This is not a running blog

Updated version of 'Why I run' – originally posted on 20th January 2011:

Running can be painful but not as
painful as running blogs

I’m not sure about running blogs. Running is what makes life worth living, that’s true, but people writing about their running, well, it seems to me the potential for being dull heavily outweighs the scope for being original, insightful and/or entertaining. 

What’s enjoying about running is running: the act itself. Like sex, it’s rhythmic, invigorating, animal and difficult to describe beyond the basic mechanics: one foot in front of the other, repeat. The enjoyment is the doing: absorbed in the moment, body in motion, mind quieted, undistracted. When I am running, I am running.

Writing about running for other runners of similar standard is fine – we indulge each other as a means to ever deeper self-absorption – but for a general audience? No, no way. The last thing I'd want to do is add to the web-swell of boring blather about split times, barefoot shoes (eh?), journeys and goals. I’d fail to capture the appeal; I’d be anal and puritanical about training routines; I’d pointlessly deride slower runners; I’d be that most loathsome thing, a running-bore.

But there is one question that people, including and especially non-runners, want answered: why? Why do we go outside for prolonged periods every day, come cold and rain, come leg aches and bleeding nipples, to get our fix? It is baffling, we must accept, and it warrants an explanation.

So, this is not a running blog; this is a one-off attempt to explain why.

Hitherto I’d not felt called on to explain it. It was just something I’d fallen into the habit of doing every day, like walking the dog, only faster and without a dog. Explaining why – accounting for being apparently as burden-tethered as a dog owner while not in possession of a dog – wouldn’t be easy. But then I read a book assessing why men read men’s magazines. No, not porn, but laddy-lifestyle mags such as Men’s Health, GQ, FHM, etc.

It was a sociological study by a trio of academics, exploring why men enjoy reading articles about how to ‘get ripped’, ‘craft a washboard stomach’, ‘dress to knock her dead’ and ‘steer clear of gold-diggers’, that kind of thing. I will make extensive reference, for reasons that will become clear, to the chapter entitled “Consumption and the sociology of the body”.

That’s quite enough preamble; without further ado, this is why I run:

1. Because my job is too easy

I run because my job doesn’t tire me out or make me feel manly and important. I do not earn money by digging holes in the ground, like my father did. His job kept his body lean and muscular (and tired); it was a job for life; it fulfilled a useful function with obvious benefits to society; it earned him money to feed his family. My job involves sitting at a desk all day (burning very little energy), fiddling around with words no one needs to read, earning money to fritter away on my own amusement. I run because it makes me feel as though I am doing real work, helping me feel fit and alive, and giving me a project on which to expend surplus energy.

“Capitalism is no longer dependent upon the condemnation of sexual and physical pleasure and the maintenance of strictly disciplined forms of manual labour. Instead, the body in consumer culture is both disciplined and hedonistic. In such a culture, the body becomes a vehicle for pleasure, youth, health and fitness; that is, it is increasingly viewed as a passport to the good life… Life itself is a project within modernity.”

2. To feel superior

Running makes me feel as though I have an advantage over others. I have no power over others in my job or in my relationships (unlike my father, who was indisputably head of our family). Running is an arena in which I can strive to dominate others, to try and be exceptional; keeping fit makes me feel less fallible, less likely to need emotional or medical help.

“[Running] prepares men for the atomised world of late capitalism, providing them with crucial ammunition in helping them gain a competitive advantage… The hyper-competitive social relations of late-capitalism manifest themselves in male relations at work, in friendships and in relationships. The need for intimate human relations that men have found so difficult to recognise within themselves are displaced through myths of self-sufficiency and independence.”

3. To forestall my body’s decline

I'm 30 now, so my body is about to begin its slow yet inexorable decline towards old age and death. My job is not tough or tiring enough to distract me from this awful truth. But, all the time I am getting fitter and faster, I have firm proof that my body is an anomaly, defying science – not only evading deterioration but improving. Working hard at running provides definite, measurable evidence – in the form of improving PBs – that my body is flourishing; I’m not just outrunning the Grim Reaper but lapping him, making him look stupid.

