I'm finding it hard to take seriously a new shopping place in Leeds that informs me it's my "retail soul."

If I possessed such an oddity of a spiritual entity it would most probably be whispering in my ear whenever I went by, "Phil, the places of interest are open, and you went shopping last year. Jog on now!" As far as I can tell, beyond all the ludicrous hyperbole, it's just a bunch of shops – a bunch of shops confused as to whether they are "located in a location" that was the third, or is it the fourth, largest city in the UK. A bunch of shops who don't realise that boasting they will put their location "on the map as a Mecca for food, fashion, film and culture," is incredibly offensive and insensitive. Offensive to anyone who abhors a cliche and insensitive to anyone who has an ear for the English language.

I just can't get giddy about another few hundred thousand square feet of Leeds that I'll not set foot in from one decade to the next.

I bumped into an old colleague today as we were both locating ourselves in opposite trajectories to the location of this retail beacon. She was positively gushy. "Aren't you excited?" she asked.

Plenty of things excite me, I explained, most of which however are not fit for airing in a public highway at two in the afternoon. The opening of more shops I cannot regard as much of a thrill.

Furthermore, I expatiated, this isn't Bradford. It's not as if we don't already have enough big name, high priced trinket outlets to satisfy the conspicuous consumption needs of endless coach loads of hen party goers down from every shit-hole, in-bred ex-mining village in the North East.

Not easily discouraged my friend continued, "but aren't you looking forward to shopping in Trinity?"

"No," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't shop."

"Everybody shops!"

"Not me. I don't shop."

"Then," she said, carefully, as if talking to an idiot who may be harbouring violent tendencies, "then where exactly do you get your clothes?"

An intriguing question I thought. So I explained.

A few years so I was rifling through my wardrobe looking for a shirt that didn't bear evidence of wine spillage or curry splat.

As the pile on the floor got ever more Himalayan I began to realise that I possessed enough clothing to stock a decent high street Oxfam.

That's because I don't believe in this modern fashion for throwing stuff away for the flimsiest of reasons, such as it hasn't fit since Fourth Form, or is tattier than a Culture Secretary's integrity, or is the most darling shade of lilac ever.

Some of my Jeans have gone a bit thin in the behind. But if I wear them with my baggiest boxers and unhitch my belt several notches I could easily be mistaken for fashion conscious. And quite a few of my jacket sleeves have holes in the elbow. But for a couple of quid I can get some leather patch things sewn on, then pose as a professor of inhuman geography. Emeritus, obviously.

Many of my favourite walking shoes have holes in the sole. But in dry weather I really don't notice. When there's a rainy spell I just take them to that new Polish place on Dewsbury Road and they get a necessary update.

As I went through this superannuated but vast collection, cataloguing each item, dragging old t-shirts from the dusty corners of rarely opened cupboards, I realised something remarkable.

After making a quick mental estimation I called a friend who specialises in medical statistics and asked how long I'd got left. He said that based on my last performance on the pub the other night, a few days, maybe a week at a push. But if I wanted a more scientific calculation, several more decades.

I did some sums: how many shirts per year, how many shoes, how many trousers, jumpers, jackets and so on.

I reckoned that I could live to a ripe, rancorous, ribald old age and need never visit the menswear department of any retail emporium ever again. I was blessed.

I don't even need to think about setting aside my poshest suit to be buried in – if I had a posh suit. By the time that comes we'll all just be bundled into an XXL sized zip lock bag and put in an appropriate wheelie bin for the Thursday collection. No need to worry about that.

One of the best things about having held on to all this old gear is that every so often some of it comes back into fashion. If I could find my two-tone corduroy loon pants, bought when I was fifteen from a grotty place in the bowels of the Corn Exchange – back when the Corn Exchange had stuff I actually wanted to buy, and I could actually afford to shop there – I'd be a sensation any night down the Brudenell.

On the other hand, one of the down sides is that I frequently get mistaken for a tramp, even by people who think of themselves as friends (Robert Sharples!) This does work in my favour occasionally. For instance, if you look as rumpled and crumpled and frayed around the edges as I generally do, you can safely walk down Albion Street and all fifty-seven chuggers will not even make momentary eye contact. Sometimes that Big Issue guy in the beanie hat who stands near Starbucks even gives me money for a cup of coffee!

Anyway, I explained all this to my enthusiastic acquaintance. She was always a smart one. She asked; "Fine, but what do you do about socks and . . . you know, personal items? You must shop for them?"

"Underpants!" I said, "Ex was obsessed, I could outfit a unit of the Tank Corps with the amount of undies I possess."

