Collate, Fold, Staple...

My best friend Nicola has an MA is photocopying! Because of this I have an immense amount of respect for her.

Since the conception of my very own publishing empire two weeks ago, I have almost had several emotional breakdowns, numerous apparently psychosomatic illnesses and symptoms of; and have been cut, stuck and very nearly electrocuted by the most unfriendly of my equipment. If I see another complicated contraption masquerading as a photocopier, it will be the final nail in the coffin of my mental health. My elderly stapler found the volume of paper it has had to bind together all too much and has had to take early retirement, leaving me with no choice but to buy a new one with funds I do not yet have (a whopping £1.73 being all I’ve earned so far!). The printer is spewing green ink, the scanner has had its cable tasted by a mischievous rabbit and if I fall over one more piece of the discarded stationary strewn across the floor, I’ll almost certainly find myself in A&E. And being as stubborn as usual, I will not be deterred. Oh no. I finally got the latest batch of zines folded and stapled today and the previous batch mailed out yesterday. My next zine is in pre-production, research is underway and when these blasted paper cuts heal I will lovingly grip my pen and attempt to bash out the same old rubbish (that everyone would really rather I didn’t.)

On a high note I will stop typing and get back to tidying and humming happily along to The Postal Service. Much in the same was as they say cheese gives you nightmares if you eat it before bed, The Postal Service make you wake up in the middle of the night surrounded by the most wonderful buzzing sound.

Fireworked

I had a good post planned for tonight, but someone appears to have chewed through my scanner cable so my plans have quite literally gone up in smoke.

I’ve come to the rather hasty conclusion that fireworks should be banned. This would prevent them from falling into the hands of juvenile delinquents and most worryingly of all, suburban fathers. These men subsequently turn peaceful neighbourhoods into extremely dangerous areas, often resembling night fall in downtown Basra.

I was sitting peacefully in the darkened conservatory last night, barely half way through chapter one of Jane Eyre, when the world outside the window appeared to end in a blaze of green light emitted by a firework, semi-vertically launched over the hedge. My furry companion, previously grinding his teeth in contentment, leapt to his feet and promptly situated himself behind the sofa, stamping his abnormally large back paws frantically. Feeling slightly unnerved as the fireworks continued to zoom erratically past my window; I was more than once tempted to join him.

Seemingly normal men take leave of their senses come the beginning of November and retreat to their gardens with excitable families, before proceeding to wave around explosives as if they were a twirling baton. Fireworks are just as dangerous in the wrong hands as any other explosive material - its gunpowder not a sherbet dip. How hard is that to comprehend? Does little Bobby have to lose an eye or Grandma suffer second degree burns before anyone will realise that fireworks belong in the hands of the professional, certified pyromaniacs. Those who skilfully put on the end of festival fireworks displays and other such supervised events, not Mr Jones from number six who just accidentally hospitalised three members of his family.

We have sound

University Zine

In case you were wondering what the picture to the left with the 'buy now' button below it is, I am now going to explain.

University is my first perzine and centers around the first year I spent at university in Edinburgh. It covers everything from making friends, international relations, incidences of alarming stupidity and an adventure in a blizzard. Doesn't sound exciting? Well, it isn't really... but I have spent a lot of time on this so just humour me a little.

Nadiah and Jessica, you have complimentary zines on their way to you this week. Anyone else, you will have to buy a copy either directly from me or from as yet unidentified distros. (Being very, very nice to me might also get you a free copy. I rather like small trinkets and vegan cookies!)

56 pages, 1/2 size, 90g.

Cellar Door

Today is the worst kind of autumn day. The grey sky leaks continual rain and the blowing wind turns the golden carpet of fallen leaves into a swirling swarm of wet, rotting foliage. We retired to the cosy fire side with warm tea and time travelled back to 1988, where Middlesex, Virginia was basking in the loveliest of autumnal sun shine.
The following is my once published and long forgotten review of the film.


