This was the second of the photographs used to illustrate ‘The Nine O’Clock Service: An Exercise in Power and Control’, the fabulous 7,000-word article published in ‘Undefined Boundary: The Journal of Psychick Albion’.
The image relates to four passages from the article, including this:
“I saw what I referred to as the black-clad squares of NOS wandering about the suburb of Crookes, and I witnessed them pretending to love each other in the local pubs, including the Cobden View, which would have been our shared local, and the Old Grindstone, which was just down the road from St. Thomas’s Church. For some reason, I can’t recall coming across them in the Noah’s Ark, which was directly opposite the church, although I did spend time in there with individuals who regularly attended NOS acts of worship but were excluded from the inner workings of the group by virtue of their perceived deficiencies.”
And this, which is an account given by a woman who was involved in the group:
“I moved to Sheffield from Wolverhampton to take a teacher training course at the Poly. I was living in a shared student house in Crookes. I didn’t really get on with the other people who lived there. I used to spend a lot of time on my own in the pubs around the place I lived in. I was in the Grindstone one Sunday evening when I noticed a group of young people come in. They looked really happy and together. One of the girls in the group smiled at me and eventually we got chatting…”
I spent a long time working on ‘The Nine O’Clock Service: An Exercise in Power and Control’, a 7,000-word article about the notorious Rave Vicar Chris Brain and his ghastly postmodern Christian Evangelical crew. The work was published in ‘Undefined Boundary: The Journal of Psychick Albion, Volume 4, Issue 2’, and I think it turned out very well. The last part of the article focused on Brain’s trial, which concluded with him being found guilty of 17 counts of indecent assault against nine women. During the period I was writing about the trial, I took to the streets of Crookes to take numerous photographs of locations associated with Brain and his ardent and willing supporters, and a couple of them appeared in the article.
The text that goes with this photograph runs as follows:
“I lived in a house on Western Road that backed onto a large NOS dwelling on School Road – I once shovelled a path through thick snow to allow my beloved cat Alba to pass from the NOS den to the home she shared with me and my partner. I believe that this property was the dwelling place of Lori Camm, the mysterious female counterpart to the latterly infamous Rave Vicar cum Techno-Shaman Chris Brain, who, like Brain’s wife Winnie, seems to have passed out of history.”
Although there can be no doubt that Brain was a horrid malefactor fully deserving of contempt, I remain disappointed that his fellow travellers in NOS have not been held responsible for their actions at the time he committed his offences, and even more disappointed that the Church of England establishment, which was absolutely essential in enabling the abomination of NOS to continue, has escaped without being subjected to the level of criticism it so richly deserves.
Looking back on the article, I see that I noted Brain is due to stand retrial on outstanding charges: a further four counts of indecent assault and one charge of rape, with that trial scheduled to start on 1 September 2026 (4 days from the date of me writing this), and expected to last about four weeks.
I’m thinking ‘Heroin’ by The Velvet Underground combined with ‘Kneel to the Boss’ by Cabaret Voltaire. I don’t know if it would be possible to combine elements of those tracks effectively. I’ll give it a go. I came up with a fabulous never-ending track consisting of the openings of ‘Nag Nag Nag’, ‘Hot on the Heels of Love’, ‘Underpass!’ and ‘Are ‘Friends’ Electric?’ but the realisation that they would work together in any order arrived fully formed in my consciousness, which is not the case with ‘Heroin’ and ‘Kneel to the Boss’.
“O, pilgrim! Why are you thinking about ‘Heroin’?” you might ask, to which I would reply, “Because that transmitter strongly resembles a syringe.” And “O, pilgrim! Why are you thinking about ‘Kneel to the Boss’?” you might continue, to which I would reply, “Because the transmitter relays messages to the citizens of Crookes, Crosspool, and Tapton, and the primary broadcast consists of the following:
“Krrk krrk… citizens of Crookes, Crosspool and Tapton!… kneel to the boss!… Over.”
So I walk on, singing to myself: “I don’t know just where I’m going / But I’m gonna try for the kingdom, if I can…” but I do know exactly where I’m going, so I decide to change my tune: “Again, going through the grind / One should kneel, okay, should kneel / More meat for the mincer, more fuel for the wheels / More water / More meat / More fuel / More Boss / Kneel to the Boss…”
Who would have thought he was saying that? It can be hard to make out Cabaret Voltaire lyrics, what with the vocal treatments they apply to their work, particularly their earlier songs.