I could see she was genuinely amazed. "You are the only person I ever met who has no interest in shopping, I can't believe it"

So I told her I wasn't being one hundred percent honest, I admitted that I sometimes frequented the many burgeoning pound shops in the city centre.

"Ah!" she squealed, "see, you do shop, you do buy stuff!"

Of course, I said, I have loved ones and friends, and I understand the need to get them something for Christmas and birthdays and redundancies and such. . . I'm not insensitive! I have a soul!

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I'm in the queue for the check out at Pound World, or Pound Land, or Happy Shoppy Pound Place, whatever it's called. The woman in front hauls her basket off the floor and dumps it next to the till. She's overfilled and inevitably half her shopping ends up tumbling onto my feet. I reach down and begin to return some of the goods to the counter, thankful it wasn't the huge glass jar of piccalilli that was on top, or the catering tub of baked beans, and notice that mostly the basket contains food. I've never really thought about buying groceries from a place like this so I'm a bit curious.

The first thing that strikes me about her purchases is the extraordinary number of smug looking cats on the packaging. The thought that the British working classes must have undergone a huge change of diet since I became vegetarian briefly crossed my mind. Imagine the campaign; Dine Feline! "nine out of ten owners said their cat tasted better with chips!"

Then the packaging itself – small, neat, delicate, almost weightless. Pouches, apparently. What's wrong with tins? Since when did domestic cats deserve to be fed from pouches?

The contents of the pouches was something of a revelation; "Trout and Spinach," "a la Fiorentine with Pollack," "Souffle Selection with Lightly Whisked Egg," "Ocean Delicacies with Tuna and Lobster in Gravy."

Obviously I realise this is all just marketing hype. The packaging may be fancy but the contents are really just stuff jet-hosed off an assembly line of scraggy carcasses, sluiced off the factory floor, and stamped into the shape of a meaty morsel. Why the pretence, kitty can't read?

"Your cat must have a very discriminating palate," I say.

"Princess Tinkerbell Amethyst Navajo Moonshine is a Tortie Point Birman," the lady replied. "Delicate tum tum, poor darling."

I thought to myself that no wonder the damn thing's a bit sickly feeding it from fancy pouches, and wondered what the hell the creature looked like. When I was a kid cats came in three brands – tabby, ginger Toms, and black and white, though there were rumours that the people who lived in the fancy houses off the estate had something called, "Siameses," but I always reckoned that was a tease.

"Must be a pain," I said.

"I bet she's worth it!" chimed in the checkout lady, "beautiful, just beautiful . . . You don't have pets?"

The two ladies scrutinised my basket. Toothpaste, soap powder, shower gel, floor cleaner, bleach – I was stockpiling all the stuff that had a bad reputation in the animal kingdom. The ladies were visibly horrified. I'd only come to town to get some necessaries and they were treating me like Josef Mengele. For a minute I didn't think I would allowed back in the shop again.

I made an excuse, said I'd forgotten something, I needed rat poison or ant spray, and scuttled back into the shop. The ladies muttered their disdain as soon as my back was turned.

I found the pet food section and it really is the strangest place. There was a woman there pondering if her dog got enough dietary fibre. Walk along any pavement in Beeston, I thought, the dogs round here get enough bloody roughage. But it's the cat food that still is the biggest puzzle. Aren't we interfering with the balance of nature and meddling with evolution? How would the average house cat, a mere seven pounds of hydrophobic hysteria, ever manage to land a tuna? And imagine what would happen if that Tortie Pointie pussycat ever came face to face with a lobster . . . not something that bears thinking about.

If cats could design a supermarket it would be full of little tins of tortured blue tits and dismembered mouse, because that's what they really want. They'd get the shelves full of squirrel innards and the flappy bits of crow. They wouldn't want that namby pamby gourmet nonsense. You can see it in their over-indulged, evil little eyes.

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We had nothing in common.

I was content to allow the silence to spread between us, cold and glassy as midnight frost. He, in contrast, had an urge to communicate.

"You like books?" he finally managed, making it sound more like an invitation to spar than a question.

"I'm fond of reading," I yawned.

He was an artist. A visual artist. Working with "visual media." Specifically he made videos, scratchy, shrieking things without narrative, dialogue, character, or craft – which is how you knew they were art. We were at a party where people talked about culture and design and style and that sort of thing. Each of us had been informed by a mutual acquaintance that the other was "interesting." It was mutual loathing at first sight.

"Fond," he eventually repeated after a venomously pregnant pause.

"I am," I replied firmly.

A corner of his lips twitched. It was possible that he intended me to interpret that as incredulity.

