The largest homemade collection of 8mm celluloid film captures both a time, but also people loving life from the defunct German Democratic Republic. Click on the anti-archive link and just get lost in individual stories. This is the link to the full website
Ideas left to lie dormant dissolve into the ether of well-meaning what-ifs. The pandemic lockdown, with its forced stillness, cracked open time and space to dust off my long list of stalled ideas. Hidden within was the seed of Irregular Patterns—though it had no name back then.
I’m lucky. Very lucky. A life spent immersed in the creative worlds of music and live performance has shaped me. But I’ve also seen the cracks: musicians I know struggling long before lockdowns, drained by the streaming economy’s unfair split. Even seasoned pros tell stories of exploitation—shady managers, exploitative record deals, endless pressure to perform for free. The backbone of one of the world’s greatest cultural exports is fraying fast.
Then came a game-changing conversation with local musician Gavin McClafferty. His focus, vision, and grit turned those scattered ideas into a living, breathing project. Irregular Patterns isn’t just a record label—it’s a creative hub built around the artist.
Less than a year in, we’re on the cusp of our first release, with a growing roster and an ambitious release schedule ahead. The support and encouragement we’ve received so far? Humbling.
I won’t rehash what’s already out there—the IP manifesto is our cornerstone. But here’s the truth: being the change we want in the music industry is our vital first step. The road hasn’t been easy; we’ve had to break down walls. But more than anything, this leap of faith reminds me—we’re in the happy business after all.
This weekend, I had the chance to spin a DJ set at a friend’s 50th birthday party in Hove — and for a few electrifying hours, it felt like a return to normal. The energy was electric, the crowd was alive, and the music brought everyone together. It wasn’t just a party; it was a celebration of connection, laughter, and pure, unfiltered fun. Almost like old times, but better.
Understanding Labour’s Crisis in the North East: A Personal Reckoning.
In 2020, amid the seismic political shifts gripping the UK, I began writing a series of essays reflecting on the state of politics in the North East—particularly the faltering fortunes of the Labour Party in its historic heartlands. This project grew naturally from an earlier blog I penned in 2017, which explored Labour’s uneasy relationship with the region. Then came Hartlepool in 2021, a stark symbol of political realignment that made it impossible to ignore the urgency of the moment.
What follows is an introduction to a series of personal assessments—five or six pieces in total—offering not just a diagnosis of Labour’s woes in the North East, but also some ideas for how they might be tackled.
Before diving in, I want to thank Dave Lee, a writer and producer from Hull (the birthplace of my late father), whose sharp wit and candid insight helped spark this project last year. Despite our differences on specifics, we share a conviction: working-class communities will never be truly served by the Conservative Party. For that, Dave, I’m grateful.
From Stockton North to the ‘Red Wall’
I was born in Stockton North, once a bastion of Labour’s industrial might, now a patchwork of Conservative-held constituencies — Hartlepool, Darlington, Stockton South, Sedgefield. These shifts were unimaginable a few years ago. Even today, Stockton North’s Labour MP, Alex Cunningham, clings on by a thread, having scraped through in 2019 thanks to a fractured pro-Brexit vote splitting Conservatives and the Brexit Party—a lifeline unlikely to be repeated.
Alex and I share a history: both of us once sought Labour’s nomination for Stockton North during a mandatory reselection triggered against the sitting MP Frank Cook. Neither of us succeeded then. Frank held on for one more term; I moved away. Alex stayed, eventually taking the mantle.
My connection to the North East runs deep—not just by birth but through upbringing, education, and a seven-year stint working in a foundry, where I joined a union and fought for better wages and conditions. I served as a Labour councillor for a decade, rooted in the communities that are now politically adrift. Even as I’ve lived and worked in places like Lambeth, Greenwich, Salisbury, and Bristol, my North East DNA has remained a source of pride.
