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The North Is A Brilliant Idea

December 22, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL

Durham Bloggers 2
“There are two Norths. There is the compass point North. And there is the North as an idea.” Jonathan Meades.


In October 2012 our project partners New Writing North kindly invited us to embed ourselves within the Durham Books Festival, the North East’s biggest annual celebration of books and new writing. Their support enabled us to bring together (and actually meet in person for the first time!) four kindred spirits from four North of England cities who have contributed to the ‘A Wondrous Place’ digital space over recent months - Hayley FlynnAmy RobertsAmy Mackelden and Missy Tassles. We attended festival events together, did lots of tweeting and we jointly led a practical workshop with lots of lovely people from the region (more info here). 

The workshop was extremely worthwhile and helpful. At the beginning we asked each participant their reason for attending  - they told us that it was because they wanted to hear about, and be inspired by, a more positive perspective on the North. This felt encouraging! They also wanted to learn more about the positives of online writing and online communities – the guest curators were particularly helpful within this part of the workshop. The workshop also involved us engaging in writing exercises that explored, in a practical way, where we’re coming from with the project: generating a more positive and more surprising fictional expression of North of England landscapes.

Why do we want to do that? Well…

There are four stories that overwhelmingly predominate within cultural representations of the North of England (theatre, film and tv drama; fictional prose)*:
  • Characters experiencing social struggle, hardship and emotional repression within a bleak, brutal landscape.
  • London as the arena for a character’s pursuit of excitement and personal ambition – the need to escape a restricting North.
  • The North is a place for a character to return to as sanctuary, consolation or after a suitably life enhancing experience elsewhere.
  • A character from the North’s imaginative/creative potential is nurtured through the intervention of a 3rd party from elsewhere.

Those kinds of stories are certainly not the WHOLE story, are they? And stories that are located in this part of the world, and what they express about this part of the world, matter – they impact upon how we see ourselves, and upon how we’re seen.

So that’s what we’re aiming for with the ‘A Wondrous Place’ theatre show in the Spring: four compelling short stories for the theatre, written by four dramatic writers with a love for this part of the world, located within four vivid, contemporary North of England landscapes that avoid these four narrative cliches.

There are some fantastic precedents for where we’re coming from…

Jarvis Cocker interviewed Roger McGough recently on Jarvis’ Sunday Service show (this particular show has sadly been deleted) and Jarvis was talking about how much Roger McGough was an influence on his lyric writing. Roger McGough explained how his approach came about – he was tired of the ‘gritty realist’ style of representing this part of the world (“…the everyday doesn’t have to be grey or grimy”), and wanted to make his home and surroundings (Liverpool) seem as exotic and exciting as he felt that it was. He was provoked by two things: The Shadows’ tune ‘Stars Over Stockton’ and Adrian Henry’s ‘The Entry of Christ into Liverpool’ painting.


Adrian Henry’s ‘The Entry of Christ Into Liverpool’.

Take a look at this from Roger M, an early poem ‘At Lunchtime: A Story of Love’ . It’s an obvious inspiration for Pulp’s ‘Sheffield Sex City’ – see here – and ‘Wickerman’ – see here. (Incidently, fact fans, Roger M’s poem also directly inspired David Bowie’s lyric for ‘Five Years’ from the Ziggy Stardust album.)

And here’s a clip of Jarvis discussing seeing the dramatic in your own surroundings (with a rather natty acoustic version of ‘Joyriders’ an’ all): Jarvis Cocker – Songbook

During the weekend at the Durham Books Festival, Northern Spirit and the four guest curators who joined us also had the invaluable opportunity to pool our perspectives on the part of the world we live within and love. To share what we feel are the contemporary points of connection between Newcastle, Sheffield, Manchester and Liverpool. We learned a huge amount from the experience: it was clear that Hayley Flynn, Amy Mackelden, Amy Roberts and Missy Tassles share a generosity of spirit, a desire for community, an enormous respect and love for their cities and are each motivated as bloggers, in different ways, through a desire to create change. It’s also obvious  - by looking through the archive and taking a trip to their individual websites – that this ‘can-do’ spirit is shared by every one of the people who have contributed to this digital space over recent months.

