World Cup

"It’s the greatest thing in the world, natural enthusiasm. You are nothing without it."

(Pictured: The Ghana team celebrating third place).

A break in the revision for my penultimate exam on Tuesday sees most of our regular crew at the University to watch a 'mini' World Cup - day long celebration of amateur football between teams representative of the various communities in Hull. It's a first for Hull, and hopefully a regular event, organised by the charity I work for. But because it's an amateur community event does not mean its unprofessional. The referees are from the Football Association, the organisation is slick, and the competition is fierce. It's a bit of a cliche to say 'there were many winners' but it is also true. And its not an aside to add that the victors in the competition were the Kurdish national team. A few photos from the day are pictured below, with a link to the album at the bottom of the page:

MOst of the quotes on the page are of course, from the one and only Bill Shankly, except the last one, which is of course, Kenny Dalglish.




"The socialism I believe in is not really politics. It is a way of living. It is humanity. I believe the only way to live and to be truly successful is by collective effort, with everyone working for each other, everyone helping each other, and everyone having a share of the rewards at the end of the day."


(Pictured: Kurdish half time team talk in the Final, surrounded by their supporters)

Shanks had been doing a victory lap when Liverpool were celebrating the title win in 1973. A policeman was picking up a fan‘s scarf which had been dropped .
"I have been over to the Kop at Anfield and was on my way back when a policeman took hold of a red scarf as it was a ragamuffin's. I told him off. 'Don't you do that,' I said. 'That's precious.'"

[Shankly then tied the scarf around his own neck and told his friends later when relating this story: 'Fancy doing that? That scarf is somebody's life.']

(Pictured: Fans reacting on award of controversial penalty decision).

Comparing the Anfield pitch to other grounds - 'It's great grass at Anfield, professional grass!'
(Pictured: Irish team drills before match)




“I may have left but the city and club will always be part of me.” (Kenny Dalglish).
(Pictured: Iraqi fans)

Hull world cup

One for the road

I exited my class today, exhausted, as usual, and elated, as usual........................................hang on, hang on..........didnt you say no more posts till after the exam? Well, yes I did, actually, but I've just finished demolishing determinism (aagian) , eviscerating Douglass C North's rather silly (admittedly later retracted) views on property rights in the Neolithic and kicked sveral cats on hearing the news that the Labour Party has finally found its moral compass. I felt the need for some down time - hence a very quick post. More on the Labour Party later, but first, back to my story.

I had just left class when I noticed, behind a wall, a flash of colour. Investigating further, the vivid images painte on the wall extended far behind a local store, down an alleyway. I followed the alleyway and discovered, entirely forgotten a whole series of graffitti walls, presumably from the 80's or 90's because since the invention of Gameboy and thos ekind of things, streetart in the UK has become a thing of the past. Anyway, I thought it was a great place as did the couple of smackheads and the old wino who were the only souls in sight.

Unfortunately, my total ineptitude in being to be what I really want to be - a great documentary photographer - continues, so when I suggested to the drunks and the druggies that they should slouch nonchalantly against the wall, so I could photograph them, haunted eyes reflecting the bleak reality of urban England, they declined. I therefore tried the Henri Cartier Bresson technique to capture a few candid shots - which would have equally bleakly illustrated urban decay and doubtless won me a Pulitzer but all I got form those shots was the back of a few heads and one rather prominent ear.

Anyhow, despite this, the photo album is here:

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/nickson.martin/HullGraffit#


Oh, Yeah, and Labour finally finding their moral compass. At completely the wrong time. THey havent made a moral, principalled decision for 13 years while in power, and today, just as it looked as if it would be possible that an aliiance could be forged with the LIberal party (with whom they share many values these days and an alliance that might at least have resulted in electoral reform in this country) , they decided that such an aliance was against their principles. If this was not so funny I would cry.

And in sticking to their principles they have condemned the country to massive, massive spending cuts under a Conservative government. Absolute bloody tragedy.

June 6th here we (I) come.....