“Just as men face an increasingly uncertain future in the workplace, so their bodies become places of intense anxiety and scrutiny in terms of their inevitable decline. In order for this decline to be halted or at least temporarily arrested, the body becomes something that needs to be invested in and worked upon… The body becomes a new site for social discipline.”

4. It gives me an identity

How do you define yourself? Which single word best sums you up? The first adjective in my Twitter biog used to be “Runner” (until writing this made me self-conscious about it) – I defined myself by my hobby, first and foremost. In the past, most people defined themselves by their profession, but less so these days. Nowadays, it is not sensible to get too attached to one’s job (consider all those people employed in the public sector to whom the government has said: “You’re not required anymore, and probably never were”.) Our jobs are uncertain, unsafe and of questionable utilitarian worth.

“In the new world of flexible employment, the rules are made up as we go along, the ability to adapt and change is the most prized of possessions and the act of departure valued above that of reaching the destination.”

Indeed, some of my fondest memories involve handing in resignation letters and leaving jobs.

“… the idea that our skills may well become redundant in the future means that the workplace can only offer the most insecure of identities. The body, then, becomes a domain to be ‘worked on’ and regulated. The body requires finely itemised forms of labour in order that it might produce measurable effects. This process of physical transformation grants the masculine subject a sense of security and continuity denied him within the workplace… Uncertainty converts the body into a new project of identity.”

5. To be a machine

The fallibility of my body is unbearable. Consider my eyes – one minute, they’re fine, seeing everything normally; the next, they’re destroying themselves and I’m going blind because of some silly little genetic quirk. Being trapped inside a human body is ridiculously perilous. It is far better to be a machine. Runners look upon their flawed carcasses as embodied apparatus – hard, robust and responsive to fine-tuning.

“Men’s relationships with their bodies is often represented as being purely instrumental… The application of instrumental logics… [and] tips and advice keep the body ‘running along smoothly’. The most often used metaphor in relation to the body and sources of food and energy is that of ‘refuelling’… [Men] seek to convert the body into something that can be controlled by scientific forms of rationality protecting the self from having to develop a more vulnerable relation with the body’s own needs.”

6. To flee from death

As discussed above, my body is about to begin its decline towards death. I am unable to accept my own death, for it is too terrible a prospect. While I’m running and getting fitter, I feel very alive; so it follows that running is the opposite of death and, as such, keeps death at bay. I know that immortality is a questionable corollary to “feeling very alive”, but the illusion makes existence more tolerable and helps me forget the terrible truth. Besides, no one has anything better to offer. Religion isn’t taken seriously anymore, and “a problem shared is a problem halved” doesn’t seem to apply to death – believe me, I’ve tried; it’s my favourite topic of conversation down the pub.

“The culture of bodily fitness and exercise is bound up with a fear of death and mortality… In the face of death we often go silent, because we lack a common language in which to frame the experience… Death is something to be hidden away and privatised within modernity. Fear of death becomes… as Castoriadis argues, ‘that everything, even meaning, will dissolve’… Death is that which cannot be mastered and controlled, despite all our efforts to mould and shape the body. These concerns can be forgotten about, or at least this is the expectation, through daily regimes that invite us to keep an ever-watchful eye on our health.”

Source: Making Sense of Men’s Magazines, by Peter Jackson, Nick Stevenson & Kate Brooks, published by Polity Press, 2001.

Blogging: farce or chance?

Chris Hunter's blogging success poses the question: Why go to work when you could sit
at home in your comfiest chair, drinking from your favourite coffee mug?

Why on earth would any sensible person write a blog? Unless you're a known brand (a 'celebrity') or can publish from a known brand's platform, no one cares what you have to say. "Another blog?" they'll groan. "No thanks, don't have time."  

... so I'd assumed. 

Then I wrote an article for Motorcycle Trader (a trade mag for bike dealers) about the sorry fate of mainstream motorcycle magazines* – and stumbled upon a successful blog written by a normal guy. Successful? Yes, getting loads of hits and making money and everything. 

My brief was to investigate: "What's next for the motorcycle press?" - are websites killing off paid-for print? The answer, to cut a long feature short (the long version: from page 28 of this), is yes. 

