Lager Time

Bonjour, greetings, what’s happening?

I am back. Yes, indeed. Had a lovely little week with my wife in Malta, in celebration of my birthday, which is today, happy birthday me. I am @!171& *i!@ years old. Old enough to feel old whilst dancing at a pool-party in Malta to some House and Techno, but young enough to be able to dance at a Pool Party in Malta, to some House and Techno, with the odd bit of hip-hop and jungle and the occasional sit-down for a breather.

Got straight back in the mix this week, continuing my work with Dream Arts – where we’re developing a show with a group of unaccompanied asylum-seekers. We’re on the last leg of the show now and they’re doing great. However, my co-director, Catherine, is away on holiday this week and next. Catherine also runs the project, ie does all the admin, and it’s a lot! – So I stepped in this week and if you’ve been following any of my stories about employment, this is not one of my strong points!

Here's a draft of a piece I started this week, about how easily distracted I am. Once I’ve posted this, it’s Lager Time for real. Plan on putting a few lagers away tonight, with some good mates, eat a curry, then go and have it to some drum and bass in Brixton. Yes

Have a banging weekend

Paul

Fingers On The Buzzer

I like my morning read

don’t like being disturbed

focus is finite

There’s already enough noise inside my head

Don’t need anymore

Missus is away

Dogs are away

Just me, my thoughts, a book and a tea and

whatever peripheral street sounds are

Coming in through the window

Summer’s in, mate

Back door ajar, washing out

Let’s get down to business

I’m tyring to get into this book about employment

So far it’s touched on Marxism and unions and neo-liberalism

Just touches, that punch like blows to my brain

I have to really concentrate

take my time

Re-reading paragraphs

Try to make it make sense

Got the usual internal racquet distracting me with

Nonsense, throwing me off

some fly buzzes in

this thick black one that moves like a pinball on amphetamines

Notoriously hard to catch

They drive my wife round the bend

She zaps them with this barley legal tennis-racket

That produces a small electric shock

Like a whimsical execution amusement ride at 1950’s Butlins

Me, I’m not so bothered

usually

Today

I am though

It’s the final distraction

tipping my focus over the edge

to a place I know oh so well

where faded bits of homework barley-started

funding-forms and unborn projects

have a permeant home

in some sweaty purgatory of

shame and failure

the little prick has my full focus now

I’m willing it towards the window

Go on son, do one

The thing is so erratic it gets to the

Window and just bounces off the glass and

pings straight back in the opposite direction

What’s you’re objective here, mate?

Where are you going?

What are you trying to do?

Lay eggs?

Bite something?

Bang something?

Don’t suppose these flies lie in the pollination game?

Should ask my mate, Leeds

This is his territory

Alas, he’s in Greece

So what is it this prick wants?

Is it a proxy agent working for my wife?

Sending detailed surveillance notes about my activities?

Or lack of

Can’t be

My wife would never fraternise with the enemy

Her principles are titanium

As is her stubbornness

Look at this noisy prick

That’s a lot of sound for a tiny black blob

Just go away, mate

Please

Just

go

To be fair

it is a bit nuts

in an interesting way

This hairy black blob

Nipping through the air like

An Apache helicopter over a busy airbase

Prepping for war

The battlefield of my living-room

Agent-pollen dropping relief sacks onto the floor

It’s quite amazing, actually

Defying gravity like that

Fair-play you annoying fuzzy prick

It heads towards the window again

Makes it this time

Trough the crack and out into freedom

And just like that

peace is restored

I feel good, relief at last

No one was hurt in the airing of this and

I’ve now got something to write about

What was I doing before?

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Oh yes, here we are. Lager time.  I’ve actually got a lager with me today, whilst I record this. One of those massive bottles of Kronenbourg. Feel like Ice-Cube in Boyz In Da Hood, sitting outside his house, sipping on 40’s. My mate Micky T kindly bought them over to the gaff, last Saturday, much apricated

Short one this week, been pretty busy, up early every day, in bed late, hay-fever; that kind of thing. Knackered, mate. Large up the hay fever sufferers. I don’t get it that bad but it’s the drowsiness, mate. Either that or I’m spooning way too much honey into my porridge at breakfast time and having these routine mid-morning crashes. Found out last week some manufacturers put sugar in honey?! What?! I had no idea, I was horrified. That’s like putting two fuels in the one engine; just because you can.

There won’t be a Lager Time next week, as I’m away with my wife having a bit of a break. Fear not, which I’m sure you won’t. Like Arnie, I will be back, with just slightly less muscle-mass but as much, if not more, flat delivery of speech.

I’ve now fully re-written every part of Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best. Was on the late train back from Victoria, yesterday. Could barley keep my eyes open but managed to get that last section done. It was like that moment went those engineers broke through to the other side of the channel, for the first time when constructing the Euro-tunnel. It felt good. Now I’ve gotta start putting it on it’s feet, so no doubt there will be lots more re-writing and scribbling in the margins. Feel like its lacking a bit of that vital ‘heightened drama’ aspect that plays apparently need; though I don’t always agree with that. As soon as I sniff out a formula, I tend to get bored, same goes for novels. Also, my life has never been that interesting. Thus, I do worry that it’s all a bit boring and self-indulgent, like this. I make myself feel better about it, by reading about various competing 19th and 20th century ideas about work and labour and celebrating if I’ve understood a mere fraction of it.

So I’ve attached two new poems-drafts that I’ve been slowly compiling. Both half-heartedly attempting to ponder some of life’s bigger questions. I’m enjoying writing in this way, though.

As ever, if you’re reading, listening, sharing, thankyou. Hope yous all have a banging next few days. I’m no royalist but the Queen seems to me, like she has a bit of integrity and in a world of narcists and liars, I respect that. Hope the old girl has a good bash and lets her hair down a bit. And if you’re celebrating, get that commemorative tea-towel and give it to your grandkids, in a couple of years; I’m sure they’ll love it.  

I’ll be back in a fortnight

Peas and taters

Paul

Everyday is a festival

Sometimes this living gig feels like

one of those festival goers I sometimes

see, making their way to the fields

on foot, down windy country lanes

massive backpack, taking up two

thirds of their body, various

bits swinging off it, pots and pans,

sleeping bag, roll mat, wellies,

all the while carrying a big box of

beers and carrier bags hooked on their arms

like a one-man-band without the songs

they’re vaguely moving in what they

probably think Is the right direction

one wrong turn and they feel the full weight of

all that baggage

one Slight stumble and they’re on their arse

struggling to get back up

like an upside-down woodlice

trying to turn over

and there’s no guarantees it won’t rain

Good For You

Good morning

what’s good about it?

it’s just morning

or is it?

is it really good?

