On this day…

A dispatch from 2001, in the midst of one of the most horrific events in modern history.

MY HOLIDAY FROM HELL
A summer spent travelling in the US should be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for a university graduate. Unforgettable it was – for all the wrong reasons

Photo taken on the 11th anniversary of 9/11 by Allegra Imhoff

Tuesday. Another day, another dollar in the sweltering South.

Look for toys. Ask questions. Beware the dog. 

Knock knock. An all too familiar sound. The door opened. There I stood, side on, a few paces back from the entrance just as I had been taught. My smile, although false and contorted with a grimace of desperation, offered a glimmer of hope. "I am a professional educational consultant. I can do this," I thought.

In front of me stood a hulking figure, in ripped denim jeans, sleeveless check shirt, stubbled face and frayed trucker's hat, under which sat two piercing eyes; the kind that meant trouble. It was the look of a man with nothing to lose. Before I could get into my stride and explain why this charred, clipboard-carrying figure was standing on his porch, he reached to his side and pulled out a shotgun. Raising it slowly and pointing it at my midriff with real intent, he hissed these chilling words: "Boy, you got a lotta nerve showing up here right now. Get off my porch."

How had it come to this? Well earlier that year, impulsive and unsuspecting, I had signed up for a business programme selling educational handbooks to families door-to-door. On paper it felt like a raw deal. I would have to raise all the money for flights, two weeks of training in Nashville, accommodation, food and 'office supplies'. Upon arrival in my designated area – Roanoke, Virginia, a sleepy, hilly expanse known as the "Star City of the South" – I would have to go from door to door asking if anyone had a spare room to let that summer. Once I strapped on my book bag and began wrestling with my map I would be working on 100 per cent commission – no guaranteed wage.

So why do it? The thrill-seeker in me, perhaps. Seduced by the road, that rebellious sense of adventure that crackled from every page of Kerouac and Hunter S Thompson that I had read up to that point, there seemed no option but to meet uncertainly head on. But on that particular day several troubles were weighing me down: colleagues who had jumped ship, poor sales figures, the fallout from countless six-day weeks of fourteen-hour toil in 90 per cent humidity and brushes with death while peddling along the freeway though the pitch-black night.

The neighbourhood I was working in seemed quieter than usual: no toddlers playing with their house-bound 'moms', no nannies busying themselves around the garden, no traffic. Greetings at the door were more hostile than usual, accented by a different reaction. A traumatised stare. Confederate and stars and stripes flags were drooping half-mast.

On to the next house. An elderly lady – the church-going type – recoiled from the door. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she declared. I moped along, confused. Was I missing something here? A public holiday, a hard-line ban on peddlers, the colour of my skin perhaps?

"Keep going," I thought. I turned the corner, surveyed the street and singled out a beautiful white bungalow with a "welcome" mat in front of the door and all manner of flowers delightfully arranged around the garden. Surely I'd be safe from harm at this sanctuary? And thankfully I was right. A compassionate Irish lady ushered me in with worrying urgency. Inside, the television was on full blast. It sounded like an episode of NYPD Blue. “The plane have just crashed into the building.” She paused, looked out at the garden for a moment and continued. "I think my son-in-law’s in there,” she muttered. “I’ll fetch some tea."

The date? 9/11.

Latest radio show – play me

SNC Radio, August 2015 – compiled, blended and hosted by me.

Featuring music from Ruby Rushton, Emma Jean Thackray, Remy Banks, River Tiber, ON-U Records, Romare, Universal Togetherness Band, The Hics, Gossamer, Hailu Mergia, Mbongwana Star and many more.

In-flight entertainment for the outernationally minded. Built for bus journeys, drives, offices and socials.

Thanks to all the labels that send me music, the DJs/hosts that inspire me and the loyal listeners that keep me motivated.

Like this? Try these:

Ross Allen
Alexander Nut
Bradley Zero
Gilles Peterson
Benji B
Charlie Bones on NTS
The Bandcamp Weekly with Andrew Jervis

Currently reading…

Want to hear a funny joke? 

"Print is dead." 

Lots of reasons why that's nonsense. The Independent covered a few two days ago. Vogue had this to say last year. And I weighed in the year before that. Even multi-billion dollar online businesses such as Airbnb have started up the printing presses. The best magazines are a real treat, a luxurious, lean-back indulgence, finding imaginative ways to tell you new things and delivering a real sense of satisfaction as you turn the final page.