For many years, the patch of ground behind a fence (part of which we see pictured here) was what Americans would term a vacant lot. I don’t know if the same term is commonly applied in England; regardless of whether or not the description is used, it’s clear what it means – there was nothing there, meaning nothing in terms of buildings, which in the case of Crookes would be houses or shops. There was a set of long, low concrete steps leading from Cobden View Road to Northfield Road, with a very low wall to one side. On the other side of the wall, there was a little strip of grass. I think there was an arbitrary concrete dividing strip next to this small strip of grass, with another little strip of grass on the other side of it, and I think both little strips of grass were similar in size, if not identical. I think there was a bit of soil somewhere around the perimeter of the whole compound, or vacant lot, and that this soil housed a few desultory flowering plants. There were no benches to be found there. It was possible to sit on the little wall, but that proved very uncomfortable. The space served no clear purpose. It was not used. I can’t even remember seeing anyone travel up the steps from Cobden View Road to Northfield Road, or down the steps from Northfield Road to Cobden View Road, although it seems extremely likely that pedestrians used these routes on occasion. There were advertising hoardings towering above this suburban non-space, displaying typical nonsense, trying to persuade passers-by that what is meaningless possesses meaning and what is valueless possesses value.
This state persisted for many years, until all of a sudden the space was fenced off and enclosed. This proved to be the work of a property developer, who intended to erect an apartment block consisting of as many trashy little living spaces as he could get away with on the land available to him. The community mobilized against the nefarious property developer and I am glad, if rather surprised, to report that his plans were turned down on the grounds that the living spaces he intended to create were too small. Normally, that wouldn’t make any difference ultimately, and the loathsome, greedy capitalist would be left to run laughing all the way to the bank. I think the involvement of the local MP in opposing the development might have had something to do with him being turned down, and the Crookes bourgeoisie also have a successful track record in opposing antisocial proposals, most notably in regard to street trees.
This is a detail of a sign erected to oppose the horrible landlord, accompanied by the slogan SAVE COBDEN VIEW EMPTY SPACE (not EMPTY SPACE but OPEN SPACE – the positivist bourgeoisie would not use the term ‘empty space’, would they? ‘Open space’ is far more positive and dynamic, innit?) and other signs advocating for the development of a community garden. I like the idea of a community garden, although sadly nothing came of it. Several months after this photograph was taken, the hardboard enclosure surrounding the space was largely removed, so this representation of a coven of community-spirited witches can no longer be seen. I don’t know what will happen next, but I assume the antisocial landowner will do what he can to maximise his return on investment, even if that means changing his original proposal. We can be sure that whatever rises from this ground, it will be made of the cheapest materials possible, and it will be sold for the highest price the landowner can wangle out of the market.
I am on the highest path of the Bole Hills, approaching Cocked Hat Cottages, on my way to the Crookes Ash (the local Yggdrasil) and the Mound ov Krekja. The Bole Hills is an excellent location for viewing the sunset. The pastime of sunset viewing has been taken up by large numbers of students in recent years, although this student activity tends to take place in summertime, accompanied by barbecues, civilised drinking, and the odd spliff here and there. You don’t see many students around come November. You don’t see many people at all, in fact, particularly when nightfall is coming on: just the occasional dog walker, with their dogs sometimes kitted out in battery-powered light-collar things, which I always enjoy seeing. As a person of good sense, I recognise dogs as fundamentally defective creatures, “combining viciousness and subservience in one loathsome shit-eating package”, as I once put it, but the dogs on the Bole Hills tend to be nice bourgeois dogs, and as I haven’t been directly threatened by a wayward canine for several months, I’m beginning to soften towards them as a species, and even to concede that some possess a certain charm. I have even taken it upon myself to stroke the occasional canine now and again, when they come sniffing towards me, wagging their tails, and appearing quite friendly.
I’m in the high-walled path that leads from Manchester Road to Fulwood Road, the path I passed on numerous occasions over a period of 30 years without realising it was there, the path I found somewhat frightening to travel down the first time I followed it, because I could not see very far in front of me, by virtue of the height of the walls on either side, and because I did not know where it led, having been previously unaware of its existence. I was less frightened the second time I walked down it, and my fear had subsided even further after deploying what passes for reason in advance of my third walk down. I can’t remember how many times I’ve travelled this way now, five or six maybe, but I can recall only five other walkers on the path in all those times, two of whom were walking together.
I see a stone man in profile. His eye is closed or drooping. His nose is sharp and pointed. His cheekbone is fairly pronounced. His lips are set and exude an air of indifference. His chin is not as elegant as his other features. He bears quite a resemblance to Marcel Duchamp, particularly in the upper parts of the face.
I was greatly enamoured with Marcel Duchamp shortly after I first discovered him. I then came to despise him as a typically dreary bourgeois intellectual making out he was a rebel. I hate people like that, although ‘hate’ might be too strong a word (perhaps not). Then I reassessed my contempt and now adopt a position of recognising that there remains something of interest about him.
