If you need to commemorate the end of exams and feel you deserve a touch more class then a night of debauchery in Ziggy’s and a Yummy Chicken to celebrate, then Mason’s Mediterranean bistro is for you. Be prepared to blow the rest of your student loan and gulp cheap ‘Vodkat’ from a flask for the last few weeks of university life in the process, but the experience will be a night to remember, unlike most of the ones in Tru which are best left forgotten.

Main meals start from £15.95 but a choice of orgasm-inducing dishes from North Africa to France seduced me into selecting the roasted quail with pan juices and a rosewater jelly and sauté chicken livers to start – I felt that if I was going to be able to appreciate the internal organs of a butchered animal anywhere, here would be a good place to give it a try. Had I been in less of an offal-centric mood choices included a tempting sounding steak with black truffle butter. Vegetarian diners were not ignored, being offered a classic bouillabaise, or stuffed aubergine for the truly converted. An enquiry into the wine list reduced me to selecting the cheapest house white available for £13.50, but the promise of an overt bouquet with a ‘gooseberry pungency’ made my unhappy liver give a sigh of relief. For social climbers a bottle of ‘Pol Roger White Foil champagne’ is available for a mere £42.50. Chin chin.

As the drinks flowed and the conversation became evermore loud and less intelligent our table of student rabble began to feel increasingly out of place in the cool, old-fashioned ambience of Mason’s. Formerly the home of a high quality grocer of the same name, the restaurant has maintained its traditional charm complete with original wooden features, which no doubt make its usual clientele of the elderly rich feel comparatively more youthful. Unable to remember ‘the good old days’ I was instead impressed by the grace and character of the restaurant-cum-museum complete with its fascinating collection of ‘living fossil’ diners, indeed more than our money’s worth.

The starters arrived and looked delightful, and despite the complimentary noises that my friends were making in the midst of consumption, one mouthful of my chicken liver reminded me that offal is offal, not matter how expensive or well dressed. Though no doubt the best prepared in York, I couldn’t help thinking it would have been better appreciated packaged in a pouch of Whisker’s finest cat food and fed to a lonely spinster’s overweight cat.

Ravenously hungry I keenly awaited the mains and was justly rewarded. The quail was beautifully succulent and though swimming in a soup of juices rather than flying in a summer sky, my conscience was somewhat eased upon realisation of the fact that unlike the chicken, this little bird hadn’t died in vain.
Desserts were expensive but delicious, yet I have a small suspicion that they are shipped in rather than hand crafted. At the stage of the night however, I was thoroughly inebriated enough to devour both my own and scrape the bowls of my friends. As a food reviewer you get the privilege of ‘trying’ a bit of everyone’s in the name of research and upon this night I used that carte blanche to the maximum. If that’s not a reflection of the quality of the food, I don’t know what is.

From the busy, modern metropolis of Mexico City with its gay-friendly clubs to the millennia-old Mayan ruins of Palenque buried within sweaty emerald jungle, Mexico is a cultural overload of Latino lifestyle. As a British traveller you will receive greetings from Western adoration, to outright anti-American fuelled contempt. Expect to be followed with the shouts of “Gringo!” as you past groups of dull-eyed youths lounging around their pimped out taxis. Expect to be noticed, but expect to love it to the point that you will be itching as much as your mosquito bitten limbs to return.

‘Manana’ is the mantra of this country, and it’s worth learning the true meaning on your first day. It translates simply as ‘tomorrow’ and will see you through the buses that will be late, the dishes in restaurants that arrive plate by plate, never allowing you to eat at the same time, and which may be garnished with the odd black hair. It is the Mexican philosophy that gives preference to living rather than working, allowing things to happen within their own natural time frame. Don’t give into frustration, just always carry a book.

Upon arrival in Mexico City a twelve hour bus journey transported Janna and I to the bus station in Puerto Escondido, nestled within the culturally rich state of Oaxaca. When taking buses there is a small difference in fare between first and second class, so opt for first but take a blanket as the air-conditioning will leave you huddling into the sleeping stranger by your side for warmth. Puerto is a surfer’s paradise. Dangerous 6ft high waves in perfect quaver curls uniformly rush towards the bleached white shores, throwing tenacious swimmers and unskilled body boarders into disarray. Having experienced numerous ‘wipe-outs’ – a surfers term indicating a catastrophic fall from a board – on our gap year two years previously we avoided the ocean and soaked up some sun, anticipating a night of annihilation instead in a club of the same name.

Walking down the main strip of clubs in Puerto’s centre we followed the enticing beats of reggaton to some of our old favourite jaunts. ‘Blue’ coughed up a healthy dose of free ‘mezcal’ shots, Tequila’s evil cousin which is distilled from the fermented juice of an agarve plant to over 50% potency. For ladies, a dance on the bar is often enough to guarantee free drinks for most of the night, but display caution with both the number of drinks you consume and the men that offer to buy them. We danced our way to ‘Wipeout’ in search of an old amigo, and sure enough Dabid, an unusually tall and handsome Mexican was grinning behind the bar at us.

As the night grew messier Janna and I were soon left with an empty bottle of Tequila and were being hounded with the chants of “eat the worm!” As an ex-vegetarian Janna had more kudos to escape this punishment than I, so in an attempt to be open-minded I gulped it down. A slight feeling of nausea is all that can be expected, rather than the rumoured hallucinogenic properties of this alcohol soaked insect.

A painful hangover the following morning led us to soothe our weary souls with an afternoon boat trip, best arranged personally on the beach with a local fisherman. Soon we were transported to the calmer side of Puerto’s waters, cooing with schoolgirl delight at the backs of dolphins playing in the waves generated by our boat. As a hedonistic town Puerto is the perfect introduction to Mexico, but after surviving a few nights, like Pinocchio’s wonderland you need to get out of there to avoid turning into a complete ass.

Joined by Dabid, our faithful bartender, we made a trip to Ventanilla’; a small eco-tourism type attraction, whose income sustains the local villagers. Previously a coconut plantation it is now marketed as a crocodile lagoon, and a protected breeding ground for the rare loggerhead turtle. The local people used to make a living by poaching the eggs which are believed to be an aphrodisiac, ensuring a decent profit from black market sales. Now most locals act as guides and workers for the project and a half-hour boat trip tour around the extraordinary lagoon at sunset will treat you to an unforgettable serenade of birdsong, as lazy crocodiles bask in the waning light.