“Destruction is a Form of Creation”

Donnie Darko is a film that defies the genres of modern filmmaking. Part science fiction, part thriller, an off-beat teen film about time travel, mental illness, childhood, paranoia, a giant bunny rabbit named Frank, and the impending apocalypse. But director Richard Kelly’s first film goes far beyond anything he or I could ever have expected.

It is fall 1988 in the middle-class suburban town of Middlesex, Virginia. The US Presidential election is in full swing and the inhabitants of whitewashed Middlesex are blissfully unaware that the world will end in less than one month.
Troubled teenager Donnie Darko (Jake Gyllenhaal), a highly intelligent but increasingly disturbed Schizophrenic is the only inhabitant aware of this frightening prophecy. Prone to sleepwalking and terrifying hallucinations, Donnie wakes one night to a mysterious voice calling him from outside the house. Standing on the Darko’s lawn, a 6ft rabbit known only as Frank (James Duval), informs him that the world will come to an end in exactly 28 days, five hours, 52 minutes and 12 seconds. The next morning Donnie returns home to find a jet engine – unidentified by the FAA - has crashed into the room he would have been sleeping in if he had not been seduced outside by Frank’s haunting voice. Did Frank save him from being killed?
Heavily medicated by his baffled psychiatrist, Dr. Thurman (Katharine Ross), distant from his loving but frustrated parents (Mary McDonnell, Holmes Osborne) and controlled by his new friend Frank, Donnie embarks on a quest for meaning in which he will encounter time travel, violence, isolation, love and ultimately death.

As the countdown to the apocalypse proceeds, Donnie’s behaviour becomes increasingly anti-social. Frank encourages him to carry out destructive and violent acts, beginning with the flooding of Donnie’s conservative, private high school and culminating with the burning down of the mansion owned by sleazy local inspirational speaker, Jim Cunningham (Patrick Swayze), whom Donnie publicly denounces as “the fucking anti-Christ”. The only allies to Donnie’s turmoil come in the form of innocent girlfriend Gretchen Ross (Jena Malone), reluctant science teacher Dr. Monnitoff (Noah Wyle), and mysterious local geriatric recluse and author, Grandma Death (Patience Cleveland).

Richard Kelly’s magnificent screenplay was bought to the screen with the help of actress and executive producer Drew Barrymore, who plays a small role in the film as Donnie’s ambitious yet inexperienced English teacher, Miss Pomeroy. Barrymore was responsible for hiring Jake Gyllenhaal whose portrayal of the title role is what makes the character of Donnie Darko so believable, while the haunting score composed by Michael Andrews adds beautifully to the eerie feel of the film - along with the carefully chosen 80’s soundtrack featuring Echo and the Bunnymen, Tears for Fears, Joy Division and Duran Duran.

Donnie Darko is a unique film. It is clever, surreal, funny, creepy and at times incredibly heartbreaking. Often indulgent, Kelly’s trick of switching topics from the sexual habits of Smurfs to the science of time travel is quite baffling, but shows the freedom of the independent filmmaker at its best. An ambitious debut bought to life by an all-star cast, Donnie Darko is a visually stunning and powerfully moving masterpiece.

Big Mouth Strikes Again

For HND Journalism we had to write a profile of a celebrity.

Few icons manage to outlive the generation they’re born into let alone maintain a thriving fan-base two decades later. The road hasn’t always been easy, with lawsuits, fluctuating record sales, accusations of racism and all matter of controversy, but Steven Morrissey was never one to run with the crowd.

The roots of the Morrissey phenomenon lie in the Davyhulme suburb of Manchester where Steven Patrick Morrissey was born on 22nd May 1959. The second child of Irish Catholic parents, by the age of nine Steven was a problem child. His Father later admitted he thought his only son to be a “complete fruitcake”, but his Mother, a librarian, saw the artistic side of her young son and keenly introduced him to the works of Thomas Hardy and Oscar Wilde, the latter sparking an infatuation that persists to this day. Reserved and painfully shy, the young Morrissey was already a loner, a trait which would follow him into his teenage years and adulthood.

