Two little urchins at an inner city college are about to tear strips out of each other, until a wise, kindly, yet grossly under-trained classroom assistant steps in and does very little. Crisis averted? Let's find out. Maybe we can squeeze something insightful out of this...

The last thing we need from lockdown is more podcasts by middle-aged white men; said some plonker on the Twitters I've never met, yet whose opinion I decided to heed. Isn't it funny how we let off-hand remarks like this (regardless of who made them) influence the course of our lives? That's the story behind this short public rebuttal. Yes, they're probably correct, but why do we, and should we ever pay attention to naysayers? I didn't, that's why you're listening to another podcast by a middle-aged white man. 

An  old man speaks on BBC Radio 6Music. He sounds wrought, his cockney  tones lacerated with vocal fry and weariness. He sounds familiar yet  distant. A voice speaking of and from my past.

I  recognise it, and all at once, Phil Collins becomes the harbinger of  death. This jovial, pinball-headed drummer assumes the form of the human  condition — mortality itself, squaring up to me, eyeball-to-eyeball,  toe-to-toe, sizing me up for the fight of my life.

https://medium.com/@chris_kenworthy/lets-all-play-the-phil-collins-game-51e879872854

Welcome to the epicentre of creativity and self-destruction in West Yorkshire. A sheltered spot for private human indlugence, just a stone's throw from civilisation.