Passing a night at the wooden tree-house style accommodation for a handful of pesos allowed us to join one of the workers, Lalo, on a night time walk to beat the poachers in a hunt for turtle’s eggs. Walking along the moonlit, virgin beach hundreds of glow-bug like plankton shone within my footprints, reflecting the densely star-studded sky above. We saw the wreck of a small plane and were informed by Lalo that it was the crash-site of a drug smuggling enterprise. Allowing us to climb onto the tip of its wings we scoured the beach for signs of turtle tracks, and quickly found what we were searching for. Digging at the end of the tracks with our bare hands we created a hole two feet deep in the loose sand. Soon our fingers began to feel heat, and touched upon the nest of wet, leathery golf-ball sized turtle eggs. “Which are delicious with salt and lemon,” Lalo added, winking. Making sure that Lalo transferred all the eggs to his bag and kept none for personal consumption we then returned to the main centre, in which the eggs were once again buried in a fenced off enclosure.

After a long sleep of feeling like hammock wrapped happy meals for the feasting bugs we awoke the next morning tired and itchy. Imploring Dabid to fetch us some coconuts we watched him monkey-climb his way up a palm tree, from which he cut down three ripe specimens with a machete. We passed a day on the beach, eagerly awaiting sunset. As the sun finally began to melt like a runny yolk into the sea we were handed buckets full of baby turtles which had hatched from previously collected eggs. Setting the tiny creatures, fragile and delicate just meters from the lapping waves, we watched them flap their way forward, only to be swept up in a handful of surf. In a few years these fully grown turtles would travel thousands of kilometres across the ocean to return to these shores, and I knew that I too would be back.

Chocolate eggs and the Easter bunny make my blood run cold, but rather than miss out entirely on the celebrations this year I’ve decided to join in the festivities with a twist.

Now an ostrich egg is an unusually beautiful thing, yet a twenty quid price-tag has done much to quell my desire. Yet routinely gazing at the basket of boule sized cream (coloured) eggs in the window of Fudies I struck upon an idea that would enable me to sample the produce of this large flightless bird, without damaging my already dangerously low bank balance any further.

Take ten friends, each donating two pounds apiece with the promise of a breakfast with a difference. You’ll need a very large pan, plenty of toast, and a small hammer and pointed object to help crack the shell.

With a few gentle taps you’ll break through the tough inner membrane, now stick in a chop stick and curdle up the insides. (Alternatively you could simply pour the content, little by little into a frying pan to create minature omelettes.)

Boil for one and a half hours with the hole end facing upwards. When ready dish up scrambled ostrich eggs on toast, believe me you’ll be able to taste the difference.

As each egg is equal to roughly two dozen chicken eggs there will be plenty to go around and you can keep the shell as a souvenir.

I normally try my best to avoid chain restaurants, and Cafe Rouge did little to sway that judgment. I was prepared for disappointment yet the emergence of ‘2 for 1’ vouchers encouraged me to indulge my childhood judgment and go for the most expensive thing on the menu.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have my desired dish, or about five other of the most mouth-watering options. I was forced into selecting the Prime Sirloin steak with a side of peppercornsauce to console me. Whether the waitress mixed up, or the chef was on the unusually cautious end of trying to protect his customers from food-poisoning, my ‘rare’ request was swapped for a well done steak with a charcoal taste. It wasn’t bad, but I have had better chips at burger King

The atmosphere was pleasant with whimsical Moulin-Rouge-meets-Alice-in-Wonderland decor. Of the best options ordered was the succulent ‘confit de canard’, unfortunately five of the guests had made the mistake of ordering the sausage. Glaringly red with a gristly texture it resembled something best not eaten at the dinner table. As a last ditch attempt the brave ordered dessert and were richly rewarded. With satisfaction I cracked open a delicious crème brulee with a top like a caramelised ice-rink.

“I won’t dignify that question with an answer.” I can’t believe I used that line. I throw the drunken boy a dirty look and totter off in my ridiculously high heels. I plough through the intoxicated party goers and head for the drinks corner. So much for making an effort, my makeup’s on thick, my hairs up, my Union Jack thong pulled painfully high for all to see. Yet this is no drag and slag party. I thought I was embracing my Northern roots, exposing the true essence of Geordie life; I may not speak with much of a traceable accent, but I’ve pole danced with the best of them.

It turns out there are downsides to trying to be the star of the local ‘Chav-esque’ themed party. Yet as I gaze around, shreds of guilt begin nagging at my conscience. My friend tries to reassure me: “it’s only because you’re tall and thin.” “That I was mistaken for a man?” I growl back, doubt taking hold, but not, however, regarding my gender. Though we may look like a scene from that notoriously dirty comic book ‘Viz’, was I really doing Newcastle any justice? In fact, is this all just harmless student fun, or is it something that runs a bit deeper? Is there not just a touch of socially condoned class discrimination behind the coke-bottle fringes and ‘kappa slapper’ gear? Have you ever tried to look at your life through the telescope of the future, wind forward a few decades and imagine how minds of the future will think of our view-points? Which will be old-fashioned, even backwards? I couldn’t help thinking that I was standing in the midst of a scene that would one day be viewed in such a light. Like some of the racially prejudiced elderly who can never let go, perhaps we are destined to be a generation of unashamedly classist OAPS, unable to see the folly of our beliefs in a more liberal thought paradigm, justifying our prejudices as ‘just a bit of fun.’

“It’s political correctness gone mad” I berated my father when he banned me from using the word ‘charva’ or ‘chav’ in his presence. It’s a media buzz-word, we’re surrounded by it; ‘chav’ themed parties, ‘Chav-D’ – if YUSU allow it, surely it’s okay. Yet as a typical ‘born choking on a silver spoon’, child of the middle-classes, perhaps it’s easy for me to be so flippant. For my father, and many of our parents who were raised in working class environments, icicles-hanging-from-the-inside of their four-kids-in-a-bed council houses, such acceptance of a term may only be endorsed by a sheltered and ignorant perspective.

“I’m proud to be a chav, if by chav you mean working class made good.” Mused Girls Aloud star Cheryl Cole to Marie Claire magazine in 2005. But unfortunately that is a rather positive view of the term. In the same year as Cheryl’s confession, ‘Chav’ proudly became an accepted word of the English language, making the Collins English Dictionary.

The BBC website provides a thorough character guide of her most distinguishing features: ‘Your common-or-garden teenage delinquent, the sort you can see hanging around any number of off licences in Britain, trying to persuade people going inside to buy them 10 fags and a bottle of White Lightening.’ Rather than the sleek and manicured beauty of last year’s X Factor judge, it seems that Vicky Pollard is more akin to one’s usual idea of a ‘Chav’ or ‘Chavette’. Adorned in a pink Kappa tracksuit, gold hoop earings, sovereign rings and a bleached high ponytail for the crowning glory, perhaps we’ve found our Queen of the Chavs, Britain’s favourite comedic scapegoat lampooned by the masses.

