“Are there any sceptics in the room?” asks Deana, who seems to be the boss of the seven-strong team of ghosthunters. My hand shoots up and I immediately regret it. Deana throws me a look, which says, for the briefest of moments “we’re going to get you, lad.” My fear is that even if they fail to fully convince me of the existence of the afterlife, they will at least spend the next five hours pulling enough confidence tricks to make sure I leave the pub a quivering, gibbering wreck.

One of our number, Sicky Vicky, has a valid reason to be here, namely, to contact her dead grandmother. She has arrived in a wheelchair and although I’m happy to see her, I can’t help but consider a cartoon-like scenario where I run a-shriekin’ with fright from the Pilgrim to leave my disabled friend to face the ghosties alone.

After a ‘protection ritual’ we’re led into a dark, dusty loft where we huddle round a ouija board and various members of the group take turns invoking their dead relatives who have conveniently popped in from another spiritual plain to have a natter. The only two who appear to be ‘in contact’ turn out to be roaring drunk (it’s an alcohol-free event, and it’s starting to become clear why).

By midnight, it is soberingly evident that nothing which can accurately be termed ‘paranormal’ has happened or is going to happen. There have been only two incidents of note: one lady claiming to have been clobbered by an unseen force during the protection ritual, and a man wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘Show Me Your Orbs’ who was the target of an evil spirit’s potty-mouthed tirade. We suspect both to have been planted among us.

With two hours left till the end of the séance, the group has more than halved, and we can’t conceal our mirth when one punter scoffs on her way out: ”the only spirits in here are behind the bar.” So there are a number of options for the ghost-hunting team, the most sensible of which would be to cut their losses and apologise that they have been unsuccessful in making any meaningful contact with the dead tonight. Instead, they begin to act out a bizarre piece of improv theatre to try and fool their remaining customers into believing they are for real.

One medium is pacing the floor with her finger to her lips, another has his head between his legs and is moaning while the rest argue about the best way to banish the evil spirit that has followed them upstairs from the basement. For an hour.

Hilariously, this has the opposite effect; as they slowly run out of ideas, their acting gradually becomes more laboured until we find ourselves in the most farcical of situations where:

a) we know we’ve been conned

b) they know we know we’ve been conned

c) they are too afraid to admit it

d) we are too polite to call them on it

Sicky Vicky, sensing the fun to be had out of this preposterous stand-off, decides to indulge the exhausted ghost-hunters by begging them to help her grandmother pass over into the light. Perhaps mindful of the consequences of denying the grandmother of a wheelchair-bound customer eternal rest, the team dutifully agree to help. Having lost patience with the whole charade by 1am, I was not there to witness it, but apparently Sicky Vicky stayed and made them finish their ridiculous pantomime.

So, my first Psychic Night was nothing but a bad joke. Do I regret going? Of course not. The Sheffield ghost-hunters made a fast buck, Sicky Vicky had her fun with them and I had a hilarious story to tell. The only people who lost out are the ones who came in the belief that they were paying £4 for the answers to questions that have baffled us since the dawn of time, and left with a good mind to call Trading Standards in the morning.

The guitarist of an iconic Liverpool band has launched a collection of his artwork.

Will Sergeant, of post-punk stalwarts Echo and the Bunnymen, opened the exhibition at a new gallery in Penny Lane last Thursday.

The Penny Lane Gallery will display Sergeant’s abstract works as well as a special collection called ‘Postcards From Cairo’ which were created around old photos of his father taken during the Second World War.

Will explains the significance of this: “I was born in 1958, so when I was growing up, people were still talking about the war. It had only finished 12 years ago, so it was still on people’s minds.”

He goes on to cite a number of post-war American artists as his influences. Gene Davis, Franz Kline and Barnett Newman were all abstract-expressionist painters who were at the peak of their careers during this time.

He says he has already sold a few paintings, but admits it was hard to see them go. At the launch night, most people seem drawn to a piece called ‘Miracles Are Possible’, which depicts a grainy image of Chairman Mao on what appears to be a striped football shirt.

But there is no suggestion of deliberate sedition in his work and Will is not keen to discuss whatever underlying meaning exists in his paintings:

Art admirers with Will Sergeant (far right)

“I don’t like to explain my artwork too much. As with music, it’s important to retain an element of mystery!”

Owner Christine Colvin is enthusiastic about the gallery’s unique appeal in championing the natural creative progression of musicians to the canvas medium, saying:

“We want to start attracting musicians who have an artistic side!”

