All Roads Roam to Leeds

Another lengthy absence...

2010-04-07T23:07:00.000+01:00

Blogging is a tricky thing to fit into life. Well, it is for me. Mostly because I'm quite lazy. It's also very hard to motivate yourself to write, or even sit in front of a computer screen, when you've spent your entire day doing both of those things. Despite my best efforts, I have yet to persuade any managers in my office that writing my personal blog makes a significant contribution to the production of a weekly newspaper, but I live in hope.

But all those things are pathetic excuses for someone who repeatedly states her biggest passion in life is writing. The man sitting next to me has a very black-and-white view of my ambitions in this field - he is frequently heard to mutter, "Just get on with it" whenever I complain about the fact I am not yet a best-selling author. If I examine my feelings about it too closely I fear the main reason for the lack of progress will probably be fear of failure; if you don't start, you can't get it wrong. So I put it off eternally.

But this evening I made real progress: I wrote three sentences. Now, this may not sound much, but I have spent months (in fact it's probably years now) coming up with ideas for books, writing them down, planning out the characters, the plot lines, the significant incidents... and never actually writing a book. Never even starting. So three sentences is real progress for me.

My helpful other half has found me a way of saving my work via the internet, allowing me to work on it from other computers, such as at work (during lunch breaks, naturally) and when we're visiting boring relatives. I've got a notepad filled with plans for my current book which will be fairly essential to the plot and character development, but even if I don't have it with me, the main thing is to get into the habit of writing, right? To stop planning, reading articles about writing, reading other books for 'research', making cups of tea, staring out of the window - and actually write.

It takes a lot for me to discuss my ambitions to be a novelist - up until quite recently I didn't share them with anyone, worrying I might sound completely ridiculous. But some people do get to write books for a living - and some of them are manifestly awful at it - so why shouldn't I give it a go?

I'll keep you updated with the progress - I'm even confident enough to think there will be progress now! - and hopefully might inspire you to persevere with something you've been putting off. It's time to stop procrastinating and start making things happen.

Wish me luck!

A ghost keeps switching channels on my TV...

2010-03-04T16:25:00.001Z

Let me start this post by saying I'm not afraid of ghosts, because I don't believe in them.

Logically they don't make any sense, much like alien abductions, the Bermuda triangle, love at first sight and the moon landings.

But that doesn't stop me getting scared when I think there is one in my house at night - particularly when I'm in on my own.

I've always been fairly interested in odd happenings, which I think stems from a childhood enjoyment of ghost stories. The Yorkshire Evening Post recently did a series of visits to famous landmarks around Leeds, which was very interesting until it turned to its own offices in Wellington Street which I occasionally have to spend time in. I stopped watching.

So when strange things started happening in my own home, my irrational fear overcame the voice in my head telling me there must be a reasonable explanation. It all began when I was home alone last Wednesday night. I was wandering around the bedroom with the BBC 10pm news on in the background. Suddenly, the channel changed. I was confused, but put it down to the cats standing on the remote control on the bed, and put the news back on without thinking about it too much.

A few minutes later, the channel changed again, going up several stations. The remote was sitting in front of me, well away from any interfering cats. "That's very odd," I thought, and put it back on the news again. Almost immediately, the main menu came up and it started scrolling through the channels, settling on Sky Three.

The way our television is set up in the bedroom is that it can be controlled via the Sky+ box from either upstairs or downstairs. You have to watch the same thing in both the living room and bedroom, but you can change the channel in either location. So, when it started appearing to behave independently, my first thought was that my other half might have come home without me hearing him. I looked out of the window - sadly, the car was not there, so he must have still been out.

When the channel continued to change, I went downstairs - perhaps the remote had a book or something else resting against it and pressing one of the buttons. But on entering the living room I saw it there, plain as day, sitting untouched on its own on the arm of the sofa. I went back upstairs carefully, checking around each corner for ghosts on my way.

Luckily, my other half did return home not long after. Unluckily, he was out the following night when it did it again. It happened a few times over the following days, but never when he was in the room - so naturally, he pretended to believe me while subtly trying to ascertain how the buttons had been accidentally pressed without me realising. Twitter was similarly helpful, with various friends either accusing me of sitting on the remote or making unnerving jokes about ghosts having a penchant for Sky Three.

Finally, after days of very nervous television watching on my part and sceptical, tolerant sighing on my husband's, it did it in front of him on Monday evening. The channels changed, the menu came up, it scrolled through and suddenly we were listening to an Irish radio station. Success. He finally believed me - and was equally baffled.
After a couple of days, we decided the reason behind it was probably some sort of interference from our neighbours' television with our digital sender, which allows us to change the channel from upstairs as well as directly in front of the Sky+ box. All cleared up and not a ghost to be seen.

Still, if it happens when I'm on my own for the night in a few weeks' time, I'm decamping to my parents' house. One hundred miles away.

My name is Vicky and I'm a bonnetaholic...

2010-02-18T13:56:00.001Z

Regular readers of this blog might be forgiven for thinking I'm a cynical, miserable soul, filled with hatred for everything and everyone.

I'm not; I think it's just the way I write. Or the fact I tend to blog when something has irritated me to such an extent that only the written word is a sufficient outlet for my fury.

But this time I've decided to write about something lovely: Lark Rise to Candleford. I love it. I can't get enough of it. It's very, very sad that, as a young woman, I look forward to a nice evening in watching LR2C (as it is known by... well, me), preferably under a duvet and with some chocolate.

I know nothing ever happens and quite often the episode is filled with the kind of sugary, sentimental fare that, while being sweet at the time, leaves you ultimately unsatisfied and having an energy crash an hour later. But I can't help it. I think it's an actual addiction - when the current series comes to an end, there will be support groups set up all over the country for those experiencing bonnet withdrawal.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly what is so appealing about the programme. Olivia Hallinan is charming as Post Office assistant Laura Timmins, while Julia Sawalha makes a fascinating Dorcas Lane (she may only ever purse her lips and raise an eyebrow, but wouldn't you have wanted her as a guardian when you were young?). A brilliant supporting cast, including Claudie Blakey and Brendan Coyle as Laura's parents who are forever arguing and making up (if I ever get to Lark Rise the break-up may be a little more permanent...), makes for a heart-warming, community feel to the programme.