The word ‘Chav’ certainly has many equivalents, depending on your region. Think Townies, Kevs, Hood Rats, Charvers, Steeks, Stigs, Bazzas, Yarcos, Ratboys, Chorer, Skangers, Scutters, Janners, Kappa Slappers, Scallies, and Spides. Every town seems to have a variation. The origins of the word arose from the North East, where the term ‘Charva’ has been used for decades to the same effect.
The ‘Urban Dictionary’ describes ‘Chavs’ as ‘amoral,’ ‘inherently racist’, and ‘highly fertile’ with many offspring, sporting a love of modified cars, cigarettes and R ‘n’ B. In terms of dress they have a fondness for sportswear, ‘bling and Burberry.’ This ‘chav’ fashion sense has even been recognised by those in the business. Rather than encouraging the market however, Burberry attempted to distance themselves from their more ‘uncouth’ fans. When pubs and clubs started banning those who dressed in the label Burberry took action, removing the sale of checked baseball caps and reducing the visibility of the pattern. The symbol that used to adorn a fifth of all their products was, by 2004, on less than 5%.

“It has become quite a jokey thing. But the white working class are the last acceptable group to demonise,” Michael Collins, author of The Likes of Us, a biography of the white working classes, told the BBC when questioned on the usage of the term. There’s nothing new with the middle classes sneering at the working class people who are a bit “showy” yet with the ‘chav phenomenon’ it seems that much of the vitriol has come from masses “who consider themselves progressive.”

Last month directors of the tour company ‘Activities Abroad’ sparked controversy when they advertised ‘chav-free’ holidays in an email to over 24,000 people as part of their marketing strategy. ‘Defending their stance Director Alistair McLean claimed that the statement was ‘tongue in cheek.’ The tour company took advantage of some research that suggested that particular names were often associated with certain demographic segments of Britain’s population. Having googled the word ‘chav’ to find out which names were most highly associated with it they then looked at their own data and found out that no Dazzas, Britneys, Biancas, Chardonnays or Candices had ever been on one of their trips. They then used this ‘evidence’ to entice the young on ‘chav-free’ experiences to meet the more appealable likes of John, Sarah, James, Charlotte and Lucy.

They received 17 complaints. One woman, named ‘Candice wrote: “How dare you define and typecast people by their name. I own my own business, have a postgraduate degree, an undergraduate degree, 4 A-Levels, an advanced diploma in Life Skills, a diploma in Performance Coaching, GCSEs, speak French and Italian and drive a Merc. Happy slap that”.

Even more drastic action has been taken against those who dare to use the word in a professional context, warning those who use it to take care, even when online. Last year Virgin Atlantic sacked 13 cabin crew members for referring to passengers as ‘chavs’ on a Facebook group. A spokesperson from Virgin justified the dismissal saying that the comments “brought the company into disrepute and insulted some of our passengers.” She claimed “It is impossible for these cabin crew members to uphold the high standards of customer service that Virgin Atlantic is renowned for if they hold these views.” Such a response arguably puts the word ‘chav’ on the same level as homophobic and racially offensive vocabulary. It certainly demonstrates not just the level of insult that the phrase can denote but also how seriously its usage can be taken.

Lembit Opik, the Liberal Democrat MP feels that the word is indeed a derogatory term used to attack young working class people whose terminology can even be akin to ‘council house scum’: “I do feel strongly that people who think this is a genuine label are really only labelling themselves as snobs” he reveals. Yet it may indeed be hard to take such sentiments to heart when you hear that he was formerly engaged to a ‘cheeky girl.’

Is it not also possible to argue that the term is light-hearted, akin to any stereotyped group, ‘goth,’ ‘hippy’ or ‘skater?’ “I think that ‘chav’ is just the opposite word to ‘Toff.’” says Andy Parker, a University of York student from Doncaster. “They’re not that offensive, certainly not on the same scale as racially abusive words. I think it all depends what you mean when you refer to one, if it’s just the way someone dresses or speaks, or whether you associate these characteristics coupled with much worse behaviour.” Though a fair point, whether TRU would have attracted as much clientele if it had formerly been known as ‘Chavs’ rather than ‘Toffs,’ remains doubtful.

It seems that there’s not only defence of the term itself, but defence of the group it represents on such a large scale that Parliament is taking notice. Ealing MP Stephen Pound would happily be a spokesperson for the chav nation. “People who use the word don’t understand the joy and confidence in display. They are just jealous that they can’t play football as well as Wayne Rooney,” he told the BBC. He also comments that the chav phenomenon is a form of social snobbery, yet seems happy to use the word itself. He describes himself as an “aspirant chav”, who proudly wears his Fulham shirt, yet is saving up for his gold rings. One angry commenter responded: “Chavs have votes and can buy newspapers. That’s the only reason MPs and journalists have taken to them.”

The MP was also criticised for being naive, and recommended to leave his “luxury home” to move to an inner city area, where he would soon learn why ‘chavs’ have such a bad reputation when he is “harassed for no reason” and has his “property vandalised”.

“The term is superfluous” says Tom Nethercott, a student from Tyne and Wear. “I use it myself but only to describe openly abusive, aggressive individuals who sit around drinking cider in tracksuits and baseball caps. That’s what the term ‘charva’ was originally meant to refer to. I think the problem is that it has become a term for snobby people to use to talk down to people that they deem working class irrelevant of their behaviour. Anyone basically wearing three white stripes”.

Mark Littlewood who writes for the Telegraph defends the phrase and says ‘chav’ “might not be an elegant or beautiful term, but its widespread acceptance and use in modern English has informed, amused and helped us to articulate how we experience modern society.” There are certainly plenty of entertaining articles detailing the escapades of a ‘chav mum’ and even a ‘design a chav’ website,
So is it okay to use the word chav? In the words of one far more knowledgeable on the subject ; “Yeah, but, no, but, yeah, but, no, but, but…”

I first heard about this unusual phenomenon whilst backpacking in India. In a place like Delhi where £2 can buy you a double room with en-suite (albeit not with the most sanitary of conditions) you never need to worry about accommodation, full hostels, or booking ahead. However, in Japan, the prospect of funding oneself over three weeks is downright intimidating.

www.couchsurfing.com is an internet site for the adventurous traveller who’s keen to learn more about a culture than a cathedral or ruin can give. Like Facebook, every member has a profile with a picture and some information. You can act as a host and advertise your spare sofa or you can freeload off others by selling the best parts of your personality, advertising why you’d make the perfect guest. Although it may sound like a horror movie in the making, personal experience has taught me that putting a little faith in the kindness of strangers can pay off dividends. There’s even a rating system enabling you to leave comments about your experience to help filter out the psychos.
With 895,719 couchsurfers in action, the world’s your oyster.

My first experience of hosting rather than being hosted involved a young, good-looking Turkish man who introduced himself as “Farty”. Trying to suppress a smile I welcomed him inside and offered him a cup of English tea. We sat down for a chat and any fears that I had of inviting some sort of oddball into my home evaporated when he told me that he was au-pairing a six-year-old in the South. Farty was intelligent, courteous, and had a great sense of humor. His first act of goodwill was to walk down to Somerfield, buy some ingredients and then whip up a tasty Turkish cake. Within an hour we were chatting like old friends, and I felt genuinely excited about showing him around. As I was just about to tell him there’d be some additions to our party there was a knock at the door, and two blonde, blue eyed Austrian girls beamed at me with bright smiles and big rucksacks. Farty looked delighted. I figured if I was going to host I might as well throw myself in at the deep end.

