“The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it.”

James Baldwin

Easter Saturday, after a morning spent watching my son train at basketball, I decided to go out and pick up some shopping for tea from the local Aldi opposite my home. As I leave the house I pass what is now called ‘The Corner’ Pocket Sculpture Park; a tract of land once abandoned and left to rot by its owners, but taken on as a project by myself and another artist, and converted over a number of years into a quiet oasis of green and art amidst the chaos of this corner. 

On this occasion as I walk past, I notice what appears to be a small huddled figure, hard up against the silver of the new palisade fence erected at the rear of the land, and hidden beneath a large coat. I have seen this before and I know from all the scraps of silver foil that I have cleaned up in this spot what is going on. So, as I am for once not in a rush I decide to investigate. 

I approach the figure under the coat and stop at a safe distance…

‘Hello… are you alright?… do you need some help?’

Like some distressed inner city tortoise emerging from its shell, a head perched on a long thin neck rears up from under the coat. Hollow dark rimmed eyes stare back at me from the depths of a skull that has seen more than one too many traumas. A frail skeletal frame in skintight leggings that still manage to hang off a body whose muscle has long since wasted away. I remain at a slight distance in an attempt not to intimidate. I ask again

“Do you need help?… are you okay?”

“Have you got any change?” comes the response.

“No” I reply.

“Then do you want business?”

This is not the first time that I have been asked this question in the middle of the afternoon, virtually on the doorstep of my home. In fact, I cannot count on the fingers of one hand the number of times this has happened in the last couple of years. Saturday and Sunday afternoon on the stretch of road between my home and Aldi is like a slalom, trying to avoid the advances of prostitutes and sundry wraith-like toothless individuals, outstretched sh*t encrusted fingers as they pan handle for change. 

“What business?” I ask, knowing full well what she means.

A pause as she looks up while putting her shoes and socks back on.

“A blowjob?”

Sadly I am not taken aback, shocked or any other adjective that one might care to insert at this point. Her response is par for the course.

“I think you need to leave now” I say to her in a stern but non-threatening voice. I remain stood at a safe distance, for her and me.
She starts to speed up gathering her belongings from the floor around her and piling them into her handbag.

“Who are you to be telling me to leave, does this belong to you or something?” She shouts at me.

In a calm and even tone I reply “no I don’t own this land, I am just someone who is trying to keep it clean and tidy, and safe for people ‘round about.”

Her eyes dart back to meet mine “oh” In that briefest of moments I see a look of sorrow, possibly a flicker of understanding, maybe even piteous of me, but in that same millisecond it is gone again, replaced by alternate flashes of fear, anger and hate. 

As she stands up a roll of aluminium foil drops into the grass from beneath her voluminous coat.
“What’s the silver foil for?” Once again knowing the answer before I have even asked the question.

“Who the f*ck are you, the police or something, asking me a question like that?”

“Why would the police want to ask you a question about your roll of silver foil?”

“Why are YOU asking me a question like that,  would you go up to a stranger and ask a question like that?”

“Well, considering I have no idea who you are, you are a stranger to me and I did just ask you, so I guess the answer to that is -yes I would.”

By now she has gathered her stuff and is heading off across the uneven grass, stumbling over tree roots as she goes. 

I remain on site for another five minutes or so, using my time to remove the previous night’s accretion of empty super-strong Polish lager cans and vodka and whiskey bottles, left behind by the alcoholics who avail themselves of the late night service provided by Eden Supermarket.

This is no Garden of Eden, this is an atheists spiritual journey from Gethsemene to Golgotha; a journey in which progress is arrested and the future put on hold. Even the godless have their crosses to bear.

The smallest of advances are hard-won in areas like South Leeds. The presence of ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ has provided us with roughly five years of relative peace and quiet in amongst the anti-social and often dangerous behaviour of those around about. Here, in the margins of the city, there is no BID (Business Improvement District) team, we, the inhabitants must take the initiative and run with it just to stand still. It is my hope that one day the rest of Leeds society, beyond the boundaries of the South, and the powers that be, will open their eyes and understand that this is a community that needs help not chastisement.

Sure that she is gone and not coming back, at least for today, I continue to wend my merry way to Aldi to pick up some potatoes and pork mince.

Postscript 

Recently I was at a Local Visitor Economy Programme (LVEP) Forum at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park -talk about crushing sense of imposter syndrome, as I watched Mayor Tracy Brabin and numerous other luminaries from the upper echelons of the Yorkshire Culture and Tourism industry talk about the ‘Pride in Place’ campaign. I like to torment myself. 

[On a screen; A huge projected image, aerial shots of the rolling hills of Yorkshire, swooping down to street level, on to the sets of Emmerdale Farm, scenes of happy tourists thronging through the streets of Haworth celebrating a new film based on Wuthering Heights by one of Bradford’s finest, Samuel L Jackson on the set of Marvel’s Secret Invasion by the Bond Street petanque player  in the city centre. Elsewhere, the old Majestyk night club (previously the Majestic Cinema), once converted by fire into a burnt out shell in 2014, now risen phoenix like from the flames acts as home to Channel Four.]

I imagine my own pitch to create a Pride in Place campaign for South Leeds

[Title board] Pride in Place 

[Fades into images of the Rolling hills of Yorkshire zooming into the inappropriate vegetation of the public realm in South Leeds, decorated with used condoms, human excrement, masses of fast food litter being devoured by massive rats and an ocean of empty vodka bottles]

[voice over: by James Earl Jones if he is available.]

Experience the thrills of inner city deprivation, 

The squalor of mouldy homes, and abject poverty along with the enervating desperation of drug addiction and alcohol dependency that will inspire the loss of a will to live. 

Come to South Leeds and experience a tearful end to a shortened life.

