Brixton Calling
This is Parkes's story: a thalidomide baby who bought the cinema for just £1 at the age of 23. It begins during his teenage years at Gordonstoun School in Scotland, where Parkes studied alongside Prince Andrew (he sweats 'like you wouldn't believe,' by the way). At first it seems like your standard coming-of-age tale. He bunks off regularly and takes the train to London, desperate to experience the grit and glamour of London's rock'n'roll underbelly. It's a world far removed from the polished corridors of his elite boarding school.
But right from the start, it feels like this is where Parkes needs to be. A love of music is woven deep into his bones, and when he discovers the soon-to-be Academy, it's love at first sight. Over the next few years, Parkes and his eclectic team of locals build up the music venue from scratch. Soon, it's the go-to place to play for icons, including The Clash, Blondie, The Smiths and The Pogues.
Directed by Bronagh Lagan, the experience is akin to watching a gig. With cables curling around the stage's exterior, graffiti decorating the walls, and a tapestry of old flyers lining the floor, the room buzzes with raw energy. Smoke fills the theatre, and the music, when it comes, beats through your chest just like you're standing among a crowd. Playing Parkes, Max Runham has the air of a frontman: he cheekily winks at the audience, dancing between narration and performance with effortless swagger.
By his side is the brilliant Tendai Sitima, who takes on a range of supporting roles — most crucially, Parkes' trusted number two, Johnny Lawes. Together, they both show and tell us how the Academy's identity evolved over the years. Set against a backdrop of shifting politics and social change, it feels like a space born of, and for, its time. It becomes a home for progressive thinkers: anti-apartheid campaigners pass through the doors to have their say, Arthur Scargill makes speeches during the miners' strikes and drag performers dance the night away.
Still, fitting years of history into 100 minutes is a tall order, and many of the major moments feel rushed. A love story with his eventual wife, Pippa, is hurried through, while Parkes himself is painted as almost saint-like: his imperfections are glossed over, and his decisions are never doubted. Exploring his flaws more would have added nuance and depth to the account.
Brixton Calling is a powerful reminder of how places and people shape culture. And for many in the audience, the play is a joyful nod to years gone by: I see a group of men in band t-shirts with tears in their eyes. The venue's legacy is palpable and there's a beating heart of community that continues to echo long after the last encore.
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Time Out
a day ago
- Time Out
Brixton Calling
These days, Brixton Academy is an essential part of London's cultural landscape. But there was a time when it was just a derelict old cinema building. In Alex Urwin's play, inspired by the memoir Live at Brixton Academy by Simon Parkes, we watch as the space transforms into something sacred. This is Parkes's story: a thalidomide baby who bought the cinema for just £1 at the age of 23. It begins during his teenage years at Gordonstoun School in Scotland, where Parkes studied alongside Prince Andrew (he sweats 'like you wouldn't believe,' by the way). At first it seems like your standard coming-of-age tale. He bunks off regularly and takes the train to London, desperate to experience the grit and glamour of London's rock'n'roll underbelly. It's a world far removed from the polished corridors of his elite boarding school. But right from the start, it feels like this is where Parkes needs to be. A love of music is woven deep into his bones, and when he discovers the soon-to-be Academy, it's love at first sight. Over the next few years, Parkes and his eclectic team of locals build up the music venue from scratch. Soon, it's the go-to place to play for icons, including The Clash, Blondie, The Smiths and The Pogues. Directed by Bronagh Lagan, the experience is akin to watching a gig. With cables curling around the stage's exterior, graffiti decorating the walls, and a tapestry of old flyers lining the floor, the room buzzes with raw energy. Smoke fills the theatre, and the music, when it comes, beats through your chest just like you're standing among a crowd. Playing Parkes, Max Runham has the air of a frontman: he cheekily winks at the audience, dancing between narration and performance with effortless swagger. By his side is the brilliant Tendai Sitima, who takes on a range of supporting roles — most crucially, Parkes' trusted number two, Johnny Lawes. Together, they both show and tell us how the Academy's identity evolved over the years. Set against a backdrop of shifting politics and social change, it feels like a space born of, and for, its time. It becomes a home for progressive thinkers: anti-apartheid campaigners pass through the doors to have their say, Arthur Scargill makes speeches during the miners' strikes and drag performers dance the night away. Still, fitting years of history into 100 minutes is a tall order, and many of the major moments feel rushed. A love story with his eventual wife, Pippa, is hurried through, while Parkes himself is painted as almost saint-like: his imperfections are glossed over, and his decisions are never doubted. Exploring his flaws more would have added nuance and depth to the account. Brixton Calling is a powerful reminder of how places and people shape culture. And for many in the audience, the play is a joyful nod to years gone by: I see a group of men in band t-shirts with tears in their eyes. The venue's legacy is palpable and there's a beating heart of community that continues to echo long after the last encore.