"Yes," I said, striving to display the maximum hostility I could muster just short of physical contact, "Yes, and you? . . . Do you . . . read?"

"Of course I do," he said, pressing his expensive spectacles further up the bridge of his possibly powdered nose and adjusting his expensive tie, looking like he wanted me to think he looked a bit like an out of synch Gilbert without his George.

"Such as?" I enquired.

"I just finished The Hunger Games," he boasted.

I permitted myself the faintest hint of a suggestion of a smirk. Which maddened him immeasurably as I'd hoped it should.

"Anything more . . . age appropriate?" I wondered, out loud.

His cheeks bloomed as the blood surged to the surface of his skin.

"Have you ever tried Murakami?" I asked.

"Certainly," he said.

I looked away and contemplated the glass in my hand as if trying to conceal a doubt.

He swiped off his specs. He pointed a long bony digit with fleckless nails and visibly quivered.

"Have you?"

"Lots," I said.

"Like?" he demanded.

"Most recently," I began, "Ego."

Not strictly true – the book isn't out till next month – but I couldn't resist the temptation to indulge in a delicious interior jest of mentioning the title in his company. I reckoned on rattling him.

"Doubt it'll be a patch on Kafka On The Shore," he said, "the horrors of alcohol perfectly dramatised in the figure of Johnnie Walker, eater of cats hearts . . ."

"Aah, you don't drink," I said, "that explains it . . . "

Here were two of my favourite things melded sickeningly in one sorry specimen; a man in need of intellectual correction (wrong Murakami! I was referring to Takashi and not Haruki, ha!) and a man in need of some basic education about the civilising benefits of booze. As I was just about to launch into a crushing counterblast against his mounting diatribe against the demon drink we were interrupted by our mutual acquaintance saying something about how she knew we'd just get along famously and wasn't it incredible that the Chinese had made amazing progress economically and now they were taking over literature too . . . which was my cue to quit while someone still had teeth.

Aren't people who don't drink monstrous? I mean, seriously, an average bloke can do forty years or so of consistent, conscientious boozing before there's any reason to cut it out. And then, let's say for arguments sake, there's been a bit of a health scare, and surgical intervention is called for and you have to calm it down and socialise with soda water and the occasional glass of Sanatogen on a Saturday night, well at least you'll have some bloody good memories to keep you amused as you slip into premature senility.

There was this guy at college – a wispy, wheedling, waspish creature – who put his liver on a pedestal. He was also the sole member of the Celibacy Society as far as I recall, so it wasn't just his internal organs he held in high regard. He was immune from temptation. He was a walking, talking, wheezing advert for Holland and Barrett, absolutely exasperating in his joyless, juiceless, useless pretend excuse for a life. If he'd been consciously saving his liver for the first thirty-five years of his life in order to let rip with wild abandon later – or even enjoy with mature, discerning moderation – I could have appreciated his plan and supported his efforts. But no – he intended to live on rice cakes and raw carrot juice for the rest of his miserable life.

Then there was Jeremy. Walking to the gym after a lunch of Dr Karg's crispbread and superfood salad – and I'd like to meet the marketing wizard who persuaded the middle class that an ugly, tasteless, cheap little tuber like beetroot had magical healing properties! he was hit by a slate from the roof of the pub in which I sat having burger and chips and half a bottle of Shiraz. The slate sliced him straight down his perfectly aligned chakras, slicing him clean in half. He died with the internal organs of a twelve year old. I was suitably upset at the funeral – just the one tear though, I don't do excess – but did wonder what fun I could have had with that liver had Jeremy somehow had the foresight to mention me on that organ donation form. There was a liver that had never really lived . . . and now it never would.

I'm not in favour of binge drinking – nobody ever called me a chav – but there's surely something wrong with elevating an inability to absorb alcohol into some kind of spiritual accomplishment. And there's only one redeeming feature of the self righteous, vitamin-munching, supplement-swallowing, juice-swilling, alcohol-avoiding prick I had the misfortune to spend a moment with last night . . . more drink for me!

