On Backpacks

It’s a long time ago now but I’m in the back of Hannah’s car and we’re parked up. Hannah, Jenny and I are talking, revelling in a brief friendship, at an impasse between college and the next stage of our lives. “H, I wanna know - what’s in that bag of yours?” she asked, leaning backwards over the front seat to see me.

“The usual stuff you know, essentials,” I told her. “You wanna know exactly?”

“Yes please,” she replied, easily over-eager.

I took out the contents one by one and listed them off. “Right, first, here’s my notebook and pen, a spare pen too. Then a jumper cuz it’s gonna get cold later.” She nodded. “A few zines of mine, my bike pump, last year’s diary, my tobacco tin and rolling gear, my wallet...” I placed it down on the seat with the other things. She snatched it up and flicked through my cards. “Also, two train timetables, three bus timetables, a broken compass, two loose scratched CD’s, half a ruler and a small mound of sweet wrappers and bottles.” I held open the bag and let her look at the junk piled at the bottom. She threw the wallet in.

“I’ve always wondered,” she confessed, settling back into the front seat, “because it seems that only the girls carry around half their lives at college. Right, Jen?”

Jenny nodded, pursing her lips, picking her nail and looking out far beyond the window screen, enjoying a pensive moment. I slowly put everything back in the bag, from where and which divided section they’d come. A distant whirl of music spilt from the radio. “I better not ask what’s in your bag,” I decided aloud, smiling forward at Hannah, at the back of her voluminous blonde hair.

“No, better not,” she confirmed, leaning back again briefly. I could guess some of the things she’d be carrying; her cigarettes, car keys, her favourite pen, a psychology textbook and mascara, obviously. The rest of the stuff I couldn’t place. It was lost on me. The distance between our lives was considerable – how was I to know what she needed on a daily basis? By comparison I was a tramp, living gig to gig. She took much more care in her appearance.

I could show the things I carried but she couldn’t, and it would be rude to ask. Like asking a woman her age, it was unsaid and off-bounds. I thought it strange she asked though I didn’t find it at all rude or intrusive. That small and pointless question reared its head occasionally in my mind and always set off a certain spark; the opposite sex could be interested in me, and my backpack, however broken and covered in grime.

So, with that thought in mind, this one is for all the women.

A backpack is the most essential item. On a day to day basis I believe backpacks are one of mans greatest inventions. You’ve got everything you need right there on your back, or can put it there for safekeeping. Like lunch. All you need to do is chuck in some stuff before you leave the house. An apple, a bottle of water, and the cheese and pickle sandwich you’d made last night, stashing it in the fridge for the next day. It’s forward planning – my speciality.

Forward planning gives you some indication as to how my brain works. When I see people going around totally empty-handed I wonder where their spare jumper is, where their packed lunch is, where their belongings are. I just can’t understand having nothing, having no stuff. Call me a materialist if you want, but at least I’m on the move.

A day trip. A long weekend. A walk to the shop. A bike or bus ride. The only reason not to take your bag is when you go to the pub. You better be ready for the weirdest looks if you do. Why so? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m paranoid? Maybe it’s a constant cause for suspicion, and for good reason. “What’s in the bag?” I’ve heard that phrase a hundred times, usually dished out by big burly bouncers. I’d say I’m asked weekly now.

Backpacks are plagued by suspicion...just what is in there? But people don’t often ask, like Hannah did. Except for the bouncers, of course. I’ve got a spiel ready for them: “a notebook, a jumper, half a kit kat and a gun.” A couple of times they haven’t even batted an eyelid at the odd word out. Strange. People, mostly, want to tell. And I’m no exception. Walk into a busy pub with a bag stuffed full of junk and watch the suspicious glares you get in return. At least that’s how I always feel. Whether or not it is the backpack is another question altogether, but I can presume.

I will always run my bags them into the ground; I use them until they wear through massive holes, and past the broken zip, until it’s covered in a layer of grime – of life, man – an inch thick all over. The other day a cyclist passed me wearing the first backpack I remember owning. The exact same design. The second thought that came to mind was how on earth had the bag made it this long? Had someone kept it in the attic for twenty years? I was still at first school when I owned the same bag, and even high school seems a lifetime ago now.

