12 Days of Christmas or the 2010 highlights

I meant to be organised enough to be able to blog 12 different things that have been the best bits of my 2010. Alas, time and December appears to have evaporated. So instead, you’ll get the best bits in nice bitesize chunks.

Enjoy.

Highlight number one: Hope Not Hate and keeping the BNP out of Barking and Dagenham

One of the proudest moments of this year was election results night. Every marginal seat I campaigned in regained the majority and in many cases grew it.

But nothing came close to the announcement that the voters of Barking had loudly and clearly made their voices heard against fascism in the shape of BNP leader Nick Griffin. And the icing on the cake was the announcement that they had also lost all of their council seats. I haven’t cried at an election result before (unless it was one of mine!). The relief, the pride, the restored faith in the area I was born and brought up in; it was all just too much.

The incredible result was in no short part down to the hard work and commitment of Hope Not Hate organisers, volunteers and supporters. I have never seen organising like it. The sheer numbers of people from all over the country, of every age, that came together and worked unbelievably hard. There were pensioners, trades unionists, teachers, doctors, babies, Billy Bragg, Eddie Izzard, and so many more besides.

I was massively proud to have been a part of that.

 

Highlight number two: Getting tattooed and my Skunx family

This year I got more tattoos. Three more in fact. And they are amazing. I have absolutely fallen head over heels for the tradition, history and artistry of the industry.

And I couldn’t have been luckier than to have met and become part of the family at the incredible Skunx Tattoo studio. You crazy lot make my weekend amazing, without fail, every week. And I love ya! You are amazing artists and I’ve been so lucky to be around you all and to have learnt so much. And not just about tattooing! You’ve made some of my goals achievable. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me this year. You truly are my family and you’re not going to get rid of me that easily!

Highlight number three:  falling in love

I’m not going to get soppy or go into detail. You know who you are. It’s just been possibly the best thing about 2010. Fact.

Highlight number four: Being a fairy godmother again

I now have three beautiful godchildren; Calum, Isobel and Aysha. The twins are growing too quickly! It feels like every time I see them they’ve become even more grown up with their own personalities and opinions. They are intelligent, polite, curious little monsters and I don’t see enough of them. Aysha is a little bundle of terror and joy. At the grand age of three and a half, she loves dancing and stories. She’s still not a fan of my mum (possibly the only child in the history of children who is immune to Auntie Wend’s charm). She’s got a filthy giggle.

And last year for my Christmas present, Aysha asked me if I would be her godmother. In September this year, she had a dedication service, I read a Dr Seuss poem and then we went and partied. And so another parent entrusts me to be a good influence on their child. It’s a real honour to be asked and I do my best. As long as she wears other colours than pink I’m happy.

Having spoken at my nan’s funeral earlier that week, and then doing the reading during the service for the dedication means I’m fairly sure I’ve filled my quota of having to be or speak in a church for at least the next decade. Sound fair?

So that’s it for the minute, four reasons why 2010 has been a fairly brilliant year. There have been some devastatingly sad moments as well, lots of good people are no longer with us. But on reflection, the happy times have outweighed the sad. More highlights when I get another spare 5 minutes!

Jock Sparrer

This afternoon I’m leaving on a jetplane. Admittedly I’ll be back on Sunday but you know how I like a cold open… Tomorrow night Cock Sparrer play my family ancestral stomping ground. The haggis jokes have been flying round, I spent a lunchbreak looking for a kilt in Dalston (needless to say I was disappointed), yes people, tomorrow night we take over Glasgow.

I’ve been to the city a few times to visit friends who were at university there and to see my nan. If I had to live in another city in the UK, it’d be Glasgow. I think it’s because it reminds me a bit of East London. Either that or after a few whiskeys I automatically feel at home…

The gig should be a blinder. The invasion of my punk and skin community to the city coincides with the local Rangers Celtic derby. Timing couldn’t be better. For this reason there is a 10pm curfew on the gig. I’m not entirely clear on the reasons for this. I’m not sure letting our lot loose at 10pm as a collective is the best idea if they are trying to minimise drunken shenanigans. I have a feeling that lots of pubs will be designated drinking holes for one team or another, and not belong to either tribe could lead to a lot of disappointed punks and skins. We’ll have to see.

