the howls always whispering. Never again.

4th November 2006 I am offered a ticket to accompany a friend to watch a game of football. I am aware of the situation, the ghastly location, the potential humiliation. I pay £25 for a wooden seat in a decrepid stand, a price that buys a space so slight that my knackered knees knock against my enemies’, yet I now know there is a much higher price to pay. Thousands surround speaking in an accent so strange that it becomes a language unrecognisable beyond the word hate and the word scum and the words are for me. There is a pleasure in your pain, but your pain won’t last for long, my friends sing our song, my friends are distant and I cannot reach. At 3:47 I am a genius. At 4:47 I am a moron. Never again 14th September 2010 I am offered a ticket to accompany a friend to watch a game of football. At 7:47 I am a genius. At 9:47 I am a moron. See you next time.

DONCASTER ROVERS V LEEDS UTD Fearing the worst after three days ago, we play well, Somma scores a disallowed goal, we grudgingly admit he was offside, we somehow look like keeping a clean sheet, we somehow keep a clean sheet. Strange season - we aint seen nothing yet! LEEDS UTD V PRESTON NORTH END A man behind me says he hopes it’s more entertaining than the brilliant boring victory against Sheffield Utd. Little did he know. Preston fans empty out as we go 4-1 up after 39 minutes. Let’s leave it there. MIDDLESBROUGH V LEEDS UTD Bloody hell, Middlesbro must be even worse than everyone thought, we look brilliant! Should be out of sight when they equalise, untypically we don’t fall to pieces and continue battering them. Becchio scores a screamer, the once again huge away following don’t stop dancing and singing!

from the mailbag spills forth...

LEEDS UTD V LEICESTER CITY Sexy Sven presents himself, possibly for the first time ever, as a footballing mastermind. This previously garbage Leicester side pass and move, we don’t. Maybe the static Faye wouldn’t have stopped Preston after all. Not as close as the score suggests. LEEDS UTD V CARDIFF CITY Craig Bellamy is a tosser. LEEDS UTD V HULL CITY Seemingly ending the recent brilliant away, terrible at home form, 2-1 up and dominant against ten men, the everunreliable Bradley Johnson makes up for scoring at the right end by slicing a harmless cross into his own goal. I am aware of the theory that I should stop watching as we seem pretty damn good when I’m not there. Despite the above, Middlesbro excepted, bottom of the league form, we are, at the time of writing, in the play-offs. By the time of reading, who knows where we will be. If we get promoted it could be embarrassing but not as embarrassing as if we get relegated. I know which I’d prefer.

So I’m sat watching Trisha, it’s “my brother disappeared thirty years ago surprise reunion”. The brother in question was found by accident by the other brother whilst reading the Guinness Book of Records. He happens to hold the record for eating black pudding! He proudly quoted his scoffing time of just over two minutes for an outragous amount. However, their reunion may be short lived as he has had five heart attacks, diabetes and bone disease. He’s now crying and I struggle to find any sympathy. The price you pay for greatness.

Free city bus Just when I thought this city couldn’t get any fucking stupider! Has anyone seen the type of people that get on this glorified orange spaz bus?! I’ll tell you who gets on, people that are too fucking lazy to walk, usually fat, and, yes my friend, that delightful of groups….. The POOR. Leeds city centre could fit on a postage stamp, it takes ten minutes to get from one side to another so why have the council seen fit to spend my money on pointless transport? Few of the people riding on this bus pay council tax and pay little VAT on their Findus crispy pancakes, Ikea tat and Primark rags. Don’t get on this bus!!! Poverty spreads…. I’ve seen it in Rio. One minute you’re sat in your Miu Miu loafers and then BANG! You’re eating Stag chilli from the can in a pair of “Price-Less” shoes. We should be taking the Italian approach to things, good shoes and stylish dress (it really does come at a cost), good food (plenty of fresh meat and rich flavours) and their general intolerance of people that look like shit! This wouldn’t have happened under Mussolini!! There is already a good transport system for the elderly and physically disabled so why lay on buses for the poor, stupid and lazy? No wonder this country’s getting fat. Before you all start giving me stories about your “glandular problems” I have nothing against fat people, I find them incredibly entertaining and wish they could do so themselves, just don’t walk your grotesque self’s around these streets without a suitably comical outfit on.