Bloggers don't make a living from blogging, of that I was certain. In fact, I'd assumed that not many websites make much money, either, unless they're the DailyMail.com or some such filth.com, getting a gazillion hits per second by publishing spy shots of Harry’s arse and Kate’s tits. But then I found Chris Hunter’s blog, Bike EXIF…

The Bike EXIF homepage

This one-man site publishes photos of highly trendy custom-built motorbikes – not the chrome-festooned cruisers favoured by portly, goatee'd middle-age-crisis victims, but artfully minimalist, stripped-down designs. They’re the engined equivalent of the fixed-gear bicycles so beloved of urban hipsters; the kinds of machine Steve McQueen might've kept shiny for use on the days he wasn't anticipating jumping any ditches. These bikes are sometimes called café racers or retro sportsbikes, but many of them are too quirky and cool to slot into a category.

Siegl custom Ducati 900SS, recently featured on Bike EXIF (Photo: Jason Brownrigg)

Hunter set up the blog in 2008 as an experiment, as bloggers do, to see what level of interest it attracted and “ready to drop it quickly if it didn’t work”. His gut instinct was that interest in these über-hip bikes was a) strong and growing; and b) not catered for by the mainstream press. 

At the time he was employed as a creative director in a large Australian advertising agency. His blog experiment struck a chord with bike fans and took off. It now attracts more than 400,000 unique visitors every month and rakes in a healthy amount of advertising income. 'Healthy' meaning more than enough to pay the bills; Hunter quit his day job at the end of last year. He’s now a full-time blogger; and it isn't that he's taken a pay-cut to downsize and sit around gazing at pretty-bike pictures all day. Not at all…

“It’s very much a business now, and has been for the past couple of years. I now run the site full-time. The income it produces doesn’t quite match my old salary yet, but it will do in the future.”

The first thing Hunter’s success story proves is that your blog doesn’t need a catchy or enticing name.
“Bike EXIF is a strange name, yes,” he admits. “EXIF stands for Exchangeable Image File – it’s the data that’s stored in a digital camera image, a nerdy reference to our focus on photography. If I’d known the site would become so big, I’d have thought of a better name! Too late now…”

What’s more important than the name – as the Daily Mail knows too well – are the photos. Your images must be crisp and high-quality so that visitors can zoom-in and drool to their heart’s (or other throbbing bit’s) content. If the photos are too small or blurry or simply lack ‘impact’, people will stop visiting. More pictures, less text - always. More than 400 words is too much – one reason why this (my) blog is a dead canary.

Online content, unlike print, has a cost-free global reach, and Hunter knew that the appeal of funky, retro custom bikes transcended national boundaries. He also knew how to schmooze advertisers – not difficult, he insists.
“I have relationships with senior execs at most of the main moto and apparel manufacturers and their country-level distributors,” says Hunter. “There’s no secret to it… If you have the stats to back it up – and they need to be very big stats with the right audience breakdown – relationships can turn into advertising.”

Then there are the potential side-lines… Bike EXIF already produces merchandise – namely, an annual calendar that last year “outsold the official and licensed Harley-Davidson calendars on Amazon in the US”.

Hunter isn’t a smug web-geek who wishes painful death on print publishing; on the contrary, he’s a magazine-lover who thinks print will survive for many years yet, provided publishers learn how to fully exploit the internet to complement and market their hard-copy publications.
“The two worlds [print and online] will merge; they are getting closer as each month passes. The old guard in the magazines will move on, and the new guard will be more open to collaboration. I’m actually a huge fan of print, and it might be a part of the EXIF stable sometime in the future. I’m a total magazine addict… but if we go into print, it won’t be anything like the magazines you see on UK newsstands today.”

So, there you have it: Crap magazines are dead (or dying); long live the smart, web-savvy ones. And if you're a canny three-in-one writer/publisher/ad salesperson, you might, just might be able to make a living blogging about your hobby.

