Ginnel from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.
Monday, 25 October 2010
Ginnel from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
On my way into work I saw a bat, an owl, the short woman with the sweat shirt and the peroxide perm who goes through the bins in the park and, on the pavement outside the Mortgage Introducer and International Flights shop on Marsh Street, a women’s block heeled boot.
I knocked at a house on West Moor Road. A boy of about three or four wearing nothing but a nappy was sitting on the window sill drinking milk from a baby bottle. A thin woman in her forties with braces on her teeth answered the door and shouted “Toilet!” at me. Then she said “Oh sorry love, I thought you were someone else”.
Mr Briggs intercepted me for his mail in his Bedford Rascal. He asked me whether I’d ever toured Scotland by coach. I said I hadn’t. He told me his wife had seen an advert in The Examiner; “...up one side and down the other—five hotels in a week.”
Mr Briggs went on at some length about his reservations about coach travel.
"A sore arse... compulsory seat belts... steamed-up windows that you can’t see out of... the lack of decent toilet facilities... if you get sat next to a knobhead..." and so forth.
He said "I said all this to her but she’d already gone and booked it hadn’t she. Her and Barbara had cooked it up together hadn’t they. So, the four of us went together; me, the missus and Gary and Barbara. And do you know what?" said Mr Briggs looking up at me from over his wire-rims.
“What?” I said.
“We had a real time! It was fantastic! We’ve been another... one... two... three... four times since!”
He went on at some length about some of the exploits they’d had.
“...They’re only allowed to drive for a couple of hours at a time these days so we always have chance to have a coffee or a tea.”
And how he’d got around the seat belt problem.
“if you plug the belt in to the thing before you get into your seat and then just sit on it, the driver's alarm doesn’t go off. He’d had to tell me a couple of times over the tannoy before I figured that out”. Mr Briggs chuckled and did an impression of the bus driver “Passenger number 44 could you fasten your belt please”.
I told Mr Briggs that I’d once travelled from London to Paris by coach and I’d found it quite tough going. I was about to elaborate with an amusing anecdote from the journey but he cut me short saying “Anyway, I’m off to Leeds now” and he drove away.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
A man is lying on his side on his asphalt driveway manicuring the edge of his lawn with a pair of shears — half his backside is showing. He rolls over onto his back to say hello.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
I could see a small man walking towards me in the park. He was singing loudly to himself and occasionally performing a kind of shimmy. He stopped briefly to take a drag of his cigarette and saw me walking towards him. He began coughing in what seemed like a fake way and when he started up walking again, he did so with a swagger and an expressionless face.
Trizzle and N.Smith have both written their names on the the May Street pouch box.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
A young man wearing a yellow vest, faded red boxer shorts and fluffy yellow slippers was sat on my neighbour's front step in the rain at 05.30am. Later, I saw a fox on Station Road.
On the bus I overheard a man telling his companion that he’d shat himself in bed after drinking “too many turbo diesels” in the pub.
Mrs Shaw gave me a bag of home grown tomatoes. She said she was completely self-sufficient as far as tomatoes were concerned.
As I pushed the mail through the door of a house on Carr Lane, a handwritten note fell out of the letterbox:
“Mum, go away you are not my mother.
Your so-called fucking son.”
Dr Groves opened his front door to take his mail. He said “It’s a reasonable day by the looks of it.”
Mr Briggs pulled up to tell me he was “off to Oldham today...”
He paused, then said “Actually, I tell a lie; I’m off to the office, then to Meltham and then to Oldham. I’m working on the precinct there; it’s a right bastard to park.”
That’s all he said, then he got back into his VW Passat and drove away.
At the Chartered Accountants, a chubby white male Chartered Accountant with brown plastic rimmed glasses, a white shirt and a grey suit was talking to a slim white female Chartered Accountant in a white shirt and a slightly lighter grey suit — with a fine check.
“Did you get through Chapeltown all right yesterday?” asked the man.
“I know! I didn’t see a single white face!” said the woman biting her lip.
“I bet you didn’t want to stop at the lights did you?”
“No” said the woman, “I pushed my door-locks down!” She mimed twisting around and pushing down the door lock; “Absolutely terrifying” she said.
Mrs Gaunt waved to me from her first floor window with a tenon saw in her hand.
Places I saw the Cross of St George today:
1. Painted across the bonnet of a white baker’s van.
2. On a flag flying from dead tree in a garden on Vicarage Drive.
3. On a flag flying from the Foresters Arms pub.
4. Painted on a drain cover by the back door of a house on Elizabeth Road.
5. On a flag flying from what used to be The Green Cross real ale pub but is now a ‘sex encounter’ club with blacked out windows and plans for a sauna.