tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35574217301600698452024-02-21T03:20:11.092+00:00John Edalejohnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-60171318515740223372015-02-07T11:18:00.000+00:002015-02-07T11:18:04.900+00:00Rome's Forgotten EmpressAn article I wrote on the strange reign of the Emperor Elagabalus is now online <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/romes-forgotten-empress-jvinc/" target="_blank">here</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-17305323602833059962014-03-24T18:47:00.000+00:002014-03-25T09:05:23.354+00:00Teaching Boys to Respect GirlsAn OpEd piece I wrote for GoodMenProject about sex education reform in the UK is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/opeds/cac-teaching-boys-respect-girls/" target="_blank">online</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-52348378530652092492013-11-18T20:04:00.000+00:002013-11-18T20:04:42.103+00:00A Gender Gap Is a Gender Gap Is a Gender GapArticle I wrote for Goodmenproject critiquing the flawed methodology used in the World Economic Forum's recent Global Gender Gap report is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/opeds/cac-a-gender-gap-is-a-gender-gap-is-a-gender-gap/" target="_blank">online</a>.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-39251226346631839312013-06-13T20:57:00.000+01:002013-06-13T20:57:30.316+01:00Rise of the SuperwomenArticle I wrote for the Good Men Project is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/the-good-life/historical-perspectives-on-goodness/rise-of-the-superwomen-oped/" target="_blank">online</a>.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The article is a critical review of an essay entitled <i>What if Women Ruled the World?</i> by political analyst Dee Dee Smith, which appeared on the BBC news site on International Women's Day.</div>
johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-54205850544244123562013-06-06T19:23:00.000+01:002013-06-06T19:23:57.481+01:00Buckle Up: BDSM, Blackmail and Game TheoryArticle I wrote for the Good Men Project is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/ethics-values/the-good-life-buckle-up-bdsm-blackmail-and-game-theory/" target="_blank">online</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-74337106153589353292013-05-28T18:53:00.002+01:002013-05-28T18:53:19.397+01:00A Sense of PlaceAn article I wrote for the Good Men Project about small talk, geography and sat navs is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/the-good-life-a-sense-of-place/" target="_blank">online</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-84416543703379228892013-04-21T11:56:00.000+01:002013-04-21T11:56:42.067+01:00The Strength of SubmissionAn article I wrote for the Good Men Project about BDSM and male submissiveness is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/gender-sexuality/the-good-life-the-strength-of-submission/" target="_blank">online</a>.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-36314447378718411252013-03-25T23:50:00.001+00:002013-03-25T23:57:08.702+00:00The Mystery of The Disappearing BoysAn article I wrote for the Good Men Project about boys' education and gender equality is now <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/the-mystery-of-the-disappearing-boys/" target="_blank">online</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-53232093716294358362013-01-12T20:28:00.000+00:002013-11-27T19:46:03.554+00:00Wired Differently?<i>This is a blog about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BDSM" target="_blank">bdsm</a> and mental health which I originally posted on <a href="https://www.informedconsent.co.uk/" target="_blank">InformedConsent</a>. Since the sky hasn't fallen in on me I thought I'd post it on here as well, along with the comments that came in, and my replies.</i><br />
<br />
In 2011 I wrote a series of articles for a local arts and culture magazine, exploring various aspects of bdsm and sexual fetish. I reviewed a fetish nightclub, interviewed a professional dominatrix and discussed possible reasons for the continued existence of the Taboo Adult Cinema in Digbeth.<br />
<br />
I intended this to be part of a process of becoming more open about my own interests, but in the end I wasn't sure enough of what I would want to say about the subject from a more personal perspective.<br />
<br />
The final impetus for this blog was a discussion I happened to hear on Radio 2, which actually had nothing to do with fetish or sexuality whatsoever. Instead it was about the new pay disparity between men and women in their twenties, with women now earning more than men by a small but steadily growing margin. The main reason for this seems to be the continuing decline in educational achievement by boys in recent years.<br />
<br />
Although I felt that I had sensible political reasons for being unhappy about this emerging inequality, that didn't begin to explain just how horribly threatened I felt by the prospect of a future in which women might come to be regarded as the better educated, higher achieving gender.<br />
<br />
I wanted to try to make sense of this and I think that can only be done by finally trying to articulate and clarify some of my feelings about bdsm, gender and power relationships.<br />
<br />
I have always been strongly drawn, sexually, towards ideas of dominance and submission, usually with myself taking the submissive role.<br />
<br />
I am not interested in being physically hurt, but only in the idea of being controlled and humiliated.<br />
<br />
Occasionally, if I am feeling particularly confident or pleased with myself, the fantasies will reverse and I will want to be the one in charge, but usually I am submissive.<br />
<br />
After years of trying to find a way to be 'normal', I am now reasonably sure that these desires are hard-wired into me.<br />
<br />
There are some other aspects and complications to this as well, which I will hopefully get around to writing about at some point. But for now I just want to deal with the central theme of humiliation.<br />
<br />
In the past I have experimented with this by visiting professional dominatrixes for role playing sessions. I am now lucky enough to have a partner with mutual interests.<br />
<br />
I have also recently had counselling to try to understand the underlying issues better and to deal with the more self-destructive aspects of the fetish.<br />
<br />
When taken at face value, rather than explaining why I feel threatened by the prospect of future female empowerment, this all seems to beg the question even more. Surely I'm the last person who would be unhappy about the likelihood of there being more powerful, confident women around?<br />
<br />
But it isn't that simple. As soon as the erotic context is removed, the idea of being humiliated or controlled by anyone, male or female, becomes the worst thing in the world for me.<br />
<br />
The most recent example that comes to me is from about three years ago. I was driving home from Cornwall and had pulled into Exeter services on the M5. Almost as soon as I got out of the car I was approached by a woman who looked about sixty years old and who was, for reasons I did not initially understand, apoplectically angry with me.<br />
<br />
Apparently I had recently overtaken her at what she considered to be an inappropriate speed, and she had followed me into the services to have an argument with me about it. She didn't get one, because I didn't know what to say. I stood more or less mute as she told me, amongst other things, that I was a lunatic, probably known to the police, and that I ought to 'put my cock back in my pants' (she meant this metaphorically, by the way.)<br />
<br />
By this time I had recognised her car and could have pointed out in reply that she had been driving in the wrong lane at the speed of a milk float, and also that the language she was using was inappropriate given that there were families with kids walking by. But the words didn't come.<br />
<br />
I have experienced violent muggings which left less impression on me. I've avoided stopping at those services ever since, not because I am afraid she will still be there waiting for me but because I know I will not feel relaxed.<br />
<br />
When I think about what I would consider to be the worst experiences of my life, the central feature of all of them is just the perception that someone has deliberately set out to make me feel as small and ridiculous as possible, ostensibly because of something I said or did, but in reality, it seemed to me, because of a preconceived opinion they had of me which nothing I could say in my defence could ever dislodge.<br />
<br />
It is this perceived intent that matters to me far more than anything that actually happens.<br />
<br />
As I write this I can see a shoulder bag belonging to my girlfriend, which bears the slogan 'boys should be kept on leads', along with an accompanying cartoon illustration. It doesn't bother me at all. However, I have worked for a couple of unpleasant female bosses in the past, and if I had seen one of them with that bag then my feelings would be utterly different.<br />
<br />
I think this at least explains my reaction to the radio discussion. It left me with the paranoid vision of a future in which just the fact of being male might imply some kind of constant background level of humiliation.<br />
<br />
I'm not convinced that I will ever figure out why I have this hypersensitivity. It was there in my early childhood, and when I reached adolescence it became part of a more general feeling of awkwardness and apprehension which still affects me in most social situations, particularly involving women.<br />
<br />
So why would such a chronic fear flip over into an intense desire as soon as there is a sexual context?<br />
<br />
My counsellor suggested that it may be a 'clever' way of coping with the fear by finding ways to enjoy it in certain situations.<br />
<br />
Maybe it is a way of enabling me to get close to people by learning to desire what I imagine would be the worst thing they could do to me?<br />
<br />