It was essential to use a bag at school. Funny that at University no-one carried a bag, it was the ultimate faux pas to turn up to class and fish out all your textbooks from a bag. Everyone carried them under their arms, except me. Last thing every night I’d pack up my bag for the next day it a ritualistic way, ticking off the gubbins I needed as I went. And I’d walk proudly through the library, double-strapping.

I recall at school how, for a while anyway, we had the single-strap versus double-strap argument going on. I’m not sure which was worse but didn’t want to wear your bag in that way for fear of verbal attack. It really put the worry into some of the kids. It wasn’t one against the other – it was one or the other, and the other you didn’t want to be. Stupid shit really, but we were all young once and terrified of the things that would come out of people’s mouths at school.

A certain Dutch punk band wrote a scathing attack on backpacks on their second LP. It was a brutal song which pointed the finger straight at a large percentage of late 90’s and early 00’s punks who took their bag with them to every gig. “Too many backpacks at the show / I’m telling you they gotta go”. I didn’t feel like they were attacking me personally, even though I took my bag to every show. I had zines to carry, among other things. It showed scenarios which would make past rockers upset, but that didn’t put us off because we kept our bags safely on our back even when then played the song in town.

      It was only later, when I considered writing an ode to backpacks that I realised just how important an everyday item they have become for me. I wouldn’t go anywhere without it now. The temptation to buy new bags is incredible. They catch my eye, and catch my imagination too. Just like some women go mad for the handbags, I go crazy for the backpacks. It’s a nightmare – but a nice one.

Car Boot Fever

During the spring and summer I wake every Saturday and Sunday morning and imagine a rainbow outside. Knowing there is gold at the end luring me towards it I set out on my bike to catch hold of the prize. Usually, people with some degree of sanity left intact after their teenage years wouldn’t dream of waking before 8am at the weekend, choosing instead to sleep until midday or later, but my sanity has long since vanished. And that’s why I join all the other reprobates in a field to look through other peoples unwanted shit. Car boots - one of the greatest British institutions ever. They are like poison, I’ve found. Once you get the bug, you’ll soon get the fever.

My first observation at car boots is the crowd. The people who tend to show up are a real varied bunch, a right ragtag, weird and unique crew of characters with the slight hint of a psychotic look in their eyes. There’s always young kids annoying their parents; then the shouting and screaming parents running after them and cursing; pensioner couples, wearing visors, looking for plates; dodgy geezers selling bikes; farmers selling eggs and veg; old rockers selling off their vinyl in small increments and myself; sunglasses on, scouring for books and records, but going home with a pewter tankard and an umbrella. As a buyer you cannot plan for car boots. You cannot expect anything. Do not try to find something, it won’t be there. The very nature of the event is the best exercise of spontaneity I know.

It’s all in the chase. Never knowing what you’re going to come across. Friend’s tales of finding various gems throughout the nineties only encouraged me to get out to more sales. Who would have bought the SCUM Manifesto anyway? And what was it doing at a car boot in the little Midlands village of Crick? And who on earth sold that copy of the Sweet Baby LP Sal picked up? 

The stories left untold by the sellers only provide more mystery and intrigue, drawing more lines in our lives which cross in ever-different and untraceable ways. Sometimes I’ll try to inquire as to where an item came from, or whether they’ve read this book they’re selling for 10p, but they tend to be highly evasive when challenged early in the morning, as we all are.

I’ll often pick things up for 25p knowing they are worth much more than that. Then, after getting them home I keep hold of them, adding them to the weight on my brain and then the right collection in the right place. Soon enough I’ll be surrounded. Stuff everywhere – having already lived its past life I’m breathing new blood into it now. It’s rebirth. And recycling. My Mother always encouraged us to be thrifty; to re-use, re-format, re-contextualise and re-animate ‘unusable’ items. I actually made the Thunderbirds Tracey Island following the instructions on Blue Peter word for word. We couldn’t afford the shiny plastic version. Plus, where is the interest in simply buying it off the shelf? There isn’t any! It’s no wonder we are drowning in plastic waste when people are throwing it off at such a rate. And there I am; a stack of plastic CD cases in hand, taking them home for prosperity and archival purposes. Saving them from scrap.

