I had a fantastic evening with Benjamin — a truly memorable night of great music and vibes. But there’s a serious problem that keeps popping up at gigs lately: people chatting through the performance. I noticed it most recently at the Massive Attack shows. It’s baffling how some folks just don’t seem to respect the artist or the audience around them. If you’re not going to give your full attention, why not just stay home and listen to a CD?
That aside, Mr. Zephaniah was in top form, and the band played tight, making for a genuinely enjoyable night. It also reaffirmed something I’ve long suspected — white people really can’t dance, and let’s be honest, we rarely pull off the dreadlocks look with any real cool factor!
Stanley stood rigid at the curb, Doris by his side, her hand brushing his. Down the hill, the driverless bus thundered toward them, metal beast on wheels, scraping inches past where they waited. Inside, a tempest roiled.
Passengers brawled, voices cracking like broken glass. Village faces peered anxiously, jaws tight, eyes wide.
Theresa sat just behind the empty driver’s seat, fingers stuffed in her ears, lost to the storm. Opposite her, Jeremy covered his eyes, peeking through his fingers at the vacant wheel, whispering a prayer—hope and defiance tangled on his breath.
Behind them, Nigel’s long finger jabbed accusingly at the last few who’d boarded. “Sabotage!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
A small mob spat curses—at one another and at the chaos itself. The bus jolted over bumps, and Ariaf’s grip slipped. A vanilla shake splattered over Tommy’s new school uniform. He wailed, clutching Bernard, his pet snail, now hidden away in a cardboard box. “How’m I gonna tell Mum?” he sobbed, finger already pointing.
Vince bounced up and down, desperate for notice after being banished for helping David—the driver—to escape through the emergency hatch.
Nearby, self-styled ideologues debated, trading grudging praise for the 1939 Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, their eyes glittering with twisted admiration.
Caroline sat alone, calm and patient, knitting a jumper stitch by stitch, waiting.
As the looming brick wall hurtled closer, Chuka, Anna, and Heidi linked hands with others, raising their voices in ancient hymns.
Nicola shouted for a show of hands—any brave souls willing to climb to the roof. Ariene screamed, “No surrender!” as the wall grew impossibly close.
Meanwhile, the nation sat glued to radios, Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday on eternal repeat, young faces exchanging helpless, desperate looks.
Stanley caught Doris’s eye, his voice soft but certain. “Ah Doris, Brexit means Brexit.”
She licked her melting ice cream, then turned to the pelican crossing button. The sharp beeping sliced the chaos, halting cars. Hand in hand, they stepped off the curb, away from the madness, crossing to the bus station as if nothing had changed.
I once heard a quote, “a person does not truly die until the last person who knew them, to speak their name, also dies.” I find much beauty and poignancy in such an observation. It is one that gives context and comfort during those periods when context and comfort are not in abundance. It is within this context that I write a small piece on 3rd May, each year, for my parents. During the final years of their lives, I took regular photographs of my parents so I could share them with their grandchildren, great-grandchild and wider family. Stored securely on a memory stick on this day I take that memory stick out, select a photograph and write a little something. Initially on closed social media platforms like FaceBook and more lately on open media like this from last year. This photograph was taken a couple of weeks before Mum’s health deteriorated rapidly over a very short period of time.
They had a routine, which generally consisted of them living separate lives during the day with occasional chats as one of them would make a pot of tea or meal. Dad, in the front room with his latest model building project. Mum, in the back room, reading and watching the latest soap. Pet dog seeking attention from either one of them. Each evening they would share their meal, cuddle up, natter and watch TV.
In my final year with them, I got the opportunity to hug them, share stories, tell them how much I loved them, explain to them how proud I am to be their son. As a family, to express in their later years that it was an honour to care for them. This became the foundation for coming to terms with not having them physically in our lives. It’s the small stories that become important. My dad asking for, “gingersnap biscuits to be put in his pocket when we put him in his box.” My mum reminding us, “make sure your dad gets his meals” during last days she was able to communicate. The search for my mum false teeth after she passed away and then to find her gnashers many months afterwards in the back of my car without any rational reason why they should have been there. I’m also happy to report that nothing gives me more satisfaction than hearing their grandchildren and great-grandchildren share these small anecdotes.