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– I've finally managed to finish The Brothers Karamazov, Harvi!
– When did you start it?
– Nineteen Eighty Seven.
– Don't be facetious, Philip. You know what I meant.
– It was a Christmas present.
– So it's taken you three months or so?
– Yes, seems so.
– Well, congratulations! It's a tough read – all those funny names and unfamiliar family tangles and deep philosophising, even a normal person would find it a bit of a slog. I didn't think you had it in you.
– I tackled it in small chunks. About half an hour a day. Usually while I was cooking.
– You read Dostoevsky as you prepared the veg? Wasn't that a bit dangerous? Knives, naked flames, olive oil . . . potentially fatal if your nose is buried in a book.
– No, the book was on MP3. All my faculties were fully occupied with the task at hand . . . now don't look at me like I've just told you that I'm thinking of giving up alcohol and starting to practice yoga, what's wrong?
– You mean you listened to it? . . . That's not reading . . . not the same thing at all. Any arse can listen to The Brothers Karamazov.
– Now who's being pedantic, Harvinder.
– Dostoevsky doesn't do Jackanory, Philip.
– It was unabridged. Forty hours! Forty long, gruelling, intellectually demanding, aesthetically challenging, emotionally draining listening . . .
– Listening! . . . not reading.
– Same words in the same order . . . same characters, same plot, same dialogue . . . it's the same thing.
– You sad, hopeless, deluded fool . . . but what should I expect from a man who chops onions while listening to The Grand Inquisitor chapter!
– What does it matter what I was doing? The bit of my brain that slices the carrots is entirely separate from the bit that handles complex narrative . . . I'll lend you a book about it.
– A book . . . or a recording of a book?
– What's the difference?
– Listening is not reading, Philip.
– So you are saying that when you're cooking something new, trying a new recipe from a book, you'd rather have the words on the page than someone speaking them to you?
– Precisely!
– Then I'll remind you the next time you want some help in the kitchen, Harvi. I'll just keep my trap shut and point at the Delia Smith I bought for your birthday . . . you're so bloody annoying.
– Is doing a hundred bench presses the same as talking me through a hundred bench presses?
– Harvi, you couldn't do a dozen bench presses if I strapped you to a car jack at Kwik Fit.
– Just listen to you! One audiobook later and you have already begun to jabber like the last stand up at an open mike night down the local pub. Reading nourishes the mind, supplies the soul with essential nutrients, exercises the intellectual digestion system. Listening to a book is the equivalent of literary put noodle. MP3 is just MSG for the spirit. It may look like a book, sound like a book, and even taste like a book, but a steady diet of fast fiction will make you sick. And flabby. Keep listening to books and before you know it you'll be mouthing the words on the back of the cornflakes box.
– I'm listening to the complete works of Shakespeare right now, thou unmuzzled fly-bitten scut, thou beslubbering, beetle-headed ratsbane, thou villainous, rough-hewn gudgeon . . .
– . . . I don't have to sit here and listen to this . . .
– Would you prefer it written down? Here, let me print it out in nice big letters for you.
– You can't even handle a civilised disagreement anymore, Philip. You have to trivialise and mock everything. Reading is a sign of civilised behaviour. Carrying a book around helps you connect – how often do you start a conversation with a complete stranger with the phrase, "I've read that, what do you think?" or, "not read that one, is it worth it?" I can't imagine ripping the headphones out of somebody's ears and saying, "gimme a listen, mate," or, "this worth downloading, is it?" How can you be taken seriously if the next chapter of your book is on iPod shuffle!
– You got me there, Harvi . . . for once you might be right.
– Thank you, Philip . . . and for once you might get the next round in. Be off with you. I think we need a drink after that.

– You're not going out dressed like that?
– What's the problem? . . .
– I'll start again . . . You're not coming out with me looking like that.
– You're referring to my shirt? I like it. Suits me.
– Are you familiar with the film Midnight Cowboy, Philip?
– Denim is in, Harvinder. Read it on some blog this morning. Anyway, says you!
– It makes you look fat.
– No, Harvi. Two bottles of Wetherspoons Shiraz every lunchtime makes me look fat . . .
– I'm not leaving the house with you in double denim . . . what jacket are you wearing?
– Will you please get out of my wardrobe, Harvi . . . there is such a thing as privacy.
– And there is such a thing as taste, Philip.
– Quit rummaging in my clothes! I never even let the wife choose what I wore.
– Ex-wife . . . those two facts may not be unrelated . . . look at the state of you.
– A man who lets his wife pick his shirts is a . . .
– How you flatter yourself! . . . I'm not your wife, it's the other way round.
– In that case I'm just a consent form away from hormone replacement treatment, breast implants and . . . well, I've already lost that part of my anatomy if I allow myself to waive my right to dress like a pillock if I so choose.
– Couldn't you at least wear something less . . . less attention seeking?
– Harvi, we're going to the pub . . . you want me to wear flock so I can merge with the wallpaper?
– Don't be arsey . . . wait a minute, I have an idea . . .
– Always an ominous thought.
– There must be a compromise.
– I'm not backing down, end of discussion.
– . . . How about this? If you won't change, I shall have to.
– Oh hell man, now we look like the Chuckle Brothers.
– Double double denim.
– If we go out like this Harvi, people will laugh behind out backs.
– I'm sure they already do Philip, they already do . . .