Given that this everyday fear is something that is clearly damaging to me, it might seem to follow that the accompanying fetish must also be inherently bad – a straightforward mental health issue. But I'm not entirely sure.<br />
<br />
My counsellor's approach throughout was not to try to cure me of the fetish, but to try to address why I felt so ashamed of it and why it felt so self-destructive at times.<br />
<br />
Some of the role playing I have done has felt wrong and ridiculous, but also sometimes it has been intensely enjoyable and somehow liberating. Sometimes afterwards I have been consumed with self loathing, but equally sometimes there is a feeling of catharsis and of having established a deep and unique level of trust with another person.<br />
<br />
I've met people in the bdsm scene who are completely open and at ease about their kinks, and who are, as far as I can tell, both happy and successful.<br />
<br />
I also increasingly get the impression that perhaps most people have some passing interest in fetish. There are a growing number of bdsm-themed books aimed at women, and an awful lot of pornography aimed at men which has some element of dominance or submission to it.<br />
<br />
Maybe most people are relaxed enough about the contradiction between their fantasies and their real-life morality to prevent it from having any noticeable negative impact on their lives?<br />
<br />
When I picture a future in which I had overcome my fear of humiliation and my awkwardness then I can see clearly how much happier I would be and how obvious it is that this is a goal worth working towards, regardless of the likelihood of my ever getting there.<br />
<br />
But when I imagine a future in which I was free from any interest in dominance or submission the results don't seem so clear. Life would be simpler, but I seem to be left with the prospect of a strange, diluted sexuality, devoid of any real intensity.<br />
<br />
For this reason I don't think I would like to be 'cured' of my fetishes even if it were possible. Instead I'd like to see if the process of being more open about them will transform them from a source of unhappy self-destructiveness to one of harmless enjoyment. Maybe that wouldn't make me so different to most people after all?<br />
<br />
-----------------------<br />
<br />
<b>REPLIES</b><br />
<br />
<b>6 Jan 13, 7:30 PM, eloesa</b><br />
<br />
Everybody is wired differently. I cant help feeling from reading your blog that you see it as a extremely negative thing - like an "abnormal" anomaly and you even say you have "spent years trying to be normal". Difference isn't necessarily bad. There needs to be variation and difference in every thing and everyone. You may find it hard to accept the way that you are, but, with respect, it appears to me that you seem stuck with overthinking and over analysing .<br />
<br />
You are the only one who will understand the reason behind your feelings around humiliation, D/s and female domination both sexually and non sexually and why it matters to you so much.<br />
<br />
From an outsider, You have a partner who understands you, you are obviously intelligent having written articles etc and even this thought out blog. Going public with your feelings may help catharticly(?sp) but actually , only you can make the start to feeling more positive ..move on, stop worrying about why and what's happened in the past-Instead, look forward to you and your partner having happy times, making happy memories that aren't riddled afterward with guilty thoughts of your reactions. If both of you like what you do- then relax.. Life's too short to worry about things, instead be proud of who you are and revel in the difference that makes you unique.<br />
<br />
-----------------------<br />
<br />
<b>6 Jan 13, 10:12 PM, emerson</b><br />
<br />
Hi Eloesa,<br />
<br />
Until a few years ago I did see the fetishes I have as being a really negative thing, but the more I talk about it and write about it the less this is the case.<br />
<br />
I know logically that there is nothing to be ashamed of at all, but if you have been in a particular mindset for a long time then I think it can take a while to move away from it, and you just have to be patient with yourself<br />
<br />
-----------------------<br />
<br />
<b>7 Jan 13, 12:59 AM, NightFox</b><br />
<br />
You are comparing real life with your fantasies. You have explored and no doubt still exploring your fantasies by visiting Pro-Dommes and now having a partner with whom you have common ground. These are all situations in which you have control over. ie the Pro-Dommes would be catering for you tastes and you partner probably does the same.<br />
<br />
The situation with the angry lady at the service station was totally out of your control and from what you say really caught you on the back foot. I wonder though that if the lady had been a lot younger and attractive whether you would be feeling the same way about it ? You may have been still surprised and shocked by it at the time, but after the event you may have reflected on it differently. You may still be stopping in at that service station and having a wry smile on your face !<br />
<br />
Any fetish is difficult to understand even for the person who has the fetish, never mind the people who don't. I think the common factor is that we all seek, whatever our fetishes and fantasies are, to fulfill these with people who understand them and with whom we feel confident and secure with. In these environments we are having these fantasies fulfilled without any real malice or ill-felling and, in reality, within our control.<br />
<br />
A common fantasy for some women is the rape scenario. They may want to experience the physical violence of being raped, but only pre-arranged with someone they may know and trust, and probably are attracted too. Being actually raped by a stranger in a situation totally out of their control would probably just as horrific and damaging to them as to a women who never had a rape fantasy.<br />
<br />
I can give you my own experience which perhaps has some connection. I work in an office environment and until six months ago the sales support team was managed by an attractive girl who I did not particularly get on with or like. We had a few clashes over various issues and they did leave me angry and not having particularly nice thoughts about. However she left and was replaced by another attractive girl who I get on well with. We have clashes as well, but I never feel angry in the same way with her, and my mind soon goes into fantasy mode...<br />
<br />
The mind works in peculiar ways.<br />
<br />
NightFox<br />
<br />
-----------------------<br />
<br />
<b>8 Jan 13, 7:26 PM, emerson</b><br />
<br />
Hi NightFox,<br />
<br />
I don't actually think it would have made any difference if the woman at the services had been younger or seemed more attractive. For me it's more about the other point you make, about feeling secure and confident with the other person, at least ideally.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my fetishes do have a self-destructive side (hence the counselling) where I will want to give up control to someone who might cause me genuine harm, but even then I would want to know that they understood the mentality involved, and I would want to be in control of the way I gave up control, if that makes sense.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-40301719752851963092012-11-03T16:42:00.000+00:002012-11-03T16:42:32.065+00:00Radar MagazineDuring 2010-11, I used to write semi-regularly for <i>Radar</i>, a Birmingham based arts and culture magazine, which sadly closed at the beginning of this year.<br />
<br />
The editors' open-minded approach enabled me to write about subjects I had never previously covered, and I've therefore decided to put some of my old articles up on here. The preceding five posts are all reproduced from various issues of the magazine.<br />
<br />
I wish Pete and Paul all the best for future projects.<br />
<br />johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-78904905217426296032012-11-03T12:08:00.000+00:002012-11-03T12:10:32.145+00:00The Art of the Possible<i>This article first appeared in Radar magazine, Issue 12, September 2011. The original version also contained additional photographs by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/katchooo/" target="_blank">Fiona Cullinan</a></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the 29<sup>th</sup> of July a new art exhibition,
Preclusion, opened in Stirchley. This is an unusual enough occurrence in itself
for this part of Birmingham, but the venue makes it more unusual still.
Preclusion is housed in the Whit Marley building - a disused factory taken over
by squatters and now being used as a makeshift Social Centre.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The exhibition is just one of several projects being
undertaken or planned at the Centre, although it is perhaps the most ambitious
so far, with work on display from over twenty artists, some local, others from
further afield.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no admission fee, and on the opening night the Whit
Marley’s big wooden shutter is opened to reveal a path formed of two parallel
lines of candles leading through a dark area to the old factory floor, where the
various paintings, photos, illustrations, montages and models are spread along
the walls, and occasionally the floor itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a conspicuous sense of fun running through many of
the pieces here, such as Felipe Molina’s painting of a brightly coloured,
smiling butterfly in whose patterned wings are hidden several other happy
creatures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9F3Z-T_vlXOkW0xxoCM-oBDE4D2UXXYOgoUPHXb4ZdwIZuxE_vIGbg8aTq3yGIsi7ZC7_yj0D83aYKmebe0z5eO_nJDSeGDuq9mfEZM5PwtPCVeThXx57wfH3B0g29HU4S0msBXivPU/s1600/social+centre+013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9F3Z-T_vlXOkW0xxoCM-oBDE4D2UXXYOgoUPHXb4ZdwIZuxE_vIGbg8aTq3yGIsi7ZC7_yj0D83aYKmebe0z5eO_nJDSeGDuq9mfEZM5PwtPCVeThXx57wfH3B0g29HU4S0msBXivPU/s320/social+centre+013.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other works deal with more down-to-earth, local subjects.