That’s why this digital space is such an important part of the overall ‘A Wondrous Place’ project for us – as a way of being inspired by, and expressing a story about, a very real shift in sensibility  - a more positive and surprising way of seeing this part of the world, driven by people who love this part of the world – that’s already happening organically across the North. We’re also very excited by how the eventual theatre show can be informed by and share a tangible kinship with this online space.

We’re very chuffed by what the space is generating and encouraging, and extremely grateful that New Writing North have enabled this to happen. We’re thrilled that more guest curators with surprising perspectives on this part of the world will be joining us from the 7th of January. A massive thank you to every one who has contributed their creativity to this space since September. And thank you so much for reading!

Have a lovely Christmas. See you in the New Year!

Featured photo: (l-r) Chris Meads, Hayley Flynn, Missy Tassles, Amy Roberts, Amy Mackelden.

*Read ‘Looking North – Northern England and the National Imagination’ – Dave Russell (Manchester University Press -  an extremely well researched exploration of the North of England’s impact upon the national imagination, each chapter dedicated to different cultural forms such as film, music, prose writing, drama etc.


Twenty Minutes to Hide

December 21, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, MANCHESTER, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL

Hayley xmas image 4

Creative challenge: “You’re a fugitive in your home city – you’ve got 20 mins to hide. Where do you go and why?”

I’m sure that among the collection of complicated minds that are my fellow Wondrous Place curators, I’m not alone when I confess that large chunks of my time are taken up by re-imagining my life as a story. My train of thought that was brought into the world with the sole purpose of deciding which crisps to buy eventually becomes a detective story – it takes only a minute or two for my thoughts to wind up here in my internal mystery, this imaginary film that my life becomes functions like a screensaver for my brain when its attention to the mundane has timed out.

Sometimes detective, other times fugitive, the scenario is still the same but what of the setting? Where in Manchester does my story pan out? Is it in the hidden rooms of an Oxford Road hotel where I chase my leads, or is it along the tow paths of the Rochdale Canal where it becomes lonely and its most ugly that I encounter my assailant?

Today I am a fugitive and I have twenty minutes to find a hide out, and I already know where to go. I start out on the canal, in those parts of it between the cafe culture of Canal Street and the yuppy culture of Castlefield; the parts where only three things decide to settle – crisp packets, used condoms and the burly blue heron that sits one-legged on the corner of Deansgate, the gatekeeper of the detritus. There’s nowhere to hide here.

Where I go is a limbo; a wasteland; an island. My island can be reached within minutes from here.
















I leave the canal, cross a small car park and head for the hole in the iron fence. What surrounds me is a strip of railway arches. Some retain a sort of privacy with the remnants of old facades, and in the gloom of these particular arches I am cold to the bone, but the pathway linking each new geometric arc of brick and vanquished industry is lined with thick grass – greener than anywhere else in the city, a miniature meadowland. And finding the guts to walk further into the belly of the railway line, I find myself in brightly decorated caverns whose curved ceilings are pierced with angular reveals of sunlight.

There’s a unicorn down here, no, really. It’s bright pink, and if he’s gone unnoticed for so long then I’m sure that I will too. Beyond him, his graffitied form, there’s a curtain of blue and green – sky and grass, a gateway to the water and to an open stretch of land that is the island itself.

A pathway, broken up by weeds looking like the destroyed yellow brick road, leads along the water away from the city. I know where it leads to, but it’s more than my life’s worth to tell you…

All images by Hayley Flynn.

Avatar of Hayley Flynn

Hayley Flynn

Hayley is the creator of 'Skyliner' (, a Manchester-born blog that is dedicated to the pursuit of rare and fascinating art, architecture and histories. A lover of opening closed doors, microfilm, and architectural drawings. She fled the confines of an office job to work in the arts and spend more time exploring the secrets of cities, Hayley and is now a tour guide, location scout and researcher but above all things - a professional dilettante.

The Winning North, or, Newcastle and TV Talent Shows (What Secret Talents Have We Got and Who Voted For Christopher Maloney?)

December 20, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, TYNE AND WEAR, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL


In 2000, I dreamed of going into the Big Brother house. In the school common room at break, we’d talk about applying, look up the rules, the process, plan out our auditions. This was by no means the first reality TV we’d seen – Jack had a penchant for ‘The Real World’ in the nineties, mainly because no-one else we knew had seen it, and I’ve not forgotten the summer defined entirely by ‘Bug Juice’, an American documentary-style show about Summer Camp. It was something we lacked. I wanted it. Just as Jack wanted to live in a house like ‘The Real World’, then ‘Big Brother’. We grew up on the Isle of Wight, so we dreamed of going somewhere else, anywhere without a ferry journey separating us from civilization. Perhaps why that first dream saw us isolated with a select group of strangers in a prison-walled house. And each other.