Was it Napoleon who said that in victory you deserve champagne, and in defeat you need it? Well, last night wasn't exactly Waterloo but we could have done with a bit of carbonated commiseration by the end of it.

We had vodka. Plenty. Three litres of Smirnoff, the good stuff, glinting tantalisingly from the back shelf all evening, but Harvi decided not to open it. A vodka was ordered, a double even, with orange, by a couple of delightful young ladies who turned up at about ten past eleven. Harvi declined to serve the Smirnoff; "If the party reaches double figures by midnight, I'll consider cracking open the vodka."
"There were eight people in the room till these ladies arrived, Harvi," I said, "so technically . . . "
"You know where you can stick your eight people, Philip . . . technically."
"So, what are you serving?" I asked.
"Everything but the vodka," said Harvi, "that's going back . . . can I offer you ladies some lovely white wine instead?"

That was pretty much how the evening went. The party started at nine. The organisers were there early setting up, giving the place a "bedsit chic" makeover, and generally interfering with the delicate balance of the electricity supply. Anyone who does an event in the Painters Bar at Temple Works knows that every socket is sacred! The angel Gabriel could descend upon Holbeck with the latest notice from the Almighty and want a bit of extra mood lighting to set off the awe and majesty of his immortal presence and he'd still need to prove he'd PAT tested his extension cables and got clearance from the Director, in writing, three weeks in advance. Draping the place in Pound Shop fairy lights did not go down well.

By ten thirty the music was pumping, the guests were dancing – both of them seemed suitably effervescent – and Harvi had sold precisely five glasses of orange juice. "Take the profits from the till and go buy some decent red," said Harvi, "I need a drink." I hadn't the heart to point out that £5 profit wasn't actually all profit. Sometimes I know when it's not safe to hazard a technicality.

A few more people drifted in around twelve. There may have been as many as fifteen at the height of the party. "Told you they weren't expecting more than twenty five," said Harvi, "did you count the gift bags? Twenty five!" I couldn't see the correlation between the gift bag situation and the predicted number of punters myself, but I frowned my concerned frown and nodded my serious nod. Harvi needed reassurance not a philosophical quibble.

At around twelve fifteen the organiser came up to the bar and sheepishly asked if we'd mind if he ended the party early. "It's not going well," he informed us, as if it wasn't apparent enough by the fact that you could count the guests on one hand without needing to involve thumbs. Harvi could barely conceal his joy – neither of us fancied being there till three shifting one can of Carlsberg every twenty minutes – and offered a free drink at the bar for all the folks who'd helped out. It was the only time all evening the bar was busy.

In the taxi back I tried to jolly Harvi along with some bogus uplift. "They were lovely people," I said, "at least we spent the evening with lovely people, that's always nice." "There's lovely people at home," he snapped, "and it costs me nothing to be there." "I know, Harvi mate . . . but at least you didn't lose anything . . . " I said, attempting to be sympathetic but only succeeding in annoying him some more. "Fucking hell, Philip, didn't lose!" he shouted, "one more victory like that and I'm well and truly buggered!"

I'd say that was a champagne moment.

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www.philkirby.net

– Harvi, do you socialise?
– Pardon me?
– Do you like socialising? . . . after work . . . erm, some of us go to . . . to socialise . . . after work . . .
– You mean, do I drink?

My mate Harvi started a new job yesterday. His colleagues didn't want to offend. They wanted to be sensitive to difference and make allowances for cultural diversity. They didn't want to put their foot in it first day. They were just being British. Brits aren't comfortable with confronting potential awkwardness. We're a dab hand at invading, spying, and selling arms to vicious dictators, but ask us to tackle a personal situation or request some vital piece of intimate information and we'd rather gnaw our own feet off at the ankles.

As a member of a non-proselytising minority faith, Harvi is often mistaken for one of the noisier, more newsworthy lot. Ask your average Anglo-Saxon and they'll tell you three things they know for certain about Sikhs: 1, they can never be motorbike police, fire fighters, Michelin chefs, or in fact any occupation requiring dedicated head gear: 2, they are all called Singh: 3, and they are related to the Gurkhas. I'm not kidding about that last comment, I actually heard it this morning from an older, military guy quarrelling in the post office queue with an objectionable bloke making nasty remarks about the counter staff – I think he was trying to be nice.

