I LOVE EASYJET

10th November 1998

EasyJet. The 8.40 am, heading for Luton. I’ve got a window seat near the rear. I was an easyJet virgin until I flew out on Sunday night. Now I’m a convert. I’m sure a whole load of journalists have written about how wonderful the whole down-market crassness of it is. There is no attempting to be regal or hip, just cheap graphics, cheap livery, cheap tickets and second hand aircraft. The company’s telephone number, 0870 600 0000, is plastered down the side of the fuselage. I’m staring out the window, wondering which of the zeroes I’m peering out between. We’ve been up in the air for less than a minute, and already Belfast is looking like such a small town. I try not to think, “All that trouble in such a small place”. The fields reach almost into the city, like green fingers reclaiming the crumbling Victorian terraces, council estates and shipyards bit by bit and dragging them back into the bog. But enough of this. I’ve got less than an hour before we hit the runway at Luton Airport, and I want to get the thoughts and ideas from the last 36 hours down in my notebook before they slip away.
Bit of background first. We (Z and I) purchased a tower in the Glens of Antrim in ’93. I was still flush with the spoils of chart success, and in need of a rock star folly. Of course, that wasn’t the way I saw it at the time. Back then it was a sound creative investment. A place where Z (Mark Manning), my sometime collaborator in works of fiction and fact, and I could escape the stultifying air of the fleshpots and get some serious writing done. Back then it was easy; I was middle aged, free and single (again) and Z lived within easy access to airports. Now I’ve got a new young family and Z lives in north Devon with his. Finding time and excuses to escape to Northern Ireland is becoming more and more difficult. The place is becoming a burden, a tiresome responsibility and a drip drip drain on my reduced financial reserves.
We bought the tower from a body called the Hearth Revolving Fund. Hearth are based in Belfast; their reason for existing is to acquire interesting but endangered buildings in Northern Ireland. These buildings are not the stately homes or other grander historical buildings that might interest the National Trust but more humble abodes, that might otherwise be flattened to make way for a tidy close of bungalows or modest block of flats. After Hearth have purchased their latest building of choice, they set about using sensitive and sound methods in restoring it to its former damp-free self. Hearth will then either rent the property out or sell it on. Either way, the money generated is ploughed back into similar ventures. Thus the ‘Revolving Fund’ part of their name. Our tower is known as the Curfew Tower. It stands at the crossroads of the village of Cushendall (“The Heart Of The Glens”). It was built by a local landowner called Turnly in the early part of then 19th century. It’s a stout, four sided tower, five stories high with battlements. It was built using large, roughly cut local stone; its walls are thick. It affects medieval origins with a hint of the Orient, like a real folly should. Turnly, as any local tourist pamphlet will inform you, was an eccentric character, fired by a vision of a New World Order and a system of beliefs allowing man to live at peace with fellow man. Cushendall was to be the centre of this new Jerusalem. Turnly originally built the tower to house both a veteran of Waterloo who was to act as his local constable, gaoler and spy and any peasant caught out and about after the Turnly-set curfew hour, who would be thrown into the dungeon until he had repaid his debt to society. The rather cynical tone of the above shouldn’t detract from Turnly’s more philanthropic tendencies towards the local population. The original purpose of the tower reflects more on the unruly nature of the Irish than Turnly’s abuse of his power. If you want to know more, the Glens of Antrim Historical Society have the books and will take the time.
But enough of the local history. More important to Z and me was the fact that the dungeon had been lovingly restored, and the battlements were what every boy dreams of pouring boiling oil over. The place was centrally heated, with hot and cold running water. It was a perfect retreat, an escape from the bohemian squalor of our regular lives. On its renovation in the early ‘90s, Hearth had hoped that a local family might be interested in buying it to live in. Locals looking for a place to buy, still being a difficult lot, preferred to live in bungalows with double glazing, patios and double garages. Hearth cast their net wider, hoping to catch an artist or writer with romantic inclinations. Z’s eyes were caught by a small advert in the property pages of the Independent. We were in the net, but as previously stated, both our lives evolved, leaving little time for boiling up vats of oil and looking for the local Rapunzel to lock up. We had a 999 year leasehold, we paid Hearth a nominal, annual ground rent. Hearth, who retained an interest in the property, became anxious that as we were not in residence as much as we had promised, the place would start falling into disrepair. Local lads do what lads looking for a rite of passage the world over do and start to break in and have bad fun with boxes of matches and bottles of cider (or is it alcopops these days?). The name at the bottom of most of the correspondence from Hearth was Marcus Patton. I began to put a voice to this name as he spoke to me on the phone, gently hinting that I should consider renting the property out, maybe to a local Belfast businessman, an accountant or solicitor, or anyone who had the funds and inclination for an interesting second home in easy reach of the provincial capital. Hearth could act as agents, and the process would be reasonably painless.
Z and I had learnt that the Curfew Tower was considered by the locals as their tower, whatever distant gentlemen’s names were on the title deeds. Representations of the tower were used as a logo on all local tourist, civic or sporting printed matter. It was more than a local landmark with an interesting history, it was seen as an icon that symbolised the whole community. If some money burning pop star bastards over in England thought they owned it, they had another thing coming. History’s habit of repeating itself and all that. My old friend guilt paid a visit and persuaded me I should favourably consider Marcus Patton’s suggestions. A couple of months ago I drove the long rode north and took the ferry across from Stranraer to Larne. In the Belfast offices of Hearth I discussed Marcus Patton’s ideas with the man himself, then drove up over the Antrim mountains and down into the Glens of Cushendall to spend a night in the tower. I awoke in the morning and things didn’t feel right. It may sound elitist but this place, the Curfew Tower, should be something more than an interesting second home for a well-funded Belfast family. I’ve never been that good at the responsibility thing, but I felt I had some kind of responsibility for the ongoing life of the Curfew Tower and its place in the cultural history of the local community. On the long drive back home an idea started to formulate. Back home I contacted Marcus Patton and Susan Philipsz of Grassy Knoll Productions and arranged to organise a meeting at which point I could put forward this still vague idea.
The three of us have just spent the best part of the past 36 hours discussing, developing and banging about the idea. Patton and Philipz asked that on my return home I put it all down on paper, so we can get things in motion. This is the idea. We form a trust. The trust is to be called In You We Trust. Artists of any age, medium, place of birth and professional standing can apply to the trust to stay in the curfew tower for a period of not less than one week and not more than one month. While in residence they have to produce a work that in some way relates to the environment (tower, village, glen, state of mind, etc). At the end of their residency they have to leave the place as they found it, and they have to leave behind their piece of work in situ, this being their rent for the time they have stayed. Their work then becomes the property of the trust. Once a year the tower will be opened to the people of Cushendall for one week, and the good citizens will be able to inspect the work produced by the artists who have been working in the tower over the last twelve months. On the last day of the opening there will be a sealed ballot box placed on the towers kitchen table. Every resident of the parish, from first-year-at-school-aged to telegram-from-the-queen-aged, will have a vote. They will be asked to vote – in your opinion, what is the best work created by an artist in residence in the preceding year? That night in the village hall, or at Johnny Joe’s bar, or from the top of the tower, the winner of that year’s election will be announced and the winning artist will be awarded a 12 inch high bronze cast of the tower. “And this year’s winner of the Curfew Tower is…” flashlights and much cheering. And then they will have a party as only the people of the Glens know how.
Of course there will have to be rules…