Times
19-07-2025
- Times
The academy players with more YouTube fans than game's biggest stars
They are famous footballers with millions of fans, watched live by thousands every week. Some earn big money — well above the national average — and attract sponsorship deals from prestigious international brands. It is not only their skills that are in demand. Holidays, haircuts, homework — it all makes waves, with every detail made public. After all, the aim is not to shut down, but to open up. These are not Premier League stars, but academy footballers, telling the world about their climb to the top. For a long time, the game's youngsters kept their heads down as they made their way up the ranks. Stuart Pearce had to play in secret for his mates' team as a boy, by adopting a fake name and hiding away as a goalkeeper. Inside training grounds, scrubbing the pros' boots with brushes was about as close as the kids came to stardom. At Manchester United, under Sir Alex Ferguson in the 1990s, the youth coaches in charge of the Class of '92 had a well-rehearsed riposte for any teenager believed to be getting above their station: 'When you've played 50 league games for the first team,' they said. 'That's when you can consider yourself a player.' Fifty league games? How about 50,000 subscribers on YouTube, where a swell of academy players are broadcasting their talent, lifestyle and character on camera. Search 'academy footballer' online and swathes of clips can be tapped and scrolled, with titles such as 'Day in the life of an academy footballer' (217,000 views), 'How an academy footballer trains for pre-season' (281,000) and '10 Things an Academy Footballer Can't Live Without' (64,000). Some accounts are focused on football — matches, sessions, career decisions — but not all. Many also offer invented games and challenges, or lift the lid entirely on their everyday lives, with trips to the barbers or a run-down of what's for breakfast. Many of these emerging players are hugely popular, while a select few boast followings to rival even the biggest names in the game. Lorenzo Greer, 16, has just been offered a two-year scholarship at Birmingham City, and his 'Tekkerz kid' YouTube channel, which he started aged six, now has 1.7 million subscribers — more than double Jude Bellingham's 896,000 — with his 651 videos attracting more than 492 million views. Tashall Sandhu, YouTube name 'Tash Baller', has 220,000 subscribers, with videos of him playing for Wolverhampton Wanderers Under-13 and celebrating 100,000 subscribers aged nine. Faran Ahmad, who plays for Leicester City Under-12, uploads near-daily home videos with a total of 7.6 million views. One of Ahmad's most watched videos — 'Come Shop With Me (academy player)' — is of him on a visit to Sports Direct. There are many, many more. The devotion of kids to a virtual world, at such a young age, will be enough to make many wince. That some accounts were created by parents, with mum or dad behind the camera, will set alarm bells ringing about expectation, exposure and pressure. For those who don't turn professional — and only one in 200 academy players in England do — there is a danger the feeling of failure will be painfully public. Hugo Scheckter, who has worked in player care at West Ham United and Southampton and whose company, The Player Care Group, has helped more than ten Premier League clubs, believes big social media profiles are 'not needed and not appropriate' for footballers younger than about 15. 'The difficulty comes where it's parents or agents pushing them into it,' Scheckter says. 'They build up the kids as superstars and the kids don't want to let their parents down. It can be ten years of their life where they're footballer, footballer, footballer, when actually they're just child, child, child. Maybe for the elite ones who make it, that might be useful. For the other 99 per cent, it's pretty harmful.' Clubs are still finding their way too, unsure about how to handle this growing band of players with more videos than appearances. At one of the top Premier League clubs, staff created a cluster of fake accounts, which were designed to follow and interact with the players in order 'to understand them better'. But they cancelled the operation after deciding the 'show pony' impression created by their players' dealings on social media wasn't a fair reflection of their real personalities. At another club, there have been disagreements over