Anyway, I blame the Sikhs themselves for the comprehensive ignorance. It's not like they've made much of an effort to ram their message home, is it!  When was the last time you saw a Sikh with a placard, heard one issue a death threat, or had to turn the radio off because some so-called spokesperson was spouting vile shite on some late night talk show? As a culture they are not exactly hot on the hellfire stuff. They hardly do anything that could vaguely be construed as making a fuss.

They aren't much more enlightening in person either. Only the other week I had the opportunity to closely question a couple of Sikh guys about what it was all about, and was told it was "natural," "vegetarian," "peaceful," and "teetotal." Both these guys were snappy dressers with stylish haircuts, dandy's even – one was drinking a very decent Shiraz and one was cooking lamb kebabs. The following week they both slugged it out in a bare knuckle fight in the same kitchen . . .figure that out!

So I can't exactly blame Harvi's new colleagues for wondering – though why the hell we white people can't just bloody well ask a straightforward question is beyond me. Why not just ask if he fancied going to the pub? Worst that could happen is they'd have to get the first round in and couldn't hope to keep up with Harvi's "socialising."

I can personally vouch for the fact that Harvi socialises. Like a fish. A very large, thirsty, alcohol dependent haddock.

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www.philkirby.net

– Are you on your way back?
– Yes, be about forty minutes.
– Then ring when you get near The Broadway, I'll buy you a drink.
– Harvi, I'm not really in the mood, feeling a bit crap, can we just . . .
– The Broadway . . . seven thirty . . . I'm buying the drinks!

I'm sensitive. I'm in touch with my feminine side. I can spot a need to talk and detect a subtext of desperation at sixty paces. I rIng Harvi as I'm passing Kasa and coordinated arrival time. We meet at the bar at exactly twenty three minutes to eight.

– What do you fancy?
– Whatever you're having . . . wine?
– Make an effort, Philip . . .
– I'll go find a table.

The music is loud. Speakers seemed to be positioned above every table. There are no quiet corners offering relief from the constant cover versions of not quite well known enough power ballads.

– Harvi, I can't hear myself think . . . I don't want to shout . . .
– People don't come here to talk, Philip . . . How's the wine?
– Wine's fine . . . it's fine.
– Yes, heavy, fruity, tasty . . . eleven quid . . . no, nearly twelve . . . bargain!

I wonder how he managed to scrape twelve quid together, must be the first time our combined cash count has reached double figures in weeks. Then regret that this impulse of generosity is wasted on me right now. My stomach feels like there's a tire fire in there and someone just lobbed in a carrier bag of Silvikrin and lighter fuel cans. At any moment I may need to call the emergency services.

Harvi is called by some guy at the next table. He goes off. There's a lot of hugging and pointing at shirts. Well, just Harvi's shirt. Then more guys come over and there's more hugging, increased shirt tugging, additional hilarity.

I sit swirling the Merlot till Harvi returns.

– It's hot in here . . . the music is doing my head in . . . all these people . . .
– Shall we sit outside? I can't bear any more complaining.
– That might help . . .
– Worth a try.

The evening is lovely. Low, smokey clouds drift in the darkening blue and there's a bar of coppery orange stretched across the end of Dewsbury Road. But it's also a bit nippy and the first thing I choose to mention is my lack of appropriate attire. Harvi smiles. Beams. Positively glows with good natured cheer.

– You're such a grumpy bastard, Philip. Nothing is right with you tonight.
– Perceptive.
– Ha, you aren't going to irritate me . . . I have given up anger . . . I'm never going to give in to fury ever again . . . life is to short to spend it yelling.
– Sure it is, Harvi.

So this is what he was itching to tell me! He's abandoned arguing. I scoff. My bad moods are all I have left, and he's going all bloody Buddhist on me. I tell him he won't last till the morning. Then pick up my drink and head back inside as I've started to shiver.

Our table has been taken. Harvi heads straight for a couple of women in the centre of the room and throws his arms around the nearest. He introduces Rachel and Jacqui – who apparently will "shag anything," which is a curious personal reference, isn't it – but I'm feeling decidedly unsociable so attempt to remain aloof by pretending a fascination with the darts on the massive telly. Some men come over, tattooed with bulldogs and British flags, hug Harvi, grope the women, cast curious glances at me. I get distracted by the juke box. Some shaven headed guy is banging on 70's punk standards – The Skids, Sham 69, Plastique Bertrande (ahem!) . . .

