There’s no excuse for it.

Don’t give them the opportunity to let their seat flip up. To have a nap. To check their mobile.

Come at them like a V8, twin-turbo rampant hot-rod pulling 555 horsepower at 6,000 revs.

Fill a sock with pound coins. Club people over the head with it. Over and over and over. Don’t give them any chance of escaping this onslaught. Laugh as the blood trickles down their forehead.

And when you’re done with the sock, punch those bastards full on in the face.

Hold out a hand… offer them a lifeline… then snatch it away and kick ‘em when they’re down.

And if they still don’t get it? Go back to the sock.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” ― Henry David Thoreau

As soon as the result was known – after that agonising 16 minute wait to know whether Leeds had done the business over Watford – it inevitably started. No, no, it started before that, didn’t it? In the pre-match build-up. How much would a winning goal be worth? What riches could promotion to the Premier League bring to the city? How would all of our lives in HU postcodes be transformed? How much focus would descend on the latitude and longitude identifier 53.7456709, -0.3367413? Why, we could be the centre of the Universe.

As if promotion itself wasn’t enough.

As if the moment itself wasn’t enough.

As if this wasn’t about a football club.

“I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.” – Groucho Marx

Suddenly, everyone’s latching on to promotion, trying to suggest that what they do has equal stature. Everyone’s Premier League. Everyone’s promoted. Everyone’s moving on up. Every organisation is muscling in. Every individual is using it as the catalyst for…another bloody blog post.

As if. As if the feeling when Proschwitz’s strike hit home wasn’t enough. As if McShane’s goal to put City in the lead wasn’t enough. As if…

As if being there on that day wasn’t, in and of itself, enough.

Let’s worry about what happens next another day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Let’s live in the moment and enjoy it for what it is. Which is. It.

“Be present in all things and thankful for all things.” – Maya Angelou

And Hull was always the centre of the Universe.

Excuse me? CSI: Hull? Someone’s having a laugh, right?

No, no, it’s a preview of the new work by Richard Wilson.

I don’t belie…

No, no. Not that Richard Wilson. Richard Wilson RA. It’s this. In a former caravan factory on Stockholm Road, now home to Commercial Systems International (CSI) Hull, the longest permanent sculpture in Europe is being manufactured.  Richard Wilson’s Slipstream is 79 metres long, weighs 77 tonnes, and is larger than an A400 Jet. It’s going to be installed in the central court of Terminal 2 at Heathrow Airport, where it will appear to hover six to 20 metres above the ground of the bustling airport passage point, suspended from four roof support columns. It’s got to be seen to be believed. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime preview. Breathtaking. You’ll be telling everyone that you were there. Steel. Massive steel. Aluminium. And rivets.

Ok. Ok, I’ll come. Maybe.

There’s free beer. And crisps.

I’ll definitely be there.

Slipstream is, we were told, a “spectacular sculpture commission influenced by the location and the evidence of a journey within space.  It’s a groundbreaking example of CSI’s holistic approach to design and manufacture involving pioneering digital production techniques.”

Right now, it’s lots of sections lined up in the order that they’ll be transported to the south of the country.

We swanned about, plastic glass full of real ale in hand, going “ooh,” “aah,” “wow,” “the scale,” “how lovely to see this factory making something,” and “Big, innit.” Here’s a glimpse of what we encountered.

Slipstream is clad in 1.1 kilometres of 1.5 metre aluminium roll (1,650 square metres). The twisted shape of the massive artwork takes its form from the Zivko Edge 540 flown by world champion air racer pilot Paul Bonhomme.

The sections are being taken down to Heathrow one-by-one. Traffic chaos is assured. Heavy lifting gear will be required. But when it’s all in situ and bolted together Slipstream will look like this:

The latest Middle Child show is a production of Amanda Whittington’s adaptation of Alan Sillitoe’s late 1950s classic Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. As director Paul Smith told me at the bar post-show: “The apathy and anger that Arthur Seaton feels is still kicking about. It still feels relevant.”

The production is, without doubt, an event. Fruit is configured in traverse. There are pre-show games and interval bingo. Actors are in character from the off. Punters are asked to dress in 1950s dress (and many do). Raffle tickets provide a clue to the seating arrangements – an era-evocative male/female divide. It’s no ordinary night.

Many come to Saturday Night and Sunday Morning via the Karel Reisz-directed film. Expectations of a contemporary replica of one of New Cinema’s finest moments are high. Thankfully, mad-haired musical director James Frewer underlines all of the action with a score of cinematic proportions, providing wild re-imaginings of The Smiths, Arctic Monkeys, Libertines and Babyshambles. The deft use of projections pinpointing times and locations also add an appropriate multiplex twist to proceedings.

Marc Graham, as Arthur Seaton, has to compete with this aural and visual overload. He doesn’t disappoint. At times, his delivery is so intertwined with the rhythms of the musical accompaniment that he’s like the fifth member of the band. Graham’s an enigmatic antihero, his conscience-less, shagtastic, selfish Thatcherite swagger making no friends despite grabbing the attention throughout.

Middle Child is a company dominated by its male members, if you’ll excuse the Seatonesque, objectionable phrase. However, the three main female players (Ellen Brammar, Sophie Thompson and Emma Bright) all deliver extremely strong performances. Some of this is down to Whittington’s succinct text but much is in the playing. Their strength is also a result of Arthur’s outmoded, anachronistic perspective, as Paul Smith explains. “Arthur sees women and men as different species. Amanda has found a way to rattle through the story and what is interesting to me is that this is an adaptation by a female writer of what is such a male book.”