More delays in posting on this site signal but two things. We have had an election in the UK. ANd I am once more embroiled in a titanic battle to "up" my marks.
The election first - UK is, as we speak, in a state of suspension. There was no overall winner in the elections so we have a 'hung' parliament. Actually the phrase 'hung' Parliament is a misnomer. We actually have the perfectly acceptable situation in which the election has not revealed one clear winner. In most European countries, the obvious solution is that the will of the people seems to be towards a coalition Government. In the UK we are told (mostly by the Conservatives) that this will never work. In a sense I can see what they mean - you only have to look at the terrible mess that Germany, the Dutch, the Swiss and the Scandanavian countries get into by coalition governments. I'm actually not going into this in any detail because there's plenty of blogs out there that deal with matters Political, but in short, a hint at my opinion might be gleaned if I inform you that the previous sentence contained a degree of irony.

THe second itemn on tonights agenda is both an apology and a boast. An apology because, as the end of term exams are approaching, posting here will again be intermittent at best. ANd a boast because I recieved the earliest of my end of year results today, and unlike the eletion, there was actually a result. Which is where the boasting starts. Happily, I have improved my scores from the first year and am now averaging somewhere in the low 80's. I am tremendously impressed, although dont tell anyone in case they think I have a big head about this. Which I do.

I resolved fairly early on to follow the advice and heed the experience of those that knew better. So, following Grasshopper, I have studiously conducted independent study after each lecture rather than head off to the student bar. I have shown my work to my worst critic - RHB - and in some cases returned right to the drawing board as a result of her "input" (ref: potentially disastrous. See: Nickson and Large, 1995. Husband or wife teaching the other to drive, but it seems to have worked so far, The Journal of Accidentally Remaining Married for About Fifteen Years, vol 1, issue 3, pp 101-234). I have ignored the ploy of one I have been told of, who steadfastly refused to play the game and consistently handed in brilliant - but completely irrelevant - work and hence achieved nothing. In short, I want to keep doing very well. So between now and JUne 6th, contact will be minimal. The rate of revision will increase as I try to push my marks from the lowish 80's into the high 80's. Wikipedia wil not be used. What recreational time I do have will be spent teaching the cats new tricks.

I should also mention one final thing. The excellent Christmas of 2009 featured heavily the complaints of one "Sal", a spinster of the parish of Mansfield, against the unfinished nature of a wonky, unlevel mock up of a fireplace we were making. The thing was, in short, a great big eyesore, and we teased Sal mercilessy by placing her at the dinner table in very close proximity to the thing. It drove her quite quite madder, to the point where she threatened to faint one night. I should inform those who do not know that SAl is a remarkable artisan/artist/craftsperson and it was quite insensitive of us to expose one of her fine sensibilities to aesthetic torture in this way. I can now announce that we have thoroughly made amends to Sal for this indelicacy. The decision to act was as a result of a sentimental discussion on friends and family still missed in this urban backwater. The least we could do was make the place more welcoming so that when next we do receive visitors, comforts commensurate with their sensibilities will be in place. The discussion went something like this:

"This will not stand!" I declared to RHB. "The centre will not hold!" shouted herself back. "We will right the wrongs of the past!" I screamed. "The workers of the world have nothing to loose but their chains" shrieked the boffin. "Are you with me?" I bellowed. "Down with dismal visuals!" chanted my belle. "Let Sal never again have to look upon that ...that...that...THING!" I whispered, my throat having gone hoarse with all the shouting.

And so it came to pass, that in order that no-one, especially SAL will EVER have to look at the crappy fireplace again, we built a pond. Now if the fireplace displeases, we can direct anyone of sensitive visual prediliction to both the front AND the back garden where they can gaze upon the surface of the water, serene and reflective. We have called the rear pond "Baile Aughiscoic"

In Defence of the Fleece - An Anti-Travellogue

"Clickety-clak, clickety-clak!" reverberates around the station as I await the delayed 17.38. "Tshppt! Tshhppt!" accompanies the arrival of every train as the platform gets increasingly packed. "Fizz! Fizz!" says the air, leaden under the weight of additional, odorous particles.

Not, you understand, "Clickety-clak! Clickety-clak" of steel wheels on steel track, but the "clickety-clak! clickety-clak!" of they're-in-fashion-so-I'll-wear-them high heels on marble, as the new emancipated woman returns home after a day at work. And not the "tshppt! tshppt!" of steam engines gently idling, or even clever carriage doors opening, but the "tshppt! tshppt!" of a million office-worker 'tut's" at every imagined inconvenience. And not even the "Fizz! Fizz!" of energized industrial particles making busy with their doings, but instead the "Fizz! Fizz!" of oxygen, carbon dioxide and water molecules breaking down under the sheer weight of day-old perfume, body odour, bad coffee and tramp's piss in doorways just next to the toilets.