Harvi is full of the spirit of human kindness on the way back. He calls me a snob for not patronising my local more often. He sweeps his arms wide and tells me that Beeston is beautiful, under-appreciated, bursting with talent . . . I just see some nondescript "modern industrial warehouse units," with inexplicable names like Proventus, Somnus, Diamand Boart, a huddle of pleasant enough semis, half of which are for sale – the other half have given up the delusion of hope – a college with a seriously hard core fence (to keep the public out, or the students in I wonder,) a factory that resembles Baikonur after Sputnik had blasted off, and finally a ginnel lined both sides by razor wire and overhung by ragged bushes that seems designed to random murder.

I tell Harvi that I'm feeling anger enough for two tonight.

As we get to the end of our street Harvi is talking astronomical cobblers.

– The skies were full of stars when I was a kid.
– Light pollution, Harvi.
– Light pollution? . . . pollution by light?
– You said it.

We wish each other a good night. An hour later I can hear him ranting. About street lamps.

This morning the computer copped his ire. And a snapped shoe lace. And the diminishment of starlight.

Life is never too short to rave against the multiplying of streetlamps.

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– You're not a real writer, are you Philip?
– Harvi, what the hell are you on about?
– You're not really a writer . . . erm, you're just masquerading or something.
– I'll masquerade you in a minute!
– Ooh, don't get bolshy, I'm just saying. You don't get paid for doing this?
– True, I don't. Not for this. This is? . . . no, you're right . . . this is just for fun.
– Then you're not real, are you! Not proper. You are . . . Self Appointed . . .
– I'm what?
– Self Appointed . . . oh, put that pet lip away and stop with the mystified look, you know perfectly well what the phrase means. Want me to spell it out?
– Erm, yes . . . actually yes, I would. Who has been injecting these poisonous ideas into that delicate little mind of yours? You know you should always ask me first. About ideas. Look where the last idea got you.
– I read it on Twitter.
– Ah . . . and?
– And . . . and . . . well, apparently people like you, people who don't get paid to come up with crap like this, aren't really writers . . .
– Do go on, I'm all ears . . .
– Well, letting people like you loose on the internet with your unschooled, unregulated, unpaid opinions is dangerous.
– Dangerous?
– For culture.
– . . . (gulps . . . mind swirls away in a maelstrom of hurt and disappointment.)
– Your opinions pollute the clear waters of comment . . . you dump toxic twaddle in the delicate eco-system of culture . . . you talk shit.
– I talk shit!
– You do. You know you do. Not just you, people like you . . . who aren't real writers. You should leave the writing to real writers . . . that's what they are paid to do . . .
– Really?
– Really! Nobody asked you your opinion, did they?
– Sorry, didn't realise opinion was invite only . . .
– Philip! . . . listen to me.
– There's more? . . . oh, don't give me daggers, Harvinder . . . come on, say it . . .
– Philip . . . you lower the standard . . .
– . . . . . . .
– That shut you up . . . there's a first. What have you got to say to that then?
– Right . . . Harvi . . . when was the last time you went to Opera North, The Playhouse, Northern Dance, The Grand, Phoenix? . . . I could go on.
– Not been for years mate . . . ha, and I've got a degree in performing arts!
– So the rumour goes . . . and when was the last time you read a review or an article in a newspaper?
– I read that thing in the Yorkshire Post you showed me the other week . . . something about Temple Works . . .
– Ha, you read that because you thought you might get a mention, that's all!
– Possibly . . . but what's your point?
– My point is . . . hmm . . . ok, you're not the stay at home in front of the telly type, are you?
– Golly gosh, I most certainly am not, Philip. Out all the time.
– I don't just mean to the Midnight Bell, Harvinder . . . you do stuff?
– Stuff! Bloody hell, you arsehole, you know I do stuff . . . you're usually tagging along . . .
– Uhm, I think it's usually the other way around, but still . . . you do cultural stuff?
– All the time!
– Such as?
– Festivals, concerts, the supper club we run, odd bits of theatre, open mike events, arty stuff . . . even been to a couple of galleries recently . . . enjoyed the free wine.
– You are always in the audience?
– Philip, don't be dim! You know I do food at cultural stuff . . . I'm part of the art. My shirts are legendary. I am Mr Peshwari.
– And these are always tiny events for a handful of people? Insignificant?
– Why are you being an idiot? There were nearly five hundred at that last all night music event, you were there! . . . There's often quite a crowd.
– And you've met bloggers at these events? People who write about music, art, performance, food etc because they want to, not because they get paid?
– I suppose I have. Some of my best friends are bloggers.
– Quite, Harvinder . . . now think very carefully about this . . . when was the last time you met a real writer?
