I was out walking. With my camera. Taking photos. You know: brick walls, dark underpasses – the sort of things I normally shoot.
I walked round a corner: a small group of teenagers ahead. And as I passed, one of them said,
Do you wanna take my photo?
So I turned, shrugged, and said, “sure”.
And he smiled. So I took one shot, said “thanks, fella”, and went on my way.
(PS: If you want to see the others I took, you can do just that here.)
All my lectures, seminars and practical/workshop sessions are taking place over three fulls days on campus, leaving Mondays and Wednesdays as study days. As the course progresses, I’m planning to spend at least one of those days on campus using the facilities and less prone to distraction, but yesterday I spent the day at home. And, yes, I did manage to engage myself pretty well and study for most of the day.
But one of the other things I need to be doing, lets face it, is getting out there and taking more photographs. So for a while in the afternoon, I went out for a walk. And I captured a few images. Some of which I liked, and some of which I didn’t. Most were typical of the sort of things I tend to capture:
A plant making an escape bid
A chained-up wheelchair
This caught my eye because I was often nicknamed “Trev the Rev” when I was younger.
But my favorite shot of the afternoon was quite different from my normal. And I like it a lot. It wasn’t till I got home that I noticed I’d got the direction sign in the shot. The sign that tells the story.
If you’re interested you can see the others here.
Chocolate Jesus.
It was a week ago that I threatened to write something about the church and local mission. And my thoughts haven’t really come together much since then so I’ll post it as a rambling stream of stuff and see how it comes out. Most likely as a rambling stream of stuff, I expect.
First of all, I should start by saying that I really don’t know what I think about the entire concept of ‘mission’ in the first place. I may – or more likely may not – enlarge on that another time. But this post is triggered by a Facebook status update I saw recently – which, incidentally, I misunderstood – and a fantastic example I saw just a few days later.
A friend posted this:
Ok, had an idea today walking back from work… Chocolate Ministry. Could there be a way of telling people about God in a non- weird/ street preachy way and loosing any bad stereotypes people have of Christians. With the quirky idea of handing out free chocolate and a frirndly link into the local mission field. Now there’s a random idea to… Digest… Appologies for that… Errr… Thoughts, yay or nay?
The way I read that, I’d imagined the person was suggesting something on the lines of printing bible verses or cheesy evangelistic quotes on chocolate wrappers. And I though Dear God No. How horrid. I mean, I wouldn’t be one to turn down free chocolate, but I was trying to imagine being given some kind of proselytising chocolate and being put off the church just that little bit more. (I must point out that it subsequently turns out that that wasn’t what was meant at all, but my misunderstanding that got me thinking about this stuff.)
A talk from Mike Yaconelli came to mind, in which he told the story of a young guy in his community who wanted to do something for homeless folk in their city. As Yaconelli told it, the guy simply went round collecting blankets, and then walked the streets giving them out. As he said, (quoted from memory from nearly 20 years ago, so may not be word perfect),
He didn’t print “Jesus loves you” on the blankets. He didn’t print the Four Spiritual Laws on the blankets. He just gave ’em a blanket.
I liked that. And it grew into a big homeless support venture of some sort. (Some Mike Yaconelli talks are available here, if you’re interested. He was a great guy.)
Anyhow, I digress. Or do I? To digress, I guess one has to have a point in the first place.
Last week I saw some local mission in action. I’ve already mentioned our great day in Stevenage when the Olympic torch came through town one Sunday. Well, I saw something that day that lifted my heart. The torch’s route took it right past a couple of churches. Our church move the service time forward an hour so people could get down to the High Street in time to see the torch. And rightly so.
The Olympic Flame’s route through town.
But High Street Methodist Church at the other end of the High Street got it spot on, in my view. They didn’t have a service at all. And out the back of the church, right along the torch route, they had a big barbecue running. And they were simply giving out burgers and hot dogs. There was no obvious ‘agenda’. Just a bunch of people doing a great thing. Yes, there was a pot on the table that some folk were dropping a donation in, but nobody actually drew our attention to it and it don’t seem to be being monitored or anything.
Just a big barbecue, a table full of sauces (and fantastic fried onions) and a great atmosphere.
And when people remember their day in the crowd celebrating the torch relay, one thing many of them will remember will be the free food being given out by that church they may never have even noticed before.
Stevenage High Street Methodist Church: I salute you.
Really, there’s not much in life I regret. I’ve sometimes said that if I regret anything, it’s leaving school after O levels and not staying in education longer. (Actually I did start sixth form but left after two terms for the lure of a job in Waitrose. Which I then left. That’s a different story.)