Will Sergeant is the only constant member of Echo and the Bunnymen and has played with them for over 30 years. During this time, he has maintained a healthy involvement in various art projects and in 2002 was a Visiting Fellow at Liverpool John Moores University School of Art and Design.

The exhibition is at Penny Lane Gallery, 38 Penny Lane, L18 and runs from Friday 25th November 2011 – Wednesday 29th February 2012.

The Brink café on Parr Street, is unique in that 80% of the workforce are in recovery from drug or alcohol addiction.

Funded by London-based charity Action on Addiction, The Brink acts as a social hub for the city’s recovery community. As well as providing facilities for support meetings, it will also host musical performances and film nights and even the ‘Bikers’ Breakfast’, at which cyclists can come and get their bike fixed for free, perhaps sampling the food while they wait.

Any profits from the café are ploughed back into providing support for recovering addicts.

Opening The Brink (L-R): Jacquie Johnston-Lynch, Peter Spanton (of Spanton Beverages) and manager Carl Alderdice

Community Engagement Worker Damien Kelly explains the idea behind the project:

“When we started, we realised that people in recovery didn’t have anywhere to go after meetings that didn’t sell booze. This gives them a place to call home.”

Although The Brink will attract a very specific clientele – people who “have been to the brink and come back,” Damien says that anyone is welcome:

“I can’t stress that enough: the Brink is for everyone to enjoy. People are going to want to come and sit for two or three hours and enjoy a coffee or a nice meal here, only without the hostility that can be associated with alcohol.”

The promotion of health and well-being is top of The Brink’s agenda, especially where food is concerned. Damien explains that the chef turned down a number of other jobs when he heard about the premise of the cafe.

Damning figures released in August by Liverpool John Moores University revealed that the city tops the league tables for alcohol-related hospital visits, with 3,114 admissions for every 100,000 people.

But Damien is quick to set the record straight:

“There is a growing and burgeoning recovery community in Liverpool. This will increase awareness of that community and show that it’s not just people with brown paper bags.”

I feel like Lester Burnham, Kevin Spacey’s slightly unhinged anti-hero in American Beauty, whole-heartedly launching himself into the ridiculous circus that passes for menial employment, where humans are stripped of all that makes them unique and paraded as examples of what can be achieved when the stupid are given just enough power to preside over the, well, slightly more stupid.

Lester Burnham: just an ordinary guy with nothing to lose

Except I am not stupid. Having been in gainful employment now for around seven years, I have fairly good idea of how I can expect to be treated, not necessarily as an employee, but as a human being. I have the luxury of experience and the wherewithal to spot some of the uglier elements of the workplace environment: a power trip, an unfair dismissal, discrimination, bigotry, harassment, slave labour.

I telephoned a bar about a job last week, intending to ask questions about the hours, the responsibilities and the pay. But could I get this information? Could I hell. Instead, the receptionist’s semi-automatic tongue fired off questions asking me for my name, full address, date of birth, previous experience and national insurance number, before I’d even managed a splutter of objection. Someone, I was told, would call me back. “Why?” I felt like asking “they won’t even know what I want.”

What is going on here!? Have we regressed as a nation to the point where nobody actually listens anymore, where basic communication skills have been smothered by a constant thirst for information?

I eventually managed to find a job, but lasted only two days after taking issue with pay conditions which were not explained to me from the outset. A blazing row with the bar owner was the longest and last conversation I had with her, my only regret being that I did not have the foresight to accidentally trip and fall through a glass table on my way out, severing my carotid artery just enough to make her shit money through my letterbox till Christmas 2013.

How many people on minimum wage simply put up with being treated badly by an employer, simply because it is the status quo? These are just two examples of how, during the past month, I have been exposed to some utterly shoddy treatment from prospective employers, treatment that I would not have received had I been applying for a job with a five-figure salary.

But of course, nobody likes a smart arse. Lester’s wife – and indeed everyone else in his sad little world – bloody hated him for finally standing up for himself. Oh, but we loved him for it. Who cared if he was throwing away his career and marriage for a fast car, a skunk habit, a body-building obsession and a bit of teenage skirt?

He showed us how to stick it to the man with style and that no matter how much of a fuck-up you are, the rest of humanity will always, always trump you.

Urban Strawberry Lunch is one such group. Based out of the ‘bombed-out church’ on Berry Street, they officially became ‘artists in residence’ in 2007, hosting concerts, exhibitions and film nights. Originally existing as a music collective that specialised in making musical instruments out of bits of old junk, USL has blossomed not only into a creative hub but also a community outreach initiative.

