Hello and thank you, first of all, for opening what is ostensibly a sales and marketing email.
I’m coming up to 300 zines sold and that’s amazing. But I can’t help but notice that I have 1000+ subscribers. Now. Tell me if I’m wrong — I do have dyscalculia — but that means quite a lot of you don’t have a copy of A Place To Be yet.
That’s cool! I mean, you might not want a physical piece of my heart and soul in your house. I can understand that.
If the reason is simply because you keep forgetting, please do me a favour and pick up a copy so that Pellicle can start planning to print its second zine project — the money we make from selling our merch, my zine, and from supporting Pellicle on Patreon all goes towards paying writers, illustrators and photographers. And yes, me.
You can buy A Place To Be online at the Pellicle shop.
You can also pick up a copy IRL at the following places:
Rare Mags, Stockport
DEYA Tap, Cheltenham
Siren Tap Yard, Wokingham
Lost & Grounded, Bristol
Caps and Taps, London
Thanks for your undying support! You keep me writing!
Music from the 70s really hits the spot right now. For obvious reasons.
I said I’d write about some of my Tenerife adventures this week, but I’ve since been commissioned to write about the Island of Eternal Spring for Pellicle, so I’m going to change it up. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth the wait!
I’ve noticed a distinct change in my listening habits this year. Background music, for me, has always been dub, big beat like The Crystal Method and late 90s/early 00s Prodigy, and progressive house. Stuff that rolls on and on, but, ideally, is unobtrusive enough to let me write without accidentally typing out lyrics or getting distracted by an outrageous sax solo.
Lately, I’ve needed something more nourishing. The daily news is a permanent shock to the system, and what is happening in and to our world is a constant ache. On a smaller scale too, communities are breaking apart, people care less about their individual accountability (I am convinced of this more and more every time I see more litter where there was none before, people being ruder to each other online for no good reason, the sheer amount of dog shit on the pavements…I’m not being funny, everything is getting worse in even the smallest ways) and count on withdrawing from society and living in ignorance to protect themselves. The most vulnerable people are scapegoated and bullied, and the poorest are getting poorer. We see US news all day every day, but comparing the UK to America as some sort of yardstick to prove we aren’t doing to badly is a farce. Everything is fucked.
So, what is there to do? You already know: write to your MPs, sign petitions. Speak loudly and clearly about the world you believe in, that you want to create. Correct and diminish hate speech whenever you hear it. We’re doing it, we’re trying. But it never feels enough.
We also need to feel personally able to keep doing this important work. Being exhausted and overwhelmed is not how you overthrow fascism and grow community.
What’s working for me right now is a long playlist full of songs from the 1960s and 70s, sung by people who really understand what it’s like to live in horrendous times of inequality and violence. Songs of war, poverty, the aching desire for a better world. Angry, sad voices singing beautifully about the reality of living through troubled, violent, turbulent times. I look to them for comfort. But I also ask them for ways to get through it. Their answers? Love. Desire. Sex. Faith. Songs written to venerate lovers (Take Yo’ Praise by Camille Yarbrough — what a song!) and celebrate family and friendships, deeply describing the importance of individual connection, especially during times like these. Heartbreak, and its sharp perspectives — personal problems thrown into the mix of larger issues. Songs written with Gospel in their hearts and hope in their souls. I’m no Christian, but I do believe in the strength that comes from having something to believe in. And I believe that things can be better, that people can be better, because Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Minnie Riperton and Bill Withers all believed it too, right through some of the hardest, harshest times of the 20th century; Black artists describing the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, revolution. I’m using them as my guides. They can explain it to me, give me an understanding over all the noise. Get me through this.
I understand that Spotify is a really bad way to share music but I wanted to make a playlist with some of my favourite songs mentioned and referred to in this article and I don’t know a better way of doing it. I hope it reignites your love for soul.
I just wanted to let you know that I’m using Instagram more to promote my work and share memes/news. You can find me here. Give me a follow!
I know it’s a Sunday, don’t panic, you’ve not accidentally bopped your head on the kitchen counter and found yourself in a daze midweek. I just wanted to send out a little note to say how much I’ve enjoyed sharing A Place To Be with everyone since it came out.
If you don’t know what I’m on about, A Place To Be is my zine, and Pellicle’s first print publication. It’s a collection of short stories (some call them “vignettes”, I will let you call them what you want) about drinking in liminal spaces — spaces I’ve been in myself, or that I invented in my head
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To share it, I’ve been travelling around the country to read from it aloud. I had no idea how much I’d enjoy this. I used to get stage fright at school, to the point where I gave up playing my musical instruments and fainted doing talks at the front of the class in English. I suppose the difference here is that I’m incredibly proud of the work I’ve put into A Place To Be, I know everything about it inside out because it’s something I created, and I’ve been very grateful to have audiences who ask the most interesting and thoughtful questions about zinemaking and the stories themselves. Thank you to The Crow in Sheffield and Kerroo Brewing in Port Erin, Isle of Man for hosting my first two events. They were brilliant, I loved doing them.
