If she was honest with herself - which he rarely was with anyone - she was never really that sure about their relationship. They had met on a blind date during what she regarded as a low point in the series of low points that was her mid 20s.

The first date first impression left something of a sour taste in her mouth; she found his laugh irritating, his pictures incredibly misleading about the extent to which he could sustain an interesting conversation, and just generally a little cheated by the lonely hearts classified. Once her good friend Stella had muttered a word into the ear in her gullet, however, her opinion softened.

She lay there the morning after her birthday, staring up at the cracks and the mildew on the ceiling above them for what felt like eternity. Breath by breath, her lungs filling with the dank air of the room, she was overcome with an overwhelming emptiness. Neither joy nor frustration came about as she called upon every fibre in her being to muster up an emotional response to the man lying next to her as he had done for so long now.

On that morning, in spite of her indifference, something shifted. For the first time in their relationship, he went out of his way to ask her what was on her mind. He re-assured her that he wanted to know what was really going on behind the wall she had erected. So she told him.

“Nothing,” she muttered, at which point she turned to look him in the eyes, “I have been snookered by your idiocy.”

It was a sound that he had been trained for since school, but all that popped into his mind when it sounded for real was the way that he and his university housemates used to use this as a sick form of practical joke during a comedown. In this instance, however, this was no such joke; rather, the countdown siren was ringing out, and instead of seeking shelter with a mild panic, he chuckled to himself, reminiscing.

He was flooded with warmth that slightly paled in comparison to the heat about to engulf the entire city. He thought back to those university housemates, to the simpler days of the biggest worries in life pertaining to whether or not you had dropped your pill at the most efficient point in the evening’s entertainment. He thought back to the friends who were no longer with him, to those with whom he had completely lost contact. It was with their faces etched into his mind, and with a blissful serenity in the knowledge that in less than 10 minutes they would all be reunited, that he flicked through his record collection and plucked out a favourite from their countless after parties. Thus, he set about dancing his way into the oblivion.

Watching the film in 2025, to celebrate its 20th Anniversary, it is quite easy to sit and draw comparisons with subsequently released coming-of-age films, but there are two that really spring to mind that Thumbsucker feels as though it laid the groundwork for, the first being Little Miss Sunshine. The odd-squad dynamic is somewhat reminiscent of The Breakfast Club, but given the balance of adults and teens it feels more akin to Little Miss Sunshine. Throw in a road trip involving a vaguely irresponsible bit of adult decision-making in the middle of it, and the comparisons continue. The film’s distinct independent aesthetic, dealing with the beautiful nature of the Oregon area and combining it with a deeply authentic, character-driven narrative is consistently at its core and is hypnotising from beginning to end.

The second similar film that comes to mind is Lady Bird. By the end of both films, our protagonist has made a decision to leave the west coast and head to New York City for college. There is something to be aspired to in New York, particularly on screen with a rich legacy of films set and shot here - it is no wonder that it is a quite typical goal for protagonists in coming of age films, which allow their directors an opportunity to fulfil their teenage dreams. Removed, however, from the feel-good and high-concept nature of ‘80s coming of age films by the likes of John Hughes, in these independent coming of age films this decision is not universally celebrated. The idea of moving to the big city is a shock, leaving behind the comforts of the small pond that they were raised in - our two protagonists rock the boat and upset parents along the way, but ultimately these are two films about teenagers who are ready to fly the coop - a theme that will maintain universality almost forever.

These comparisons are not sought to dumb down the plot of the film, but rather to further evidence why I feel the question needs to be asked about why this film is not spoken about more widely. Given Mills’ subsequent success, ultimately building towards Oscar-winner C’mon C’mon, it is bizarre that this film has not been given a retrospective re-release. Then, when you consider the permanent relatability of the subject matter, a beautiful Oregon backdrop that was also tapped into regularly by the wonderful Kelly Reichardt, and it really raises the question even louder. Granted, the film lacks some of the defining features of Mills’ work, such as the combination of documentary and fiction, and is one of the few films in his filmography that doesn’t tap into his own personal story, but that doesn’t necessarily detract from its quality - it simply sets it apart within Mike Mills’ Filmography.

The film features Keanu Reeves, fresh off the back of the original Matrix trilogy; Vince Vaughn was at the height of his comedic fame having just released Old School, Dodgeball and Wedding Crashers; Tilda Swinton who had begun her journey from Jarman muse to industry-appreciated powerhouse with a number of nominations from major awards to her name. With this kind of star power under its belt, the film should have been a surefire box office success, but Mills said in an interview with The Guardian at the time that he felt the film was unmarketable. The exact reasons he gives in this interview are the lack of nuanced understanding of family dynamics, in the US in particular, leading to this being a film that is branded as “quirky” or “independent” and is left in that box for the cinephiles, and the cinephiles alone. With hindsight, and with access to the internet having educated everyone on diagnoses and basic self-help, perhaps characters like Reeves’ dentist-come-therapist are actually much more ready for the masses to find relatable 20 years along the line. Could it be that this was a film before its time worthy of being revisited and worthy of a re-release?

One element of the film that was promised during production, but never came into fruition, was the original soundtrack. This is something, I hypothesise, that would have cemented the film’s status as a talking point for generations and would have made it much more marketable at the time. While the eventual soundtrack featured three songs made by him, Mills’ original plan was to have the entire soundtrack made by Elliot Smith. Already held in god status by many fans of sad acoustic music, Smith would have added a touch of the marketability that Mills felt was missing. He had already been nominated for an Academy Award for his work on Good Will Hunting, and his withdrawn, haunting vocal performance would have complimented the independent coming of age film that Mills was producing incredibly well.

The three songs that Smith did contribute to the soundtrack are undeniably the strongest, elevating the tone of the film. However, it is not just the soundtrack itself that would have made the film marketable, but also the untimely manner of his death. With the film shot in 2003, the same year as Smith’s death, there is a chance - the cynic in me says - that a studio could have capitalised on this for helping to sell the film. A master’s final work played out as the soundtrack to a film that echoes so many themes of his personal life, the presence of an Elliot Smith soundtrack could have turned this film into the Sad Boy equivalent of The Dark Knight. Both films, good in their own right, had a right to be successful without the unfortunate death of some of their major contributors - but where Heath Ledger’s passing solidified the lore around The Dark Knight, Thumbsucker did not benefit in quite the same way from Smith’s death.

Cynicism around promotion aside, a Smith soundtrack would have helped underscore the key emotional beats of the film - no doubt aided by the fact that as someone who struggled with his own ADHD while living in Oregon, he would have had a close personal attachment to the narrative of the film. However, with or without this soundtrack, I do feel like as the world has changed to except stories that were potentially seen as ‘strange’ or ‘atypical’ as more of the societal norm - perhaps it is time for the world to see Thumbsucker given a second chance to get itself the audience it deserves.

The latest John Lewis Christmas ad dares to show some level of difference from the entirely cutesy, heartwarming formula that Christmas ads have stuck to for the longest time. There is no acoustic, solo artist cover of an ‘80s pop anthem slowed down 2x. There is no man on the moon. There is no animated foodstuff. However, in its use of the actual recorded version of ‘90s dance tune instead - John Lewis stumbled across another formula. Anyone who has seen Charlotte Reagan’s fantastic independent film Aftersun will know exactly what I am talking about. It is the dominant culture ‘borrowing’ from counter culture, and it is plain to see.

Counter culture has long been leaned into for trends. As a skate fanatic, I have seen a genuine subculture borrowed from by advertisers to gain cool points, and tapped into by giant corporations to further expand their sporting monopolies. Skate culture has been poached from and cherry-picked at, much to the dismay of the core of the group. While no one can be mad at the few that get taken along for their payday, it just shows the complete lack of ingenuity on the part of the corporate overlords. These are massive companies that want to play it safe under the guise of independence, not dissimilar to the constant quest in cinema for that “A24 Aesthetic”.

You search for a synonym for outrage, and alongside the likes of “shocking”, which is what these brands, films and artists are going for, you will find terms I find more apt: “dreadful”, “unbearable”, “nauseating”; all often served alongside an overwhelming feeling of self-congratulation. A prime example is Emerald Fennel’s Saltburn. Is guzzling jizzy bathwater really scandalous? Or is it just a talking point? Sure, I wouldn’t be rushing to do it myself, but it’s nothing more than a surface-level gasp-inducer - a prime example of the kind of scandal only sending ripples through the upper classes and the aged. It may not be prim and proper to drink one’s ejaculate-filled bathwater, but seeing someone do so in fiction is about as groundbreaking as a knock-knock joke. It is painting by numbers salaciousness at best, ruffling a few feathers for the bored and lonely who crave a bit of excitement that has been readily available for them since first-wave feminism.

Sex is not scandalous, not since Madonna broke boundaries in the ‘80s and ‘90s has anyone really had to break boundaries on this front. Saying the word cunt isn’t scandalous, or else Danny Dyer would have had no chance of worming his way into solid ‘national treasure’ status. However, these are the kinds of micro-rebellions that occupy so much space in cultural conversations. So much so that it means when anyone is brave enough to break the mould for real, they are often reprimanded for it, exactly the way that rebellions and revolutions have been treated throughout history by the system they push against. I’m not talking about JK Rowling testing the boundaries of just how much of your time is acceptable to hound trans people and trans rights activists online - it is not ‘cancel culture’ that concerns me, but just how these artists who genuinely innovate are pushed into niches only to have their entire schtick stolen by the mainstream as soon as it proves successful.

The hegemonic masses are incapable of being genuinely creative, and they envy the counter-cultural figures for having a bone of genuine creativity in their bodies. Just look at Elon Musk, the world’s wealthiest man, who is seemingly deeply unhappy based on his complete inability to be able to understand what it is to be human or to construct a joke. So, when someone who has less money behind them creates something that the rich wish they had created, they are faced with two choices: do you want to make some money so we, the rich people, can put our name against this product too, or do you want us to steal your whole style further down the line?