You think that punk is underground? Well think again! Car boot sales are the most underground thing ever. Any fucker can find out about a gig now; type a bands name into the computer and see where they’re playing, or go to the club and look at the flyers. Car boot sales rely almost solely on word-of-mouth and crappy hand-painted signs at the roadside half-obscured by an overgrown hedgerow. And once you’ve heard there’s a sale on you still have to locate the damn thing! I don’t know why it is. Perhaps, with too-much publicity, a car boot would be over attended and crowded? I like to think that car boots consciously keep themselves underground and quiet to keep all the mystery and myth surrounding them safe. Like punk. Like many Great British traditions; scrabble nights on Tuesdays, band practise on Wednesday evening, football on Saturday afternoons or a roast on Sunday afternoon. These things are left unsaid, but are common knowledge anyway.

You cannot pigeon hole car boots like you can punk rock. At gigs people may jump from the rafters and it may look spontaneous but it’s planned, it’s predictable. The mornings I’m talking about are made up of something much, much creepier and fucked than even punk: real, day-to-day people who live next door to you. Some of them, believe me, could benefit from the teachings of punk rock. These people, I’ve found, are just as unique as anyone in their own ways. Human beings really are strange creatures.

Listening to what other people are looking for, or funnier still, what they think the bargains are is always fun. “There’s a job lot of gardening gloves over there for a quid...I’ll get them on ebay,” I overheard one morning. No-one would buy a job lot of gardening gloves on ebay, surely. What was that guy thinking? Where on earth is the profit in that sale? Now, I’m not trying to liken ebay to car boots, the two have their own place. I’ve picked up (what I consider) bargains from both places, but car boots have a genuine face-to-face aspect to them you’ll never find on the internet. You have to talk to someone, for starters. An intrinsic human connection must take place to secure the deal. Ebay has the fault of being, quite literally, faceless.

Taking friends to car boots can be a chore sometimes. I have to be set free, like a bargain-thirsty madman, without anyone even being able to keep up. It’s selfish, I know, but you can cover so much more when you’re not waiting for someone who is waiting on you. Other times friends arrange to meet back at a certain spot, which I prefer. You can all be set loose at once and approach things your own way. It’s a shame it doesn’t happen this way in some aspects of life.

Car boots, like anything, are all about your approach. It’s the way you see it in your mind’s eye. It’s in what you deem perfection to be. Your method to your madness. The thrill of the chase has not worn off on me yet. Everytime it comes on feels just like the first time. I feel it like an urgent, buzzing, immediate feeling that steers you along with eyes for what you are, were, or never have been searching for. Give me anything! In that zone I’d probably even buy a Kanye West or a Metallica shirt if I were to come across one cheap enough, God forbid!

      The warm mornings at Holcot Showground have to be the best car boots I’ve ever been to. They were the biggest, most stocked car boots in Northamptonshire. I would fill up with glee when I arrived on Sunday mornings. Walking slowly with my sunglasses on I’d approach each table, each aisle methodically and carefully, searching for the gold dust. And that gold dust seemed to be lined in neat rows – it clung to the edges of wobbly foldaway tables, or sat unorganised in worn cardboard boxes on the grass, just waiting to be found. I suggest you do the same. Go hunting!

Tread Lightly, Speak Dearly

The house was deathly quiet. It was midday on a Wednesday. Not that the day ever mattered – every day is the same when you’re not doing much. When you’ve had a whole year of doing very little you’ll know what I mean. You begin to over-analyse every tiny detail, thinking about the most minute thing for undetermined stretches of time. Losing oneself in thought. I imagined every breath I exhaled as a purple-blue colour, like clouds or cigarette smoke bellowing out into a cold, rainy night. The angle of the ceiling above your head; the way it slides down from a point. I’ve always loved attic rooms, but even this one gets boring. The view from the window; out into the cul-de-sac of retirees, people carriers, recycling boxes, hedges, garages, satellite dishes, and the dog which is let loose to run on the small patch of grass in the middle of it all. I enjoyed neighbourhood-watching, spying on the residents and the binmen, watching the rain when it came. The thought struck me that my life was similar to that of a retired person. Our days went on and on, regimented by routine. Waiting for the finer points in life; the post. Now that’s as low as it can get at age 25.

Wake. Shower. Shave. Breakfast. Cigarette #1. Attempt to spend an hour or two reading.

