AN OPEN LETTER TO LISA NANDY MP

Dear Lisa

I have just watched your interview with Andrew Neil and I am absolutely furious: furious enough to slam a few words down on paper in the form of this open letter.

Some background. I was born and raised a few miles up the road from the constituency you now represent – Blackburn. In 1989 I became the white half of a mixed race couple. Soon we had two brown boys and by the mid 90's it was abundantly clear Blackburn was no place to raise two mixed race boys. A septic tide of racism was starting to seep into every brick of the town and the BNP were strutting their stuff. So we ran. We fled a hundred miles north up the M6 and found ourselves a new future in Scotland.

I never felt English, but after twenty five years I feel very Scottish. They call us New Scots up here. And being a New Scot has meant my two boys have had the chance to grow up in a country where racism barely exists. The BNP never managed more than 1% up here. UKIP and the Brexit Party never made it past 4%.

How dare you make up fairytales about "narrow, divisive Nationalism."? And how dare you criticise the Scottish Government for a record which you describe as "frankly appalling."? I think it is time for a few home truths. We still regularly visit my wife's family who live in Lancaster. When they need to see the GP they have to wait over a month for an appointment. We get one in no more than two days. When they pick up their prescriptions, they pay through the nose. Ours are free. When they park up at the hospital, they pay through the nose. When we park it is free. When my nieces and nephews look to university, they have to get their heads around the idea of living with a minimum of £30,000 of debt. If they lived up here, it would be free. English prisons are overcrowded to boiling point, Dumfries Prison is seldom more than 70% full. At eight o'clock in the morning in Lancaster almost every shop doorway is home to a homeless person. In Dumfries there is not a single one.

And I know about this stuff by the way – I manage the region's largest food bank. A few months back I handed out a food parcel to a young lad who had been made homeless in Manchester. After a few weeks on the streets, he decided to make use of his last worthwhile possession – his bike. He hit the road and headed north. He stopped at town after town to apply for a bed for the night and he was turned away every time – Wigan, Blackburn, Preston, Lancaster, Kendal, Penrith, Carlisle.... until he crossed the border. Into Scotland. And when he applied for homeless accommodation in Dumfries, he was given a room for the night straight away. So how dare you take to the airwaves to accuse my Government of a "frankly appalling record."

However, that statement pales into insignificance in comparison to what you had to say about our demands for a second Independence referendum. You actually suggested the UK should look to other countries for some clues on how to deal with "narrow, divisive" nationalism. And you actually cited Spain's handling of Catalonia as a shining example. 

As a New Scot, I have come to be a fervent supporter of the dream of independence. In the 2014 referendum I took the 'Yes' side in many debates. Over the years, I have written lots of blogs on the subject and nearly a million readers have read them. I guess it is fair to say I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am allowed to do this because I still live in a country where free speech is still allowed and tolerated. And every time I post a blog, I feel lucky and take a moment to remember all those who paid a heavy price for fighting to free their nations from the rule of London. 

In Ireland. In India. In Aden. In Israel. In Kenya. In Ghana. 

It's a long, long list. A shameful litany of imprisonment and beatings for those who dared to defy their London masters.

You seem impressed by the Spanish Government's handling of the Catalonian Independence movement. Well, I'm not. If I was posting my blog in Catalonia, I would be in prison by now. And if I had joined a march for independence, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life by Spanish riot police. And by now, my leaders would either be living in exile or imprisoned for years. And this is how you think the likes of me should be treated? This is the shining example of good practice you feel the Westminster Government should aspire to? Well, shame on you Lisa Nandy.

No wonder your party is down to one MP in Scotland.

Mark Frankland

New Scot

January 2020

UNEXPECTED SIGNPOSTS ON OUR ROAD TO OUR INDEPENDENCE.

Our road to Independence is going to take many unpredictable twists and turns over the coming years. Will we get there in the end? Of course we will. Will we get there in the way we think? Almost certainly not.

From time to time I have heard commentators make what seems to me a pretty interesting point. They reckon the day when our Independence finally gets over the line, the final push will come from south of the border.

As in a shove into the future from our fifty million English neighbours.

Obviously as 'New Scot' who was born and raised in England, this theory has always got my attention. And the more I have thought about it, the more I agree with the premise.

So how will this work in practice? Well here are a couple of random things which have happened in my life over the last few weeks which give a small clue.

Random thing number one. 

A blog of mine. I wrote the blog in question several months ago. it told the story of one of our cleints at the food bank, a young guy who had cycled all the way from Manchester to Dumfries, asking for homeless accommodation in every town along the way. The answer was a firm 'No' in Wigan, Blackburn, Preston, Lancaster, Kendal, Penristh and Carlisle. Then he cycled by the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign and he was given a room on his first night. Right here. In Dumfries.

The blog was read over 60,000 times. If you didn't see it, you find it via the link below.

MY BLOG FROM A FEW MONTHS AGO

So what? So something strange has happened over the last few days. Well. Strange for me. As a rule of thumb, a blog runs its course over the first few days and then it is read no more. Blogs have a short shelf life before they are parked up in an internet version of a dusty archive.