the best approach. One senior figure recalled a meeting when he had to say to colleagues: 'Do we want footballers or influencers?' Another executive admitted their club were still grappling how to respond: 'We understand it's happening, but is pushing back the right thing to do? It's like a parent, it scares the life out of you some of things they do, but do you ban it? Do you cover your eyes and wish it wasn't happening?' The question is whether that fear is well-founded, given the actual experiences of some of the players. Greer, the 16-year-old Birmingham apprentice with more subscribers than Bellingham, talks confidently on the phone for half an hour. He is so relaxed, you wonder what all the fuss is about. 'It's just fun isn't it?' he says. 'I don't see it as a job, it's something I love to do and it helps me connect with other kids. They can relate to me because I'm still a kid as well.' He hasn't masked his low moments either. 'The pressure sometimes of having to be perfect… because 90 per cent of the kids I was playing against watched my videos so they wanted to show they were better than me or hurt me on the pitch,' he says. 'I've had bad patches. But I spoke to my dad, spoke to my coaches and my confidence came back. We often spoke about it on YouTube. I'd speak to my dad about it on camera. We shared it with the viewers. The viewers are like our family and they were supportive.' Greer says his dad, Nathan, launched his YouTube account when he was six, with a video about a new pair of boots, and the two of them have a joint channel called '90+2', where they talk about football together. 'When me and my wife started the channel, it had nothing to do with getting popular or making money, I didn't even know you could monetise a video on YouTube,' Nathan says. 'Daniel Radcliffe was Harry Potter and nobody says to his parents, 'What are you doing?' For some reason when it's social media and football, it's like, 'Is this fair on the kids?' In my case, it's perfectly fair. It's a good balance. It works for us.' In 2019, Greer was flown out to Turin for a Nike campaign with Cristiano Ronaldo. 'He's had crazy opportunities most boys could only dream of and I'm very proud of him,' Nathan says. 'For this next generation of kids, it's becoming normal. Everyone is a YouTuber now, everyone is famous now and less people will judge people for it.' Young players also believe influence online gives them a safety net, inside or outside of the game. They talk about the confidence gained from performing regularly on camera and the skills learnt in creating and editing videos. Financially, the more successful academy YouTubers can earn over £40,000 a year for their content, with one agent insisting their teenager had saved enough to buy a house. Even within football, players released by clubs see their channels as ready-made brochures for their skills and personality, an interactive CV for potential recruiters. Ben Brookes, who was released by West Ham at 13 and has just joined York City, said his YouTube channel, 'Road to Full Time Ball', now with 10.2k subscribers, helped resurrect his career. 'I just thought I'm going to start recording myself,' Brookes told the Beyond Football Podcast. 'As well as helping others on our journey, it also allows us to self-promote. If a manager wants you, it's more about your footballing ability, but if you're a leader, if you're confident, they love stuff like that.' Many clubs are already encouraging players to branch out. At Brighton & Hove Albion, where they give workshops on social media to players and parents from under-nines and up, Shona Richards from the player care department says trainees have also taken up language, piano and plumbing classes, while Scheckter explains how one footballer he worked with developed an enthusiasm for drawing by joining an oil painting club. 'A lot of them have amazing stories and can be real inspirations,' Richards says. 'We want them to be proud of that, while understanding the risks and getting the balance right.' For those mature enough, some clubs believe YouTube can be another string to their bow, a very modern way for academy players to expand their portfolio while enjoying an escape from the seriousness of football. In a game often criticised for failing to provide a safe landing ground for discarded youngsters, some kids are taking their own steps, by swapping the boot-cleaning brushes for a ball, tripod and camera.
