Ludds On Tour #6: The Hampshire Hog Writes A Letter (Hampshire, 1816)

Part of Ludds on Tour, a series of blogs by Jack Dean looking at how the histories of places where Jeremiah  is touring relate to the events of the show.

William Cobbett was a complicated man, even by the standards of his day. Born in Farnham but settling in Botley in 1805, he was a wealthy landowner mainly known for being founder, writer and editor of The Political Register. This was a weekly newspaper that started off with Tory leanings but soon fell foul of the establishment after advocating universal suffrage and publishing recordings of parliamentary debates, which was illegal at the time (although it was less progressive in other ways, being pro-bear-baiting and mocking William Wilberforce for his support for ‘the fat and lazy and laughing and singing negroes‘). He spent two years in prison for “treasonous libel” because of the paper, leading to a cartoon being published titled “the Hampshire Hog in the Pound” (pictured above) essentially poking fun at the idea that jail was hardly going to slow down his money-grubbing schemes. Certainly Cobbett was a shrewd businessman. When the government started heavily taxing newspapers in a bid to quash dissent, Cobbett made a move way ahead of his time and purged all news content from the paper, leaving only pure opinion. This made it technically a “pamphlet” allowing it to circumvent the tax, and it was a huge hit, its circulation jumping from one to forty thousand. Critics called this new paper “the twopenny trash”. Cobbett was so unphased by his haters that he adopted the moniker himself.

             It was in this publication on November 30 that Cobbett published his “Letter to the Luddites”. This hefty nine-and-a-half-thousand-word article touches on a lot, including a whole set of tables regarding the price of produce, but in essence tells them that all their problems are due to taxation (which you can probably figure out from the above, he was not a fan of) and the government’s quantitative easing, or as he calls it “the paper-money bubble”. In essence then, though he declares sympathy with their plight, he propounds the idea that the Luddites had merely some sort of blinkered, technophobic fixation on destroying machinery, rather than an agenda for social change, an idea echoed later by Marx, and still commonly held to this day. He pretty nakedly states this somewhat condescending view in his final paragraph:

“For past errors I make all possible allowance. We all fall into errors enough naturally; and, no wonder that you should have adopted erroneous notions, seeing that the corrupt press has, for so many years been at work to deceive and mislead you. This base press, knowing what would be the inevitable consequence of your seeing the real causes of your calamities, has incessantly laboured to blind you, or to direct your eyes towards an imaginary cause. Machines, Bakers, Butchers, Brewers, Millers; any thing but the taxes and the paper-money, in all the acts of violence to which you have been led by these vile hirelings you have greatly favored the cause of corruption, which is never so much delighted as at the sight of troops acting against the people.” 

The Political Register had a wide working-class circulation, and was read outside London, so this article may not have been wholly screaming into a void. But the complex arguments of a complex man could not quell the Luddites’ anger, and the sight of troops acting against the people would come in the following year on a dramatic scale. But to find out about that, you’ll need to come see the show. Or I guess, look it up on Wikipedia. But the show will be more fun, promise.

Ludds On Tour #4: Onion-gate (Ipswich, 1816)

Part of Ludds on Tour, a series of blogs by Jack Dean looking at how the histories of towns where Jeremiah’s touring relate to the events of the show.

The South East saw plenty of machinery-smashing in the 1800s, albeit of different contraptions than in the North. The threshing machine, invented in 1786, removed the seeds of grain from the stalks and husks, a job formerly done by hand with flails. Their destruction would reach its peak in the Swing Riots of 1830, a kind of sequel to the Luddite Rebellion that had its own fictional leader (the excellently named “Captain Swing”) and similarly saw hundreds of machines destroyed, dozens of men hanged and thousands arrested. But the first rumblings of discontent could be felt decades earlier. On the 25thof February 1816, 8 men who had been arrested four days before for breaking threshing machines at Gosbeck were send to Ipswich Gaol (now the site of Great White Horse Hotel). An unhappy crowd assembled, and the Magistrate who would be presiding over their trial, and refused bail to all but two of them, was pelted with objects and forced to take cover inside until they dispersed . Or was he? According to Luddite Bicentenary:

“Accounts….differed between the Bury & Norwich Post and the more local paper, the Ipswich Journal, which differed principally over whether or not objects were thrown (The Bury & Norwich Post having the last word and insisting an onion was thrown, hitting one of the Magistrates)”.

I bet the 1810s equivalent of sandwich-boards read “SOLID PROOF OF ONION THROWN IN MAGISTRATE KERFUFFLE”. Local journalism hasn’t changed much, and I kind of love that.