Martin Pickard’s photos show a Highgate tower block in the process of being
torn down, its grey outer walls stripped away to reveal the range of different
coloured interiors of the former homes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The organiser of the exhibition, Harry Starling, has some of
his own pieces on display, including my ten-year-old son’s favourite object in
the room - the Necronograph – a clock in which the numbers are replaced by a
variety of animal skulls painted in silver and gold</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Preclusion is due to last for only a week, which seems a
shame given it’s uniqueness, although some of the pieces, such as those by Gintarė
Inokaitytė, will undoubtedly be around for longer as they have been
spray-painted directly onto the walls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNqH-i6F9PwLElG6tAVdN1l1mEV9zAmqcSDlBg_xm7DND9r7iPoe2R0wsJuvKDrcLu7_Yoj_7zl8rcI7X6ngBgjD8nOhyphenhyphenhzFdQT7B83SjLpRXwaDg4HTVMbA0kuWEQH5C9DjXWEkhF-g/s1600/social+centre+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNqH-i6F9PwLElG6tAVdN1l1mEV9zAmqcSDlBg_xm7DND9r7iPoe2R0wsJuvKDrcLu7_Yoj_7zl8rcI7X6ngBgjD8nOhyphenhyphenhzFdQT7B83SjLpRXwaDg4HTVMbA0kuWEQH5C9DjXWEkhF-g/s320/social+centre+010.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a second visit to the Social Centre a few days later I
talk to a couple of the activists, Hannah and Josh, in the ‘tea room', a small,
cheerfully redecorated area which was once presumably one of the factory’s
offices. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tea room is run as an anti-capitalist project – you pay
what you can afford, or what you think it is worth. I paid nothing for my
coffee, not because I had no money or because they had run out of milk, but
because I completely forgot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amongst the other activities currently underway at the Whit
Marley building are a guerrilla gardening project, which aims to transform the
factory's disused car park, and a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Free</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place> where the
intention is to provide free, quality education in a variety of subjects to
anyone who is interested. A couple of qualified lecturers have already
volunteered their time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Josh offers to teach my son guitar, providing we can come up
with a guitar between us which is small enough for him to comfortably get his
arms around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The centre holds regular meetings which anyone can come
along to, either with ideas about how the space could be used, or just to see
what is going on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hannah tells me that rather than encountering any opposition
from suspicious local residents, many are genuinely pleased that the building
is now being occupied as it had been used in the past by burglars as a means of
gaining access to the backs of local houses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The squatters hope to be able to remain in the Whit Marley
building for up to twelve months before it is finally demolished. The site is
then expected to have some role in the new Asda store which is controversially
due to open up nearby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When they eventually have to leave, the group intend to set
up something similar in another empty building elsewhere in the city. There is
certainly no shortage of candidates. Common sense suggests that a great many of
<st1:city w:st="on">Birmingham</st1:city>'s
disused industrial buildings could be reclaimed as community resources of one
kind or another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe this is the fundamental point about the Social Centre
- beyond providing living space for the activists, and space for individual
projects, it also provides a sense of possibility - a tangible example of what
can be done with a little imagination and an empty building.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyone interested in getting involved can contact the Centre
via their website (birminghamsocialcentre.wordpress.com) or just pop along to
the Whit Marley building itself on <st1:street w:st="on">Ivy
Road</st1:street>. </div>
johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-81530296030490624792012-11-02T19:02:00.001+00:002012-11-02T19:32:21.762+00:00Fearful Pleasures<i>This article originally appeared in Radar magazine, Issue 15, October 2011</i><br />
<br />
Is there are a part of you that enjoys being scared, enjoys that nervy, edgy feeling that perhaps someone, somewhere might be out to get you?<br />
<br />
For most people this indulgence in fear might involve nothing more than watching the occasional horror movie or reading True Crime books about the lives of serial killers. But for a few it goes much further, taking them into a strange world where coercion and consent can appear to be indistinguishable.<br />
<br />
Did you know that there are people out there who will, at your request and for a fee, 'kidnap' you and then subject you to mental or physical torture?<br />
<br />
Today I'm meeting one such professional, fantasy kidnapper - a Birmingham-based dominatrix who has agreed to be interviewed, but asked that her name not be used in this article. The Kidnap Zone section of her website begins with the following passage -<br />
<br />
'YOU have made the arrangements, You have paid the deposit. You know the outline of what will happen, but the menacing laugh of the women you have been talking to for the last week echoes in your mind. She has assured you that you will be returned in good order, and has reminded you that this is YOUR fantasy, something you have been dreaming of for years. But your heart is still beating fast, and you keep wiping your moist palms on your jacket.'<br />
<br />
So who does this appeal to and how exactly do you go about abducting someone, even consensually, from a public area?<br />
<br />
I meet the dominatrix at her chambers close to the city centre, where she has at her disposal several fully equipped dungeon rooms, a bare cellar, and a prison cell. There are no clients present this morning, and so she is casually dressed, but still speaks with the deliberate, authoritative voice of someone who expects to be listened to.<br />
<br />
She runs through the preliminaries that must take place before the actual scenario can begin. The client must initially send an email detailing the exact nature of their fantasy. They also need to provide a phone number, proof that they are over 25, and details of any relevant health problems. Most importantly, they need to provide an email confirming that they have consented to the abduction. This email will be printed out and kept close to hand at all times.<br />
<br />
The exact nature of the scenario varies from person to person. Some clients will come along voluntarily to the chambers under a fantasy pretext, such as arriving for a business meeting. They can then easily be detained and the chosen punishments can begin.<br />
<br />
It is only when someone wants to be taken off the street in broad daylight that the logistics become more complicated, as she explains -<br />
<br />
'I'm very lucky. My past employment was in security. We always survey the area first, and if there are any cameras then I'll go to the local police station. I'll tell them I'm doing a fantasy kidnapping. I give them my car registration number and basic details of the person, and I always have the email ready. I have to be careful – I don't want a squad of police cars outside with guns!'<br />
<br />
The risk of any passing member of the public getting the wrong idea is often reduced by the fact that the clients can be so eager for their fantasy to begin that very little in the way of manhandling is required to get them into the waiting vehicle.<br />
<br />
'Some of them even put on their seatbelts!' she smiles. I ask her what happens if the client becomes overwhelmed by the whole thing and starts to panic, and whether she employs safewords.<br />
<br />
'People want to panic. They want it to be as realistic as safely possible. But if someone's in danger of hyperventilation or some other health problem then I'll back off. I'm not here to permanently damage anyone.'<br />
<br />
So what does she think the appeal of it is?<br />
<br />
'It's about an adrenaline rush, that is why people want it. The human body has its own powerful drugs. Why do people need social drugs when they can use this underrated resource that everyone has? And it is natural.<br />
<br />
'Most of these people are also in high-powered positions. For once they want someone else to control them. They want to be taken and not have control over what happens to them.'<br />
<br />
She has a client booked in for next week. He will arrive at the chambers, pretending to believe that he is here for an interview, before being held in one of the dungeon rooms where he will endure eight hours of dominatrix's skilful attentions. He will receive all of the extreme punishments he has requested, but due to the experience of his captor he will leave without any marks on his body. She is keen to emphasise that there is nothing sexual about the abductions –<br />
<br />
'It's all about mind control. It's not only about the body, it's about the mind. It's not only about pain, it's about sensation. It is sensual not sexual.'<br />
<br />
These fake kidnappings are just one of several fetishes where the perception of danger is an intrinsic part of the appeal.<br />
<br />