Soon I was walking them around campus, feeding the ducks and feeling fantastic, my ego inflated by their compliments and appreciative attitudes. I was brought free drinks at the local, and they even paid for my meal at Totos. Best of all I had the opportunity to have a laugh and make friends with some genuinely interesting people; anyone up for dining and sleeping in the house of a perfect stranger won’t be your usual plain Jane.

After hosting a myriad of delightful travellers and earning a good store of karmic goodwill I decided it was my turn to become an international bum and escape the sky-rocketing hotel prices of Japan. The Couchsurfing website provided me with a wide range of potential hosts; you simply type in your city of choice and then pick whichever host looks least threatening. Yuji intrigued me due to the sheer number of travellers that he had allowed to stay. An enquiry email was answered by a speedy confirmation that he had room, and so we found ourselves welcomed within the throes of a local Japanese party on our first ever night in Japan.

The fun and games, however, were cut short at 11pm when Yuji pulled the plug on the music and told us to clean up and quieten down. Obviously there had been some trouble with noise and the neighbours in the past. It was then that I realised nearly everybody at the party was in fact staying, and looking around the modest two bedroom apartment I began to wonder where Andy and I would kip. The “Couchsurfers room” was full of top to tail sleeping bags and the most available room seemed to be beneath the kitchen table. We decided that the prospect would look a lot more inviting after some ritual intoxication, so we hit a local bar for a spot of sake and karaoke . We returned in good spirits in the small hours, settling into alcohol induced oblivion. Although not the most luxurious of facilities, it was pleasant enough to endure for a few more nights.

After recovering in the traditional ryokans of Kyoto, the cultural epicentre of Japan, we decided to blag a free night’s rest in Nara, home to the biggest indoor Buddha in the world. We were accepted by Mayumi, a 30-year-old local cafe owner who exuded a wonderfully calming temperament. She invited us to join her family for some ramen noodles and tempura. New to chopsticks, we fought a losing battle to uphold a sense of decorum, yet gained a valuable insight into Japanese culture that includes a nationwide love and obsession with jelly. She performed a basic tea ceremony for us, then we passed a comfortable night on tatami mats in the room above her cafe, indulging in a traditional onsen (hot tub) before bed. We left, calmed and refreshed a contrasting experience to the party atmosphere of Tokyo.

Heading South we experienced the futuristic cities of Japan oddly dotted with hidden temples, bright lights and casinos. With money running low again we searched for hosts but found many homes already full. Eventually Eri, a stylish Japanese girl with little English, agreed to put us up in Fukuoka. Sweaty, tired, and with a heightened awareness of our own body odours we arrived desperate for a shower but were led straight to a party burdened with rucksacks. This turned out to be a highlight of the trip and we left with an array of new friends. Of all the hosts, this experience had been the most intimate and enjoyable; we were spoilt with attention and good humour and I realised the benefits of picking less seasoned hosts who may welcome you as a curious novelty.

Staying with hosts in Nara and Fukuoka taught us that Yuji’s home was unusual even in the bizarre world of Couchsurfing. His guests have free run of his house when he’s at work. They arrive day or night thanks to the spare keys by the front door and invite friends around without request. Returning to Yuji’s before leaving Tokyo we discovered that some of the travellers had been staying for months, paying a recommended fee of 1000 yen (about £7 per night). This explained the pots of money lying around for willing “donations”. Although still extremely good value the thought struck me that perhaps Yuji was running a small tax-evading guest house, not quite in keeping with the Couchsurfing philosophy. Either a money making scam or a shockingly trusting faith in the goodness of travellers in need I cannot quite decide, but my judgment leans towards the latter. Considering that any one of the guests could clandestinely leave with the money pots and laptops stuffed in their rucksacks without raising an eyebrow I have to think that it is in fact a bewildering act of charity that strikes one as close to madness in the age of caution and suspicion by which most conduct their daily affairs.

Couchsufing can be an amazing facility with which to see the world, network, and promote cultural understanding – if used wisely. Prudence and care must be exercised when it comes to choosing a host or allowing guests to stay. It is wise to only Couchsurf with hosts who have had a large amount of positive feedback, and the same caution must be observed for those that may seek a nights rest in your home. You are never obligated to allow anyone to stay. Like everything in life it involves a degree of risk and uncertainty, and no doubt if abused it could lead to some dangerous situations. I wouldn’t recommend it for lone female travellers but every experience that I’ve had has been wholly pleasant and rewarding, reaffirming my belief in the inherent goodness of people. We can make an informed choice to invite travellers into our home for friendship and know we can benefit from the same hospitality in return. As the Couchsurfing mission goes; “Participate in Creating a Better World, One Couch at a Time.”

Address: 3 Coffee Yard

Average plate: £8-10

Rating: *

Ceramic cats gaze down at you from the fireplace as you sit in this cottage-kitchen style restaurant and muse at the novelty of this side street peculiarity. Buried down one of York’s many alley-ways, location has to be this venue’s most endearing charm, as food is most definitely not its forte. The glasses are chilled, the napkins come served in little paper bags with a feline stamp, and hearty portions are dished out, yet when it comes to taste you will be more than just a little disappointed. 

The menu is varied including steaks, fish and burgers, salads and pastas, yet the combo platter to share betrays the culinary short-comings of this establishment, presenting a meal which has undoubtedly been served straight from Iceland’s frozen food bags.

Having frequently gazed from afar in envy at the diners of this day-café cum night-restaurant, when the food arrived I began to regret my decision to finally join them. The burger was cold and undercooked, cradled in the arms of a soggy bun, and the vegetable chilli inedible. Though the ‘no pushchair’ sign on the door kept us safe from screaming babies it did not protect us from the wailings of a middle-aged woman in the throes of divorce, lamenting her woes to her sympathetic friend on the table next to us. Normally, attracting a varied cliental from lovers to students, I’m afraid all may leave in equal distress upon dining.

Sitting within the dismal atmosphere, the cats began to take on a demonic look as I pushed the greasy curly fries of the combo around the plate to bad music, until the waitress finally got the message. With a sour grimace she took away our ample leftovers, but the relief of parting from such atrocious food certainly made up for the lack of a smile. Needless to say, we weren’t offered a doggy bag.

When it came to the bill we found that it wasn’t pocket-friendly but our reluctance to leave a tip brought down the price by a few pounds. Although £8 for a main course may not sound dear, I felt insulted at the mere idea of paying.