We ended up in Newcastle, not really together, not much of the time, but now, more than ever, our reality TV fantasy is a threatening possibility. Location-wise, the region has spawned a slew of reality show winners. South Shields’ Joe McElderry has won two ITV reality shows, some of last year’s X Factor winners, Little Mix, were from Newcastle and South Shields, and this year’s winner, James Arthur, is from Saltburn, near Middlesborough. And, of course there’s Cheryl Cole and that orgasmic hair, which must be a wig at least half of the time, and a fucking good wig at that. In summary, we’re bloody good at winning things, presenting things once we’ve won them and covering other people’s songs.

Jack can’t dance and I can’t sing for shit. I don’t have a routine ready for ‘Britain’s Got Talent’, no marketable idea for ‘Dragon’s Den’, but people I work with are winning breakfast TV modelling competitions and singing down the phone for Simon Cowell. Often overlooked for bigger, more cosmopolitan cities with better funding and job prospects, what talent would Newcastle win with if it entered ‘Britain’s Got Talent’? On a TV contest, what would the city showcase, surprise us with, which could beat a dancing dog? Apart from, you know, glorified karaoke that pleasures Gary Barlow.


The Winning North

Jack says talent isn’t teeth bleach. I know this, hypnotised by straight lines, shine and post-brace rows. But we’re TV taught that talent hoop-jumps are makeovers, outfits free, celebrity endorsements and exposés at right times: when voting is low or over. My offering, small, like the Frankincense king, can’t gazump gold, or compete, even.

The people we meet are dexterous, apt, have uncategorisable talents, wouldn’t read the script that Cowell sets. I ask Jack who he knows, what he does that no-one’s noticed, and I can tell there’s blood behind his eyes, swilling, and he sips his can, but this is not one of his talents, no disrespect. He knows I’d five star him. He says, “I have this friend who knits every present, personally, so that it’s clothes you need or something you love – like sharks or dogs. I’m serious.” I ask for more.

“I know writers who can’t shout loud like some people or choose not to, drummers without permanent fixtures, critics with no platform, musicians in day jobs, models in the wrong location, really: there’s a force London move in careers and there shouldn’t be. We’re rich, really, momentarily, although the plug drain means there’s no priority and Nicole Scherzinger said we’re talentless when she came here and I’ve not believed an understood word from her mouth, but it hurts. And the funding goes, like a natural resource, a relic we’d museum-frame, Christian Slater.”

Jack asks what I know, who I know, who should’ve moon-stepped, could pinnacle it. But the list’s too long. There’s not one talent. But X Factor can’t be it. I watched it. I won’t fucking lie to you. I enjoy getting angry, and there’s so much to get vocal for: Gary Barlow’s hypocrisy, Louis’ bigotry, Tulisa’s delusions of grandeur.

The city, though, iconic, sure, but it’s celebration, that’s it’s talent. The people I know, in the North, know how to celebrate something: a new job, day off, birthday, anniversary, snow. Annie organised a parade, and John camped at Monument, and Ted made a blog to talk about change, and Kim had Christmas at her house. Events every night you could go to and absolute institutions: Tyneside, Hancock, Pink Lane. Links and ties and drinks and a trustable accent according to market research, fireworks, exhibitions in parks in winter and summer fairs and the Town Moor.

Organising’s not a personal pastime, not always, but it’s the talent of the city and the people in it. That flair that mean’s there’s complete love of place. And I didn’t feel that first, where I was. But now.

Pink Lane, Newcastle.

Image: The Forth Public House, Pink Lane (Andrew Curtis) / CC BY-SA 2.0

Avatar of Amy Mackelden

Amy Mackelden

Amy Mackelden is from the Isle of Wight, and did the long distance thing with Newcastle for a long time before committing, which she finally did in 2008. She won a Northern Promise Award from New Writing North in 2011 and her daily microfiction blog,, was shortlisted in the Blog North Awards 2012. Amy’s show, ‘The 8 Fatal Mistakes of Online Dating (and how to avoid them)’, is supported by Arts Council England

Anna Karenina and The Lisbon Sisters Relocated to Liverpool

December 19, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, LIVERPOOL, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL

Lisbon Sisters in Liverpool

When you truly, truly love a book – when you’ve read it cover to cover and back again, and until the spine is starting to split – you begin to see the entire world through that narrative. You start to recognise crucial locations of that story in your own city.