We’ve got lots of family and friends coming with us, some of which have never seen Sparrer play before. They are in for a treat. This week I re-read parts of Steve Bruce’s brilliant book ‘The best seat in the house’. And I started getting excited. Now the day is here I’m practically beside myself with excitement. The last gig I went to was when the band recently played Pilsen, which resulted in me having the best and biggest collection of bruises since Punk and Disorderly 2009 in Berlin. And I didn’t even see Sparrer from the pit that night!

I’ll try and remember to write a review of the weekend when I get back, but Saturday night, about 9.45pm I want you to imagine something for me. I want you to imagine a couple of thousand Scottish punks singing their hearts out. A few thousand Scottish punks singing England belongs to me. The thought of which is making me laugh already. Like I said, it’s going to be a blinder.

(photo from the marvellous Dob Morrison, Rebellion, Blackpool, August 2010. L-R Brooke, Dad, me, Daryl)

Intermission

Whilst I am waiting for more intelligent minds than I to check my new post (I expect it to cause a stir and I want to make sure it’s an argument, not just incoherent ramblings), I thought I’d share a picture I took yesterday with you. Just reason #542 why I love living in E3. I dare to find another area of London where you could take this photo.

Much love to the Bow Massif.

Peace.

Is a clitoris a fish in the Amazon?

I was recently asked by Labour Uncut to write something for them about women under the ConDem government.

I asked them if I could write something about sex and relationship education and how the academies act will screw over the next generation of young people (no pun intended).

They said ok.

So here's the post. Your comments are always appreciated...

http://labour-uncut.co.uk/2010/08/15/we-owe-it-to-young-people-to-keep-sex-ed-on-the-curriculum-says-hannah-mcfaull/

Walk Towards The People

When friends or family members are in a band, you have to go and support them at gigs. You have to download their tracks. You have to vote for them in competitions. You have to act as if you are their biggest fan, even if you're not. There's a certain pride that comes from seeing someone you know up on stage, putting their music out there for judgement and appreciation. Having many friends who are as fanatical about music as I am means that I have a lot of bands to sit through. Some of these bands are rubbish.

If you are friends with me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter, you can't have failed to notice that I've recently been supporting a band called The Jons in the Live and Unsigned 2010 competition.

Sometimes, the band turn out to be good. Sometimes you find yourself singing their songs in the shower; songs you weren't even aware you knew the words to. And on very rare occasions, your friends surprise you by writing a song that grows in your esteem until it joins your top 10 favourite songs of all time ever. Walk Towards The People is one of these songs. What started off a big-sisterly pride is now fully fledged fandom.

You can check out the video on YouTube here, but before you do that, let me tell you the top three things I love about the track. Firstly, it's a sing-along, as most of The Jons songs are. I'm never happier than when I'm singing, especially in a big crowd. When the crowd (and band) proclaim 'But we absolutely love to shout', there's not a louder voice without a microphone than mine. That one line has made me stop and think. I'm proud to announce that I have come to the conclusion that yes, I do indeed love to shout (and don't do it often enough).

My second reason for loving this song is because the music truly is superb. The guitar and bass lines wind around each other, building to one of the best guitar solos to be recorded in recent years. The song writing is truly solid. The band understand how to create atmosphere and anticipation, juxtaposing passages of hands-in-the-air, head-banging craziness, with subtle, beautiful quieter moments. It really showcases their talents as musicians.

Finally, my third and final reason for recommending you all buy a copy of the single (on vinyl, no less, exclusively available from the band), is that I still can't find a way to describe the song or the band without reverting to cliche. Yes, they are a rock-beat combo, as my nan would say. Yes, they are a bit like the Faces, a bit like the Libertines and a bit like (insert name of other guitar-based all male indie/rock band here). But more importantly, they and this song in particular, gives me goosebumps. Still. After hearing it probably a million and seven times.

So join with me, and together, let's walk towards the people...

You know you've seen a Californian ska band when...