Of course, I am in Leeds station, my second most unfavourite place on Earth, apart from Leeds proper, that is. And, after a long absence from the place, I realise that my impressions of England, after a protracted abscence were possibly - no! definitely dammit - coloured by the fact that the first place I had intimate acquaintance with on this island, after six months of depressing unemployment, was this town. I could'nt have chosen a worse place to reacquaint myself with the planet's eighth largest economy. In short, I have since learnt to discriminate, and after a week's abscence I am desperate to get home to beautiful, friendly, small, cutting edge Hull. It is a sentence that I did not think I would ever utter, even from before I could think, but Hull is great. Especially compared to Leeds.

Understandably, that there is a difference between the two places may be lost on some. THey are both, if known at all outside England, just places on a map. But in that they are just places on a map lies many of the reasons I hate Leeds. Hull knows it is a small town on the margins of England and just gets on with, doing its own thing, and in doing so is unpretentious, unconcerned with image, and secure in its poverty.

Leeds, on the other hand has goals. It is trying to transform itself from a dirty-grey powerhouse of the Industrial Revolution to a "destination". It has targets. It desperately wants to be corporate. It is a "city" where "things" happen, deals get done and the business card tells its inhabitants who they are. People go to meetings in Leeds, incessantly, and they love Barcelona because of the "design" but they cant name any artists. The magnificent Victorian buildings of detail and solidity that once dominated the city centre have been replaced by angular pastel architecture - mostly temporary regional headquarters for minor multi-nationals just waiting for the next tax-incentive in the next town. The business quarter consists of the outline traces of narrow medieval roads, with 14 storey tower blocks squeezed into place where merchant offices once sat comfortably. These cobbled streets are fed by fast highways and a motorway that cuts right through the middle of town which makes the cars transition from 70 to 20 mph almost instantaneous. Consequently, the fat middle aged men behind the wheels of the sporty BMW's (trying for all the world to look as if they should be driving these cars) that flit around Leeds make no attempt at transition. It's just 70, then stop. A cyclist and pedestrian's nightmare.

Did I mention I dont like Leeds? Not the people - I have no judgement of them, apart from that architecture and civic aspiration might explain why the place is just so unfriendly and uncultured. The down town bars are all immaculately clean, ultra-designed and fake titanium, so there's not a square inch of intimacy anywhere in the city centre, the interiors so shiny they echo harshly. You have to shout to be anyone in Leeds. On many evenings, I trailed the Crosstowner through this desert during my employment and after a while I longed to see someone among the cardiganed crowd who's clothes were practical, not ironic, or whose hair had been just cut (at a barbers) instead of being styled. "If civilization collapsed tonight", I would think to myself " then these people are entirely inappropriately dressed".

For the moment, the nightmare of Leeds is abated. I, eventually, return to Hull, the train having gone from sardine packed during its trawl through Leed's commuter belt to just dangerously overcrowded as it pulls into Paragon station. The remaining commuters relax visibly, suits crumpling unstylishly. Dressed-to-the-nines office divas head for the run-down boozers of Hull's tiny, crumbling old town, shedding the second skin that working in the metropolis has forced on them. I stroll through the casual, tattooed, slow moving crowd, bumping into three of my pupils and explain that I cant go for a beer now as I've been away, but definitely next time. I get a taxi back to Large Mansions and it heads off in entirely the wrong direction, but eventually bumbles it's way to my house, the driver chatting all the way. I count, and only see one BMW en-route, and its not silver.