Well, for some reason this particular blog flickered back into life last week and for no explainable reason it attracted 5000 readers. This is a lot for me. I am no kind of celebrity. I only merit 1000 followers on Twitter and I did nothing whatsoever to promote the blog.

So where did all of these unexpected visitors come from? All Google can say is they were from the UK. My gut feeling tells me they are from England. I am not any kind of Facebook guy, but even I have noticed more and more online conversations between people living in England and people living in Scotland. Strangers in a virtual land. And it is the people living in England who are asking all the questions. Will I be welcome if I up sticks and move? Emigrate? Flee? And do I need a passport? And what are the schools like? And if my daughter decides to go to Scottish university will this mean she can get a Scottish passport once you guys are independent?

Millions of people living in England are in a state of shock right now. They no longer recognise the country they live in. They take a look around and feel appalled. A sense of dread. Those with the wrong skin colour feel a gnawing sense of fear. As do those whose surnames end in 'ovic'. All over England people are beginning to consider the option of finding a lifeboat to jump into. Those with sought after skills and fat bank accounts are starting to Google Canada and Australia and New Zealand. Others without ready cash and the right certificates are looking north. Up the M6. To Scotland. To us.

Last week Dami called in for a chat. Dami is the daughter of one of the Nigerian families we helped through the nightmares of the 'Hostile Environment'. I asked her if she had noticed the appearance of lots of new black faces in the town. Absolutely she had. She has only been here for three years, but already the difference is unbeliveable. As the white half of a mixed race family, I am pretty hard wired when it comes to noticing new black faces on the high street. Or in Tesco. Dumfries isn't anyone's idea of a cosmopolitan town. When we arrived twenty five years ago, Carol was always the only black face. And my lads were invariably the only two brown faces. Not that this was ever any kind of problem. Not like Blackburn. Well those days are well and truly gone. So where have all these new faces come from? They certainly haven't availed themselves of Westminster's warm and friendly immigration policies. Instead they have come up the M6. Internal migration. Sick of the rising tide of racism. Sick of the xenophobia. Sick of the strutting nastiness. Sick of Little England and the Little Englanders.

The new black and brown faces are easily noticed. But what of the new white faces? Like mine was twenty five years ago? How many are crossing the border every single day? Selling up idiotically over priced houses in the cities and towns of England to finance a new start in Scotland?

Is it thousands? Tens of thousands? Maybe? And who are these people who are so disgusted and appalled at the world around them? A few words spring to mind. Educated. Liberal. Tolerant.

Was it five thousand of these people who found their way to my old blog? And were they looking to put some flesh on the bones? They are hearing stories of a shining city on the hill. A sanctuary. Like Sweden in 1938. But is it real? Or is it an urban myth? Can I really get an appointment with a GP in less than six weeks? Can my son really walk home from school without being spat at and called a Paki? Will my daughter really be able get a free University course? Will our new baby really get the chance to breath actual fresh air?

Is it real? Should we go?

Well I get the feeling they are coming. Maybe it is trickle which might soon become a flood. And most will come with skills, energy and ambition. The same kind of immigrants who turbo charged America in the nineteenth century. A boon to us and brain drain to England. And which way will they vote when Indyref 2 comes around?

No prizes for guessing. For most, I have no doubt it will be the same way as it was me. Is for me. Throughout history, new immigrants who have fled oppressive home countries always become the most fervent of patriots in their new country. Their sanctuary. Their shining city on the hill.

These guys will be no different. When you arrive at a place where your kids don't have to suffer being spat at called Paki, you really appreciate it. You sign on the dotted line. You don't take it for granted. You take a side.

OK. Random thing number two.

It's a cold, windy night. It's the first Anfield game of a new decade. Liverpool are away and clear at the top of the Premier League. Sheffield United are newly promoted and basking in one of the best away records in the division. 3000 of South Yorkshire's finest have made the trip over the Pennines to roar on their boys. Loud and proud.

'You fill up my senses,
Like a gallon of Magnet,
Like a packet of Woodbines,
Like a good pinch of snuff,
Like a night out in Sheffield,
Like a greasy chip butty,
Like Sheffield United,
Come fill me again
Na na na na na...Ooooohh!'

None of their fire and fury bothers the Mighty Reds in the slightest. Liverpool keep the ball and make a mockery. It's so conclusive it's almost boring. With twenty minutes to go, the Reds are 2-0 ahead and cruising. Time for some substitutions to rest legs weary from the hectic Christmas programme.

The board goes up. 26. Andy Robertson. Our Glaswegian left back. New rules dictate he must leave the field at the nearest point. To avoid time wasting. So Andy exits on the Sir Kenny Dalglish side of the ground and makes his way around the touchline towards the dug out. At first his progress is met by thunderous applause for the home fans. Then he reaches the away end and all of a sudden South Yorkshire's finest explode into howling rage. Twisted faces and pointing fingers. A sea of V signs. And one word slammed out into the cold January air.

