Resolution 18: Appear on a daytime television game show in order to earn a bit of money i.e. Come Dine With Me or Deal Or No Deal.

Tomorrow I have an appointment to call Richard Jobson a researcher at ITV Studios, makers of Come Dine With Me. It turns out my application, which I submitted on a whim last July at the start of my career break, didn't go into a blackhole after all. Now that they're casting for the Bradford area, they've got in touch.

So, the moment has come, but do I actually want to follow through with it? I'm not so sure. I'm going to play it straight tomorrow, not camp it up, or put on a show, or pretend to be more outrageous than I actually am.

If my professional self was advising me I'd probably say steer clear. Is playing a caricature of yourself on a pantomime reality show really how you want people to know you? If your reputation is what people say about you when you leave the room, do you really want the first conversation to be your moment of fame on CDWM?

Or is my forboding simply pre-match nerves, or the fact I've just endured 'We need to talk about Kevin'?

Let's sleep on it shall we and see what the morning brings. After all, I haven't even been to the auditions yet. And based on those who know someone who has previously applied, getting past the audition stage is no formality.

Tune in tomorrow for the next episode...

I haven't blogged for ages and I marvel at those who do more frequently and eloquently than me. I worry that I'm lazy. I'd rather sit in front of the telly box with half an eye on the drivel being broadcast and a full eye on my phone. Flipping between Twitter and Facebook. My own children think my phone is attached to me, and to my shame my five year old told her mum that when daddy takes them to the park he sits looking at his phone all the time.

Anyway, that's that. I'm not going to rehash old blogs again, you can read them yourself if you really feel the need.

Instead I've been reflecting on being back in the rat race, now that I've been back at work three whole months, give or take a week or so. The honeymoon period is over, but I'm still benefitting from a more healthy perspective on my job and where it fits in terms of importance vs the rest of my life. And my life is more interesting now than it was before I ventured off on a career break.

I remain close to loads of the people who I met during my time off, inspirational souls like Sarah Cartin who this weekend pulled off an amazing feat by opening the Picnic Parlour on the first floor of the former Zavvi in the centre of Bradford. Helped in no small part by Gideon Seymour of Fabric Culture http://www.fabricculture.co.uk/, Sarah has created a fun space designed for older people to drop into to meet others, have a spot of lunch, read a book, view the art, surf the web, or simply sit and ponder life. It is an awesome space that is helping breath new life back into the centre of Bradford.

The city, which is often scorned and criticised by its own, let alone outsiders, is having a mini renaissance of sorts. And its rejuvination seems to me to be born out of the pig-headedness and determination of those locals who refuse to give up or give in. As an outsider, a recent 'blow in' as they say in Northern Ireland, my sense is a corner has been turned.

Having spent the last four years living in Shipley, I lived in Pudsey prior to that, I had never really ventured into BD1 much unless I was going to St George's Hall. But my volunteering last year took me to Age UK's pokey little office that backs on City Park (sounds better than it is - it backs onto the back of the restaurants that sit on the edge of the park). Before long I started gaining an affinity with the city. I've always loved its architecture. Waterstones is breathtaking, the buildings in the surrounding streets wouldn't look out of place in Edinburgh, and the area near BCB http://www.bcbradio/co.uk also has an up and coming feel to it. The Sparrow real ale house is thriving, the posh men's clothes shop on the corner whose name escapes me looks the business, and there's a fancy little deli that is always busy as far as I can tell.

So I find myself standing up for my adopted city at every opportunity, challenging colleagues at work to justify their sniggers or snipes. And using my Twitter account to spread the word to those who follow me from further afield. A month or so ago I even flirted with the idea of organising a music festival called Bratfud Rocks, registering the Twitter account www.twitter.com/bratfudrocks and buying the web domain. Alas, being a lazy so and so I've done very little since. Yet others are cracking on. The Bradford Bloggers Club and Bradford Buzz blog http://bradfordbuzz.com/ are doing a far better job than I'd ever get round to doing. There's a momentum building, and it's palpable.

Last night saw the official launch of City Park, ironically I was otherwise engaged in Birmingham of all places - another city that has to fight hard against the rest of the country's in-built prejudices about it - so I had to watch it all unfurl via Twitter. I'd have loved to have been there to feel the positive vibe first-hand, and to have hung around to join the likes of Keith Wildman on the Save The Odeon protest. The Pity Poor Bradford blog is worth a read btw if you haven't already http://www.pitypoorbradford.co.uk/.