Realisation has a way of sneaking up on you—slow, almost imperceptible, yet wrapped tightly in the simplest form of common sense. For me, it came quietly toward the end of 2018, the moment I deliberately stepped back from social media groups, especially those sprawling Facebook communities. What began as hopeful spaces for open dialogue and genuine free speech among people with differing opinions had morphed into something far darker.
This past weekend, curiosity got the better of me, and I tentatively dipped my toes back into that digital ocean.
The calm I’d grown accustomed to over months evaporated instantly—like morning mist chased away by the harsh glare of the sun. Within hours, I was pulled into a whirlpool of toxic arguments, rife with intolerant attitudes and bitter resentments. One particular Facebook group felt less like a forum and more like a grim echo chamber—populated mostly by frustrated, angry voices, overwhelmingly white men, lobbing lazy, manufactured memes and personal attacks with the fury of children flinging custard pies. That’s where we’ve landed. Is this really the state of discourse in the UK?
We don’t talk anymore. Worse, we don’t listen. Instead, we shout louder, mock more viciously, and often seem determined to wound each other. Our nation feels splintered, like a fragile union trembling on the brink of collapse. Battles over identity rage at the extremes, while the silent majority looks away, burdened by shame and embarrassment. Meanwhile, the rest of the world watches in disbelief, trying to make sense of a once-proud country unraveling before their eyes.
And so, on that Saturday, I did something quietly radical. I switched off from the noise and digital chaos, stepped outside, and said hello to a complete stranger while walking my dog. Sometimes, that’s where true connection begins.
I want to share a recent experience that shines a small but revealing light on a troubling trend sweeping communities—not just here in the UK, but in the US and beyond. It’s about perception, personal accountability, and the double lives some people choose to live. It’s about how we engage and communicate as we shift between our real, everyday lives and the virtual world of social media, where the person you think you know can suddenly feel like a complete stranger.
Most importantly, it’s about how ignorance is preyed upon to deliberately fuel hate and toxicity—poison that has seeped deep into our culture and been weaponized by politicians. George Orwell’s classic 1984 introduced us to “doublespeak,” where words mean their opposite: when Big Brother says “Love,” he means hate; when he says “Peace,” he means war.
When my family and I left Salisbury after seven happy years and returned to Bristol, we left behind a circle of friends who enriched our lives and whom we still cherish. Our Salisbury neighbours, the vast majority, treated us with kindness and warmth. Among them was Peter—a handyman, a regular visitor, someone we trusted. Even our dog, Poppy, lit up at his voice. Peter was there when we needed him, or so we thought.
But once we settled in Bristol and reconnected with friends on Facebook, a harsh and unsettling truth emerged. Suddenly, hateful posts and images from extreme right-wing groups started appearing in my feed—posts far beyond shock-jock tastelessness and often linked to groups known for violence.
The source? Peter.
He posted ugly, offensive content. His obsession with reinstating the Golliwog doll as a symbol of “Britishness” was particularly disturbing. After my wife sent him a heartfelt message calling out his behaviour, he responded with nothing but a thumbs-up emoji—and carried on.
I decided to confront his hate head-on, not expecting to change his mind, but hoping to plant a seed of doubt in his followers and family who witnessed the online clash. It didn’t surprise me that hateful voices quickly retreat when challenged calmly, only to sneak back once they think no one is watching. That’s exactly what Peter did.
Recently, noticing his posts getting fewer likes, Peter launched attacks on my Facebook page. He’s a staunch supporter of Brexit, UKIP, and Trump-style politics—his bigotry clearly intertwined with his politics. Watching him stumble and flail as my friends challenged him online became one of my moments of the year.