In the early 1970’s the barely teenage Morrissey had already discovered his interest in music, worshipping bands such as The New York Dolls and Sparks. His love was made public in June 1974 when NME published a letter from the 15-year-old Morrissey praising Sparks. Soon, he was bombarding the music press with early snippets of his piercing tongue and razor sharp opinions. In Manchester indie circles Morrissey was now a minor celebrity as fellow New York Dolls fan Phil Fletcher remembers, “I said, I’ve read letters by you in the press and seen you at the Free Trade Hall. He found it hilarious that somebody would notice him. I think he felt he was a star because somebody knew him.”

Conversations with other early Mancunian peers reveal that the young Morrissey had always wanted to be the star himself. What little money he earned from his first job as a clerical officer at the Inland Revenue was spent on records and attending gigs while he spent the majority of his time in his bedroom dreaming of stardom and penning scathing letters to the music press and his ever-growing collection of pen-pals. Morrissey was not prepared to go out and find stardom, it had to find him.

Now the early eighties, Morrissey had become what he later referred to as “something of a back bedroom casualty.” Spending long periods on the dole, he was what best friend and Ludus singer, Linder Sterling describes as “totally unemployable”. With very few social skills and intimidating eccentricity forming a band now seemed out of the question. He briefly changed direction and attempted to pursue a career as a music journalist, being taken on by the Record Mirror as a freelance local reviewer. A handful of record reviews and concert reports followed, but nothing more. In his early twenties Morrissey was already a has-been.

Eager to start a band, guitarist Johnny Marr approached local musician Rob Allman. Allman, a regular on the Manchester scene knew Morrissey and suggested they meet. Marr boarded the 263 bus to Stretford in search of the mythical Morrissey. By the end of the day, The Smiths was born. Marr called upon old friends Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce to complete the line-up and in a last attempt to consolidate himself as the next big thing, Steven Morrissey dropped his forename and became the Morrissey enigma. When asked about this Morrissey simply said, "I just felt this absolutely massive relief at not being called Steven anymore."

In the five years The Smiths were together they released five albums, toured relentlessly and became the band that epitomised the 1980’s. Morrissey’s eccentricities became a trademark and his decision to appear on Top of the Pops waving a bunch of daffodils and insistence on wearing a hearing aid even though there was nothing wrong with his hearing spurred the now legendary cult of Morrissey.

The demise of The Smiths in 1987 left Morrissey heartbroken. Despite admitting he always heard “great beauty in Marr’s rolling chords,” he was still driven by his ambition and wasted no time in releasing solo material. The cult of Morrissey was to leave The Smiths behind.

In the almost twenty years since the end of The Smiths, Morrissey has released six solo albums, toured the world, become a powerful animal rights campaigner, spoken his mind on everything from politics to British soap opera and in stark contrast to his previous Anglophilia, in 1998 set up home in Los Angeles, leaving England behind.

Worshipped by fans new and old and hailed as a genius by his peers, Morrissey is and always has been a true original and a bona-fide British icon. And as his nephew Sam attempts to shed some light on the real Steven Morrissey, the man himself is as elusive as he always has been. “At the end of the day, he lives in L.A., he drives a Jag, and he goes to the beach. I don’t think he’s living in a dark room dressed in black.”

Noise Floor!

Noise Floor: rarities 1998-2005

Since the very beginning of my love for Bright Eyes, many of my favourite recordings have been the ones hardest to find. Those songs that were sessions or split singles with short lived bands; appeared on compilations for friendly labels and zines, or 7” vinyl released on some obscure label in an American town I’d never heard of and could barely pronounce - they were always the ones to cut deepest. I collected these recordings, whether on battered cassette tapes with sun melted corners or on vinyl encased in pretty pictures, now displayed lovingly upon my defunct 1960s record player. I treasure them as if they were worth all the gold in the world, but that doesn’t mean butterflies didn’t flutter inside when I read Saddle Creek were to release a compilation of rare and unreleased material, recorded 1998-2005.