I’ve been writing this newsletter for going on 7 years now, and there are now 1000 of you receiving it directly into your inboxes. That is mindblowing to me. A Place To Be began life as a collection of stories written in this very newsletter — over the past year the project grew and changed, but it was The Gulp that led and inspired me to make my first solo published project. That means you are part of the zine. Thank you for being here!
If you haven’t got a copy of A Place To Be, please consider supporting my writing by treating yourself to one! You can pick one up here for £10 + postage.
I get commission from every zine sold, and each zine sold also supports Pellicle, the magazine I work for as assistant editor. If you’re not familiar with our independent writing on pub culture, beer, wine, cider and food, please have a read — it’ll be exactly what you’re looking for this afternoon.
My next A Place To Be events are coming up soon. Please come along if you can — they are free to attend and all are welcome. If you would like accessibility info or advice for either of them, please let me know and I’ll try to help as best I can.
Thursday 3 April, 7pm — Runaway Brewery & Taproom, Stockport
Saturday 12 April, 4pm — Caps and Taps, London
*You’ll be able to buy A Place To Be from me in person at both of these events*
Eating on your own is great fun, so is watching the weather come in.
Peel is a lovely old historic town on the south side of the Isle of Man. Its castle is on the tidal island of St Patrick’s Isle, the causeway of Fenella Beach—the only way to get to the Viking fortress—is one of my favourite spots in the world. Instead of sand, it has queenie shells. Sometimes the sea is so large and wild in this tiny bay, the waves could crash above your head. On the night I arrived this trip, the Irish Sea was whipped up by the growing winds, a violent bar of black cloud striping above an orange sunset, lighting the tips of the grey, choppy waters in unusual, sunny shades of turquoise and gold. For days, the weather had been perfectly bright—cold, but resplendent, awakening thoughts of spring and polishing up old feelings of hope. Now, on my last evening of my trip away, the air was changing, some northwesterly storm was pushing into the sandy promenade, bringing hail with it. I stood as long as I could bear the windburn on my cheeks, then ducked into The Peveril, an Okells pub on the harbour where coal fires are tended obsessively by locals who still use Manx slang. I’m eyed up suspiciously, partly because I’m not from round here, but most likely because I’m clearly not wearing warm enough clothes. The friendly woman behind the bar tells me there are more seats in the lounge—the bar is full up with a regular post-work crowd of high-vis fisherman, workmen, and couples from the town. I recognise someone from a bus journey earlier in the week. It’s a small island.
Above the bar are two signs, one reads “Yessir” and the other “Hey Boy”, both Manx phrases I’ve heard surprisingly often on my trip. In the lounge, a teapot collection encircles the room, and a pool table stands unused, but worn. I sip my pint of Guinness (I didn’t fancy an Okells pale and their excellent Smoked Porter was all gone) and talk to a man across the room about Norton rotary engines and the Manx GP. Too soon, it’s time to go and eat. I realise I’m starving.
The Boat Yard is an award-winning restaurant that specialises in Manx seafood — that’s why it wins its awards. I have been a few times before, with Tom, but both times it was absolutely packed to the rafters. When I arrive at half past six on a cold, wet March Wednesday, I’m the only person there.
The menu is as fishy as I dreamed it would be, and while I’d normally order something picky or snacky or fried for a starter, I couldn’t think of anything nicer on such a cold night than a bowl of chowder. It came hot and creamy, filled with Manx kipper and mussels, and a healthy incorporation of curly parsley. Slurping it felt like warmth and health and happiness.
To drink, I had a glass of champagne. And then another. How incredibly off-putting of me, to ignore wine tasting regulations and all common decency, but I wanted some Champagne, so I had some. End of story. If you want to fight me about it, I‘ll meet you outside. Doing champagne by the glass is not ideal for any hospitality venue, and I apologised for being so awkward. Then I apologised for apologising. My lovely host was gregarious: “You deserve to have what you like,” she said. I wondered if had I been with other people she might not have added life coaching to my menu free of charge, but I appreciated it nonetheless. And anyway, I did like it very much, because it was rich and biscuity, with a squeeze of lemon sherbet.
My main was a lemon-buttery plaice, white and pure, served on a generous bed of sauteed samphire and scattered with plump and juicy queenies. Queenies, or queen scallops, are a Manx delicacy — voted the island’s national dish — and it was beautiful to enjoy them here as part of a dish, holding up their end of the bargain. Normally I’ve only ever eaten them as the start of the show, taking in their sweet, mellow fishiness. As the plaice’s supporting role, they added subtle depth to the butter-basted fish, layering up each white flake with a light sweetness reminiscent of langoustines. It felt luxurious to be eating this alone, and I congratulated myself, particularly whenever runners bobbed past the window and looked in. I’m in here, eating delicious fish. You’re out there, in the rain. I win.