Knifeplay, for instance, involves running blades or razors across the skin, either to create the fear of harm, or sometimes in order to actually make superficial cuts. Again, mind control plays a large part. Subjects are often blindfolded so that they cannot see, for instance, that the razor-sharp knife they were originally shown has now been replaced, and it is only a butter knife that is being pressed hard against their skin.<br />
<br />
There are even dominatrixes who will, on request, blackmail their clients into parting with regular chunks of cash. This is not an activity which the domme I'm interviewing undertakes as she believes the legality of it to be questionable, even if the individual signs a contract agreeing to the whole thing.<br />
<br />
Maybe the rise in interest in these kinds of fear-based fantasies is due to the fact that, for most of us, our day-to-day lives contain an almost negligible amount of genuine risk. While this means that we are likely to have a longer average life expectancy than any previous generation, the problem is that many people need the occasional burst of fear-induced adrenaline in order to remind themselves that they are actually alive.<br />
<br />
Undoubtedly it is only a tiny minority who would ever want to combine this fear with fetish and end up being bundled into the back of a van with a bag over their head. But for everyone else there is always bungee-jumping.<br />
<br />
<b>Radar Issue 15, October 2011</b>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-34988377269284773072012-11-02T18:58:00.000+00:002012-11-02T19:36:44.720+00:00Strange Taboo<i>This article originally appeared in Radar magazine, Issue 12, July 2011</i><br />
<br />
Not long ago I happened to be standing around at Moor Street Station, waiting for a train out to Tysley. From the back of the platform it's possible to look down across some of the old side streets leading off from Digbeth. Most of this side of the city centre has been heavily redeveloped over recent years and even now the skyline bristles with cranes. Just ahead, at the end of Park Street, is the Hive, a new block of cream and brown apartments, now complete enough to be touting for occupants. Then there is Millennium Point with its gleaming glass and strange, orange slats, while behind me are the silver saucers of Selfridges.<br />
<br />
However, one of the first things I can see, almost immediately below me, is the Taboo adult cinema club – a windowless brick building, painted in brown and black, from which emanates an aura of dismal seediness.<br />
<br />
Taboo stands hemmed in by modernity and yet unchanged and overlooked, seemingly a throwback to grubbier times when pornography was seen to be the preserve of lonely men. Today there is pornography being made by and for women, although people will obviously have differing opinions on whether this represents progress or not.<br />
<br />
Just a few hundred yards away, in the heart of the Bull Ring shopping centre, there is another indisputable sign of changing times - an Ann Summers store, which is generally busy with women, men and couples browsing through the merchandise as unselfconsciously as if they were shopping for breakfast cereals.<br />
<br />
So who in the world still feels the need to go to an adult cinema in 2011?<br />
<br />
Later, sitting on the train, I google the place on my iPhone and find the address of a website for the cinema, although it seems to be down at the moment. There is also a rumour on a forum, from last year, that Taboo is about to close. There were no For Sale or To Let signs on it, but otherwise it's hard to see how the exterior would look noticeably different even if it had long since gone out of business.<br />
<br />
Other than that the cinema is mainly mentioned in various forums as a place where gay men, transsexuals and cross-dressers can go to indulge in some anonymous intimacy, which at least provides a plausible explanation for why the place could still be open.<br />
<br />
The search also turns up a phone number for the cinema. It sits on my iPhone screen, as oddly tempting as a button saying 'Don't Press.'<br />
<br />
It rings just once before a male voice with a softy Brummie twang answers –<br />
<br />
'Hello, Taboo cinema Birmingham.'<br />
<br />
'Erm.. what time are you still open today 'til?' I ask rather incomprehensibly.<br />
<br />
'We're open 'til eleven today.'<br />
<br />
'Ok. Thanks.'<br />
<br />
'Thank you.'<br />
<br />
He hangs up. Not the greatest piece of investigative journalism, but at least I've established that the place hasn't closed down.<br />
<br />
Maybe the seediness and secrecy is all part of the appeal for today's clientele, regardless of how it might appear to passers by.<br />
<br />
But if you agree that consenting adults ought to be able to do what they like to and with each other, then it follows that people have to be free to pretend they are not free, to pretend that there really is something forbidden, 'dirty' or wrong about what they are doing. Maybe it is this strange part of our psyche that explains why Taboo is still in business, just as it explains why Ann Summers sells handcuffs.<br />
<br />
<b>Radar Issue 12, July 2011</b>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-43120797755780227462012-11-02T18:55:00.000+00:002012-11-02T19:41:12.962+00:00Beyond Bizarre<b>Kinky Sex in the Second City</b><br />
<br />
<i>This article originally appeared in Radar magazine, Issue 6, December 2010</i><br />
<br />
A few feet in front of me, on the floor of the nightclub, stands a young guy, perhaps in his early twenties, wearing only white underpants, a studded belt, and a collar. His female companion, wearing stockings, black stilettos and a fur coat, is stroking the top of his head. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back slightly, with the quietly ecstatic expression of a dog being fussed over by its beloved owner.<br />
<br />
Just behind them, a scantily clad woman is strapped to a rack, and is being whipped by a guy dressed in a sharp business suit, with a respectable haircut, looking for all the world like some sadistic manager dishing out his favourite punishment to a wayward employee.<br />
<br />
I'm at the Beyond Bizarre fetish club. This is held on the third Sunday of each month at the top floor of Nightingales, on Kent Street. The club takes its name not from the activities which go on here but from the fact that it is the official afterparty for the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar, a fetish market which takes place at the same venue earlier in the day.<br />
<br />
The market itself is a bigger affair, occupying all three floors of the club, and attracting visitors and vendors from all over the country. Among the wide variety of stalls it is possible to buy clothing and equipment to facilitate just about any sexual fantasy or practice which consenting adults might wish to engage in.<br />
<br />
The market is open until 5pm, and Beyond Bizarre starts immediately afterwards. This means that unlike most nightclubs it is actually busier early in the evening as stallholders and shoppers stay and play for a while before heading for home.<br />
<br />
My girlfriend and I have been to the market a couple of times in the past but have never stayed for the afterparty. Today we've missed the market and have arrived at the club just after nine. There are perhaps fifty people here now, with more leaving than arriving, although the girl on the door tells me they've had one hundred and fifty in today.<br />
<br />
There is a 'fetish' dress code, which seems rather vague, but I get the impression that as long as you look like you have made an effort, and have some idea of what the club is about, then you will be let in.<br />
<br />
I'm dressed entirely in black, but most of the men here have been a bit bolder and more imaginative. One guy is wearing a surgeon's outfit, another head-to-foot pvc, still another only a pair of pink panties. The women are similarly adventurous with lots of fishnets, corsets and skimpy underwear to be seen.<br />
<br />
A man walks past us dressed in an almost non existent garment consisting of only a leather pouch and a couple of studded straps which reach up and around his shoulders. My girlfriend watches him go by and then suggests this might be a good outfit for me to try next time. I don't reply.<br />
<br />
There are about half a dozen pieces of equipment dotted around - racks, benches and a cage, which anyone is free to make use of, although you are expected to bring your own floggers, paddles or other implements of choice. There is a house rule of no genital nudity and no sex acts, not due to any prudishness on the part of the organisers, but owing to licencing requirements.<br />
<br />
The age range of the people here is from early twenties up to sixties at least, and there are all kinds of body shapes and sizes. There is no drunken stupidity going on, and everyone seems relaxed and unselfconscious.<br />
<br />
Given how fascinated we are as a society with sex and sexuality, and how enamoured we are of diversity, it seems surprising that there is only one such club in the city, operating just once a month on one floor of a nightclub.<br />
<br />
Even though 'coming out' about having a non-vanilla side is likely to be a daunting prospect for almost anyone, it still hard not to think that it ought to be possible for events like this to nudge their way nearer to mainstream recognition.<br />
<br />
So, if you think you have a kink or two inside you but have never been sure what to do about it then maybe a visit to the market, or even Beyond, could be the place to start.<br />
<br />
<b>Radar Issue 6, December 2010</b>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-22691202990150921602012-11-01T16:35:00.000+00:002012-11-03T16:38:15.364+00:00Hidden Histories<i>This article originally appeared in Radar magazine, Issue 7, February 2011</i><br />