This is an opportunity to give you a taste of not just the London punk scene, but the others I encounter on my copious travels around the world. You may or may not have noticed that I am currently in San Francisco, on what has proved to be the holiday of a lifetime.

When I get home I'll have the opportunity to reflect on the trip properly and really give you my impressions of the city, but for the meantime, let me tell you about a night which started with the immortal words, 'not going to have a big one tonight'. Needless to say it ended with a lift home and lots of giggling.

At the Pirates Press birthday party in November, the warm up show was at a club called Thee Parkside (nope not a typo), which I thought was amazing. A dirty little bar, with an outside courtyard and slices of orange in their Blue Moon beer, served in plastics. I sort of expected Bottom of the Hill to be similar, but after a short space of time was massively enamoured with the venue, (and this is before I even start talking about the music and the bare jokes of an evening that ensued).

The failures most venues have either revolve around their smoking facilities, their lack of opportunity to sit and have a chat, or the fact that you feel removed from the action. This place covered all of those and did it in style. Plus there's a window at the back of the stage so when you're outside smoking you can see the drummer. Like I said; enamoured.

We were there to see a band called The Re-volts, who are on Pirates Press Records. If you like your punk music melodic, passionate, really well played and intelligent, not just in the lyrics, but also in the music, I recommend you check them out. Plus they have the added advantage of being possibly the best looking band I've ever seen in person. I kid you not.

Gigs are always prime locations for some epic conversations, and this one was no exception. From great tales of punk days gone by in San Francisco, to hilarious anecdotes containing not just our friends, but also our acquaintences, it was definitely a night of good banter. There were drunk guys passed out in their seats, and me climbing a metal staircase to put a Skunx Tattoo sticker on it after Jack Daniels number 5.

And to conclude, you know you've seen a Californian ska band when the entire set, aside from the cover of The Clash's Revolution Rock as an encore, was in Spanish. And the crowd knew every word.

Take me out to the ballgame

Today’s musings come not from the usual E3 massive, but from beautiful, sunny San Francisco. So part of the current epic holiday has been an introduction to the game of baseball; thrown in at the deep end watching two Boston Red Sox vs. San Francisco Giants games at A&T Park. Plus a host of other Red Sox games on the TV.

It’s a fun game and once you get into it I can see the attraction (although I was disappointed with the distinct lack of nacho hats, as the Simpsons would have me believe existed).

Yesterday’s game also brought the highlight of almost catching a foul ball. I say almost because I was actually ducking trying to avoid getting hit in the head Fever Pitch style. The ball bounced out of a guy’s hand behind me, and ended up in my bag. He then proceeded to launch himself over the seats, landing on me and grabbed the ball out of my bag. What he didn’t realise is that we were a pretty large group.

When I say pretty large, I’m not just talking about the number of us, but in fact the composition of the party included a high proportion of men who you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley (pussycats the lot of them).

As his eyes travelled down the row, you could actually see the moment that he wished he hadn’t been quite so eager to claim the ball for himself. What he opened himself up to was a stream of constant banter for the rest of the game, which whilst was good-natured, I’m not entirely convinced he was aware of that!

So to sum up my baseball experience thus far; hitting anything is unusual, getting to first base even more so. There are adverts everywhere, especially when you watch on TV. It’s a long game with exciting moments; try not to be in the bathroom when these happen. And if you happen to have the opportunity to catch a foul ball, be careful who you’re squashing, unless you want 2 hours of teasing and banter. It was all good natured I promise…

Roll up, roll up, get your abortions here...

Over the last week, I've had a number of conversations with friends, colleagues and Facebook acquaintences about the Marie Stopes International advert, which aired for the first time on Channel 4 last night. Many of them had been taken in by the way the controversy had been reported by the press, and fully believed that the advert would be pushing abortion as the only option. One went as far to say, "I don't understand how showing abortion on TV is going to promote it, surely it'll be too gross to come across in a good light". This follows the news today that the number of abortions being carried out in the UK has fallen for another year.