Noise Floor and I have now spent three long and happy days together. There’s no polish or perfect production. There is the nostalgic rawness of those early songs, so thoughtfully put together on A Collection of Songs 1995-97. I no longer have to steal time with unfamiliar record players to listen to Motion Sickness or wind the tape back into the cassette with a broken pencil for the Trees Get Wheeled Away, and although I miss the crackle of a needle on vinyl and the chugging of an old cassette player, I am truly grateful.

With last years twin releases a fondly distant memory and the Conor backlash (I believe it was the ‘emo’ and the ‘hair’) somewhat subsided, this record is a perfect reminder of why my love for Bright Eyes began.

It’s the sound of the basement and the fragility in the voice, the foot tapping on the concrete floor.

Love/Hate

I've been rather busy lately, hence the lack of updates here. While looking through some files on my old laptop, I found this wee article from a year or so ago. I thought it tied in nicely with the review further down this page.


I’ve been trying to avoid the return of Idlewild in much the same way as one would avoid a modern day outbreak of bubonic plague or a horrifically contagious, disfiguring illness. They have much in common when you think about it. Simple avoidance and blind denial worked at first, but it’s impossible to avoid contamination and Roddy Woomble now faces me from every direction, and I believe is currently crawling under my skin.

I can’t deny that I’ve heard the new record, I can’t deny that it was my own choice to listen to it, and I can’t deny that it did have some redeeming qualities. As a whole I can’t decide what I think of it, I just feel that it’s important to keep reminding myself that somewhere along the line, either Roderick Woomble or I appear to have suffered serious head injury.

Idlewild were one of the big loves of my life. I mean, who needs boys when you have bands, right? They were one of those bands that you could so easily let yourself fall totally and completely in love with. Many nights were spent alone on my bedroom floor listening to Hope is Important in the dark, staring at Roddy’s gap-toothed grin peering from the cover of Melody Maker and wishing I was the girlfriend looking through the dirty window on the cover of Captain. Everything about them was so furious and passionate, from Roddy falling around on stage wearing only one shoe to Bob’s constant sarcastic wit. I would’ve sold them my own soul. Hell, I would’ve given it to them for free.

I was in Virgin megastore on Princes Street when I heard Bob had left the band. Within days he was back in Edinburgh, stumbling along the street alone in a drunken stupor, can of Stella in hand. It’s when the reality sets in that you fall out of love the hardest.

My dearest Roddy, a few years ago I wanted to be your wife and darn your socks in our Highland croft, while you wrote songs about dreams to sing to lonely children. Then you changed and I found that I could no longer love you like I used to, so I left you to drown in your own arrogance. Please promote your album quietly. Love always, Elizabeth.

As far as Idlewild are concerned, I’m going to continue to put my fingers in my ears and yell “la la la la la”. You may notice me doing this at Rock City in April.

A kid carries his walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha

I’ve always been somewhat old fashioned when it comes to portable music devices. Maybe you could call me technology-phobic, but mostly it’s just a distrust of this little gadget with too many buttons and functions, that turns something so simple into something so frustratingly difficult. It’s not an unfounded fear, after all, your portable music device is your own pocket sized best friend, and arguably the best friend you’ll ever have.

For my 10th birthday my parents bought me a black Sony Walkman. It was the best present I’d ever received and everyone knew it. From that day on I was unreachable to the outside world, constantly wearing headphones, and an obsessive hoarder of cassettes. Perhaps the seeds had already been sown, but that Walkman certainly helped me on the way to the unsociable act of replacing people with music. Wherever I went, Walkman went too. One day the belt clip broke and I had to be inventive; now pockets, bags and even underwear had to allow Walkman space.