But I think my favourite element of the show is little Minne, the housekeeper, whose misunderstandings and confusions lead to some of the funniest moments in the programme. Recent observations include: "Your hair don't suit your face" and "They say he eats his own hair" (much funnier when said by her).

If you're not already addicted, I would certainly recommend giving it a try - if nothing else, it's a good way of reminding yourself of the lighter things in life on a Sunday evening before subjecting yourself to another week of work.

2010-02-06T20:01:00.002Z

At the risk of sounding rather more like Terry Wogan than can ever be advisable,is it me?

I've noticed a growing trend in recent weeks that whenever I spend any time in the company of females, the talk turns to diets. To put this in context, none of the women in question is above a size 12 and certainly none of them could be classed as over-weight.

In fact, the woman I know who is the most obsessed with what she does or does not consume on a daily basis is probably the skinniest of them all. She recently lost half a stone and I can't even imagine where it came from - her clothes already hung off her as it was.

Aside from the debate about the ideal image of women projected by the media, fashion industry etc, I think this kind of obsession raises and important point: nobody cares.

It might just be me, but I'm just not interested in hearing the ins and outs of other people's dietary habits. I find it boring and, in the worst cases, far too graphic.

Don't get me wrong - I'm all for a healthy lifestyle and when people I know are getting in shape by eating carefully, I'll encourage them as much as I can. But I am getting so bored with the daily office discussions about exactly how many cups of tea or coffee we should each be drinking, how much water we consume, how many pieces of chocolate can be allowed each week and whether bread should ever be included in anyone's diet. Perhaps it's something unique to working exclusively with women - there are three of us in my office and the topic comes up at least once every day.

But when we work from our head office, where there are plenty of men around, the conversation always seems to come back to food at some point. So perhaps it's not women generally - just some of the ones I work with. One of them is so bad, she once confessed to feeling light-headed as we left the office for the day and then revealed she had had nothing but a salad since breakfast. Was she really surprised?

For most people. food is just a normal part of every day life. But for the women I work with, it is an obsession. They think about everything that passes their lips and the impact it might have on the rest of their body in the most ridiculous detail. Surely it takes all the pleasure out of life?

The ironic thing is, if they spent less time thinking about food, they would probably find they ate less and enjoyed their food more. But, since it would mean another conversation about diets, there's absolutely no way I'm going to point that out.

A lesson in dealing with the press

2010-01-31T20:41:00.005Z

As a journalist, I'm used to dealing with my fair share of disagreement and confrontation. I don't like it, but I take it as part of my job. Receiving complaints about your own work serves to make you a better journalist - only if you know you have done the best possible job, been thorough and accurate, and your work is important to the local community, can you confidently defend yourself against complaints.

Unfortunately, sometimes it does not matter how well you write, nor how good your intentions are. Some people are simply determined to find fault; to see you in the same way they see a ruthless, uncaring hack from a national tabloid. Despite the fact that local papers are clearly different in their approach, their tone and their coverage, there is sometimes nothing you can do to change people's fear of - and even anger at - journalists.

This week provided a prime example in our office. There are just two of us working on a weekly paper covering a very large area. In recent months, we have been covering a story about changes to the way one of our local high schools is run. This week, my colleague had arranged to go up to the school and speak to the headteacher for an update on the progress, so we could keep the community informed.

When she got there, the headteacher had called in her deputy head, the chairman of governors and the guy in charge of the school's business contacts. My colleague sat down ready to hear about the school's progress - and was immediately subjected to what can only be described as a tirade of abuse.

The staff accused the newspaper of having grudge against their school. They said we worked actively to try to discredit the school and to promote the three others in our district instead. My colleague - who has run the office for the past two years - pointed out that, due to the restrictions on resources now facing all newspapers, the schools which are best at promoting themselves will be the ones which are most frequently featured in any publication. It's a shame, but journalists simply don't have the time any more to be able to call or visit every school every week and ask if they have anything interesting happening. We rely on the schools keeping us informed - by telling us of individual stories, or even just sending us their newsletters or magazines so we can pick out anything of interest.

However, this was, in the view of this particular high school, simply a cover-up. The real reason was clearly that we had set out to ruin them - and they had proof. They claimed someone "close to the school" had been in our office and overheard a conversation about where in the newspaper we would put a particular article about the school's success - ending with us saying we would bury it as close to the back as possible.

There are two problems with the school's story here. Firstly, it's absolutely not true. That conversation never took place because we would never say that about any school, and if we were ever to have such a discussion about anything we would certainly wait until there was nobody else in the office. Secondly - and most ridiculously - the article in question appeared on the front page. When my colleague pointed out this inconsistency, she was shouted down with more cries of bias and agenda.

At one stage, my colleague said she was not prepared to be bullied when she had set out in the hope of writing a positive, informative story, and she intended to leave. The headteacher's response? "Now, that wouldn't be very productive, would it?" I wonder how productive she thought the meeting had been so far.

Through the whole discussion, the newspaper was accused of bias, of having an agenda against the school, of only ever printing negative stories about the school while printing positive stories about all its competitors (aside - since when did schools turn into businesses?). At one stage, the deputy head said: "I find your newspaper very woolly, actually. I'm an English teacher and it's very badly written."

The meeting lasted an hour and a half, most of which involved my colleague trying desperately to defend the newspaper against a barrage of hatred while also hoping they might listen to her advice about promoting themselves more effectively. Eventually, she escaped and almost ran back to the office.

The whole thing completely baffles me. We wanted to do a good story in consultation with the school and the headteacher therefore invited us to come up for a chat. We were greeted by abuse, criticism and completely irrational allegations. What on earth did they think it would achieve?

The most ridiculous part about it is this was the second time they had done it to us. Last time, we had run a story about the school potentially being merged with another school nearby. The story was based on a press release from the local authority which said in plain English the merger was a possibility and we had confirmation from a local councillor, who was also a governor at the school. It had been run by several other newspapers nearby before we went to print and, naturally, we included comments from the school - which were so vague as to be absolutely useless.