I leant back on my chair with my legs up on the desk, thinking in silence. No-one else was home. Here I was, again; in a bedroom of despair, waiting for something interesting to happen, but knowing it wouldn’t. You have to make things happen. Nothing will come of nothing, believe me, I should know. The walls had long since felt that they were closing in and in. It was never the ceiling or the floor coming together though, always the walls. Why was that? Maybe it’s only walls that really bind us and keep us in our place? The atmosphere was thick with a state of constant dread. Even when traipsing up and down the stairs my whole body felt heavy. Like I was carrying some sort of load, but I didn’t know what. My life suddenly felt like a reality TV show gone wrong; one room, one person, one chair.

Cigarette #2. Listen to the Carter Family on my headphones. Think about going shopping for any food scraps I need.

Amateur philosophy stole most of my dead time. I attempted to keep a studious approach to unemployment and keep reading but I had my bad days. The same goes for the writing too; half the time I was writing just to make sense of that muffling fog of boredom. And when I did have a good day there was only so much reading and writing I could handle, even when I caught the flow just right. At least I wasn’t playing video games, I’d remind myself. I’d seen computers literally eat friends alive. Some people I haven’t heard from in years – are untraceable – but I know exactly where they are right now.

Cigarette # 3. Do a little weeding on the vegetable patch. Watch the plants grow, like watching paint dry. Hours pass so slowly. The afternoon goes to waste.

The most common cause of boredom was a lack of understanding, apparently. I understood most of the novels I was reading but didn’t have anyone else with which to bounce my thoughts off. I felt no-one was on the same plane as I was; no-one was occupying their time the way I was; doing nothing. At least that’s what it would have looked like to a fly on the wall. Being bookbound is a real misery when there’s no-one to share it with. Art can be enjoyed in a solitary situation but often is brought to its full potential with other people. Ever been to a gig where there’s no audience? Then you should know what I mean.

Put off cigarette # 4 for as long as possible. The housemates would start to arrive home from work. I may catch them in the kitchen and talk for the first time that day. When you haven’t spoken all day, and did eventually speak, the words seemed to matter even more. Like they were more rare, more precious.

Usually, in the evenings, I’d get out of the house for a bit. Go out and see friends, or a band. The evenings were my afternoons, the period of the day everyone wants to be out and about. There were days when I didn’t leave the house once though. Those were the most depressing; especially if it was a bad day and I’d got no work done. But that is the nature of writing – it’s a solitary gig. There’s no telling whether you’re going to play well or not. You can rehearse all you like, but it doesn’t mean a thing.

I snuck around in the dark when everyone else had long since gone to bed. Treading lightly with my shoes off to avoid any noise, fumbling around with my arms stretched out in the dark, looking for the banister, the door handle or the box of matches. Taking ages to open a door in total silence. Sometimes, I wished I had a daytime job like the rest of my housemates, so I could live by the same clock. So I could earn some money to spend on getting out of the house.

I’d fall asleep late every night – around 2 or 3. The street was silent at that time. Lying down on my bed with the window open slightly, I could just about make out anything passers-by would say. The radio would be on, and my eyes would be open in the dark. If I was still feeling awake I’d get dressed again and ride laps round the neighbourhood on my bike to tire myself out. Or I’d go for a spin over the dirt tracks at the nearby fields, but I needed light for that. Otherwise I was likely to end up in a blackberry bush, pulling out the thorns from my arms and nursing numerous wounds.

I’d fall asleep and wake to another long day, as the exact same person in the exact same place. Nothing had changed and nothing was changing. It was a mid-life reclusive crisis, come fifteen years too early. Life had stopped. It was on pause.

Lunar Eclipse Rained Off

There was a lunar eclipse and I really wanted to see it. All afternoon I was wondering where to get the best possible view in town. When 9 o’clock came around I rolled a couple of joints and rode up to Bradlaugh Fields, a huge open space only a couple of minutes from my attic room.

The sky was grey and overcast – it was likely I wouldn’t see anything but I decided to give it a shot anyway. Whilst unlocking my bike it started raining, luckily I had my coat on. By the time I reached the fields it was raining heavily and I was drenched. A familiar musty smell emanated from all around.