'ENG – ER – LAND !!!! ENG – ER – LAND!!!!!

ENG – ER – LAND!!!!!!'

So there it is. Andy is a Scot. The new enemy within. The new 'other'. The last time I saw a similar reaction from away fans to one of our players was way back when in the late eighties. Then the player in question was Johnny Barnes. Who of course was black. And for the avoidance of any doubt, they threw bananas at him.

Well it seems being Scottish is the new black. Maybe we should be flattered.

The UK will be leaving the EU in a couple of weeks. The deed will be done and all those who worshipped at the alter of Johnson and Farage will be eager for another enemy to aim their bile at. Of course anyone with the wrong skin colour will continue to be front and centre of their xenophobic ire. But it seems like we Scots are being lined up to play the part of the new Enemy Within. Traitors. Trouble. Perfect to play the same villianous role as the Irish, the people of Liverpool and the miners played in the 1980's for those who like nothing better than to sing 'two world wars and one world cup' on the back of a few pints.

And how will we Scots feel about this? No prizes for guessing. We'll be Seriously pissed off. We're not exactly known for going all meek and mild in the face of adversity. There are lots of died in the wool unionists who aren't about to change their minds no matter what yessers like me have to say. But once the spitting venom of those 3000 South Yorkshiremen reaches the mainstream and the red top tabloids, well I reckon we'll soon see a different story start to emerge.

So there you have it. Two random things. Two signposts on the road. And with every passing day, journey's end is starting to take shape.

A GLIMPSE OF THE DISMAL REALITY OF SCOTLAND'S SO CALLED 'TRAINSPOTTING GENERATION'.

About ten years ago, First Base launched a new project. It looked good on paper. It looked really good on paper. We called it the 'Walk the Walk' project.

Well, lots of things look good on paper. I guess invading Iraq might have seemed like a good idea at the time. Sadly, when good ideas which look good on paper are plunged into the freezing waters of reality they tend to fall apart.

Yup. Been there. Got the T shirt. Bitten and many times shy.

So what was it? This 'Walk the walk' thing of ours?

Here are the bare bones. We have always had regulars who appear at our front desk month after month and year after year and yes, decade after decade. The majority of these regulars are fully paid up members of what has come to be known as the 'Trainspotting Generation'. These are a cohort of lads and lasses who blundered their way into mass heroin addiction from the mid nineties to the mid noughties. It was a pandemic which started out in Glasgow and Edinburgh and spread across the land like a modern day plague. Dumfries and Galloway became an unlikely hotspot. When the plague reached its peak, an EU funded report revealed South West Scotland as the home of Europe's second worst rural heroin crisis. At that time, 7% of males between the ages of 18 and 30 had a habit. The scale of the disaster as mind boggling.

And we saw the victims. Lots of them. Every single day. Walking skeltons in charity shop anoraks. Pinned eyes and pale skin stretched tight over razor sharp cheek bones. Rattling or gouching. Usually rattling. Loathed and reviled by the local community. Despised ghosts. Not a pretty sight.

We spotted a trend. A treadmill. A seemingly endless cycle. Once the agonising craving hit an unbearable level, the ghosts would go to idiotic lengths to come up with the tenner they needed to make the pain go away. This almost always meant frantic, bumbling attempts to lift shops. It seldom went the way they hoped. The shops knew all the faces. The security guards would grab a hold of skinny arms and the cops would be summoned. Then it would be court and six months, usually in HMP Dumfries. Over and over and over and over.

HMP Dumfries was and is a great jail. It offers no material for a Netflix eight parter. Most of the ghosts would emerge from their sentence several months drug free. One of the first jobs on their to do list would be to bring a referral slip into us to collect a food parcel to take to their apponted homeless accommodation.

Most of the time, their good intentions hadn't survived their first hour of freedom. There is only one road out from the front door of Dumfries jail. Liberation hour was eight in the morning and the town's dealers knew this only too well. They would hang out at the junction where the one road emerged into other roads. Y'alright pal? Fancy a wee taste? And a £40 liberation grant was more than enough to pay for the wee taste and a resumed place on the treadmill. A few were knocked over by their wee taste, their systems unready for the first hit in months. For them a short sentence became a death sentence.

Others would ride the wave and make it into our place like zombies. Dribbling. Barely awake. Barely able to string three words together. In the words of the street, completely monged.

Later they would come back. Hungry eyed and twitchy. To apologise. To curse their own stupidity. To hate themselves for being such easy pickings. Distraught to have made so many promises to their families and broken them all within a few hundred yards of HMP Dumfries.

And they would often say all kinds of 'if only'. Honest Mark, this time I really thought it was going to be different. I was three months clean. I was going to make it up to my mum. And my gran. I was going spend time with the bairns. I was going to get a job and a place of my own and hook up with old pals who never went for the kit. You ken? That was going to be me.

So why wasn't it?

You Ken. They fuckers were waiting. Want a wee taste? Aye right. A wee fucking taste. And that was me. All fucked up again. Even if I'd make it all the way to the hostel, I would still have fucked it. Every fucker in there is on the kit. No way I'd have stayed away from it.