The problem is, as soon as it becomes about trying to re-create something that has caused scandal - Sex Pistols’ debut album, for example - you have taken away the very process that allows things to become groundbreaking in such a way. You cannot blue sky your way to scandal. You cannot focus group outrage. It is gutteral, it is not curated. It is a raw need to create from which the artist’s motivations derive, not from a desire to seek clout for being edgy. Even where something is groundbreaking without being scandalous, such as Michaela Coel’s Chewing Gum, which offered the fourth-wall-breaking, witty dialogue-heavy, female-driven narrative approach to sitcom, it is then often commodified by someone in a more fortunate position and then claimed as their own.

In turning the formerly counter-cultural work of others into the central element of their formula, artists are reducing the lasting cultural impact of those they are ripping off and ensuring they form part of the homogenous landfill of content alongside themselves. If they spent this much time trying to craft a good product instead of trying to craft a scandal where there is none, the world of media would be much better for it. Post-break-up albums slagging off your ex and wearing hot pants while pretending to do lines of coke on stage might help people sell albums, but it will never cover up the pungent stink of their inauthenticity.

I think it is important to clarify that I am not completely pro-AI, nor am I completely anti-AI - in fact, you could seriously save yourself some time and stop reading now if you are looking for a clear answer on whether it is a good or a bad thing. I am not really writing to critique Artificial Intelligence, but rather how the debates around it are ignoring wider issues.

AI, used as a blanket term often to solely refer to Generative AI, is not responsible for laziness and in fact, those who present their argument in a statement like this are themselves guilty of laziness and lacking in the creativity department. If creativity is the victim of bloody murder, as so many people claim it is, then AI is not the murderer. Generative AI, instead, is more akin to a zombie: something that resembles the deceased, but in a form that is entirely unlike its original self. Creativity is in there somewhere, it is just caked in the rotting flesh of falsely happy voiceover artists who were never really here. Creativity, in its original form, needed to be killed to become part of the undead, and ultimately, - much like the allegorical meaning of any good zombie film, the blame is pinned back on us as a society - specifically, I would draw comparisons to George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead and say that the blame lays largely at the door of capitalism.

Obsessed with the surety of return on investment, we created a data-driven world where thought, free-will and gutterall instinct were taken away. Gone are the days of making advertising based on a feeling that it might be something new, but rather it has to be backed up with engagement figures to guarantee its success. Social media, algorithms and rewarding certain kinds of content with inflated popularity based on the specific build of the platform these are where we have seen our precious creativity slip away. In a world obsessed with ‘side hustles’ and turning everything from hobbies to raising children into opportunities for monetisation and ‘brand deals’, the creative has been replaced with soulless content machines intent on pleasing only the algorithm that rules over them. Post using this exact word count, use this number of hashtags, make sure to get a couple of emojis in there at the start of each line… Content is creativity by numbers, and it has sucked the joy out of creating, and I should know - it was my job to regurgitate news from other sources in a slightly more light-hearted way for £30 per article for about 3 years.

Original thought is not rewarded by a system that rewards people for playing the game. Instead, people have bought into a lifestyle that turns them into a product. Something as simple and joyous as a meal out is no longer a meal out; it is an opportunity to create engagement, to prove yourself as a potential brand partner.

So before generative AI for the masses came social media algorithms. And before the social media algorithms came SEO, another culprit with their head in the stocks - finding themselves accused of the crime of destroying creativity. The internet created the buzzwordification of writing, prioritising your return on a search engine over the joy that someone would have from reading your work. Human emotion is removed because that doesn’t help to pay the bills. Beyond a service economy, we find ourselves all servants.

The internet itself isn’t entirely to blame, either. In every form that creativity is supposedly allowed to shine, there is something with both hands around its neck. In Hollywood, studio executives commission endless remakes, franchises and adaptations of just about any IP that they can get their hands on to guarantee something of a return. Even before you end up with a script in the hands of these greedy executives, you have probably followed the painting-by-numbers story structure guidance of one of the many snake oil salesmen telling you that their version of story structure is the only way to write a script - and for only £50 you can have all of the secrets. Even in schools, children are taught to do creative writing to a very limited set of specifications that reward following the formula set out by an exam board.

Like I said, it is not an internet-specific issue; it is an issue across the creative spectrum. Ultimately, in fact, I don’t really think it is an issue. For as much as it can be proclaimed an issue, and it may reduce the creativity on display in the vast majority of content across these forms, there are always people out there willing to create for the sake of creating, not just to feed the content machine. The money goes where the people are willing to play the game, but there is more than enough space in this content-hungry world for people to create simply for the joy of it and for the joy of having people see things.

Not for a second am I proclaiming that Generative AI is a good thing for creativity, far from it. But, if creating a video of Martin Luther King Jr. turning heel and challenging Malcolm X to a showdown at Wrestlemania using Sora AI is bringing you kicks and letting you flex your creative muscles, then good for you. Sure, you’ve just wasted enough water to keep entire villages hydrated for about a year, but it beats reading another formulaic post slagging off AI to try and get engagement on LinkedIn.

As I finish this article, there are about 50 or so Grammarly recommendations; I have made a creative decision to ignore them. There is no SEO check going on, no emojis to increase readability, and no structural formula followed (as I’m sure you can tell). Who is to say whether that makes this better or worse, more creatively earnest? The only thing we can really know for certain is that I’d rather have written this than mined social media for trending topics to re-write about.

When he stepped back from his responsibilities on Veep, longtime god-figure in the political comedy world Armando Iannucci remarked how political satire had lost its appeal to him as a line of work. He found that when the world of politics was so far-fetched, there was no longer fun to be had in crafting far-fetched political narratives. Jokes about the ridiculous mishandling of scandal after scandal began to get rather samey, as politicians seemingly tried their absolute hardest to consistently make themselves look like a prat. The times have changed, however. This week (despite gaffes around teleprompters, speaker systems, and escalators), when Donald Trump - he of Covfefe fame - took to the stage to address world leaders at the UN, his crowd no longer laughed at his ridiculousness, instead they sat there and listened, genuinely afraid that the leader of one of the world’s superpowers is so unhinged that he could cause global catastrophes just because somebody didn’t nod along to his very ineloquently phrased tirades. In this world, it feels that the time for light-hearted political satire is still gone, but for different reasons than before. With the rising feeling of all-out dystopia in the real world, the time for light-hearted satire has passed - instead, it is the turn of other genres to hold our money-hungry overlords to task.

Genre films have long acted as a means of making social commentary. In sci-fi, where we see aliens as threatening, they act as an allegory for an issue affecting people in the real world: be it the threat of gentrification of council estates in Attack the Block, or the waking up to the importance of environmental concerns in Warning From Space; or, when they are seen as peaceful, they act as a means of holding the mirror up to our own society, forcing us to reflect on how our systems cause issues, such as issues around divorce in E.T.. Like I said, this is nothing new - this ground is well-tread. However, in a world where satirical comedy is silenced, taken off the air, and sued to high heaven, there is an increased need for storytelling that challenges a regime.

While there is a place for the Jimmy Kimmel’s of the world to offer their light entertainment version of criticism, there is an increased need to go beyond name-calling. The idea that the right is stupid is an old, over-played stereotype: political persuasion has limited correlation to intelligence. Name-calling can only take a movement so far, then before long, you are just preaching to the converted - themselves stupid enough to be convinced that the fact that someone is willing to make a couple of jokes makes a difference, and laugh along as their favourite light entertainer distacts them as the world around them burns.

So, when the laughter stops, what are we to do? People on both sides of a political argument feel angry. Angry at a system that has let them down. Angry at one another for not seeing things from their point of view. People are right to feel angry, but currently, only one side of the political spectrum appears to harness that anger to fuel action. Rightly or wrong, these actions are far more effective at winning over a point of view than a couple of jokes or an impersonation; it is this anger-turned-action that separates Paul Thomas Anderson’s attack on the current state of US Politics in One Battle After Another from something like Mark Rufallo’s light entertainment impressionism in Mickey 17 or South Park’s ongoing dick jokes at the president’s expense. PTA manages to channel this rage, this frustration at the state of the nation into something that is all-out, all-consuming action - so much so that you can get so wrapped up in it all that even the most pro-Trump person may come away having heard the message that he is making.

Too busy calling one another ‘woke’ and ‘gammon’, neither side of the political spectrum can bear to hear what the other has to say in debate, so to expect that from them in their cultural sensibilities is perhaps a little unfair. In choosing the blockbuster as the vehicle for his message, PTA manages to reach people that traditional comedic satire cannot in this day and age. I don’t suggest for one second that this film has the power to save the world, but it certainly has the scale to spread a message, not to mention it is awfully enjoyable along the way.

There is a reason that the big-budget, blockbuster depiction of the finance world has an appeal to that crowd. Friday nights spent in the local Wetherspoons, sniffing every last flake of the crust bag of MCat, leave a lot to be desired. Scorsese’s film is a clear form of escapism - it certainly felt more otherworldly than, say, the cantina in Star Wars. However, beneath the flashy glitz of what Variety described as “three hours of cash, drugs, hookers, repeat”, there was an element of criticism levelled at this lifestyle that, for the most part, was missed by the people recommending it to everyone they met. For three months, the film itself became almost cocaine-like in how it dominated these people’s nights out; even talking about the film became addictive. Lost in the hype of it all, many people couldn’t look past the film at a surface level; every recommendation to watch the film came with a rather mundane explanation that the film was “fun”.

I know that personally, on first viewing, I failed to see past the coke-fuelled editing style and hideous amounts of money on display, and to me, that made it an unbearable film. The first four attempts to watch the film were cut short by falling asleep, to the point where I was convinced that in order to enjoy the film you probably had to be off your rocker on cocaine yourself. The only reason I knew that not to be true was that for many of the people recommending the film to me, cocaine was not part of their life, or at least not yet.

Cut to 10 years later, and I can still see the same faces if I walk into those pubs on a Friday night. Very little has changed: their jeans are slightly tighter, their teeth slightly whiter, but their nose still hoovers up white powders. In fact, the only major difference is that in place of the void that existed where their personality was meant to be 10 years ago, they now have a crypto account and a cocaine addiction, essentially making it brat. for straight white blokes.