Over the hills and hollows I rode and way, way up to the top of the hill, lifting my bike over a fence to access the best viewing spot nearby. Looking down across the town I could only make out the church spire and the cricket ground lights. The wet greenery shone between us like never before. I pulled out a joint and lit up, blowing out smoke into the rain. I gazed up at the sky, trying in vain to see something, anything; the moon, the sun, anything but grey clouds and heavy rain drops. It was useless. I’d not see the lunar eclipse this time.

I gave up looking for the moon but tried to find the exact spot where you could see the most of the town. Passing a gap in a hedgerow I saw an adult fox, only about eight feet away. It stopped to look at me for half a second and kept on walking away, undaunted and defiant, into the darkness. Now I was pleased I came out in the rain.

For twenty minutes, as it got dark, I stood alone in the top field. Smoking and soaking wet I embraced the moment and laughed with and at myself. It’s funny how you can find peace and quiet in the oddest situations sometimes. I didn’t care I was soaked through, and I didn’t care that I had yet to ride home. Listening to the rain on my coat I noticed how silent the rest of the world seemed. Even here, locked in by housing estates, there was no sound to be heard, but the tapping of the rain.

       Looking down at the grass I saw how rich a green it was when wet. It was slimy and slippy. Also, it was short. Who was cutting this grass? Anyone? It was a perfect question to contemplate in the wet. The mood I was in now was elated and overjoyed. It was a soaking of biblical proportions. It felt as if all the sin and anguish and anxiety were being washed away with every raindrop that hit me. I walked my bike home in the rain.

A Short and Lovelorn Stroll Overflowing With Nostalgia and Regret

I woke early on another lonely Boxing Day. Having to meet a friend on the opposite side of my hometown I decide to go strolling, hours before I needed to. I kicked around town in the snow, seeing no sign of life. Then, choosing to re-visit some of my old haunts I beat a winding route through the suburbs and sub-suburbs of town. With no music, my mind was free to actually think, contemplate and reminisce, and I revelled in every second of it.

Taking Doc’s Alleyway I called in on Alex, but he was still asleep. “Whadda want?” he said, “I’m sleeping man.” That was a funny way to greet an old friend. No-one is awake this early around Christmas, as it’s a rare and deserved time off. Having no job meant every day belonged to me, and I could do with each day as I pleased. Christmas was no different, it was just another day off. No-one wanted to trudge around in the snow all day either, except me, and I was walking round on a nostalgia trip. The more I walked, the more every tiny detail reminded me of you. I was wishing back both you and our youth.

I cut up through the Churchyard and over the tiny little park where we first met. You were wearing a green paisley blouse. That colour burnt an impression into the back of my mind forever. I passed the bench where we met to talk about your friends when they’d let you down and you needed a shoulder. It was on these pavements that we walked and talked, flirting the whole way, with me trying to catch your eye and a smile as often as possible. I remember you when you still had your braces. I always wanted to kiss you to see what it was like, but we never did. Why was that? What happened? What went wrong?

Aside from relationships, and trying to win girls over, things seemed easier then. None of us had need for money. But we worked bad jobs anyway, cursing and hating our way through them one after another. I visited you once at your garden centre gig, and we talked about the plants as we walked around. I spent the rest of the day alone, thinking about it in the corner of the park.

I walked up the alleyway behind the Co-op, past the allotments and into another park. There wass still no-one out but me, and I thought it was tradition to go walking on Boxing Day. The memories the pavement and park hold stack up and up in front of me as I strolled over them for the first time in years. My feet felt hot with life, a warm feeling of de ja vu despite the snow. The park was blanketed by white, except some small glimmers of lush green grass poking through. I paused for a smoke. 

I passed along your road and contemplated calling in at your old place, presuming you’ll still be there, but wisely decided against it. I doubt you want to walk around with me like we used to. This regime of paranoia we’re living under has probably got to you too. It’s much safer to stay home, wherever you are. I wondered what you were really like back then, as I can now see that we hardly knew each other. I don’t even know what you did with your time. You didn’t play music, or write, or paint. I can’t even recall what music you did like. You were only a socialite. Now, that seems lame. At the time I didn’t think twice about it.

All that waiting, and thinking it over, and not acting added up to more than one broken heart. I think you broke mine for two, or three. I told no-one, not even you. I kept it all quiet and hidden, and for what? How awkward would it have been to say it – let those warm words get tangled and spew out? Let go for once. Let loose. Silence is deadly – and it leaves a long, dark and all-encompassing shadow over everything after the silence. Are you happy I wonder or do you feel lonesome too?

