A BIG SATURDAY NIGHT IN… HULL! Why? Well, it was as far as I could possibly travel without ending up in Scotland. (Or worse, Newcastle. I’ve seen Geordie Shore. No chance I’m going there.) But mostly I just wanted to go where people are real. Where people take crutches out with them just in case they bump into their benefits adviser, where men are so high on steds they can barely articulate beyond slapping each other. Unfortunately, people like that don’t tend to enjoy having cameras pointed at them. So here’s the best of the rest. Read the full article here

A BIG SATURDAY NIGHT IN… HULL!

Why? Well, it was as far as I could possibly travel without ending up in Scotland. (Or worse, Newcastle. I’ve seen Geordie Shore. No chance I’m going there.) But mostly I just wanted to go where people are real. Where people take crutches out with them just in case they bump into their benefits adviser, where men are so high on steds they can barely articulate beyond slapping each other.

Unfortunately, people like that don’t tend to enjoy having cameras pointed at them. So here’s the best of the rest.

Read the full article here

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QUANGO - JOHN PRESCOTT’S COMING AT YOU WITH A TASER It is every young, black male’s worst nightmare. You’re driving around central Hull in an upmarket German sports car, minding your own business, just listening to the stock market report on Radio 3, and thinking about Puccini. Then: a flash of blue lights, a siren, a hand gesture. You pull over. A face in your window. John Prescott’s face. His endless, jowly, unhappy face. “Hello, Lord Officer John,” you announce. “License, please, sir.” He drawls the last word and in a heartbeat, you realise you’ve just been racially profiled by the newly elected police commissioner of Hull. Read the full article here

QUANGO - JOHN PRESCOTT’S COMING AT YOU WITH A TASER

It is every young, black male’s worst nightmare. You’re driving around central Hull in an upmarket German sports car, minding your own business, just listening to the stock market report on Radio 3, and thinking about Puccini. Then: a flash of blue lights, a siren, a hand gesture. You pull over. A face in your window. John Prescott’s face. His endless, jowly, unhappy face.

“Hello, Lord Officer John,” you announce.

“License, please, sir.” He drawls the last word and in a heartbeat, you realise you’ve just been racially profiled by the newly elected police commissioner of Hull.

Read the full article here

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