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Published: February 4th 2006
The first thing I noticed about Leeds was the size of the buildings. Actually that’s the second thing I noticed. The first was that it was really fucking cold, and as usual, dressed in a thin suit jacket, I was woefully unprepared for these types of temperatures. (Oh the sacrifices we must make for fashion.)
It was clear I was now in a big city. (I was surprised to find out later that Leeds has the second largest Metropolitan area in the country, making it the second largest city in the U.K, there’s one for the fact fans). Even so, even the buildings in London aren’t this tall. It seems that, whereas London likes to push all its massive tower blocks and tenements to the outskirts (or at least into the city) Leeds exposes itself at first glance, warts and all, with a skyline symptomatic of the characteristic northern honesty. Surprisingly however, this expansiveness was impressive rather than cluttered. Even the older Victorian buildings seemed just that bit bigger and at times seemingly without justification. The behemoth of a hotel across from the station may be popular but it can’t justify being about 12 times the size of the natural
history museum, surely.
I had been to Leeds once before to visit the university, roughly four and a half years ago. Seeing as the date of the visit was September 11th 2001 however, memories of Leeds itself largely consisted of the sports bar in which a major part of the day was spent. Unsurprisingly the coverage being shown wasn’t sport.
I was in Leeds to visit my friend Steve, who as been described by another friend as “so charismatic that people are drawn to him like moths to a light bulb”. So, arriving into Leeds about 5’o clock on Friday after an uncomfortable and rather chaotic train ride (first the train was broken, then it wasn’t, then we had to change trains but didn’t, all good fun), I was looking forward to my stay.
A brisk walk, in the cold, to his halls of residence (another exercise in architectural excess, this time a modern tower block, but painted lurid primary colours), was followed by an unnecessarily militaristic security protocol and finally a cup of tea in his room, one of those anonymous student/young offenders designs. We chatted for a while and then went off to meet some
Steve
Pretending he can play the Guitar.of his friends in a remarkably similar tower block.
Those that stick in the mind are: Matt, one of the largest people I’ve ever met, a literal man mountain, though probably with not an ounce of fat on him; complete with lisp he reminded me of a white Frank Bruno, though hopefully without the mental problems; and Robin, skinnier and more of a geezer, but very reminiscent of my friend Leo. They seemed a sound bunch of guys, and the mildly disgusting state of their flat, iron board as coffee table and endlessly reused plates, was a nostalgia trip back to my own time spent in such conditions.
Later we went out. Drinks in a couple of bars, remarkably similar to a few Reading establishments, (fucking Globalization) were followed with a night at the student union. Let’s be honest, Student Unions are generally rubbish. Look back to your greatest memories from university/college. It’s highly likely that very few of them were spent in the union. In Exeter, the Union was a small canteen, literally. The tables were removed, and it was dark, but there was no escaping the fact that you probably ate your lunch their earlier. The
length of queues at the bar resulted in ordering several drinks at once and a trip across the dance floor frequently resulted in shoe loss due to the surprisingly adhesive cocktail of sweat, spilt drinks and god knows what else. It was also unnaturally hot. By the third year, our group of friends were reduced to spending nights there as an exercise in irony rather than in anticipation of any genuine enjoyment.
Fortunately the Leeds Union was rather different. Firstly it was the size of a small cathedral (I got comprehensively lost within the first few minutes) and secondly it was really good. Not that I’ve ever been in one, but it seemed as if we’d stumbled into some massive London super-club, replete with claustrophobia inducing dance floor and annoyingly vocal DJ’s. Those sorts of places normally aren’t my bag, so fortunately this wasn’t it. Corridor’s, walk-ways and tunnels led to various other rooms and bars. We Established ourselves in a bar playing vaguely indie music and I’m sorry to say I drank and danced, copiously.
Due partly to a prolonged and boisterous chorus of nasal and rectal emissions, orchestrated by my comatose roommate, the night was not a
restful one. So, on waking, the inevitable; “you must be fucking joking its two O’clock, Oh shit it’s two clock”, moment wasn’t entirely unjustified.