I realised that The Lisbon Sisters from The Virgin Suicides are very much real in this city, and that people are still not taking their concerns or their troubles all that seriously, and that Russian classic Anna Karenina becomes a satire on W.A.G and tabloid culture when you relocate it to the haunts of the Scousewives.

Words and Drawings by Amy Roberts (with thanks to my girl Laura Outterside for being my books & booze buddy x)


Characters: The Lisbon Sisters

Book: The Virgin Suicides

Author: Jeffery Eugenides

Original setting: Grosse Point, Michigan

“Everyone dated the demise of our neighbourhood from the suicides of the Lisbon girls…”

Cecilia was the first to go. At 13, she first attempted death with razors across the wrists. But, unsuccessful, she later jumped from the top window of the family house where she successfully and fatally impaled herself on the front fence (exhibit #2: fence piece).

Following the suicide of their youngest sister, the remaining four sisters – who were fourteen (Lux), fifteen (Bonnie), sixteen (Mary) and seventeen (Therese) – became disconnected from their peers and their schooling, whilst their home life became a staple of consistent local gossip in the area where they were to live out their short lives (Calderstones Road, and onwards to Allerton, Toxteth and Aigburth).

The four girls began wearing a uniform of black and started hanging out outside of The Law Courts and on Chevasse Park where they swigged the vodka and cheap wine that Therese bought for all of them from the offy. Mary once dyed her hair green in the toilets of Grand Central.

They spent as many nights as possible in the notorious city centre ‘alternative’ nightclub The Krazy House where a slew of teenage boys and men old enough to know better pursued and worshiped the sisters. There are love notes from this period (exhibit #4) in which men have written their numbers on the back of Smirnoff Ice bottle labels followed by meet up points and times (exhibit #4.6: “The Swan, tomorrow, 7:30. I’ll be sat in the corner listening to Sabbath”).

This was an activity that was reciprocated and encouraged whole heartedly by Lux, who at one point didn’t return home for an entire weekend but was eventually driven back by police who found her passed out and deeply inebriated in a stair well of a nightclub on Duke Street. Rumour has it that a drag queen called Lola who used to work the door at Society found her there and had called an ambulance because she ‘thought she was dead’ (exhibit #9).

Mr and Mrs Lisbon became increasingly reclusive following this event, and in an attempt to protect their remaining daughters from the rest of the World locked the house (and the internet connection) down into maximum security isolation and pulled the girls from school.

And then it didn’t take long for it to happen. Pills. Noose. Carbon monoxide. Oven. From four they had become zero – the living to the dead.

After the free reign of the suicides, Mr and Mrs Lisbon gave away everything they owned and sold the house to a young couple from Kensington. Allegedly they moved into an undisclosed location on the Wirral where they could ‘be alone, for all time’. The school across the road from the old Lisbon home put in a memorial flower bed (exhibit #12: photograph) in respect to the tragedy. There’s a rumour going round that teenagers have started having unprotected sex on the memorial piece because ‘there’s no way of knocking a bird up there since nothing survives on Lisbon land’.


Character: Anna Karenina

Book: Anna Karenina

Author: Leo Tolstoy

Original setting: Moscow / St Petersberg

Anna Karenina in Liverpool

“If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content”.

Anna became the center of national and local scandal after leaving her husband – a well known and respected politician – for an equally wealthy, but notoriously skirt chasing younger model in the shape of (likely premiership footballer) Vronksy. She immediately moved to Liverpool to be with him, and was overheard in hair salon Herberts harping on with grandiose statements about love filling her soul and the sacrifices for happiness. Keen to cash in on what seemed to be a predictable set up for derision, the rabid tabloids pounced on Anna as the new scurrilous It Girl du jour – eager to document and also instigate her messy demise.

Despite having it all – a massive house in Woolton, a never ending disposable income, free unlimited supplies of botox and a possible new reality TV show in the works – Anna still desperately missed the stability and social contacts of her old life. Sure, she had love but what of its reality? Despite her social position, and despite her money, the world still looked on her as being trash, and of ill, despicable and questionable morals. Proper women shouldn’t act in such a way, said Daily Mail and Express editorials for many months to come.