Things escalated further after he tried to use Remembrance Sunday to score cheap political points. I simply asked him to show some respect for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Not long after, he returned to his Golliwog fixation. When I challenged him again, he defended himself with the tired excuse of having non-white friends, then blocked me after I asked if he’d buy his friends’ children such a doll for Christmas.
Peter is a textbook case of Orwellian doublespeak. What he says and what he does are worlds apart. The toxic content he shares is fed to him by extremist groups he chooses to associate with—and in doing so, he becomes a reflection of them.
Why share this? First, I’m relieved Peter is no longer part of our lives. But more importantly, we live in dangerous times when decency and moderation seem out of fashion, and reactionary, nationalist, racist politics try to claim space. These voices are not the mainstream, and they never will be.
Those of us who know better must stand united, calmly resist, and push back the hate under the rocks it crawled out from. Have the courage to challenge those who mean harm, no matter who they are. And remember the wise words of Bill Hicks: “Love all the people all the time.”
24.10.18: Nostalgia is a ruthless beast.
I’ve always tried to keep it at arm’s length—especially after witnessing the Sex Pistols’ 1996 reunion at Finsbury Park. Watching legends unravel their hard-earned reputations in mere moments was a brutal lesson in how quickly credibility can crumble. Punk, that raw, rebellious force birthed in the late ’70s, has often been chewed up and spit out by time and nostalgia’s relentless grip.
But then there’s that winter of 1977, when I was just 16, clutching a ticket alongside my mate Ste (sadly no longer with us). We hopped a bus from our gritty hometown of Stockton-on-Tees to Middlesbrough’s Rock Garden, ready to soak in the live fire of the Tom Robinson Band.
This wasn’t just another gig—it was a rite of passage, minus parental permission, with a detour through the infamous North Eastern pub. There, I knocked back two pints of Double Diamond, soaked up the boorish testosterone-fueled banter—racist, sexist, unapologetically rough—and took my first shot at pub pool (utterly demolished). I chose a track on the jukebox, The Damned’s New Rose, for the first time, then made a flimsy excuse to rush outside, gulp fresh air, and embarrass myself by throwing up in a nearby alleyway.
But within an hour, I was lost in a throng of ragged young punks, guitars jangling and voices raw, belts echoing “Glad to be Gay.” Today, that anthem might barely raise an eyebrow—even in Britain’s most conservative corners. But back then? Singing those words carried the real, looming threat of violent attack—from the hostile crowds, from the police, from a world steeped in queer bashing and racial abuse as everyday horrors. Nowhere was this uglier than in the pubs and social clubs of 1970s working-class north-east England—a toxic stew of culture I was born into, complicated and difficult to untangle.
I remember Tom’s voice that night—nervous but fierce—as he introduced “Glad to be Gay.” The crowd was hesitant at first, unsure how to respond to this bold, singalong defiance. Sweat-soaked bodies bounced to the roaring guitars, eyes flickered between confusion and courage. By the second chorus, something shifted—a raw, electric unity erupted. It was a moment where change stirred, barely perceptible yet monumental.
Fast-forward 41 years. Here I am at The Fleece in Bristol, capturing Tom Robinson performing his seminal Power in the Darkness album live, marking its 40th anniversary. And let me be clear—this remains a truly great rock record, blistering and bold. Its lyrics don’t just chart how far we’ve come—they’re a sobering reminder of how far we can still fall back into the shadows.
Tonight, I raise a glass—not only to my old mate Ste, but to Tom Robinson’s courage, his art, and the band of young rebels who crafted an album that shaped my politics, my understanding, and my fight.
Dramatic clouds, seagrass bending too the breeze. The warm ceramic cup between the tips of fingers, I took a sip of black coffee. The melancholic mood of Sunday morning’s interrupted by the reality of life. The noise of parents seeking desperately to control their offspring, making demands, they surrender, and staff behind a makeshift counter rapidly took orders, shouting them through to a small kitchen where a large lady made a note.