I scratched through the suburbs. A never-ending wriggle of semi-detached houses guided my way as if I was watching the North Star for my bearings. We were always talking about leaving town, and doing this and that. Recently I heard you were leaving the country. I wish you the best. You evidently continue to be more daring and go-getting than I’ll ever be. We were two opposites in temperament. You were loud, daring, light-hearted and full of life. I was cold, quiet and shy. The confidence I lacked you made unimportant because your personality rubbed-off on people. You warmed people up.

By now, I was starving and headed to the Supermarket Cafe for a cheap fix. I hadn’t been there for years either. The young punk behind the counter cursed his boss as he took my order and offered endless cups of free tea. Those knowing nods and these old shirts do have their perks. I pulled up a chair, rested my feet on another and caught up on some writing, in which you featured heavily. I spend the whole year without you on my mind, then we meet again and I spend ages trying to forget you. Hanging around our old stomping ground doesn’t help things, it only inflames them. 

I used to see you every day and looked forward to it. I was keen to talk to you, but with intentions. Now I see you once a year, on Christmas Eve, hence why you’re on my mind. We used to walk these streets together, passing smokes back and forth as we passed through every alleyway on your side of town. We were always searching, seeking, rambling. What changed? Did we grow older? I’m sure I blinked and ended up here. As much as I want to feel the same it’s different without you to think about each day. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ the saying goes.

I checked my watch and needed to leave quickly, so sunk another tea and rolled a smoke before I hit the road. I made my way over the car park and into the woods. There, even the trees reminded me of you. I can still see you dangling from a branch screaming my name. “Henry, Henry! Help!” With you hanging there, I paused for a moment out of your view, and smiled at the situation. Here I was; comfortable with both feet planted firmly on the ground and you, suspended from a tree, with your blue jeans all muddy and chewed up at the bottom and your white Beatles shirt pulled up a little showing your stomach. I laugh a little at the thought of it; two teenagers driving each other insane and not admitting it, but feeding off it. At least, that’s how I saw it.

Walking further out of town, and further away from anything reminding me of you, I kept an eye on the time. I was still meeting my lift at half eleven and had to make it. I kept on my toes. Turning the corner into the village square I watched my lift arrive at the exact time we’d agreed. An amazing feat. I threw my backpack in the backdoor and got in the front. A cushioned seat had never felt so good.

At the last set of lights before the open road and open countryside we pulled up for what seemed like an eternity. As soon as we stopped I recognised the opening brass section of a Beatles tune coming from the car behind, cranked up really high. They stayed behind as we made way down the first stretch of dual-carriageway, then, as the chorus kicked in, they overtook us. The music was crystal clear, or seemed it, despite the hum of the tyres. Everything had become surprisingly inaudible, but the music.

“All you need is love. All you need is love. All you need is love, love, love is all you need.” 

      Talk about hammering away at one point! I did what one tends to do, and applied the lyrics to how I was thinking and how I was feeling at that moment. No one song could have been more fitting for a whole morning affected by our once-yearly meeting. Those damn Beatles.

Life Doesn't Write Itself

I’m great at putting myself in odd situations with the intention of writing about them. My failed attempt at walking the mere thirty miles to Leamington is one example. Breaking into the biggest and most corporate festival in the country with the idea of causing scandal is another. Half the time I do interesting things knowing I’ll be writing about them afterwards. It’s called foresight. I knew Mike’s wedding would be such an event. It had to be; a whole slew of old faces, drunk, everyone wearing their best suit and catching up on gossip, news, and their travels.

Mike was an old friend from my teenage years on the suburban outskirts of Rugby. We spent many hours together although our tastes in music, women and food couldn’t have been more different. As we got older he covered himself in more and more tattoos but I kept my distance from the needle. It made me worry. Mike had been the one who told me, after getting his first ink, that “you want more and more.” He travelled the world, frequenting noise gigs and orgies along the way. I stayed home, grumpy and mean, writing in my room alone. We were two opposites, two extremes of the same life who happened to spend their formative years together, united by both location and time.