How to create a money-spinning blog
Bike EXIF founder Chris Hunter lists the five most important qualities needed if you’re serious about making money from a blog

1. A unique vision or voice. If you’re producing the same content as other people or constantly chasing their tails, you’ll always be playing second fiddle. 
2. A good marketing brain. There’s no point in creating an amazing website if you don’t have an innate understanding of effective promotion and search engine optimisation.
3. Generalist abilities. If you have to pay someone every time you need to change a line or code or restart a server, you’ll never make any money. Unless it’s a vanity project, you need to be a one-man band in the early days.
4. Lots of stamina. It’s hard work and late hours. Can you do that for several years? Do you have an understanding family?
5. Design taste. A lot of print magazines seem to get away with pretty average design, but online, there’s nowhere to hide. Good aesthetics and navigation are critical.

*The motorcycle press is dying a slow, agonising death. I know this because I used to work for SuperBike, which, when I joined in 2005, was selling more than 60,000 copies per month. At the latest ABC count, sales had fallen to 16,000 – a decline of 75 per cent in six years. And my inverse Midas touch wasn't to blame this time.

The title was flogged in 2010 by its then owner IPC Media to Vitality Publishing, who went bust earlier this year, at which point SuperBike was ‘saved’ (along with sister title Loaded) by a porn star. The mag's laddishness has increased; not so sure about sales - it's been withdrawn from the ABC audit. 

Gay boy from Damascus

First published on HuffingtonPost.co.uk on 26th October 2011:
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/david-bradford/gay-boy-from-damascus_b_1021474.html

Hani Homsi (not his real name) is young, Syrian and gay. He now lives in the UK, and has agreed to meet me to talk about his formative years in Damascus, as well as his perspective on the current Syrian uprising.

But first I want to know what he made of the 'Gay Girl in Damascus' hoax - a blog purportedly written by a young lesbian living in the Syrian capital but which, it turned out, was the work of a 40-year-old heterosexual American man. Probably not the representation gay Syrians had been longing for?

"I don't think it helped in any way." Hani's voice falters slightly as he looks around the room, leans forward, and fixes his gaze on the tape recorder between us. We are in a secluded corner of a sprawling café but he is nervous, and I will soon appreciate why. I reassure him that neither his name nor any other identifying details will be published. He sits back, takes a breath and continues:

"A tactic of the regime has been to say, 'It's all fabrication'. They could have said about [about the blog], 'Look, this is something westerners are bringing you which we're sure you don't want'."

Hani provides further clarification when he tells me that the word "gay" does not easily translate into Arabic, and the notion of being gay is widely regarded in Syrian society as a "corrupting western invention". He believes that the hoax could have made it easier for anti-gay religious groups to advance their cause. As for the regime's attitude to gay people, "they have bigger things to worry about now" and don't meddle in citizens' personal lives "as long as you support them and don't interfere politically".

Political interference, as far as President Bashar al-Assad's government is concerned, means any detectable expression of dissent, no matter how peaceful. The regime's response to opposition demonstration, as we are seeing reported on an almost daily basis, is violent and merciless.

Hani has heard many stories from his family about "friends of friends" who have been brutally tortured, murdered or have simply disappeared. "It is just unbelievable the amount of cruelty they [the regime] are capable of. Really, you would rather die 100 times than be taken by them."

The last time Hani saw his parents was several weeks ago, when they met him outside of Syria. He was shocked by how anxious and wary they had become.

"When we were talking, they were just whispering. They said they were not used to speaking [at normal volume] even in the privacy of their own home - because there may be listening devices. I found that shocking - very, very different to when I last lived there [in Damascus]. Watching the news, on channels such as Al Jazeera, they drew the curtains, as they felt they couldn't afford to be seen watching these channels."

It is a stark reminder of Hani's bravery in speaking to me. He has spent many years keeping quiet, bearing a double burden of secrecy - about his dislike of the regime and about his sexuality - but he is not holding back now, spilling out vivid, articulate sentences in perfect English. I take my chance and venture a more personal question: when did he realise he was gay?

"I always sensed I was different," he pauses. "No, I knew I was different."

How did he know? How does a gay Syrian explore their sexuality, given the prevailing attitude among fellow citizens?

"This is a bit private. Do you want to know about it?" He grins at my enthusiastic nodding. "I did have an underground affair with a next-door friend of mine. We did actually have an affair. Our families knew each other; he was just one year older than me; he went to the same school."

Hani's eyes light up and he giggles as he remembers the guileless way in which the affair began.