<br />
<b>Forgotten Stories from the Fight Against Fascism</b><br />
<br />
75 years ago this year, in Spain, a group of right-wing generals, led by Franco, launched an offensive against the democratically elected Republican government. They were aided in this by the Fascist regimes of Italy and Germany. The civil war that ensued lasted until 1939 and ended with the defeat of the Republicans, and a period of Fascist dictatorship that lasted until 1978.<br />
<br />
One might not imagine that there was any direct connection between this traumatic period in Spanish history and Birmingham. But just a ten minute walk from New Street Station, in a quiet corner of the St Thomas Peace Garden on Bath Row, there is a plaque commemorating the volunteers from the city who joined the International Brigade, an ad hoc army of anti-fascists who converged upon Spain during those years, after Western democracies such as Britain and France refused to intervene, still clinging to the hope that appeasement might prevent a wider European conflict.<br />
<br />
It is estimated that over 30,000 volunteers from over fifty countries fought in the Brigade. Of the 2,000 that came from the UK and Ireland over 500 lost their lives.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37javRIY9Tegi0WcBfwCJQgf-ktH8B5FbrOs8V44JoN8QYbYzOqp-XctylhyLhyE4poSmyyKrvOXggye30bMZq-bIHFpUULgPNvZHi8sppm8TtFUtWhu05niyvryXSPfU0gntHE7BVho/s1600/plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37javRIY9Tegi0WcBfwCJQgf-ktH8B5FbrOs8V44JoN8QYbYzOqp-XctylhyLhyE4poSmyyKrvOXggye30bMZq-bIHFpUULgPNvZHi8sppm8TtFUtWhu05niyvryXSPfU0gntHE7BVho/s320/plaque.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The inscription on the plaque reads –<br />
<br />
‘In honour of the volunteers who left Birmingham to fight in the International Brigade, Spain 1936-1939.<br />
They fought alongside the Spanish people to stop Fascism and save liberty and peace for all.<br />
They went because their open eyes could see no other way.<br />
No pasaran!’<br />
<br />
These days the story of the International Brigade has largely slipped from popular consciousness. Anti-fascist history has a habit of doing this.<br />
<br />
In the post-war period in Britain, the 43 Group, composed mainly of Jewish ex-servicemen were so successful in disrupting the activities of Oswald Moseley’s British Union of Fascists that they were a significant factor in the BUF’s eventual decline and disappearance.<br />
<br />
In the eighties and early nineties, Anti-fascist Action provided such an effective physical opposition to the BNP that the party gave up trying to hold public marches or rallies. (An authorised history of Anti-fascist Action, Beating The Fascists, was published recently. It contains a section detailing the group's activities in the West Midlands and is well worth seeking out.)<br />
<br />
But, however successful such groups are, they tend to remain almost unknown outside of left wing circles.<br />
<br />
About twenty years ago, some friends and myself were involved in any number of left wing or anarchist projects, usually short-lived and usually centred around Zebedee’s vegetarian cafe in Saltley. A group of us would occasionally go out to leaflet some of the estates around Birmingham where the NF were still active. We would often be joined by one of the café’s regulars, an old guy called Ernie, and sometimes a mate of his, who had both actually been volunteers in the International Brigade. They were both affable, friendly guys who were happy to get involved with whatever was going on, but they never spoke in detail about that part of their lives and, as is the way with young, know-it-all idealists, it never occurred to us to ask.<br />
<br />
Over time the café closed, the NF dwindled, and Ernie and his mate disappeared back to wherever they had come from, taking their untold stories with them.<br />
<br />
It’s hard not to wonder what advice they might have had for anti-fascists today, when the far-right has arguably been more successful at reinventing itself than the left.<br />
<br />
The BNP may still be small, but they have been growing steadily for over a decade, and if you believe their leader Nick Griffin, they are looking forward to the next general election when the credibility of all the mainstream parties is likely to be utterly threadbare.<br />
<br />
So if you are ever in town with time on your hands then you could do worse than take a stroll up to the Peace Garden, have a look at the plaque, and remember that old saying about those who don’t know their history…<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-40700888509772685492012-07-26T20:49:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.181+00:00Free RidesMy first ever book, <em>Free Rides</em>, is out now. The book is a collection of short stories about my hitch-hiking experiences and is available in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Free-Rides-ebook/dp/B008OKB7LO/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343238365&sr=1-8" target="_blank">Kindle format</a> and in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Free-Rides-John-Edale/dp/1478166533/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343143607&sr=1-1" target="_blank">paperback</a>. The Kindle version will be free to download until July 30th, after which it will cost 77p. The paperback version costs £4.<br/><br/>I was able to finish the book thanks to a grant from Arts Council West Midlands.<br/><br/>The first chapter is reproduced below.<br/><p style="text-align:left;" align="center"><strong>Not A Job?</strong></p><br/>It's the summer of 1996 and I’m about to start work as a trade plate driver. This occupation is distinguished from most others by the fact that some amount of hitch-hiking is necessary. There’s a good chance that you’ve seen ‘platers’ standing by the roadside, although you may not know exactly what the job entails.<br/><br/>‘Plating’ involves the collection and delivery of company cars, hire cars and other miscellaneous vehicles from anywhere in the country to anywhere else.<br/><br/>Once a plater has delivered a vehicle it is up to them to make their way to the next collection address under their own steam. This address could be a hundred yards down the road or hundreds of miles away. It could be in the middle of a city or in an obscure village that only its inhabitants have heard of. Any money spent on public transport usually comes out of the plater’s own pocket so the object of the exercise is to cover the distance as quickly and cheaply as possible.<br/><br/>I spent some of my younger days hitch-hiking, mainly to music festivals, so in this respect I know the ropes already. I’m also expecting that the trade plates will make the task easier. These are the size of ordinary car registration plates and show a red identification number on a white background. Their official purpose is to act as temporary tax cover when moving vehicles which have no tax of their own. Their other, unofficial, purpose is to act as a badge of respectability when hitching – a sign that you are in gainful employment and are therefore unlikely to murder anyone who stops to pick you up.<br/><br/>For the last few years I’ve been spending my time idealistically involved with a workers’ co-operative who own a vegetarian café in East Birmingham. We describe ourselves as anarchists, and occasionally appear in local news reports through our involvement in a variety of left-wing protests and demonstrations. But generally the wider world is proving stubbornly indifferent to our utopian schemes, and I’ve decided that I need to hedge my bets and get a regular job as well, saving the overthrow of capitalism for my spare time.<br/><br/>So far I’ve tried warehouse work, catering and industrial cleaning, but have fled from them all, becoming sadly convinced that I’ll never hold down any job where I have to go to the same place every day and do the same things with the same people - I spend too little time bonding with my workmates and too much time absorbed in daydreams.<br/><br/>Plating appeals to me as there will be no-one looking over my shoulder, and I have romantic notions about travelling around the country in fast cars, and surely finding the time to detour to any picturesque location that takes my fancy.<br/><br/>The job interview mainly involves confirming that I have a valid driving licence and somewhere safe to park vehicles overnight. After this there is an induction which consists of a five minute demonstration of how to inspect vehicles for damage, and a fifteen minute film about how to hitch-hike. This stars an unconvincing actor playing the role of a plater who clearly knows his place and who will occasionally turn to the camera and offer such uninspiring pieces of advice as –<br/><br/>‘Sometimes you’ll have to walk a few miles in a day, and you can get a bit whiffy, so I always carry some spray-on deodorant with me, just in case.’<br/><br/>Once this training is complete I’m given a set of trade plates and a fuel card and am now officially ready to start.<br/><br/>The first job I’m given is to finish off a delivery started by another driver, whose fate is unknown. The vehicle in question, a yellow Honda Accord, should have been taken to a leasing company in Trafford Park - an enormous industrial estate on the outskirts of Manchester. Instead it has ended up at the plating company’s office in Birmingham. It is driven to my house in the late afternoon by Bill, who will be my controller and is a mountain of a man. He wears a pinstriped shirt, with bright red braces stretched over a torso that could belong to an American wrestler. He will be virtually my only point of contact with the company, supplying me, over the phone, with job details and meeting any problems with gentle words of advice, or unhelpful sarcasm depending on how the mood takes him. He views my embarking on this new career with a degree of good-natured humour -<br/><br/>‘You didn’t hear it from me but fifty percent of the drivers who start here don’t last a week.’