Hollywood Homeless is a project they started which was aimed at helping homeless people to engage with their community. The idea was to send them out into the streets with digital cameras and take photographs of anything that interested them. They also learnt design and photo-editing techniques, skills that would stay with them as they re-integrated into society.

It is projects such as this that could be stifled when USL’s funding dries up in April 2012. With this ominous blotch on their calendar, Urban Strawberry Lunch has entered Natwest’s Community Force competition, in which social enterprises around the country enter a public ballot for a chance of winning £6,000.

Liz Carlisle of USL explained the impact of the cuts:

“100% of our core funding comes from the Arts Council. The rest comes from small grants or is income-generated. Although we entered the competition under Arts and Culture, if we do win, part of that money will be used for the Hollywood Homeless project.”

The idea that art can be created and enjoyed by people from all walks of life, not just a privileged elite, seems to be at the heart of USL’s bid.

They’ve got my vote. Have they got yours?

Having spent two full days navigating the spider’s web of articles on the riots, I discovered that I held a contentious opinion. A YouGov survey revealed that only 8% of Britons thought that the riots were the result of public spending cuts. 42% cited criminal behaviour as the cause. Whether or not you believe that criminal behaviour stems from socially unjust spending cuts is another debate for another day.

Some commentators suggested that the importance of youth centres was overrated and that young people interviewed in the video about Haringey youth service cuts were using their closure to justify violent disorder. I have always believed that youth centres can provide focus, motivation and belonging at a crucial time in a young person’s life, and by coincidence I had recently visited one in Knotty Ash, Liverpool.

“When I arrived 20 years ago,” explains youth worker John Bligh, “there was just a pool table, nothing else.” In 2009, a government creative industries drive led to it being redeveloped as a music centre with rehearsal and recording studios and today, the place is a hive of activity. In the last four months, 400 people have signed up for activities, one of which is tonight’s monthly event, The Platform, at which young people are given the chance to perform in front of an audience, singing, dancing, rapping or showcasing any other talent they might have, as a way of building character and confidence, but mainly having fun.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Since youth worker Phil Windever arrived four months ago, says John, the centre has come on in leaps and bounds. Phil’s creative influence has enabled the launch of new initiatives aimed at boosting the centre’s profile: jam sessions, guidance and counselling, employment and training support, networking with theatre groups and even a global exchange program, which has attracted youth groups from as far afield as Hong Kong. For Phil, the sky really is the limit.

The centre is also making its mark in the political spectrum. Last month, the Minister for Culture, Communications and the Creative Industries, Ed Vaizey, visited the centre as part of a recent trip to Liverpool and was so impressed by what he encountered that he was moved to tweet that there was “inspirational work going on” there.

On my way out, I bump into club member Dean Welsh, practically a veteran at 25, and perhaps an example of what young people can achieve with the right help and support. He speaks breathlessly and with boundless enthusiasm about his film-making enterprise, his friends’ bands and the vocal training work he has been doing with a young singer Robyn Hinxman, who performed at tonight’s Platform event.

The people I met at Knotty Ash last week upheld my belief that the skills and talents of young people are worth nurturing. Be under no illusion: ring-fencing funding for youth services will not solve the country’s problems, but it’s a damn good place to start.

Chavez Campbell, the teenager interviewed last weekend in conjunction with The Guardian’s article about the Haringey cuts, will never make a more chillingly prophetic statement. Only a week later, rioting broke out in the same borough in response to the fatal shooting of Mark Duggan, who was well-known within the community. Predictably, the right-wing press hammered home Duggan’s criminal past, linking him to Jamaican gangs and various other unsavoury characters. On the left, the spotlight was on the shameful actions of the looters, who capitalised on Duggan’s death to furnish their own living rooms.

But what has the rioting got to do with public service cuts? The answer is: everything. If you take away the services on which people’s livelihoods depend, then their only options are submission or protest. History has taught us that violent protest often requires a catalyst event, but is rarely a direct or proportionate reaction to that event: the Tottenham riots were as much a response to the shooting of Mark Duggan as the 1965 LA riots were to the Rodney King incident or the 2005 riots in France to the deaths of two teenagers fleeing police. While there was initial outrage, in each case there were smouldering social problems of dire proportions.

Think of it this way: if you secretly pump toxic gas into a room full of people, they die a slow, agonising death, oblivious to their impending doom. Throw in a grenade, and all hell breaks loose. The killing of Mark Duggan had an incendiary effect on a disaffected community whose anger had been brewing for years. This was not revenge for the death of one man, this was revenge for what certain factions of the community saw as the sustained, systematic suppression of an entire generation.