Driftwood retrieved from the sea on display, clumsy art, the smell of fried food. Through the window, I’d noticed she had been stood there for quite a while. On the sand dunes, still, just staring out across the waters, motionless. Her silhouette set against the sky. Is she playing with memories? Looking down at my coffee, I take another sip and a trail of old cup stains ground into the rough grain of the bench. Each cup mark representing somebody, who sat here and no doubt pondered the universe.
Aasma was her name. She had explained in struggled, broken English, She asked “please time” as she sat on the nearby bench alone. Her demeanor, as if waiting for a train, flight or ferry. “Have a nice day” I said as she exited the beach cafe. “Thank you” she replied, before making her way up the sand path to the water’s edge. A silent sadness followed her steps. An intense sense of solitude.
I had noticed she had bent down as if to tie shoelaces, then standing upright, she calmly placed her hands on her face, turned and made her way back down the path and passed the cafe window, which I sat behind. A small nod of acknowledgment from each other and she was gone.
Leaving the cafe, inhaling the sea air, the sound of waves in the near distance and seagulls screaming their constant hunger I made my way up the sand path to where she had stood. Looking across the seas, no lands were in view to these naked eyes. Nestled in the sand, where she stood, 3 separate pebbles lay on the stems of 3 carnation flowers.
A Portrait of Division and Defiance –Tuesday evening found me in the company of Gina Miller, a figure best known for her landmark legal challenge that forced the UK Government to seek Parliamentary approval before triggering Article 50 and beginning the Brexit process. In today’s fractured political landscape, Miller has, willingly or not, become a beacon for those desperate for leadership and clarity amid the chaos.
But the price of such visibility has been horrific. Miller has endured an unrelenting torrent of abuse—threats of violence, racial harassment, and vile misogyny. Her personal office has received dangerous packages, her legal team harassed outside their workplaces. Even members of the aristocracy have targeted her with vile, hate-filled public remarks, including the 4th Viscount St Davids, who called her a “boat jumper” and offered a bounty for someone to “accidentally” run her over. The vitriol is a stark and disturbing reminder of the dark undercurrents roiling beneath our society.
How did we get here? It’s a question that haunts me, no matter what side of the political divide you stand on. What has stirred such profound hostility, such a corrosive bitterness? This isn’t mere political disagreement—it is a deep, painful darkness that strikes at the heart of community and civility. It is the ugly resentment of the “grumpy uncle” or the neighbour who blames everyone but refuses to reflect.
Just last Sunday, I spent over two hours at a public meeting discussing a proposed winter shelter for the homeless in my neighbourhood. Such topics are always delicate, often inflaming frustrations about local governance and the fear of change. Yet none of that could excuse the venom directed not only at the council but, heartbreakingly, at those most vulnerable in our community—the homeless men and women who face the real threat of freezing to death this winter.
Concerns over property values and personal safety are understandable, and the council must address them calmly and clearly. But the atmosphere of the meeting was poisoned by hostility—a relentless, almost physical rage. Hands clenched, faces reddened, and interruptions were constant. This was not debate, but a display of emboldened intolerance and disregard for others. It mirrored the wider social fracturing Gina Miller speaks of—our inability to listen, empathize, and engage with each other as fellow citizens.
Miller’s analysis tonight resonated deeply. She spoke candidly about Brexit, the erosion of political accountability, and the urgent need to open dialogues across our fractured nation. Yet, some of her hopes—like the promise of a kinder, more socially aware capitalism—felt, at times, overly optimistic. Waiting for the financial elite to embrace genuine reform is a hope long deferred, especially for those who have borne the brunt of failed market-based solutions since the 1980s.
The mood in the room was one of grief and bewilderment, particularly during the Q&A when Miller called for outreach to those who voted for Brexit. An elderly man’s question, “How do we get into their heads to change their minds?” spoke volumes—not just about political division, but about a profound misunderstanding. It’s not about “getting into heads,” but about listening, showing empathy, and supporting policies that address real economic injustice.