Rent’s due

don’t have it

I can only attempt to imagine

what it’s like waking up to war

or famine, or natural disaster

or death, I can imagine

that – and understand that

someone could fail to see the good

but the good thing is –

is that it’s another day

another chance

another crack at the whip

another opportunity to do good

put on that wash

go for a run

find that cure for that disease

something good colud happen

even if that’s slim

it’s a chance

it’s another day

still in the game, mate

and that there

is the

good

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Easy.

I’ve been thinking these last few weeks, about penning some thoughts on rap lyrics; specifically, around content, when working in a workshop-type-educational setting with young people; and the type of conflict I often come up against when doing this. So here it is. A bit of-preamble before, though

I’ve been facilitating workshops now for a number of years; mainly around poetry, rap, beatbox and theatre. Sometimes all together. I work on the premise that it’s about people expressing themselves and being able to tell own stories, in their own way. Most of which, I’d come to learn from working with my good pal Conrad Murray (you can find out in more detail about the processes we use in THIS here BOOK making Hip Hop theatre) Regardless of the medium, that’s what I’m trying to do; in a nutshell.

In the world of youth-arts, you’ll often hear the much talked about category of ‘hard-to-reach-young-people.’ Ie- kids that don’t engage with the arts so much, if at all. A lot of the time, these are the young people I’m working with. Sometimes I’m able to engage with them, using a rap context as lots of them enjoy rap music and I’ve been fortunate enough to work on some really meaningful projects.  

Rap music has been popular my entire life but gradually over the last twenty years, for a lot of British kids it’s become something that isn’t just a popular form of entertainment in the UK, it’s a thing you can actually do, in the UK.

I can remember being young and loving hip-hop but thinking that it’s something that Americans do. UK Hip Hop was a small niche but UK Garage and Jungle MC’s really helped to break down the idea that a kid from these shores could spit too and in their own accent.

These days most young people I encounter are more likely to listen to British rappers than American rappers, often rappers from their own areas even; so at the very least, it can be a starting point just to get them talking, when I’m initially trying to engage them. Rap is a broad church, I’m 38, I like what I like and though I try and keep an ear out for what’s currently popping, most of the time I don’t know; so I get them to tell me about who they’re listening too. The whole process is anchored on earning their trust and for what are probably good reasons, they don’t tend to give that out easily; hence the ‘hard-to-reach’ tag. It takes time

In this sort of work, there’s normally some kind of loose objective involved (which is often due to funding requiring an outcome and isn’t always helpful) – produce some music, work towards a performance, that kind of thing. Sometimes, it’s enough just to engage them in the street, in conversation for ten minutes, let alone getting them into a building and into some kind of workshop environment, which is what the well-meaning but often naive funders want.

Building up the type of trust required to even get them into a building and into a some of kind of structure can take a lot of time; weeks, months, years even.  So after all of that, if you’re able to get even one young person into a room to start writing lyrics, you’ve done well but you’re now into the tricky-waters of content.

I’m no psychologist but particularly with boys, they’re going to naturally want to emulate what their peers, or perceived elders are doing. In the last few years, the most popular form of rap, has been Drill. Which often talks about violence and street-crime. This is their main reference point, it’s what they know (in terms of the music), so it’s natural this is the sort of stuff they’re going to try and create; these rappers, are who they look up to.

A lot of it, to be fair, is just bravado and metaphor, which as far as I’m aware, has been around for time immemorial. Whether a rapper is rapping about how violent they are, or how many drugs they’ve sold, to how many books they’ve read and how much wisdom they have, it’s still just bravado. And it’s part of rap. This is hip-hop after all. (Where the line gets very blurred and serious, is when actual incidences are being referenced but that’s a whole another discussion.)

The problem for me comes when they start writing this stuff and it includes violence, crime and sexist lyrics etc. I operate on the basis that it’s a win just getting them into the room and giving it go. For a lot of them, it might be their first time, so the content, to me, doesn’t matter so much in those early stages. Also, they’re often doing it around their peers, so there’s all those group-dynamics to take into account. But as long as they’re doing something, I think that’s a good thing, regardless of what they’ve said, they’re using their voices and learning the craft of constructing lyrics and rhymes.

The trick is to build their trust over time and work with them, to broaden their horizons a bit and challenge them, but like I said, this takes a long time and often these projects will only run over a short period.

If I started wagging a moral finger at them from the off they’d be gone, never to be seen again; which defeats the whole object of dong this work. Lots of these projects, organisations and funders are well-meaning but naive in their aims and objectives, and increasingly idealistic. Talking to these young people about distant academic concepts, like toxic-masculinity, or heteronormativity, is rarely going to end well, yet sometimes it feels like that’s what some of these leaders in charge want me to do. They can walk in a room, whilst I’m running a session and look at or hear some of the lyrics that are being created and tick me off about it, it’s happened before; which makes me think if that’s all they care about? As opposed to the process of slowly developing a relationship with these young people over time and encouraging them to explore their thoughts and expand their thinking, whilst taking creative risks in a safe environment; without castigating them, which more often than not, is what they expect from adults with any kind of authority. 

I’d be interested to hear alternative thoughts on this, as I’m sure there’s people out there who disagree with me. I can only do what I know and what I think works and where I’ve been allowed the space to do this, I’ve seen positive results.

There are times when I’ve had to draw a line. With most young people who are used to engaging in these sorts of projects, setting boundaries is one of the first things you do but with these so called hard-to-reach kids, who already feel like they’ve been written off; it’s never that simple. A little patience and less judgement, please.

So there you go, some thoughts. I mentioned last week that I started writing this article and trashed it, because I thought it was no good. But then I reminded myself about why I started this blog, to put my work out but also to learn and try and take a few risks. I want to get better at writing this sort of stuff but it doesn’t come easily to me, it’s a craft that I‘m learning and hopefully improving.

It’ll most likely be back to the regularly scheduled program next week, ie me just putting up bits of writing that I’m working on from this show, or maybe I’ll start that Peep Show article I was going on about.

Either way, large up for reading / listening. Give it a subscribe if you like, it really helps

Have a great weekend

Peas and taters

Paul

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Meanwhile in Maidstone, I sit here writing this, pulling nails off my fingers; with the lingering taste of an unsatisfactory muffin in my mouth. Muffins are overrated, like chocolate-cake. And wot? Much prefer a chocolate-digestive, the undisputed king of the UK biscuit-game. Complete with a cup of tea, I feel like a military general with his loyal attack dog by his side, casually bowling onto the battlefield; drinking a cup of tea, just to muddle the metaphor even further. Someone get me a chocy-digestive, lively! He says.

So what’s going on? Another week done. Time is moving fast, mate, this year is almost 6 months old. Enough with the sentimentality, Paul, get on with it, son. Ok, Dad.