Seaton’s world is one that revolves around work. He lives for the weekend, as the play’s title states, and his routine is clearly defined. Arthur’s grim, inescapable reality is a result of being part and parcel of the labouring class. His values relating to gender roles, marriage and sex are bundled up with his six-days-a-week factory lifestyle. As he says, “it’s a hard life. If you don’t weaken.”

Middle Child have clearly been rigorous in their exploration of Seaton’s very being. Their factory, their working life, is the rehearsal room; their repetitive stress injuries a result of recognising their relationship, as young people, to an enduring fictional character who repeatedly fucks things up along the way.

“Arthur changes more in the play than in the novel,” Paul told me. “The play sees him coming of age, growing up and leaving behind the youtfhful, out-of-control world that we all live in.

“We wanted the play to be immersive, challenging and a boxing match between the two sides, hence sitting male and female audience members opposite each other. We want the show to feel like anything can happen, that it’s dangerous and alive. It’s about creating a more active sense of theatre.”

Middle Child’s Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is honest, truthful and, unlike Seaton, totally lacking in bullshit. In the 21st century, it’s interesting to experience the audience reactions to Seaton’s apocryphal and abhorrent views on women and ponder his off-kilter politics. This is an energetic, crucial production that you should endeavour to see. Although quite how you’ll manage that I’m not sure, as the final two performances have sold out. Maybe just barge in, drunkenly, like Arthur Seaton would.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is at Fruit, Humber Street, Hull until April 26th, 2013.

The colourful Paul Dennis sharing the frame with Raymond Greenley’s Cosmic Yellow 2

It’s always good when people move beyond talking and get down to the business of doing.

I’ve had some nice chats with Paul Dennis, proprietor and founder of The 1 Gallery. Very often, these have been those post-pub conversations during which you attempt to put the world to rights. In Paul’s case, the arts world.

Paul, I quickly realised, is very passionate about people in the arts and creative sorts of all disciplines getting in a room and sharing knowledge. He also has some really good ideas about building audiences for work. And never, in my far too many decades, have I met a man that’s so good at working a room. He is a consummate networker and presser of the flesh.

Given that I like to stand at the back of most rooms giggling like a schoolboy and undermining proceedings with as many sarcastic comments as I can muster, before grabbing the free drink and skulking off never having spoken to anyone, Paul’s modus operandi is somewhat intimidating. But I admire this man’s ability to drive creative conversations with people he holds in high regard.

And, gulp, I dare say I’ve learned a thing or two watching him in action. As we all could as we strive to be better networkers and build the teams of collaborators around us that we need to deliver whatever madcap schemes we’ve come up with.

Paul’s often spoken about discovering and celebrating arts and artists from Yorkshire. He’s forced me to think about intellectual property rights. Given his commercial nous he’d rightly ask theatre sorts, me amongst them, how we’d all get round to earning a decent living  from what we do (or monetise it, as some folk say). So he’d not only talk but he’d ask provocative questions and listen to us floundering and thinking out loud.

Last year, Paul moved beyond the chat and made another of his many plans a reality. The 1 Gallery, at Two Humber Quays on Hull’s swanky marina is a commercial gallery the likes of which the city has been crying out for. The gallery really has allowed its owner to make his oft-trotted out catchphrase a reality (indeed, The 1 Gallery strapline is Discovering and Celebrating Art from Yorkshire, the italics used reflecting Paul’s passion for the mission at hand).

It’s in a lovely location. Depending on where you’re stood in the building, it overlooks the marina, the city skyline, the Humber estuary, the River Hull, mega-successful Millennium project The Deep and also affords fine views of the Humber Bridge. Humber Street, Fruit and the rightly celebrated Fruit Market cultural area are just a swift walk across a bridge away. Above Paul’s sizeable space and in the adjacent One Humber Quays, there are financial institutions and big players who, one would hope, will invest in some of the fine art that is on display. As a theatre company – Ensemble 52 – we were delighted to be able to hold our recent Theatre Concourse event at The 1 Gallery. Something just felt very right about asking over 70 theatremakers to get in this particular room at this particular time. We’d certainly like to return, en masse, at some point.

I’ve since taken to nipping in for a coffee, a browse and further chats. Usually, as I stick my head around the corner, Paul will be in a meeting with one of the artists he’d like to work with. There’s always a warm welcome and an invite to join in. To listen. To talk. To share knowledge. And, out of these conversations will come other projects that Paul, and others, will end up doing.

If you’ve not yet paid a visit you really should move it up the priority list. Opening hours are Monday, Wednesday and Friday only, noon-4pm. Private viewings can also be arranged.

You can find out more and buy yourself some art by visiting The 1 Gallery website. Paul has also recently launched the website LuvUll.

As Prime Minister, Clement Attlee oversaw the rebuilding of post-war Britain, and the birth of the nation’s Welfare State. More than one survey of academics has voted Attlee the most successful British Prime Minister of all time. Read more.

I am a pygmy of the left.

Mourning the lost generation. The broken unions.  The individuals and communities thrown on the scrap heap.

The havoc wreaked on a nation as the state encouraged the worship of the free market.

Mourning the damage caused in the name of greed.

Where there was harmony, she brought discord. Where there was truth, she brought error. Where there was faith, she brought doubt. And where there was hope, she brought despair.

The state of this nation, in 2013, is a result of Thatcherism.

So, no tears.

No respect.

No admiration.

No hypocrisy.

Just…

I am a pygmy of the left.