Whether you fancy a good read, a break from the screen or a new perspective on life, The Outpost delivers. As soon as I heard about the structure of the magazine – What's happening, What isn't happening, What might happen – I was intrigued. There is the authority of experience in the editorial but there is also a beating, defiant heart. Lebanon-based editor Ibrahim Nehme and his team are reporting on "what it's like to live in this broken, desperate and lost region [they] call home." How it is, how it could be… 

And they have been doing so for the past two years. Starring the activists, architects, entrepreneurs and change makers on the front line of everyday life, this magazine pursues stories without prejudice. One minute we are reading rousing dispatches from cafes – the ideas factories of the modern Middle East – the next, we’re learning why micro finance isn't working in Palestine and how neglected heritage architecture in densely populated Cairo is a wasted opportunity to revive. However, each issue does end on an optimistic note. How about a vision of an Arab world powered by renewables rather than oil and gas? Or the prospect of better education and investment halting the marginalisation of disabled people in the Arab world, turning pariahs into proactive citizens?

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This is revelatory, agenda-setting stuff and deftly art directed. Time to move on from those bleak narratives about conflict, corruption, extremism and oppression. There is hope … for us all. You may notice a similar weightiness and journalistic rigour to titles such as The Alpine Review, Monocle and Delayed Gratification but The Outpost encapsulates something even more special – a heady sense of a community in a state of becoming. And that deserves wider recognition.

Subscribe here. Magpile's Dan Rowden had a chat with editor Nehme a while back. Listen here.

The fat rat

A quick tale that I knocked out while helping to test The Story Engine, a forthcoming online mentoring platform developed by the Ministry of Stories.

Once upon a time there was a pie-eating rat, Sir Roger III, a rotund fellow that couldn't help but snaffle every conceivable flavour of deep-fill goodness, from wild berry to Herefordshire beef & ale. His rich taste in meals was matched only by his dandy-like penchant for extravagant attire – waistcoat, cravat, monocle, cane. One day he was rolling down the sewer when he met an even more rolly-polly rodent – Tubby Trevor, undisputed king of gnawers and nibblers – who glanced over and suddenly broke out in uncontrollable laughter. 

"So, Roger, been working out I see. Call that a body? You used to be a real fat rat, now look at you. Trim. Lithe. Paaaathetic. Mwahaha. Carry on like that and this sewer will certainly be big enough for the both of us. And where would the fun be in that? I think its time you moved on. How about the bins by the local Whole Foods, mwahaha."

Roger pulled out his vanity mirror and check himself over. A tear began to form in his eye as his mind drifted back to memories of past glories at the annual Ratso Pie Fest where his signature celebration would be the point at which he had eaten so much that his "R" embossed edible waistcoat buttons burst off and flew into the mouths of his adoring fans. Like a triumphant tennis champion launching his soggy sweatband into the crowd. Only tastier. 

Then as the sewer began to echo with the bloated laughter of Trevor, something came over Roger. Was this how he would like to be remembered in Daily Muck, the local rag? What would his father, the fattest of all the rats – a pioneer no less – say about the whole affair and the shame he had brought on the family? Fuelled by rage and new heights of hunger, he plodded over to his vault, where he kept his emergency stash of High-Fearnley Furrball gut-busters and challenged his nemesis to a pie off, a dual to the death. 

Trevor twiddled his whiskers, loosened his belt and waddled over to the vault. Moments later they began to dig into Roger's stash, practically inhaling one pie after the other. The floor was covered with shreds of crust and a sea of assorted fillings. Trevor's form was impressive, setting about his task like a rat possessed. Roger quickly began to feel cramps and it looked as though this might be the end but then, the ghost of his father appeared to offer a little encouragement – you know, like those scenes in the movies where the hero is almost down and out. From nowhere, he summed up his fourth wind and gobbled every last morsel in the place. He would have moved on to Trevor had he not been hoisted into the air by his fans, now descending en masse and squeaking gleefully. Roger's expanding girth sent buttons flying once again into the mouths of this adoring public, signalling the end of the contest.

Dejected and humbled, his solemn eyes just about visible underneath dollops of sweet and savoury sauces, Trevor approached Roger and held out a tail in reconciliation. "You've still got it, Roger. Now excuse we, will you. I think I'm going to be sick."