Pic stolen from Keith Wildman's instagram - hope he doesn't mind - http://instagr.am/p/IkTGnVDzz_/

The fight to save the Odeon represents more than just campaigning to keep a historical building, it captures the essence of Bradford's recent revival. Ordinary people clubbing together and finding a common cause to unite behind. Why should we just allow another beautiful building to be demolished and replaced with something less interesting? The tide is turning, and not surprisingly all the candidates for the Bradford West by-election have started latching onto the issue in order to garner favour with potential voters. And judging by the number of people who protested last night and the number of supportive car horns a honking, we may just win the fight.

And if we do it'll make every Bradordian who was prepared to stand up to the neysayers, a little prouder as a result. It can then look back at us as a symbol of Bradford  - once consigned to the rubbish heap, getting back up on its feet and standing proud, regaining its footing as the great city it truly is. So says a Southerner from Reading.

This is the second blog I penned high above the Atlantic a week or so ago.

The book Bounce really got me thinking. That and I tend to be more emotional when flying. Must be the air pressure or something.

Anyway, I wondered around the following thought - is it better to focus your child's efforts in order to guarantee them the best chance of success. Or give them lots of different experiences, chopping and changing to see what sticks, knowing deep down it is not really them deciding for themselves, but more likely a result of external forces, fickle fashions, chance meetings or coincidences, or teenage obstinacy in my case.

I played football because my dad insisted on taking me to cub scouts. I didn't want to go. He had to goad me onto the pitch. He knew me better than I knew myself. I loved it. In fact I adopted a lead role immediately despite being the youngest, most inexperienced and lacking any real skill.

He also later coaxed a stroppy teenager into learning how to be a qualified football referee with two other dads. I got top marks in the theory test as it happens, but never really took to it in practise. The uniform didn't fit in more ways than one.

My mum encouraged me to be artistic. Falsely praising my supposed talents beyond rhyme or reason. She would over-enthusiastically wow my every attempt. But to some extent the over encouragement worked. For a while they both humoured my attempts at acting, albeit I was too lazy to learn my lines properly for the school play.

It turned out my tendency to wing it was not ideal mid monologue in Charles Dickins' A Christmas Carol.

And then as it turned out, my chosen career was an act of chance. Forced to quickly decide on a course I stumbled upon PR. The choice had been narrowed down by my GCSEs, and no doubt Derrin Brown could've predicted the outcome better than any career's advisor. But ending up in Leeds was not a forgone conclusion.

So how then should I approach my own kids' upbringing. They already conform to many stereotypes. Both attend ballet class on a Saturday morning donning pretty pink tutus. The elder one also now goes to Rainbows (a pre cursor to Brownies). Their mother is an enthusiastic arts and crafter, and happily spends hours with them making toys, or making cards for Granny. She is also a teacher, among other things, and nurtures their reading and writing skills. We are therefore already overtly shaping their destinies, yet they are barely 5 and 3 years old.

They eat healthily. We love them openly and warmly. We celebrate minor successes and encourage the right behaviours so as to allow them to thrive at school or nursery. Yet how much is already beyond our collective control?

At what point does the most prevailing force become one of fate, or of chance?

I think I'm answering my own question to some extent.

In the end I guess you can only do what you can do in order to give your kids everything they need in a loving environment so that when they reach the many crossroads in life, they are best equipped to make the right decisions for themselves.

In the meantime, don't worry too much about tomorrow, just enjoy today, because yesterday is already a long time ago.

Well come on, if I can't be soppy on Valentine's Day, when can I?

SWALK xxx

I penned a few thoughts this time last week as I headed to San Francisco...

I'm reading a book called Bounce at the moment by Matthew Syed, http://amzn.to/yGmPC4

who as it happens grew up round the corner from me in Earley, Reading and even went to the same school.

Anyway, that is by the by. 

He describes how many great Olympians feel a sense of loss when they reach their ultimate goal. A gold medal, rather than the icing on the cake, is a bitter pill full of anti-climax.

This morning, on the flight to San Francisco I half watched a comedy called the Big Year. The gooey moral of the story is coming second is really winning if you fall in love or make a new friend along the way.