So what would make it different?

And always the same answers. Someone to pick them up from the front gate of the jail. And then a place to stay where there wasn't heroin behind every door. A safe place. A sanctuary.

So we took it all on board and came up with the 'Walk the Walk' Project. And it looked good on paper. It looked really good on paper. We set up a partnership. First Base, the Prison, the criminal justice department and the homeless department. A two bedroom flat in town was allocated to the project. It was on a first floor and defended by a locked door and cameras. We designed a set of rules based on what the guys asked for. They knew they couldn't be trusted. They knew they would exploit any weaknesses. They knew their addiction would make them lie and cheat. They had no interest in any niceties.

They asked for a complete ban on visitors. Break the rule and get chucked out.

They asked for daily drug testing. Fail a test and get chucked out.

Black and white. No grey areas. Hard line. Their call, not ours. Their rules, not ours.

So we took their requests and sold them hard for a few months until all the ducks were in a row.

Anyone wanting to join the project had to let us know a few weeks before their liberation date. I would go into the jail to meet them. To do my best to assess their determination. If they were willing to sign on the bottom line, they could join the project.

I'll call the first two guys Bill and Ben. Not their real names - obviously. I saw Bill in HMP Dumfries and I saw Ben in HMP Barlinnie. Both were emerging from more than two year's worth of time. Both were in their early thirties and had been living chaotic, heroin fuelled lives since their late teens. Both were past the point of no return with their families. Both had multiple stretches in jail under their belts. Both said they were sick of it and ready for a new life. A better life. A job. A flat. The whole nine yards.

They were both wider than wide. Seasoned in artful dodging. But smart. More than capable of finding a decent life if they stuck at it.

So I collected them from the gates of the two prisons and got them into the flat. Stage one. Tick. No relapse in the first two hours of freedom. And for a month or so, the daily visits to do the drug tests went like clockwork. Then things slipped. Not in at the appointed hour. Half baked excuses. And when they failed the drug test, they said the tester was wrong. Shite. A pure joke. And they left the flat in a flurry of swearing and complaints at the unfairness of life.

We still saw them of course. At the front counter. As the weight fell away and the time served clocked up.

Bill died long before he turned forty. And Ben faded. Two years ago I met him in Dalbeattie and he was a human skeleton. I didn't think he had more than a couple of months left. But a stay in hospital brought him back from the brink. Just not very far. By now he was a pathetic shadow of his former self. His family had disowned him. He had ripped off every one of his mates. He was banned from every shop on the high street. His life ran on a heavy daily dose of methadone and a couple of bags of smack when his benefits dropped into his account. In his words, he was the classic 'Giro Junky'. Pure fucked, ken?

Ken.

Yesterday morning I had an appointment at the hospital. I was running late and there was not enough time to trawl the car park for a space. So I parked up on the road and opted for the five minute walk option. Not a great choice. The forecasted 70 mph gale lashed rain at me. The cold lanced into the bones. The world was wall to wall grey.

The pavement leading to the front door of the hospital was gleaming wet and the newly planted trees were limbo dancing in the wind. Not many people about. Bent and hunched under flapping brollies.

And to the side of the sliding door was a figure in a wheelchair. Light blue pyjamas. Staring out into the raging grey. No doubt taking a break from the stifling warmth of the ward. And as I drew nearer I clocked the fact that the figure in the blue pyjamas had no legs. Everything below the top of his thighs was open space. Poor sod.

And them the figure in the blue pyjamas raised a hand and waved at me. A familiar voice from way back when.

“Alright Mark.”

Christ. 

Ben.

Ben minus both legs. Ben minus friends or family. Ben minus everything. Sat out there in the soaking cold of a January morning. Just staring. Staring into a future as bleak as a future can get.

Christ.

I returned his wave. I returned his greeting. I tapped at an imaginary watch. No time. Sorry. Need to get inside.

Which is what I did. And I made my appointment on time. And when I stepped back out into the rain he was gone.

So what next? I have no clue. It is hard to see anything good. It is hard to imagine a life more empty. Will he keep on using? What else is there? And for how long?

Over the last year or so, the news has had a lot to say about Scotland's rising number of drug deaths.

We have witnessed our fair share. Like Bill. Each and every one has been of the Trainspotting Generation. Each and every one has been years and years in the making. Slow deaths. Bodies reaching the end of the line. Old fighters unable to take one punch too many.

Ten years ago we came up with an idea which looked good on paper. An idea which slammed into a reality called Bill and Ben.

And now Bill is no more.

And Ben is sitting out in the cold staring into a million miles of nothing. With no legs. With nothing much at all.

And not much race to run.

EVERY YEAR OUR FOODBANK HAS A 'CHRISTMAS CAROL' STORY FOR THE 21ST CENTURY. LIKE NIGHT FOLLOWS DAY. HERE IS THIS YEAR'S DICKENS MOMENT

176 years have slipped by since Charles Dickens published 'A Christmas Carol' in 1843. I guess it's fair to say the concept he came up with has stood the test of time. It has aged well.