– . . . hmm . . . don't think I'd know a real writer if one came up and demanded a drink on the house . . . never come across a real writer.
– And in all your hectic cultural gallivanting, have you ever been at an event that was written about by a real writer?
– Does the Royal Wedding count?
– I'm going to have to say no to that . . . anything else come to mind?
– Erm . . . not exactly . . .
– And how many times have you been blogged about?
– Oh, hundreds darling! Only this week you wrote that thing about breakfast . . .
– No, I didn't mean personally blogged about . . . but thanks.
– It was funny.
– So you'd agree there's a niche there, a part of culture that real writers just don't reach?
– On reflection, I'd have to say yes . . .
– And this may be because real writers are so rare and so busy covering real culture they haven't time for the other stuff . . . the stuff the majority of us do.
– That may be so.
– Or it may be because bloggers are more curious, adventurous, and willing to stray beyond the well funded pinnacles of cultural life?
– Very diplomatic of you, Mr Kirby.
– Thanks . . . though I was going to say that the real writers' mantra is, "If it ain't RFO I'm not gonna go!"
– Controversial.
– Just kidding . . . but I think there's another important point here . . . can I unburden myself?
– Wouldn't be the first time.
– Well, who says what culture is anyhow?
– What do you mean?
– Two things . . . one, if real writers miss what seems to me an important aspect of local culture then what's the problem with me writing about it?
– I can't see a problem.
– I'm not an anarchist, Harvi. I'm not into barging down the doors of an exclusive club where the real writers hang out. And I've never had to counterfeit some qualification that certifies me as the genuine article – as far as I know writing is still a democratic pursuit with nothing barring entry.
– Ok Phil, step down from that soap box . . .
– Sorry . . . my point is, I don't go around deluding myself into thinking I'm a  "writer" just because I penned a post.
– No?
– Absolutely not. But if real writers don't or won't stoop to covering what I'm interested in then why shouldn't I fill in the gap? Seems reasonable to me.
– Fair enough, you got me there.
– And my second point . . . why the hell shouldn't I have an opinion on the culture my taxes pay for?
– How do you mean?
– Look, I may have an opinion on the dastardly MMR vaccine, or on collective chanting as a way to cure cancer, and I'd likely be wrong. I'd make an idiot of myself. It would be absurd. But I don't think writing is like that.
– You have never pretended to be a doctor, Philip . . . not as long as I've known you at least.
– I could not diagnose a decapitation, Harvi!
– Ha, and if you were a journalist you would properly attribute that last joke.
– Ha, yes . . . Publishing my opinion, however, no more makes me a journalist than composing a blog post consisting of nothing but dialogue makes me a dramatist.
– Then at least you are a genuine fake.
– I fake it all the time. Genuinely.
– You'll never make it.
– No, but I feel absolutely entitled to make any comment I please anywhere I fancy on any cultural phenomena going. That's not being, "self appointed." Last time I looked culture was "for all," not just made for the folks who get paid to spout opinions.
– Agreed, culture isn't just made for professional critics.
– And if I happen to write my opinion down it's only because I'm more comfortable that way . . . you wouldn't want to hear me sing my critique.
– I've heard you . . . you are no singer!
– Then neither does writing make me a writer, real or otherwise . . . it's something I do not something I am . . .
– Ok, ok, I've had enough . . . you win . . . you're a real something!
– Yes . . . and what does that make you, Harvi
– A mere moment in the masquerade, Philip . . . a pawn in the whole pretence.
– I think the pubs are open . . . beer?
– I suppose it's my round?
– I couldn't have put it better myself.

07886 416862
@philkirby
www.philkirby.net

When I saw this question on Twitter this morning I assumed the worst; why the hell are we in the news again? Football fiasco? Architectural atrocity? Retail redundancy? Musical mediocrity? Or just plain whingeing that we haven't got the swagger of Manchester, the humour of Liverpool, the style of Sheffield, or the fun of Newcastle? Usual crap . . .

But no, seems a genuine question. Or questions. I wasn't sure where the emphasis was, so put the stress on successive parts of the sentence.

What can Leeds be famous for?

     A question about potential. What, exactly, do we do well enough?

What can Leeds be famous for?

     A question about possibility. Let's stop kidding ourselves!

What can Leeds be famous for?

     Where the hell is Leeds anyway?

What can Leeds be famous for?

      Present tense people! Forget the Victorians.

What can Leeds be famous for?

     Reminds me of the definition of celebrity; famous for being famous.

What can Leeds be famous for?

     Why do we care? Do we need the "Hello" endorsement?

I haven't any answers to any of those questions, sadly.

07886 416862
@philkirby
www.philkirby.net