Alright. So this week’s offering is hope. Sort of. It’s another piece from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best. Yep. So how’s that connect to hope? Well, a few weeks ago, writing the introduction to that days post, I mentioned how I’ve been struggling with this particular section of the show that I’m about to share. I then said last week that I’d started re-writing it, but was probably going to cut it; which was the case, until Tuesday, this week, sat on the Maidstone to Victoria train. I was out of ideas and just writing through to the end, in the hope that something would present itself.

For some reason, I got the urge to re-start it again, slightly differently and this time it just flowed out in that way that rarely happens, ie I fleshed it out fairly quickly and in a way that just feels, well right, like when I get up in the morning and let the dogs into the garden. They just burst out the door. It’s still scrappy, far from finished but it’s a satisfying feeing and has altered my thinking on the whole thing. I’d share what I originally wrote, so you could see where I’m coming form but then, like school, that would probably be a bit well boring.

A little word on the form. So this whole section of the show (none of which I’ve shared on here as yet) is written in this sort-of, list-poetry-style. I felt it lends itself nicely to the present-tense yet allows me to fill in any background information gaps, whilst moving the story a bit quicker. And I enjoy saying it this way. That’s the thinking anyway.

So that’s your lot for now. Got an idea for a little article I want to write, regarding Peep Show. That may appear on here in the next few weeks, but then again I had this idea to write something about rap lyrics and working with kids. Started writing it and it was terrible. Not that confident with the ‘thought sharing’ part of Lager-Time as yet. But you know, who dares wins and all that.

If you like, hit that subscribe. Had one new subscriber join the ranks last week, thankyou, whoever you are. Please don’t be a bot. Tortoise and the hare, mate.

Have a banging weekend. Same next time next week?

CALL CENTRE COLLECTOR

Nothing like a slice of home cooked humble pie

Stayed at mum and dads for a week

A week not at work

meaning a week with no pay

But I had mum and dad to look after me

I was lucky

I swear it was meant to be the other way around once I moved out

Wiped out with exhaustion

That’s what the nurse said

And a ticking off about recreational drug use

Told me to stick to paracetamol and aspirin

Don’t worry, I said I won’t be doing that again

I’ll just stick to booze

that feeling of fatigue has been lingering for a few months now

Got back to Brighton

Got my nut down

Moved house again

Number 4

changed jobs again

Number 4

Me and Mohammed got taken on permanently by the bank

We’re junior collectors now

Makes us sound like charity workers

If only

Were Call centre drones , mercenaries

Collecting debt on loans and overdrafts

Shifts are long

But I’m on a salary

£13.5k a year

Holiday pay

Sick pay

And wacky team building days out

the longer hours meant I had to stop the cleaning job

But now earning slightly more

And in a house share again

My bills are slightly less

I’m living with Mick and Mit

Socially it’s good

Mates come and visit

We’re making music

I’m writing more lyrics than ever

Even stories and poems, the ideas never stopped coming

I’m reading more

Getting my eating under control

I’ve started running in the evenings too

But this job is pretty gruelling

Wake up trudge out to work

Like there’s stage weights strapped to my back

Plug in my headset

Wait for the beep

Customer details snap on screen

Hello you through to Pcan I take your account details please

Another debt laden customer

Sometimes I wonder how they got in this situation

Target driven bank-selling

Pressurized Christmas spending

Adverts telling you you’re worth it

Without the apr

Sky tv subscriptions

Holidays and cigarettes

And liberal card spending

That’s how they got me

I can normally tell me within the first few words how it’s gonna go

Sometimes they’re nice

Sometimes they’re friendly

Sometimes they’re relived

Sometimes they’re desperate

Sometimes they’re angry

Sometimes they threaten me

Keep tally everytime I get called a c u n t

I’m in double figures

Someitmes they’re abusive

Sometimes racist

Mohammed gets it a lot

They hear his accent and assume his calling from India

and the amount of times I’ve been asked if I’m black

what does that even mean

and why is that relevant to the call?

Supposedly all we have to do is follow the flow chart

The great flow chart

Every call should go the same way

Either they make a payment or make an arrangement

All done in 7 minutes

So our team leaders say

bosh

That’s it

As if it’s all that simple

Bag one then BEEP onto the next one

when I take too long on a call

like the man that was suicidal

or the lady who was in floods of tears after

Getting threatening court letters when she doesn’t even bank with Lloyds

the supervisors who monitor the calls

Come round and passively aggressively tell me I’m taking too

Long on my calls,

then point to the flow chart on the walls

Then the league tables

Next to the empty motivational messages

Showing my teams stats

Whose collected the most dough

Made the most arrangements

And where I’m sat

Often on the bottom

Letting the team down

They tell me I’m not assertive enough

Punch out the code for the toilet

The carzy on my floor has been busted for ages

Have to go up two flights of stairs

Only two traps up there

and 4 floors of geezers

So If I need to bless-it

And they’re engaged

I have to wait

And when I come back

Supervisor of the year is at my desk

Asking why I took so long

When I can, I go to lunch with Mohammed

Though Our shifts often don’t align

I miss working side by side

He’s so calm

He’s not phased by this job

He tells me to not take it all to heart,

there’s more to life he says

I feel guilty when I moan

He’s got his wife and his baby

I can barely take care of me

I go home each night wiped out

But I try and force myself to do something

either that or it’s watch MTV Pimp My Ride

Mohamed’s right, there is more to life

Waited my whole life to get cable TV

what a disappointment it is

spend my time on it channel hopping

so much choice

yet so little worth watching

As much as it hurts my brain after those long days

I try to read a book or write a verse or practise

Some bars that I’ve already written

I feel I owe it to my skull

It’s the only way I know to

Fight that dull feeling that’s like

Someone  slowly pulling a tired grey

Tarpaulin over the skies

Been in Brighton for 18 months

4 addresses

4 jobs

times moving on

so should I

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Yes, yes, good day to you all

Welcome to another edition of Lager Time; whoever you are, wherever you are, if you do it all exist. So what’s been happening?

Not a lot to report from my end, I’ve been pretty busy. Working on two different rap projects, with some young people out in Bromley and Romford and I’ve resumed duties with the Friends From Afar project, with Dream Arts -  we’re working with a group of unaccompanied asylum-seekers and are slowly developing a show. I co-lead the sessions and have written a short script along with some music, I’m really enjoying it. The project hits all the three of the things I like doing.

All the while, bumbling through with my own creative projects; which are mainly this show, Make Your On bed and Hope for the Best and an EP of music I’m taking forever to produce. But we’re getting there. Sort of.