The great man wrapped the cold realities of poverty in the abundance of Christmas. Back then, it was all about lovingly dressed shop windows showcasing goods only the rich could run to. On that front, things have certainly moved on. The shop windows of the old streets of Dickens tend to lack tinsel. They promise generous 4 to I odds on Wolves beating Brighton by more than two clear goals. They promise 20 gig of data for £13.99 a month. They promise the best price paid in town for gold. They don't often tempt the passer by with a fat goose or a fine array of pies.

Now the Christmas message assails us all through Facebook adverts and endless canned musak in soulless aircraft hangers masquerading as shops and TV ads doomed to be fast forwarded.

And yet the message is the same now as it was in 1843. This is Christmas. This is all the stuff you really should have. The stuff you need. To be a proper family. To hold your head up high. No matter what it costs. No matter how close your credit cards have to sail into the wind.

The have's and the have nots. The few and the many. The 0.1% and the rest. Dickens sent 'A Christmas Carol' out into a world which seems more familiar with each and every passing day. Capitalism in the raw. Buccaneering Britain. Safety nets are for wimps. When Charles penned the final full stop to his book, the average life span for a Manchester cotton worker was about thirty five years. Now there's a thought for Boris and his merry band of brothers. There's an old school solution to the growing social care crisis. Work the plebs into an early death and thereby negate those pesky duty of care issues.

Then as now, far away from the gaudy lights, lay poverty. Grinding. Abject. Utter. 'A Christmas Carol' drew aside the curtain and now it has become habit. We don't worry so much about the poor on November 22 or January 13 or February 3. But Christmas is different. Christmas pricks our collective conscience. Christmas shoves our thoughts to the hidden thousands in barely heated homes. With mould on the walls and nothing in the fridge.

And every Christmas, a new Christmas Carol story for the twenty first century arrives at our front door. First Base. The foodbank. The place where worlds meet if not collide. At our back door, a procession of truly wonderful people pull up their cars to unload food donations by the tonne. And through the front door come those on the wrong end of the new buccaneering Britain. Pale. Bowed. Beaten. Heads down. Voices quiet.

Most of the time the poverty is run of the mill. Nickel and dime. Usual. Familiar. Ends not being met. Incomings overwhelmed by outgoings. Money stopped. Money stolen. Money all gone into the power meter. Money just not there. The same as November and January and February. Alms for the poor.

But as sure as night follows day, there will be a Dickens moment. A 'Christmas Carol' moment. A moment when the sheer misery of the whole thing stops you in your tracks. I mean, bad at any time. Bloodly lousy at any time. But at Christmas.........

The moment usually arrives with a phone call. Like a whisper. Like a gust of breeze on a rain drenched day. The voice at the other end of the line is always the same.

Small. Lost. Achingly embarrassed. Apologising. Yearning not to have to negotiate the sentences.

“.... I'm so sorry to bother you....”

“....I never thought I would ever have to make a call like this.....”

Then the facts of the matter. One by one. Each worse than the one before. Bad at any time. Bad in November. Bad in January. Bad in February. But at Christmas …....

Christmas just makes it all see so much worse. It shouldn't, but it does. And every year one set of desperate realities arrive through our door and arrange themselves into our 'Christmas Carol' moment.

To stop us in our tracks.

A quiet voice on the other end of the line. Ultra polite. Hanging by a thread. All but overwhelmed by the utter misery of the situation.

A brother in his forties. A brother who had been a successful tradesman for many years. Self employed. Self reliant. Doing OK. Doing fine. Doing well. A success story. Then disaster.

An utter disaster. A massive health crisis culminating in an amputation. And of course there is nothing quiet as Dickensian as an amputation. Now of course losing a limb doesn't mean you can't be a tradesman any more. Of course it doesn't. People who lose limbs climb Everest and marry Liverpudlian pop legends. But it takes time to adjust. To get used to having three instead of four. One instead of two. Learning how to be brave and remarkable and inspiring takes a while. A few months.

Well surely an actual amputation has to be enough to warrant some reasonable State support? Surely. Enough cash to cover the bills and focus on rehab. I mean, even the minions of austerity Britain have to accept an amputation as actually a pretty big deal. Surely?

Sadly not. The small voice on the other end of the line takes me through months of quiet desperation. Minimal benefits. Her hours cut all the eay back to 20 a week. And their mum is ill. Housebound. In need of daily care. And twenty hours a week can only stretch so far. Like a tired elastic band. Until the tired elastic band finally gives up the ghost and snaps. Breaks. Becomes unfit for purpose.

No money left. No space on the credit cards left. Not piggy bank to crack open. No nothing. Just a phone number. Our phone number. The number she never in a million years thought she would ever have to call.

The number she has now dialled up. In the last days before Christmas. In the midst of all those Facebook ads and endless musak.

And one last thing. The brother now has a date in the diary. For his assessment. All those questions carefully crafted to make 'No' the answer. Can you lift your arms above the level of your shoulders? Can you dress yourself? Can you climb the stairs? Can you....