Following publication, my colleague was summoned to the headteacher's office where she was met by the head and about six other members of staff and governors. She was told exactly how wrong the story was, despite her attempts to explain the laws of journalism in relation to printing information from local authorities. Having invited her up initially on the pretext of trying to improve links between the school and the newspaper, they kept her there to endure their anger for four hours.

The upshot of these two meetings? We will continue doing exactly what we have been doing up to now - with one major difference. We will print whatever we have, about any school, based on its news value. We will continue to publish stories which are important to the community and act responsibly in our positions.

We will not, however, be visiting Unnamed High School again. Ever. Congratulations, Ms B.

Apologies for absence

2010-01-18T14:09:00.000Z

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been unable to upload anything to the blog for a while.

However, things appear to be back on track now and I hope to resume normal service as soon as possible.

Please keep reading!

Back to the streets for strikers

2009-11-24T20:02:00.003Z

Well, it's all over.

As of this week, bin collections in the Leeds City Council area will - hopefully - be getting back to normal. Great news for all residents, who can expect an end to the piles of rubbish on the city's streets.

And great news for the refuse collectors who will have a few weeks of regular pay before Christmas. They may not all be happy about the terms of their return to work, but with more than two-thirds voting in favour of accepting the council's offer, residents can keep their fingers crossed things will not deteriorate again.

Information on what the agreement means in terms of bin collections is available via the council's website. Apart from some slightly conflicting information released over the past 11 weeks, I have to say the bin strike has had little impact on me. My street has not had the dozens of bin bags spilling their contents onto the floor that have been seen elsewhere. We've had no rats (unless you count the one dead one the cats left in the middle of the floor a couple of weeks ago, but given that they also deposited what looked like the remains of a pigeon in the same spot, I'm not putting that down to bin strikes). I tended to side with the strikers anyway, which perhaps increased my willingness to make a few adaptations during the strike action.

But what struck me the most was what I found out about the attitudes of some residents to waste and recycling. After my green recycling bin filled up, I made several trips to the local tip in Harehills. I spotted quite a few other people doing the same, dropping off cardboard and tins and old newspapers in the clearly-labelled "green bin waste" skips.

The incredible thing was the number of people who simply empties whatever was in the back of their cars into the nearest skip, not even looking at the signs showing what kind of waste went where. During the busiest periods, such as Sunday afternoons, there were council employees on hand to clear full skips and direct people to the correct skip. Despite this, I saw someone pulling up, dragging a three-piece suite out of their van and chucking it into the "green bin waste" skip while a frustrated yellow-jacketed man watched in amazement. He called to them to throw the furniture into a different pile, but by then there were only a couple of cushions left. Cue two yellow jackets half-climbing into a skip to retrieve the sofas as, supervision being momentarily absent, six other people took the opportunity to throw in a broken stepladder, old dog bed, half a tree and what looked like the contents of a fridge.

Perhaps it's just me, but I find behaviour like this incredibly arrogant. It's like people who knock something off a rail in a shop, turn round to look at the crumpled heap on the floor, then walk off, leaving it for a lowly shop assistant to pick up. Having worked in several customer service roles, I might be more sensitive to this kind of thing than others. There are things, for example, which I know people leave in cinemas which would make your stomach turn if I listed them here.

But whatever my reasons, I can't be the only one who thinks dumping your unwanted goods in any old way is rude. The council provides a thorough facility for everyone to get rid of rubbish quickly and easily, and employs people to help anyone who can't read the massive signs at the tip. The least people can do is make the three extra steps to put everything in the right place.

Or perhaps they're just so busy and important, they don't need to bother.

Review: The Men Who Stare at Goats

2009-11-21T18:56:00.008Z

Welcome to review two, in an irregular series of... well, two so far. Depends how many times I go to the cinema and see something worth writing about.

Anyway, this week's choice of film was The Men Who Stare at Goats, starring Ewan McGregor, George Clooney and Kevin Spacey, among others. I was not particularly enthusiastic about seeing the film in the first place, having not heard a great deal about it, but I was certainly glad I gave in to the nagging and agreed to go.

It begins, as all good films should, with a journalist - in this case, one whose wife has just left him for another man. Faced with sitting in the same office as his ex and the man she fell for, he instead decides to prove his credentials and head for the dangers of reporting in Iraq.

Having seen a plot summary before going to the cinema, I did worry this film might attempt to make some sort of political point about the war, leaving me thinking harder than ought to be allowed on a Saturday evening. But it never came even remotely close to doing so, except through ridiculing the more bizarre approaches of the armed forces.

The Men Who Stare at Goats is a truly silly film - it is pointless, lacking any real climax and does rather labour some of its jokes. But I found it delightfully daft. I even understood some of the Jedi jokes, despite having never seen a Star Wars film. The entire concept is completely bizarre, but if you stick with it, it's well worth the perseverance; I haven't laughed as much at a film in a very long time.

Although it will never be a classic, The Men Who Stare at Goats is an entertaining watch and a fun way to spend 90 minutes (a good length for a film, I always think). Don't go expecting Saving Private Ryan - but do go expecting more than a few Jedi-related jokes as McGregor looks on innocently. And, as you leave, remember - this film is adapted from a book. That book was based on a true story. Scary.

Find out more about the film here.

Seven days on the breadline

2009-11-10T20:57:00.000Z

Picture the scenario: four celebrities are sent to four families in underprivileged areas of Leeds. Each has to live for a week with their new family, surviving on the normal budget for the household.

On paper, it sounds like a typical reality show - which is probably why I didn't watch it to begin with. But I was prompted to catch up by colleagues who had seen the first episode.

The four celebrities - Mel B, Trinny Woodall, Keith Allen and Austin Healey - were indeed dropped into the lives of four Leeds people living on very low incomes. They had to survive a week on just a few pounds and attempt not to kill their housemates, some of whom were a more challenging prospect than others.

Keith Allen, for example, was living with a family of seven in a three-bedroom house in Lincoln Green. With six new "sons" to deal with, one of whom was distinctly uncooperative, I was expecting him to be among those who failed to see out the week.