"I was 14, and I remember it was winter. We were all watching a film, me, him and his sister... Suddenly there was a power failure, as there had been a snow storm - every time there's snow, the city gets completely cut off... so we decided to play hide-and-seek. We [Hani and his male friend] ended up hiding together, under the bed, we were really close. And we felt something, and it started then and there... both of us were so sort of thrilled by it. It was almost a surprise and so convenient - he lived just next-door. I remember saying goodbye, and saying 'I'll see you here tomorrow'."

The clandestine relationship lasted for six years, throughout the boys' school days. Once he was old enough, Hani would occasionally borrow the family car and drive with his friend into the mountains north-west of Damascus - preferably in mid-winter, to maximise the likelihood of getting snowed-in. Was it a love affair?

"We never talked about each other as a couple, let alone using the word gay to describe ourselves. At one point, he even started going out with a girl." So his friend wasn't gay? "I think he was worried about his social image: he wanted to have a girlfriend. And he was very, very good-looking, so any girl wanted to go out with him. Thinking about him now, I think he might have been bi [-sexual], if you want to use that categorisation." 

I am surprised that the pair's illicit rendezvous continued so frequently over such a long time, not least because I had always assumed that in less tolerant societies there is greater pressure on gay people to curb and conceal their sexuality. Hani turns this supposition on its head, explaining that the scarcity of "gayness" in Syrian culture and public discourse equates to a certain degree of obliviousness. Male relations are "more queer" inasmuch as they are "less defined" (as straight, gay or otherwise); men kiss when greeting each other and may hold hands in public "without anyone really noticing". 

The boyhood friends keep in touch but have not met for more than three years. I detect no sense of regret in Hani, who is now in his late-20s and openly gay among his British friends. I wonder what it is like living so different a life now, and watching from afar the escalating troubles in the country that remains his family's home. Does he believe the Syrian people will manage to overthrow their oppressors, as the Egyptians did?

"It's difficult. The difference is, the Egyptian army wasn't being controlled by the government. In Syria, the state is everything; whether you're from the university, the hospital, from anything, you are all controlled by one entity. The army is very much the heart of it, and they have the power."

If President Assad's time is running out - and surely it is - will his departure mark a hopeful new beginning for Hani's family and former neighbours? I am surprised by the cautious, ambivalent tone of the response: before the uprising, Hani explains, the regime had been slowly loosening its stranglehold on civil liberties and was consequently gaining support among "an emergent class of relatively wealthy Damascene and Aleppan merchants". The president was beginning to seem almost 'progressive' (in the western-capitalist sense) - at least in comparison to his father Hafez al-Assad, whose leadership style was shaped by Soviet communism.

"They [the regime] were starting to allow lots of things" - such as private TV channels showing satirical drama (satirical in a "disguised, Shakespearian" sense), and some non-state-controlled newspapers with articles criticising the government.

Assad's fatal mistake, according to Hani, was to ignore the discontent in poorer areas of Syria, "where people thought, 'No matter what I do, I can't improve my living circumstances, I'm just going nowhere - but the people next door have done it, so why can't we?'... The fact these people have been neglected is ironic, given that Hafez al-Assad's revolution [when he became president, in 1971] was pretty much a peasant uprising against the landowning classes of Damascus and Aleppo."

I want to ask Hani about his hopes for his family and whether they know he is gay, but it is getting late and café staff are shuffling in around us, wiping down tables and preparing to close for the day.

We exchange emails the following day, and he makes a startling disclosure: his parents have suspected he is gay since his father "found some stuff in my diary", about five years ago. This "stuff" revealed nothing about the affair, but Hani's mention of having felt attracted to other men was enough to elicit furious non-acceptance.

"We had massive row... They were some of the worst days in my life. I really thought I'd lost them forever." An uneasy truce was reached, whereby Hani "was made to promise to change and become 'normal', i.e. heterosexual - otherwise, I would have been disowned".

To this day his parents remain "very suspicious" and "don't dare ask questions" about his personal life. When his mother expresses her wish that he one day marry a woman, he plays his part in "a game of perfect pretence".

Except it is not a game - games are fun, like hide-and-seek. Syria may be drawing near to a new era of free expression, but for gay Syrians like Hani one realm of secrecy will remain as compulsory and oppressive as ever.