The wanton violence of the last few days was abhorrent and completely unjustified, but one of the lessons must be that if we deny young people opportunities to prosper, they will simply prosper by illegal means. Removing 75% of funding for a much-needed service in one of London’s most deprived boroughs and without a consultation smacks of ignorance at best and abandonment at worst. Whitehall ministers’ justification for the cuts is that youth services are classed as ‘discretionary’, that is to say they are not bound by law to provide them and that cutting them will do less damage to the economic recovery than cutting those classed as ‘critical’. The shopkeepers, homeowners, car owners, community leaders and emergency services personnel who were all affected in some way by the London riots and those in Birmingham, Liverpool, Bristol and Nottingham may beg to differ.

So much for the ConDem government’s early intervention policy. Is it any wonder people are angry?

Nothing, in my view, can match the intensity and unpredictability of a great rock show. As one of the thousands of sweaty bodies surging and pogoing in beer-fuelled unison, you wholeheartedly accept that for the next two hours, the fate of your personal possessions – money, camera, phone, fags, house keys and even your shoes are in the lap of the gods as you pile into the pit with no regard for your own safety.

But sometimes it’s not enough. As with many extreme pastimes, there are always ways of cranking up the danger meter. Urban climbers always look for a taller building, endurance athletes look for a more ridiculous race. Rock fans, well, they crowd-surf. Inevitably, such activities are not without risk.

The Roskilde tragedy in 2000, in which nine people died in a crush at a festival in Denmark, led to a Europe-wide ban on crowd-surfing. The powers that be decided that this could simply not happen again, but what happens when the ban is flouted? A recent show by Black Lips at Liverpool’s Masque Theatre was halted for five minutes after the band squared up to bouncers in solidarity with crowd-surfers who were being roughly treated. “DO NOT FUCK WITH THE BAND!” screamed basisst Jared Swilley at one of the Masque’s security team.

To those in attendance, Black Lips became heroes overnight. To the hired muscle at the front, they were a constant irritation and a threat to their authority. Taking such a hard line on the perpetrators simply enraged the mob, which could have eventually spelled bigger trouble had Black Lips not hastily departed after one last song.

If the Masque’s security team failed miserably, another venue appears to have got the balance bang on the money. Manchester’s Moho Live is Manchester’s most exciting new gig venue. Not because it gets the biggest bands – its capacity must be around the 400 mark – but because of its layout and crowd control policy. There is no barrier between stage and audience, which means that a certain degree of etiquette must be observed by those closest to the front.

A recent concert there by US melodic hardcore band Boysetsfire proved a tough test for the security team. The place was packed to the rafters and for the first half of the set, the punters were as good as gold. There was an air of camaraderie which was marred only by frontman Nathan Gray having to launch a well-timed kick at a male fan whose penchant for groping had started to wear a bit thin.

But as the beer flowed and the band loosened up, the crowd became more audacious. Crowd-surfing turned into stage-diving and Gray had to fend off a couple of drunken embraces, but eventually entered into the spirit of the event, diving into the throng on more than one occasion. All the while, the bouncers stood idly by, deciding that there was no threat to public safety and therefore no need to intervene. The result was that everyone left the gig happy, albeit sporting one or two bruises.

In Europe, the lessons of Roskilde have been all but forgotten. At the 2011 Groezrock festival in Meerhout, Belgium, crowd-surfers and stage-divers were rampant. At one point during No Trigger’s Sunday afternoon slot, there were more people on the stage than in the audience. Either the organisers had decided to allow crowd-surfing, or had simply treated the issue as an elephant in the room.

So crowd-surfing is making a comeback, it would seem. Medium-sized venues are perhaps realising that the policy is too difficult to implement without risking further violence. Relaxing the rules seems to have the approval of the majority of gig-goers, but is it another tragedy waiting to happen?

A delectable mélange of local talent, established artists, and hotly-tipped acts on the bill has ensured that this year’s event could be the best yet.

Liverpool’s very own demons of surf EL TORO kick off by dedicating their entire set to 80s wrestler and cult figure Macho Man Randy Savage, who was killed in a car accident earlier that day. Guitarist Chris Luna’s trademark reverb effect echoes around the the Masque Theatre as he punctuates his guitar accents with some fancy footwork. Catchy garage jams ‘No Doctor’ and ‘Down To the River’ are now firm live favourites among their followers, as is new song and set closer ‘Shame’, which, sounding almost like a Blondie song, appears to signal a new pop direction for the band, but as they’re not the sorts to pander to the whims of the masses, we’re fairly sure it’s a one-off.

