I’m drenched in nostalgia for adolescence. It’s not just that our eldest is now learning how to make beans on toast, having left home to go to college this week. It’s this article about the Hulme estate in Manchester during the 1980s.
The Hulme estate of the late 1980s was a crucible of council tenants, students, and Irish construction workers, all clinging to the fringes like lichen to a damp wall. It was an ecosystem in its own right, with its peculiar laws and ordinances, operating somewhere between 'Lord of the Flies' and 'Mad Max'. The air always had an unsettling aroma—a cocktail of rodent waste, with an underscore of sweet sensimilla seeping in through the cracks.
I found myself there as a guest, treated to the 'cleanest' mattress they could fish out of a skip, a gesture of hospitality for which I was oddly grateful. The flat was a social experiment of characters you'd think sprang out from the fevered dreams of JG Ballard.
Among them was Sean, an Irish colossus from the West Coast, who built roads by day and swilled Guinness by night. His preferred state of consciousness oscillated between lucid and comatose.
Then there was Raymond, a curious man - a biology student dropout retraining to be an HGV driver, thanks to some government scheme. His most noteworthy trait? A cavalier attitude towards his pet rats and an appalling lack of responsibility that made you question the wisdom of allowing him to sit behind the wheel of a ten ton truck.
Nestled within this setting, I found myself caught in a nocturnal world, with a lot shadowy goings on around the estate. The bass from the constant party on the top floor reverberated through the walls, almost indistinguishable from my own quickening heartbeat.
And then, it happened.
The tranquility of the early hours was violently torn apart by a scream—a primal, soul-piercing wail. It was the sound of someone discovering they were being possessed by a demon. I jolted upright, adrenalin surging through my veins, and burst into the communal hallway. There stood Sean, enormous, naked and ashen, blood trickling down from his face and onto his chest like a macabre stream of ectoplasm.
Here's where it goes from bizarre to grotesquely cinematic—akin to a scene that film critic Mark Kermode, a Hulme estate regular, would eloquently review. You see, Raymond’s rats had performed a prison break of their own. Propelled by what must have been early-days artificial implants, these vermin had wriggled into Sean's room and ascended his Guinness-induced coma-like horizontal position. They sat there, on his chest, biting at his lip and drinking his blood.
And so, in that anarchic flat on the post-apocalyptic Hulme estate, amid the smell of urine and sensimilla, we were all bound in a tableau of surreal horror. It’s forever etched into my neural pathways.
Yet, there’s one memory that is even more vivid to me. Regular readers will know that I have a weird psychological relationship with food. The only real memories I have put eating at the heart of them. And the Hulme estate isn’t distinct from that. It had the best chippy I have ever been to. The residents called it the Chinese chippy and they cooked big chunky chips with crispy edges. You could order Chinese curry sauce to drown them in. I’m salivating at the memory.
Life offers these unforgettable vignettes; scenes so vivid and strange that they repeat loop in our minds. Here was mine: a madcap tapestry of characters, events, and olfactory memories, woven together in the bizarre social experiment that was the Hulme estate.
I Mourn for the Lives Lost to Childhood Violence
The devastating news that 15-year-old Elianne Andam was fatally attacked this week demands our sombre contemplation. Her life, cruelly cut short, leaves a void in the hearts of her family, friends, teachers, and community. With aspirations of becoming a lawyer, Elianne represented hope and promise—a life of potential now extinguished. We grieve for you, Elianne.
Knife-related offences have sadly become a routine phenomenon in many cities across the UK. Walking through the streets of Brixton, I've stumbled upon freshly spilled blood. I've witnessed paramedics surrounding lifeless bodies, frantically attempting to stem the flow of life ebbing away. I've even offered prayers alongside the congregants of St. Anselm's Church for those whom medical intervention could not save.
Amidst this backdrop of tragedy, the banality of this week's political discussions feels almost surreal. The dialogue has been dominated by pre-election debates on rather prosaic issues—potholes, trains, and asylum laws. And while these matters have their own merit, they seem wholly inconsequential in the face of our current crisis of youth violence.
It's a clarion call for our political leaders to set aside their differences and focus on a cohesive, long-term strategy. Real, sustainable solutions require time, financial investment, and above all, collective action. Our leaders must assure the bereaved parents of Elianne Andam—and countless others—that they are committed to doing whatever it takes to prevent further senseless loss of young lives.
May Elianne's cruel murder serve as a galvanising force, compelling us all to act with urgency and determination, lest more young lives are wasted in this most tragic of ways.
My first Lib Dem conference
25 years ago I edited "Liberal Demolition," a Labour magazine aimed squarely at besting the Lib Dems in local politics. We fought as fiercely as they did, leaflet by leaflet, street by street. This week, however, I found myself nervously amidst these supposed foes at their own conference, and I loved it.
Lib Dem delegates were vibrant and committed to a fairer Britain, echoing the spirit of many in the Labour Party. The quality of their debates surpassed what I've often experienced at Labour conferences. Discussions on national housing, for example, were nuanced, informed and passionately argued.
The warmth was universal—from peers and MPs to grassroots councillors, even those competing with us in areas like Manchester, Liverpool, Sunderland and Dudley. I would definitely go again. It seems the other side might not be so different after all. Here's to life's surprising journeys.
Listening to a Clarion Call: Avelino's 'God Save the Streets'
This week, Avelino, a distinct and cerebral British rapper, stood before an audience of industry professionals to accept the AIM award for Best Independent Album. However, his acceptance speech transcended the typical thank-yous and platitudes, seizing the collective attention of everyone present. The sombre listing of the names of young men recently killed in London punctuated the air, lending a gravitas seldom found in such occasions.
While his album is undoubtedly an artistic triumph, it is the potent message within his lyrics that should compel us to listen more closely. Avelino implores us to put an end to the heartbreaking cycle of violence that claims the lives of our young people. If music has the power to move people, to change perspectives, then let his message be the catalyst for that transformation.
His plea is not merely an artistic expression but a societal imperative: to halt the self-destruction that's become all too prevalent among our children. Give him a listen and share his message—it's one that urgently needs to be amplified.
Reading - Robert Galbraith, The Running Grave
I’m 15 hours in to “The running grave”, Robert Galbraith’s latest Cormoran Strike novel. This one is about unraveling the unusual and criminal events in a weird cult. It’s very good. Full of red herrings and complicated characters.
Never visited Hulme but Island Records opened a record shop in Moss Side in the late 60s. That was one very poor area but full of great characters who knew their ska!
Few people in their 20s or younger would believe what housing estates in the UK were like in the 80s!