As we got up to leave the ‘chef’ scurried past us to indulge in an outdoor cigarette, his unhygienic appearance didn’t agree with our eyes, or our stomachs as we found out a few days later.

Despite its lack of good cuisine Alleycat’s one redeeming feature remains its situation, and perhaps one should not bypass the opportunity to have a drink in the courtyard of this three storey, 16th century building.    Frequented by groups of tourists led by eccentrically dressed Victorian-style gentlemen on hourly ghost walks,  one can appreciate the ambience of this eerie snickleway. It seems that it’s not just the food that’s haunting.  Facing the magnificent Barley Hall, the medieval townhouse, one can raise a glass to the past from the well stocked bar and grow merry to candlelight. Remember to order liquids only. Recommended for cat-loving spinsters and those with no taste.

Born in Guyana in 1948, Grant moved to London with his family as a young boy, and kicked off his musical career in the multiracial quintet ‘The Equals.’ “My proudest moment was when ‘Baby Come Back’ reached number one,” Reminisces Grant, leaning against the dashboard. A heart attack in his early twenties forced Eddy to leave the group and return to Guyana to recover. It was this move however, that began his journey towards global success as a reggae star.

As a teetotaller and a vegetarian, Grant isn’t your average reggae singer. “I’m a natural born vegetarian, meat has always revolted me.” He muses. “I raised little pigs as a child and then I’d see them being slaughtered at Christmas; it just went against my grain.” Grant’s accomplishments include setting up Europe’s first black-owned recording studio and his own label ‘Ice Records.’ Grant embarked on his sensational solo career, scoring a top twenty with the socio-political ‘Living on the Frontline.’ He performed such well-known hits as ‘I don’t wanna dance’ and the American number one ‘Electric Avenue.’

Performing live in the UK for the first time in over twenty years on the ‘Reparation Tour’. “I consider reparation to be the most outstanding issue yet to be discussed and deliberated upon by the world community,” explains Grant, his speech undulating with Caribbean rhythm. “Just making the word appear will force those that can’t stand it – like the Americans who walked out on the conference of reparation in South Africa a few years ago – to revisit it. It is such a fundamental issue; reparation which is a result of the world’s greatest genocide, surely deserves a mention.” 

He refers to compensation for those who suffered at the hands of slavery. In Grant’s forty year career he has never stopped fighting, a fact recognised when he was asked to perform ‘Gimme Hope Jo’Hanna’ at Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday in summer.  The song was released as an attack on South Africa during the apartheid regime and was consequently banned in the country. “It was extraordinary”, Grant says, “there was a really special feeling there, a really special vibe. I think that where music is honest and powerful, people listen. And when people listen, sometimes they act, and when they act, you get a result. This result is dependent upon how powerful the song is. I think that music, like air and water and all the elements, is one of the great articles of this world.”

Impressively, Grant has sung every lyric, played every instrument and produced nearly every track on his solo albums released to date. His inspirations include Chuck Berry, James Brown and Mighty Sparrow as well as Blues players such as Miles Davis and Jimmy Smith, “the true lovers of music”. Grant’s own musical influence has been so great that he is in fact credited as the creator of two genres of music; Soca and Ringbang, (his record ‘Hello Africa’ being recognised by connoisseurs as the very first Soca record.) “Soca was a concept of the late 60s,” explains Grant. “It sought to aggregate the music of the Caribbean; Calypso, soul music, and pop music, to bring a greater awareness to that part of the world.” 

Noting his ‘Ring bang’ emblazoned Rasta hat I ask for an explanation of the second genre, and watch his eyes glow. “Ringbang was created for the youth who had never been really thought about in terms of making music in the region.” His features become more animated as he begins to pace excitedly. “It came about because we seemed to be losing our grip on the young people in the Caribbean to America. Most of them wanted to be second rate Americans, before they wanted to be first rate Caribbean people, so I started Ringbang, which was edgy, aggressive and youth orientated. Then there came the Ringbang philosophy which is encapsulated in three simple lines: First you must start to love yourself, and then you must learn to love the things that you create, then you must buy the things that you create, thereby gaining respect and having true freedom.”

He explains that like a song, a philosophy is “an amalgam of things that you’ve experienced or dreamed about.” The gradual degradation of the cultural region of the Caribbean spawned those three lines. “Philosophy doesn’t come and stick like a hit record, it comes and people question it, they turn it upside down to see what kind of impact it would have on them, and gradually, if they see it as something that is good, it takes hold. Nelson Mandela, who is being praised as an Angel now, forty years ago was a criminal wanted dead or alive. He and others like him were jailed just for their belief that the ninety odd percent of a country that is black should have equal rights to the white minority. Yet because the concept was right, ultimately it triumphed.” 

His responses are relayed with a zeal so sincere I feel sure that Grant’s life and efforts have truly benefited this earth. “Everything I do is with passion or I don’t do it all. What counts is what you believe. But you have to believe for the right reason; if you believe for the wrong reason not only may you create some kind of aberration sociologically, but you can do yourself a lot of damage. I try to remain consistent – since my teens I’ve been writing these songs. Fashions come and fashions go, but I keep writing.”

If you love alternative tastes, or if you’re sick of being limited to feeding from the flesh of chickens, pigs and cows – and frankly feel they deserve a break from the slaughterhouse – then ‘Fudies’ may be your answer.

This urban food store, situated on Walmgate, is for all those people who have an enthusiastic interest in the preparation and consumption of good food. Although somewhat pricey, it sells a range of high-quality ingredients for all student chefs. Expect organic and fair-trade products, including sauces, spices and marinades. There’s a decent gluten free selection and you can buy anything from ostrich-eggs to ‘Civet Coffee’ that’s made from the droppings of South-East Asia’s civet cats that feed from only the ripest coffee beans.

The best on offer are located in the fridge at the back that’s bursting with a range of exotic meats, including zebra, crocodile, wildebeest and camel. I recommend the kangaroo steak fried with garlic. Swapping a beef steak for kangaroo will also help to save the planet argue Australian scientists. Producing virtually no methane, they’re far more enviromentally friendly than cows or sheep.

Nigerian student Funmilola Osinupebi talks about her experience at Wellesley, a top women’s liberal arts college in Massachusetts, USA. “In my first year hall we handed each other ribbons symbolizing the connection of each generation of women. We then had to make up a chant mocking all the other halls, and march down to the campus lake, where after half an hour of good naturedly screaming insults, we made a wish, and tossed pennies into the lake. We then had to dive in to get them so that the wish was fulfilled. I didn’t do it; I didn’t want my hair to get wet.”

Brazil

For most people, ‘freshers fun’ is the highlight of the academic year, but in Sao Paulo University, it can go a step too far. Glauco De Souza reveals that the older university students shave the heads of some of the first years (the fresh meat), and then write the names of their courses on their faces in lipstick. They then force the first years to beg for money from cars at traffic lights to provide for a beer fund for their torturers. Not surprisingly. some students opt to skip class to avoid it all.