No smoking in bed.
No abuse of other artists work.
No Self abuse after lights out.
No Works bigger than…
No works smaller than…
No friends round to stay.
No age limit.
No nicking cutlery.
No Curfew.
If the Calor gas bottle runs out, get it refilled at McAllister’s across the road at your own expense.
Work hard.
Produce something you will be proud of.
Do the dishes.
No slacking.
Keep a diary. (Maybe there should be a big Curfew Tower Diary so you can read over previous occupants’ thoughts, notions, day to day doings.)
Be Inspired.
When leaving, remember to switch of all lights, lock the doors and leave the keys with Hugh McAteer next door.

There will be more rules. These ones were listed off the top of my head as the stewardess pushes her trolley up the aisle, charging one pound for a plastic cup of tea. Maybe every artist in residence should be allowed to come up with a new rule. Anyone for creative rule play?
Long term objectives: To create an event that the residents of Cushendall are both involved in and proud of, even if much of the work produced by the artists in residence does not fit within their/our preconceived notions of ‘proper’ art. To create an environment where artists feel inspired to produce quality work that they would not otherwise have made. To create a time and place where the artists in residence is happy to talk to any local who shows an interest in what s/he is up to, and is happy then to leave the said work behind, in a space within the tower that neither interferes with the work of previous residents nor restricts possibilities for future visitors. To create a collection of interesting and diverse work that embroiders and embroils every inch of the interior of the tower, while leaving its structure intact and external appearance untouched. To create an annual award that becomes renowned way beyond the Glens, its reputation not based on the dictates on an elite band of tastemakers or the shock novelty value that make sub editors’ lives easier (elephant dung etc). To create an ongoing self perpetuating situation that I can look to in my twilight years and feel at least something I did had some value beyond the sating of my own desires and the serving of my own ego. Further thoughts: I hope this is up and running before this time next year.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Luton Airport. As your safety is our priority, could you please remain seated until the seatbelt signs have been turned off. Please take care when opening the overhead lockers and please ensure you take all your personal belongings with you. On behalf of Captain Edgar and all the crew we’d like to thank you for flying with easyJet and wish you a very safe and pleasant journey. Thank you and good morning.”