Having a go, un-heroically

Alcoholics' Corner: site of 98.6 per cent of crime committed in Lewes (roughly)

As a child, I dreamt about getting my chance to act like a superhero. I had the strength and bravery, I was sure; all I needed was the occasion. The fantasy never completely died. Since becoming a keen runner, I’ve often thought: Wouldn’t it be great to put my fitness to heroic use? – to run down a criminal and teach him a harsh lesson about the foolishness of committing crime while in a state of mediocre cardiovascular health. Well, my chance came today.

It was meant to be a routine, easy run. I’d set out from my house and was jogging along Southover Road when I heard some commotion.

“Oi! Stop! Come back here!”

It was a male voice, urgent, almost frantic.

He’s yelling at his runaway dog, I concluded, uneasily. But the shouts grew louder. The fugitive, it soon dawned on me, was a man, not a dog. I looked back.

Not one man, but two, both middle-aged, grey, and gaining on me fast. How could this be? I was running yet being caught by old blokes in overcoats. The leading veteran runner, I realised, was being pursued by the other, but it wasn’t so much a race as a chase. “Stop him, he’s a thief,” shouted the chaser.

By now, the pursued was a mere 20 metres away. I had a decision to make. Questions and doubts shot through my mind: 1. Is the chaser telling the truth? 2. Is the chased dangerous? 3. Should I help? Damn it, am I superhero material? 

My ad hoc answers revealed a fair few prejudices, I’m ashamed to say. 1. Yes, the chaser must be telling the truth – he isn’t dropping consonants. 2. No, the chased isn’t dangerous – he’s puny, pallid and probably a smackhead. So hell yeah, 3. This is your chance to be a hero!

What happened next I can’t quite explain. I made an attempt. Or did I? I stuck out an arm with about enough purpose to intercept a wafting balloon. He palmed me off, easily, and kept going.

Across Station Street he dashed, and then, for some reason, just sort of gave up. The chasing man clinched him in a bear-hug and wrestled him to the ground. It was impressive, heroic even. 

I’ve repressed whatever might have happened next. I can only assume I was standing around, leaning on something, dazed.

My only excuse: confusion. Was the chasing man’s allegation genuine and correct? What if it had all been a mistake and the chased man was innocent? In hindsight, it was no time for moral ambivalence; after all, the chased man ran away – people wrongly accused of theft don’t run away.

The next thing I remember: two stockier, less ambivalent citizens arrived on the scene and helped pin down the alleged thief, while I stood around shivering in my running kit – clingy base layer and flimsy gilet – trying to assume an “I’m on hand to help if help is needed” expression. 

Meanwhile, the accused man moaned (though didn’t swear) about being uncomfortable, pinned down on the pavement. Another bystander, a smartly dressed woman, kept him informed, at regular intervals, that she had no sympathy, in light of his (alleged) offence – though she didn’t qualify it ‘alleged’. 

After an agonising wait of at least 10 minutes, one police car arrived, then another. The officers - two calm, seen-it-all-before women - handcuffed the accused and bundled him into the car. “He ran like an athlete,” the accuser told them. I couldn’t help but worry about the context: Like an athlete compared to the skinny, limp-wristed jogger whom he so effortlessly deflected. 

The accused had stolen a woman’s handbag from the family history bureau, alleged the accuser, and had discarded his swag in an alley before the chase caught up with him, and me.

Still, it’s one man’s word against the other’s. What if the accused man was innocently researching his mother’s uncle’s mysterious estranged son when the accusing man – who, let’s conjecture, is a paranoid fantasist – shouted at him “Oi! Thief!” The accused man simply panicked – his mind full of Victorian family feuds and barbarism – and fled in fear. Perhaps. 

Or what if the accused man is the long-lost brother of the accusing man and had stalked him to the family history bureau to steal his historical documents (stashed in wife’s handbag) in an attempt to prevent the uncovering of a dark family secret? 

Hard to believe? That depends. Some people reckon super-heroes wear Spandex…

            

Why I run

Updated as 'This is not a running blog' - 4th February 2013

A Sunday morning, fighting futilely against a brick-wall-strength headwind.
Why? Not sure really...