Canada

Fresher’s isn’t always about booze and parties; in Canada more compassionate causes are encouraged. Mathew McDonald, a graduate from the University of Ottawa, tells about how he took part in a ‘Shinerama,’ a massive fundraising event that takes part in over 60 Universities in Canada to raise money to support the fight against cystic fibrosis. It began in 1964 as a charity shoe-shining campaign, but now over 35,000 students annually take to the streets during orientation (Freshers) Week to shine shoes, windows, and even heads, for pennies and a squeaky-clean conscience.

Brunei

At the Institut Teknologi Brunei (ITB) Freshers Week is no laughing matter. Students were welcomed with a strong word of advice; “Do not disappoint parents who want to see their children succeed in life,” from their guest speaker Dr Hjh Naemah Hj Basir, Acting Director of the Institut Teknologi. Students take part in a range of cultural and sporting activities, but they are reminded of the excellent opportunity it provides for a head start in preparing for study. Self-discipline and cleanliness are stressed; and as it is a ‘dry-country’ (the sale and consumption of alcohol is prohibited by law) there’s a fair chance they actually get on with some work.

Indonesia

During Ospek (Freshers) Week, new students are required to go through rites of initiation including marching, dressing up in stupid costumes, and sometimes even push-ups. Students must keep a low profile and abstain from ‘sinning,’ which constitutes anything from being too loud to too beautiful, or just attracting too much attention, leading to punishment by older students. Reprimands can involve extreme forms of hazing, sometimes down-right cruel, such as being forced to eat mud!

Sweden

‘Nollning’, the public humiliation of new students, is so established in Sweden that it’s actually arranged by the student union in conjunction with university personnel. Events organised include the infamous ‘Kladstreck’, or ‘Clothesline’, in which teams of students disrobe and compete to create the longest line of clothes possible. Men often get completely naked in order to win the challenge.

Swept away by their live performance, Gina Kate Heslington and Edward Fisher talk to the group of musicians keeping the memories of Havana’s golden age alive.

We arrive mid-way through the first song as the conductor, Jesús Ramos, is clicking his fingers and tapping his left foot rhythmically to the harmony, literally mesmerising spectators. Conveying a universal humour in a way that only music can, they accompany their playing with cheerful dancing; breaking down the language barriers between artist and audience. As the final stretch of the two and a half hour concert approached, singer Carlos Colunga instructed us in calm, assured English to get up from our seats and dance. We dutifully obeyed.

Clearing the debris from the backstage bar as I prepared to meet Buena Vista Social Club, I find myself disappointed at the lack of empty bottles of expensive rum and cigar-ends. Just as I am pulling up more chairs, a group of refined looking gentlemen stroll into the room – like souvenirs from a past century. I am immediately enveloped in a speedy torrent of Spanish that drips with their characteristically heavy Cuban accent, making it at times hard to understand. A whirlwind of kisses make for a greeting. As I am passed from musician to musician; my own lips butterfly from the trimmed greying beards of the older members to the well-shaven faces of the younger, as the heady scent of spicy aftershave lingers in the air.

This is the Buena Vista Social Club, a team of extraordinarily accomplished musicians, Cuban music legends, brought together in 1997 by guitarist Ry Cooder to produce the Grammy award winning album of the same name. Having sold over seven million copies and rated as number 260 in ‘The 500 Greatest Albums of all Time’ by Rolling Stones magazine, my first question is how they managed such astronomic international success (extremely rare for a non-English language group). The answer from them is simple: “Because the public enjoy it, that is why we have lasted so long. It is traditional Cuban music. Up until now it has been successful and we hope it will continue to be so.”

Often referred to as the ‘Superabuelos’ (Super Grandfathers), I run my eyes over the ancient performers and am somewhat sceptical, just how much longer can they really continue, considering that most of their careers peaked in the 40s and 50s? I am answered with a delighted peal of laughter. “For at least another seventy or eighty years! We are certainly not immortal, and we are getting on a bit, but we’ll see,” ponders 75-year-old Manuel ‘Guajiro’ Mirabal, sucking on his false teeth good humouredly. I can’t help wondering how they affect his extraordinary trumpet playing, but as he is widely regarded as a musicians’ musician, and further as one of the four most famous members making up the eleven-piece orchestra from Havana, I hesitate to ask.
Buoyed by their enthusiasm and their open answers, I feel like I am sitting in the company of great-uncles at a family reunion. There is a genuine feeling of affection displayed in their behaviour towards one another. So I ask what Buena Vista means to each of them personally.

“For me, it means good luck, good fortune,” answers Angel Terry Domech in a husky voice, who plays the Congas (tall Cuban drums of African origin).

“For me, it signifies the music of Cuba,” Jesús ‘Aguaje’ Ramos adds with a hearty smile, beads of sweat shining on his dark polished scalp, collecting in the sausage-ring of fat around his starched shirt collar. As band-leader, revered trombone player, and musical director of the show, his personality is as big as his list of credentials. His straightforward answer is indicative of the songs Buena Vista perform, traditional, well loved Cuban melodies like danzón, cha cha cha, and boleros, retold through the skilled fingers of these musical geniuses.

“Buena Vista is my second family,” Guajiro Mirabal’s gravelly voice reveals, as the others watch him with looks of respectful devotion, regarding him through his thick rimmed glasses, peering out from beneath his white flat cap.

“It represents Cuba,” says Manuel Galban, guitarist, organist and pianist, who has performed on a number of albums in the Buena Vista series and whose duets album with Ry Cooder, Mambo Sinuendo won him a Grammy in 2004.

The relative baby of the group, singer Carlos Colunga ambles towards us. A new addition to the group, he readily gives me his answer. “Like Teri, for me it means good luck. We have chosen the repertory of our country and to be honest, and forgive the lack of modesty, we are good musicians.” Crumpling under the eyes of his elders, perhaps for his boldness, he hastily pulls up a seat and squeaks, “I’m the worst!” as those around him indulge him with good-natured laughter.

Conscious of an absence, I enquire after the “heartbeat” of Buena Vista Social Club, bass player Orlando ‘Cachaíto’ López, the only musician who has played on every track of every album ever recorded by the group. I am told he is “a man of few words,” or in my case, none at all. His non-attendance reminds me of the unusually fluid nature of the group.

Of the twenty artists who originally contributed to the very first album, few remain. The popular veteran singer, Ibrahim Ferrer, for example, passed away in 2005. Manuel “Puntillita” Licea, another vocalist, died in 2000, pianist Rubén González in 2003, and singer Pío Leyva in 2006. So what is it that holds a group together which has no defining members? I am haunted (disturbingly) by the memory of the nineties pop band S-Club 7, who already had their team of replacements ‘S-Club Juniors’ in training before they had hit the age of thirty. Could this be the same for Buena Vista, more brand than band?