Perhaps not the best two examples to make my point but consider this. There are lots of people who never quite figure out what it is in life they want. What they really require to feel fulfilled.

How you feel can't be faked. Feelings may be distorted by events, or amplified by emotions, but how you feel is how you feel.

Which is why I'm so chuffed ppl around me at work who haven't seen me for a while keep commenting on how I've changed. I'm more relaxed. I'm more chilled out. More confident. Less full on. No-one can quite put their finger on what it is exactly about me that's different - but it's real, it's noticeable, and it's positive.

I know what it is. I've found my balance. I've been fortunate enough to see me from the outside looking in. I've been blessed with the clarity of thought to know what really motivates me, what matters, and what I truly care about.

That's why I keep challenging people at work to explain to me what motivates them. The answers are often confused. "I love the job I do." But what is it about the job? The competitiveness, the winning? The problem solving? The giving? The taking?

Granted, had I read this post a year ago let alone written it I would probably have scoffed at myself. And a year from now I may still do the same. But I'm not so sure. The honeymoon period since returning to work has lasted a full month so far, and a little bit more.

What's more, opportunities that weren't there before keep presenting themselves to me. Perhaps they were always there but I was looking the wrong way.

For me not being motivated by money, or getting the next promotion for promotion's sake, is a blessing. But you are still forced to answer the 'why' question. Why do you do what you do at the expense of seeing the kids, or relaxing more.

You have to keep asking why until you can ask why no more.So what motivates me in life. I love making new friends and seeing old ones. I love coming up with ideas to solve problems other people can't solve. I love to inspire people to do things. In fact until recently I didn't realise I was even capable of doing this.

And I want to make the world a better place. Ok that last one is a bit Miss World granted, but you know what I mean it. It is as true as the others. Why shouldn't I want this. Is it only world leaders or peace campaigners or hippy do gooders who are allowed to proclaim a desire to do good, to make people happy?

When I left uni I foolishly thought not being able to save the world immediately was a big failure on my part. I was embarrassed to go and do PR for a breakdown company in Leeds. Now 14 years on, and approaching middle age (on average men in the UK die at 74, before you challenge me on this point), I've reached a happy equilibrium many don't reach until they retire, if ever. But having said that I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

My generation has been blessed with good fortune, good health, good education and good opportunities. Not everyone is as lucky as me I know. But for those who are able to make a choice, I believe in the years to come, many more will. I can feel it in my bones. So dear reader of this blog, are you with me or not?

If not, ask yourself why it is you do what you do, and keep on asking until you can ask it no more.The truth is out there - in fact the truth is in there. Don't wait for it to catch up with you. Go after it now. Seek it out. Time is of the essence my friends. Be inspired to answer why :)

One month back in the saddle

Two radio shows under my belt

One real world meeting with a twitter kindred spirit

An afternoon of homework shenanigans with Hope & Social

A weekend in London at a posh hotel

And four weeks of mentalness at work – an unbelievable and unexpected reception to my return – challenging my previously held cynical view of the depth of workplace relationships

Email gradually ruling my life again though

A jolt mid-week reminded me why I went on a career break in the first place

Must be disciplined retaining best bits of what I discovered about myself and what’s important in life, my life and my family’s.

The end.

I currently have 37 resolutions on the go, hence the name of this blog. But had I set them all on New Year’s Day I’d not only have had far fewer, but they’d have also been far more predictable.

Instead I have ended up with a heady mix of the sublime to the ridiculous, tough challenging ones like writing a book, to flippant silly ones like meeting Roland Rat http://www.resolution37.me/all_my_resolutions.html.

What’s more I’ve realised that the journey is more important than the final destination when it comes to attempting to complete a resolution. Some of the most fun I’ve had this year has been on resolutions I haven’t got anywhere near to actually finishing, as they took me off in an interesting direction or led to new friendships that just wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

I chose to set myself 37 resolutions tied to my 37^th year. It enabled me to make them up as I went along, and add in a few easy ones near the start to give me a sense of achievement early on.

The whole experience has been liberating. I’ve been motivated to try new things, and to be far less lazy then normal.

This year alone I have taken a six month career break, travelled to South Africa for a month with the wife and kids, and in doing so I got to jump off the world’s highest bungee bridge, walk an elephant, stroke a tiger, and see migrating whales up close.