Similarly, Trinny Woodall spent her seven days with a pensioner in Harehills more interested in gambling than Gucci, leading me to predict plenty of straight-to-camera pieces about how depressing this kind of life was and how sorry Trinny felt for the woman.

But I was in for a pleasant surprise. Well, 75 per cent of a pleasant surprise, anyway. Three of the four celebrities seemed to take a genuine interest in the futures of their families.

Austin Healey was determined to help the two teenaged boys in the family he was staying with. The eldest already had a tag checking he was obeying his court-imposed curfew - but underneath that, Austin saw a young man who cared for his family and wanted to make them happy. He seemed to be making headway by using sport to encourage the boys to be more positive and pushing them to think of their future.

Keith Allen, meanwhile, was setting about trying to get his enormous family a more suitable home. He was aghast to find that, although mum Michaela had made inquiries about moving, she had done nothing further to make it happen. He used the meagre budget to get new trainers for one of the kids, whose feet were blistered from ill-fitting shoes, and he took the youngest boys to his mate's recording studio for a treat.

Trinny Woodall was probably the biggest surprise. She really got stuck in with the various tasks her pensioner housemate needed done and went above and beyond the call of duty. Among her achievements was helping disabled Christine take advantage of shop mobility and encouraging her to remember the fun she had had as a younger woman. The series ended with Trinny (aided, no doubt, by producers) taking her new friend to a 70th birthday party and putting up some photos of Christine in her younger days.

The only real let-down of the programme was Mel B, which was particularly disappointing because the programme was filmed in her home city. Every time things got tough, she either screamed, shouted and banged doors, or took off to the gym. At one point, following an argument with unemployed 18-year-old Tyrone, she even bagged up a load of clothes and threw them down the stairs - I'm still not quite sure what she thought that would achieve. Similarly, the trip to Asda in a taxi was unrealistic and unproductive for the family in the long-term.

In terms of life lessons, the families in the programme - or some of them, at least - will hopefully have been given some inspiration by the efforts of the celebrities. After months and years of nothing changing, perhaps the programme might be a catalyst for some of the youngsters to make the most of themselves.

But, in reality, seven days is nothing compared to a lifetime of struggling to make ends meet and bring up a family on a tiny income. Although it has highlighted the issues of hopelessness and the vicious circle of poverty, the programme has provided nothing more than a window into their lives.

English pride in Leeds

2009-11-03T20:53:00.001Z

Two major demonstrations were held in Leeds this weekend.

The first was set up by a fairly new group, the English Defence League, which claims to be protecting the country from Islamification and defending our culture.

The second was a counter-protest by Unite Against Fascism, a group which has come to more prominence in recent months as certain far right groups have made some political gains.

The two were being kept separate by police, who prevented them from marching as planned and instead allowed them to congregate in one area of the city centre each. It meant most shoppers could get on with their day without much disruption, unless you count watching several helicopters hovering overhead.

While UAF was kept to the art gallery area, the EDL was corralled around City Square, right outside the train station. Anyone wishing to catch a train was almost inevitably drawn into the edge of the crowd, while surrounding shops and businesses were forced to close their doors for at least part of the afternoon.

Plush Magazine comments that this is the "ugly face" of English pride, and I couldn't agree more. The EDL was primarily made up of white, young-to-middle-aged, shaven-headed men in varying degrees of intoxication. There was nothing to be proud of in their behaviour on Saturday afternoon - picking fights with bystanders, screaming abuse at anyone who dared to disagree with them and surging through police lines in an attempt to cause further disruption.

The protest has, of course, been allowed in the name of free speech. It is everyone's democratic right to stand up for what they believe in. But there must be a line drawn somewhere.

Saturday's protests required officers from nine police forces to be brought in to Leeds city centre. It is expected to have cost more than the September protest in Manchester, which itself ran up a bill of £800,000. Local businesses - even the ones which were not forced to close - will have lost money as a result of the protest, which acted as a fantastic deterrent to anyone thinking of venturing towards the City square area.

We should, of course, protect the rights of everyone to express their views - but surely only when they do so in a reasonable fashion. Why should ordinary members of the public be subjected to abuse, have their day disrupted, perhaps even fear for their own safety - and then have to foot the bill at the end of it?

Leeds is a multi-cultural, modern and exciting place. That is the kind of Englishness I choose to defend - not the rights of thugs to contaminate our city.

Free social media surgery in Leeds

2009-11-03T19:26:00.001Z

I happened upon a site the other day which will be of enormous interest to a lot of people in Leeds.

Leeds Social Media Group is running an open surgery for all community and charity groups next week, offering advice on using various methods to communicate with the public.

Anyone needing help with a website, blog, Facebook or Twitter group for their organisation can get free support and instruction, which is absolutely brilliant. Companies offering this kind of service would charge by the hour for their advice, which charities and not-for-profit groups just can't afford to pay.

it is increasingly important for community groups to have an online presence and be easily contactable. There will always be those who are happy to just phone up or go along to an organisation's offices and who have no interest in how else it communicates. But there are more and more people, particularly younger generations, who take exactly the opposite view. I know myself if I'm looking for a company offering a particular service - a garage, for example - my first port of call will be the internet. If the company's website has too little information, is difficult to navigate or is badly written - or, worse, if there is no website - I will be very strongly deterred from using that company.

Old school journalists detest this view of life. They constantly argue that finding stories on Facebook or making a story from a trending topic on Twitter is not journalism. To be a real journalist, you have to go out and meet people and speak face-to-face, they argue. I wouldn't dare disagree that getting out on the streets is of huge importance, but it is not always the best approach. Stories involving students, for example, will often require a different approach to those involving pensioners. If you want to contact a 19-year-old about his part in a national news story - perhaps he has commented elsewhere as an eye-witness to a major event - then often, a message on Facebook is the best approach. It is what he is used to and will put him more at ease than a formal approach on the doorstep - and it then leaves room for him to call you and arrange a proper interview.

The same approach is needed by charities and other community groups - they need to make themselves available via every medium, to ensure people of all ages feel comfortable getting in touch.