“In some ways, yes,” muses Jesús Ramos. “We are consciously creating this music, as it was in the fourties and fifties. We go for traditional songs; we play acoustic music, not electric, but natural. From concert to concert we try to get to the roots of the music of our country, and to reproduce a faithful reproduction of how it used to be played.”

The more I talk to the group, the more I begin to understand and appreciate their very essence. They are not a typical modern band brought together in order to create a new and original type of sound. Each member has had a long and successful solo career, and comes to the band seeking not to further their individual fame, but rather to preserve the past. Based purely on a member’s talent and merit, their agenda is to transport the public into an oasis of Caribbean sound, allowing old, otherwise obsolete songs to live on. “Many have contributed in one way or another,” continues Ramos happily, “Women too, of course. We are like one big family.”

“This music was famous in the fifties; it was the golden age of Cuban music,” interjects Guajiro Mirabal. “Buena Vista tries to renovate it rather than change it, to bring it up-to-date. We try to play it as it used to be played and bring it back to popularity.” In an age where media attention is largely paid solely to those who build their image upon the values of superficiality and sex appeal, it is clear that the success of this band relies on their talent alone. This said, their more elderly fans, who definitely take up a fair few seats in the sold-out stadium, may well have a different opinion.

Although millions of fans across the globe like to imagine the music of Buena Vista as synonymous with the crumbling streets of communist Cuba, the reality is that the locals are much more likely to be listening to reggaeton and salsa pop. So just how well known are they back home? “It’s not that it’s more popular worldwide, it’s just that more people listen to it,” responds Terry Domech, as he leans back into his chair. “We were brought up listening to this music. It is very normal and familiar in Cuba.”

Despite his answer, I am reminded of a friend’s story of their trip to Cuba the previous summer. Having bought tickets to a Buena Vista concert in Havana, they found themselves seated with only a handful of other spectators, in a venue that could have potentially been occupied by hundreds. This was not due to a lack of popularity however, the ticket vendor had explained, but because the Cuban authorities had increased the price of the tickets, with the result that locals could no longer afford them. Although the songs may be well known, Buena Vista’s international popularity has become a hindrance in its own country; at least while Castro is in charge.

For the British public, their concerts remain an enduringly enthralling experience that proves beyond all doubt that getting older does not necessarily mean retirement. Their enthusiasm is infectious to the end, “We wish to tell the British people that we are very grateful for the support that they have always shown us. Please continue to come to our concerts. We are the Buena Vista Social Club orchestra; we look forward to seeing you.”

Sri Lanka is like a tear drop below India’s face; as an island of bewildering beauty and spiritual wealth, it is an exotic Eden for many holidaymakers. Yet for the island’s inhabitants, the reality is much grittier, as the violent interracial conflict between the Sinhalese and Tamil factions continues.

Founded in 1972, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) were originally a merging of several nationalist Tamil groups based in the North and East of Sri Lanka. Since then, the LTTE has systematically used aggressive and violent tactics as part of its fight for an independent Tamil state. Now officially listed as a terrorist organization by 31 countries, over 64,000 lives have already been claimed in the crossfire of the conflict.

On April 12, 2006, I found myself caught in this crossfire when a bomb went off at a busy market in the North eastern port town of Trincomalee, just 100 metres from where my three friends and I were sat in an internet café.

The sound was loud and unexpected, as if a heavy object had been thrown against the window. It was only when everyone in the café hurriedly jumped up and left in a frenzy of upturned chairs that we realised we were in danger. Suddenly chaos enveloped the once sleepy, dusty streets. Panicked mothers ushered their children indoors, as thick grey smoke, rising from a burning vegetable market stall, enveloped us all. Civilians wove in and out of the growing number of gathering soldiers.

In the pandemonium, we were taken in by two VSO Volunteers working for one of the many aid agencies in Sri Lanka. We watched as the first news filtered through the BBC website: 14 people killed and dozens wounded, with limbs strewn across the streets. My stomach turned as another blast shook the house.

We stayed overnight, and by morning, a bomb curfew had been announced: no one could leave their homes until it was declared safe. Overnight, mobs had burnt down over 40 businesses, largely through the use of hand grenades. All we could do was wait.

Trincomalee has a long history of violence. Half of the town people are Hindu Tamils and the rest a mix of Buddhist Sinhalese and Muslims. Age-old tensions have resulted in frequent acts of bloodshed; such as the assassination of Vanniyasingham Vigneswaran, a strong supporter of the LTTE, which had occurred just five days earlier. Much was made of the murder by the LTTE and apparently the town had since been holding their breath in anticipation of some sort of retaliation.

Hours passed before we decided to risk the curfew and drive to a safer part of town on the coast. We drove through the streets cautiously, our white land rover packed with provisions. At a road check point we were halted for five minutes before being ushered on, temporarily safe thanks to our European passports. As my friends and I checked into the French Garden Hotel, it felt as if we had arrived in the eye of the storm; a paradisiacal oasis of palm trees lining the turquoise waters of the Bay of Bengal.

The next morning we welcomed in the Tamil and Sinhala New Year in a beach-house a few hundred yards along the bay, where the German VSO couple were staying with a friend of theirs. We sipped tea as we tried to calmly digest the facts. The mobs were drunk, and everyday more houses were being vandalized and looted. The day before, three innocent people had been burnt alive in a rickshaw and others had been hacked to death. Although the curfew was still officially in place, whole families had begun to evacuate as talk of “ethnic cleansing” against the Tamils gathered momentum.

Despite the grim news, there was a flicker of hope. VSO had contacted the German family that morning to inform them that the situation was too dangerous for them to remain. Safe transport had been arranged for them out of Trincomalee, and there was space for us to travel with them.

The next morning, an explosion fractured the fragile paradise. We froze as we stared at the thick smoke rising from the shore. A peace worker informed us that our German friends had left earlier that morning, “With the French girls from the hotel next door, they could only take volunteers.”

Terrified, I knew we had to take matters into our own hands. Within the hour, the four of us were sitting squashed up in a rickshaw, but it wasn’t long before we ground to a halt. I looked at the driver questioningly, “I won’t go any further, it’s no longer Tamil. You swap drivers.”

Walking meters from enemy lines we found another driver in an identical vehicle, but this time with Buddha smiling at us from the windscreen instead of dancing Hindu Gods. He carried us to the centre of town and dropped us off in the eerie streets of the abandoned area. Every building was either boarded up or burnt and blackened, with only the cows and goats left roaming the streets. After a few minutes of walking, we saw the outlines of two battered buses. Joining the swarm of families and suitcases, we crushed on and endured the seven hour journey to Colombo in a sweat of relief.

A white flag of sorts was flying from every house that we passed, at times nothing more than a crumpled shirt. Beneath each one stood the silhouette of soldier, cradling his gun as a reminder of the peace being so carefully guarded.