Mike was also the only person who ever dared take me flyposting. It was for his farewell gig. I was, thinking about it, a bad choice to take flyposting, being overly paranoid at that point in time, but I felt safe enough with Mike. Not only was he 6’6” with the build of a bull but he was no stranger to getting away with it – his Dad was the local superintendent. We strolled around for a couple of hours in the middle of a Wednesday night, Mike carrying the posters and me carrying the brush and bucket full of paste.

The reception was at a hotel in the middle of nowhere; a big, expansive place which was empty except for our party. Quiet, serene green pastures surrounded the venue but the hum of car tyres on the motorway nearby could be heard if you listened carefully. Rabbits darted in and out of the hedges. I missed the ceremony but arrived in time for the evening’s party. I had my suit folded neatly in my backpack and slipped into a toilet to change before all the reception guests arrived. Mingling around with the people who arrived early there was no sign of the bride or groom yet. In the bar the army, navy and marine guests drank leaning on the counter, and everyone else slumped low in their chairs, all chatting away. I flicked through the paper, looking for something as positive as a wedding.

Standing out front to smoke I watched the sun go down on the other side of the car park. More and more people slowly started to arrive. They’d all get dropped off at the bottom of the steps, walk up to the front door and I’d be there, cigarette in mouth, ready to meet and greet all these faces I hadn’t seen in so long. It really was friends reunited, but with less years between the meetings than most. Nostalgic reunions are my greatest vice.

The place filled up fast. You were unable to move five steps before talking to another familiar face. Soon there were grown-up teenagers all over the place. I couldn’t get the vision of these people; fifteen years old, passed out in the park, or tripping on shrooms and hiding in the hedge at Bawnmore Park. They gathered around the big staircase and the bride and groom came down slowly. A deafening cheer went up.

“He was crying earlier,” someone next to me said, “He blamed it on the onions.”

“During the ceremony?” I asked.

With three hundred guests Mike and his wife, Sam, had a whole lot of hand-shaking to do. And everyone wanted to shake and hug and congratulate. I felt a pressure to catch up with as many people as possible and it wasn’t even my night.

Everyone was called inside for the first dance. Unlike a traditional wedding everyone danced at the same time – to the Macarena! Oh jeez. The small PA was pushed to the limit, and was half lost in the roaring laughter. Grandparents sat at the back watching the chaos in the packed room. I looked around at what people were wearing. All the women wore long, flowing, cream dresses and the children running circles around our legs wore miniature suits.

The room throbbed with people, like a good gig, even spilling out into the corridor and beyond. Another corny 90’s dance tune hit the PA and I took that as my cue to investigate the large buffet. I picked up the very first slice of wedding cake and glanced at the spread with wide eyes. Mike came by and was force-fed cheese and pineapple by his wife. I laughed as he dribbled juice and crumbled cheese down his best rig.

The beer was flowing through me by now. I wondered around, staying close to the food, shaking hands and meeting relatives and catching up with people. H talked only of South America, still under the spell of his recent travels down there. Ash described the school he was currently squatting. Joy and I talked books, as we always used to. There and then, she turned me onto Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy. “A staggering work,” she repeated over and over, holding onto my wrist. I dished out a handful of zines to regular readers, picking up a couple of new readers along the way.

Mike brought out his Cubans, saved for such an occasion, all housed in a humidity-controlled wooden box. We passed them around. Sean, in his best rig too, sat down beside me, drunk as hell. He was saying something about a book that helped him quit smoking. “Two months now,” he was blurting, “pass me that cigar!” I held it out to him and he took it to his lips but dropped it on the way. It fell, lit, into his lap. I snatched it back, saving his uniform from getting a large hold burnt through it. Roland just laughed and laughed.

A couple of hours passed between the free food, the room with the bad music and the smoking patio out front. The inevitable last train home beckoned, so I was forced to say my farewells. I still had a 5-mile ride to the station yet – in utter darkness. From one extreme to another – an over-lit hotel conference room to a country lane painted black, black, and blacker. I could imagine my eyes getting burnt by light when I finally arrived at the station.