<br/><br/>He’ll tell me at a later date that he fully expected me to be one of the dropouts. But the company also has a high turnover of controllers and I’ll eventually outlast him, and several of his successors.<br/><br/>I arrive in Trafford Park early the next morning, locate the leasing company’s compound, and obtain a signature for the car. Bill informed me the previous day that my next collection will be from Bradford, and so I now set off to try and get my first lift.<br/><br/>During this first day I’ll perform two experiments, both of which I’ll subsequently avoid repeating. The first of these is that I decide to hitch-hike in a busy urban area - the middle of the industrial estate to be precise.<br/><br/>I walk the short distance back to the nearest roundabout, where there is an eastbound exit heading in the direction of the motorway. All around are warehouses and office blocks, and workers making their ways towards morning shifts. I stand incongruously in the middle of this scene, with my plate and a cardboard sign saying ‘M62.’<br/><br/>In the past I’ve done most of my hitching at motorway junctions and at the exits of service stations where there is only the traffic and myself. I rarely wonder about the opinions of passing motorists - they are separated from me by glass and metal, and will be gone in a moment anyway. If the weather is good then I can stand there for as long as it takes, as contented as a fisherman on a river bank.<br/><br/>But I soon realise that it’s a different matter to have a steady stream of pedestrians plodding by, studiously ignoring me, just as they would ignore any other lunatic.<br/><br/>There are some seasoned platers who begrudge seeing a single penny escaping from their pockets and will stand on the busiest of streets, defiantly holding their plates out, rather than buy a bus ticket to get them to somewhere more suitable. But it takes me less than a minute to realise that such methods are not for me. Fortunately in less than another minute an old tipper truck pulls over for me. It is driven by a stocky young guy with close-cropped hair.<br/><br/>‘Where you off to?’ he shouts through the open window.<br/><br/>‘I’m trying to get to the ’62.’<br/><br/>‘Jump in!’<br/><br/>I do, and we set off. He’s going over to Leeds and will drop me at the main Bradford junction. I tell him I’ve just started the job and we talk about the everyday details of it for the first few minutes as we chug out of Manchester. This leads to my second, impromptu experiment, which is to say the word ‘cunt’ to another person. This is a word I use with great regularity when I’m alone behind the wheel and am affronted by someone else’s driving, but I’ve never before said it in the presence of anyone else.<br/><br/>I’m complaining to the truck driver about the company’s dress code, which requires me to wear a jacket and tie at all times, which I have no intention of doing. It’s clear from the nature of job that you are not at the top of the food chain, and wearing smart clothes would only emphasise this fact because it would be obvious that you had not chosen to wear them. I’m in jeans and an old leather jacket, which seems at least to suggest a degree of autonomy. But I express this in a more straightforward way to the driver –<br/><br/>‘I’d feel like a cunt dressing up like that to do this.’<br/><br/>I’m caught up in the feeling of embarking upon a new life of sorts, meeting people I know I’ll never see again, and having the opportunity to try on new personalities for size - although this one doesn’t quite seem to fit.<br/><br/>‘You look smart enough anyway, don’t you?’ says the driver with a shrug.<br/><br/>There is nothing in his reaction to put me off saying the word again, and I think my delivery is good enough for a beginner, but somehow I’ve never ended up using it since. Perhaps I’m too old to acquire such habits, and would surprise too many of my friends if I tried.<br/><br/>We reach the M62 and then climb up through empty moorland towards the top of the Pennines.<br/><br/>‘You got any plans for the weekend?’ the driver asks after a while.<br/><br/>‘I’ll probably just go down to my local.’<br/><br/>‘I’ll be off to the Mardi Gras festival in town this Saturday with my mates. It’s a great laugh - you get all the processions there, and everyone’s just getting pissed, you know. It’s a good atmosphere.’<br/><br/>This is an annual event organised by Manchester’s gay community. As an afterthought he tells me that he isn’t gay himself, although it seems of little concern to him one way or the other - an easygoing indifference in which it’s hard to imagine any prejudice being able to take root.<br/><br/>It starts to feel good to be hitching again – to be meeting such people and seeing unfamiliar places. I’m used to the flatness and close horizons of Birmingham, and as we descend into Yorkshire the wide views of the grey mill towns of Halifax and Huddersfield, nestled among the hills, seem tremendously beautiful in the morning light.<br/><br/>I get the precise details of my Bradford job from Bill, and find that I’m in luck - the tipper driver knows the location of the industrial estate that I need and is happy to go five minutes out of his way to take me there.<br/><br/>He drops me at the entrance to the estate and we say our farewells before he turns around and heads back to the motorway, and I set off into the estate.<br/><br/>I find the collection address, get the car keys from the receptionist, carry out an inspection of the vehicle, fill out the paperwork, obtain a signature for it, and then depart without anyone realising that I don’t really know what I’m doing.<br/><br/>The car needs to be delivered to an auction in Netherfield, Nottingham, and so I hurtle down the M1 for an hour and then crawl and curse my way through the city for another hour until I locate the auction at the back of a business park.<br/><br/>While I’m getting a signature for the car I bump into another plater who apparently works for the same firm. He’s a small wiry man with long hair, thinning on top, and he greets me with the stern question –<br/><br/>‘Where’s your tie?’<br/><br/>I’m taken aback by this for a moment, until an obvious answer occurs to me –<br/><br/>‘I don’t know. Where’s <em>yours</em>?’<br/><br/>He just laughs. He is an old hand at this job and is trying to get home to Birmingham. After a quick call to Bill I find out that this is now my mission as well. The auctions are on the opposite side of the city to the motorway so this is not a promising situation, but my beginner’s luck continues to hold and we bump into a third plater who is picking up a car from here. He’ll be heading down to Bristol and can drop us both on the outskirts of Birmingham.<br/><br/>The auction is a bustling place with cars coming in and out all the time, and hard-nosed, bargain-seeking men walking around with an air of quiet criminality about them. The prospect of a free lift causes yet more platers to crystallise out of this crowd, and the man with the car quickly finds that it is full of strangers.<br/><br/>I’m squashed in next to an amiable old guy by the name of Tommy, who also knows the ropes, and whose expression defaults to a contented smile whenever he is not speaking.<br/><br/>‘How long have you been doing this then?’ I ask.<br/><br/>He pauses for a moment to remember the answer - ‘Six years now.’<br/><br/>‘You must like it then?’<br/><br/>‘Well, it beats getting a job,’ he laughs. This reply sounds well-rehearsed, but genuine nonetheless and I make a mental note of it.<br/><br/>Tommy already has a pension coming in from a previous occupation, and in another couple of years he will be able to add a state pension to this as well and will be retiring. Until then he is happy to potter around the country, no longer scared by long distances and lonely slip roads.<br/><br/>‘You always get home in the end,’ he says with an encouraging degree of certainty in his voice.<br/><br/>We drive out of Nottingham, passing signs for a place called Gotham whose residents, unlike me, are probably too familiar with the name to smile and think of Batman when they see it.<br/><br/>Soon we are on the motorway, and the Old Hand takes over the conversation. He is feeling the weight of his years of experience and dishes out several pieces of advice which are intended not only for myself, but for the benefit of everyone present. One of these pearls will stand out long after other memories of this day have become murky, simply because of its absurdity -<br/><br/>‘When you want to find an address in a city, what you have to think about is whether it’s a road or a street. Streets are usually in the centre but roads will be further out.’<br/><br/>None of us question his sagacity, at least not out loud.<br/><br/>In less than an hour we have reached the outskirts of Birmingham, and I get the driver to drop me at the NEC where I can catch a fast bus into the city. It’s only two o’clock and for all the money I’ve earned today I might as well have stayed on the dole. But as the bus rattles through the warm afternoon I feel happy nonetheless. I’ve found a job that might not to be a job after all, and I have a whole country ahead of me to get lost in.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-42622157987450610472012-01-14T17:34:00.000+00:002012-10-29T19:57:49.184+00:00Riots and RoyaltyOn the edge of Kings Norton Park, at the opposite end to the church, is a big old pub called The Camp. I have driven past there any number of times, but only recently found out that it takes its name from the fact that there was a Royalist army encampment here in 1643, during the Civil War, when Queen Henrietta Maria and over five thousand troops passed through the area on their way south to meet up with the king.