Living in Japan for just over 11 weeks now, I've become fascinated with the nuances of Japanese realism and Japanese life in general. I adore the narrow neon-lit alleyways and the warm yet lively Izakayas and Ramen bars, I've learnt the art of weaving through the ocean of elderly ladies on bikes, and I know which vending machines to b-line for if I want a specific drink. Yet, despite being so very immersed in this compact world overflowing with new sounds, sights, and tastes, part of me does miss the everyday life of my mundane industrial down in North-West England. I don't want to be anywhere else right now; but my heart will always be there in amongst the run-down red brick tenements, the maze of terraced houses, the dodgy town-center pubs. I'm fortunate enough to have a very intelligent and talented sister who shares a similar burning passion for this experience, this everyday Northern English life. She's completing her A-Levels in art and film studies right now, with her final projects for both specializing in this Northern realism that captivates us both. It means so much to the both of us - it means comfort in every aspect, it means personal pride, it means history and solidarity of the working class which we come from, and appreciation for the simple things in life.
Appreciation for that simple industrial town's way of life stems for the both of us from one clear origin point; our grandma Sue and grandad Tony, and the innumerable weekends spent with them in our childhoods. Personally, looking back on trips to my grandparent's 1950s semi evokes a number of strong emotions and core memories. Most of the time when there I'd spend my morning and afternoon with grandad whilst grandma worked at Homebase or at Animal welfare. I'd wake up and sit on the sofa in the living room, legs dangling over the edge as I was handed a piece of well-done, heavily buttered toast on a piece of kitchen roll (in hindsight, I've no real clue why he didn't give me a plate). I'd sit there and watch a variety of recorded cartoons, sipping a glass of Netto's own orangeade and filling up on digestive and rich tea biscuits (these were 60% of what I ate at grandad's house).
The smell of cigarette smoke has always brought me a modicum of comfort and nostalgia, which I attribute squarely to grandad puffing away whilst reading the newspaper at the back door, appearing to 5-year-old me like a stoic hero from a spaghetti western leaning against a saloon wall. Imagine me as Anton Ego from Ratatouille flashing back whenever I smell that bitter and peculiar aroma. Young me was captivated by this odor and 23-year-old me still is, whisked back to 2004 every time I wander past a smoking area.
Nearly as omnipresent as the cloud of cigarette smoke was the potent scent of builder's tea; strong, herbal, warming and sweet. Its essence rose up and intermingled with the Lambert & Butler smoke, permeating the house in a most pleasant way. This home with its quirks of British-ness was the setting for many adventures and tales in and of itself. Most days, me and grandad would go out on errands in the late morning and early afternoon, me bundled into the back of his Vauxhall Cavalier as we drove for what felt like hours, winding our way through backstreets, alleys and coastal country roads, meeting grandad's friends and dropping off letters. We'd always stop at the betting shop, and I would nick the notepads and little pencils, stuff them into my hoodie pockets when nobody was looking. In retrospect I don't think I ever used this stationary, I just enjoyed taking something for the sole reason of taking it and it being mine now. On the way home grandad and I would stop by the pie shop and I'd enjoy the wonders of a proper meat and potato pie (unbeaten).
In my youngest days grandad would tell me and my cousins bedtime stories, and when my little sister came along he did the same for us both. He never once used a book; he'd just sit down on the edge of our bed and in a rough, slow Lancashire accent spin these fantastic tales about adventures, monsters, magic, and if we were lucky his time in the shipyard. "Grandad, tell us the about how you lost the tips of your fingers in that crane accident again!". I can't tell you much about the details of these tales as in 2 minutes flat I'd be out like a light. As I progressed in age my number one favorite activity in that house quickly became booting up the PC in the living room and and acquainting myself, for the first time in my life, with Windows Vista and the early days of the internet. I watched screamers on 2007 YouTube, I explored the world with google maps, and best of all I found out about flash games. Gamesloth.com and its treasure trove of weird, exciting, crude and sometimes frightening games enthralled me like nothing had before. I curse the day Adobe stole flash from us, because spending hours lost in the worlds of "George Bush Royal Rampage II" and "Spiderman has made you gay" was a genuinely massive part of my childhood.
In my older years, a treat that I came to cherish was when my cousin would come to grandma's at the same time as me and bring his Xbox with him; along with the overwhelming exhilaration of games like Call of duty World at War Zombies, Modern Warfare 2's Spec Ops mode, and Dead Rising 2. I realize I must've been super annoying begging my cousin to play with him every time I came round (sorry mate), but the thrill of playing these awesome games I'd never been allowed to touch is something I'll always smile looking back on.
I suppose in many ways, much of what I've described here is a universal feeling for people of my age and generation. Playing flash games on an old PC and eating biscuits is not unique to just my childhood, nor really even to England at all. But these experiences together, and the comfort that my sister and I associate with this setting - the cigarette smoke, the rich tea biscuits, the Umbro tracksuits, the warm nights by the gas fire, playing on the green, wandering around the local corner shop - shaped us as people and made us the way we are. Our adulthood has been molded by the exceptionality of life in a depressing town up North. And we wouldn't have it any other way.
Love you, Grandma & Grandad.
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