Made a little bit more headway with the show this week, just a bit though. I’ve currently got this gut feeling that I just have to write through this malaise and the bit I’m currently working on, will probably face the axe but may find life elsewhere. Like the piece below.

I wrote this some time last year when I started re-editing all the stories. I highly doubt this will make it in as it’s not in the timeline of events but either way, I enjoyed the process, as I enjoy doing this. I think I’ve worked-out how to the audio a bit better, so hopefully it sounds a little more pleasing to your ears. That’s progress. Tortoise and the hare, mate. Until next time

MYOB Draft Bits - Spitalfields

I’m at a point where I can genuinely say I don’t hate what I do for work - to earn a living - it’s just that it don’t pay much.

I’m walking through Spitalfields market - in between jobs - killing time before the next bit of work. Winter is very much here, it’s dark by four and cold most of the time, snotty nose and tickly coughs soundtrack my journeys.  There’s a lot of homeless people around here, often asking for change, on foot and sat on doorsteps or crowding outside Tesco. I’ve got a sever hankering for caffeine, sweets and stodge

I finished my school job earlier, walked to Streatham bus station and caught the 133 to Liverpool St, it always gets me here much earlier than I need to be but I know that if get on the bus in Streatham, by Brixton Hill I’m asleep, then by Liverpool street, I’m slowly coming too, dazed and confused before I get slung off, wiping the dribble off my chin, it’s a vital little bit of kip that keeps me going. And it’s cheaper than the tube.

To have enough money to get by, I need to work my school teaching assistant job five days a week, with at least two gigs or workshops in the evenings or the weekends to make up the shortfall. Some weeks I’m working all seven days, going to bed late and getting up early, to work on bits of writing, though sometimes, I just cant get out of bed for it and I feel guilty for not utilising my time.

Some weeks I don’t get those extra gigs and workshops and though its a bit of a relief to go home after school and have an early night, it just causes me to pull more out hairs from my head when the bills come

Spitalfields is busy, a party part of town and city workers and students are packing out the pubs and restaurants. I look in the windows of a few, and see smiling faces wishing I could be with them sinking a few of those expensive pints, enjoying a social life.

I’ve got just enough to dough to get home on my oyster and maybe grab a reduced sandwich from Tesco but I’m kinda holding out that they’re might be some leftovers at the centre where I’m working tonight as they get given a lof of food from Pret a Manager, which I have to go and pick up, as part of my job.

I’m a workshop assistant at a charity that works with people who are or have been homeless and we do drama. Most of these people there have lives a lot harder than mine and sometimes the sessions can be tough but more often than not, they’re fun, educational and uplifting, and a good laugh. I often leave knackered but enthused,

I think that feeling is how work could be, should be, possibly, it’s a possibility. They’re worse ways to work for living but maybe better ways to earn, especially in this city. I’m somewhere in between the two. When I’m super skint and wiped out it can hard to see the upside of it all but generally, if I think about what I was doing before, chances are I’ll leave tonight tired feeling good, feeling valued and feeling like I might have some value and they got free tea, that’s a good start

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Hello, greetings, bonjour, what’s happening.

It’s Friday. What does that mean? Not much to me. I stopped looking forward to weekends (and bank holidays) a long time ago. Maybe if I was working an ordinary job, I’d be chomping at the bit, right now. But I’m not, but if you are, sick. I’m cool, though.

Speaking of jobs, this week’s offering is another story from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best. Based on when I worked at HMV at Gatwick Airport. I mentioned last week, that I’d hit a block with this show. I started writing the third part this week but didn’t get very far. I’m still very much in that this isn’t working phase. I’m loosing heart but will kick-on.

I’ve got a habit of getting stuck into something and then just letting it go. Even when it’s quite far down the line. I’ve done t so many times. I was learning to drive, when I was around 18. Got as far as gearing up to take the test, missed a couple of lessons then just, sort of, gradually, stopped. It’s like I go numb to any feelings about it – then sometime later, I get a delayed onslaught of negativity.

These are things I’ve noticed happening over time. So now, I’m trying to read the signs early on, so I can counteract it, which normally involves just keeping it going, even it’s in tiny amounts. A mate of mine, Physics B, once told me about this Jerry Seinfeld strategy, of just viewing it all as a chain; as long as you’re doing something each day, you’re keeping the chain going.  I’m having mixed results.

Whilst my gym visits have fallen by the wayside, at least I can say I’ve kept Lager Time going (and I’m keeping the show going) It’s been over six months, now and give or take a few weeks, I’ve been consistent with it. So well done me and large up all of you who have read, or listened, or shared; thankyou.

For lots of us that do this kind of thing; freelance creatives or whatever, COVID cancelled loads of our work and forced a lot of us to re-think what we’re doing. I was no exception. With technology, I’m quite often slow to adapt; rarely short of ideas but know-how and execution lags why behind, and I often loose heart because of it. Despite that, I made this list, around April 2020 of things I thought I could do to grow and adapt; I caled it the Level-Up list. The end-point was for me to be able to produce by own content: video’s, music, audio, images, books etc.  So I took a bunch of Udemy courses and tried to learn a few things. If you’re familiar with my work about education, or even the stuff I’ve been sharing on here, then you may realise how un-academic I am.

It’s a journey I’m still on and it’s frustrating, as with lots of it, like video, I’m still very much at the beginner stage and I do lose heart, from time-to-time. It’s taking a long time to get where I want to go but I am making progress; just very slowly. 

I’ve got the Substack up and running, a self-produced music EP, two-thirds recorded, I’m not far off filming a couple of simple point-and-shoot poetry videos and I’m getting better at recording audio. Tortoise and the hare, mate.

Speaking of levelling-up, I made this little introduction to the audio, what do you think? It’s another step towards stepping-up. Onwards and upwards. Well, that’s the ideal trajectory.  As per above, it’s thinking about moving onward and upwards, move onwards with excitement, hit an obstacle, fall over, lie on the ground for hours full of self-loathing, days, weeks, then get back up, re-trace my steps, start again, overcome said hurdle, get excited again, find another hurdle, rinse, wash, repeat. Enjoy the story.

As ever, if you’ve listened or read and got this far, thankyou. If you like it, give it a subscribe. Enjoy the bank holiday, same time next week?

HMV

Despite the redundancy and loosing the apprenticeship: getting the Golum eyes and spanking most of the payout dough on clothes and booze, being skint, unemployed, having to go through the humiliation of signing-on, not hearing back from most jobs, flopping the few job interviews that I had, no qualifications, feeling generally quite useless and that I had no tangible skills to offer anyone and no girlfriend to speak of, life was alright. Honestly. I had a roof, a good family, a few mates and I had music.