I never get dessert, so let that be an indicator of how little I wanted to leave the table and this moment. I went for a pina colada panna cotta, and it was a blast of rum, coconut, and tart, zingy pineapple. Super fun, extremely good. Well done.
As I finished up, more couples came in to take their seats. Apparently there was a party later, which accounted for it being quiet early doors. What a relief — it seems as though people really do appreciate having this special place on their doorstep. I get up to pay and my host gives me a hug. I hope that it’s because she enjoyed chatting whenever she came over to my table, and not because she felt sorry for me for eating alone. I certainly didn’t. I loved every minute.
My Stuff
I’ve been having the best time on my zine tour, and I wanted to thank everybody who has come to one of my events so far. Your questions are always so thoughtful, and I’ve loved being able to share my stories out loud.
The next A Place To Be event is on Thursday 3 April at Runaway Brewery & Tap in Stockport. After that, I am heading to Caps and Tap in London on Saturday 16 April. I hope to see you there!
There are still zines for sale on the Pellicle website, and I will be selling them in person at my events. If you would like to sell them from your bar, tap room or shop, please let me know — I have wholesale prices ready to go.
I’m going to the Isle of Man to write. Wish me luck.
I’ve wanted to go on a writing retreat for years. The idea of luxurious time, spent somewhere other than my house, used to write, read and think. It makes me glow just thinking about it.
Then I saw how much they cost. And what they really entail. To make sure you feel like you’re getting your money’s worth, there are lots of activities organised for you, and workshops to attend. Sounds like university. There are group sessions to join in with. Sounds like my worst nightmare. There are friendly breakfasts and tea times where discussing your WIP with other retreaters is encouraged. Sounds like hell.
I’m not an unfriendly person. I smile and laugh and conduct myself politely. It’s only that after a lot of consideration I really don’t want to stay in a countryside cottage with a shared bathroom so that I can talk to strangers and drink tea in a communal dining room. So what do I want? When did I become such a curmudgeon?
First of all, the price of these sorts of writing getaways is incredibly prohibitive. Even if I did put it on the fuck-it credit card, I felt like there was something wrong about doing so — very few people can do this. I don’t want my writing to come from somewhere elitist, even if that only means being served cake every afternoon and not having to cook my meals for five days. Would my writing really benefit from a situation like this, I wondered? What difference would it make?
Behind every Renaissance Man is a woman doing the domestic labour. I realise paying for a retreat would be like having a wife for a week. In that respect, perhaps the cost is far lower than it should be. I really can’t foot that bill, however, so I decided to create my own retreat, one that I would actually enjoy.
My friends have let me use their house on the Isle of Man while they aren’t in it for the week. For six days, I’ll have a sea view and somewhere to work solely on my intended project, with all my favourite food and drink readily to hand because I’ll be catering for myself. I’ve planned walks in the hills and along the coast, and I’ve already decided what I’m ordering from the chippy on my first night. I’ll read my research notes and books in the pub, or in bed, and I’ll have a bunch of flowers on the table where I’m working. Perhaps most importantly, I will be the only person there. My telephone voice won’t come out, I won’t feel embarrassed about my progress or lack thereof. I won’t have to listen to people talk about their work when I’m trying hard to remember a good idea I had. No offence — I’m just here to work, you know?
Build your own retreat
Pick a place that’s cheap to get to but has nice views and walks
Choose accommodation with good WiFi or you’re screwing yourself before you get there
Make sure you don’t have to drive yourself anywhere — thinking and reading on the bus is underrated working time
Save up enough money to do one “fancy” food shop when you get there so your accom is well-stocked with all your favourite biscuits and pop and snackies
Tidy up for 10 mins every morning before you work to avoid procrastination
Set a daily goal or word count and stick to it
When you don’t hit your goal or word count, roll it over to the next day so you don’t completely give up and go on a bender
If this still isn’t working, build other types of accountability in, like sending a trusted friend or editor your MS at the end of the day, or calling Tom every evening to explain what you did with your day (me only)
Book a meal for yourself on your last night to treat yourself for all your hard work
Go outside every day to get some fresh air and let new ideas blow into your ears
IMO working in a café is useless and distracting. Use getting a decent brew as an excuse for a break.
A Place To Be zine event at Kerroo Brewing, Port Erin
This Saturday 8 March at 4pm I’ll be heading to Kerroo Brewing for their tap room’s 1st birthday party to do a reading and a Q+A session about making and writing my zine, A Place To Be.
There are two stories in the zine about places in the Isle of Man (or on the sea near it) and so I’m really looking forward to sharing these, and my love for the island, at such a special event.
If you’re on the island, or you can hop on the ferry, I hope you can make it!
Where to buy A Place To Be
You can still buy copies of my zine from the Pellicle shop, and there are now quite a lot of places you can pick one up too.