Altruism

My comrade in arms, AKA Skarra, the other half of Cheek to Cheek is trapped by an Icelandic volcano in Spain. Enthused by recent social psychology lectures, I send him a series of helpful texts and cheerful e-mails. The first of these cheerily suggests that we amend our current set list to include


" 've been thinking we should do a few covers. Some of these are based on personal experiences, so we should be able to put that little bit extra feeling into them. We could also modify them to reflect those new inputs, and this would give the songs that extra twistr that would be sure to get us on A RAdio Four programme. Here's a list:

1. (I'm not) Leaving on a jet plane
2. It's a long way to Tipperary (and Beverley)
3. When will I see you again?
4. Spanish Eyes
5. Show me the way to go home
6. Fly me to the Moon, or preferably Hull
7. Since you been gone.
8. King of the Road
9. The Wanderer
10. Back Home ( the classic World Cup anthem) "

My intention is quite clearly to raise his spirits, trapped as he is far away from Blighty. I am therefore slightly surprised when informed that due to the sheer quantity of similar helpful suggestions from likeminded friends, Skarra is unable to answer at this time. Instead of fretting about the geological inconvenience imposed on him, he has gone on holiday, and has taken, it appears, to not checking his e-mail. Frankly, I am disappointed. My motives in relaying to him a series of jokes about yet another failure in European competition by Manchester United were motivated by sheer altruism. Admittedly, it had somehow completely slipped my mind that the person with whom I spend at least half of most of our weekly rehearsals talking about football was an avid, lifelong Manchester fan, but I thought he would laugh as I was forced to do when he sent me the fiollowing table shortly after it became obvious how the soccer season would turn out for us

Ultimately, Skarra's decision to just treat his enforced exiile as a vacation is sensible. There is absolutely nothing he can do about being stuck in Spain, so he is turing a minor inconvenience into something positive. A quick reading of the English media however suggest that by reacting calmly, sensibly and proportionately to the situation, he is in a minority. Reports from people returning, and still trapped abroad, feature interviews with people who describe the "nightmare" they have experienced in having to stay somewhere reliably warm for an extra few days, and how "devastated" they are. Radio call-in shows are crammed with idiots demanding the "something be done". Questions are being asked at the highest political level, and newspapers have become excruciatingly unreadable as the British ability to turn a minor inconvenience that, lets face it, for the vast majority of people (ie holiday makers) who are "stuck in limbo" should be an interesting, harmless and diverting addition to their life experience, into a national crisis. Parliamentary investigations have already been ordered by politicians who are apparently anxious to maintain a civic culture whereby the maximum of dullness, misery and pointless acountability is extracted from even the most uncontrollable, and potentially enjoyable happenstance. The British social norm is to never be passionate but the area where they come closest to approaching passion is in their capacity to remove the fun from everything.


Current lectures in social psych have led me to understand that by studying exceptions to the social norms is informative in developing our understandings. It is in a social psychology lecture about this, and frankly a determination to act as unBritishly about everything as possible, that I conduct a research experiment to test reactions to non-norm behaviour.

There are many types of voices - loud, soft, siblant, melodic, rhythmic. The voice of an adolescent hormonised male whispering to his paramour throughout a lecture is one which is probably best described as "annoying". It is especially annoying due to its unpredictabilty, but mostly because of the transparency of thought processes that slowly trudge through the neural networks adolescents - he knows that talking during a ledcture is distracting, annoying and rude. But he does it anyway. He also knows that whispering does not change the situation at all in that as a psychology student he has done some work on attention. But he still does it. This is infuriating. Fantasies of rolling heads in the row ahead of me, setas that disappear into the floor, a discrete injection enter the old head, but I rein in the wilder fantasies and decide in a quid pro quo solution. The boy's crime is mostly that he has unsettled me, disturbed me, thrown me off centre. If, I think, I react predictably - ie with aggression, or polite request, or adult disapproval,
the boy's response will be programmed. He will be able to accomodate, rationalise and respond according to his social schema.

I decide therefore on unpredictability. I prss his shoulder, firmly, but not impatiently or aggressively. He turns round and I stare at him. He looks at me questioningly so I wait, then just as he moves to turn back when I say nothing, I say as unemotionally, as unaggressively, as neutrally as possible "Shut up" and as I do so I very deliberately and slowly touch his shoulder, nodding. I then beam the widest smile I can muster. He turns back with a little shake of his head and an exchange of glances with his friend who also turned round. A few moments later, I reach over his shoulder and lay a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. I have written "Shut up" on the paper. He turns to look at me and I give him a double thumbs up with as little expression on my face as possible. He doesnt speak for the rest of the lecture.

