BEATS OF LOVE

165. Make No Mistake by Keith Richards 

MY MATE, Jeff proclaimed after a few weeks of me moving in that he expected Keith Richards and got John Major. My persona met with reality.

I concur that I'm risk averse and I'm paying a heavy price for it. I met the missus in the first week in January in 2012 and had we married prior to August that year, we would've fallen outside hostile environment policies. Granting us settlement. As it was despite marrying in 2013, once I was sure a marriage could last, it subjected us to the full force of law changes in 2014. By full force, I mean full force. 

Finally, our MP helped resolve matters in 2016 and they placed the missus in writing on a ten-year partner route to settlement, not until I was three hours away from flying her out of the country. In 2018, she had one chance to switch routes to save time but was told the rules would have to be met in full on subsequent visas or face a reset. Brow-beaten, we decided it was safer to pay extra and wait longer for peace of mind. Now, knowing we met the rules to settle earlier, we're devastated to learn that the political party we supported and who supported us now proposes to overhaul our settlement terms. Placing us once again in limbo.

Shabana Mahmood is going too far for many, but not far enough for others. Effectively making nobody happy. Me and the missus were in our local when some unhappy soul was in Nazi saluting after sighting us both. Mahmood's sorry blue labour rhetoric apologises for it. She understands why mixed race couples can make people feel so incensed; I guess. 

I now recognise myself in the fictional comedy character and his alter-ego, brought to life in John Sullivan's brilliant Dear John. Beginning this ordeal like Kirk St Moritz, an online lothario and ending it as Eric Morris, a neurotic letter writer. Jeff was dead right about me.

BEATS OF LOVE 

164. Up the Youth Club: Illuminating a Hidden History by Emma Warren

I APPRECIATE Emma's optimistic viewpoint as she provides a definitive account of this subject. Ending her subtly groundbreaking book abruptly before the 70% cut to youth services took effect. 

I only ever recall going to youth club discos aged 11, where I learned that my musical snobbery sat well with my more generalised snobbery. Too immune to the sounds of 2-Tone, which seemed to attract kids from the council houses and uniform dancing, the only records me and my mate Dave made any effort to dance to were New Romantic. 

We perfected a sneering disdain for most things because of this, even forming a nameless band. Inserting the lyrics 'Dance with the intercom, Speak into a plane' over a Landscape B side and some Casio keyboard action, intending to play it at the youth club channelling the full Blitz Kid aesthetic via our mother's wardrobes. We never found the bravery to leave our houses.

As with the brilliant Dance your Way Home, sparingly but brilliantly, she extracts history from a personal footprint. You learn lots about our societal loss without a cerebral approach, which again feels refreshing. It's by exploring these deeper connections with fertile ideas the book comes alive and you realise the importance of what was simply tossed away in the name of austerity.

Understanding that for many youth clubs were a lifeline and not simply some place to form an identity.