Much was argued at the time about whether the film was glamorising the lifestyle that Belfort displayed, with people generally split down the middle. The quick cuts, warm lighting and high production values certainly led to an aesthetically pleasing film, but narratively, some elements should have made the viewer question whether this is a desirable lifestyle. Maybe it is easy to struggle to read between the lines when you’re watching Leonardo DiCaprio’s character shovel coke into his hooter and sexually assault his wife, but I don’t think it should be.

Perhaps, despite their intentions to question the capitalist system, Scorsese and DiCaprio didn’t go far enough. At a whopping three hours long, there is a definite need to try and craft the film in a hypnotising style that sweeps people up and keeps them away from checking their watches to see how long is left; however, in their quest to create a film that was both inherently watchable as a blockbuster while still packing in a critique of a capitalistic system, the wires got a little crossed. In fact, there is something rather ironic about defending a picture that cost $100 million to make and grossed over $400 million as having set out to critique capitalism in the first place. In the process of spending all of this money on the film, they forgot to make the critique plain enough to see for the many people who bought tickets to see it, and rather than critiquing this lifestyle, they crafted a blueprint for them to follow to chase the lifestyle they were sucked into for three hours.

Reflecting upon this, I can’t help but feel a little bit sad about where it all went wrong for this supposed mission, not because I think that a blockbuster of this size could ever truly cause a systemic change away from disgusting levels of consumerism, but rather for the people who followed the roadmap to success that Belfort’s story gave to them. They bought the quarter zip, put on the company-branded gilet, and got themselves hooked on coke; the world of The Wolf of Wall Street couldn’t be further from their reality, as they continue to buy into the propaganda of the capitalist system all from the comfort of their local pub on a device that fits into their pocket, not knowing that the closest they will every get to achieving this is a night out with bottle service at some intolerable club in Clapham.

For the longest time, I felt stuck, creatively. I had written a number of screenplays: shorts, features, sitcoms, drama series, but none of them have made it to the screen. The obstacle of funding prevented me from doing it for myself, the need to work endless hours to afford to live in the world’s most expensive city got in the way of my ability to network, and so these scripts sat on my hard drive collecting their digital dust. Sure, there had been some outlets for creativity, like posting blogs, sharing poems and short stories via the internet; I performed stand-up as a means of getting work out there; nothing, however, achieved the goal I had moved to London for - writing scripts that others would watch. It’s easy to blame other things: pandemics, funding, fatigue, jobs, relationships, friendships, gatekeepers. But fundamentally, the only thing I was being gatekept from was my own creativity. The only gatekeeper was me. I needed something to snap me out of it.

In January this year, David Lynch - one of the purest creatives to have ever walked this planet - died. This is a man responsible for a film that opened my eyes to a world beyond formulaic storytelling, the first time I saw Lost Highway; a man I hold responsible for the styling choices of most of my ex-partners; a man responsible for one of my favourite clips to hit the internet.

itsafridayonceagain

A post shared by @itsafridayonceagain

Beyond the personal impact he had on me, David Lynch symbolises creating for the sake of creating. He would ask wannabe filmmakers to go out to truly understand their idea, and let the idea be the driver behind everything, not what you think an audience or somebody with funding might like, but make the best film in the sense of how well it brings your idea to life. This is a man who absolutely practised what he preached in that regard. This is a man who, in addition to his feature films (most of which were nominated for Academy Awards) and his television work (which is looked on as some of the most influential television of all time), also has a YouTube channel with 1.8k videos posted to it. While not all are ‘films’ as such, there is no doubting that this man was constantly creating.

As an educator, I was responsible for telling students endlessly that the best way to learn about filmmaking was to make a film, that the best reason to create a film was for the sake of creating it. As a creative, as a filmmaker, I did neither of these things. I had become a man who was more of a “do as I say, not as I do” teacher, rather than someone who practised what they preached. David Lynch’s passing was the kick up the backside I needed to go and make a film for the sake of making it.

Re-vitalised in terms of my creativity, I was quickly reminded of the same constraints that I had previously: no budget, no cast, no crew, limited equipment. I was going to be making the film completely alone, something which previously felt daunting this time felt liberating. I was not making a film for anybody else’s tastes, or seeking anybody else’s permission - I had complete creative freedom. Well, ‘complete’ as long as it didn’t cost any money, could be shot using a static camera on a tripod, and could be shot in the two free hours I had that day.

Rather than being scared by these restrictions, I found them liberating. The rules I was writing to were set by myself, not by anybody else, and not by second-guessing what may help further my career or get me funding. I was writing the film that I wanted to make, a strange film, but one that I felt I was capable of bringing to life. I am a writer, really, not a writer-director-actor-sound-recordist-editor-make-up-artist - but at least I knew the limitations of my budget and my crew, and I wrote the script I knew I could bring to life: so I did.

I hated watching myself back. I regretted my decision to cover my face in golden syrup. But I had a wail of a time seeing something leave my screenwriting software and get covered in fake blood while I did my best to bring it to life. It isn’t a conventional film, but I didn’t want it to be; I just wanted it to exist. I found ways of holding a boom mic with my knees to capture sound most effectively; I played around with motion in post-production to create a sense of movement when I could only use static cameras; I perfected a rather tasty recipe for fake blood; I wrote a script for a client who was unwilling to pay even the littlest fee and the strictest criteria. I learnt a lot, and I had a great time doing it. Far from perfect, technically, the film had achieved so much more than perfection: it brought me joy. High on the joy that came with completing my first film since I was in my first year at university, I started slinging it off to this festival and to that, and before long, it was showing at a short film night.

While I have posted stories, photos, poems and personal essays online, this was the first time being live with an audience in the room since I finished performing stand-up. It was just as nerve-wracking. Where your online audience and engagement is generally reduced to facts and figures about how many people liked or shared or stopped reading after 20 seconds, being in the room with your audience allows you to see what their emotional responses are. The raw emotional response, not the one that they’ve had time to type up and comment on, but their physiological reactions. Memories came flooding back of gigs where it felt like there would be maybe one or two laughs across a 10-minute slot, and the nerves took over me; I regretted my decision to share and wanted to leave. But then the unthinkable happened. People laughed at the (darkly) funny parts. People said “eww” at the truly gross parts. People reacted the way I wanted them to. Not all of them, of course, but enough to let me know that despite technical and performance imperfections, as a filmmaker I had done my job: I had made the audience feel something.

This film has been rejected from more festivals than it has been accepted to. It is in no way a script that I feel will progress my writing career. But as a film, as a project that I saw through to completion, I could not be more proud of it.

Fortunately, what Celine Song managed to deliver with Materialists was something I didn’t think was possible: not only did it manage to give both myself and the people around me exactly what we had expected as we bought our tickets, it managed to keep a sold-out screening in a multiplex cinema quiet and off of their phones for a full two hours.

If the trailers managed to make me feel somewhat nervous about what I had got myself in for, then the opening 10 minutes didn’t do much to put me at ease. In what I consider to be one of the most terrifying openings in cinema history, there is a group of designer-clad screaming women swiftly followed by a group of drunk people bouncing to ‘Sweet Caroline’ at a wedding. However, as the plot unravelled, I found that rather than pandering to the homogenous mass and losing the heart and authenticity Song established during her phenomenal debut Past Lives, Celine Song uses her incredible ear for dialogue and talent for depicting the authenticity of life to focus her lens on a different demographic. I felt uncomfortable watching the drunk people belting out Neil Diamond at the wedding, because that is exactly how I feel when I see the same thing on display at every wedding I have ever been to.

So, rather than Song deserting the tenderness of her previous film in exchange for the mass-produced genre flick it was marketed as in many parts, the film offers a gentle critique of the audience of these sorts of generic romantic comedies. Gentle in the sense that this critique was not berating the audience from the “I’m better than you” mantle often occupied by the arthouse crowd, it is aware of the audience that it appeals to and uses this to its advantage: blending the familiar ebbs and flows of the conventional landfill rom-coms with the more theatrical, arthouse moments that ask the audience to pause and reflect on not just what is happening within the film, but within the wider world.

Gentle in the sense that this critique is not reserved for the section of the audience that are here to see the stars of the screen, but also of those who consider themselves above that, those (like myself) who went into the film feeling slightly scared that Song would be “deserting her roots” established in Past Lives for a big pay day. Central to the film’s plot, the story of a matchmaker who herself seeks romance, is the idea that as people we are quick to dismiss one another based on surface-level attraction, dismiss one another based on the headline figures: weight, height, upbringing, wealth; Song uses this as an allegory to make the pretentious arthouse crowd flocking to watch the film question themselves for judging the film on its trailer and its billing. We are quick to dismiss things in the modern age, feeling ourselves, in one way or another, too important to waste our time on something that isn’t exactly right, and in the process, potentially miss out on a good time.

The film blends its moments of pop culture with a strong independent spirit in a manner that leaves both sides of the divide questioning whether they are, in fact, the ones with the problem; a film that makes a valid case for the fact that you are allowed to have both the fun, mass appeal of a genre and the artistic integrity of the quiet reflective independent cinema. While for the most part it plays both sides fairly well, at times its messaging can come across as slightly heavy-handed, and audiences can be left with whiplash jumping between the two worlds.

The world seemed to lose its mind over Sean Baker’s Anora, a screwball comedy for the modern age, that blended rawness and authenticity with the glossy appeal, but I see Materialists as much more deserving of this praise. Where Baker’s world seemed polished and neon-clad in a way that slowly but surely, while entertaining, tested the limits of how far you can suspend your disbelief, Song’s Materialists, while taking place in a world I have never inhabited, feels like one that you can truly buy into for the film’s duration. These characters are real people, not just caricatures, and while the film is full of funny moments, the narrative strays from using characters solely as set pieces. We are watching Celine Song reflect the world we live in back to us, which is refreshing to see with such a big-name cast, and despite feeling like Charlie Day would have perhaps nailed the role of a failing actor living on the edge of squalor slightly better than Chris Evans: I did forget (for the most part) about who it was that was bringing these characters to life.

Much like the characters in this film, Celine Song knows how to play the game. She carefully balanced two worlds which seemed incompatible - just as she did, to an extent, in Past Lives. However, where Past Lives felt completely authentic, there are moments within this film that feel slightly too sanitised: in Hollywood, even imperfections are perfect. That said, there is something in this film for all of us, regardless of why you sat down to watch it. We are more similar than we think, and we can all find joy, find love, if we are open to letting it in. By no means is the film perfect, and in some ways the whole point of the film is that neither it nor we has to be. Now, it’s all down to the local chain cocktail bar to get a 2-4-1 on Cosmos before happy hour finishes: I’m buying, girlies.