And the appointment is on 27 December. After over six months of waiting. The appointment is on the other side. On the day millions trudge back to work. Beyond the lavish spreads and glittering tinsel.

Too late to help with a bit of shopping. Too late to get the heating back on. Too late to move beyond candlelight. Just too late.

So we make our arrangements. And an hour later the voice from the other end of the phone becomes an actual person in reception. Smartly dressed. Ill at ease. Completely lost in the unfamiliarity of the grinding desperation.

And we provide food enough to take her brother all the way into January. And we provide a print out pointing towards other areas of help.

We do what we can. The lines on her forehead ease slightly. A ghost of a smile flickers briefly.

An then she is gone. Out into the rain. The cold. The harsh reality. And I just stand and stare at the door for a while.

Then I shake it off and get on with the tasks of the day.

So dear reader. There you have it. The edited highlights. The bare bones. The warts and all. Our Christmas Carol moment of 2019. The last of the decade.

If you would like to help us to keep on doing what we do, you can find our online fundraising page via the link below.

THE FIRST BASE ONLINE FUNDRAISING PAGE

Oh. Nearly forgot. Have a great Christmas. 

OUR CHRISTMAS FIRST BASE PRESS RELEASE SAYING A HUGE THANK YOU TO THE LOCAL COMMUNITY FOR THE ASTOUNDING SUPPORT WE HAVE RECEIVED.

CHRISTMAS PRESS RELEASE

This December, The First Base Agency foodbank will issue over 500 hundred emergency food parcels. This is 20% up on the same period last year. Will demand continue to rise as we enter a new decade? It seems like it almost certainly will. The impact of the Welfare Reforms continues to have a catastrophic effect on many individuals and families across the region. As there were no indications of any policy changes in the Conservative manifesto, there is no reason to hope for any improvements.

There are also underlying forces which seem almost certain to drive up demand for emergency food over the coming months. The price of the cheaper supermarket food ranges has gone up steeply over recent months. Last spring, First Base was paying 31p for the cheapest Corn Flakes we could find. Now the same box costs 55p. Almost double. Once again we have seen a 10% increase in the cost of gas and electricity. These price rises hit the poorest the hardest and every passing week sees more and more families find themselves in a position where incomings are no longer able to deal with outgoings. Families have no more money to lend. Credit cards are maxed out. And we become the only show in town.

How far might the rise in demand go in 2020? It is impossible to say.

Thankfully this Christmas our local community has supported us like it has never supported us before. Over the last few weeks we have had nearly £20,000 of support in the form of both food and cash. Front line charities all across the country are finding it harder and harder to stay afloat as many sources of funding are slowly drying up. Without the astounding support of the local community, First Base couldn't possibly do what we do. We have been issuing emergency food parcels for 16 years now. Never once have we been forced to send anyone away empty handed due to having no food to give. Never once. And it will not happen this Christmas thanks to literally hundreds of people taking a moment to think of members of the community who are living through hard times. To each and every one of you who has supported us, thank you. Every one of the 25 collection points where our emergency parcels are available is fully stocked. From Langholm to Castle Douglas. From Kelloholm to Dalbeattie. There is no need for anyone to go hungry this Christmas thanks to fantastic support we have received. So once again, thank you!

If you would like to help us do what we do, you can find our online fundraising page via the link below.

THE FIRST BASE ONLINE FUNDRAISING PAGE

A SENSE OF DREAD AND PRAYING FOR RAIN. ANYTHING TO KEEP THOUSANDS OF AGEING NORTHERN BIGOTS FROM HANDING JOHNSON THE REINS OF POWER.

On a late summer morning just over five years ago, I was sitting in the same chair I am sitting on now. The dawn outside was rather non descript. Mainly cloudy. Occasional shafts of half hearted sunshine. But dry and forecast to stay that way. I hadn't slept much and yet felt no tiredness. Instead I was wired. Hyped. Completely unable to settle.

The date of course was 14 September 2014. Indyref day. And as the clock on my laptop clicked to 7.00 a.m., the enormity of the moment hit me sqaure between the eyes. For the first time in over three hundred years Scotland as all of a sudden entirely sovereign. As 6.69 became 7.00, our future was absolutely in our own hands. For the first time in three long centuries we were genuinely free from London's vice like grasp.

I had done my bit. Tried my best. Surfed the great wave of 'Yes'. And now it was D Day. The moment of truth.

I opted for fresh air and walked the dogs. Someone had planted a Saltire flag. It wasn't in any kind of prominent spot. Just a hedge by the side of a barely used country road. I remember stopping to just look at it as I worked my way through a cigarette.

Would we or wouldn't we?

Well. We didn't of course. At ten o'clock we surrendered our sovereignty and a few hours later all of us on the side of 'Yes' witnessed the Clackmananshire moment.

This morning the dawn is very different. There's no point hunting around for words of my own when Wildfred Owen's words are so right.

'The poignant misery of the dawn.'