The evening’s tight schedule means we have to sprint like the clappers up Mount Pleasant to catch Toronto’s RURAL ALBERTA ADVANTAGE in the cavernous environs of the cathedral crypt. It’s an unusual choice of venue, but entirely appropriate for its acoustic effect; the sound booms off the masonry and you’d be forgiven for thinking that the apocalypse had come early. At least we’re in the right place.

The great thing about a festival like this is that if you’re prepared to hop from venue to venue, gambling on lesser-known acts, your faith is occasionally rewarded with something a little bit special. Today, Rural Alberta Advantage are it. Complete with Billy Corgan’s fragile vocal style, RAA strongly recall the Smashing Pumpkins’ short-lived side-project Zwan. Despite a set-up which comprises only drums, keyboards and acoustic guitar, they make a terrific noise. Their accomplished drummer Paul Banwatt takes four-to-the-floor rhythms and transforms them into galloping, rattling beasts and keyboardist Amy Cole hops around like an excitable child. We wheel away with the feeling that we’ve just been let in on a very exclusive secret and it makes the exhausting journey here seem somewhat insignificant.

We’re prepared to overlook the O2 Academy’s abominable drinks prices to catch a glimpse of Bay area skate-punkers SET YOUR GOALS. Not that the bar will take much on booze tonight – the average audience age is about 15. Energetic dual vocalists Matt Wilson and Jordan Brown instantly assert their command, whipping the kids into a frenzy and instigating circle pits simply by twirling an authoritative finger. Drawing from a range of influences across the contemporary punk spectrum, they play feel-good, positive punk pop from the school of Sum 41, New Found Glory et al, occasionally flecked with a more muscular hardcore sound to keep the punk purists happy.

Pressed for time and conscious of the boring trek into town, we scoot off back to the Masque to sneak a peek at the band everyone’s talking about at this year’s festival. Atlanta’s BLACK LIPS are renowned for courting controversy wherever they go; two members of the band were kicked out of school in the wake of the Columbine Massacre, their rebellious nature affording them the tag of ‘subculture danger’, and past live shows, which have included vomiting, live animals and wanton arson have been described by some as “just plain dangerous”.

They do not let us down. For all the mystique surrounding the band, they also boast some superb tunes. ‘Dirty Hands’ is self-deprecating, yet cockle-warming tale of childhood adventure and vulnerability, simple in arrangement, yet timeless in appeal. Their fusion of 60s garage, country and doo wop is all delivered with bags of big-hearted punk attitude. By the time they launch into the gang vocals of ‘Bad Kids’, enough beery missiles are flying around the Masque to make the security team more than a little edgy. The atmosphere sours as crowdsurfers are aggressively rebuffed by the neon-banded oafs, prompting guitarist Cole Alexander to barge past one of them and leap into the crowd to finish the song in a triumphant gesture of solidarity.

Despite instantly winning the hearts of every last audience member in the venue, Alexander’s bold display of gallantry only infuriates the Masque’s security team, who become locked in an angry stand-off with the band for several minutes. Bassist Jared Swilley taunts the nearest bouncer:

“What, are you gonna wait for me outside and kick my ass, IS THAT IT?!”

A cheer erupts and the band quickly perform one last song before a decision can be made on whether to pull the plug. Their notoriety is cemented and ensures that the finale to friday night is nothing short of heroic.

There was something extremely unsavoury about the whole concept, I thought. I mean, why this? Why not Hideously Malformed Puppy Day, or Brits Falsely Imprisoned in Thai Jails Day? So I used the second of the two minutes to covertly Google ‘Workers’ Memorial Day’. As with most things, there was a reason behind it all.

The day marks the anniversary of the Occupational Health and Safety Act of 1970 in the USA, and also that of an industrial accident in Connecticut in which 28 people were killed on a building site. Since the 90s, trade unions have used the date as a historical reference point and a basis from which to lobby governments on health and safety issues. The day was formally recognised by the UK goverment last year, to the extent that someone saw fit to rob me of two minutes of my lunch break so I could solemnly acknowledge the deaths of people who failed to read safety instructions, the suicidal speculative bankers who lost everything and the people who didn’t quite die, but whose £120 a week incapacity benefit softens the blow somewhat.

Of course, people die at work due to systemic failures, and it’s incredibly sad when it happens, but we should do our grieving at the time of the event and, if we so wish, on future anniversaries. I am not part of the political process that underpins these tragedies, and resent being encouraged to grieve in order to further the agenda of political lobbyists, not to mention the fact that the queue at Subway is snaking round the block with every second that I spend staring blankly at my screen. Knowing my luck, it’ll be closed by the time I get there because a member of staff has been electrocuted by the toasting machine.