The aesthetic had changed through the years. Trends and fads came and went like ships in the night: slate greys traded for cobalt blues, fry ups replaced by avocados, hearty portions exchanged for tasting plates. There had, however, been one constant in the little coffee shop on the street corner in the 35 years since it had first opened its doors. More consistent than any member of staff, colour scheme, or owner - it was a customer who had been ever present in the coffee shop. Such a part of the furniture that he did, rather fittingly, have his own designated piece of furniture: the chair in the window looking out onto the street; and it was through some initial confusion about this seat that I first met Vince.

A man of very few words: none, in fact; to say that I met Vince that day feels like something of an overstatement, but regardless of the lack of words exchanged over the years, it felt as though we formed some sort of connection. That first pseudo-interaction began as it had done for countless others who crossed paths with Vince, with a gentle tap on the shoulder and a friendly smile. Over the years I had come to understand the meaning of this, but in this initial instance, I had completely misread the gesture as something that was seeking a reciprocal smile, or a wave should the individual feel in such a social mood. It was upon returning my attention to the coffee in front of me that Vince's jabby fingers made their way back to my shoulder - only this time they carried a much-increased sense of vigour. Upon turning around, I was greeted this time not by a friendly smile but instead by a much sterner expression, and a hand gesture that assured me in no uncertain terms that I was to vacate this chair with haste. Upon my departure from the chair, I noticed that the friendly demeanour had once again graced Vince's countenance with almost immediate effect.

As somebody who has had the pleasure of working for myself for quite some time, I was afforded the opportunity over the years to get to know Vince, not through his limited words but through the beautiful pattern of his days. There was this effortless, gracious flow to Vince's days that had this mesmerising quality, soothing to watch. Frequently I would find myself forgetting about the pressures of the deadlines looming over me, of the disappointed commissioners who had paid for their work, instead drawn in by the seamless choreography with which Vince danced through each day - his every move carrying such a natural, hypnotic rhythm that ironically it could only have been obtained through countless rehearsals. You would watch in awe as he glided across the floor, remarkably light-footed for such a heavy-set man. His order had been so consistent - a double espresso with a speculoos biscuit on the side - that the sound of his Chelsea-booted footsteps approaching the door was enough to cue any member of staff into action and thus catapult them into the limelight that seemed to come with Vince's attention.

He would enter the cafe at the precisely the same time every day, 2:34 pm. Over time, I surmised that this was to still feel the buzz of being surrounded by others while avoiding the lunchtime rush. For a quiet man, Vince never appeared to have so much of a problem with people, but rather it seemed there was a limit to the amount of jabbing that he could muster up in his increasing age. The venom behind each prod you saw someone receive was enough to let everybody in that room, not just the recipient, know that he was more than capable of holding his own.

The irony was, given the hold he had over the chair, he wouldn't sit for too long: at most, he was there for eight minutes: and even then, this diversion from his usual five minutes and forty seconds was only on the occasions where the coffee poured for him was too hot (which itself came with a disapproving look at the poor barista who must surely have rather poisoned any other one of us customers than face this glare). While he drank his coffee, he would stare out of the window keeping an eye on proceedings in the street that the window faced out onto. His coffee he would finish, but the biscuit he would only ever have half of before he shuffled out of the door.

Once out of the door, the elegant rhythm would resume, gracing the entirety of the neighbourhood: the betting shop, the pub, the greengrocers, the charity shop; each for approximately the same amount of time as he had been in the pub. I liked to imagine a street laden with tales of the half-drunk pint in the pub, and the half-eaten pastries in the bakery. I hasten to suggest that despite the thickness of his glasses, he only managed to complete half an eye test during one sitting at the optician.

As I write, I am in my usual spot - a perch just across the cafe from Vince's chair, a vantage point from which I could watch his gracious entrance on a daily basis and then admire him as he sat stoically in his throne, King of the Road. His chair sits, empty. It has been three weeks since I last saw Vince, yet today his chair basks in the glory of the sun's rays. It prompts a feeling, a feeling that he is still keeping an eye on everything, almost definitely from a chair that he has requisitioned as his own.

I continue my work for a while, until the sun catches my eye, reflecting off the clock face. It's 2:34 pm and a hipster begins approaching the chair armed with his oat flat white: I know exactly what I need to do. Vince fucking hated hipsters.

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Liam Glover is a creative, cinephile and cheap-pint advocate from the UK's jewel in the crown: the North West.

October 2023, I found myself six months along from Brighton Marathon and keen to get another under my belt. A promise to myself to run one marathon per year for as long as my body allowed me meant that I had kept my running up. While the distance wasn't comparable to a training block, pace had become a primary concern. Frustrated at being stuck behind regular (if not slightly geriatric) pedestrians during one quick 5km dash, I decided to head around the obstacle and onto the road. In a moment of carelessness, I decided to put all of my weight onto my right foot just as it failed to find a sense of equilibrium on the curb's edge.

"That didn't sound good" said the elderly gentleman I had just passed before picking up the pace in a way he didn't show me that he was capable of. I had heard the sound myself but refused to allow this clear indicator to be anything more than a momentary soundtrack to my run. Up on my feet, I resumed my run. However, I made it no further than 100m up the road before I pulled up and sat down - the throbbing sensation bringing with it the realisation that I may have done a little more damage than initially thought. Garmin paused, I tried to potter on home, at which point I could no longer withstand bearing weight on the foot. In fact, I couldn't even bear the sensation of having a shoe on it.

Having hopped my remaining mile home, I decided the suitable solution was a bath and to try and rest. My body, however, had decided that the suitable solution for a fractured navicular (nope, me neither) and soft tissue damage in my ankle was twelve weeks in a support boot and even longer without running. If you ever find yourself looking for a way to increase the impact of the seasonal depression that comes with the shorter days of the October-December period, taking away one of the crutches for your mental health and replacing it with a literal crutch is a surefire way to do it.

During this twelve-week window, I fell into some terrible habits: eating lots, drinking lots and all without any potential outlet for exercise. Physically, mentally, and emotionally I had begun to feel static - stuck in a depression that felt as though it was never going to end. So, once Christmas was out of the way the boot was off and I had been walking around without it for a couple of weeks - I felt like I was ready to go back. Much to my surprise, it felt okay, and if it was okay for running it was okay for football, surely? Not quite; one dodgy block and it was back to struggle street.

In this second set of time out, I was desperate not to fall into the same mistakes as the last time, so I picked up Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running and what I read changed my life. I braved the streets once more (though not brave enough to don the shoes I wore to injure myself in) with a new mindset. Murakami speaks of running not as a middle-distance runner, but as a long-distance runner. I focussed not on rushing around and trying to outpace others, but on the feeling of running and on the joy that it brought me. Having also read the Bhagavad Gita and reflected on the presence of ego, trying to rid myself of vanity and self-obsession, the learning of Murakami was contextualised into my attitude not just to running but to life as a whole.

Every time I laced up my running shoes, I remembered his words - that I was to run like a long-distance runner and not a middle-distance runner; and I remembered the words of the Bhagavad Gita, that I was to focus on self-improvement not trying to beat others. With a lack of competition came enjoyment. With a lack of ego came an appreciation of every step taking in the world around me. With a newfound slowness came a training block that I wasn't even planning for. Then came the question of what race I was going to run. I picked out the most achievable of the half-term break, October half term, and then had a choice: run a marathon abroad in Istanbul, or run one at home in Chester? I mean, it was a bit of a no-brainer!

For the first time in my life, I treated running as something serious, something to be planned and something to work towards rather than to have a natural ability to either succeed or fail at. Despite a bout of a virus right in the middle whilst I was upping my distance, it was the first time that I had tried to properly follow a training plan. I trained hard. I ran during the I cut back on drinking. I tapered towards the end of trying. The only thing I really got wrong was my carb loading and hydrating, but given the fact that I had so much sightseeing to do in Istanbul in the days before the race, I think I can forgive myself for this one misstep.

The day of the race came around, I left my friends (asleep in the hostel) to get the ferry by myself to the start line in the cold, grey morning - the first time we had seen such a morning during our trip. I had opted to wear a football shirt to represent my hometown and was struck by the fact that there was almost definitely nobody else here who had even heard of Northwich Victoria, nevermind owned a shirt or was stupid enough to run a marathon wearing it.

The race began, and I executed my game plan. I was focused on setting off steadily and trying to run a consistent race. I didn't want to burn out too quickly, and I didn't want to get carried away. I was acutely aware of everything that I had achieved in the twelve months since the injury. Not only was I running again, but I was set to make a PB. It was all a little bit much to reflect on, and not even halfway through the race I was overwhelmed by emotion and genuinely moved to tears. The sheer resilience of the human body and mind was something that I began to really appreciate and I felt a sense of pride I had never felt before.

Not willing to let myself get carried away, I wiped away the tears and focussed myself on the race. Taking it one stride at a time, and making sure to keep myself steady - working my way slowly towards the finish line and knowing full well that the race was far from over. The usual patterns of marathon running ensued: initially plentiful support, a boring middle section out in the industrial no man's land, several misjudged toilet trips, and some aching calves in the final section. Greeted by my friends 4km left my plan deviated slightly: it felt rude to leave them hanging, so when I saw a beer dangled out into my path, I duly obliged and finished the fucker.

Before long the '1km Left' sign came around, and I recognised the corner. The park leading up to the Blue Mosque was one that I had seen on a walking tour just the day before, so I was aware of the terrain and the incline. The major difference was that where the tour had begun outside the Mosque atop the hill, the race was due to finish outside the Mosque. It took everything I had, but with about 5 minutes left to go my target time of 3hrs30mins - I needed to dig deep. I battled the uphill straight, opting to ignore the offer of a second beer on the hill and instead going for a nod and a wave, and putting my foot down. The incline plateaued, and I was on the final stretch. With everything I had accomplished on my mind - the last 1km literally uphill, the emotions of the preceding 41km, and the metaphorical uphill of the twelve months since my injury - I dug in deep and really went for it in the final 200m. I was amping up the crowd like a rockstar, sprinting past other runners, and I was absolutely ecstatic when I crossed the line with 03:29:53 on the board above me.