<br/><br/>The circumstances of the visit make an odd contrast to the most recent appearance of royalty in Birmingham, when newly-weds Kate and William came to Winson Green last summer as part of their tour of areas affected by the riots.<br/><br/>When Queen Henrietta Maria arrived, the town had also recently suffered from looting and worse, but on that occasion it was at the hands of Royalist soldiers.<br/><br/>Despite the fact that Britain’s past is peppered with periods of bloodshed and brutality, the Civil War still stands out as a truly jaw-dropping episode. At its most basic it was a conflict between the Royalist ‘Cavaliers’, who believed that King Charles had a divine right to impose his will on Parliament, and the Parliamentarian ‘Roundheads’ who thought otherwise.<br/><br/>In reality this conflict was overlaid with a myriad of others - Protestant against Catholic, Puritan Protestant against moderate, Scots against English, Highland Scots against Lowlanders, one Highland clan against another.<br/><br/>It was as if every grievance that had been grumbling along in the background of life erupted all at once, and all against a backdrop of famine and plague.<br/><br/>Birmingham at the time was only a small town, but one which was developing a reputation both as a hotbed of Puritanism and as a manufacturer of weapons, which were being supplied to the Parliamentarians.<br/><br/>The town was duly identified as a target by the Royalists, and one that would have to be dealt with in order to clear a path for the Queen on her journey down from York. In April 1643, Birmingham was attacked by a Royalist force of almost two thousand, led by Prince Rupert, the Laughing Cavalier himself. Despite being outnumbered ten to one, the Parliamentarians put up strong resistance behind makeshift defences at Camp Hill, before eventually being overrun. The Royalists went on to burn and plunder the town at will.<br/><br/>There are no landmarks or memorials to remind us of any of this today, and in fact why should there be?<br/><br/>When the royals go on an offensive today it is of the charm variety, and the belief that they were appointed by God himself has long since disappeared.<br/><br/>But even in twenty first century Britain, vestiges of the sovereign’s ‘divine’ powers still remain. Any MP who refuses to take an oath of allegiance to our unelected monarch will find themselves barred from entering the House of Commons. And surely royal visits, such as that by the Duke and Duchess of Cambridgeshire, are meaningless unless there is still some background level of belief that the royal family are, for whatever reason, simply better than the rest of us?<br/><br/>With the Queen's diamond jubilee due to be celebrated later this year, maybe it is not too curmudgeonly after all to suggest that we ought to remember that the fledgling Birmingham was once torn apart by marauding soldiers trying to instil exactly this belief in blue-blooded superiority into the local population.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-6930564974034442512011-12-12T07:52:00.000+00:002012-10-29T19:57:49.195+00:00An Early ResolutionA few days ago I took my eleven-year-old son along to the Stirchley Community Market, at the United Working Men’s Club on Hazelwell Street. The market is held there every month, but we had never quite gotten around to going until now.<br/><br/>There were about a dozen stalls packed into the main room in the club, plus one or two more outside in the car park.<br/><br/>We had mainly gone along out of curiosity rather than with the idea of buying very much, but I still came away bearing some interesting Christmas gifts for my girlfriend.<br/><br/>We also bought a few things for our own immediate gratification. My son got a 'friendly' Christmas hand grenade made from soft felt. We got his sister a couple of badges from illustrator <a href="http://lizzlizz.com">Liz Lunney's</a> stall, which both featured cartoon rabbits. One bears the slogan 'sour rabbit cares about you,' which seems encouraging.<br/><br/>We also bought some cup cakes from the Cupcake Bistro, chatted to a guy from the Friends of Hazelwell Park, mooched around the rest of the stalls, which sold everything from jewellery to tea towels to second hand records, listened to medieval Carols sung live, and generally had a good time of it.<br/><br/>There was a cosy, relaxed atmosphere - a sense of a small community of local artists and businesses coming together to support one another.<br/><br/>We've lived in Stirchley for over five years but I've only recently become aware of the place as having its own cultural scene, independent of the nearby, well-established vibrancy of Moseley and Kings Heath.<br/><br/>For anyone who wants to keep up to date with local goings-on, the tweets emanating from @stirchleyhaps, and their accompanying <a href="http://stirchleyhappenings.wordpress.com/">website</a>, are good places to start. They provide regular details of upcoming events, and also the kind of trivia about the everyday lives of Stirchley-ites which helps to flesh out the place and bring it to life.<br/><br/>Earlier this year Stirchley briefly had its own squatted social centre at the Whit Marley building, which held a couple of art exhibitions and an open mic night, amongst other things. This has now closed, but there are still regular comedy nights at the British Oak, a traveling cinema, and gigs at the Roadhouse.<br/><br/>There are co-operatively run businesses such as the Bike Foundry, Loaf online, and the South Birmingham Food Co-op, all of which sound very useful, but not one of which I really know much about yet.<br/><br/>When I first came to Birmingham, about twenty years ago, I was involved in a couple of workers co-operatives - a vegetarian cafe over in Saltley, and a small housing co-op, both of which long ago bit the dust. These days, when it can sometimes seem as if we are all capitalists by default, its nice to know that those alternative ideas are still around and being put into practice.<br/><br/>I write a lot about places outside of Birmingham where I happen to end up through work. Maybe I should make it a New Years Resolution to find out more about the stuff that's going on on my doorstep.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-68765939775973390472011-10-26T21:38:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.194+00:00Nighttime in Highbury ParkWhen we first got our dog, Charlie, from the Dogs Home in Digbeth, he had not yet been neutered. This meant that we got into the habit of walking him late in the evening when there were fewer other dogs around for him to force his attentions upon.<br/><br/>However, even though he has now been 'snipped', the late night habit has continued. If anything his walks have become later still, and the average number of family members coming along has decreased. Most nights it is just the dog and me in the darkness of Highbury park.<br/><br/>As soon as we arrive I let him off his lead, at which point he usually disappears to do his own thing. Sometimes I can see him as the faintest of shadows against other shadows. Sometimes he will hurtle past me on a mad dash to nowhere in particular. But most of the time all I have is the vague idea that he is around somewhere.<br/><br/>Highbury park is a big old place, big enough to get away from the sound of traffic and light of street lamps.<br/><br/>Occasionally, for no clear reason, the darkness will spook me and for a minute or two I will find myself constantly resisting the temptation to look around me for the approach of unknown assailants. But mostly it is a relaxing emptiness, free from other people, or the expectation of them, and free from the plethora of sights and sounds that fill almost every part of the city in the daytime.<br/><br/>I am using these walks to learn about the stars. I have an app. on my phone which provides me with a 3D view of the night sky from my current location, with all the planets and constellations labelled. I have started from the Great Bear ( the one that looks like a saucepan, and the only one I already recognised ) and worked outwards.<br/><br/>On cloudy nights I just stroll along. With so little sensory input, small changes become instantly noticeable. Now that Autumn is underway, the leaves on one particular tree have become dry enough to rattle softly in the breeze as I walk past.<br/><br/>Once in a while there are other people. One night I passed a trio of silhouettes on a bench by the river. Low muttering tones and the hiss of an opening can suggested street drinkers who had nowhere better to be.<br/><br/>Once I heard, but didn't see, younger drunken people in the distance, at least one man and one woman. At one point the woman's voice rose in screaming fear while the man shouted his hatred back at her. A few moments later they were united again in harsh raucous laughter, receding away into the night.<br/><br/>A couple of days ago the police were searching the park in pairs, their white torch beams bobbing up and down as they looked for a couple of guys whose appearance they were unable to describe to me other than that they were carrying JD Sports bags. For a few minutes the park seemed transformed into a vast dark arena where some primeval hunting game was being played out.<br/><br/>But these nights are the rare exceptions. Almost always it is just the dog and me, which, I think, suits both of us fine.