Leeds Social Media Group is run by volunteers itself, so the whole thing is purely benefiting the community - especially because it promises biscuits, which I feel should always be provided at any kind of meeting or public event.

So get yourself along to the Round Foundry Media Centre next Tuesday evening from 5.30 to 7pm - more details here. And pass the word on. You never know who it might help.

Cyclists

2009-10-30T20:46:00.000Z

Cyclists are idiots.

Actually, that might be generalising a bit. Some cyclists are idiots.

The one currently sitting next to me is, of course, not an idiot. But he has brought an element of cyclist idiocy to my attention.

With the clocks having just changed, it is noticeably darker by 5pm than it was a week ago. The natural reaction for most commuters to this difference is to switch on their lights. But not all.

Some cyclists seem to see themselves as an exception to the rules of the road, particularly when it comes to the use of lights in the dark. Just a few days into dark commuting, I have already seen several unlit bikes on the roads of Leeds, their riders seemingly unaware of the danger they are in.

With bright car headlights filling the streets, a light-free cyclist can be extremely tricky to spot, especially for a motorist turning out of a side street. Focusing on the lights of more distant traffic, the driver can quite easily miss the silent, camouflaged figure rolling down the edge of the road towards him.

It's quite obvious who will come off worse in a fight between a cyclist and a car - so why on earth don't they all put lights on their bikes? For just a few pounds, they can make themselves infinitely safer on the journey home.

The trouble is, anyone stupid or arrogant enough to believe they don't need to use lights like every other road user is unlikely to take kindly to having their idiocy pointed out. I should know - I've tried it.

Well, my other half has. We were driving through Leeds the other day and narrowly missed hitting an invisible cyclist as we pulled out of a junction. Concerned for the man's safety, my other half wound down his window and (quite politely) urged him to get some lights. He was told in no uncertain terms to mind his own business (quite impolitely).

It is, of course, up to the individual to decide how best to equip himself for his journey to work and it is human nature to be defensive if you feel you are being criticised. But when there is a risk of a serious accident, how can you convey this to the cyclist without getting a mouthful of abuse?

Answers on a postcard please.

As the dust begins to settle...

2009-10-27T20:08:00.000Z

A few days after what was probably the most controversial Question Time ever, the dust is very slowly beginning to settle.

In some ways, the programme itself was only a small element of the whole fiasco. The surrounding storm was by far more interesting to observe for those who were able to keep some sense of perspective on things.

An appearance on a key political programme on a publicly funded national television station by the leader of a party with extreme views is always going to lead to clashes. There are those who believe such views should not be given such a prominent platform, and I can quite understand why they think that. Among them is Nelson, founder of one of my favourite websites, Speak You're Branes, who blogged on the topic in very strong terms.

Others, like James Dray, said as long as questions were pressed upon him, Grick Niffin would be unable to maintain his attempt at respectability.

On balance, I probably sided with the latter view over the former. As much as I loathe what the party stands for, I couldn't help but feel attempts to smother its pubicity machine would only attract more supporters under the guise of campaigning for free speech.

In the event, Question Time was much as could have been expected. The audience was largely against Niffin and the panelists were also keen to challenge some of his more abhorrent views. David Dimbleby, to his credit, also pressed Niffin for specifics rather than allowing him to get away with vague generalisations about his previous holocaust denial and views on homosexuality.

Naturally, the party has now cried foul and protested their leader had been targeted and bullied. Poor Niffin. Not because he was picked on, but because he was naive enough to think he would get anything less than a severe grilling on such a high-profile edition of the programme. He was clearly not up to the task.

Logged into Twitter as the scene unfolded, I was reassured by the reaction of the vast majority of users. Later, and in the days since, message boards would suggest the balance has seriously shifted. There are hundreds of people claiming that, although they would never have voted PNB before, the targeting of Niffin and the rest of the panel getting off so lightly has changed their minds. Their whole family has been converted.

It makes for depressing reading, if it is taken seriously. Which is exactly why it should not be. Party members have swamped message boards and comment sites making the programme seem far more of a success for them than it ever would be, even if Niffin had expressed himself clearly, fairly and rationally. It is all part of the game-playing and underhand tactics of the party's members. They target any site which mentions the party or leader's name (hence the subtle code I've employed) and simply don't let up.

With one of the party's two MEPs representing Yorkshire, Leeds residents must feel some concern about the attitudes of their neighbours to issues including homosexuality, race, religion and more. The huge number of pro-PNB messages must make members of the mulitcultural communities in Leeds despair. But I have a way to cheer them up: make regular visits to Speak You're Branes and remind yourself that not everyone thinks that way - just the ones who feel the need to flood the internet with their disgusting views.

Review: Up

2009-10-25T14:58:00.000Z

Preamble:
I am by no means a movie expert, as my friends will attest.

I have never seen many of the classic films which would enable me to understand references to them in popular culture, such as Back to the Future, Pulp Fiction, any of the Star Wars or Bond films or Casablanca. But I know what I like and so, in an attempt to lighten the mood of my blog, here are my thoughts on the new Pixar blockbuster, Up.

Review:
The story begins with a simple premisce: a boy and girl meet and fall in love over a shared urge for adventure. Their life together, while not filled with the kind of excitement they imagined, has plenty of fun and enjoyment, and the pair hold firm onto their dream of one day living at the top of Paradise Falls.

But life has a way of changing our plans for us and, as their savings mount up, the dream is regularly thwarted by unexpected outgoings which keep them firmly rooted in the home they bought as newly-weds.

Many years later, the man is forced into action by the threat of being evicted. He chooses an unusual method to help his dreams take flight - and has some unexpected company along the way.

Up is a very touching animation which had me laughing and crying in equal measure. The saddest moments are mostly lost on the young audience, but the story is no less enjoyable for adults. It is even better for its refusal to rely on the voices of Hollywood A-listers to draw in the crowds. Although there are some notable names - Christopher Plummer and John Ratzenberger (Cliff Clavin of Cheers fame) being the biggest - the film is driven by a strong story and some incredible imagination.

Far from predictable, Up is a breath of fresh air for animation fans growing weary of the formulaic offerings of recent years. Those looking to follow will have to raise their game to match.