The emotions came rushing back. I had done it. I had achieved a PB within a year of an injury that kept me away from any running at all, that had made me feel so incredibly depressed. The highs and lows, literal and emotional of the past twelve months had made me a better runner and a better person. I had achieved something that I didn't think was possible. At least, that was the case until I tried getting up out of my seat on the Wizz Air flight home later than evening.

With a second broken arm in as many years, skateboarding left my life, but beer was constant. Along came university and with it, more booze and more of an interest in going out properly. I graduated from house parties to clubnights and raves, and before you knew it - the only things that really happened in my spare time were drinking, flirting with girls and recovering from whichever one I had done most the previous night. Running was for old men and PE lessons; half marathons were so 2013.

It wasn't until 2016, during my final year at university that running began to re-enter my life - and as with the previous re-introduction to me, it had something to do with drinking, something to do with a challenge to myself, and a lot to do with my dad.

To imply that running had entirely disappeared from my life during the three years between 2013 and 2016 is somewhat misleading, it was just a much more sporadic and less serious feature of my life than it is now. The root cause of its ever-presence was my dad. Where independently I hadn't bothered to engage in all that much running, a visit to see my dad wasn't complete without going out for a run. Only relatively short distances of up to about 10km, and occurring every other week at their absolute peak, there wasn't much of a challenge to these runs - but it certainly kept the idea on my mind. It was something of an inspiration (though I wouldn't say that much to his face) to see a man much senior and of much less natural physical fitness (that, I definitely would say to his face) to myself get out an clock up some serious distances, including several marathons. So, in a drunken procrastinating-from-final-project-writing state, I signed myself up for the 2017 Manchester Marathon.

Having learned some minor lessons from walking up stairs during my first half marathon, I decided to actually train a little bit when doubling the distance. My habits remained consistent between both events, drinking wherever possible to the point that my longest training run was titled something pint-related on Strava.

However, born out of this training was a love of running itself. It finally dawned on me what was enjoyable about running and about training for a distance race. With a podcast rather than music for company, I wasn't paced by thumping bass anymore but by myself and my body, even managing to laugh at the inane chat that I was tuning into along the way. Running out into the beautiful rolling hills of the South Yorkshire section of the Peak District, was an opportunity to remove me from the stresses of everyday life. My only thoughts were of making sure one foot landed in front of the other, and of figuring out when the time would come that I would finally be descending from the hills rather than the seemingly never-ending incline out of Sheffield.

Along came race day and again I had under-prepared. I struggled my way around, walking at several points as my mind faltered way before my body. I made it around, albeit about 20 minutes slower than I would have liked. That feeling of intense disappointment was enough for me to know that I would be back and I would be running another marathon at some point.

I did enjoy the race itself: crowds of people cheering your names, high-fiving the smiling children as you ran past - both things that make you feel like an everyday rockstar. In the process, there were a series of lessons too: gym shoes are not running shoes, wine gums make your mouth sticky for miles, wear underwear when applying Deep Heat to your inner thigh; a series of highly valuable lessons by my reckoning.

Not long after the race, I visited my dad in the States and we ran another race together. This time, he gave me some old running shoes and my feet were much less blistered. Again, obsessed with timings I was not happy with my half marathon time, but I had not been training for this. Not to mention, I could blame the fact this was a novelty race where you dressed up as superheroes. I should note that having a bunch of patriotic Americans cheering "go Cap, go!" as you run past dressed as Captain America is absolutely no way near as rewarding as having people cheer your actual name.

Upset with my time (again), I thought running would become something of a habit, and it almost did. Sporadic runs again lined my days, a 5km run or 10km run here and there where it fitted around drinking and working late in bars and pubs. With COVID lockdowns came the perfect opportunity to run more. More than that, running provided the perfect release for all of the stresses of existence.

With the streets empty, the odd sensation of running through Central London on a Saturday morning, not a soul in sight, provided complete catharsis for me. It felt dystopian because it was, but equally, the rush of the endorphins and the ability to really drink in the beauty of the city I had lived in for just over two years made me appreciate what was beautiful about distance running.

From there, running became an important part of life. It became a huge contributing factor to maintaining both my physical and mental health. If I was going away anywhere, the first thing I would pack was my running kit. Running was a perfect opportunity to see something else about a new place, attending the local Parkrun on a Saturday morning as everyone else I was with recovered from their hangover. I ran to and from work, beating the commute time that I would have otherwise had the pleasure of paying for. I went on running dates, bumped into old friends running, I was enjoying every minute of it. With the positive impact it had on my mental health, I wanted to do something to help others' mental health and decided to run another marathon - but this time raise money for charity, something I wrote about at the time.

Brighton Marathon was the quickest I had run to date, and I broke under the 4-hour mark which was an achievement, but I was still slower than I had anticipated. I ran without music which I found to be really enjoyable, and I ran two miles with my secondary school PE teacher which was a moment I never thought would happen. I was slightly disappointed initially that I had not quite hit my target time, but that was a fleeting moment and I was enormously proud as well as feeling the runner's high. It was brilliant and I never wanted it to stop. I made a promise to myself there and then that I would run at least one marathon per year for as long as I could - collecting medals, collecting finisher's T-shirts, each of which would tell its own story.

I made a promise to myself to keep it up. I wanted to improve my time. I wanted to get fitter. I wanted to stay happier. I was going to run at least one marathon every calendar year, and I needed to stay constantly fit if I wanted to improve. My speed was increasing, my progress was steady. And then, on a curb of all places, it fell apart. Broken navicular. Soft tissue damage. 12 weeks in a boot. Devastation.

As a 16-year-old fresh from the grips of a full timetable and into elective-only subjects at sixth form, I was truly living the uninhibited life that comes with that. As far a cry from making the next series of Skins as I may have been, I still knew how to have a good time. With increased parental trust, for both myself and my friends, came the joy of free houses. With the foundations of facial hair sprouting through and a more mature sense of style, came the ability to go into the shop and get served a bottle of vodka. With both of these things came the start of a loving relationship with booze. Limited to weekends when somebody was fortunate enough to have access to an entire house, and as a result the ability to play tunes as loud as we wanted, a love of three things was born: drinking, dancing, and (somehow) running.

It all started as a bit of a dare. Since finishing secondary school, my involvement in the world of sport had been entirely formed on skating car parks in and around Northwich town centre. I could push, I could kickflip and I could (sporadically) jump stairs - but it was safe to say I wasn't particularly active. However, in a half-cut state of confidence - one that only a slightly pissed teenager can have - I assured my dad that I, in fact, was more than capable of running a half marathon and that I wanted to run one with him.

Running wasn't something I had been overly interested in - far removed from the sexiness that came with skateboarding, running seemed like a sport for middle-aged men in unhappy relationships (based purely on Run Fatboy Run) or geeky teenagers who were soon-to-be dads (based purely on Juno). While of the two, I associated considerably more with Michael Cera's character, the absence of a pregnant underaged girlfriend meant that this still was not the sport for me. So, despite having my place booked for May, did I bother to complete any training? Except for two 5km runs: did I hell!

For the most part, my training consisted of exactly the same constituents that my life had consisted of for the months since leaving school - having beers with my mates and skating. This blase approach to the whole thing didn't stop me from taking it extremely seriously in social settings though. In fact, as I parade around East London now in my late 20s and am bombarded with conversations of people running half marathons and not being able to shut the fuck up about it - I often question myself: am I hipster for running? There were very few interactions (or Tweets) at that point in my life where I couldn't find a way to segue it into conversation. The best way to do that? Raise money for a good cause.

Despite the lack of training and the lack of seriousness I took in preparations, I took my fundraising very seriously. Aged 16, you have a very limited (often very broke) network of people. But I managed to harass my drinking buddies, teachers, and family to donate enough money to make it seem like a worthwhile thing to do. The charity, which has since been merged into Save the Children, provided medical relief in emergency situations around the globe to those most vulnerable, and for the first time in my life I felt like I had done something truly worthwhile. The fundraising was the easy part, the only problem was that now came the part that I seemed to have forgotten all about - the race itself.

The morning of 12th May 2013, nursing a slightly dehydrated head from going to a house party the night before, I ate my toast, drank my coffee, donned my vest and bib number, and headed off to Chester. What could possibly go wrong? Well, much to my surprise - seemingly nothing. The sun shone, something of a rarity for the North West of England, and the great mood from the previous Wednesday had me singing Nigel Pearson's Blue and White Army for the first few miles. My dad, rather appropriately, reminded me not to get carried away - though I'm still unsure whether he meant with regards to the football or the run.

The race continued, initially out along the rather dull concrete expanse of the dual carriageways coming out of Chester City Centre and eventually into the greenery of the countryside. Taking every step alongside my dad, it felt as though things were going well - and they were. Chatting as we ran, with him reminding me to grab a drink from every fuel station; myself falling back on that youthful base fitness that I had established during the years of PE that had concluded just 12 months earlier. Though a far cry from the cross country that I had found so tedious, I was actually beginning to enjoy myself.

The miles flew by as I was carried by my youth (and a healthy dose of encouragement from my dad), and before I knew it the 12-mile marker. One mile left. I turned to my running companion and noticed that he was struggling slightly - a muscle strain if I recall - and did what any good son would do: I sped up and left him in the dust. I stepped up the pace, motivated by the ticking clock and was greeted by Chester Cathedral; the end was in sight.

Finish line in my crosshair, just two things stood in my way - a spiral ramp to a multistory car park and the few hundred metres on the other side. With the cheers of the crowd calling out my name, I felt like the rockstar I had always dreamt I would be. Their cheers, the idea of a cold beer, a tweet from Inspiral Carpets keyboardist and fellow Red Stripe enthusiast Clint Boon, and the money I had raised for charity were all channelled via my legs as I powered through that sharp incline. For the home straight my motivations were far more related to the shame of finishing right behind a woman who was quite possibly 50 years my senior. Regardless of my motivations, I crossed that finish line at 1:53:24 (over a minute ahead of my elderly nemesis).