The afternoon was spent gingerly nosing around the city, Steve showing me the sights, not that there really are any, me attempting arty photographs, not that I’m good enough too take any. Leeds by daylight is actually quite pleasant, much nicer than I was expecting. It seems to have struck a harmonious balance between ornate and grandiose Victorian architecture and 21st century minimalism. The results are surprisingly effective.
Patronizing an “all you can eat buffet” is on of those ideas that seem very clever at the time and very stupid an hour later. This occasion was not an exception. Steve had previously remarked at the lack of children around the centre of Leeds. So, Question: where does everyone in Leeds who is under the age of 13 go on a Saturday afternoon? Answer: to Wokmania, our Thai buffet of choice. What kind of name is Wokmania anyway? I certainly didn’t see any Woks when I was there, and except for the screaming hordes of tweens I didn’t notice any mania either. The term Wokmania
implies some sort of obscure psychological condition, related to obsessive collection of the popular Asian cooking implement. “A psychopathic loner who will do anything for his next wok” the Hollywood tagline would read. Sadly this wasn’t the case. The food wasn’t bad, it was just severely average (and left we with digestive problems but that’s another story). When indulging in such buffets though, the quality of the food is relatively unimportant; one must simply cram as much as physically possible down one’s esophagus. However the sweet and sour soup killed off that ambition; tasting, as it did, like the combined perspiration of every customer (and there was a lot of perspiration) had been collected, processed and infused with an oxo cube or two. Never has a slight spelling mistake been so unintentionally misleading.
I’ve never been a massive fan of the blues, however I can see that it does have its time and place. This is preferably a 1930’s Louisianan cornfield but there’s no accounting for tastes, right. I just find it difficult to understand how so many hours of recording history have been devoted to such a simple and uninspired chord sequence.
That I spent several hours
that evening rehearsing and recording a mock blues song for Steve’s friend’s school project was surprising then. In the end it was actually quite fun, certainly more so than listening to the stuff. The track actually sounded quite authentic due to the poor quality of the inbuilt i-book microphone we recorded onto. It is a testament to blues straightforwardness though that we were able to achieve such a feat in an hour or two though.
Saturday night was much the same as the previous, similar pubs, less drink, more dancing. Steve is know for is semi-legendry powers over the fairer sex, so it was with slight amusement that I watched him work his magic on a couple of girls he knew. Ultimately, however, he was unsuccessful.
After the last two nights, plus a shoulder injury, achieved by sleeping on the floor for too long, an early start to Sunday was never on the cards, so you will be unsurprised to read that it was well before midday before we arose. In fact not much in general was achieved on Sunday. The most generous thing I can say is that it was a day of repose.
The evening
AAARGGG WOKMANIA!!!!
Steve's feelings are plain. was different however. Steve was in the process of setting up a covers band with some friends from his course. It was in its infancy, so he invited me along for a jam. I was kind of nervous about this, I didn’t want to interfere and I assumed the others in his band didn’t want me interfering. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I was, and this might sound a bit melodramatic, rather touched by the by the genuine warmth and generosity of these people. Maybe all northern people are like this, I don’t really know, but the unabashed camaraderie displayed by these people is something rarely seen in the south, outside of a music festival (or depending on the level of inebriation, possibly a very friendly pub.
it was a great evening. There weren’t enough instruments to go round, but people swapped round. I spent most of the evening playing a battered acoustic that no one could hear, but this hardly mattered. The atmosphere put me in mind of an old fashioned camp-fire-sing- a- long (just without a campfire and with lots instruments and inside, ok not a world class analogy). Although Steve characteristically managed to
turn it into a Beatles-a-thon, I felt slightly melancholic that I’m no longer in the kind of environment where you can just get together with some friends on a Sunday evening to play some old songs, just because you’ve got nothing better to do. It was the only time that weekend that I felt kind of jealous that Steve’s got another two years of that too look forward to.
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Beautifully atmospheric photographs, hope Leeds are paying you well