Waitrose, Stevenage. What I left school for.
I wrote once before about one other possible regret in life, but concluded it wasn’t really a regret after all. You can read that here, if you’re really bored. But when I wrote about my school visit a few days ago (here), I mentioned something in passing which I now realise is a genuine case of regret.
Why did I let myself get talked out of doing two of my favourite subjects?
I’m pretty out of touch with secondary education, so I don’t know how things happen these days, but back in the early 80s we spent the first three years (which, incidentally, were just called “first year”, “second year” and “third year”. None of this “year 7/8/9″ nonsense) doing a bit of everything. At the end of the third year we chose which subjects to take for our exam courses, which you then studied in the fourth and fifth years before taking the exams. Is that pretty much what still happens?
Choosing subjects was a matter of discussion. You met with your teachers. Head of middle school, I’d guess. Or were there specialist careers advisors? Can’t remember. There were some things you had no choice about. English and Maths, of course, and you had to take at least one language, one science and one humanities subject (I did German, Physics and Geography). But apart from that it was up to you, as long as you weren’t choosing subjects that would clash in the timetable.
There was never any doubt I’d take Art. I wasn’t too bad at it and one of my brothers was a bit of a superstar a few years before me so the precedent had been set. But if you read my other piece about school you’ll have seen that the other two subjects I really wanted to take were drama and technical drawing. And I let myself get talked out of both of them.
Drama was the simpler reasoning of the two: the school only offered a CSE course and I was “perfectly capable of doing all O Levels.” So I dropped Drama. Ho hum. I’ve messed around in a few musicals with local Operatic societies over the years and I don’t suppose having a Drama CSE was likely to make any difference in the long run. But I would have enjoyed it at the time.
Me as Charles, the butler, in Me and My Girl. Hitchin Thespians 2007.
Technical Drawing was a more political thing. I’ll get to that in a moment, but first let me just set the scene: I loved TD and was, if you don’t mind me saying, utterly brilliant at it. Seriously. My school reports showed ‘A’ for effort and attainment every time (the only subject where that is the case) and to the very best of my memory, in every single test that we took throughout the entire course I scored 100%. Clearly, it was an obvious choice that I should continue.
But…
The Technical Vocational Education Initiative (TVEI) was just getting started, and with it came a new type of course. Forerunners of the GCSE that was soon going to take over from the split CSE and O level system. Courses based on a Modular approach, where course work itself would form part of the grade, rather than just the exam result. Our Headmaster, Dr Ron Wallace, who had been brought in to revive what had been a failing school in 1972, was in fact leaving Bedwell that very year (1983) to head up TVEI for the county so needless to say we were set up and ready to run courses for some lucky guinea pigs.
And though my memory may be playing tricks on me a little, my recollection is that they seemed desperate to persuade students to sign up for this new-fangled “Modular Technology” course.
The timetable clash would mean dropping Technical Drawing.
I took the course.
I did modules in electronics, in mechanics, in pneumatics, and others I can’t recall. I’ve just been reminded by a classmate that we all did an IT course of some sort, though I’d completely forgotten ever using a computer of any sort back then.
But while doing these modules, I could see what those who’d taken TD were getting up to. And I was utterly jealous. You see, what had been “Technical Drawing” was in the process of evolving into “Graphics” which would have been even more up my street. They were working on packaging design and all sorts. I’d wanted to be a graphic designer! And they’d talked me out of doing the very course that could have pointed me in the right direction.
It was too late to change by then. Or maybe it wasn’t, but I probably just assumed that changing wasn’t an option. And sure enough I came out two years later with a grade one CSE in technology.
Hang on… Did I just say “CSE”? Yes. Yes I did. I didn’t realise until five minutes ago when I fished out my exam certificates that the Modular Technology course had led to a CSE rather than an O Level.
Er… why did they say I couldn’t do drama, again?
Well, that was a bit of a rant, wasn’t it?
It’s take 27 years to realise how I feel about that.
(Warning. This will be the second post in a row in which I mention ‘getting a bit emotional’. Consider yourselves warned.)
Sport? Nah, not my thing.
So why was I so pleased seven years ago when they announced the Olympics would be coming to London? I was, you know; over the moon. Who knows why. I just was. And on Sunday I got to experience just a little of the magic of the Olympics, as the flame came through my home town.
Funny thing is, when I first heard that the flame was coming through, I wasn’t all that fussed about making the effort to see it, but one of my brothers had seen it in his home town and said how great the atmosphere was. So I went. And boy am I glad I did.