At 14, a glowing school report bought me a celebratory Discman. It was a novelty that lasted longer than most. I no longer had to spend hours making tapes on the living room floor, I could just throw my favourite CD’s in my bag and still make it to school in time for registration. The fact that it refused to fit in any pocket, no matter how hard I tried didn’t seem to matter either, I went very few places without my tip-ex stained record bag anyway. My relationship with Discman was a happy one, perhaps the only happy relationship of the mid-teenage period, but like everything, even Discman must die, and eventually the CD skipping as I walked to and from the bus stop became constant… and irritating. Discman went to bottom drawer heaven and trusty old Walkman was my best friend again.

The new millennium dawned with the arrival of a little silver box. It was back to taping my favourite songs on the living room floor, but with Minidisc-man it seemed all the more sophisticated. Minidisc-man didn’t eat battery’s like Discman did, and with me travelling further for my college education and spending an increasing amount of time out of the house and in the company of hot young boys in bands, seemed like the perfect portable music playing companion. The problem came when Minidisc-man and I didn’t have any chemistry. Sure, he was shiny and silver, and could fit in almost any pocket… but there was just nothing endearing or terribly practical to win me over.

My true love began to make me mix tapes as a token of his undying affection and Walkman and I were inseparable again. He was now almost a decade old and had some problems with the occasional cassette. Sometimes he would make a chugging sound, but never gave up on me. We went out into the big, wide world together, and no matter how many mix tapes from significant insignificants and four and a half hour train journeys I presented my poor old Walkman with, he chugged along constantly and faithfully. Then one day, after almost 13 years of loyalty, Walkman just stopped. My Father was kind enough to loan me his cheap, modern Walkman, but it didn’t compare… and to be honest, I think I’ve wore the poor thing out(you could say, they don’t make them like they used to!) I returned his faithful friend to him before it died completely and tried to show some respect for my beloved 10th birthday present Walkman. Here my dilemma began.

These days, everyone and their dog have one of these fancy ipod thingies. I’ve never seen one close up, but from where I’m standing they look like jolly scary little buggers, with lots of buttons and things that make no sense when all I want to do is listen to something that will make my shitty day seem bearable. I unwillingly convinced myself that a mini ipod would be the answer to my predicament. They’re tiny enough to fit into the pocket of any particular garment enveloping my size six waist, come in pretty colours and can hold so many songs that I couldn’t get bored for at least a week, maybe longer.

Asking for advice it seems, leads me further into my dilemma. My good friend, miss bad-influence tells me no. Miss bad-influence tells me that a big white dentist surgery like ipod is far superior, and for only a few dollars extra holds a million more songs so I’ll never, ever get bored. Confused? Me too.

I wish my black Sony Walkman had some life left in him, but I understand that I should move forward like the rest of the world. I can use an ipod. I can love an ipod. I just need a little reassurance, and a little faith... but mostly lots and lots of reassurance. And quite possibly a bank loan.

Roddy's Record Review

Once upon a time it was hard to believe Roddy Woomble could tie his own shoe laces or button his own shirt, let alone write and record his own solo record.

The highlight of his career had been lying on stage, screaming wildly into the microphone, one shoe on his foot, the other somewhere to the right of his head, while Rod Jones jumped limply over him. This was of course in the good old days of Idlewild.

So imagine my surprise when Roddy, believed to be on something of a hiatus after Idlewild's last album didn'’t quite live up to... well, whatever it was that the album before that didn't quite live up to, announced his solo project. Roddy it seems, had collected a bus load of Scottish musicians, including bandmate Rod Jones, Karine Polwart, Ailidh Lennon and David Gow of Sons and Daughters and Michael Angus of Foxface, amongst others, and headed for the Yorkshire countryside to begin working on what would become his debut solo release, My Secret is my Silence. Strangely, I now have visions of the film Withnail and I.