Cath Elliot's post on Comment is Free outlines many of the points I wanted to raise with regards to the way the story was manipulated by the press; "rather than the "Oh-my-God-they-want-to-kill-all-the-babies! shock fest" the likes of Christian Concern for our Nation (CCFON) and the Society for the Protection of the Unborn Child (SPUC) had been hyping it as, what we were presented with instead was a completely innocuous ad for a women's support service that didn't even mention the word abortion once."

The reaction from my friends has merely highlighted to me something I have believed for a long time - we don't talk about sex education enough in the UK, and when we do, we don't talk about it in the right way. The focus is on how to have safe sex alone, which fails to address the underlying issues of whether or not it's right to have sex at that point in your life, or with that person. It doesn't even begin to address issues of self-respect, body image or even how to talk about sex with your partner or your family. Never once was it mentioned that sex is more than just pro-creation and that sex is actually lots of fun when you do it right!

Sex was never a taboo subject in our house. With my Mum as a Youth Worker, we always had boxes of condoms under the stairs, which used to be doled out whenever any of our mates asked for them. But even with all the information at my fingertips, a supportive family and the freedom to ask any questions I wanted, I've still found myself in some questionable situations. I have been able to make the choices that suited me best, because I was fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to make those choices. So many women and girls aren't lucky enough to have what I had. That's why adverts on TV which promote the places you can access unbiased and factual information are vital.

I've never found myself in the position of having to decide whether abortion is the right choice for me. Friends have, and I've seen the anguish they've gone through. Maybe because I had enough of the right information, I could make the decisions about the type of contraception was right for me and feel confident in my decision to have sex (or not as the case often was...)

My plea to you today is, please continue to support the sharing and promotion of information about sex, relationships and reproduction. Please don't let avenues be shut off before women and girls have been able to consider whether that option is right for them. And please, please, please let's keep pushing for better compulsory education in our schools - not just the 'passing round a Femidom and everyone laughing at it' sort of education, but the type that empowers our young people to say no, to feel good about themselves having sex and to be fully prepared for it.

If you need impartial and confidential advice about any aspect of sexual activity, please contact Marie Stopes International

Pretty Fly (For a White Girl)

My obsession with punk music started with a double tape best of The Clash. It was red, with each cover having a black and white photo of one of the band on it. I listened to it continuously; in the car, in my bedroom, on my walkman. Wherever I went, you could guarantee I had it with me. I was about 11.

For my sister, it began with Americana, the 5th album from the Offspring, released in 1998. I was too caught up under the Westway to even remember how she came across the album. I’m not sure she even knows. All I know is that within a year, it had become a family staple.

It may not surprise you to find out that my family has incredibly bizarre choices of playlist for what may be considered run of the mill family situations. I’ll give you such an example: we usually spend Christmas with my mum’s side of the family, which really warrants a post of its own, however on occasion, we celebrate the birth of pointless consumerism with my Dad’s siblings. That’s when we tone it down and stick to reggae.

So there are certain albums which frame my childhood. Ones which I only have to hear the opening bars of before I’m transported back to being three kids squashed in the back of a car, singing all the words at the top of our voices. That too warrants a post of its own.

But Americana became one of those, and was subsequently usurped by the far superior Smash. By this point the entire family was hooked.

The only reservation any one of my family came from my mum, who thought my siblings’ exposure to some of the language slightly too much. So she tried to minimise the exposure.

But in reality, her efforts acted to highlight the very thing she was trying to avoid. Those of you familiar with the work of Dexter, Noodles et al (coincidentally the names of two of my brother’s gerbils), will know the part of Bad Habit I’m about to relate to. The particularly abusive, sweary, shouty bit in the middle. The bit that still tickles the 13 year old anarchist inside of me.

Mum used to turn the volume down to avoid a particular phrase, and attempt to turn it back up after that passage was over. But the timing was never right, and on each occasion without fail, she’d turn it up for us to joyfully join in with the last line. Even now I can’t hear it without gleefully shouting “stupid dumbshit goddamn motherfucker”, with a 13 year old’s grin on my face. It never gets old.