I should add that, ex post facto to my experiment the realisation belated hits me that this very trait - the desire to "kick against the pricks" as it were - is itself very British. And I also consider the ethics of my experiment. It was, I conclude, wildly unethical, and slightly threatening. I could perhpas be reported, although all I did was act wierd.

All quieter on the Eastern Front...

Gradually, imperceptibly, and frankly a bit sneakily, doings, goings-on, situations and I-wont stands-for-that's in the East Riding of Yorkshire have crept away. I would not be stupid enough to allow that this is a permanent situation, its more like one of those old cowboy films where the sixth, seventh or eight cavalry are riding through a canyon and the grizzled old trouper says to the lieutenant "I dont like it, Sir. It's too quiet". In those movies anyway, I was, child of the sixties ever, always on the side of the "Indians" - the oppressed, the glorious braves, the people with a cause. And causes mean chaos. So where, I suppose, RHB and self could just concentrate, for the immediate future, on making money, doing the house up, fixing the garden, walking the cats, it is very unlikely that the situation will last forever.

For the moment though, I take great pleasure in announcing that almost nothing of significance has occured recently. There was of course our attempt to visit Great Meg and the Legal Eagle in Glossop......

"Are you sure we'e got everything?" asked RHB.

I nodded, which immediately sent shards of pain across the balding cranium. Last night we had been to JJ's for "a few drinks".

We set off from Large Mansions in good spirits, settling into gossip about everyone we knew as soon as we hit the motorway.

"Should I put some music on?" asked RHB

I thought for a second.

"Actually, I forgot to bring any" I admitted.

"OK. No problem" said the Boffin.

"Shall I take a look at the map, just to check where we're going?" asked my co-pilot

"No need" I said "its pretty straightforward. We just head down the M62 and sort of turn left-ish once we've crossed the Pennines. Or maybe just before. Or maybe at the top of the Pennines. Anyway, it doesnt matter, its signposted. "

Two hours later, we were passing signs for Liverpool. The promised signpost for Glossop seemed to have been removed.

"Should I check the map?" asked my partner

"Well, you could if I hadnt forgotten to bring it" I admitted, continuing "I think we've come a bit far." We pulled off the motorway at the next sliproad, crossed over, headed back down the sliproad on the other side and headed back in the sirection we had come.
soon we were climbing back into the Pennines, but there was no sign of signs for Glossop. We decided to call Great Meg to ask for directions, so I pulled off the motorwayagain , while RHB called her mom. Directions were negotiated and noted, so we re-crossed the motorway confidently set off again, heading, as instructed for Huddersfield.

An hour later, I tentatively asked RHB if her mother was prone to drinking this early in the day. The directions we'd been given bore as much connection to reality as if we had been issued some text from a science fiction novel 'Head for the Alpha Centauri, turn left just past Proxima Majoris, tuck into the slipstream of the nearest comet and our house, number 23, is first on the left'. We were in a small town called, I think, Milford. Or Milltown.

We decided to consult a map, so we pulled into a roadside garage. We found the big stack of roadmaps near a leaking coffee machine at the rear of the store, and furtively opened on, pretending we were considering a purchase. Quickly turing to the page representing where we thought we were, we memorised a route, based on our locationary estimates:

"Left out of the garage to the crossroads. Then, if we are here, it should be a right on the A63 to B2354. Turn left on the A56, then immediately right on the A65, across the roundabout then ten miles to the B6384. We should then pick up the A64, follow it round the reservoir and take the B....Well, I cant read what that last road says, but I'm sure it will be signposted. Got it".

Leaving RHB to purchase some of the worst coffee I had ever imbibed, I walked back to the car, repeating the directions under my breath to aid memory. At this point, it should be noted that, on occasions such as this - ie being completely and utterly lost due to one's own stupidity - between self and RHB, a characteristic emotional reaction occurs. It is not however, the reaction which we were surprised to later learn, a reaction that typifies most partnerships in similar situations. In short, the giggles had well and truly set in. Every wrong turn had increased, and exagerrated the previous mistakes, resulting in what I can only describe as hysterical giggling. At times, driving had become dangerous as tears streamed down my face blurring the vision, and I had concerns that RHB might suffer an asthma attack, or choke to death on a cup-cake. Telling her this made things worse, so her usefulness as a navigator was significantly decreased below her baseline level. While an excellent driver, RHB's navigational skills are compromised slightly due to an inability to identify, or name, certain terms essential to navigation, such as "left", "right", "up", "down", "South", "North" or "that way". Informational processing interruptions, such as giggling fits, that diminish that baseline level of ability do not improve matters.