Produced by John McCusker, this rather quaint picture of a recording session has created a unique British folk album, somewhat reminiscent, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, of a bleak winters'’ night in front of a roaring fire, in the company of friends, glass of whisky in hand.

I have to admit that, Roddy, you have surprised me. You might now look, and quite possibly smell, like a young version of Last of the Summer Wine's Compo, but your first solo album isn't half bad.

Broken Records Zine Review

Broken Records is a memoir of the years twenty-four-year-old Jessica spent working as a record store clerk. During this time she graduated high school and college, was almost arrested and single handedly prevented runaway truck carnage and an in-store blood bath. The Broken Records store was the backdrop.

The importance to her of the time spent working at Broken Records and the relationships formed with co-workers is obvious as she writes of the problem of CD trade-ins, memorable sales of pornography and a hilarious late night road trip with the life size cardboard version of the local Elvis impersonator.
The characters of her co-workers and regular customers also come under scrutiny. A roll-call of fellow employees (they all love Star Wars) are introduced alongside store regulars the Prog and Porn Guy and the Aging Hipster.

Jessica writes with a fury of wit and inspiring honesty about the everyday life of a record store clerk. Whether the daily task or the 'did that just happen?' ridiculous, her individual style makes this zine impossible to put down until the end.

Broken Records even comes with its own soundtrack. The 17 track CD compiled by Jessica herself features many of the bands/artists mentioned in the zine (disappointingly Barbara Streisand, Genesis and Chicago aren’t included!). The CD does include Throwing Muses, PJ Harvey, Sonic Youth, The Cure and The Clash. Each track comes with a short explanationto its importance.

By the end of this zine you may have learned that despite previous media representations, there are women out there who make damn good record store clerks, do own every Clash album on vinyl and happen to posses a far superior musical knowledge than their average male counterpart.

Broken Records is available at all good distros. For a full list visit the Broken Records MySpace page.

Because I am so sick of those Gok Wan programmes

It only recently occurred to me that the media’s representation of the female form may be a little sizest. I haven’t been living under a rock for my whole life. This is just the start of the controversy.

We don’t all conform to the ideal size seen in magazines and on television. The curvy actresses and voluptuous footballers’ wives the media saturates us with present an image unachievable to many women. But unfortunately, I’m not talking about those who find themselves on the heavier side of the enviable figure.

Women who consider themselves overweight have endless resources designed specifically to help them lose those excess pounds. Celebrity endorsed diet plans and advice columns, television programmes that teach you to dress yourself thinner or extreme cosmetic surgery makeovers. All geared towards slimming you down to the socially acceptable average.

But what if you’re not over weight? What if you look at those glamorous footballers’ wives and long for a curvy body like theirs? Instead you look in the mirror at your non-existent curves and wonder why no one ever assumes you’d rather not have to. It might not be a problem of epic proportions, but there are some women out there who have just as much trouble gaining weight as others do losing it.

Often labelled as anorexic or frowned upon for their slender limbs, skinny women aren’t allowed to complain about their body shape. But long gone are the days when Twiggy was lusted after by men and women alike. Skinny is no longer fashionable and an alarming number of young women are going to great lengths to achieve a more rounded figure.

I am one of these ‘lucky’ skinny women. I can eat as much pizza and cake as I like and not put on a single pound. How easy my life must be, I hear you all say. However, the reality is much less perfect. Protruding collar and hip bones certainly aren’t sexy and the ability to fit through railings is a party trick best kept quiet. Many of my clothes have had to be altered accordingly. Despite the occasional identity crisis caused by the pages of glossy magazines, I’ve learned to live with my shape. I’m never going to have a curvy, womanly figure and this is something I’ve had to learn to accept, however grudgingly. I find myself reasoning, if Keira Knightley can work with it, so can I.