I was enjoying MCing more and more, I loved writing lyrics and raping them over beats and had started running drum and bass and garage nights in this local club in Horley, called the Liquid Lounge, with my mate Mick from college, where I’d MC. We had no idea what we were doing but we did it anyway.

The owner of the club was looking for a regular DJ, so I got my brothers mate, Dean to come down with his mate Nigel, as they were doing a lot of weddings and parties back then.

Dean worked at HMV in Gatwick, I mentioned I was looking for a job, they had a job going, so through a blatant case of nepotism and crony capitalism, I landed myself a job there.

For a retail shop, the money was good, and I cashed in on the 30% discount; got the Gollum eyes trebling my music collection, within weeks. I’d also started to read books and the discount extended to waterstones, it was a touch and I remember buying my first Michal Moore book there. I was working with people my own age, with similar interests, and it was music. I felt like I’d landed on my feet.

Pretty much everyone in my family had worked at the airport at some point. I could walk there from home, which was handy for those 5am starts when transport was limited. Pretty grim in the winter though, dark and cold outside, walking down that infamous alleyway where the street light didn’t work, so it was pitch black, only to arrive in the airport like you’d never left, like it never slept.

Super bright strip lights hurting my eyes, air-con choking my lungs, constant announcements, brutal early shifts and killer lates, stomach aches from too much caffeine and night and day cells in constant conflict, as I my body clock was always confused. The manager was a wanker too, he made passive aggression into an artform, always spoke to me like I was thick.

But aside from that I liked it. I was working with music. All that retail customer service stuff was bollox but at least I was doing something where I had a little bit of knowledge that I could contribute. I enjoyed recommending things to customers and I was learning lots, new artsts, old bands, making mates and having a laugh.

The airport employed thousands of people and you’d get friendly with the other staff there. Other retail bods, security, baggie handling. Even the old Bill with their machine guns. You could get things at the airport, loads of little under the counter deals were going on. We’d call it the North terminal crime syndicate, got myself a pair of Nikes one time for £20 cash. Lots of the local bars would run airport nights, you’d flash your pass and get discounted drinks, it was sick.

I was in charge of the dance-music section and felt especially proud when I organised it into subgenres: deep-house, funky-house, tech-house, drum and bass, garage, breakbeat, big beat and would get stumped by curve balls like the Prodigy and the Chemical brothers.  What section do I put them in. I got to order stuff, I took pride in it. Sometimes I’d have to open and close the shop and cash up the tills and I liked the responsibility. Of course I made a few mistakes and got in trouble once or twice but I still preferred it to Zepher.

I’d started this music promotion course down in Brighton, which I got on by chance, just being in a record shop one day when there the course leaders were giving out flyers. I was too old but they let me join in, I just did’nt get the qualification. We were working on putting an event on at the Ocean rooms, which was big club back then. I’d work the early shifts without a break, burn it over to the station and get a train down there and make it just in time for the afternoon session. And in-between all of that, minus the boozing and smoking, trips to clubs in London andand Brighton, and a surprise FA Cup Final for Millwall, I was still writing lots of lyrics. And Working life was alright.

But deep down I knew it couldn’t last. The money was good and I was becoming comfortable, which I’d never felt before but I knew that it was dangerous. The airport was full of older-bods who had potential but never amounted to much. They swapped that potential for resentment and would sit in the pubs boring the rest of us to death about how they could’ve made it, in whatever capacity. I had this gut feeling that I’d have to leave the area. I didn’t know how, why or what I’d do, I just knew.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings what’s going on? Where we all at? Where am I at? Where’s this all going?

Had an unintended break from Lager Time last week (though there was actual Lager Time, as I was on a stag-doo on one of the days) a combination of a residential trip, in Brighton during the week; with a project that I work on with Dream Arts. Then, having to go back to London for the Easter weekend, meant there was no time for doing this. And as much as I’d like to convince both my wife, and myself; it’s not a priority but maybe one day? Hit the subscribe if your down for the cause (it’s just occurred to me, that since I started actively asking people to subscribe, like above, which is what all the smiley-how-to-do blogs tell me how-to-do, I’ve had barely any subscribers? Alas. Keep socking it to the man, that’s what I say)

So I’ve been sharing extracts from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best, but as I said last time, that I might give it a rest for bit. I’ve been actively trying to follow through on things that I say I might do, so I’m doing it, or not doing it, more to the point. In my limited skill set, mystic would never be on that small list but clearly, I was able to predict my own future, without even realising it. For all the above reasons, as well as the taking a break reason, I won’t be sharing anything from the show, this week. The main reason being, I’ve hit a problem with it, again.

I’ve now re-written or edited two thirds of the show, which I’ve split into three-acts. Thinking I’d gone slim and trim with the words, I ran it all together yesterday and I’m already at an hour; with a whole third section to fit in. And music. And I’m now thinking, yet again, is this a load of shit? l’ll keep ploughing through it, re-editing till I get to the end and then maybe it’s about finally doing the funding app and getting some sort of script editor, or dramaturg, to come in an help me panel-beat it into shape. Failing not getting any dough, which is fairly likely, I’ll have another re-think. Thing is, I get precious about some of those non-needed lines and background information. I can already hear some of those dreaded criticisms: is this really needed, Paul??? Yes. It is. Is this moving the story foreword, Paul? I like veering off. Life does that, all the time.

This week I’d thought I’d share a few poems I’ve got kicking about; been slowly putting together a file of new bits and bobs, over the last couple of years. Maybe there’s another book in it? Don’t know yet, I’m just enjoying write them.  

There’s quite a few expletives in these ones, I don’t tend to swear too much in my writing so I don’t know what’s happened here but they were more or less picked at random. Also, the tone on most of them is a bit pessimistic, which isn’t always the case with me but to be honest, I’m not feeling all that great at the moment, so it’s fitting. Don’t know if it’s season change, being skint, bit knackered maybe? Or all of them but I’ve felt better.

Anyway, onwards and upwards, hopefully. Same time next week?

Workshop

This pen ain’t no swordor weaponor any of that bolloxif anything, it’sa minute taker in ameeting, bored out of herfucking mind, imaginingdecking the dick-head withthe white teeth talkingover the power point.doodling on the paper,inserting silly words intothe notes, just for herown amusement, asubtle survival technique,aware a combined force of moronshave her surrounded onall sides and although she lacksthe resources to fight them, shetakes solace in the fact that her wage-superiors,sat around her, all feigninginterest In thePower-Point prick, have tolie about it just to get by.Fuck that, she thinks.