Spectator
19-07-2025
- Spectator
Now it's getting late: on Neil Young, ageing and fatherhood
Neil Young once saved my life. Or at least, that's how I remember it. This was at an outdoor show in Finsbury Park in July 1993. I had pushed and squeezed my way almost to the front of a large crowd shortly after being passed something of dubious provenance to smoke. One moment everything was perfect: he was playing that romantic late career hit, 'Harvest Moon', the sun was setting, the moon, conveniently, rising, and I was swaying along, rapturous. But then, suddenly – bang… I fainted. This is the only time in my 45-year gig-going career that this has happened. But I was gone. I was briefly unconscious, then I came to lying on my back on the grass, looking up at dozens of legs all around and above me, almost on top of me. I realised that I needed to get up but I was still woozy, too weak to stand. I needed to gather my strength. Meanwhile Young was getting to the end: 'But now it's getting late… And the moon is climbing high.' I could no longer see the moon, just those legs. Then 'Harvest Moon' ended and applause and cheers came over my head, but I still couldn't stand. And this is when Neil Young saved my life, which felt at this moment as if it was in the balance. He did this by playing a ballad, 'The Needle and the Damage Done' (which is, perhaps appropriately, about the dangers of drug misuse). Because of this slow number I was able to spend another two minutes with my head between my knees steeling myself to get up. Had he played a rockier number – and 'Powderfinger', 'Down by the River', 'Like a Hurricane' and 'Rockin' in the Free World' were all on the set list that night – the space would have become a mosh pit and I would have been trampled. But 'The Needle' saved me. As it ended I finally managed to stand and then retreated to where it was less jammed to watch the rest of the show, shaken by how imperilled I had felt. And I realised that that song selection had been crucial in me getting out uninjured. I've seen Neil Young play a few more times in the years since – most memorably in an explosive performance at Brixton Academy in 2002, one of the best live shows I've ever been to. Alexis Petridis's review of that night in the Guardian concluded: 'Like one of his own guitar solos, you suspect [Neil Young] could go on forever.' And he pretty much has. But when I saw he was playing again this summer in Hyde Park in London, exactly 32 years to the day of that collapse in Finsbury Park, I initially had no urge to go. He'll turn 80 this autumn – and after seeing now voiceless Bob Dylan disappoint too many times, I felt Young would probably be going the same way. But then Number One Son started badgering me to take him. He's recently converted from being almost exclusively into hardcore US rap to preferring the rock bands of the early 1970s: Led Zep, the Stones and now also, it seems, Neil Young. So it felt like an open goal opportunity for some parent/child bonding. Arriving in Hyde Park, I realise I am at the younger end of the age spectrum in the audience, a rarity these days. We miss the first support act, Van Morrison, because he finishes half an hour earlier than he was listed to. It seems Young has made a late alteration to the timings to give himself longer on stage. We do see Cat Stevens and get to hug each other as he plays 'Father and Son' – a touching moment, even if the song is about parent-child estrangement. Before the main event, son goes for drinks and comes back ambitiously holding four pints. One minute you're feeding crying babies in the middle of the night, the next they're getting the beers in, I reflect. In Neil Young terminology, it seems like only yesterday that I was '24 and there's so much more' – Number One Son's age next birthday – and now I'm the old man being urged to look at the young man who is 'a lot like you were'. And indeed my son, I see, is a lot like I was. He is soon urging me to go further into the crowd. And we do this, with our four pints, only this time he does the pushing and apologising and I simply follow. I find myself thinking again of that night in 1993 when I came close to getting crushed and of other misadventures in my twenties that might have stopped me making it to my fifties. A number of my friends from those days didn't make it. Young opens his set with 'Ambulance Blues', which notes: 'It's easy to get buried in the past.' And he's right. So I try to stop brooding and to concentrate on enjoying the evening – to be in the moment, as they say these days. Once again he plays both 'Harvest Moon' – son's favourite – and 'The Needle and the Damage Done'. This time I manage to stay vertical. It's a wonderful night. The heatwave makes the air shimmer and Young can still sing that haunting high tenor, even if he is a curmudgeon who looks like a tramp. But, in fairness, so, increasingly, am I. Young also plays 'Hey Hey, My My', the companion piece to his punk era song that states: 'It's better to burn out than to fade away.' I wonder if he still thinks that? A couple of years after my 1990s white-out I attended another outdoor gig, in this same spot in Hyde Park – the Who, Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan – and wrote about it for a Sunday red-top. I recall writing the extremely snarky intro: 'Hyde Park became Jurassic Park last night as the dinosaurs of rock turned out to play.' Those dinosaurs would have been considerably younger then than I am now, I realise. One of these days Neil Young will die. I'm hoping he predeceases me – and I'm hoping I predecease my son. Who knows what will happen to any of us. But it was briefly pleasing for all three of us to be in the same field for one evening in the summer of 2025.