Tonight I discovered Spotify and as such, have been listening to a lot of the old family staples.  I’m sure there will be more on this theme to come, but for the meantime, join in with me on a chorus - ‘so live like there’s no tomorrow…’

Inky fingers

I've just finished reading an excellent article in this month's issue of 'Skin Deep' about workplace prejudice in relation to body art, which I would recommend people check out. This comes hot on the heels of a friend of mine losing marks during an assessed presentation for having her tattoos on show. Apparently tattoos do not convey a professional image and demonstrate a lack of business acumen. This is clearly rubbish. Some of the most successful business people I know are covered in ink.

It's got me thinking about tattoo prejudice, and there have been many excellent articles already written on the subject which I won't rehash here. When I started working at Skunx, there were certain members of my extended family who were horrified, who couldn't understand why I'd chosen to work 'in that environment'.

Now I've never hid my tattoos from anyone, I don't just get to see these family members very often. I've met people who are heavily tattooed and who live with their parents, but keep themselves covered up even in the summer, for fear their parents might discover their 'little secrets'. When I was planning my latest backpiece, my mum begged me to 'think of my wedding dress', a sentiment I didn't understand then and even less now. I'm buying dresses that showcase my tattoo, not cover them up.

The majority of customers I've seen during my short time here, have seriously considered their lifetime commitment to the artwork they are undertaking. They trust the artists to implement their designs and wishes through the medium of tattooing. They are making a conscious decision to express something about themselves through the medium of ink. Of course you get the odd idiot who wants their boyfriend's name permanently written on their wrist, even though they've only been together a month. Those are not typical Skunx customers and we refuse to do it.

As far as the prejudice displayed by members of my family; leave it with me. I'm working on it.

Pulling mussels from a shell

Having been in my new house for 4 months now, I felt it was time to reorganise the record collection, not autobiographically I might add. Amongst the Johnny Cash and Connie Francis oddities, were nestled almost the entire Squeeze discography, most of which I'd forgotten I had.

For the past few weeks I've been rediscovering them one by one and reminding myself why Tilbrook and Difford were lauded over by the music press. I'm not convinced by the Lennon/McCartney comparisons, but maybe that's because I don't like much of the Beatles... I digress

Squeeze were my first ever live gig. It was a Tuesday night, the Southend Cliffs Pavilion was the most impressive venue I'd ever seen and I was 11. I sang every word to every song. It formed the benchmark for all gigs to come: do I love the band? Do I know every word? Can I sleep in the car on the way home? If the answers to all three are yes, then I know it's been a blinder.

From early Jools-included incarnations, to later albums with Mike Rutherford, the stories the songs tell have always been at the heart of what the band have been about. Troubadours, social commentators, write-about-what-you-know advocates, whatever. From pulling women you know are going to nick your wallet and doing it anyway; to fatherhood and crumbling relationships; to celebrating your freedom; the people are vivid, the feelings are real and the tunes stick in your head. I'm not sure I've looked for anything else in a band.

And with that note, I return to a world where the past has been bottled and labelled with love.

The joys of the Roman Road

For the uninitiated, Bow's famous Roman Road is the home to a weekend market, various pound shops, a Wetherspoons and 17 different variations of Krispy Fried Chicken.

If you Google Roman Road, as I did looking for an interesting fact to work into this blog, the first thing that comes up is a clip from YouTube. Shot on a mobile, it is an undercover expose on the market practices from two hapless Watchdog wannabes.

They've accompanied their footage with this:
"Tower Hamlets Market inspectors are not STUPID, they are CRIMINALS. They run the markets to line there own pockets. BRIBE the Inspectors and you can do as you like."

Excellent tourist board advice you must agree.

You can always guarantee Roman Road to provide some form of entertainment. In the last few weeks I've seen a family of five trying to fit themselves and a sofa into a Fiesta, met the same group of 15 year olds three times (we're friends now, they've got me apparantly) and quotes from the Life of Brian graffitied on the side of a shop.

Despite, or maybe because of, these enlightening encounters, the Roman Road epitomises East London for me. Loud, a bit grubby and the cashpoint is probably out of order. Lively, colourful and going about its day. There's no pretence. Roman Road can't be what its not. Maybe that's what I love about it.