There was a feeling of jubilation at the finish line: I had done it, I was undefeatable, anything was possible. My dad joined not long after, still in one piece. Following behind us, a short while later, was my grandmother. So, there we stood, three generations joined in celebration of a shared completion of the 2013 Chester Half Marathon. It was an incredible feeling. I never wanted it to end.

But it did. Leicester lost the play-off semi-final in the most dramatic of fashions. To this day, many of my friends will sporadically send me the clip of Troy Deeney's goal. The next day, I had three lessons that were all up the stairs that I really struggled to climb.

I learned a valuable lesson that day about being too cocky. I also learned another, arguably more important, lesson: running can be fun.

I would find it difficult to begin any blog post with any word other than that which I just have: I. Come to think of it, I would imagine most of us have. Despite some of us making our best efforts to be as selfless as possible, it - naturally - is difficult to really perceive life from anything beyond our own minute lens. That does not mean, however, that we are inherently bad people; it does not mean we are incapable of caring for or helping others. It simply means that we are human, no matter what we do, and therefore can never be omnipresent. But that is not to say that this limitation means that we cannot try to be better, that we cannot try to limit our sense of self, that we cannot become more enlightened.

I often find that there is something of a sense of irony around the chasing of some spiritual enlightenment: the desire to let go of oneself to obtain something grander. Surely, the sacrifice of material gain in the pursuit of spiritual gain is still performing actions for the benefit of yourself. Perhaps then, it is not so difficult at all for an egotist to achieve enlightenment - ultimately they are simply swapping the reward for their actions from the physical to the mental or spiritual is not all that big of a deal. Now, instead of showing off their latest purchase down the pub they can instead laud over their friends about having achieved a higher purpose, and that they are all greedy capitalist pigs.

Beyond this contradiction, though, it is important for those chasing this sense of enlightenment to truly let go of these motivating factors - external or internal. In the teachings of Hindusism, action is still an important part of day-to-day life; inaction, deciding to give up everything in the name of achieving enlightenment, is not beneficial in truly achieving these goals. This is nothing new - it is within the Bhagavad Gita, a text over 2000 years old - but with the advent of the internet, the toxic message of deserting all worldly pleasures in exchange for a sense of superiority is something that spreads like wildfire.

Abandoning everything is the simple answer, running away and giving up all material pleasures in a distant safe haven. While sacrifices are made here, it simply does not add up with the times that we live in. And often when it does, it is accompanied by a departing post to social media with the least well-disguised subtext of "look how fucking fantastic of a human I am".

The pleasures of modern life are just that: pleasures. Designed to be enjoyed, the idea that we should allow ourselves none of this joy is simply ludicrous; not only that, but it reeks of a sense of privilege. While it would be nice to leave our phones and all social media behind and live a life free from the stresses that come with that, quite frankly these things have become so important to existence that it isn't tangible. Why should someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth, capable of funding their nomadic lifestyle on the back of their inherited fortune be made to feel superior to the person that needs to access their phone in case an extra shift becomes available? A shift, might I add, that more often than not can make the difference between being able to eat or not.

With that technology does come the downsides that we all know too well - the obsession with what others are doing, constant comparisons and competition between ourselves and those around us, the need for constant distraction, and a self-obsessive lifestyle through which we only present carefully crafted versions of ourselves out into the digital world. However, that is not to say that it is all bad. Therefore, the question I pose is how in fact can someone achieve any sense of self-actualisation, of enlightenment within this constant data stream?

The truth is, as it always has been, that there isn't an answer. Well, there is an answer, it just happens to, conveniently, be slightly different for everyone. For some, it will be cutting down on their social media usage, while for others it will be completely ridding themselves of it. For some, it will be taking time to get out and socialise more, while for others it will be learning to take time for themselves.

Essentially, we are all different. But as long as you are trying to be a better person, to improve on your actions, and making an effort to do good by the people and the world around you - you are on the right path. Actualisation doesn't come from attaining perfection, it comes from the quest to do better.

I should preface this blog post by clarifying that these observations by no means apply to all of the North, nor is this post written without a tremendous amount of bias, but it is written from the heart as something of a love letter to the tremendous beauty of the mundane that exists in certain sections of the North West in particular.

While there is a sense of universality to most of this, I can only bring my own personal lens to this - namely a lens that has been focussed on the former salt mining town of Northwich. A town I called home for some 18 years, I could not have been happier to escape as soon as I could. I had always felt like it was somewhere that had failed to move forward with the times, and was glad to be out into the wild world of 4G (and eventually 5G) internet, of 24-hour convenience shops, and of people who say bath with an R in it and had been to places like Oxford for anything other than a football away day. A town that had felt so static for the 18 years I had been there, I noticed that almost as soon as I left - things began to change.

With the "funding" coming from the "Northern Powerhouse project" and its eventual replacement the "Levelling Up agenda" - Northwich was ready to be gentrified as though it were the heartlands of Hackney. Only there was no demand to live here, and enough space not to have to demolish the affordable housing that already existed to make way for pricier flats. Instead what Northwich had was an abundance of "re-naturalised" (read dilapidated and neglected) land on the banks of the river and the world's least cost-effective branch of M&S. So along came the multi-million-pound re-developments and erected a series of empty glass shop units and a cinema that would surely be enough to rival, I don't know, Finsbury Park. Well, just like the development in Finsbury Park, this was a soulless development that left much to be desired - the only difference? Well, Finsbury Park has the footfall to make a success in spite of its obvious failings, Northwich doesn't.

So with every one of the sporadic visits I have made to the town since leaving, I find another behemoth made of the clearest of glass laid down to spruce up the edges of this old mining town. But stray beyond its polished exterior and you will notice many of the same failings as before. The people are still without the chance of valuable employment, job prospects capped for those who cannot afford the inhibitive cost of daily rail travel to Liverpool or Manchester. The young people who aren't as academic have had the opportunity of any form of vocational education ripped away from them at the hands of greedy developers. The percentage shops in the town centre that live behind boards is higher than the percentage of surety I feel when asked to state my own name.

To quote a Salfordian singer-songwriter "sometimes the people digging in the dirt, they find gold in that grime" - peel back these layers of failing re-development and Westminster schemes, and there are glimmers of beauty. This is a town built on stilts in order to stop it from subsiding after all the salt had been mined from underneath it, forever proud to show off the scars of its industrial past.

The North didn't need a facelift to become a powerhouse, beyond the glass skirt the town now wears is a beautiful sense of symmetry within the Tudor and Tudor Revivalist facades that front its empty shops. And it is not through the efforts of a government-backed agenda that the town's art deco cinema was revived to its former glory. No, it was through the people, the people who really make a town like this beautiful (albeit beauty of spirit rather than aesthetic at times).

There is plenty to scoff at too: plenty of decay setting in across these fine structures, and a handful of ugly buildings from the mid-century to sit alongside them. But in and amongst this dirt is a sense of beauty in the mundanity and ordinariness of the life that has remained broadly unchanged in these parts for so long.

I might not live here anymore, but from a stone's throw away, I have a newfound appreciation of it. Long live the towns where you can walk into a charity shop and they think they might feasibly sell a copy of FIFA 2003 for £1 some 20 years past its sell-by date. Long live the beauty of the ordinary.

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“That’s got to hurt.” Detective Peters remarked to his partner with a slight chuckle. His partner, his junior partner, wasn’t the least bit entertained as he walked away from Peters. “What? Lost your sense of humour”. Peters couldn’t stand people who took things overly seriously, so he took issue with his latest in a long line of sidekicks. That’s exactly how he saw them too, as his sidekick. He was in charge, and they would do as he said. Whether that was to scoop some poor bastard’s brains off of the floor and into an evidence bag or laugh at his jokes, he didn’t overly care - it was more about respect for him.

What lay in front of them, wasn’t all that funny when it came down to it, though. Peters covered his nose from the piercing smell that wafted its way through the air to the point that he could almost taste it. He lowered himself into a squat, face covered, and eyeballed the scene in front of him.

The house was not particularly noteworthy for a bachelor’s apartment. There was very little in the way of personal items on display, nothing to be able to identify any close relations of the young man who lived here. His interior decoration was more concerned with posters for kung fu movies from the 70s, and the katanas to match. This contradicted the zen garden that sat next to the owner of the property atop a side table in his living room.

What played against the interior design more than anything was the owner of the apartment himself. Or as Peters was to know him, the victim. A white man in his 20s that had never left the West Midlands, never mind having travelled to such an exotic distant land as Japan. He didn’t seem the kind to have his life infused with Japanese culture by looking at him, either. Tattoos that seemed to be derogatory to just about everyone on the planet lined the disgusting canvas of his skin. Then there was the fact the 5-foot pole currently splitting his skull in two didn’t exactly seem to resonate with any zen practices.

Peters stared into the lifeless eyes of the man, who must have been not a dissimilar age to his new partner, a captivating baby blue colour that had started to grey as the life dissipated from behind them. Save for the fact that he wasn’t exactly in one piece the way things currently were, he wasn’t a bad-looking chap Peters thought to himself.

“Are you quite finished?” his usually silent, contemplative sidekick uttered.

“I just don’t understand how a Buddhist gets themselves into a situation like this, you know?” Peters was being genuine, too. Not even the slightest sarcasm underscored his words, much to his sidekick’s disapproval.

“He wasn’t a Buddhist, Sir, he was just a fucking dickhead!” fumed his partner, “If you’ll pardon my language.” Peters, despite having a sense of humour comparable to a 90% cocoa chocolate bar in both its bitterness and darkness, wasn’t really one for the use of foul language. He simply exhaled in disappointment. “I knew him from school, you see,” muttered his partner to attempt to break up the silence before a sense of awkwardness was given the opportunity to take over.

The pair continued about the rest of their job in silence from this point. It was an atmosphere that suited his partner, but one that Peters was fairly unaccustomed to experiencing in every aspect of his life never mind while working.

In the absence of conversation, Peters began to notice things he’d never noticed when attending a crime scene before now. The stench of the urine that hugged the body like an unloved relative. The way in which the blood formed an almost marble-like pattern in the way it dried. The way in which the different parts of the body were never quite the exact same temperature. Were they things that were always there that he simply hadn’t spotted before? Or were they unique to this case?