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-11072441004246741562011-09-12T00:11:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.166+00:00The Art of the PossibleAn article I wrote for the September issue of Radar magazine about a squatted social centre in Birmingham, and the recent art exhibition that was held there, is now available online at <a title="Radar magazine" href="http://www.theradarmagazine.co.uk/">www.theradarmagazine.co.uk</a>johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-33110957907639596182011-07-26T20:43:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.178+00:00When Apps AttackIt's a clear, bright afternoon and I'm on a train heading out of Birmingham, on my way to collect a leased car from a business in Lichfield. Except that I'm not, quite. The address certainly contains the word ‘Lichfield’, but the business is actually in Fradley Park, a large industrial area a couple of miles outside of the city.<br/><br/>The ‘Nr’ abbreviation seems to be slipping from popular usage in addresses today, which is a shame as it can be an important little word if you are making your way to an address on foot or via public transport. Maybe it isn’t seen to matter so much now that we have sat-navs and mobile phone apps which only require a postcode to pinpoint an address.<br/><br/>But even postcodes can be deceptive if you take them at face value. Fradley Park has a Walsall postcode, although Walsall is even further away than Lichfield. And even when you have cut through the misleading parts of an address and found where it really is, there is still the capacity for further deceptions when you rely on mobile phone apps to tell you the best way to get there.<br/><br/>I originally set off from Warwick, having delivered a car there earlier in the day. My Trainline app told me, correctly, to catch a train to Moor Street and then walk over to New Street station for the Lichfield service. However, when calculating the earliest Lichfield train I would be able to catch, the app decided to allow forty-three whole minutes for me to walk between the stations. It did not mention that if I could cover the five hundred yards in less than twelve minutes I could catch an earlier service.<br/><br/>I am on the earlier service now.<br/><br/>Trent Valley station is on the right side of Lichfield for Fradley Park so I know I will be only about a couple of miles from the address. I put the postcode into my Google Maps app, which correctly locates the address, but labels the area as Alrewas, not Lichfield or Fradley. I then get it to work out the quickest walking route from the station. It comes up with a circuitous squiggle, almost four miles long. The A38 runs in a straight line out to Fradley Park, but the app has assumed that pedestrians cannot go that way. This would be a reasonable guess for most dual carriageways, but apps never tell you when they are just guessing. I know there is a pavement along one side of the A38 because I walked along it once, some years ago, to collect another vehicle from somewhere else on the industrial estate. The walk won’t be as pleasant as the stroll along country lanes that Google Maps had planned for me, but it won’t be half as long either.<br/><br/>Sometimes, if you are a long way from home and in an unfamiliar corner of the country then relying on these over-confident little chunks of software can seriously mess up your day. But today I don’t mind – I was only looking for confirmation of things I knew already. Nor do I mind that the address isn’t really in Lichfield, or Walsall, or Alrewas. I know exactly where it is, and it is a nice afternoon for a walk.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-29409176045505242472010-10-08T15:55:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.173+00:00Light ReliefIt's a bright Wednesday morning and I'm walking from Leeds train station, through the city centre, on my way to a Nissan dealership about a mile away.<br/><br/>Christmas has come early for the citizens of Leeds this year - festive lights are already strung across most of the main shopping streets, a full two and a half months before the event.<br/><br/>[gallery]<br/><br/>When shops begin to put out their Christmas stock at this time of year, in a blatant encouragement to spend early and spend often, there is a clear cynicism involved which no amount of tinsel is ever going to disguise.<br/><br/>But with this display, where the reasoning is less obvious, there is something almost upliftingly silly about the whole thing, suggesting as it does that there is someone in the local council whose decision-making processes are free from the dull confines of common sense.<br/><br/>I wonder what these streets will look like on Halloween as groups of ghoulishly-dressed revellers totter and meander beneath the reindeers and smiling santas?johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-65980100275851427892010-08-06T15:22:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.193+00:00Old Fashioned ValuesIt's a wet Wednesday morning and I've just arrived by bus at the premises of Imperial Tobacco, in Nottingham.<br/><br/><a href="http://johnedale.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/picture.jpg"><img class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-745" title="Imperial Tobacco" src="http://johnedale.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/picture.jpg?w=300" alt="" width="300" height="156" /></a><br/><br/>The outdated name and the grimy concrete exterior give the impression of a company which has given up on any ambition of improving its public image.<br/><br/>I'm here to collect a VW Passat to take to an auction on the other side of the city. However, I'm also looking for something else. I want to see a No Smoking sign somewhere on the building, because I know they will be legally obliged to have one, and because I know it will make me smile.<br/><br/>I find one single small yellowing sign by the main entrance. In contrast to this, the outdoor smoking area looks positively lavish - four separate, roofed shelters with wooden seating, big litter bins, and leafy plants. It is by far the most attractive part of the site. In this day and age it is nice to see a firm that still looks after its workers.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-21429648611991520602010-07-16T18:28:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.169+00:00What's In A Name?I recently became the proud owner of an iPhone. So far it is the only phone I've ever possessed that I've not ended up wanting to throw against a brick wall.<br/><br/>Amongst the many apps now on it is Google Maps, which can pinpoint exactly where I am and give me a walking route to any nearby postcode. I'm currently using it to get me from Cheltenham train station to a BMW dealership about a mile and a half away.<br/><br/>The app uses the 3G network to transfer data, but before doing so will always show me a list of any nearby wifi networks it has found, in case I want to try to jump onto one of those instead.<br/><br/>This has introduced me to the strange world of home wifi network names. Our own family network was named, on the spur of the moment, after a pet cat, but there are clearly people out there who have put some thought and creativity into the matter.<br/><br/>I'm currently on a quiet street of respectable semi-detached houses and two storey blocks of flats. Here my iPhone has found networks named 'the Highland Marches', 'Nightingales Lament', and 'Gracelove'. I find myself looking around trying to guess which of the surrounding, inconspicuous houses might be beaming out such poetic names.<br/><br/>The first two networks are listed as unsecured which means that theoretically I might be able to connect to them without a password. However I almost never try to do this since even at walking pace I would probably be out of range before I had even logged in. I also have a vague, irrational fear of being caught - a front door opening and the occupant striding out to look suspiciously up and down the street before settling their gaze upon me.<br/><br/>Around the next corner are 'Predator' and 'banana', amongst others, and then at the end of the road the tone is lowered by the decidedly unsavoury 'tom blows tramps'.<br/><br/>Does Tom know about this allegation being transmitted throughout the surrounding area? I wonder what the neighbours think.johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3557421730160069845.post-31111376827798617212010-06-01T18:37:00.000+01:002012-10-29T19:57:49.175+00:00Where Does The Money Go?It's a wet Tuesday afternoon and I'm in Aylesbury waiting for a bus to Oxford. I arrived at the bus station just in time to see an Oxford bus departing, which means I now have half an hour to kill. I've decided to spend the time wandering around the nearby Friars Square shopping centre, in search of a cheap energy drink.<br/><br/>The shopping centre is not particularly upmarket, but not run down either, just the usual mix of chain stores and cafes and walkways and escalators.<br/><br/>The only oddity is the water fountain on the first floor, spattering quietly away to itself. People have been throwing coins into the shallow pool around it. I can't see anything bigger than a ten pence piece, but nonetheless there must be at least ten pounds in small change in there.<br/><br/>The bottom of the pool is also marked with countless small brown rings where coins must have lain for some time before being removed. Who takes them out again? How brazen (or desperate) would you have to be?<br/><br/>Maybe the owners of the shopping centre empty it out occasionally and do something worthwhile with the money, or maybe the staff at the nearest off-licence find themselves occasionally having to deal with a customer wanting to buy a bottle of their cheapest cider with a heavy handful of dripping wet change?johnedalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667165643945291491noreply@blogger.com0