It’s that time of year where things seem to be in an accelerated flux: the trees are one moment dressed in green, the next golden brown, then stripped skeletal by a northern, iced wind. The shops go from barbecue roasts to frozen turkeys in the time it takes to rummage through the Deli counter; and like invading orange aliens, pumpkins colonise the veg aisles. Tastes change, and where previously a pub visit would demand a golden ale to slake my thirst, now I crave the almost spiced deeper dark ales that don’t chill from within, but radiate a warm, fat heat. Knitwear appears. Its autumn. And still, nobody has invented a hibernation machine I could step in right now, switch on, and emerge in mid-April, on that first warm day, to don shorts on legs that have been spared the chapping of welly-rub on frigid flesh. To breath air that still tastes of something, rather than numbs the senses. To wake in the light, and finish a shift at work with the world still lit.
Alas, science is still dragging on this particular subject, instead seemingly happier to seek cures to diseases, eliminate world hunger and decipher the most fundamental mysteries of the Universe. Tsk to you, science, tsk. And tsk to my GP who gave short shrift to the mooted theory that the NHS would save themselves a fortune if they just shipped me to the Antipodes till Easter, and thus not have to pay for the treatment of inevitable sniffles, chest infections and ice-induced broken tibias/fibias.
So I’m here for the long haul, dear Beestonians. I can’t spend the evenings gallivanting wide-eyed round Attenborough Nature Reserve spotting kingfishers which were probably just wrens in fortunate light, picking blackberries and soaking up as much summer as my pores allow, I’m sentenced to six months of BEING INSIDE, my comforts soft lighting and central heating; thick soups and wines the darker side of burgundy.
So I best get on with writing something, rather than blather about the unfairness about something that has been happening every year of my life and many millions before, which somehow I feel happens just to annoy me. So sit down, get your wine mulled, and I’ll fill you in with all thats great right now.
Beestonia Reaches Issue Two!
Yes, its incredible, we actually got a second edition out! (actually, its sort of number four, as we had a taster Issue Minus One, and a Student Special given to 1,000 freshers). It has lots of good stuff in, including two very good causes I will bang on about below here.
First, I must thank The Treasury, the classy gift shop on Wollaton Road that has agreed to be our first sponsor. We run the paper on a not-for profit basis, as we simply like doing it, but there are inevitable expenses, and I’m not talking about my bar bill I run up sourcing stories chatting to the loose of tongue round Beeston. Nope, thats my own tab to pick up. We do, however, need to pay our printer for costs and paper, and although he’s a great chap (again, more on him below), it’s still an expense. As we want to eventually get a little more pretty and go colour, and also get a larger print run, we also need to get some dough together to fund this.
No, I’mSo all help is welcome, and thats why The Treasury needs YOU to go up there and buy something as they were wonderful enough to come forward and offer help. ‘Oh, Lord Beestonia’ you utter, ‘Why can’t I buy my cards and suchlike from Clinton Cards, its on the High Street and is pretty cheap? Well, the first reason is that Clinton are presently displaying a collection of greeting cards that are inspired by the telly programme that exists purely to celebrate the fact that the barrel is no longer being scraped, it’s been worn through. The barrel-pokey thing has gone through, into the earth, then a layer of rotted dog poo, then waggled about in TOWIE. Yep, The Only Way is Essex. Imagine if that was true. The Only Way was Essex. Imagine. Then imagine the loaded revolver I’m passing you, and the sweltering temple it would be pressed against.
One of the cards even has the dual cases of neologistic abbreviative vileness of them: OMG and LOL.
Buy one of those, and sorry, you have been relegated to plant-life. No, moss. No, lichen. You are lower, You are mono-cellular. You are amoeba. Dreams of sex involve you tearing asunder into two identical halves. You cause dysentry. You are almost certainly unable to read this, which is welcome. I set my ‘Species Readership Level’ at ‘Fish’. But I won’t carp on. And I won’t waste space making fish puns. Nope. Period. Fin. And I digress.
The Treasury is thus a place to visit if you appreciate quality and localism, which you evidently do cos you’re reading this. So get up there and have a peek. It’s two doors down from a cob shop named Beeston Baps. Just saying.
We also really need more help to carry on, so if you want to be our friends, get in touch, either via this blog or firstname.lastname@example.org .
I best point out here that while I editThe Beestonian, i’m only one head on a multi-headed hydra that barks the content (do hydras bark? Thinking about it, I’m getting confused with Cerebus. Hydras hiss, I reckon). We merely wish to be saying stuff out loud that we hear around Beeston, the only criteria being that it’s a bit interesting. I try and keep it together, but it’s not me having a rant, it’s us :Beestonians, having a shout to your peers. We need you, you are our voice, we are your medium. So if you can’t throw money at us, throw ideas, stories, articles, reviews, ANYTHING. This is for you; thus in turn for us.
Two things you should do if you have any spare change in your wallet, well before pinging it in my direction, is to give it to a couple of causes that will give you a hell of a lot more back.
First is Oxjam. I wrote about this before, so won’t bang on too long about it, but it is the biggest cultural event to hit Beeston in years; and if its a success, will be an annual home. Beeston will have a festival. An annual festival. One where you can visit without a tortorous drive/coach journey and not have to queue for toilets/sleep with only a nanometre of canvas between you and a cow poo/ pay ONE MILLION POUNDS for a pint. Instead, you can buy a ticket for a mere fiver, swan round Beeston all day and night, see stuff that you’d normally have to spend a dozen evening seeing, and get that warm glow of doing something for charity. It will be ace. Get your arses down to Oxfam Books and Music/The Crown when you can. If you say I sent you, cheers.
More info at http://www.oxjambeestontakeover.org/
As an aside, I popped down to a taster event at The Crown on Sunday, an ‘open mic’ of poetry and spoken word. I expected the worse, to be honest, as adolescents read their paeons to parental oppression and opposite sex obsession, but no, it was a boisterous, bawdy and heavily entertaining evening. I even came in second in the competition ‘”Write a limerick starting with ‘There was a young lady from Beeston…’ . Get your fivers out and your arses down.
I mentioned earlier that The Beestonian ‘s printer is based in Beeston, and goes by the name of Nottingham Offset. I’m quite proud of using a local business: it would be massively hypocritical for us to do anything other. Sadly, the rest of the Notts press isn’t of the same mind. The Nottingham Post (it dropped the ‘Evening’ part ages ago, though even our MP, amongst many others, hasn’t caught on yet), is now knocked out on presses based in Birmingham, and bought over. This is hardly up there with the Battles of Wapping in the eighties, and local press is under huge commercial pressures as the internet sucks the life from them, but it is still sad. The same printers who will lose there jobs as a result will be looking for new posts on paper printed by the very people who took their jobs. Recessions do bring on cruel ironies.