A Vortograph of the conjunction of Longfield Road and Northfield Road with a suggestion of Bradley Street coming in just over there, look. Likely story. Or is it fuck. But this particular dwelling does seem to capture reflections in a most notable way, setting it apart from the dwelling places that are situated nearby. Is it to do with the size of the windows? Is it to do with its position on a corner? Can it be ascribed to other environmental factors? Is it an invention born of a casual observation elevated to the status of an insight provoking oft-overlooked appreciation of reality?
Hey, son! Your so-called ‘Vortograph’ simply does not cut it! You are not fooling us! Hank from the Netherlands, and Frank, son of Hank! Your crazy diagonals merely serve to prosper the cause of confusion. Your concatenation of TOPY-like signs represents nought save an unsatisfactory subdued psychedelic nightmare.
Fuck you, Hank, and Frank, son of Hank! This image is an essay on the conjunction of interior and exterior in pictorial form. What is without, and what is within? That distant diagonal shelf is within. The window beyond it forms a barrier (pure liminal, fam). The sign reading ‘Open – 7 days’ is located in the outside realm – it adorns the exterior of a building that is some kind of garage – repair shop – second-hand car retailer, it used to be a hairdresser’s, and it was a combined general store and off-licence before that. And the double yellow lines are taken from without to within and transformed into dynamic triple yellow lines in parts, not that any trace of the colour yellow can be seen in the black and white image presented here.
I’ve been taking photographs of this tree for around 30 years. I remember printing images of the tree onto acetates and projecting them using an overhead projector. The images were striking, beautiful and impressive. They didn’t relate to the subjects of my presentations but I decided to use them to separate the various sections of the material I was presenting. I first encountered the tree more than 30 years ago, but I didn’t take any photographs in the earlier years of my acquaintance, because I didn’t have a camera, I couldn’t really have afforded one, even if I had wanted one, because I was poor, and needed to save my money to spend on essentials, like alcohol, tobacco, and drugs. I say that I encountered the tree more than 30 years ago, but I have no definite memory of doing so. I base this assessment on the fact that I had definitely travelled in the region of the tree before photographing it, and that the tree makes such a statement in the landscape that I must have been aware of it. I recognise that this is to conflate something that seems likely with something that definitely happened.
My relationship with the tree has developed over the decades, and I now routinely refer to it as ‘The Crookes Ash Tree, the local Yggdrasil.’ This suggests that I have a knowledge of Norse mythology or cosmogony, and so I do, although like my knowledge of most things, it doesn’t run particularly deep. It also suggests, indeed asserts, that I know the tree is an ash tree, and so I do, but I only know this because I asked Phil Hutchinson, the Boston Fen Hopper, what manner of tree it was, and took what he said on trust.
The Crookes Ash, the local Yggdrasil, is linked to the nearby Mound ov Krekja, described as the burial place of the founder of the settlement of Crookes, the name of which is derived from a combination of basic TOPY-talk (‘ov’) with the Crookes-resembling name of an important minor character from the Icelandic saga ‘Bard the Snowfell God.’
The wall is an undifferentiated ground. It represents nothingness. The circle is imposed upon it. It is miraculous. It is a bold but gentle intrusion. It represents unity, endless unity, unity without beginning and end or conception. It is the sun, the sun inverted, to add greater weight to the idea of the sun. And it has a space at its centre, the inner perimeter echoing or mirroring the outer perimeter, and from this space growth springs, scruffy and uncertain, but resilient just the same.
It could be described as quite an interesting conjunction of images. The group it advertises is required. It is dynamic. It presents a threat to those it opposes. Who does the group stand against? It stands against the fascists. All right-thinking people will stand with them, meaning those who oppose the fascists. I stand with them. I am antifascist. And the predominant colours are telling and significant. Red, yellow and green. Like traffic lights at a stretch. Ites, gold and green. Not that you could call that yellow gold. And the green is a bit dark for the green of your typical ites gold and green. But something along those lines, anyway. We can rest content in that assertion. And the conjunction of texts is likewise significant, most assuredly significant in the association between ‘required’ and ‘THIS IS A WALKLEY ANTIFASCISTS AREA.’
That assertion about it being an antifascist area is an arbitrary proclamation of ownership. That representation of an antifascist group is an ideological meme. People of different ages and different apparent ethnicities stand together to oppose fascism, which is right and proper and as it should be. But where are the old people? And why is everyone smiling (even the lad in the mask is smiling)? And why does everyone look so respectable? The message is that unity generates joy, and the cause of joy generating unity is a cause that everyone can buy into, it is not the preserve of outsiders, it is for the many, representing the all, not the few.
Sheffield Patrol Group 