A light pierced through the window, a beacon summoning Peters’ attention to the west-facing kitchen window. The snapping sound of his gloves being removed kickstarted his gentle walk away.

Peters deduced that the owner must be doing pretty well for himself. Until he died, that is. This was the most detective work he had done for a while, as it wasn’t the young man’s P60 that led him to this conclusion, but the windows. You could tell a lot about how well someone was doing based on their windows. In this particular case, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows made of triple glazing is hardly a shabby form of protection from the elements. Then there was the view. A top floor view, and not just a top floor council estate view - there wasn’t even the faintest whiff of 60s architecture in site, just a sea of glass. Just as he nodded, sure of his conclusion, he clocked a solitary blackbird perched on the window next door; though his moment with nature was cut short by the sound of metal scraping against metal which made him turn around.

“Why on earth would you take that out?” Peters exclaimed as turned to see his partner clutching the pole, the body that it once propped up slowly slipping down against the kitchen cabinet behind it. “Do you think this was an accident?”

“No,” retorted his partner, pacing back and forth with the pole in hand, beginning to look quite menacing for the first time, “I know it wasn’t an accident, because I did it.” Peters was open-mouthed. But just as he was hit by that shock, moments later another hit followed, as his partner smacked him over the head with the pole.

Lying face down on the floor, Peters locked eyes with the victim. The blood trickled out of his head, taking with it Peters’ last thought: “I hope my eyes look that good when I’m dead.”

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Owen White was an illustrator and artist from the North West based in Leeds. Check out his work.

1. Only one song per artist

2. Only one song per day

3. Only one version of any given song

Three very simple rules, but rules that posed challenges no less. With the slight technicality of artists performing under various recording names being seen as separate recording artists, I managed to complete the year (much to my surprise) with only one day where I added a repeat artist. That said, I must also come clean that this was not only a repeat artist but also a repeat song.

So, the question remains: why bother setting about on such a seemingly pointless exercise? Well, I suppose it's a good question. Was it an exercise in memory-building? To track my mood based on prevalent genre? For a blog post one year along the line? To tell you the truth, the deep-rooted rationale is something I am sure I will try to unpack in a form of therapy in years to come, but all I can really confirm is that I enjoyed the process.

It combined many things that I loved. First of all, as someone who has struggled to keep a diary but enjoys photographing and writing about pointless goings-on that I witness in the world around me - this offered an opportunity to go about a similar process in an aural sense: the songs I overheard blasting from somebody's speakers on a sunny day as they drove past, the songs that my co-workers have recommended me that I would usually lose track of or the chronic circus-themed earworm that will never leave.

More than that, I think this has offered me an opportunity to keep a daily log of what I have been doing for a year in a way that I have never had the patience to do. A journaling diary is of no interest to me, as I have such little interest in reading back what thoughts I had or what activities I conducted over a 365-day window. However, to put a playlist on shuffle and allow the song to transport you to a memory from the year that has just passed is something that I absolutely would engage with. Consuming the creations of others removes any underlying uneasiness around the vanity of re-reading your own journals, while still chronicling your time.

With the rationale established, re-visiting this playlist has been an exciting project for me. There was something very satisfying about the fact that the total length of the playlist was pretty much exactly 24 hours, but what was much more satisfying was the process of listening to the songs and re-visiting memories - some to bring a smile to your face, and others a tear to the eye, but all memories of equal value to me and the year that I've just lived.

That said, it would be wrong of me not to highlight 10 standout songs, each of which represents an award-worthy moment within the playlist. So, for your listening pleasure, the entire playlist is available to listen to on Spotify, and the highlights (and 'award' categories) keep on reading.

Biggest Earworm

Entry of the Gladiators - Funny Circus Band (Day 48)

Much to the displeasure of anyone who has spent any time with me over the past year, this has been circling around my head pretty much nonstop. I'm not sure how or why this started, but it did, and it stuck with me for all 365 days of this project. Bizarrely, I'm not annoyed by it, and it continues to lift my mood at points. Big clown energy.

The Accidental Repeater

Odyssey - Going Back to My Roots (Day 227)

There are so many artists I love much more than Odyssey, but somehow they became the only artist to repeat during this project. What makes matters worse is that it was this exact song posted twice - once as the studio version, and once as the radio edit. I can't remember the day on which the repeat was posted, but I spotted it during a routine check on Day 342, at which point it was replaced by the aptly named Double-Up, Now by Osaka Monaurail.

Most Surprising Day

Future Islands - Seasons (Day 41)

The year in which I've been documenting my time through songs has been an excellent one for seeing live music. An emotional evening courtesy of Phoebe Bridgers on Day 251; discovering the beautiful singing voice of Nell Mescal and Seb Lowe's cutting take on modern living at a gig on Day 360; Days 221 and 225 spent dancing myself clean in the church of James Murphy and LCD Soundsystem. However, in spite of also seeing long-time favourites Future Islands live this year, they were placed on New Year's Eve, having provided (via previous Jools Holland performances) a perfect soundtrack to the best New Year's Eve I can remember having.

Most Irritating for Others

Arlo Guthrie - Alice's Restaurant Massacree (Day 88)

At just shy of 19 minutes long, it's no wonder that I was greeted with stern looks if ever this came on while my playlist was on shuffle at work. Amazingly, people broadly did find this more irritating than the constant circus-themed earworm, but they need to appreciate this was the exact kind of rambling insanity I needed to accompany my second of three bouts of COVID covered by this playlist.

Most Regretted

Harry Nilsson - Many Rivers to Cross (Day 10)

There are plenty of artists who feature in this playlist that I was infuriated to only be able to include once. However, no other artist crossed my mind as frequently as Harry Nilsson. Very early on, I expressed regret for this song choice. I was left without the silliness of Coconut, the tenderness of Lullaby in Ragtime, and the humorous heartbreak of You're Breaking My Heart. However, looking back, it just makes me appreciate how great of an artist Nilsson is that I could have comfortably slotted his music in so frequently.

Most Literal

Pulp - Mile End (Day 16)

I found out that I was moving to a job in Mile End on that day. There's not much more to it than that. Although I must say that this did become an important part of my commute, listening to this on my approach to work every day for at least the first 6 weeks.

Best Overheard Song

George Formby - When I'm Cleaning Windows (Day 168)

The sun was out. The temperature was up. Tops were off, windows were rolled down, and from the speakers of a passing Vauxhall Astra blasted George Formby's When I'm Cleaning Windows. Oh, the Great British Summer.

Best Needle Drop

Daniel Pemberton and Charles Petrescu - I Want to See It All (Day 231)

There are few characters as insanely likeable as Brian and Charles' Charles Petrescu. Those who waited around long enough were treated to this absolute bop, courtesy of Daniel Pemberton (whose work you probably know from playing every time the scenes change in Peep Show). His tummy is a washing machine. What's not to love?

Longest Wait

Flaming Lips - Do You Realize?? (Day 249)

Few bands mean as much to me as Flaming Lips, and few songs carry as large a significance as this one. Why, then, it took me 249 days to include them in the playlist, I really cannot explain.

Best Memory

Ohio Express - Scooby-Doo (Scooby-Doo Theme Song) (Day 147)

It's always nice to get to spend a day by the sea, with the saltiness of the sea blowing refreshingly across your face. It's even better when the sun is out for you to enjoy after a spell of being cooped up indoors for a little while too long. It's even better when you reach the end of the world's longest pier and delirium starts to set in when a passerby gets a phone call, and this is their ringtone. What a day. What a year. What a life.

George lay there, staring up, and as though staring into a mirror, he couldn’t help but realise they replicated his rare moment of stillness and stared straight back. Locked into a staring contest with those above him, moments flew by soundtracked only by the occasional wind, a far cry from the constant passing traffic that he had grown used to.

He had lived in the city for five years by this point, and with each day that passed, he felt himself becoming a slave to its rhythm, the same rhythm that was part of the appeal of moving in the first place. The hustle and bustle that was initially seductive now felt chaotic, inescapable. He used to dance along to the rhythm, but now felt too tired. With each day that passed, he just ebbed and flowed, letting the overwhelming power of the city’s flow wash over him and dictate his every move. He had lost all sense of himself. Was he the same George that he was when he moved? He couldn’t quite recall. If it was indeed a mirror that he was staring up into, he wouldn’t recognise himself. His eyes bagged. His hair greyed. His face gaunt. The city had eaten him up, and if it had indeed spat him back out, there was no one else on planet Earth who would pick him back up looking like this.

This was what he found refreshing about this night. Though he knew they were always there, really, as his head hit the grass that night in the middle of that park, his jaw dropped with amazement, his eyes widened in awe of the star-lit sky above him.

Five years it must have been since he’d gazed upon a night sky like this. Not since he’d moved to the city. Why was that? He wondered. Was it the high rises and the light pollution obscuring his view? Was it that his eyes had been too occupied in search of the next place to drink every night that he had lived here? Or was it that here, Finsbury Park of all places, lying alone for what felt like the first time in forever, was the moment that he finally took the opportunity to breathe?

In through the nose, out through the mouth, as simple as that. With the simple repetition of these two actions, coupled with the stars staring down at him, he was able to relax. It was not something that came naturally to him, relaxation. He’d had a bath in his apartment for the duration of his time here, but refused to use it because he found it impossible to switch off. His mind constantly raced with any number of pointless thoughts at any given moment, ranging from questions about fishing laws to trying to remember the name of the bassist from The Charlatans.

Traditionally, under the cover of darkness, with a slight sharpness to the chill in the air, he would have felt far too concerned about the imminent threat of anyone else around him to unwind in the middle of the park, of all places. But, seduced by the stars above him, he found his mind able to tune out from the intensity of his own brain and focus on the sheer beauty of the universe that we were a part of.

Paled into insignificance by the great beyond, he worried not of what would happen if someone were to approach him with a knife now because he had accepted to himself that ultimately it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The stress. The money. The work-life balance. The pension. The good rates on a savings account. None of it mattered.

In Finsbury Park, of all places. In the realisation of knowing that he didn’t matter. In this situation of all situations, he did the unthinkable: he found peace.

