British Racing Green

September 17th was a 1 day event on 17/09/09 as a part of the link up between Birmingham, Bristol and Cardiff. BRG chose to mark this event by throwing together a small publication in just two weeks. Limited edition copies were made available at various participating venues on the day.

The following texts were written for "September 17th: You are here"

CRAZY CINDY
Tom Sinclair

This is for Crazy Cindy no mistake we treated you rotten. An open letter, Cindy, I'm sorry. Tell truth, Paul, Bill, and indeed my bad self think you're a top girl. Its just, you know, ye have to support your mates and all.

No word of a lie. The minute Marty tells me he's got a crush on you. Straight up, I tell him, matey, this is bad news, think ahead. He doesn't listen. She's a nice bird he says. Not that he's wrong, I tell him no. Paul chips in don't shit where you eat. Pardon my French. Cosmic Wenglish. See, I've known Marty my whole life. Way back when. He's a dedicated follower of fashion. Oh yes he is. Its the thrill, the novelty, the mystery of a newfound friend that flicks his switch. So to speak. He gets bored with things. He gets bored with bands, clothes, and most of all, people. It is the great disease of our age – the adoration and search always for the new, not for the good, the deep. And so, you were his latest craze. And now he calls you Crazy Cindy.

So, two weeks in. You're coming round more. And it seems to work. I start to think could-he could-he has-he let her into his bed? His trust? Poor soul still grieves for Emma. Then, one morning, I'm having my breakfast. Coffee, apple, cigarette. And who should stroll into the living room? Well, who? You. No – how did I then think of you? Not yet Crazy Cindy. Nor really Cindy. The girl from next door. I curse loudly, idiotically, and for some reason I'm the one embarrassed. Flushed. You're laughing, at me, with me, I wasn't sure, just happy you was happy. I picture Marty, sprawled upstairs, lolling, sated. I venture a Good morning Luv, think of offering a coffee. But you're gone, slipping home, a step across the corridor, before The Girls wake up. I shake my head - Marty doesn't change.

I imagine him grinning, sitting upstairs for hours to come. But by the time I've finished pouring my coffee he's down in the living room, in a foul mood. Bleary eyes.

-Who the fucks left all this washin up in the sink? I can't even see the plug hole.

-Mornin to you too chap! Fancy a coffee

-Yeah, I could smell it.

-Not the only thing keeping you up then? The coffee?

-Honestly mate, less said the better.

-Sugars?

-Two. And black, black as my heart and bitter as my soul.

He was joking about the bitter as my soul. He manages a smile, but you can tell he's not having a good day. And there were you happy as Larry.

-She's as mad as a box o snakes.

He tells me. First thing.

-Get this, Harry. You're a bit of a sick fucker, but this'll shock even you ...

Don't shoot the messenger here Cindy I'm just telling how it was

-Well, last night we did anal. You know what they say – if the river runs red take the muddy track. What kind of a girl does that after a three dates?

I am shocked. Pour the coffees on auto-pilot.

Seriously, bruv. I can't look at her right, after what she did...

This smacks to me of the old Groucho Marx quote, 'I wouldn't be a member of any club that'd take me as a member'. Self-defeating, circular logic. See, he's so little respect for his bad self he thinks any bird comes near must be a little crazy.

And then, that evening, you make it so easy for us to believe him. He doesn't answer your calls, so you knock on the door. Sam answers, has been instructed that Paul doesn't want to speak to anyone right now. You come back. No-one answers. And from here, to stalking, to crazy fucken Cindy, is a road oh so short when you run it. The trial, psychiatrists, seroxat... and back to bloody blunty bedlem. The mad woman in the attic. This one's for you, Cindy, I know why you did it.


September 17th: You Are Here
Samuel Hasler

The river runs at the base of deep mud banks. A wind carries the grey ceiling over us. We stand now infront of industrial buildings that line up between the dockside and the rivers edge. Buildings recall an industrial port. A working city. Grit and action... Smog and stonework... The grime and the work and the stone and the metal and the crates and the muscles... the actions and the materials... all these things rolling in on the water. Rolling into the city hub. Bustling over each other, over the shouts and calls of workers, grafters, slaves. Getting all this heavy material moved around. The central Bristolian activities. Buildings recall the day they were built. The day the architects said we need a large industrial warehouse here. We need access for storage containers. We need the place to be hardy and functional. Buildings that can take a kicking.


Ghosts. Arcing grey cranes stare at them selves in the water. Foliage edges over walls. Iron eats the oxygen. Rusted teeth. Tramlines are cold. Frigid overcast morning. Empty vessel, Empty Vessel. The blood cells stopped sailing this far into the city a long time ago.


Rustic pubs feel the fresh breeze today. Recalling hangovers of a thousand sailors who’d slept in the porch. Overcast morning breeze and the old days. White shapes fainted green. Dockyard workers burping the bitter ales, flavour, and a little colour, back into those cheeks.

Water. Overcast, breeze carries a clammy cold humidity. Smell of nothing going on. No smoke.

The quirks and twists, turn up and take on these mammoth carcasses. Warehouse shells. The haunted dock yard. The buildings. The ghosts. Grey cranes arcing over the water, keeping one eye on this new gang. The water remained. Sickly still. The young creative activists, like rats looking for dark holes and stonework that’s been neglected. Where weeds thrive through the cracked concrete.