Gina Miller is an extraordinary woman—a symbol of courage and common decency in an age where both are in short supply. The hatred she endures is despicable and must be condemned unequivocally. While her recent switch from Labour to the Liberal Democrats may disappoint some, it reflects her commitment to an ethos of “kinder capitalism,” even as we acknowledge the irony of austerity policies that sowed seeds of Brexit under the previous coalition government.
Perhaps, in the aftermath of Brexit’s tumult, we will better appreciate the value of Miller’s work. For now, as I finish this reflection, a new report from the Institute for Public Policy Research lands in my inbox. It calls for a “radical overhaul” of Britain’s economy comparable to post-war reforms or Thatcher’s revolution, to confront decades of stagnation since the 2008 crash.
Insightful, well-meaning—but for many, it feels like a call made while Rome burns.
24/08/18 – 25/08/18 I have not been to Totnes for at least 30 years and to be honest I had no plans to revisit until being introduced to the Sea Change Festival by a good friend. There is little to recall from this last visit apart from faded memories of a pleasant and a quintessential quiet English country town. Totnes today seems a bubbling town with independent shops, eco-friendly shops, which include a very good veggie restaurant Willow, (87 High Street) definitely worth a visit and the excellent Drift Record Shop (103 High Street) amongst others.
This is the 3rd Sea Change Festival, and the convincing ingredient for my attendance is the regular presence of artists signed to the Erased Tapes label. Over the years artists from the label have increasingly featured in my music collection. This year the festival is effectively a two-site affair with the core of the business taking place within the town, while a larger stage (offshore) is located in a field at Dartington Hall approximately 1.6 miles apart. The line up is once again diverse, imaginary and offers excellent contrast, a full list of the artists can be found on the Sea Change Festival website, so here are my personal highlights and small grumble.
Hatis Noif
Hatis Noif is a vocal performer from Japan and now resides in London. A delicate and diverse mixture of avant-garde, classical Japanese music, operatic in styles with hints of Gregorian Chanting were perfectly framed in St. Mary’s Church. The programme proposed a beautiful ambiance atmosphere, and she did not fail to deliver. Gwenno (Saunders), in the civic hall, who is a sound artist, DJ and singer from Cardiff added some psychedelic power watts to the proceedings, along with the mysteries of songs performed in entirely Cornish. The Immix Ensemble Present: Kosmologie Ancience by Jane Weaver and Sam Wiehl, back to the St. Mary’s Church and you can’t keep a good cornet player down! A multi-disciplinary performance, which included voice, guitar, classical instruments and a visual trance-like, projected backdrop. Folk singer Shirley Collins gave a fascinating, heartfelt and often humorous talk about her life in music and how she traveled the word collecting songs before performing a number of songs from her recent album. Listening to these stories, but a totally different slant on the songs, as if you have been let into a hidden secret.
Those people (like me) who are long-time fans of the hugely influential German band Can were given good opportunity to bathe in our obsession on both days of the festival. Let’s start with Saturday, which provided the chance to listen in on a conversation with Rob Young, author of All Gates Open: The Story of Can. A meticulously researched piece of work. Back to Friday night and the 1.6-mile journey to the Offshore stage at Dartington Hall to catch Damo Suzuki (ex-lead singer of Can) supported by Japanise noise band, Bo Ningen leads to my only criticism of the weekend. Firstly, and I appreciate some people will wholeheartedly disagree with me here, but the performance had no heart and it just felt everybody was going through the motions. Secondly, I felt no cohesion between what was happening in the town centre and what was taking place at the Offshore stage. They seemed and felt like two entirely separate types of events, which in turn run the risk of one part dragging the other down. I voted for the intimacy of the town centre venues and did not return to the offshore site for the remainder of the festival, although there was a perfectly strong line up on offer. It’s a dilemma, which I am sure the organisers knew would be challenging and one that they will need to juggle in future years, but based on my experience at this year’s festival it’s not quite right. Setting these little grumbles aside, which you will find with all festivals, I would happily recommend this little gem of a festival.
Irregular Frequencies 