A Region Forgotten
Visits home before the pandemic were quiet observations of a region simmering with frustration—political foundations quietly eroding beneath the surface. The 2019 election was a hammer blow, echoing the pain I’d witnessed in the 1980s but magnified by its scale and swift collapse.
So in early 2020, I began to write—trying to make sense of how Labour lost its grip on predominantly white, working-class communities in the North East. My views hold no monopoly on truth, but like many, I’m frustrated that warnings went unheeded until it was too late. These words come from the heart, because that’s where the battle for Labour’s future will be fought.
The Perfect Storm
Labour’s 2019 defeat in the North East was the product of a perfect storm: a lacklustre campaign, complacency among core voters, and a widespread feeling of neglect. Since the industrial collapse of the 1980s, the region has suffered economic pain and social dislocation. What it desperately needed was a vision—a compelling, passionate plan that would restore identity, pride, and confidence.
But the political class, while reflecting the region’s hurt, often failed to articulate such a vision or inspire belief. Meanwhile, the Conservatives tailored a campaign directly to the simmering concerns of North East voters. Their messaging tapped into Brexit anxieties and disillusionment with Labour leadership, but beneath that lay deeper shifts within the Conservative Party itself.
The New Conservative Order
The traditional Conservative Party, once led by Theresa May and grounded in Christian values and establishment capital, has been eclipsed. Today’s party is dominated by new money and radical libertarian ideas, deeply entwined with right-wing agitators in the US. Boris Johnson, once sceptical of Brexit, has become little more than a public puppet—caught between his own ambitions and the demands of powerful political interests.
During my nearly two decades working in London local government, including the years when Johnson was Mayor, his administration was marred by nepotism and chaos. He projected an image of the “man of the people,” charming but untrustworthy, quick with a promise and quicker to spin a story—an opportunistic wheeler-dealer whose antics masked deeper political fractures.
Johnson’s appeal to working-class voters was often wrapped in a cheeky caricature: the lovable rogue, the underdog struggling against the odds. This persona allowed him to exploit divisions within communities once loyal to Labour, especially those feeling forgotten or left behind.
Labour’s Decline Beyond Brexit
Labour’s losses in its traditional heartlands are not just about Brexit or nationalist forces. The decline has been steady for two decades across Scotland, the North East, and the Midlands. Even during the Corbyn surge in 2017, Labour failed to win enough votes to form government. The party’s vast membership and institutional strength masked fundamental weaknesses exposed in 2019’s electoral rout.
Between 2017 and 2019, Labour lost nearly 10% of its vote share. Historic strongholds like Bolsover and Sedgefield saw long-standing majorities erode—victims of creeping social and economic resentments, not just Brexit. The so-called ‘red wall’ collapse was engineered with a blend of luck, ruthless strategy, and the exploitation of genuine grievances—many of which had roots in policies long supported by the Conservatives themselves.
Looking Ahead
The Conservatives’ breach of Labour’s northern heartlands was high-risk but meticulously calculated, targeting working-class voters who had never before swung Tory. Boris Johnson’s opportunism makes him a formidable opponent in the North—a political shape-shifter adept at exploiting division and disenchantment.
Labour’s path to recovery in the North East won’t be easy. It requires more than nostalgia or empty promises. It demands a hard-eyed reckoning with the past, an acceptance of how things unraveled, and a bold new vision that reconnects with the identity, pride, and hopes of working-class communities.
This is just the beginning of that conversation. The story of Labour’s North East crisis is far from over—and its future will depend on who has the courage to listen, learn, and lead.
As we dare to imagine a world where a successful vaccine ushers us back into the electrifying embrace of live music, one artist stands out as my constant companion on that journey: Johnny Dowd. Over the years, I’ve seen him more times on stage than anyone else. I recall one unforgettable trek from Bristol all the way up to The Band Room—hands down, the greatest small venue on earth, at least according to the discerning Hanson Family—nestled deep in the wild beauty of the North Yorkshire Moors. And who could forget the raw magic of his show at The Thunderbolt in Bristol on October 19th, 2016? Pure joy from start to finish.