Twenty minutes after leaving the garage, we were sitting at the base of a 200ft viaduct at the end of what had looked like a promising slip-road, admiring, between tears, the magnificent engineering ability that made such an edifice possible, while trying to work out from the shadows cast by it's arches which way was South. Of course such information is mostly useful if one actually knows where one is, in that the identification of where South actually is only helps if one has any degree of certainty whether one is, in truth, South of anything. We didnt, but emerging from the hills that backed the viaduct was a man walking a dog. I wound the window down.

"Excuse me" I breezily cried "Do you know where Glossop is?"

"That's in Derbyshire, isnt it?" he replied.

"Yeah" I answered, glad for his knowledge.

"This isnt Derbyshire" he helpfully noted before picking up another stick and throwing it for his dog.

As he walked away, we hit on a brilliant plan. We would go back to the garage, and purchase a map. So we reversed the car, and headed back to the garage. Map secured, we navigated the remaining hour to Glossop with a kind of ruthless efficiency, passing many familiar sights along the way. It was a shorter than planned visit, but Great Meg's soup, was, despite several reheatings, as fantastic as always.

Of course, other things have happened recently. Sue and Ethan visited which was lots of fun, RHB went to Barcelona and mostly enjoyed a holiday(an occasion in itself), I did a bit of paid work locally, but on the whole, life is quiet and routine. We risk as few journeys as possible, occasionally venturing outside to do some gardening, altthough I make sure I do not explore further than the back gate. We go to the gym. I work on my novel (honestly - most of you lot are in it). I am heading towards exams at the end of term, and write far too much about determinism. Summer is, for me, only six weeks off. I plan to do some exploring in the Wetsern Isles of Scotland on the Crosstowner. And a massive volcano has grounded all airtraffic over the UK. Over the last two days, life has, if anything, become quieter.

Jerry Across the Mersey

As readers of these texts will know, from time to time a shenanagins occurs which requires the attention of Hull’s leading scenic carpenter. “Hmmm!” a project manager might muse, “here is a right kettle of fish”. They might continue in a similar vein “Right here, I have an enigma inside a mystery inside a preponderance of carpentry related issues. This....” they probably add “....this, considered from a joinery perspective, is a Gordian knot, a plethora of interrelated hiccups, an effusion of plywood modalities, a veritable cornucopia of non-conventional angles and impossible doors, all mixed with an internecine array of woodworking-related fixes. And quite a lot of vacuuming to be done.” In these circumstances, the hue and cry begins. “Call for Mazzer!” is heard the length and breadth of Yorkshire’s East Riding, and the radio waves fairly buzz with texts until Mazzer ‘Funtime’ O’Reilly AKA ‘self’, AKA ‘me’, AKA ‘Nickson of Large Mansions’, responds. On this occasion, the alacrity with which the call was answered belied the physical status of the receiver AKA ’me’, as said response was made in the wake of a bottle of fine spiced Jamaican rum, a lake of Imperial Pale Ale and, unfortunately, several bottles of red wine.

The mission profile is simple. Attend a local, and hugely impressive, stately home and join a crack team of exhibit installers. I pop round to see the person responsible for my fragile physical condition Jerry ‘Jesse’ James, AKA ‘Hit it where it come’ to assess his availablility in respect of forming along with self, the carpenterial hub of the team. Jerry thinks for a minute:

“Well, there’s Mrs Kalowinski at Number 43, and her kitchen. And the twenty-twenty is on. Tell about the work.”

Note for Canadians: ‘twenty-twenty’ is a type of cricket, and Jerry, as a Jamaican, is, without putting too fine a point on it, keen on cricket. One might say obsessed or fanatical, but I do not want to be accused of underexagerration.