Ray Flecter Sunglasses That barley shield the sun

I’m an ill-equipped archaeologist trying to excavate the truth

I’m a twice-a-year catholic stealing lead from the church roof

I’m downloading on dial-up Dances With Wolves plus deleted scenes

I’m everything and anything I wouldn’t ever wonna’ be

You’re a narcissistic stick-insect trying to convince itself it’s fat

You night read by spinning globe-light believing the earth is flat

You’re sailing shoes are brand-new and have never seen the sea

You’re anything and everything I wouldn’t ever wonna’ be

They’re globe-trotting eco-travellers who drive the car to the shops

They’re avant-garde fine-diners sipping Monster and Panda Pops

They’re conscious political activists who vote if it’s on TV

They’re everything and anything I wouldn’t ever wonna be

We’re all bedroom cleaners shoving everything under the bed

We’re all waging fingers at noisy neighbours leaving mess

We’re all buying books that sit unread but looking pretty

We’re everything and anything that we probably choose to be

HELP-SELF

eat well

sleep well

wank less

exercise

pray to god

pray to your god

pray to their gods

don’t have one

get one

say thankyou

take notice

tiny miracles

major miracles

mundane moments

praise biscuits

reflect, analyse and think

imagine atoms and

atomic energy

laugh at yourself

you’re probably a nob

the inner prick lives within us all

keep the prick contained

see above

celebrate what unites us

be wary of what dives us and

ideologues disguised as saints

duck xenophobes and globalists

clothesline the lunch que

politicians come and go

remember what got us here

manors cost nothing

leave the manor and take a risk

commit to doing things

don’t let me down

talk to your feelings like

you know them

even that prick that lives within

pricks have feelings too

contradict yourself

tie yourself in knots

workout how you got there

and don’t fucking do it again

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, what’s happening, how do you do?

Another week and another one of these. Been keeping it going for roughly six months, now. Big thanks to everyone that has read, listened, commented; or even shared. I enjoy doing this but it does give me a lift and a bit of extra impetus to do more, knowing that there’s a few of you engaging with it. Of course, you may well think it’s dog-shit, but that’s ok, I like dogs.

Speaking of which, my missus and I got a new puppy this week, so I’ve been busy trying to make sure she doesn’t piss in the house; I’ve had mixed results. That’s taken up a lot of my time but thankfully, with it being easter holidays, I’ve not been doing many workshops.

We stayed at my in-laws for a few days, whilst the puppy settled in. Like a bellend I forgot to pack my laptop, so couldn’t get much work done. However, I did have the first half of this show printed out in my bag; so I spent a few days (while she was asleep) going over the words. It felt good, I think it’s getting there; I’m still enjoying the process of editing. I’m now into the material which I’m least confident about, going at it with trepidation.

So this weeks offering, is story number 4, from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best, based on the time I was an apprentice, for an IT company, in the early 2000’s. There’s a few more stories after this one (I’ve had a lot of jobs) so maybe I’ll do something different next week, feel free to say ‘turn it in, Paul, no one cares, mate’ and I’ll change course; perhaps.

As before, if you’re interested in seeing what I’ve already done with this show, you can check my You Tube channel, or if you’re interested in checking some of the plays I’ve co-written, you can now purchase Beats and Elements: A Hip Hop Theatre Anthology and while we’re on plugging stuff, fuck it, I’ve still got a few copies of my first book; The Suburban, for sale.

Again, big thankyou to everyone that has engaged with any of this stuff, it means a lot. Sometimes it still feels like it was, back in my early twenties, just rapping to myself, in my bedroom. Probably about the only good thing I did do, back in those days.

If you like, please subscribe, or perhaps even share it? (If you like it of course.) It would be great if we could grow the numbers but I’ll still be doing it regardless. Tortoise and the hare, mate.  Have a great weekend.

Zepher tech (5 min 40) by me Paul Cree

In all honesty, I felt embarrassed about being kicked out of college. I’d let mum and dad down. When my tutor brutally pointed out to me, that on the final piece of work I’d handed in, not only was it terrible, I’d even misspelled my own name; it pretty much sealed my fate.

All these college courses seemed like they’d been made up for kids like me; deluding a generation of us that leisure and tourism was a thing. We probably would’ve been better off in a job, earning money, there’s no way we were all going to be computer programmers and engineers. Thanks Tony

So after taking every spare shift going at Waitrose and working as a labourer for a tree Surgeon, I was finally taken on for the National Trainee scheme at Crawley College, which is like an apprenticeship with armbands. I had to spend a couple of months doing a some more made-up IT courses, which were supposed to get us ready for work but were even shitter than the one I just came from. However, I vowed to try harder with these and managed to pass them- and after a successful interview, I was placed into a company called Zepher Technologies. Computers. The future. Finally

Zepher Technologies was in the business of VPNs, which stands for Virtual Private Networks, which I knew virtually nothing about. Thanks Tony

They made these mad-cube-looking machines, which sat in big servers, which ran on this software called Linux, which I’d also never heard of. Thanks Tony. Linux required all these commands to be typed onto a black screen, which to me was like trying to read Russian, backwards, on a blackboard.

I had a boss, Sandy, who interviewed me but was hardly ever there. He was always at the manufacturing plant down in Portsmouth. Once in a while I got to go down there and work on the assembly line; it was a good laugh, I enjoyed the banter with all the lads that worked there. I’m pretty sure that was why Sanday was never in the office – 

I was mostly left to my own devices, sat in the small, messy back-room , on my own, where all the equipment was stored. One of the engineers casually said to me one day, that my boss Sandy was mental and they had no idea why I was taken on.

I had no idea either, I did’nt know what I was meant to be doing, it was like one, very-long two-year work experience. I made a lot of tea. Every six weeks my course assessor came to visit me and we often had to make up stuff for me to write about, in order to meet the assessment criteria, for my NVQ qualification.

I made other people tea. I made myself tea. My mates called me the tea-boy, which I hated. I’m a trainee, in computers, the future. I spent a lot of time in the toilet, often just sitting there without even doing anything. I tried to teach myself Linux and understand how to use the products the company made – but it was like going off-roading in a Fiat Panda; I was really stretching the limitations of my brain.

I’d read the big book of LINUX commands and managed to learn a few, the only one I remembered was IPCONFIG – which looked impressive because it suddenly bought up loads of information on the screen, but didn’t really do anything a bit like Politicians when they make their speeches.

I spent a lot of time browsing the internet and planning music events that I’d started running with my mate, Mick from college. The internet was still a novelty to me, as we didn’t really have it at home. I regularly posted on a drum and bass forum called Dogz On Acid, connecting and learning with music heads form all over the UK and wider-world. Through there I found these other forums, which mixed underground music and politics – and started reading conspiracy websites about why we’d gone to war in Iraq. Seems as if Tony had not only invented a load of shite courses for kids like me to do, he’d also invented some shite about weapons, both of which, amounted to nothing.