The torch wasn’t due to come down the High Street until just after 12pm, but we arrived at about 11am and it was great to see so many people already beginning to gather.
Crowds beginning to gather an hour before the torch is due
We made our way along the High Street, having an idea in mind about where we’d planned to stand. And sure enough, just as my brother had said, the atmosphere was great. There was a real buzz of excitement. We settled into our chosen spot at the other end of the High Street and soaked in the atmosphere.
The scene from our chosen spot. Still some time to wait, yet.
Okay, so it was drizzly and grey and umbrellas were up and down like yo-yos, but that didn’t spoil it one little bit. (Well, okay, maybe it would have been lovely if it could have been warm and sunny, but it wasn’t and there was nothing anyone could do about that.)
We’d taken up residence pretty much outside my office, which was no accident. When we needed a comfort break I had the office keys in my pocket so snuck in. While I was there I was able to grab a few photos from the upstairs window to get another view.
Crowds still growing. Still half an hour or more to go.
At one point, news filtered through that the parade was running twenty minutes late in Letchworth, so we all had to wait that little bit longer, but soon enough the police bike outriders were seen, and a succession of cars, then the sponsors’ trucks. Each playing music and whipping up support from the crowd. (The Coca-Cola float was giving out bottles of Coke, but I was disappointed to see the Lloyds TSB float wasn’t giving out cash.)
Police riders High Fiving all the kids.
And then the moment came. Here it comes! Just behind the next truck!
Now, I’d read a little about the people chosen to be torchbearers for Stevenage (there’s a list here, if you’re interested) and was pleased when I learned that one of them was someone I know. Well, I say “know”: I know his Mum, as I used to work with her at Land Registry, and for a while the family came to my church so got to know him a little bit then. When I knew Gobi Ranganathan, he was a competitive swimmer, at a regional and national level. As a wheelchair user (as a result of Spina Bifida) he’s been an inspiration to many. He’s since retired from swimming, but didn’t stop there. Instead, he took up para-badminton and is now UK’s no 1 ranked player, ranking 8th in the world. Unfortunately for Gobi, para-badminton is not included in the paralympics, but he was nominated to carry the torch and rightly given the chance.
Of course, we had no idea which section of the Stevenage route he would be doing. So we were utterly delighted when we first saw the torch. It was Gobi. (Warning: this is the bit where I get emotional.)
First sight of the torch. And a local hero.
Seriously, I couldn’t believe how much it meant to see someone I knew, even so vaguely, to be representing his town like this. I felt so proud for him, and especially for his Mum. I’m not going to deny that I got quite tearful as Gobi wheeled the flame down Stevenage’s main High Street.
Gobi Ranganathan, UK’s no 1 para-badminton player, carrying the Olympic Flame through his home town of Stevenage.
As he passed, we followed the route along to the park where the whole parade was stopping for a lunch break. They’d put on some entertainment and sports activities for kids, and the same great buzz was ever-present. We hung around enough to see another torchbearer start of the afternoon’s part of the route, bumped into a few friends, spend some time chatting while our kids played on the playground, then eventually making our way back home. (Stopping off in my office once more to shelter from a bit of a deluge that came along just as we were passing.)
What can I say? I was a delightful day. If the torch is coming near you, and you’d not planned to go along, change your plans.
There’s a great video report from ITV news online. I couldn’t find a way to embed the video on here (I guess that’s restricted for copyright in any case) so you’ll just have to click through to their site to see it. Go on, it’s less than two minutes.
Bedwell Secondary School. My home from home 1980 to 1985.
1980. New boy.
I’ve never been one who has particularly fond memories of school. Admittedly, I’ve no particularly bad memories either. Just kind of dull and neutral ones. But when I saw that an open day had been arranged to give anyone who’d attended Bedwell Secondary School the chance to have one last look around before the original buildings are all knocked down in September, I found myself keen to get along.
As most things seem to be these days, it was largely publicised via Facebook, and the page set up for the event became a popular destination for former pupils of all ages to share memories of school and arrange to meet up with former classmates on the day. But I didn’t really make friends at school so it wasn’t seeing people again that made me want to go along. (I’m not much better at making them now, to be honest.) It was just straight forward nostalgia, and the chance to show my family a little of what my school life was like. In fact, if I’m completely honest, the thought of bumping to old classmates was just a bit scary for me. I can be rubbish with names and even faces, and the thought of people coming up to me with a cheery “Hi Trevor” and me not having a clue who they were was a very real possibility and an embarrassing thought.