Action in the face of inaction

2009-10-18T22:04:00.002+01:00

It seems there's something in the water supplying the headquarters of various unions at the moment.

Following several weeks of bin strikes in Leeds and some industrial action at Royal Mail centres elsewhere, things look set to escalate.

Postal workers look likely to extend their strike nationally at the end of the week, while firefighters in South Yorkshire take to the picket lines in a 24-hour strike from tomorrow. Meanwhile, the refuse workers are still out and, despite finally returning to the table, Leeds City Council looks likely to have its improved offer rejected.

But who is to blame for this sudden outpouring of workplace dissatisfaction? Is it simply down to worker greed - the unions firing up individuals to collectively pronounce they deserve more than they are currently getting?

Or is it the companies' fault for stretching, pushing and squeezing their workers beyond all reasonable measure in order to show shareholders the biggest possible profit?

Taking the postal strike as an example, I broke a story last year about postal workers being forced to cover four miles an hour while carrying and delivering their rounds. It was later picked up by national media, showing this was not a policy implemented on a local level. That story first emerged 18 months ago, since when there have been further cuts and closures putting further pressure on the postmen.

And it's not just the problems of the job they have to deal with. As the frontline workers, they bear the brunt of customers' frustrations when, in reality, there is precious little they can do about it. Victoria Cohen put it brilliantly in a piece for the Guardian today.

The postmen's plight is nothing new. Across the country, workers are bearing the brunt of bad management by those whose goal is profit above all else. The newspaper industry is a prime example of this, particularly for local and regional titles. Their owners have pursued impressive figures at the expense of all else - including the quality of their product. Losing sight of what their businesses are all about, they have made editorial staff redundant, put up prices, refused to replace departing staff and piled on a mountain of additional tasks for the already struggling staff to deal with.

The result of this? Morale is at an all-time low. Workers have lost faith in their employers. Sales are plummeting, causing advertising revenue to fall even further than it would have naturally in a recession.

And frontline staff are left trying to explain to readers why there is nobody available to go to the parish council meeting, to review the local amateur dramatics society's latest production, to attend the opening of a new school - or to hold business and council leaders to account for failing to resolve workers' dissatisfaction and avert the threat of strikes.

Rubbish behaviour

2009-09-29T18:53:00.001+01:00

I don't think there is anything much more annoying, despite being relatively harmless, than littering.

It achieves absolutely nothing, it creates extra work for people and it just looks horrible. There is a litter problem on my street, thanks to a little cut-through at the end of the cul-de-sac to a big field and a less-than-inviting housing estate.

Leeds City Council, in its infinite wisdom, has failed to put any kind of litter bin within about 500 metres of the field, which is not very far from a row of shops including several take-aways. Not that it would probably make a great deal of difference, but it would at least show some willingness on the council's part to try to reduce littering.

The trouble is, it's just not cool to put your litter in a bin. A number of school kids cutting through to the David young Community Academy make this perfectly clear. Without wishing to tar them all with the same brush, it's not uncommon to see them chucking bits of food wrappers and drinks cartons onto the street. It's enormously frustrating - particularly as a lot of the rubbish seems to end up in various front gardens, including mine.

I'm not saying all the pupils drop rubbish, and I'm not saying it's only pupils who do it. But I have seen it happen and, nine times out of ten, it's kids in the easily-recognisable black uniform and green tie.

So yesterday morning, as I watched three girls aged no older than 14 dropping bits of paper along the street, I must admit I slightly lost my rag. Not in a screaming-and-shouting way, but in the way that prompted me to do something I probably wouldn't have if I had been in a better mood.

I asked them to pick it up.

Very politely, as I leaned out of the window, I pointed out they had dropped some litter and asked them to pick it up again. The three girls looked up at me, but didn't react. So I repeated myself - "I've just seen you dropping that, could you pick it up please?" - which only prompted one of them to ask, "Which one of us?" Feeling the balance of power shift against me, I said I didn't care which one, as long as it got picked up. They stared back at me for a few seconds before walking off, leaving the paper on the floor.

After watching them leave the street, I reflected that perhaps I had created more of a problem than I had solved. Drawing attention to oneself is probably never a good idea - I envisaged returning home that evening to an egg-covered house.

Luckily, nine hours later, my house was much as I had left it. But I had resolved to do something a little more constructive. I wrote to the headteahcer - or principal, or manager, or Fuhrer, or whatever they're calling the people in charge of these academies - to highlight the problem. I'm not expecting her to be able to do much, as identifying three girls out of a school of several hundred would be a bit of a challenge. But I'd like an acknowledgement of the fact that, when in school uniform, the behaviour of the pupils will be taken by the public as a representation of that school's standards.

At the same time, I've also written to the ward councillors to ask what they can suggest to combat the littering problem in the street. I don't know if any of it will make a difference, but at least next time I'm picking crisp packets out of my borders I can say I tried.

On your bike - an account of policing priorities

2009-09-11T19:27:00.001+01:00

There is somethign very disturbing about knowing a stranger has been on your property while you were asleep.

It happened to me this week. Someone - or, more likely, a couple of someones - stole two bikes from my shed.

I was completely unaware of it happening at the time. It was all in the dead of night, as these things usually are, and I wasn't woken by the noise. That was the first surprising thing - sleeping with the window open, I'm regularly disturbed by passing groups of teens, drunks getting out of taxis and various motorised bikes using the street as a cut-through to a slightly less reputable housing estate nearby. But not that night.

The first I knew of the burglary was the discovery of pieces of the lock from the shed on the ground outside. Trying not to touch anything (I've watched enough detective shows to know all about preserving evidence), I took a quick glance in the shed and noticed the clear absence of the two large bikes which had been there the night before.

I got straight onto the police - being a journalist, I know the local force's non-emergency number off by heart, which I'm not sure is something I should boast about. The person who answered took down details of what had happened ("My shed has been broken into") and what was missing ("Two bikes"). She asked if anything had been left at the scene ("I haven't checked fully, but I couldn't see anything obvious") and if any of my neighbours had noticed anything ("It's 7am, I haven't been round to ask yet"). She then gave me a crime reference number and a phone number to call if any of my neighbours wanted to report anything - they could leave a message on an answerphone and the case details would be updated.