Is it 'cos I is Lewesian?

David James Smith and his family

It’s now just over a week since The Sunday Times published a feature by David James Smith (DJS) about the racism he, his black wife and their mixed-race children have encountered in Lewes since moving to the town in 2005. When I read the feature for the first time, I was indignant at halfway, and laughing so as to avoid crying at the end. I was, in a word, bewildered. It was like nothing I’d read before.

Once I’d collected my thoughts, I tried to summon the equanimity to defend DJS for having had the courage to spark off a thorny debate. We all know there’s still racism (and homophobia, misogyny, etc.) on the streets – and in the suburbs – of Britain, and it’s brave to point a finger at the perpetrators. Then again, having the pluck to start an argument is not inherently valuable, not unless you’re a) addressing the right target and b) making your case effectively and in good faith. I’m content that DJS struck on an interesting concern, and the question “Is racism still a problem in ostensibly tolerant places such as Lewes?” is an important one. The trouble is, he completely wasted his chance.

The feature’s hypothesis – that racism is rife in places usually considered pleasant – is set out at the beginning. The headline “England’s green and prejudiced land” and the standfirst “When our writer moved to Lewes, the BNP neighbour came as a shock, but it was the smaller subtle incidents of racism that most dented his faith” leave us in little doubt about the presumption-shattering endeavour at hand. So far, so intriguing.

So, what’s his evidence? The first exhibit is a former neighbour who, DJS discovered, was a member of the BNP. He names the man and, just for good measure, includes a photo of him. I read on in a state of trepidation, expecting to find out that this person had directed racist abuse at DJS and his family. No such revelations; the only dirt dug about the man is that he had, at some point, anonymously added “poisonous posts” on a racist US website. DJS’s public denouncement of his ex-neighbour is founded on speculation about “him on the other side of the wafer-thin walls that separated our semi-detached homes, spewing out bile on his computer in the small hours”.

Speaking of ‘wafer thin’, is that it? What does the manifestation of this man – regardless of his late night web-browsing habits, imagined or real – tell us about racism in towns like Lewes? Hardly anything. It merely reminds us that BNP members do actually exist, and that some of them exist in average houses in normal towns – not just in council properties on run-down estates in Bradford. No shit. DJS doesn’t even bother to cite Lewes’ general election results (594 votes for the BNP candidate), which would have at least given his anecdote some statistical context. Roughly one in every one-hundred voters in the Lewes constituency supports the BNP – there, I’ve done it for him.

Moving on, exhibit two is bonfire night in Lewes, for which a small group of people from a certain bonfire society dress up as Zulus – which involves ‘blacking-up’. I’ve no desire or grounds on which to defend this practice; it is, like the anti-Catholic rhetoric of bonfire night, outdated, unnecessary and oafish. But the question, again, is what does it tell us about the prevalence of racism in Lewes? Is there broad support in the town for ‘blacking-up’ – which would signal, at least, a worrying reluctance to put others’ feelings before the desire for ritualistic silliness – or would most Lewesians prefer to see it dropped from bonfire night proceedings? Unfortunately, DJS doesn’t seem to have asked around. [Sigh.]

So, he’s ticked off community (BNP ex-neighbour) and culture (bonfire night); next up, education. DJS describes how, having installed his kids at local schools, they become victims of racial prejudice. In the first instance: “Our eldest daughter’s dance teacher at the local secondary school also used the word ‘coloured’ to describe black people,” and in the second: “Mackenzie [DJS’s son] came home from school with the news that a mother had confronted him in the playground after school with an account that he had hurt her son,” which “We saw… in clear terms: a white woman’s perception of the tough little black/mixed-race kid who could do with a reprimand and was not to be believed.” Why clear terms? DJS states his conclusion as though it’s the natural one, self-evident to all. But it’s not. Was the mother in question being (excessively) protective of her child because she believed the boy who hit him was mixed-race? We’ll never know because DJS doesn’t grant the woman the right of reply.