Exactly what he would do with this newfound sense of liberation from the constraints of day-to-day life, he wasn’t sure, but lying here and enjoying the intense beauty of the eyes that were staring down at him wasn’t a bad start. He locked eyes with the sky above with an undying affection that he hadn’t managed to muster up since the end of his last relationship. He rarely looked anyone in the eyes anymore. He wasn’t exactly sure why that was.

Certainly, in some instances, there was the idea in his mind that eye contact was enough to give someone the added encouragement to mug you, but that wasn’t the case with everyone with whom he avoided locking eyes. His boss, for example. He was completely sure that in this case, he was under no immediate threat of being mugged, namely because he had far fewer goods worthy of mugging in comparison. Yet, since that last bout of heartbreak, he had been rendered incapable of maintaining eye contact with even the sweetest child. Was it that eye contact reminded him of her? Of intimacy? Of the fact that he was now alone?

This logic didn’t quite make sense to him. If anything, the beauty of the stars should be the association with those eyes he used to stare lovingly into, not the cocaine-fuelled bloodshot eyes of his boss.

He realised, in this moment, trying to decipher the logic that his newfound peace had dissipated, replaced by his usual racing thoughts. But for those few seconds, he had found blissful resolve in the beauty of nature.

In his final moments, gazing upon the stars, he realised it wasn’t the aesthetics that kept his attention, nor was it the surrendering beauty of those blue eyes that made him capable of locking into contact with them. While both were breathtaking to him, it was something else entirely that freed him of the anxiety of eye contact: the knowledge that those eyes with which his own were joined were not trying to weigh him up or figure him out, but simply looking back upon him, free of judgement.

Owen White was an illustrator and artist from the North West based in Leeds. Check out his work.

It had been several decades since he first felt that rush. The rush of having someone’s entire persona in your hands. The rush of being gifted the ability to completely make or break someone’s day. Since then, it has become a daily occurrence. Forty years of being the deciding factor in whether or not someone makes that sale, whether someone is found guilty or not guilty, whether she says yes to him as he drops to one knee. It’s an incredible power to have, and as the vibrations ran through his hands, he could hardly believe this was the last time he would be here.

How many had there been, he wondered? Certainly hundreds. Almost definitely thousands. No one in his situation would truly be able to say for certain, but then again, the numbers didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this final cut counted for something. In what was a surreal moment for him, the same face greeted him in the mirror as the one that had greeted him on that first occasion all those years ago. His face had aged, though not in a way that was anything other than graceful - the smooth texture of his skin and striking grey beard meant that he looked incredibly good for his age; however, the face that stared back at him hadn’t aged at all. It was a face untouched by the striking hammer of time.

How could it be? He wondered, confused as to how one could be untainted by the ageing process. At the risk of sounding mad, he asked the young man on the squeaking leather chair in front of him to explain this bizarre sensation. It had been forty years since he had last seen the face, the old man explained, but he was almost certain that it was the exact face from his past. The expression on the young man’s face only managed to match rather than rectify the confusion of the old man.

Reliable as it ever was, the smell of barbicide swam through the room and managed to battle its way through the old man’s nasal hair enough to wake him up from his confused daze. He snapped out of it and promptly asked the question he had asked all of those hundreds of times before.

“What would you like doing today?”

As the young man explained the cut that he desired, the old man could barely take it in, transfixed by the memories of the past. He wasn’t always such a sentimental person; three ex-wives and a family he doesn’t have anything to do with will tell you that. Truth be told, outside of cutting hair, he didn’t really have much going on for himself. Not that he wasn’t a good person, he was certainly well-respected by everyone in the town. He had been invited to countless weddings, birthday parties, and anniversaries. He had been credited for the joy brought about by new work, new families, new beginnings, for just about every man in town, perceived as something of a lucky charm for people seeking bigger things.

Maybe that was the issue, he thought. Perhaps the process of being the lucky charm but never the lucky one was a curse that had been placed upon him. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. He chuckled to himself at the thought of himself wearing a bridesmaid's dress, and there certainly would have been plenty of others chuckling if that were ever to come to a reality.

The young man asked if everything was okay, but the old man simply said that it was unimportant and insisted on proceeding with the haircut. As he gently leant the young man’s head over the sink and began to lather shampoo gently through his locks under the steady flow of the hot tap, he apologised for the lack of small talk, saying that he wasn’t feeling quite himself today.

As he was returned to an upright position to have his head towel dried, so too did the young man’s concern towards the old man return. He asked what was bothering him, but the old man insisted that it didn’t matter and seized the opportunity to get a ‘reminder’ on what exactly he was doing to the young man’s hair. Fortunately, the response was a classic, a cut that had never quite dropped out of the public consciousness over his forty years of cutting hair - and regardless of whether or not he was concentrating, he would be able to do a half-decent job, a luxury also afforded to him by being one of the only remaining barbers in town.

Knowing that the conversation was going to be on the quiet side, the old man approached the ancient radio and turned the volume dial up. He had exclusively listened to the same station in the shop since he had opened, regardless of the changes in music taste of the day. He feared that switching channels would impact his ability to cut hair. His ability to invoke joy into the lives of others through something as simple as a slight refresh to their image. He wasn’t always a fan of the music of the day, but he always preferred that to being a disappointment to people.

He smiled to himself at this thought, and as he looked up, he realised he had coasted through the entire experience of cutting the boy’s hair. He lifted a mirror for the boy to check the back, and without a shred of uncertainty, he nodded with a smile. Another happy customer, the old man thought to himself. The boy paid in cash and gave the old man a tip, and the old man reciprocated by wishing him good luck in his endeavours.

The old man locked the door behind him and closed the shutters. As he gently caressed the floor with a broom one last time until the hair was collected into a neat pile, he pondered:

“What on earth do I do now?”

Georgia Hope is a photographer based in Bristol. Check out her Instagram @photo.georgia.

“Fuck” he uttered to himself, completely exasperated. When exactly the chase began, he could no longer recall at this point. Specifics aside, he knew for certain it had been going on for some time. Even if he couldn’t quite recall that himself, the smell of sweat and the extra weight it added to the shirt he lugged around with him made it clear that he had certainly been exerting himself physically for some time.

His breathing was deep. Desperate. And it wasn’t as if he was an unfit person, naturally at least. Back in high school, he had been cross country champion, the finest middle distance runner that the school had ever had - his name still etched eternally in a gold-effect text on the mahogany board that was wall mounted in the school’s otherwise unimpressive entrance.

Robin’s disorientation was only amplified by the crippling headache that was beginning to take control of his brain's every function. There was little he could do about the headache, he thought to himself; he wasn’t above drinking his own urine for survival purposes, but he simply didn’t feel the need to go, given his current predicament. The only matter he could seriously think about addressing right now to assist his comedown from the unrelenting grip of disorientation was to check his watch, so at least he could know how long he had been on the run.

Sandwiched between two walls for cover, Robin barely had enough room to stretch out his arm. Curled up, he couldn’t quite make out what the time read. A harsh light reflected from the face of the watch with a knowing smirk that was encouraging Robin to make a decision he knew would be risky. Though with a glint like that, how could he say no? With a breath so deep he felt it ripple from his knees through his brittle shins, Robin composed himself.

With the gusto of Freddy Mercury at Live Aid, Robin raised his hand to the sky and tried to rotate it so he could make out the watch’s face. Just as he caught a glimpse of what he thought was 02:17, he let off a piercing scream, his eyes drawn beyond the face of the watch to a new addition to his hand: a crossbow bolt.

Robin twisted and turned his arm in an attempt to pull it back into the safety of his metal surrounds, but with the additional width of the bolt, he couldn’t quite manage it. A game of Tetris without the possibility of a restart when he inevitably got it wrong.

He couldn’t quite work the angle, but he figured that as long as he grasped at the top of the wall, he didn’t leave his hand exposed enough to be the proud owner of a second crossbow bolt through his hand.

“I wonder if this is why people don’t wear their watch on their dominant hand,” he pondered this thought for a moment before remembering that now wasn’t the time for answering life’s biggest questions, but for ensuring that he didn’t lose any more use of his hand. The sound that followed will echo for eternity in the mind of anyone who heard it, the sound of Robin’s flesh being torn as he threw all of his might into his efforts to grip the surface above his head.

As his grip tightened, he noticed that the tearing sound coming from his hand had created a gaping hole in his hand, blood flowing faster through it now than before. He imagined it was similar to how a hole in the ozone existed - the structural integrity not entirely reduced by the hole, but it certainly allowed things to pass through much easier and was causing a lot of pain. One key difference between the two, however, was that in creating a bigger hole in the ozone, problems were only increased, whereas with a bigger hole in his hand Robin found opportunity. The opportunity to rid himself of the bolt.

It was only at this point, taking deep breaths to ready himself for the DIY surgical procedure he was about to perform that the smell of sweat reminded him of the rest of his predicament. Even if he was to remove the bolt, he had no idea what to do next. No idea how to escape. Distracted, by this thought, his mind started to wander. As did his hand. Before he knew it, with a deafening thud to boot, a second bolt hammered through the back of his hand.

“What was that for?”, Robin found the words escaping his mouth before he’d even really had a chance to process what on earth he was saying. It didn’t matter all that much, he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer.

He could hardly bring himself to look up at his hand, knowing that the only thing worse than the pain was having to stare his misfortune in the eye. He also realised, however, that the first step to resolving any issue was of course identifying said issue. Hiding behind the squinting lids of his eyes as best as he could, he gazed up at his disfigured paw. For a moment there was a brief feeling of hope. The force of the second bolt had managed to loosen the initial bolt. It felt like his luck was on the turn for those few seconds, a smile even spread itself across his face.

That moment was short-lived. As he gazed into his wounded hand, the smile was shot off of his face as a third bolt split the difference between the other two. Robin had no shrieks left to cry, no liquid inside of him to form a tear. He could barely summon up the energy to swear.

Defeated, his bolt-less hand stuck itself into his pocket like a moody teenager. It was in this acceptance of defeat that he found his way out: it was time for him to call the police.

Owen White was an illustrator and artist from the North West based in Leeds. Check out his work.