I wrote a lot of lyrics there too, making good use of the stationary cupboard and my new technical lexicon that I was acquiring

I’m transmitting lyrical data down your XLR

Outputting monologues and blazing through your speaker

I remembered feeling really proud of that and couldn’t wait to test out on a set.

Sat in that back room, I experienced mainly moments of mundane boredom and isolation but it weren’t always the case. A few months before joining the company, two girls I knew had tragically taken their own lives. My best friend had found them, it was at his house. I’d have been there that night, had I not had a chest infection

Things got a bit messy after this and my friend started going off the rails. He’d turn up at my house, or ring my phone all hours of the night, dragging me into these little street beefs he was getting into. There was a period where each time I saw him, either some physical damage had been done to his car: smashed windows, or paintwork keyed or some physical damage had been done to him. He would turn up at work, asking to borrow money, wheel-spinning out the car park blasting garage, while my colleagues looked on, bemused.

I didn’t know how to deal with any of this and I’d get these random fits of rage where I just wanted to smash things. I broke two knuckles punching a hole in the door of some pub. I remember booting a few of those old machines, that were on the floor. One time I remember being sat there in that back room one day, probably browsing the internet and out of nowhere just bursting into tears. Of course, no one saw; probably best.

Despite the dullness of it all, there were one or two good memories. The day I successfully figured out how to use the Zepher Technology VPN products, and configure a VPN tunnel, using two of the redundant cube computers which were just laying around, was monumental, for me.

It had taken my days to figure it out, constantly reading and rereading the instruction manual, feeling like it might as well have been written in Cantonese, until one day something clicked. I was so happy I jumped up throwing my fist in the air and ended up punching our a ceiling tile, which covered my in rubble. Of course, like the tears,n o one was there to see it but I told my boss Sandy.  It would probably have taken someone more attuned that sort of thing a matter of minutes to do it but regardless of how long it took me, it gave me a bit of confidence that maybe I wasn’t as thick as I thought I was, I’d achieved something.

The one little bit of success came back to bite me in arse, because I wound up getting pulled into a sales meeting one day, because Sandy wasn’t there, to demonstrate the VPN products and completely messing it up, in front of these three executive types. Not even typing IPCONFIG could impress them. I had no idea who they were, or where they were from but they well-dressed and had cabin bags. I’d made the effort, I’d put on my cream Umbro polo top and my cream jeans. I remember going back to that little room, feeling even worse than I usually did, wishing that they’d just left me alone that day, like they always did.

I didn’t cry that time but it turns out, some bubble called Dot Com was about to burst. Computers may well have been the future but it weren’t mine.

Thank you for reading Lager Time (audio). This post is public so feel free to share it.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Yes, yes, greetings.  So much for what I said last week when I kicked-off the last blog; praising the glorious weather. In true British style, it’s all gone a bit taters and mould, mate. It was snowing earlier on, but not that type of snow that gets you all excited, it’s that light, muggy snow that doesn’t settle. Just gets you cold and miserable. At least it’s familiar. 

Seems a little convenient, mate; the sharp turn in weather, coinciding with the sharp turn of the heating dial, coinciding with the sharp rise in energy prices. I occasionally flirt with conspiracy theories, often for my own my amusement but this one is just too coincidental. Someone’s making some dough out of this, surely? Shouldn’t have opened my mouth.

So this week, I’m uploading the third story, from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best, this show I’m developing about my experiences of employment. This one is based on my time as a trolly-boy, at Waitrose, in Horley. Imagine that last sentence was just said in the style of an old veteran, regaling another war-story to his eager Grandchild, whilst dipping his grubby mist into  a bag of Werther’s Originals.

 TROLLEY BOY   

Friday evenings, Waitrose, every shift would start the same.

‘Paul, can you do the trollies for me?’

‘For me’

They always said it like it’s was a personal favour that I was doing them, like it wasn’t part of the job and like I ever had any choice in the matter.’

‘yea alright’

So I’d grab the horrible fluorescent jacket that made you sweat and stink of the weird geezer that did the day shift and make my way out into the car park, where I’d be greeted by the sight of a load of uncollected trollies, all spilling out the trolly bays, like a 5pm Primark sale-rale. Because, no one would’ve done it since the weird geezer on the day shift clocked off at three o clock.

The trolleys came under the jurisdiction of the checkouts, where I apparently worked, but aside from a few old boys and a handful of spotty part-time strings like me, most of the checkout staff were female, yet they never have to do the trollies; unless there’s was no males to do it.

Geezers weren’t even allowed to have ear piercings, so I had to put a plaster over that shiny gold stud I had in my ear that I’d recently had done. How would the checkout girls notice my stud? Hold tight Linda, though, she stuck up for the boys when she supervised and let me have longer on my breaks when it was pissing it down.

Despite the mug off, I quite liked it. It was a simple job, collect the trollies, scattered around the car park and take them back to the main trolley park by the entrance. It was a little bit like those Wildlife documentaries with the big orchestral sound-tracks, providing a score to the Lioness, with a fresh batch of new born cubs, who keep trying to scamper away, only for the Lioness to carefully scoop them up in her jaw and bring them back to the loving embrace of her bosom. Sometimes, to amuse myself, I’d imagine there was a big orchestral score sound-tracking me, as I collected the trollies and bought them back to the loving embrace of the shop front-trolly park.

I got to be on my own and think about stuff, like girls on the checkouts that I fancied and ideas for putting on music gigs, and random lyric ideas that would pop into my head. I’d started MCing, on Drum and bass and Garage and was trying to work on my double-time Skibbadee flow. The carpark had this overflow bit at the back, where only a few local winos went, it was a good spot to kill some time and practise some bars.

I got a lot of thinking done out there, but there was always some prick, like a customer, or a supervisor, that disturbed my train of thought, in the same way teachers did at school, or college, where I was by that point.

I’d come to the realisation that I was shit at most things. I was already way behind at college. Like school, I was ok at some things, like PE and English and crap at everything else and though I hated maths, I knew that okt+crap=shit. At Waitrose, I was ok at the trollies and that was it

I’d clear the first few trolley bays, bring them of the front, sneak a look through the big glass at my checkout colleagues, bleeping and scanning, or idly chatting to each other during quiet times.