As a result of such pressures and public ruination, her partying spiraled out of control and further isolated her from the life she once knew and the life she craved to sustain with Vronsky. She lived it up with cocktails at Mosquito, champagne by the bucket in Circo, and a private booth in the Newz Bar. She attended Ladies Day at Chester races – spending the morning prior enjoying a champagne breakfast at the London Carriage Works with women of similarly wealthy but ill repute – before watching her partner’s horse fall at the first hurdle and eventually get put down.

Anna was caught between light and shade – a position where she could have everything, but also nothing. Her ex husband played his position – and that of Anna -  up in the tabloids. She can always come back he kept saying but only if she stops the lies and deceit. Anything is better than lies and deceit! These were posted amongst shots of Anna – wild eyed and alone, platform heels in hand – wandering listlessly along the docks.

She even appeared as herself in several episodes of the soap Hollyoaks, leaving with the immortal line – once famously uttered by her once husband - Love those who hate you. She was not critically celebrated for her performance.

And then rumours began to circulate of Vronsky’s various infidelities. He was hardly ever home, and Anna began suspecting him of failing in love or lust with every younger version of herself that she came across. I feel a fool – as though I’ve given up everything for nothing! she glumly told her brother between mouthfuls of Key Lime Pie and a Cafe Cubano in Alma De Cuba one wretched lunchtime.

It was during this time that she began having recurring dreams about falling beneath the wheels of a locomotive. She would throw herself down onto the tracks into crimson and darkness. In her bag she always kept a small stash of cocaine neatly wrapped up inside a small vintage tobacco tin with a steam train on the lid and when she held the tin up to her ear like a shell she could hear the steam rising from the engine.


Avatar of Amy Roberts

Amy Roberts

Starting out life writing overly emotional vignettes of teenage turmoil in countless shame inducing diaries, I now write vignettes of grown up turmoil mostly inspired by the horrors (and splendours) of everyday life. You can often find me around Liverpool playing guitar (badly) or dancing (stupendously).This is my blog: - 'I Never Knew You Were Such A Monster':

Holden Caulfield Relocated to Liverpool

December 18, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, LIVERPOOL, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL

Holden in Liverpool

Much in the same way that there’s die hard Christian believers who take a moment in everyday life to think ‘What would Jesus do?’ (WWJD), I in turn occasionally find myself wandering around Liverpool thinking to myself ‘What the hell would Holden Caulfield make of all this?’, because I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in J D Salinger.

When you truly, truly love a book – when you’ve read it cover to cover and back again, and until the spine is starting to split – you begin to see the entire world through that narrative. You start to recognise crucial locations of that story in your own city. A dive bar in New York is suddenly right there on the corner of Duke Street, or you suddenly drive down a bland and orderly suburban street in Allerton where you decide that the ghost of a 13 year old girl in a wedding dress surely roams.

I began to think about this more and more and before long Liverpool was beset with tragedies, rebellions, murder and glamour. It became a stage, as well as an audience – stories and characters that I’ve loved for years were suddenly right there in front of me, off the page and onto the streets. Today I relocate Holden Caulfield to Liverpool to imagine the city through his eyes. Tomorrow I relocate the Lisbon Sisters from ‘The Virgin Suicides’ and Anna Karenina to Liverpool.

I discovered that barely anything changes for Holden Caulfield – he is ever present in many pubs and bars every day of the week muttering ‘phonies’ under his breath at hipsters and show offs.

Words and Drawings by Amy Roberts (with thanks to my girl Laura Outterside for being my books & booze buddy x)


Character: Holden Caulfield
Book: The Catcher In The Rye
Author: J D Salinger
Original Setting: New York City

The truth was that everywhere I went in this goddamn city, I could see those same escort agency posters dotted about the place. They were everywhere. Some woman in a Santa hat and little else holding a gift between her open legs. I felt like a fool. And then I felt real sleazy. And then I just felt depressed. But at least I didn’t actually do anything with the girl and you know, I don’t have a black eye or anything today, so that’s something.