I’ve fulfilled a childhood dream and hosted my own drivetime radio show and I’ve volunteered with Age UK in Bradford. I’ve also got to know a real life band of musicians (http://www.hopeandsocial.com), not only falling helplessly in love with their music but also being inspired by their entire outlook on life to the point where I have shamelessly attached myself to them, their friends and their families like some sado stalking super fan.

I set out to write a book, which despite many hours of love and labour didn’t really get past the introduction to be honest. Rather than be disheartened by my apparent failure I am happily content that the book I was writing could not be written as its subject matter is still a work in progress. My journal of my midlife has turned into a choose your own adventure book where you get to change direction midway through, and if that particular storyline doesn’t work out, you simply pick another page instead.

So now, with just a few days left to go before I return to work, I am sat here reflecting on the whole crazy experience of Resolution 37. I definitely feel like I’ve had my money’s worth, and have stumbled onto a formula for a happy and fulfilling life. Setting 37 resolutions won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if you ask me it beats saying every new year I’m going to join a gym and give up alcohol for a month.

=========================================================

If you'll forgive me, in an Oscar acceptance speech kind of way, there are a few people I’d like to mention and thank for their help, support, and friendship. In no particular order as Dermot says on the X Factor, the roll call is as follows:

Ben Denison – he may not realise it, but our chance meeting on holiday in France in June 2010 cemented a few thoughts in my mind, and our friendship since has become an important factor in so many other things that have happened to me. He is, for want of a better word, a catalyst.

Susan Hinchcliffe – she put me in touch with Jean Walker and set me on the road to Age UK and getting involved with @olderBradford and meeting and working with and for Sarah Cartin.

Jean Walker MBE – an inspirational, feisty older woman who campaigns tirelessly for older people in Bradford. An amazing person, privilege to meet and work with her.

Sarah Cartin – another inspirational person, who welcomed me with open arms and helped me think differently and gain confidence in my own ability outside of doing my day job.

Julie Lintern – at risk of sounding like a broken record, Julie is also another inspirational woman. A proud mum of four, my age, but has achieved so much more. And having proven herself as a brilliant mum and Age Concern project manager, is now going to go to Uni. Fair play.

Mary Dowson for giving me the chance to be a local radio DJ at BCB. Rather than laugh in my face when I told her about my resolution she challenged me to fulfil it before I went back to work.

My boss for being supportive a year ago and allowing me to take six months off.

My mum and dad for helping out when money has been tight and for not tutting or frowning too much when I told them about my midlife shenanigans.

My kids who have made my job of being a part-time house husband not nearly as hard as it could’ve been, although I now know how hard it really is for all the mums who normally do it.

My wife, who has humoured me along the way, and not given me a hard time for sitting at home and ‘writing a book’ when I could’ve been out doing something more productive.

That’ll do for now, apologies if I haven’t name checked you. It doesn’t mean you haven’t helped.

Happy new year when it comes.

Playing vinyl is the equivalent of growing your own veg or drinking wine in France in the heart of summer.

Bear with me on this.

If you grow a potato in your own garden it tastes better doesn't it? It doesn't really, but it still does if you know what I mean. If you drink a glass of Sauterne in Sauterne over lunch with a little Roquefort, it is sweeter, lasts longer on the palate. It's not. It's the same wine you can get at Oddbins. But your senses are hightened by simply being there. The romance of the moment makes it taste even better.

Music is no different. There is an emotional connection to placing a vinyl record on the turntable, lifting the needle, the crackle of anticipation before the music kicks in - all of which is missing from the digital music experience, be that on CD or on your iPod.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the convenience of having 4000 tracks stored on my phone. I also like to hit shuffle when I'm not sure what to listen to, or fancy hearing something random I'd forgotten I had.

But, last night on Christmas Day evening I sat in the front room for the first time in ages, bathed in the glow of my red neon sign, and listened to music back to back for about six hours.

I rediscovered albums I didn't even know we had. And listened to things I’d not normally choose to listen to on my iPod or on CD. Music seemed to take on a new significance on vinyl. The sleeve artwork, the glossy record, the interaction with the turntable itself, and the sound, the unmatchable sound.