If Johnny Dowd’s name doesn’t ring a bell, prepare yourself: his music defies easy categorization. Call him a maverick, if you like. Imagine a potent cocktail brewed from the wild genius of Zappa and Beefheart, the gravelly storytelling of Tom Waits and Nick Cave, then add a hefty splash of dry, wry humor—thrown into a blender on full speed and left spinning unattended. The result? Something utterly unique, darkly compelling, and impossible to forget.
Among his many releases, I always find myself returning to No Regrets (2012)—an album that feels like a weathered road map through shadowy tales and sly smiles, where every track resonates long after the last note fades.
The numbers tell a quiet but sobering story. Today, the average man in the UK can expect to live 81 years. Not so long ago, until 2011, that man could claim his state pension at 65. On average, that meant 16 years of life without work — years to spend however he wished before the inevitable closing of the book.
By 2030, the figures shift. Life expectancy nudges upward to 82 years, but the pension age rises faster, to 68. The gain in years is outpaced by the gain in labour, leaving the average man with just 14 years to call his own after a lifetime of work. A quiet recalibration of the equation: more time alive, but less time free.
And this is not the whole picture. Look closely at what’s been done to women’s pensions since 2011, and the story becomes even sharper, even more unsettling.
We were once told — and believed — that we worked not just for ourselves but for something larger: that our children would inherit a life better than the one we knew. That each generation would stand a little taller, see a little further. But the arithmetic of modern life suggests a different legacy: more years spent earning, fewer years living.
It is worth asking, as the days pass and the calendar turns — what are we working toward? And when the work is done, how much of ourselves will be left to enjoy what remains?
By Héctor Abad Faciolince
Some books slip into our lives almost by accident. A glimpse of a cover on a dusty shelf, a fleeting mention in the footnote of another work, or a casual reference in conversation — and suddenly they are there, claiming space in our thoughts. I’m not entirely sure how Héctor Abad’s memoir Oblivion found me, but I am certain I will not forget it.
Before opening its pages, I knew neither the author nor his father, whose life — and death — form the beating heart of this 261-page work. Abad’s father, Dr. Héctor Abad Gómez, was a renowned medical doctor, university professor, and fearless human rights advocate in Colombia. In 1987, he was murdered — silenced by those aligned with the country’s wealthy elites, government, and military.
Yet Oblivion is far more than a political testament or an account of injustice. It is a luminous exploration of the knotty, tender, and often unspoken dynamics between father and son. Abad writes with grace and intimacy, weaving the personal and the political into something achingly human. The result is a book that is not merely about loss, but about the enduring presence of love and the stubborn beauty of those who choose to stand against darkness.
This is a memoir to be read slowly, to be savoured — a work that affirms the world would indeed be a poorer, dimmer place without people like Héctor Abad Gómez.
By Daniel Rachel
Some books do more than recount history — they revive the pulse of an era. Daniel Rachel’s Walls Come Tumbling Down is one such work: a sprawling 500-page testament to the intertwined music and politics of Rock Against Racism, 2 Tone, and Red Wedge, charting a turbulent but transformative period from the mid-1970s to the early 1990s.
For me, these were not just historical movements. They formed the soundtrack to my own coming of age, shaping me from child to adult, both musically and professionally. Rock Against Racism sparked my political awareness; Red Wedge made me an active participant. Rachel captures this journey in a meticulously structured, linear timeline — part oral history, part cultural encyclopedia — that documents the key figures and pivotal events with the weight they deserve.
Reading it in today’s context, I could not help but draw parallels to the energy and urgency of Black Lives Matter. While much has changed since the overtly racist culture of the 1970s — a time when prejudice was not only tolerated but celebrated — the persistence of hate, both on the streets and in the shadows of social media, reminds us that progress is fragile.