On Thursday 31st August, 2006, iconic supermodel Kate Moss appeared on page 3 of British gutter press, The Sun. The launch pad for every cheap glamour model since the late seventies, page 3 has become synonymous with the vulgar busty blonde topless shot, ogled by workmen in white vans across the nation. Kate’s appearance here, however out of place, was a landmark. Small breasted and slender, Kate’s poise and natural beauty proved that being a curves in all the right places shape was not the be all and end all of what it takes to be happy and sexy.

Trainspotting

Written a couple of years ago and featured in University zine.

Trainspotting

“One bottle of valium, which I have already procured from my mother, who is, in her own domestic and socially acceptable way, also a drug addict” – Renton

Danny Boyle’s influential and darkly humorous 1994 film Trainspotting was an adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s novel following the bleak existence of a group of Edinburgh junkies and Ewan McGregor’s anti-hero Mark Renton. Released in 1995 under a wave of hype from the British music press and accompanied by a quintessentially Britpop soundtrack, featuring the likes of Sleeper, Elastica and Pulp. It was at the time to film what Britpop was to music, proof that Britain was artistically thriving again. It was the film of the year. The orange, white and black promotion poster appeared everywhere, making unlikely icons out of Renton, Sick Boy, Spud, Tommy, Begbie and Diane. Every Indie teenager and student bedroom wall had one, a Che Guevara for a new generation, mine in particular coming free with an issue of Melody Maker.

Being just 13 at the time of the films release, I was five years too young to see it.
“You’re too young”.
“I’m too young for what?”.
To me it seemed like Trainspotting was everywhere, and I wasn’t old enough, or even looking old enough to see it, at least until video release. My mother rented the film for me one Saturday night when she and my father were out. I’m not sure if she was aware to the films content or whether this was just another example of my parent’s liberal view of raising a teenager. I don’t think even I was aware of what it was I would see. It was stark and shocking with a bleak humour, more so to a 13 year old girl, even one who considered herself more of the world than the rest of her age group. I wasn’t shocked. My eyes were opened and I became aware of a way of life, a culture, a reality, a whole image, in film making and in society. Here was an image that complemented the music I listened too, the words I read and was more real to me than what was usually force-fed to people of my age. It set me above the others, my school friends, my peers, so I thought, the ones who I already had no respect for.

I knew that none of Trainspotting’s characters could be classed as role-models. Icons they indeed were, images for bedroom walls and for film history. Except maybe, for me there could be Diane. Kelly MacDonald was the Edinburgh school girl picked to play the part of Diane. Her character was not even on screen that often, but she was as prominent on that poster as they were but in my eyes much, much cooler. Diane standing by the bar in that silver dress, smoking, looking around with that air of superiority is, for me, the highlight of the film. Mark Renton had fallen in love and so had I. She was cool, coy, witty, sarcastic and as sharp as her cheekbones; a sexy, intelligent young woman by night and an innocent, childish school girl by day. I had that short brown bob tucked neatly behind my ears and I wanted that sparkly silver dress. Unlike most girls my age I had the chest to carry it off but not the occasion to wear it. I was no Diane, as much as I wanted to be.

Watching Trainspotting now, almost 10 years later, it strikes me how dated it’s become. It’s firmly placed in the mid-nineties by its Britpop soundtrack and its fashion. Edinburgh has changed, no longer so run down, the city had been rejuvenated in recent years and to me, having lived in Edinburgh recently, little in the film is recognisable. There being one exception as Renton and Spud flee from their shoplifting spree past Boots on Princes Street. This sequence is where my familiarity begins and ends, in a part of Edinburgh so easily recognisable to me that whenever I walked there I was instantly taken back to that scene and as long as that Boots sign remains the same, always will be.Trainspotting will remain the film of a generation who took back their British culture and made it cool again, in film, music and literature. While the bands of the time fade away, Trainspotting remains an influential cult film that documents the time in which it was made, the music that accompanied it and the faces that made its name, but most importantly, it encapsulates a generations youth.