The Music Room
Sure enough, before I even got in through the front door, someone approached me with eyes wide with recognition. “Here we go”, I thought. But it wasn’t really me she recognised. Well, not me specifically: “You’re a Coultart. Which one?” You see, I was the last of four Coultart brothers to go through the school. She was a few years older than me and knew my brothers, not me. (Phew! Got away with that one.)
Once inside I spent a pleasant hour wandering those old corridors, nipping in and out of classrooms, and telling my family little snippets of what I could remember. And it was lovely.
The Drama Studio
I especially wanted to take a look at a few things. My form room – the music room – was locked. But it was also locked in time. Apart from a few more modern instruments (we didn’t have drums and amps in my day) it looked absolutely identical. Same chairs. Same tables. Same layout. Seemingly unchanged in 27 years. I guess some things were build to last. The adjoining drama studio was still very much the same. Its distinctive red spiral staircase bringing back great memories. Drama was one of my favourite subjects in my first three years but I was talked out of taking it up as an exam subject. That’s a matter for a whole other post. (I was also talked out of taking Technical Drawing, which I loved and was brilliant at. Yes, definitely a matter for another post.)
I was keen to visit the Art rooms, but these seemed to have changed and weren’t as I’d remembered them. There used to be a dedicated sixth form Art “studio” that had glass walls and, I seem to recall, sofas, which had gone. Just simple art rooms now with no real resonance to me.
The cookery rooms had moved, and I felt quite disoriented exploring some of the admin areas. There used to be a long corridor along to the staff room, with an open balcony all along one side overlooking the dining room, but that whole area had been completely changed, with rooms now over the dining room and other changes meaning I couldn’t quite work out where I was at times.
Strangely evocative woodwork room
But here’s what surprised me. It was when I looked in the woodwork room that I actually felt quite emotional. Yes, the woodwork room. Not my best subject, by any means. Nor my favourite. But there was just something about that room. Those big wooden benches; those very same tools that my hands used to fashion long since lost knick-knacks. I found myself saying to my wife “Isn’t that beautiful”. And then wondering why I’d said that. I guess it was a realisation that I did, after all, have some great times at school. Why didn’t I realise that at the time? Why do my school reports start so well – before fading into “must try harder” territory? Again, maybe a topic for another post.
The same “You’re a Coultart” scenario was played out a couple more times, but I didn’t have the embarrassment of having to pretend I knew who anyone was (or admit that I didn’t!). In fact, the only people I saw who I knew well were people who I’d met years after leaving, in entirely different environments, and who I had no idea were former Bedwell pupils.
The whole visit set me off on a little school nostalgia session, and I’ve found myself fishing out all my old school reports, and ploughing through photos to see if I had any of those days. Surprisingly, I didn’t. Not a single one of me at school, with classmates, on school trips, or even a single one with me in my uniform. (So thanks to my Mum for fishing out one she had so I could use it above. Love you, Mum. x)
I’m very glad I made the effort to go along, and very grateful for those who took the time and energy to set this opportunity up.
Anyway, that’s enough of my meanderings. If you’re reading this years after leaving school, and have the chance to go back for a visit, I’d say don’t miss it. And if you’re reading this and are still at school, I’d say don’t let it pass you by.
Oh, and make some friends.
I managed to go round the whole school without taking any photos myself, so thanks to this who’ve let me use theirs. Photo credits below.
I’m not a regular in Primark, just occasionally popping in for basics like plain black t-shirts and the like, and putting up with the typically long queues. But I popped in today because I was after something for the Jubilee weekend and I’d seen this in on a mannequin in the window and quite liked it.
Needless to say it was nowhere to be found in the store. There were a few other Union Jack designs but none I really liked. So I asked a member of staff if they had any. He thought not, but wasn’t sure, so went and got another member of staff. Between them they concluded they’d had about three left that morning but they’d all gone.
I nearly left it, but thought I might as well ask: “Any chance of finding out what size the one in the window is?” I figured that in the busyness of the store (and it was busy) they’d probably just say they weren’t allowed, but no; one went off to check with a manager if they could get it from the window display. When she came back with permission, they both came downstairs with me to have a look. But the door to the window display was locked (which didn’t surprise me, but seemed to surprise them a little). Off they went again to find another manager and get the key. And in to the window display we went, to find the t-shirt was exactly the right size. And soon it was in my hands while I waited in the long but mercifully quick-moving till queue.
Over all I pretty much had the undivided attention of two members of staff for nearly 20 minutes.