Quite. It isn't actually raining yet. But it will be. Loads. Grey December rain served up with a side dish of high winds. Thank goodness. I am hanging on to the image of a pair of elderly bigots gazing out of their rain drenched front window onto a dismal Yorkshire street. They are filled with the spirit of the Blitz, but not quite filled with enough of it to head out into the downpour to cast their votes for that nice Boris who is promising to give them their yearned for Brexit. There's no real need anyway. The Mail has been promising them a bigot fuelled landslide for weeks.

Hopefully this will be a touching scene played out in front rooms all over the country. The blessed baby boomers who never saw so much as a minute of World War Two but are convinced they did because they watched lots of Sunday afternoon films starring John Mills. They are one ones Johnson has hung his hat on. The ones he had dog whistled at. Armchair warriors fuelled by a five year old cold rage after that Pakistani family bought the house four doors down.

So let the skies open and huge curtains of stinging December rain lash the front windows of Halifax and Wakefield and Wrexham and Hull.

Christ. That's what it's come to. Praying for bad weather to keep all the ageing racists in the comfort of their homes.

I am like a reformed smoker on this front. You see, I am a Lancastrian born and bred. Once upon a time I felt proud to come from this grey corner of the planet. I grew up in the shadow of Blackburn's dark satanic mills and I was happy to framed by the Lowry world around me. Then slowly but surely everything changed. Simmering racism seeped into the dark valleys of East Lancashire like a cholera outbreak and my home turf became toxic.

Our little mixed race family made like refugees. We packed our bags and took the M6 north. To sanctuary. And we became New Scots.

I heard a journalist talking last week. His words stopped me in my in my tracks. He, like me, was a Northerner born and bred. Doncaster. The Times had sent him back to his roots to write a piece about how many of South Yorkshire's Labour leavers were about to opt for Johnson. As it happened, his trip back to his youth coincided with the floods. He came across a guy who owned a double glazing business. The guy in question had thrown open the doors of his showroom to help the victims of the floods with food, blankets, sand bags.... all the stuff a flood victim doesn't get from the state. My Times guy was impressed. Moved. Warmed by this outbreak of old school northern instincts. So he asked the window guy about it and reckoned he already knew what the answer to his question would be.

“Well lad, this is the bloody north. Tha' should know that well enough. Tha's from Donny thi'sen. It's was what us Northerners do when chips are down. We get mucked in. He help each other out. No point waiting on those Tory twats from London. We'd be waiting for bloody ever....”

That was the answer the Times guy expected. It would have been the answer I would have expected. But it was't the answer he got. Instead the window guy said this.

“You know what lad, I reckon this is the Brexit spirit.”

Christ. God help us. A bizarre madness has taken root. I still head up and down the M6 on a regular basis. To see family. To watch Liverpool. And every time I head back home, the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign at Gretna looks better every time. And every time I feel like I am leaving hostile territory for home ground. The North isn't my north any more. It feels completely alien now.

So here I am. Staring out into the grey and praying for a day's worth of Noah class rain. My future is firmly in the hands of a few hundred thousand ageing bigots in small town from Blackpool to Cleethorpes. Behind their net curtains. Reading the Daily Mail over their Cornflakes. Bitter and angry. Hating the sight of the Paki who owns the Spar shop driving around in a new Merc.

Are they about to brave the rain to put some very bad people into power? Maybe. And then what? As someone who has been blogging for many years, it is impossible not to feel a tad twitchy at the idea of Johnson and his shadowy backers calling the shots. There is a new 21^st Century thing which happens when the new breed of populist fascists get a hold of the levers of power. The first people to get the three in the morning knock on the door tend to be the bloggers! We have watched this become a familiar story from Hong Kong to the Crimea to Bahrain to Iran.

Carol and I were talking about this last night. To be honest, for me it could actually be quite a good thing. A few months in a decent Scottish jail as a martyr to the cause of 'Yes' would probably help sell a few books! However if the incarceration was more Dachau than Barlinnie, then..... Well. Yeah. I am way too old to have the soles of my given the rubber hose treatment.

Which takes me all the way back to that late summer morning and a lonely flag by the roadside. We didn't have to be here. Right now we could have been looking at events in England with detached bemusement. Right now we could have been thinking 'there but for the grace of God.......'

Instead we are in the hands of all those ageing Northern bigots.

So I hope it rains like it has never rained before.

IT SEEMS OUR WESTMINSTER MASTERS ARE ABLE TO TURN POVERTY ON AND OFF LIKE A TAP.

We have been giving out emergency food parcels for over fifteen years. We were a foodbank long before foodbanks were even a thing. In fact when we became a foodbank the very word foodbank didn't even exist.

My point? My point is we know a bit about this thing we do.

One thing I have learned is that it is almost impossible to predict how many people will turn up looking for emergency food on a day to day basis. Over the last year, our monthly demand has risen from 400 parcels per month to 500 parcels per month. Am I surprised? Not really. Wages are stuck. Benefits are frozen. Food prices are up. Power costs are up. So it's hardly rocket science. The safety net of the Welfare State is increasingly filled with holes. So of course demand is up. How could it not be?