Even in the dark days of January and February there’s always something to do every day!!!

JAN 1st - Mono Cult NYD Party (Fav) 2nd - Viennese Whirl (Town Hall) 3rd - A Christmas Carol (WYP) 4th - Northern Art Prize (Leeds Art Gallery) 5th - Up Front & In The Spotlight (The Craft Centre and Design Gallery) 6th - Cinderella (Carriageworks) 7th - Heroes & Heroines (Leeds City Museum) 8th - Arsenal v Leeds Utd (Emirates or ITV) 9th - Sunday Bloody Sunday (Sandinista) 10th - Thin Lizzie (Academy) 11th - Kill For A Seat Comedy (Verve) 12th - Lone Wolf & Blue Roses (Brudenell) 13th - Ryan Sidebottom Dinner (Headingley) 14th - Ashley Jackson (Temple Newsham) 15th - BBC Philharmonic (Town Hall) 16th - Talking Into The Darkness by Lee Barnes (Seven) 17th - Ice Cube skating (Milennium Square) 18th - The Cult (Academy) 19th - Spud Theatre present Ecstasy (Seven) 20th - Hubert Dalwood (Leeds Art Gallery) 21st - Metronomy (Cockpit) 22nd - Ghost Hunt (Armley Mills) 23rd - Nick Svarc (Grove) 24th - Carmen (Grand) 25th - Gervase Phinn (Trinity College) 26th - Phoenix Dance Reflected (WYP) 27th - Allo Darlin’ (Oporto) 28th - Man Like Me (Shopkeepers) 29th - Affordable Vintage Fashion Fair (Corn Exchange) 30th - Premier Music Fair (Cosmopolitan) 31st - Band of Horses, Goldheart Assembly & Mojave 3 (Academy)

FEB 1st - Ben Weaver (Santiago) 2nd - Spiceworld (Leeds City Museum) 3rd - The Portrait (Grand) 4th - John Shuttleworth (WYP) 5th - Daniel Kitson (WYP) 6th - Tom Hingley (Northern Monkey) 7th - The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (Seven) 8th - The Flatliners (TJ’s) 9th - NME Awards Tour - Crystal Castles (Academy) 10th - Steve Harley (Irish Centre) 11th - Kerrang Tour - Good Charlotte (Academy) 12th - Wedding & Lifestyle (Centenary Pavillion) 13th - El Pussycat (Hi Fi) 14th - Valentines Fair (Elland Road) 15th - Yes Prime Minister (Grand) 16th - Sisters of Mercy (Leeds Met) 17th - Leaders of Yorkshire Sport (Queens) 18th - Darkstar (Shopkeepers) 19th - La Traviata (Carriageworks) 20th - Gay For Johnny Depp (Cockpit) 21st - Rob Zombie (Academy) 22nd - Leeds Utd v Barnsley (Elland Road) 23rd - Benjamin Francis Leftwich (Brudenell) 24th - The Streets (Academy) 25th - Leeds Rhinos v Harlequins (Headingley) 26th - Russell Kane (Carriageworks) 27th - Darwin Deez (Leeds Met) 28th - Cleopatra (Grand)

People ask me, and themselves – “I wonder what happens when you die?”. I have the answer. Here it is. What happens when you die is not relevant to what we call ‘life’. You cannot place a vision of your human self into a perceivable world when you have died. Death means the end of you, or anybody. It’s a cut off point. There is nothing that can be described to a human about what happens when one has died, because none of that is relevant to human life. Its doesn’t contain any English words or visions of the human mind. It is death – a cut off point to all things conceivable to life. d marshall

thank you for reading The Debacle to contribute to issue 2 please contact

The Leeds Debacle - Dec 2010  

Issue 1 of the Leeds Debacle, published Dec 2010.

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