And all for a three pound sale.
Thanks, staff at Primark Stevenage. You are my stars for today.
(On the way out I hoped to snap a photo of the now-topless mannequin as evidence, but he’d already been given a new, different, t-shirt.)
I think it was about a year ago that I first saw this t-shirt design from Force 18.
Someone I follow on Twitter posted a link to it, and I liked it. I’m not normally a fan of printed t-shirts (more of a plain t-shirt/patterned shirt kind of guy) but this one caught my eye. And I wanted it.
I didn’t get it back then, but did keep on remembering it.
And when I remembered it, I’d sometimes take a look at their website to see if they still made it.
Force 18 do a huge range of designs. Take a browse through their website, there’s something for everyone.
Now, there’s a lot that doesn’t appeal to me at all: the fact that alongside “funny” t-shirts they proudly promote “rude” and “offensive” ones isn’t likely to attract me to a company, but, heck, if that’s what you’re into you’ll find plenty to keep you supplied in t-shirts here. But they also have loads of film, TV and geeky designs, and tucked away among the stuff I wouldn’t want adorned on my chest there are a lot I do like They seem to keep adding more, keeping up with current affairs and contemporary pop references. (“Where me keys? Where me phone?“) I particularly liked their response to the rainy drought we’ve had over here in England.
A small selection of designs I liked. (“YES” also available as “NO”. Of course.)
Nice, isn’t it? And what speedy delivery: from the company confirming that mine was being printed to it reaching me simply couldn’t have been any quicker unless I’d stood by the printing machine and taken it off with my own hand. Impressive service.
The print quality is superb; bright, bold colours on a decent black t-shirt (other colours are available!) really stand out and the design has attracted a fair few positive comments as I’ve worn it around Stevenage. I’d have no qualms about ordering other designs from them with this quality of print and service.
If I have one quibble it would be with the t-shirt material itself. They do market them as “heavyweight” and indeed their supplier clearly marks them as such on the label, but I’ve worn a lot of t-shirts in my time, and I’d describe it as medium weight at best. But apart from that I’d have to say I’m very impressed so far. It’s survived its first wash with no noticeable affect on the print and no apparent twisting or otherwise mis-shaping.
So, if you’re looking for a printed t-shirt (offensive or otherwise) I’d recommend that you give Force 18 a try.
DISCLOSURE: My Stevenage T-shirt was supplied by Force 18 for the purpose of this review, and I can only assume that the speed of delivery I enjoyed echoes the speed you’d get if you ordered as a paying customer. I sure hope it does.
This marks a welcome new departure for this blog and I’d be more than happy to hear from other companies who would like me to review their products or services. (I’m thinking maybe photographic equipment manufacturers? Or Apple? Or any chocolate company.)
The answer, my friend…
Thursday evening’s post about the Gary Younge thing from Radio 4 created a fair bit of discussion in the comments (well, by this blog’s standards).
I’ve now found this earlier (2010) report on the Guardian website from Gary called “Is Stevenage broken?” And this one’s a video. Thought you might be interested…
I’d seen via Twitter that Gary Younge had written an essay about Stevenage, but it’s published by Granta and not available online unless you subscribe. So I was pleased to hear today that an abridged version has just been broadcast on Radio 4 in two fifteen minute chunks. It’s an interesting listen; Gary Younge is the same age as me, and grew up in the same town. His Mum, a main character in the essay, was (I think) one of the teachers at my school for a while.
From the BBC Website:
Gary Younge was brought up in Stevenage, a place which even his fellow residents were hard pushed to locate on a map. It was an engineered community but one in which he and his brothers and their single parent mum participated in whole-heartedly. Nonetheless despite having only spent six weeks there as a four year old, whenever he was asked where he was from, ‘home’ was Barbados. Gary Younge explores his relationship to the new town of Stevenage and how the place he grew up in has evolved.
Many of his recollections are similar to mine. You can listen to the two broadcasts on iPlayer here: episode one and episode two. But be quick about it: iPlayer only has them available for a few days.
His comments towards the end about how Stevenage is now paint a worse picture than the one I see. I understand what he’s trying to say, but it’s not as hopeless as this extract makes it sound. Well, not in my experience anyway.
(Note: I had another post ready to publish all about today being the fifth anniversary of my very first post on this blog. But it was dull as anything, and this one’s time-sensitive as BBC iPlayer only lets you listen to things for seven days after they’ve been broadcast. So the links above will soon be redundant. Unless, of course, anyone knows of a site that archives them for posterity…?)