Years ago we all convinced ourselves digitally re-mastered music was the holy grail, as we listened in awe to our first ever CD - no static, no more need for the Noise Reduction button on the stereo. What bollocks. The perfect sound is too clean, too clear of imperfections, little ticks and quirks that give an LP or 12" soul and depth.

Maybe it was the wine inside me, the warm glow of the perfect Christmas day, and the warmth of a room we don’t normally heat to save on fuel, but this morning I was still just as hooked as I whacked on Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine.

I’m convinced vinyl is the future again. My only regret is it took me eight years to purchase a pre amp so the record player would actually work. I’m an idiot of course. Although perhaps the wait made last night’s experience just that little more special.

This is the first time I’ve participated in a secret tea room experience. And it was all rather fun.

The menu is confirmed a few days in advance, the address just a few hours beforehand. We had strict instructions to arrive between 1.50pm and 2pm. The food would wait for no-one, so mustn’t be late or risk missing one of the courses.

We were welcomed by our host Shirley and invited into her rather beautiful terraced house in the heart of Saltaire village. Shirley clearly has an eye for interior design her lounge and kitchen, although small, felt far bigger than they were, and were expertly crafted. We were two of six guests invited along, and within a few minutes we were all chatting effortlessly, and discovered we were all oddly connected via Minworth.

The atmosphere was relaxed from the get go. No awkward silence and lots of laughs, and interesting range of topics covered.

But of course the real centre of attention was the food. For those not au fait with the afternoon tea thing, it follows a very satisfying format. Trimmed finger sandwiches to start, in our case prawn, avocado lettuce and sundried tomato, and Monterey Jack with gherkins.

With dinky little mustard cheese muffins, and mini pizzas alongside.

Then onto the main event – the cakes. My favourite was the Mississippi mud pie, but that’s not to dismiss the American cheesecake, carrot cake, or buttermilk scones. All of which were absolutely delicious.

Shirley, who is originally from Zimbabwe, was the perfect host. Cups of lovely tea, best enjoyed without milk, and strong coffee were filled effortlessly, and goody bags provided for any of the leftovers, all kindly wrapped and packed for our ongoing delight late into the night.

The suggested donation of £13 was well worth the money. I chucked in £30 for the two of us, and felt like we’d got great value for it. The doggy bag alone was worth a tenner, packed as it was with five or six delights from the cake stand.

And the wife, whose birthday we were belatedly celebrating, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of afternoon tea, was most pleased.  

Next week she’s off for another, less secretive, afternoon tea at Woodlands, subject to the Groupon voucher coming through. I doubt it can match yesterday though for quality of food, atmosphere and conversation.

For more information contact: http://chezshamwari.com/ 

Afternoon Tea Menu

Sandwiches:

Monterey Jack & gherkins

Shrimp mayonnaise

Avocado, lettuce & sundried tomato

Savouries:

Cheese and wholegrain mustard muffins

Mini tomato, olive & feta pizzas

Cakes and scones:

Carrot cake & cream cheese frosting

Mississippi mud pie

Baked American cheesecake

Buttermilk scones with jam & clotted cream

Teas:

Loose leaf Rooibas (South African herbal tea)

Loose leaf Tanganda (Zimbabwean black tea)

Loose leaf Ilam (Nepal)

Earl grey

English breakfast

Green tea & selection of fruit teas

Caffetiere Coffees:

Columbian Decaffeinated

Nicaragua Santa Barbarina Marogogype

When I was much younger I remember asking my dad what it was like to be old. He was probably in his early 40s at the time, I was around ten or 11. He looked at me and said, it is no different to when you are younger Dominic, it is still the same person inside.

That thought has stayed with me ever since. And as I get closer to that age myself, I'm ready for the same question being posed to me by one of my daughters.

Today is my dad's 68th birthday, and we just had the same conversation, how old is old? He said assuming you still have your wits about you, age is irrelevant. Some people in their 60s have more or less given up, and by defintion appear old, others in their 90s are as sprightly as ever. He still catches himself muttering about some ol' fella's bad driving, before realising the ol' fella is only in his 50s, and much younger than himself.

One thing is certain though. By the simple logic of maths (not my strength I admit), relatively speaking as a proportion of my dad's age, I am getting closer to him each year.