On another occasion, a teacher grabs and yanks Mackenzie. Again, DJS makes the assumption that this happened because his son was mixed-race, and again, we don’t get to hear the teacher’s side of the story. The final example of “racism” at his children’s school is another one-sided account; a (different) teacher draws attention to his daughter’s hair: “The teacher turned to a colleague, making a big circle with her hands to exaggerate the Afro, laughing and saying it had been ‘all frizzy’ last week.”

Second-hand, one-sided tales from the schoolyard aren’t, I feel, the firmest or fairest type of evidence. Equally, though, I’ve no reason to doubt DJS when he tells us his kids were upset when these events happened. The image of a slighted child’s sad face is a powerful one, but the arena of debate is no place for sentimentality. What I want to know is whether the aforementioned happenings provide proof of racism and, if so, whether they indicate that racism is endemic in Lewes.

On the first point, DJS provides an answer of sorts. He recognises that the incidents he’s described do not constitute racist abuse of the traditional brand; they are, instead, “micro-aggressions” – smaller, less-overt specks of prejudice that add up to a hurtful smear. Here, he is using a term from a US academic discipline called Critical Race Theory, according to which “race is the centre of everything” and “negative perceptions about black people remain part of our daily lives”. Sadly, that’s about all that DJS tells us about Critical Race Theory. For one suspenseful moment, he tempts us with a morsel of meaty theoretical stuff… with citations and everything… No, it couldn’t last.

My initial reaction to the theory about “micro-aggressions” is that it’s interesting, and I’d like to know more about it. But I’m worried that it’s an idea that could easily be misapplied to instances where the “micro-aggressor” did not intend to cause harm. Were the teacher who described DJS’s daughter’s hair as “frizzy” and the child who described his son’s nostrils as “big” being aggressive? No, they were being insensitive. The distinction between aggression and insensitivity is an important one, containing within it the question of intent. Using a term implying deliberate violence, dubiously, to describe unwitting faux-pas, serves only to accuse, eliciting defensiveness, and does nothing to encourage empathetic behaviour.

Perhaps that’s the main problem here: DJS isn’t interested in making us weigh our words and actions more carefully. He just wants to pick a fight; he’s out to avenge the wrongs inflicted on his family – a journalist doing a vigilante’s job. Even when it seems he’s being nice about Lewes folk – conceding that there are some “decent, ordinary [and] accepting” people in the town – it’s stingingly conditional: “It is probably no coincidence, though, that our friends [in Lewes] are almost all ex-Londoners.” (I took this particularly badly because I’ve lived in Lewes for five years and grew up in a village that’s a walkable distance away, so I’ve little choice but to consider myself a ‘local’.) Who’s the one feeling like a victim of prejudice now? Yes, ‘tis I.

Enough, enough; I must draw this to a close. Almost every one of DJS’s anecdotes warrants, if not repudiation, then at least a paragraph of calm reflection… but I can’t go on, I’m running out of space and energy. He concludes the piece with yet more on education, telling us how a school in Brixton is getting brilliant results from its students by employing a draconian regime. At this point, it’s as though he loses his thread completely, launching into a long digression about the virtues of ultra-dictatorial schooling techniques: “Pupils move from class to class in total silence… they are not allowed to form groups of more than six… [they] line up in single file.” By this stage, DJS’s original question, “Is racism a lurking menace in pleasant-seeming places” is so utterly and blithely abandoned that it’s as though he’s given up on journalism completely, in favour of becoming a demonic headmaster. His dreamy conclusion imagines the paradisial school in Brixton magically wafting its way to Lewes and curing us all, by means of silent reading in small groups, of our narrow-minded, mono-racial despicableness.

For several days, I struggled to come to terms with DJS’s feature. I couldn’t understand how a national newspaper editor had deemed it appropriate for publication. Was I protesting too much, out of jealousy or repressed prejudice? All I knew was that I couldn’t put my astonishment into words (and, evidently, I’m still unable to write a concise blog post about the piece). Thankfully, a couple of friends I spoke to last week – both of whom are Lewesians, one a teacher, the other a journalist – were more succinct than I have been able, so I conclude with their comments. One recalled finding the feature so ridiculous that he’d thought it was a spoof. The other decided that it could, after all, serve an educational function: “If I were teaching journalism students how not to write a feature, this would be my set text. I’d challenge them to identify, say, 50 things wrong with it.”