Rachel’s book lands at a time when cities still reel from racially-motivated violence, when online platforms amplify ignorance, and when political leaders rely on fear and slogans to paper over complex truths. Walls Come Tumbling Down is not just a chronicle of past activism; it is a mirror held to the present, asking uncomfortable but necessary questions about who we are and what we stand for.
In the end, Rachel reminds us that while good intentions can inspire, only action changes the world. The music may have been the rallying cry, but it was — and remains — the movement behind it that matters most.
The late 1960s was an era of kaleidoscopic shifts — psychedelia in full bloom, garage rock breaking through, and bands pushing the limits of sound as the world outside roiled with political unrest. It’s a period that’s been mythologised in countless films and books. But some stories remain in the margins, whispered rather than sung. One such tale belongs to Public Nuisance.
Formed in 1964, Public Nuisance began as a pop outfit, riding the same wave as countless garage hopefuls. By the decade’s close, they had sharpened their sound into a heavier, more psychedelic edge, sharing stages with the likes of Buffalo Springfield, The Doors, and the Grateful Dead. In late ’68 and early ’69, the band cut an album’s worth of material with heavyweight producer Terry Melcher.
Then history intervened. Melcher, having sub-let his Los Angeles home to Roman Polanski and Dennis Wilson of The Beach Boys, was caught in the dark aftershocks of the Manson Family murders. Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate, was among the victims; Wilson had been socialising with Manson’s followers. The trauma drove Melcher into seclusion, shuttering his label and leaving Public Nuisance without a lifeline.
By 1970, the band was gone, their recordings shelved and unheard except by a handful of survivors from that drug-fuelled, free-falling era. It would take 35 years before their music finally surfaced — resurrected as Gotta Survive, a double-CD anthology that stands as both a time capsule and a testament to a band that might have been.
Public Nuisance never got their moment in the sun, but their belated debut still burns with the strange, vivid light of 1969 — a ghostly reminder that some of rock’s greatest stories are the ones that almost slipped away.
The 1990s were no stranger to bloodshed and greed, yet amid the chaos, there were flickers of progress — small seeds of hope that seemed, for a moment, to promise a better future.
1991: The Berlin Wall’s collapse triggers a domino effect, toppling authoritarian regimes across Russia and its former Soviet satellites.
1995: The world, united for once, confronts an environmental threat. The production of CFC gases — silent destroyers of the ozone layer — is banned.
1997: The IRA calls a ceasefire, paving the way to the Good Friday Agreement a year later, a rare and hard-won peace on European soil.
2000: The Camp David Summit gathers Israeli and Palestinian leaders in an attempt at reconciliation, the latest chapter in a long and bitter history.
These events, in different ways, underpinned a resurgence of social democracy that, for some, found its symbolic peak in the election of Barack Obama in 2009. And then — it turned to ash.
During lockdown, I sought to understand how we had arrived at our current moment. The geopolitical drama surrounding Russia and China added urgency, but what I found was not simply a tale of foreign villains. I read voraciously — five books that, in their own ways, peel back the layers of this era:
Each opens a door for the inquisitive mind, though they make for uneasy reading. They reveal a pattern in which wealth buys power, power buys protection, and the rules are rewritten to safeguard the interests of a global elite.
Yes, there is ample evidence of corruption in both Russia and China. But the narrative that frames our predicament as a simple clash between “us” and “them” is lazy at best, willfully misleading at worst. This is not a danger born of Reds lurking under our beds; it is a creation of our own making. The roots stretch back long before the Soviet collapse or China’s economic rise.
The oligarchs of Russia and the medal-clad tycoons of the People’s Republic have simply claimed their seats at a table already set by Western plutocrats. Together, they form a new aristocracy — global in reach, united in purpose, and accountable to no one but themselves.
What can be done? We can start by recognising that their influence depends on our consent. And then, with clear eyes and a little courage, we can refuse to elect their paid agents. The world we inherit depends on the choices we make now — not in the corridors of power, but at the ballot box.
Irregular Frequencies 