Communique #21 (09 2022): To Write Is…

This month’s blog evolved as it went along. It started with cries of outrage at The Booker and working class expectation. It sort of grew from there. It’s a longish read. As In-Situ are celebrating their tenth anniversary I also wanted it to stand as a thank you without it being about them. Because Paul, Kerry and William are good eggs. SAN 28th September 2022

I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be describing myself as working class. Since dad left I have never lived in anything other than a terraced house in a northern industrial town. Most people would be half way to ticking that box. And yet I’ve only ever really worked for the civil service, never in some factory. Though I am perhaps already starting with misconceptions. Trying to define working class purely in terms of what you do to finance your existence. Is it safe to say I feel middling without feeling middle class? And that my middlingness isn’t something that bothers me unduly. I don’t aspire to escape or better myself to become someone else. I don’t listen to Grime in the vain hope I will feel closer to street. I don’t listen to Grimes to prove I am arty or out of the ordinary. Perhaps though that is a luxury in itself? Having that choice.

When talking about class I always reference Poor Lass as to whether I’m confusing working class with just life as a surly teenager on Income. Apart from having some paper slip where I got free meals did I really feel deprived or indeed have any sense of belonging? School made assumptions as to your final marks. As to whether you were worth it. As to who you would become. It saved their time and yours. Without going all ‘Wilt’ there was no point teaching Chekhov to children who they knew would end up as builders or in borstal. Now you can argue all you want about that being obscene. That they also desired and deserved culture. But school wasn’t like that back then. It was an academic farm come slaughterhouse. It was about getting the most number GCSEs to the most number of pupils with a few being butchered along the way.

I’m pretty sure that the first arty thing I loved would have been the record sleeve. Well okay perhaps comics like The Beano came before that. It would’ve been my my brother’s records at first. I had this thing I’d do to annoy my mum during our quarrelling years. If I knew she was coming back with anyone from church I’d make sure that ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’ was there at the front of our glass hi-fi cabinet. She was like a rabbit in the headlights. Do I sit down and carry on regardless or try to cover it up? She should count herself lucky that he never really did Crass. I think ‘Penis Envy’ may have tipped her way over the edge. Later with me it’d be Factory and 4AD. Peter Saville and Vaughan Oliver. I couldn’t put into words what I love about them. The same with The Stone Roses. We’ll gloss over Ian Brown’s recent gigs.

I’ve said this before but I started writing regularly shortly after my mum died. It wasn’t entirely about cathartic release, more wanting to talk about how we got so distant. Plot spoiler we ended up back on good terms. I’m never happy saying that it was mum’s death that led on to a different me. That I no longer feared the fall out of her finding, how can I put it?, salacious things. Nude imagery. Endless reams full of words like ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’. Not least because it sort of implies that it was her who was holding me back. And my first ‘Torso’ zine came thirteen years after she died. It wasn’t her, if anything it was a misconception on my part. That worth never comes through joyful expression only through nine-to-five. Sure I know she wouldn’t have liked my imagery but she would have been happy that I found something I loved.

The first piece I can say I was really proud of was included in the collaborative zine put together with In-Situ. I do look back and think God did I actually edit all that? I know a zine appealed to Kerry’s alternative roots but there must have been something else. She must have seen some spark in me. Some determination. The piece is called ‘Dance Dance Dance’ and it really just tries to position dance as some outpouring of psyche. From my mum being so upset and isolated sat next to the dancefloor at family weddings to my love of zumba. Me becoming performer? It’s main narrative though describes going over to Blackpool for ‘We Love Dancing, Come Join Us’ and tying this to my mum’s treatment for breast / lung cancer at the nearby hospital twelve years earlier. It’s ever so slightly contrived as a piece but I’ll forgive myself this one time!

I think what that experience taught me was that I was in control and I was powerful. I could make things happen. Does that make sense? It also taught me that there is no right or wrong way most of the time. The worst that can happen is that people say no or ignore you. I don’t really want to comment on the Booker thing if I’m honest. Google: ‘Booker Working Class’ and you’ll see what happened. More just to say that again it reminded me of all those years ago back at school. But should also act as a reminder to me, you and all of us that we need to redefine what is success. It’s a sad world we live in if words only become significant and valid if they are chaptered and bound. We have to change that just as we need to change diction. So my plea to you: invent new words and use them. Write. Write as often as you can. Write as though it means nothing. Write as though it means everything and more.

Imagery: Brierfield, A Working Class Town, September 7th 2022