[Jump cut to archive clips of 7/7 -Beeston’s only ever appearance, that I am aware of, on national Tv]

Visit the regional breeding ground of national terrorism that brought you the London Bombings of 2007

[Followed by YouTube footage of men in cars rating the STD count and service provided by women on the streets of Holbeck]

Follow local history as you get your vicarious kicks on the real-life set of the UK’s only murderous legal prostitution Managed Zone (2014 – 2021) with a thrilling ride through an environment in which you can achieve YouTube fame abusing vulnerable women whilst being solicited for ‘business’ all in the space of 100yards

[Title Board] This is Universal Studios on literal crack

A visit to Leeds that you will never forget…. But wish you could.

Imagine what it is like to live here. 

Oh by the way, we also have world’s oldest working railway. 

[Image briefly flashes up of Middleton Steam Railway before a blip vert featuring John Smeaton and  a jump cut to black]

[END]

Afterword

In the numerous presentations by organisations at the LVEP Forum I was struck by several things; not just the incongruity of how Yorkshire can seem to the outside world with the right pair of eyes, but also by the fact that the people with all of the answers do not have the answers. One particular agency talked about how “culture is a bad word“; the moment you start talking about culture people switch off. The insinuation I guess is that people immediately start thinking of phrases such as culture wars, a popular invention of the right along with all of the other types of war they like to start. Yet, at the same event we had a presentation from the organisers of 2025 Bradford City of Culture. So is this a bad word or not? After all Leeds was a post-Brexit City of Culture in 2024. Actually, don’t get me started on that, I think I just answered my own question.

In the same presentation the speaker also talked of  being “flexible, authentic and true” and that we must “know that we are saying the right thing to the right people at the right time“, a statement that whilst epitomising ideas of flexibility surely flies in the face of authenticity and truth. Okay I will admit there is no such thing as truth – it is a concept as subjective as beauty.

In the end we need the people with money, even if I seem determined to p*** them off. The old ways have failed and the future holds nothing but confrontation. Whilst the powers that be talk of being asset rich and cash poor, we are in the unenviable position of being asset poor and cash poor, therefore it is our needs that must come first as it is our house that is on fire. It is a situation that the rich cannot understand, and crucially do not want to. The broken heart emojis are pure performance, for themselves not others, we need to make our voices heard.

These are the kind of thoughts put out there by those who claim to have the answers.

Mr Zahawi seems to have forgotten his origin story: an Iraqi refugee entering the country aged 9, followed by a comprehensive education, possibly a reason for his poor spelling if the Tory view of state education is to be believed! Although it must be noted that he was then transferred to a private education at King’s College School in Wimbledon before attending University College London -you would think that this would have sorted his poor grammar out, and ultimately joining the Tory party where he was able to align himself with power and wealth and ignore his own beginnings. The political system seems to be proof that a person ceases to be human when they forgo acknowledgement of the human condition; fearing the violence of  those who look like they have not slept in days, in favour of  self-enrichment. Money should be a means not an end and it is only when those with money understand its true value that the rest of society will be able to move forward. That is why we must act with the fierce urgency of now.

“When the Last Tree Is Cut Down, the Last Fish Eaten, and the Last Stream Poisoned, You Will Realize That You Cannot Eat Money”
-Attributed to the remarks of  Alanis Obomsawin (an Abenaki from the Odanak reserve, Montreal) made in a collection of essays published in 1975 entitled “Conversations with North American Indians” but more commonly referred to as an earlier Cree prophecy.

Earlier on in this post I referred to myself as an atheist but that is not strictly true, I am purely a person with no belief, Atheism being as much a populist belief as religion, and importantly I am at peace with that concept; I do not need convincing of an alternative and I have no desire to convince anyone else of my belief. And so it is with this personally held belief in mind that I say; whilst we blast dead cats off to the moon to look for Earth 2 as we destroy this one, and Earth 2 in a religious sense does not exist for me either, I have no belief in, or desire for, a life beyond this, I suggest that this is why it is our duty as human beings to find ways to end suffering in this life rather than putting it all on the long finger.

Politics and religion do not represent the best in us, we must reach deeper inside and regain our humanity. For after all, as Jesus put it  “what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul.”

[Intro]
We have a poem here, it’s called “Whitey On The Moon”
It was inspired by some whiteys on the moon
So I wanna give credit where credit is due…

…I can’t pay no doctor bills
But whitey’s on the moon
Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still
While whitey’s on the moon
The man just upped my rent last night
Cause whitey’s on the moon
No hot water, no toilets, no lights
But whitey’s on the moon

Gil Scott Heron | Whitey’s on The Moon (1971)

All of these issues are not about black or white, man or woman, straight or gay, they are about have or Have-not
(and I’m not going to talk about intersectionality here). One day we will all be gone and if we do not act with urgency, compassion and unity, the opportunity will be lost to us forever.

“The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.”
-Antonio Gramsci

 

BasementArtsProject invite the readers of South Leeds Life to the launch of our 2026 programme as we celebrate our 15th year of unfunded activity within this community. Everything is, as always, free and everyone is invited

Opening Night
Tuesday 14th April 2026 | 5:30-8:30pm

BasementArtsProject
28 Back Burton Terrace
Beeston, Leeds, LS11 5JH

‘Tensile Strength’ is an exhibition showcasing the work of four women sculptors whose work stands on the threshold of another world, the post-education world of art.

Whether it is the seemingly absurd sculptures of Rosaline Zipporah, the sinister insectoid work of Lily Honey-Doyle, the molten abstraction of Iona Ogilvy Stuart or the overt humour of Lucy Young, all have one thing in common: a dedication to exploring the material qualities of metal through sculpture.

For this exhibition, these four female artists have brought together a selection of works that highlight and celebrate the craftswomanship evident in their practices.

Exhibition Remains Open