Then she hung up. Not abruptly, or mid-conversation, but she made it clear she had finished going through the checklist of questions and the call was over.

I carried on with my morning routine and it was only later, when I got to work, that I began to get a bit annoyed. There had been no opportunity for me to give any details of what had been taken in order for the police to have a better chance of finding it - no make, colour etc of the bikes, one of which had been modified quite significantly to make it very distinctive. Nor had they said anyone would be coming to check the property over and see if there was anything which might point them to the perpetrators.

I did wonder at this point if my expectations were too high. Police in Leeds must deal with hundreds of calls every day, so to them two missing bikes were probably not high on the list of priorities. I could quite happily accept that, as long as I felt my bikes were somewhere on the list. I asked one of the local PCSOs who happened to drop into the office that morning whether I was being naive about the process of reporting a crime. But his reaction was simple - in his division, anyone reporting a crime will receive a follow-up call to their home from a member of the neighbourhood policing team.

That evening, after almost an hour on hold, I finally got back through to the call centre and raised my concerns. It emerged the answerphone contact number I had been given was where I was expected to leave the additional details which hadn't been taken in my initial report. I pointed out how hard it would be for me to know this since nobody had told me, and the woman on the phone agreed. She also agreed I should have been told why the police would not be coming out to look at my shed and the narrow driveway, where the thieves had managed to squeeze past my car with the two bikes locked together. The reason, apparently, is that sheds are very difficult to fingerprint, and I had said I couldn't see any other evidence. I did, at this point, say how fortunate it was that I was a trained forensics expert who dealt with crime scenes every day of the week and was therefore able to give such a reliable account.

The end result was that two local PCSOs popped round the following evening for a chat. Coincidentally, they were the same two PCSOs whom I had spoken to a couple of months ago when a car in my street had had its window smashed during the night. They had attended that morning after a phone call from a passing dog-walker - the car owner had not even noticed the damage. So how can it be that, within the same force, there is such disparity in the way the same incident is dealt with? Or such a difference in the way two minor crimes are handled by the same officers? It would make an interesting - though time-consuming - article, looking at whether different teams within the same force treat similar incidents in similar ways.

Unfortunately, I'm now expecting to spend a lot of my free time shopping for a bike, a padlock and a security camera.

Update: Joining in the festival fun

2009-08-31T15:43:00.002+01:00

Well, it's all over for another year.

It was a weekend filled with music, fast food and camping in the country.

Among my highlights was watching Kaiser Chiefs last night - it got the crowd going in a way few other bands had managed over the weekend. The worst offenders that I saw were Arctic Monkeys, who failed to live up to their headline slot on Friday. Playing just a handful of their many well-known hits, they instead chose to focus on material from their new album released just four days previously. The set list might have gone down well with die-hard fans, but in the chilly Bramham Park night they needed to do more to keep the neutrals entertained.

Kaiser Chiefs, by comparison, gave a lesson in crowd-pleasing performances. They stormed through their radio-friendly hits to keep everyone singing, splitting the crowd in two to chant "Kaiser" and "Chiefs" at lead singer Ricky Wilson as he bounced around the stage. They lived up to every expectation I had and rounded off a great weekend.

Which brings me back to my previous post about taking full advantage of the free ticket. As predicted, I set out with the best intentions of sticking out the whole weekend, with perhaps a couple of trips home for a warm shower. By 11pm on Friday, my determination had all but blown away in the freezing wind coming across Bramham Park. Even insise the tent a few hours later I was struggling to keep warm (despite three jumpers and several pairs of socks, along with a three-season sleeping bag - I might contact Trading Standards...).

The weather deteriorated over the weekend and Sunday, particularly, was foul. We spent a great deal of time enduring some questionable comedy acts just because the stage was in the only tented area which still had standing room inside.

So do I feel I missed out by not spending the whole weekend on site and dropping out when it all got a bit too - well, festival-like?

No, not in the slightest. I had a great time and, to top it off, I stayed warm, I had clean hair every day and I didn't get stuck in a portable toilet.

Joining in the Festival fun

2009-08-16T23:17:00.000+01:00

I love Leeds Festival.

I've loved it since I was 16, when, as a post-GCSE treat, I spent a day in the grounds of Temple Newsam with my friends enjoying a range of music. We watched bands we'd never heard of, ran away from the slightly scary Slipknot fans in the crowd and drank luxury Cadbury's hot chocolate. It all culminated in a two-hour set from my favourite band in the world EVER (at the time), Stereophonics.

My festival experience was limited to that until last year, when I discovered I could get free press tickets through work, in exchange for writing a few words and printing some pictures of the event. Not only were these free tickets - they were free VIP tickets. Fabulous. No slumming it with the Great Unwashed, no trekking four miles across the Yorkshire countryside to reach the arena or return to the campsite, and certainly no knee-deep mud pouring in as you unzip your tent in the morning.

So, in 2008, I enjoyed a rather pleasant weekend camping in the grounds of Bramham Park. I watched a variety of bands and comedians, ate a pizza which was stonebaked while I waited and got near enough my eight hours' sleep at night. I also regularly made the three-mile trip back to my house to make use of the facilities and have a warm shower every day. Bliss.

I intend to do the same this year, with an even better line-up on offer. I shall watch Kaiser Chiefs in clean underwear and enjoy Arctic Monkeys with freshly-washed hair.

Yet I can't help feeling I'm not getting the full festival experience. I won't queue for an hour to use a toilet so disgusting I don't dare touch anything. I won't plait my hair on Friday and leave it as it is until Monday morning. And I certainly won't be fighting my way to the front of the crowd so I can be thrown back over the heads of other revellers, only to try again (as much as anything else, I'm fairly sure I'd get dropped and then trampled).

When my friends heard I've got free tickets and I'm close enough to home to nip back for a change of clothes every day, you would expect they'd be enormously jealous. But instead, they look at me in disgust and tell me I'm not doing it properly. Instead, like them, I should pay £200 for a weekend pass and refuse to leave the site, no matter what the British summer weather throws at me.

