Social Pariah

is a warning to us all

Hugh Morris is a warning to us all

In some respects it could have been dramatic; a cross between The Bill and Shaft. In fact, it was just past midnight and I had breezed pass respectably drunk a good four pints back. I am unceremoniously escorted out of Toffs – or rather, out of ‘Tru’ – by a large bouncer after 9 holes of pub golf, covered in poorly drawn felt tip penises. Like an indignant, slurring Jackson Pollock piece I reproach the doorman for removing me from the club. There was not enough justice in the air that night, and so, in a very Euan Blair-esque display of respectability I phone the police. They arrive, eye me up, and inform me that either I could leave, or they could tell me to leave. I left.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed. Us kids, eh? Oh yeah. All night. Well, not quite. Struggling to keep both eyes open, swaying from side to side, and attempting to maintain a conversation about how if there was a little more synth behind the vocals this track would be bangin’, I am dying. “I’m going to get another pint.” Lying is cool, you see. I skip the pint and sit down in the corner. Within three minutes, I am fast asleep, face squashed into the sticky, vomit-covered bar table. When I wake I assure my admirers that I hadn’t slept the night before at all as I had been, err… clubbin’ it. That’ll do it.

A first radio show is going to be a nerve-racking experience for anyone. I’m hardly Annie Mac or… someone. After fumbling with knobs, slides and other innuendoes I discover how to work the studio email. Here comes the praise, the confidence, the reassurances from your friends and soon-to-be faithful listeners. “This is rubbish”. “This is so painful”. “Why are you doing this?”. “Play Oasis”. I manage to stop crying before the song ends, though.

Riding to work through the streets of York on my ol’ Apollo Radius – a classic – I feel like Arnie, or Steve McQueen, or Superman. Anyway, all the swerving, dodging and generally looking cool must have gone to my head. I pull up to the back door of my work where my manager, the slightly crazy chef, and all the cool kids are having a smoke. Ambitiously, I attempt a kind of skid stop. I’m cool. The wheels slip, my face contorts, I lose all sort of control, and catapult myself along the floor, only slowly. “Alright guys. Let’s…er…get to work.”

Gun crime is a growing problem across the country. I take these fears very much to heart. When an old lady across the road coughs, she is actually giving for the signal for a ‘hit’. Fulford is, to me, much, much scarier than down town Grozny. As it turns out, I’m in fact more of a danger to society than a glock in the hands of a drunken postal worker. The sky opens up and thunder echoes around the hills; cue me, jumping into the arms of my female friend in terror, for I genuinely thought we were under fire. She drops me to the street and quickens her pace. I’m really ghetto, you see.