I had my doubts about the ride, of course. A fairly hardened, weather-beaten cyclist I may be but riding on pitch-black country roads in the middle of the night isn’t something I make a habit of doing. I almost changed my mind at one point, thinking I was still young and afraid of the dark, pausing under the last streetlight in the village to stare down the dark road ahead. It was the only way home - the only option. Staying at the hotel, and waking ill and hungover would have been worse than waking bruised, ill and hungover in a random bush somewhere on the lane.

With a half-working front light and a mental map of the road ahead I navigated my way by moonlight. It was a mixture of blissful unawareness, blind insanity, fear of darkness and trying to find a road to concentrate on all at once. I used the shape of the black hedges against the dark blue sky as indicators as to how close I was to the edge of the road. Although only a couple of miles in any direction from various villages there was no light pollution out there. There was nothing to show the way either. It would have been easy to call me mad. When an unexpected cattle grid appeared out of nowhere and shook me to pieces for a second I mouthed the word ‘mad’ but there was no-one to hear me. There was no-one to hear me scream, fall, or crash my bike, plus I couldn’t afford to crash. I had a train to catch.

The beer and the joyous spirit of the evening enveloped my body; warm in the winter cold and happy under the circumstances. You have to put yourself out from time to time, give yourself a little jolt with an odd situation to deal with. Kicking along on my trusty ten-speed the biggest threats were potholes and cow shit, neither of which I could see. The bike rattled along, shaking itself apart bit by bit. My deep breathing and the rumble of the tyres on the concrete were the only sounds.

A couple of cars passed me, maybe two or three. I wondered what they thought. I attempted to regulate my breathing but the ominous last train beckoned and I rode as fast as possible to catch it, even knowing I was on time and ahead of time. Some things never change.

I rode down under the Railway Bridge, then back up the hill into the last village and round the bend. I took the downhill road to the lonely outback train station and waited on the platform with a smoke. It wasn’t long before the bright yellow lights of the last train arrived to carry me back home for the night.

But what I must learn from the experience is this; you can plan, and predict, how the gist of the event and the story will flow, but the ending will never write itself. The ending isn’t necessarily the important part of the story. Life doesn’t write itself, and stories don’t either. You’ve got to write them both yourself. Life ends in many different ways, depending on hundreds of thousands of factors. Stories are the same. But no matter what you do, they both take on a life all of their own eventually. They spiral away from your control and keep spinning from their own momentum.

First Day of Spring

The first day of spring and the skies are clear blue. An endless rich colour able to warm even the coldest and most blue of hearts. After a midday breakfast I go out for a walk along the river. Everyone is out on their bikes and we exchange the usual quick pleasantries as we pass. For the first time in months everything around seems really alive. No more hibernating for the winter, working on our books. The once brown-heavy landscape is now a luscious, living green colour. I sit and watch a water snake trapped in the top lock. I feel like that snake, unable to really find my way out of the winter.

Later, unwilling to sit around doing nothing in the park, I head to the University library to sit alone in a corner. I’ve only just barricaded myself in my regular spot with half a dozen books when the librarian comes over.

“Um, we’re closing . We shut at 6 on a Friday.”

I mutter my apologies and replace the books in their correct spots on the shelves. Out front, I’m at a bit of a loose end. What to do now other than go home? Dozens of people are still sprawled out on the grass in the sun. Choosing to stay alone I walk across the park looking for some lunch. I’m crossing the first hill in the park when a group of people start waving me down. A selection of friends. I set up camp with them and we talk for a while.

Often, when your frame of mind has been set-up for the day a jolt can really knock you off balance. If you’re expecting to be alone all day, to not speak to anyone and keep yourself busy, and you suddenly come across a group of people it can actually tangle the wires in your brain helplessly. You’re not expecting social interaction and then you’re thrown straight into it.

I was trying to explain this to everyone when they commented on me looking awkward. It seemed that I was the only one who felt this way. I kept trying to back myself up with a decent explanation.

The majority of teenagers seemed to live similar lives in one respect; they would spend hours alone, holed up in their room going crazy, bored out of their mind, followed by bouts of intense and prolonged social interaction. Alone for half the day, and surrounded by people for the other half. Two opposites.

We all sat around on the grass and I began to warm to the day. We started to talk weather, and seasons, then colours and moods. “The spring and the autumn are similar,” June noticed, “particularly the colours.”

“The first day of spring always throws people off,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, reassuringly. “I bet you wish it was still winter, don’t you?”

I nodded.