Anyway, I headed to this greasy spoon called Kimos for a late breakfast. It’s a good place to go for when you just want to be alone. I swear, I could pour a bowl of beans over myself in this place and nobody would bat a goddamn eyelid. In fact they’d probably bring me a new plate of beans and a towel to clean myself up with. I ordered the Foule Mudammas – because I was thinking myself a little more cultured and exciting than I actually am – but when it turned up I probably only ate a fifth of the thing. If you really wanna know I spent the whole time watching a guy opposite me eat a full English. I regretted that all day.

I tried phoning Sally again, but I guess she’s busy or just doesn’t feel like talking. Technology really gives me the blues. It doesn’t connect anyone with anybody. It just makes me feel more alone than if I didn’t have it, truth be known. I was at a loss as to what to do with myself then. I was kinda planning on taking Sally out for a meal in Leaf or to catch a film in FACT or something, but I ended up going the Pilgrim and drinking a few double rum and cokes on my own in one of those booths they have in there.

I sat picking the mosaics off the table top (the one I was at spelled out the name LIPA) whilst a group of student types in rugby shirts talked about girls they’d screwed recently. I swear, I recognised half the girls they were talking about and know for a fact they wouldn’t be caught dead taking their knickers off to a bunch of bozos like that.

I was kinda drunk by that point and making a sorta scene, I guess –  the way people do when they drink on their own. It just makes everyone uncomfortable. The barmaid started ID’ing me which I took as my cue to leave. I wandered just round the corner into a club called Bumper and they didn’t give me no grief about getting in or anything, which I took to meaning that they aren’t too picky about the sort of cliental they let in.

My god, you should have seen the mess everyone was in. I got myself a drink which cost me about three times the price of the ones in The Pilgrim and made me feel only about half as good, and went and stood downstairs away from the humping dancers on the dance floor. There was a girl crying in the corner. She had some vomit on the front of her dress and I felt real bad for her. A boy who looked younger than I did and was wearing some kind of an 80’s shell suit jacket with a t-shirt that had the logo of some obscure metal band on it or something went over to her and tried his luck. Man, I can’t stand phonies like that.

I started talking to my brother Allie whilst I was stood there. The music got louder, so loud that I could feel the bass in my stomach, and I started worrying about whether the ducks in the local park by mine were alright. I finished my drink and decided to head back to Crosby to check. Hang out with my sister, Phoebe. Maybe everything would be fine.


Tomorrow: The Lisbon Sisters from ‘The Virgin Suicides’ and Anna Karenina relocated to Liverpool.

Avatar of Amy Roberts

Amy Roberts

Starting out life writing overly emotional vignettes of teenage turmoil in countless shame inducing diaries, I now write vignettes of grown up turmoil mostly inspired by the horrors (and splendours) of everyday life. You can often find me around Liverpool playing guitar (badly) or dancing (stupendously).This is my blog: - 'I Never Knew You Were Such A Monster':

Missy’s Cartoons of Northern Spirit at the Durham Books Festival

December 17, 2012 in A WONDROUS SPACE, Wondrous Cities, XMAS SPECIAL

A Wondrous Place Guest Curators at the Durham Books Festival

In October 2012 New Writing North kindly invited us to embed ourselves within the Durham Books Festival, the North East’s biggest annual celebration of books and new writing. Their support enabled us to bring together (and actually meet in person for the first time!) four kindred spirits from four North of England cities who have contributed to the ‘A Wondrous Place’ digital space over recent months – Hayley Flynn, Amy Roberts, Amy Mackelden and Missy Tassles. We jointly led a practical workshop with lots of lovely people from the region (more info here), attended festival events together, did lots of tweeting, and had the invaluable opportunity to pool our perspectives on the part of the world we live within and love and to share what we feel are the contemporary points of connection between Newcastle, Sheffield, Manchester and Liverpool.

Here’s Missy Tassles’ cartoon perspective on our time together. Click on each cartoon to see an enlarged version.

The above photograph of us grafting was also taken by Missy (that’s why she’s not in it!).































Tomorrow: ‘A Catcher In The Rye’ inspires Amy Roberts to re-imagine Liverpool…

Avatar of Missy Tassles

Missy Tassles

Based in Sheffield, I love film, comics, everything kitsch, weird, 1950s-60s, horror, sci-fi, and creative projects: playing music, sewing, painting, occasional DJ-ing. Creative focus at present is on my indie art-rock band Flying Wing and I doodle cartoon diary blog posts inbetween other