The official line originally claimed that all the deaths in the attacks on the April 12 were Sinhalese, and explained that the ensuing violence against the Tamils was the result of crimes of passion in reprisal. Other sources claimed that the explosion was pre-meditated, with the explosion of the bomb giving a ‘green-light’ to allow the Government to conduct a calculated attack against the Tamils. It was said that the army stood by as gangs of Sinhalese men incinerated Tamils with cans of gasoline.

More than 1500 people were displaced in the turmoil and at least 60 injured. The record of destruction also includes about 40 businesses that were looted, 15 vehicles that were torched and 60 that were smashed. It is now recognised that the 14 victims of the bomb attack that were in fact a mix of Sinhalese, Tamils and Muslims, killed by a bomb attached to a bicycle activated by a remote control. The story received little coverage in Britain or elsewhere.
The tear drop island of Sri Lanka cries out for peace, yet we in the West only turn our heads when a large amount of blood is spilled.

Getting there:
Flights with Easyjet to Lisbon from £60 return. Train from Lisbon to Sintra: 45-minute trip, £1.50 return.

Where to stay:
The Two Squared Hostel is an conveniently economical and central place to rest weary feet, with private rooms from a mere £15 pp/pn.

Three of the best:
>> Although there is no pumpkin carriage from Sintra station, bus 434 comfortably carries visitors up the steep hill to marvel at the Palácio Nacional da Pena. The younger and more charming of the two palaces, it will instantly cast aside memories of its ugly sister, the Town Palace at Sintra’s centre. Enjoy the stunning views from its many turrets and onion domes. The magic about the place can only be enhanced by inexpensive wine, so stroll down to the palace gardens with a pre-purchased bottle or three.

>> Adventurous souls will find the lure of the Moorish castle ruins well worth the challenging hike. Follow the winding stone pathway along a mountain top before disappearing into the clouds. For those wary of breaking glass slippers, horse drawn rides can be taken, but at €60 a trip, it’s best left to royalty.

>> If you’re looking for your Prince Charming, you can get your beer goggles on in the livelier bars along Rua das Padarias. The locals are friendly, just watch out for frogs.

Manu Chao’s rebellious lyrics have led fans to call him South America’s Bob Dylan. Gina Heslington catches up with him after a gig to talk politics over a cigarette.

A riot of intoxicated fans crash into each other. Dreadlocks fly as voices rise in sporadic chanting to exotic beats. Marijuana smoke clogs the air, and as a thousand arms lift the crowd crushes in a heave forward to get closer to the stage. This is the electric sensation of Manu Chao live.

In a small room adjoining the after-show party Manu – born Jose-Manuel – Chao raises a Fortuna cigarette to his lips, casually offering me one. I accept, nervous in the presence of this international music legend. Chao is famed for his ability to cross cultural, social and political divides with his left-field compositions. In France, the stunning success of Clandestino has made it one of the best-selling albums of all time and his follow up, Proxima Estacion: Esperanza has already sold over three million copies. In Mexico he plays to audiences 100,000 strong.

Compared with this, his following in the Anglophone world is curiously lacking. When I ask him how he feels about this, Chao gives an enigmatic response. “All the English-speaking culture of the world has been imposed upon us, by television and the radio. I sing in whatever language I want; French, Spanish, Portuguese, English, Galician. I don’t respect language. I invent my own words. My father goes crazy sometimes, but it’s my way.”

Born in 1961 to communist Basque and Galician parents, the strong anti-globalization flavour to his tracks are easily construed as an anti-capitalist, anti-Western methodology but Chao swears this is not the case. “I don’t think about an international message. When you write a song it’s not you that decides, it’s the moment – inspiration – that you write. The influence for the language you are going to use is the surroundings. Right now I’m talking a lot of English so later if I get a stupid idea in the bus maybe it’s going to be in English. I spend a lot of time in South America so that explains why a lot of my songs are in Spanish.”

Chao’s music is as diverse in style as it is in language. A fusion of reggae, punk, ska, French chanson, Ibero-American salsa and Algerian raï, it is as difficult to define as Chao himself. Though raised in Paris, he passionately renounces his country of origin as a defining part of his identity. “What is France? A banner? A border? Politically, this border is only made of killings. I don’t respect this. I’m not nationalist. That way of thinking is very old school. More and more I try to live in the present. Years ago I used to say I was a citizen of the world, now I’m an individual of the present, that’s my moment, that’s my house. Part of my philosophy is that when you’re somewhere, you’re somewhere. Don’t thinkabout tomorrow. Think about the present, it’s your present.”

Compared to a modern day Bob Dylan for his rebellious songs of protest, it is hard not to be moved by Chao’s gusto. His new album La Radiolina captures the dizzy force of his concerts, melded with the passionate cries of his ideals.

“You know, it was the Zapatistas who first told me what was coming?” Chao leans forward, exhaling smoke. As his eyes narrow in recollection fine wrinkles web his face, lending an air of perceptive wisdom. His look is strangely compelling. I struggle to recall images of the Zapatistas. I vaguely remember images of Balaclava-clad revolutionaries fighting for the rights of indigenous Mayans in Chiapas, Mexico, and I return his intense gaze.

“The message from Mexico back in ‘93 was very clear, a general caution about a lot of things that everybody talks about now, such as globalization. The Zapatistas were the first people that warned me. What I respect a lot about the movement is that it is still clean, there are no shadows. It has not been ruined by ego. With each revolution there are the same old problems, they start good, but after a certain amount of time everyone in the same movement starts fighting each other. In Chiapas, in fifteen years, it hasn’t happened. That’s magic.”

With ‘Tristeza Maleza’, the second track of his latest album issuing warnings to George Bush, Chao is an attractive icon for supporters of the anti-Republican leaning that has enveloped global youth politics. Chao however remains resolutely on the fence. “I don’t try to give a message with my music because I’m lost in this world. I have no better idea of what to do than anyone else. For every song of mine, take ten people and ten different meanings will come out. That’s what I like. That’s why I never explain my songs. When you see the world, you’ve got this rage and you have to find a way of putting it out positively. My therapy for that is to write songs to get rid of my negative emotions. After that its up to people to find their own meaning within.”

Despite Chao’s mysterious answers, his refreshingly humanistic approach to music production is revealed in his projects and collaborations. After a chance meeting with Amadou and Miriam, a blind couple from Mali, “good química” – good chemistry – made him agree to produce their album, Dimanche A Bambako, that has since sold over half a million copies. Future plans include an album produced with members of a psychiatric hospital in Buenos Aires which he hopes will be released next year. Eager to know how Chao’s music will progress, I question his current guiding influences. He laughs. “Right now, only my mother; and she always says the same thing: ‘Stop smoking!’”

I figure it isn’t the best time to inform Manu about the recent smoking ban as, like the rebellious soul he is, he reaches for yet another Fortuna.