I tell Jerry what the work will be, describing a fun-filled week of larking around in a stately home, leisurely polishing our chisels, the careful carving of small pieces of wood with spokeshaves, the occasional adjustments of our artisan cravats. In some forms of business, this is known as ‘selling’, although less typewriter ink is used by the alternative, and more accurate description, which is ‘lying’. Jerry thinks it sounds like fun and agrees to the work. I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The next day, as we are driving towards Leeds, I begin to elucidate further. Now that he’s commited, it’s time to come clean. “Erm, you know that stuff about sharpening the chisels all day?....” I say. Jerry nods, “....well there is a little bit more to it than that. And that stuff about six or seven hour days?....” Jerry nods again, “....not strictly true. Could be a bit longer than that. More like, erm, sixteen or seventeen.” Jerry nods, apparently unperturbed, so I plunge onward “......in fact the reality is that absolutely anything could happen, and probably will.... sorry, I sort of forgot to mention that bit.....”.

Jerry just smiles. “I know. Its OK. Me and you, we’ll make it work. No problem.” I am relieved Jerry is so cool, so I go into a bit more detail, finishing with “....and when Tom, the Project Manager, says he’ll be onsite in half an hour, it usually means two....not that you should mind, because Tom’s a great guy”. Jerry looks happy. From what I’ve described, exhibitions run on a sort of Jamaican schedule where the phrase “soon come” means exactly what it does in Jamaica. This also means that towards the deadline, as you get more and more tired, the to-do list piles up. This can be another source of frustration, but working for Tom makes it easier because based on past experience, Tom works harder than anyone. This job is no exception.

We settle into a pattern, returning to Hull at about eight thirty or nine pm, and meeting again the next morning at six thirty. Jerry’s car pulls up outside at Large Mansions each morning, and we ask what the other has been up to since we last met less than twelve hours ago, as if expecting the answer to comprise a list of tasks that includes building a green house, launching a space mission and decorating a couple of rooms. Naturally, as co-owner of two Canadian Barn Cats, I get nowhere near “doing” anything in the evening – instead, its feed the cats, feed myself, tickle the cats, quick shower, take the cats for a walk and finally an episode of my favourite type of TV – garbage. Red Haired Boffin is Barcelona, so I am able to fully indulge my taste for this utter televisual crap – Masterchef, Celebrity Wifeswap and Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares USA. Its perfect, and what tv is made for, apart from football. Surprisingly though, Jerry does stuff each evening, including cooking a few meals and talking to his family. I am amazed at the man’s energy, and grateful as I am for the partner I have, am very happy not to have anyone to mumble tiredly at each evening.

On-site, as predicted, we plough through the task list which expands exponentially as the deadline approaches, but on project like this, whether it be theatres shows, exhibits, movies or museum builds, there’s an energy to the work, a camaraderie that builds in a very short time unlike most other work experiences I have ever experienced. The final result is what matters, and, on good projects like this, a vibe emerges – positive, can-do, make it happen. “In” jokes develop and by the end, everyone is talking the same language – in this case, thanks to Jerry having the world’s coolest accent, its mostly Jamacian. This may all sounds corny but its true, and when I retire from it, hopefully in two or three years time, I will miss it tremendously. Ultimately, on jobs like this, its not the money (although it is better than Mrs Jalowonki’s kitchen at No 43) that counts, its getting the thing done, and done well.

And the people you work are what is important. Despite slightly glossing over the truth at the start, (AKA completely lying because I want to work with the man) about just how much work is involved, Jerry, has taken to it like a fish to water. His patience, skills, attitude and energy are perfect. We slot together instantly, forming a team. What I cant do, Jerry can. I count meeting him as another in the series of continuing happy accidents that I recognise as life – something that other people call the “daily grind”. In a bout of nostalgia that is completely atypical for a Scouser, Jerry has joined Buncey, Little Bunny Foo Foo, Benno and Fordy in the pantheon of Gods that comprise my ideal gang.

The eight day stint ends perfectly. We get the thing done. Red Haired Boffin returns from Barcelona having had a great time, and brings me what will rapidly become my favourite top – a black Barcelona FC training top. The Canadian Barn Cats greet the return of their Goddess with rapture and Large Mansions returns to its normal state, with all four of us occupying the same three square feet of space as we settle down for some intelligent television about incurable medical conditions. The first day after the project co-incides with my next teaching session and this week the class has decided it just wants to talk, , so we discuss the Moscow bombings, the weather in Syria and Lithuania and the English propensity to say “thank-you” and awful lot. Apart from living in Canada, it’s hard to imagine things getting much better.