sunday

Letters home, from my Granny's brother.

saturday

sunday

The inlay of my grandad's bible, and a newspaper clipping about him.

tuesday

saturday

I think more than anything Brocco should be remembered for its cleanliness. One foot out of line, one inkspot, one bracelet brushed against the chalky white paint, and you tasted the bill.

It was not a place that invited parties, breakages, debauchery, or high spirits of any variety, since each block had been cleverly constructed to minimise your chances of encountering other people. There was no courtyard area to oversee kitchen-sink dramas through the windows of others, to whisper sweet nothings over stagnant binbags, to make eye contact with potential kindred spirits in the lift. Even if you did nothing would ever coax a smile from this particular fount of youth. An upturned nose at best.

And so with bitter regret it soon became apparent I would never walk to lectures with my neighbours, never waltz around their handbags, never exchange "sew gid"s on the staircase. In All Fairness, To Be Fair, it seemed To Be Honest that I was never going to befriend anyone, At The End of The Day. Probably not even by the end of the year.

What sort of upstart complains about having a toilet two feet from their bed, or a de-luxe kitchen simply because it is too long? Well, it was too long. There was nothing central in it; the large table shunted roughly to one side, where the greasy plates lived. The staffroom chairs next to the window we barely felt we could sit on. The TV bracket minus the promised TV. The exorbitant cost of accommodation we hadn't even applied to live in.

Worst of all, the excruciating lack of debauchery. Yes, there would be crumbs afterwards, yes there would be discarded cans of cider. All would be cleared most diligently away by the following morning. And that was as febrile as things ever got.

At least until Salty.

Salty. Salty, the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. Surely every decent boyhood is characterised by a Salty. The greatest regret of my own boyhood is that I never got to meet him until now. You know, the Salty figure. "Salty jumped off the roof today" "Salty gave our Baz a chinese burn" "We went the park and Salty was trapping wasps in his dick".

Well, as it turns out Salty was the missing ingredient with which to transform Brocco into authentic student accommodation. After valiant endeavours on Cribley's part to get us kicked out for arson, it all came down to Salty. Salty, Salty. It was all so simple; why did none of us think of it before? Hire Salty in, get him to set your friend's leg on fire and burn a good deal of the carpet, wait with said friend in A&E til seven in the morning, et voila! you're a fully certified reckless bloody student.

So that's Brocco, the building itself. We're still waiting on the bill, by means of apology for sullying its pristine condition. Sorry, Brocco.

Now, the surroundings! this place will be unrecognisable next year on account of the never-ending construction of palatial edifices for the de-luxe modern student - so here are some valuable details for posterity.

Edward Street Flats were once the residential focus of Edward Street. I know nothing about them except apparently a few years ago somebody got murdered there. Fear not, that could never happen to a student, Daddy would kick up hell. As it is Daddy has nothing to complain about but the prostitution, which remains the most enchanting feature of this barren land.

Heck, I know how my loan's getting covered. I've had as many offers as anything else female from Brocco, twenty-two in total, my favourite being the one where the man lunged for my arm as I was going up some steps, but I think I've got all the mileage out of that story since it is the red light district after all.

It's the prostitutes you felt bad for, standing bare-legged in the rain. I didn't have many close encounters with them, one shouted "Bitch!" once as I was on my way out, and there are blurred memories of another thanking Zoë vigorously for a cigarette after Corp. Still, you couldn't miss 'em. Every night they'd be yelling things to each other, for hours on end. Things like "WHERE'S HE GONE NOW?", "I'VE BEEN WAITING AGES!", and memorably, "BRIGID, WHERE'S ME FUCKIN' SKIRT?!!"

And the last night in Sheffield, walking back at three or four past St Georges' church, part of an affable altercation between two hunched-over, black-clad males and the tallest, most recognisable, most emaciated of the prostitutes:

"I've eaten y'shit, I 'ave!"

"I know y'ave!"

"Well, then!"


Well, then. Brocco, you've been a doll. Sharrow Vale Road has a lot to live up to.

monday

I'm Happy Just To Dance With You


Since starting university I've learnt nothing but this repertoire of scorchin' moves. And from the goodness of my palpitant heart, I've decided to release some in order that you too are entitled to beat it out whenever the music swings high, wide and gutbucket.


Fig. I: Adopting a benign, vaguely quizzical facial expression, proceed to juggle two imaginary weights, all the while fixating eyes upon your partner as though requesting their advice on a valuable business enterprise. Feet should paddle gently along the dancefloor, with the accompanying knees to ascend approximately ten centimetres at a time. If the atmosphere gets a-steamin' then don't hesitate to whirl your partner under your arm, but do it tenderly, courteously, with a sloping spinal column on your part.
Try it at home! Arcade Fire - No Cars Go


Fig. II: Here, the officious pointing gesture wins out. Whether or not you like the song, it's the haute couture in disdain these cats are after. Mouth should be thrown scornfully ajar, with the nether lip playing occasional host to a single tooth in heated moments. Indeed, under any remotely passionate circumstance, muscle energy may additionally be expended to the neck, which ought to jerk uncomfortably to the frisk-a-frisk beat. But remember: be discerning. The little numbers that please your companions are the little numbers you ought to sit out imperiously at the bar.
Try it at home! Something so AWESOME! you haven't heard it yet, and by the time you do it will have ceased to be AWESOME!.


Fig. III: This one is top of the props with a pair of novelty specs mandatory, although second rate hangers-on will be acquitted with a glowstick. The principal gesture is derived from bodybuilding, but bodybuilding with a hot-hosin' twist: do it with the one arm. Raise it high, raise it low, raise it horizontal but most of all raise it as though it's the heaviest iron weight you ever tripped across. And you gotta be scrawny. Muscles are a no-no, and legs too developed for needle-girth jeans will be laughed out of the house. For those of you still with us, however: accompany the motion with a monotone incantation of your choice - in Nottingham, "Network - network - network fuckin' rail" has proved popular.
Try it at home! Clarky Cat - Secret Society


Fig. IV: As a general rule this clambering motion is performed best by those in the medical profession, or those gearing helplessly towards it. A nurse, for instance, may reason that an arduous day administering pills to the feeble now warrants a little infirmity on her own terms. Fear not, radiant health won't set her back long, not with this prescription to contend with. Couple of hours and she'll be scuttling along after her liver as it foxtrots the floor. Least it's got moves.
Try it at home! Justice - D.A.N.C.E.

friday

tuesday