Often, as soon as I’d cleared the first few bays, they would quickly refill before I could get to the next lot of bays, like that arcade game where you had to repeatedly bash the monsters on the head. They just keep reappearing

Customers would get in my way, pricks, or did’nt look when they were reversing out of a spot, just as I'd carefully be snaking a train of fifteen or so trollies back to the front of the store. Or, they were just plain-lazy and didn’t even bother to wheel them back to one of the, several, trolley parks, strategically located, equi-distant from each other, around the car park; it's not that difficult, yet some of these nobs, would just dump them anywhere, sometimes in the middle of the road or in a trolley-bay, taking up a valuable parking space, bellends! Sometimes, they’d wheel them all the way to a parking bay and then just toss the thing so it's at some obtuse angle and therefore makes it difficult to fit more trollies in, then some other cock-piece will follow suit and do the same thing, so you’d end up getting a trolley bay with five carelessly placed trollies, when there should be twenty five in that one space, is it really that difficult? Wankers!

Sometimes I’d leave the trollies that were randomly scattered about, they served as stark examples to customers, that some of their fellow customers had no respect for the delicate eco-system that was trolly-collection and that everyone had part to play in that cyclical drama, not just inept, day-dreaming part time timers and weird geezers on the day shift.

Once I’d got on top of the whole operation, I could swan round at a leisurely pace, keeping everything in order, I got a sense of satisfaction in it all, I was knackered after most shifts.

As most of the supervisors often seemed to forget I was even out there, on my own, doing the trollies, I took massive liberties on my breaks and despite feeing like I was the dick-head doing the shit job, if I’m honest, I think it suited me. I didn’t have to talk to anyone or deal with numbers and customers the money was better than Smiths.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings. What a week, eh? Even a pasty, occasionally misanthropic and increasingly anti-social prick like me, likes a bit of sun from time to time and it came out this week, in all its glory. Charged up on a bit of Vitamin D, seems to have a put a smile on mine on my wife’s face, on what feels like a long winter here in England and I weren’t even here, for a good chunk of it.

Since I’ve come back from America, I’ve been back running-round London doing workshops again. Poetry, theatre and a bit of rapping; even a rap-battle workshop with some senior citizens , which was a lot of fun.

I’m knackered, mate but I’m not complaining, I’m glad of the work. I’m scared to say it, as after the ups and downs of the last two years, who knows what’s going to happen but this is the closest it’s felt to what it was before like the pandemic; before all us freelancers got those dreaded  ‘project cancelled’ emails. But I’ll save the COVID moans for another time, I’m just pleased to be out and about, doing what I enjoy and seeing people again.

Large up everyone that came to BAC for the duel-book launch, last week, of Making Hip Hop Theatre and the Beats and Elements Hip Hop Theatre Anthology. Got to perform with the team again, Conrad Murray, Lakeisha Lynch-Stevens and Gambit Ace, alongside the mighty Beatbox Academy, who are finally back out on tour again, with Frankenstein and we got to see some new stuff.   

Felt like I was part of hip-hop-theatre history in that room. The godfather himself passed through, Jonzi D, Cons original company, TDC, were inside, of course Beats & Elements and the Beatbox Academy and a lot of family and friends. Go cop the books, if you’re interested in getting into theatre or getting into hip hop, or both, there’s something for everyone. 

With all this running back and forth to London (now that I live in Maidstone) I spend a lot of time on the train, which is where I’m getting most of my writing done. That one-hour journey to Victoria seems like a good solid block for me and I’m making good-progress, re-working a lot of this show, I’m now half-way through. It’s a lot of work but I’m enjoying it. Some of the stories have changed massively, some are now gone completely, some are only changed a bit. It’s getting there… he says.

If you’re interested in seeing what I’ve been doing with it so far, go check the You Tube channel. I’d like to start doing some more videos again. Anyway, here’s story number 2: Smiths. Enjoy. And oh yea, if you like, give it a subscribe; it all helps.

Smiths (3 mins)

School? I tolerated it. I liked seeing my mates but I don’t think I had the required focus for it, I fidgeted a lot, looked out the window. From about year 9, I found myself drifting, figurately and literally, to the back of the class. I just didn’t get a lot of it. Maths, Science, French. I preferred a good old daydream, like I did on my paper-round but difference with that was, there was no one there to tell me off.

One day after school I get this call from Mr Smith. He tells me that my brother Will’s mate Mark, has since left Smith’s, to tread that golden path to the golden arches of McDonalds, in Gatwick’s South Terminal - meaning that the coveted role of Saturday assistant was vacant - sound the trumpets and did I want the job? Me. The anointed one. £2.50 an hour, 5 hours a week, plus my Sunday paper round, that’s like…MORE money!

‘Yes Mr Smith - I’ll Take It’

So through a blatant case of only employing underage, underpaid, internal candidates, I was now a shop assistant

14 years old and balling out of control, it sounded sick

Until there’s a que’s going the door, I’m on my own in the shop, busting for a piss and most of them want lottery tickets and the machine is temperamental at best, the tickets keep getting stuck and I oh no, I’ve short-changed someone, again,

Nice try son

he thinks I did it on purpose!

I get confused when adding up prices. Mr smith, he’s like a maths genius, does it all in his head and just dishes out the change like a casual fist bump with his mates. I have to punch it all in the clunky old till, where half the time the buttons don’t work, and I still seem to mess it up.

Then I’m a blind-folded donkey, trying to pin the tail on whatever brand of obscure cigarettes these customers want, Peter Steveuyson, no, next row to the left a bit, down a bit, down a bit

Some rude-boy comes in, all curtains, bauer-turbos and spliffy jacket wanting fags, he looks about 15

Sorry, mate have you got any ID?

What, have you got any ID bruv?!

I’m still only 14 and Mr Smith tells me to say I’m 16 if anyone asks, especially if that guy from the council comes in again.

The lottery tickets are still getting stuck, someone else now thinks I’ve tried to swiz them for change and some girl, who I thought was smiling at me, has just walked out , with spiffy-jacket-kid, eating a load of pick n mix, which she hasn’t paid for and just looked at me, again, laughing.

Then it all goes quiet, just when I think I can finally slip-off for a piss, on que, that creepy guy walks in. Same time every week, side parting and glasses, 80’s sports Jacket and cream trousers with the press. Picks up his three broadsheets, has a quick glance left and right and then like a lizard catching a fly, leaps up to the top shelf and selects three jazz mags. Slots them between the broadsheets, brings them to the counter, lifts up the corner of the paper-pile so I can only see the prices but I can tell by the branding that this week it’s Mayfair on top, last week it was Club Internationale I don’t know how I know that but I just do … I look at him and he looks at me and I know that he knows that I know. He pays up, he slips out and I feel weird, I feel a bit repulsed by him but at the same time kinda sorry for him; I wonna look at that jazz mags too.

Mr Smith arrives to lock up the shop. I get a crumpled £5 note in my wages plus coins. I take a piss, at last and head home, knackered, just in time to leave for church.

I liked that feeling of the money my pocket every week. But I felt like I was no good at that job and I dreaded going back in every Saturday, like I dreaded going into school, knowing I found both so difficult.

 

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