So if you ask me how many emergency food parcels First Base will give out in January, I will say about five hundred and I won't be very far wrong. But if you ask me how many parcels we will issue tomorrow all I can do is shrug my shoulders. The maths should be easy enough. 500 parcels. Twenty or so working days. So 25 parcels a day, right? Nope. Not even close. It might be sixty or it might be four. It is entirely up in the air.

That said, there are a couple of times of the year when things are easier to call. This is the time of year when people say to us 'you guys must be really busy right now.'

Why? Because Christmas is a couple of weeks away. And we are hard wired into the idea that Christmas is a brutal time for the poor. Which it is of course. Much of this is probably down to Dickens and the whole 'Christmas Carol' thing. Scrooge and Tiny Tim and all that. But that is hardly the full story. If you are either relying on Universal Credit or sick pay to put food on your table, Christmas is by some distance the best time of the year.

Why? Well I can't prove it, but the answer seems clear enough. All of a sudden from about the third week in December, people stop getting sanctioned. Sick people are deemed to be sick. Benefits are paid in full and on time. Why might this be? Well I'm a pretty cynical sort of soul. Maybe the powers that be are scared to death of the papers getting hold of the story of some desperate individual hanging themeselves on Christmas Eve in a house of empty cupboards and no power. Recently sanctioned. Hungry and desperate. Driven to utter despair. A Christmas Carol story for the twenty first century, yeah? The media would lap it up and the studios would be filled with head shaking, hand wringing guests on the verge of tears.

Nor a good look for our gallant Tory rulers, right? So they send the word down to their minions in the Department of Work and Pensions. Ease up lads. Make nice for a while. Pay in full and on time. And lo and behold the two weeks of Christmas are the quietest two weeks of the year for the likes of First Base.

On about 12 January everything goes back to normal. The DWP resumes its cold hearted war on the poor. Sanctions kick back in. Sick people are once again deemed to be fit as fleas. Because when all is said and done, who really cares if someone hangs themselves on 12 January. In a house with empty cupboards and no power.

The second time when demand is predictable has just happened. Sometimes it comes in October. Other times it is November. It is the week when the first frosts of winter arrive. All over Britain, people face a moment of truth. They have had the heating switched off all Spring and all Summer and most of the Autumn. But now there is no choice. It's -2 degrees outside and there is ice on the inside of the windows. Time to use some gas for the first time in months. Time to feed the meter.

Time for a moment of truth. 

Understandably, people figure if they haven't used any gas, then they can't have spent any money on gas. It makes sense, right? Except it doesn't because there's a catch. Small print. A sting in the tail. Whatever. It goes by the name of the 'standing charge'. A sneaky few pence a day which adds up quietly through the bright days of spring and the hot days of summer and the wet days of autumn. It adds up and it adds up. Out of sight and out of mind, until the day comes when it is -2 degrees outside and the moment of truth can no longer be avoided.

So you put £20 on the meter and most of it is eaten up by the standing charge. Which means you are suddenly confronted with a very Britain 2019 question. You've got £20 left. Is it to be heating or eating? Pop quiz. No middle ground. And the cupboards are bare. And it's -2 degrees outside. What's it to be?

Of course most people opt to switch on the heat and come to us to get something into the cupboards. Of course they do. Wouldn't you? I certainly would.

So on the week when the first frosts of the winter arrive, demand for our food parcels jumps. 10%. 20%. Just up.

Except this year it didn't happen. For the first time in over fifteen years, it didn't happen. In fact on the week the temperature dipped all the way down to -5 degrees, demand for our food parcels actually fell. How very strange.

Which begs the question, why? Why this bucking of a fifteen year long trend? Why did it suddenly feel like Christmas?

Well I can't prove it, but I am pretty sure the reason is exactly the same as the reason for our being quiet at Christmas. For the first time in decades we have a winter election. And of course the last thing Boris and his boys would want would be a desperate, dismal tale of a sanctioned benfit claimant hanging themselves in one of their target seats in the 'Red Wall'. In Hartlepool. In Bolsover. In the Don Valley. In a house with bare cupboards. In a house devoid of a trace of heat.

So it looks like the word has been sent to the DWP. Make nice until 12 December. Let the sick be sick. Let the unemployed turn up five minutes late. Allow some slack. Pay up and smile.

And on 13 December you can go back to business as usual. Come down on them like a tonne of bricks. Put a bit of stick about. Let them know their place. On 13 December you can do your thing and you can keep on doing it for five years. Long, endless years.

It would appear they can turn poverty on and off like a tap. Can I prove it? 

Nope.

Do I think I'm right?

Of course I bloody do. And in a few short weeks we will no doubt be busier than ever before . And in five year's time.....?

Christ. I shudder to think.

If you can spare a quid or two to help us meet the demand which is coming as sure as night follows day, you can find our online fundraising page via the link below. 

THE FIRST BASE ONLINE FUNDRAISING PAGE