It's like when I was at Uni, I hung around with baby-faced James Walker (@walkerinSF), and Rich Gillen (@Gman71) the old man of the group. In reality James was only three years younger and Gillen three years older. Nowadays of course we are all roughly at the same life stage - married with kids, or kids not far away (assuming James isn't a jaffa). Yet at the time James seemed so much younger and Gillen so much older.

So does age really matter? I guess it matters as much as you let it matter. Attitude is far more important. And attitude, unlike age, is something you can choose each day.

How do you start a blog that ends with a shit Elvis spinning a homemade wheel of fortune on stage in front of 300 people?

(Shit Elvis and 'Real' Elvis on stage at The Brudenell Social Club) 

It’s hard enough at the best of times to put into words a Hope and Social gig, but last night’s Sh*t Vegas extravaganza at The Brudenell Social Club was even more bewitching, beguiling and bewildering than normal.

Not content with being a band of talented musicians, Hope and Social are first class entertainers in the truest sense of the word. Their policy of putting their fans enjoyment before all else, including the chance to earn money, leads to performances that need to be experienced to be fully appreciated.

It would appear that any takings from the preceding UK tour were all ploughed back in to last night’s event, which included shit bags (goodie bags for the losers of the wheel of fortune that contained fellow band members’ James Hamilton and Gary Stewart’s albums), a local Elvis impersonator, and half of B&Q’s MDF inventory in order to construct a flashing Welcome to Vegas sign and fully functioning wheel of fortune.

As a fan it’s fair to say you don’t quite know what is in store for you at one of their gigs. As a result you never ever want to miss one, just in case. Their enthusiasm to please demands such loyalty and devotion some even fly half way round the world just to be there in person (shout out to you Ellen).

Imagine my delight then when Si, lead singer, asked me if I’d like to help organise their last gig of the mini tour. But it would involve finding them an Elvis. Erm, yes. Where do I sign?

Although my contribution was small in comparison to the other regular contributors (Ben Denison is a god amongst gods, and Jenny Booth a star of the highest order who makes the best signs in the world, fact), it meant I was able to come along extra early on the night as an official groupie. I even got a slice of pre gig pizza back stage with the band.  I tried my best not to be a total knobber in front of them, but not sure I pulled it off.

More importantly though it meant I had an excuse to dress up as a very shit Elvis along with obligatory bouffant wig, oversized black and gold polyester jumpsuit, plastic medallion, and silver sunglasses.

Unbeknownst to the boys from Hope and Social I have a bit of a track record of showing off in public. None of them had previously had the misfortune of seeing me in full swing at a wedding or office party though. Had they known what I’m really like they may have thought twice about asking for my assistance.

The script couldn’t have been written any better for me. The chance to go up onto stage to dance with the real Elvis impersonator (I didn’t need much encouragement), I was able to bust moves in front of a very forgiving crowd. In my head I really was in Vegas. All my Christmases had come at once.

My wife was yet to arrive at this point, which she was quite pleased about as it happens. I think she finds my exploits a tad embarrassing these days. But undeterred I was saving the best for last. As the gig drew to a close I was invited up to spin the wheel. Would I win the chance to pick a song for them to sing, or a shit bag? Click, click, click went the wheel, until it came to its final resting position….’Doom’. Immediate ejection with the baying crowd shouting ‘out, out, out’. I was unceremoniously kicked out of the nearest fire exit. As the doors closed in my face, I could faintly here those immortal words: ‘Elvis has left the building’. Ba dum tisch. You couldn’t make it up.

When it comes to realising people’s dreams, who needs Jim’ll Fix It when Hope and Social are sprinkling their gold dust around? It was the perfect night, and the perfect culmination of resolution number 4. While I haven’t actually sung in public sober, I have now swung in public, hips that is, albeit badly, and not particularly sober.

I was on stage in front of my favourite band of all time, who I now class as my friends (they may not class me as one of theirs btw, but don’t spoil the illusion just yet).

It was an absolute honour and a privilege to be a little part of proceedings.

Thank you, thank you very much. Good night. God bless. Err, huh huh.

Here is a YouTube clip of shit Elvis spinning the wheel of doom and being ejected from the building - http://youtu.be/j7Wei5ZCykE 

(Shit Elvis dead on a toilet back stage in the Brudenell Social Club)

N.B. For those that missed it, or were as pissed as me and need reminding, thankfully East Leeds FM recorded the whole gig. You can listen again or download it here: http://www.elfm.co.uk