Perhaps they're right. And I suspect, six or seven years ago, I would probably have agreed and stuck the whole thing out like them. But it doesn't matter what my intentions - as soon as that cold wind cuts across the Bramham countryside, I want a proper bed and a hot bath. I'm just not the festival sort. And besides, I suspect my friends are only so annoyed with me because they're stuck out in a freezing field in the pouring rain without any clean clothes.

Opposition or intimidation? The perils of the planning process

2009-07-31T17:14:00.000+01:00

Planning applications are probably among the most controversial things a council has to deal with.

Be it new homes, a supermarket or a nursing home, there are often people on both sides of any major application who are prepared to go to almost any length to get their way.

But when it's something people truly believe in and their life looks set to be affected by the outcome, where do they draw the line? At what point does campaigning turn into intimidation or, perhaps even worse, fraud?

Such questions have been asked by residents and officials in Leeds this week. It has emerged that one local man received an acknowledgement for a letter of support he sent to the city council for the proposed changes to the Tesco store on Roundhay Road. But the man, who lives a few miles from the site, did not send any letter, either for or against the plans.

Similarly, two people in the Wetherby area have received acknowledgements for letters they allegedly sent opposing a controversial 170-home development on an area of open land in the centre of Boston Spa. Neither has been involved in the campaign against the development. These do not seem to be merely administrative errors - one gentleman requested a copy of the letter he had apparently sent and found it had his name and address on the top and was signed off from him at the bottom, though the signature was not genuine.

These cases are clearly of concern to planners, throwing the whole planning process into jeopardy. They mean every letter, email or phone call received relating to an application could be called into question. There could be many more fake letters in the system where a resident receiving an acknowledgement letter has merely dismissed it as a mistake, rather than contacting the council.

Those responsible are no doubt trying to further their cause by adding weight to the argument and making it appear there are even more people on their side than may actually be the case. But if their actions are made public, they can only serve to have the opposite effect. Even if the majority of campaigners are playing by the rules, the one or two who decide to take their own path can cast a shadow of doubt over the entire case.

Similarly, a recent case highlighted a Leeds primary school where new yellow lines were to be painted outside the gates to prevent parents from parking dangerously. Many of the parents objected, claiming they needed to drop their children off as close to school as possible. The school, meanwhile, was adamant that parents could afford to walk a few hundred metres in order to avoid a child being run over as he or she tried to cross the road between the many parked cars. Whichever side of the debate local residents fell on to begin with, their minds must surely have been made up by the actions of some of those involved. Anonymous, menacing letters were sent to houses in the surrounding streets, threatening to park across driveways and block in others' cars unless they objected to the proposals. It beggars belief that some people think this approach is likely to get them what they want.

But then there is the grey area between what is acceptable and what is not. Playing strictly by the rules, there is nothing to stop a community rallying against a development on its doorstep. Villagers can set up action groups, committees and campaigns against planning applications in a bid to convince planners to turn it down. With the support of the majority of residents, they can call public meetings, distribute leaflets and approach people in the street to spread their views. But what about those who may support the controversial application? Whether they make their views public or not, being in a minority against a very active majority must be of concern, particularly when many campaigning groups vow to go to "any lengths" to achieve their aims.

Is such pressure enough to deter people from commenting to the council on planning applications? When does campaigning turn into intimidation? And what can councils do to ensure they are getting a true representation of the views of the community, not just the views of those who are most vocal? These questions are likely to remain unanswered without a major reform of the planning system, particularly the consultation process. I, for one, would not envy the person given that task.

Shopaholic? Only once a year...

2009-07-19T21:19:00.000+01:00

I went shopping in Leeds today. That's a sentence you won't hear from me very often, because the ensuing conversation usually terrifies me to my very core. Every time I've mentioned it to anyone I know, I end up feeling hideously out of my depth and inadequate.

The problem is, I don't like shopping. I really don't. I'm 25, female, reasonably slim and of average height. On paper, I should be a shopaholic. I should be frittering away my pennies in the many boutiques on offer in my delightful home city. At least, that's what I've come to understand is the norm for people of my demographic. Female colleagues at work go gooey over Kurt Geiger shoes and Gucci handbags, quoting designers' names and prices from all kinds of stores I'm sure I've never even walked past.

It's not just the clothes. I regularly avoid shopping for gifts, home furnishings, even food, until the consequences of not shopping (starvation, disinheritance etc) begin to appear a greater threat than the prospect of a half-hour trip into the city centre.

Sometimes, if the mood takes me, I can last for almost two hours on my own, wandering around the shops. More often than not, I head out with the best intentions, only to return an hour later, grumpy, without any purchases and with incredibly static hair from pulling my jumper on and off in the changing rooms.

But here's the strange thing: I absolutely love Christmas shopping. It's the busiest time of the year, when fellow shoppers are more irritable than ever and shops pump their heating up to sauna level in order to entice you in from the street. I ought to detest the very idea of spending time in the city centre in December, but I don't. I actually relish the prospect of spending a few hours wandering from shop to shop, picking up things I know my friends and family will love, while being shoved in all different directions and listening to Bing Crosby on a seemingly eternal loop. Perhaps that makes me a generous person, getting far more enthusiastic about shopping for others than for myself.

Or perhaps it just proves, even more than my lack of interest in fashion, that I'm not normal.

Welcome to my blog

2009-07-10T22:27:00.000+01:00

Hi!

I'm Vicky Carr - journalist, writer, home-owner and, as of now, blogger.

In this blog, you'll find news and opinions (all mine) about Leeds and its surroundings. Whether you live in the area, are planning a visit, are a former Loiner (yes, apparently that's what we're called) or just happened upon the blog, I hope you'll find it useful. Or at least an entertaining diversion while you try to find flights from Leeds-Bradford to the capital of Italy.

I also have opinions about politics, society and - unsurprisingly - the world of journalism which I will no doubt foist upon you from time to time. Feel free to disagree with me, or let me know if you think I'm just the cleverest person you've ever met, virtually or otherwise, and I shall no doubt reciprocate. I'm nice like that.

Vicky