Ludds On Tour #3: Twisting In at the Crispin Inn (Halifax, 1813)

Part of Ludds on Tour, a series of blogs by Jack Dean looking at how historical events in towns where Jeremiah is touring relate to the story of the show.

Although the Luddite Rebellion very quickly prompted the passing of the Frame-Breaking Act, which made the destruction of machinery a hangable offence, no-one was ever actually sentenced to death under this act. Instead, prosecutors preferred to use existing legislation, trying Luddites for assault, destruction of property, or when those were not possible, using more creative means.

John Baines of Halifax and his son (inventively also named John Baines), along with three of his friends, were charged in January 1813 with administering an illegal oath. The oath in question happened at the Crispin Inn, a pub that stood on Winding Road, a mere two minute walk down the same road that Square Chapel now stands on. It was called the Luddite Oath, one sworn by members of the group on joining, a process they called “twisting in”. They would lay their hand on a “small book” (presumably a bible) and recite:

“I, [name] of my own free will and accord do hereby promise and swear that I will never reveal any of the names of any one of this secret Committee, under the penalty of being sent out of this world by the first Brother that may meet me. I furthermore do swear, that I will pursue with unceasing vengeance any Traitors or Traitor, should there any arise, should he fly to the verge of —- I furthermore do swear that I will be sober and faithful, in all my dealings with all my Brothers, and if ever I decline them, my name to be blotted out from the list of Society and never to be remembered, but with contempt and abhorrence, so help me God to keep this our Oath inviolate.”

Unluckily for these men, one of the fellows present, John McDonald, was willing to risk pursuit with unceasing vengeance. An informer for the government, his testimony saw them sentenced to transportation to Australia. John Baines, already an old man, died there two years later aboard a prison ship. The other men were pardoned in 1816, but whether they made it home is not yet known. Scout’s honour.

Ludds On Tour #2: Riots Uptown (Sheffield, 1812)

Part of Ludds on Tour, a series of blogs by Jack Dean looking at how the histories of towns where Jeremiah is touring relate to the events of the show.

Never get in between a Yorkshireman and his stomach, especially not in the waking nightmare and the BBC’sfourth worst year in British History that was the year of 1812. The Napoleonic wars dragged on, the economy was in tailspin, the Prime Minister had been murdered in the lobby of the Commons and his assassin had been cheered by the gathering crowd. While the Luddites were making targeted raids on industrial machinery, thousands across the North were erupting into spontaneous fights for that most basic of resources: food.

The Sheffield Cutlers used to employ hundreds in the town before this Annus Horribilis. But after half the workers had been laid off, they were now in a compulsory workfare programme, “Dressed in rags and forced to wear clogs as a ‘badge of receiving parish relief” (for no greater shame can come than being made to dress like a Dutchman). On April 14th, these men came to town to buy lunch and a dispute erupted over the price of potatoes. The dispute turned quickly into riot, with people grabbing everything they could from stalls, and though local volunteer police suppressed it, a small group, watched by a crowd of around 5000, moved on to raid the local Militia’s weapons store in the western outskirts of the town (the Militia was the army’s domestic reserve force, but their role in suppressing dissent at the time made them a popular target for attacks). The two soldiers guarding the store tried to hold their ground, but were pelted with rocks and fled. 900 rifles were taken out of the store: some were destroyed when no ammunition could be found, many were kept.  Although a cavalry regiment showed up shortly after, made some arrests and dispersed the crowd, most of the weapons were never recovered.

The knife-edge tension of a city with an armed populace, skirmishing with an occupying army in their midst, without enough money to get a simple potato, must have been unbearably intense. Civil war must have been a fairly high possibility. We know now that the war would end, the military response would scale back, and conditions would gradually improve. But they didn’t.

Ludds On Tour #1: The Mother Of All Lock-ins (London, 1817)

Ludds On Tour #1: The Mother Of All Lock-ins (London, 1817)

Part of Ludds on Tour, a series of blogs by Jack Dean looking at how the histories of the places where Jeremiah is touring relate to the events of the show.

As an on-and-off member of political parties and groups over the last few years, I’ve been used to meeting in council back-offices, small community halls and the occasional pristine Quaker Meeting House. I could not imagine any of them holding their AGM down the pub. But this was exactly where the Hampden Club, one of the most radical and widespread political organisations of the time, would gather its members, first in London, then in chapters throughout the country.

 It’s hard to understate the significance of the pub to daily life in Georgian England: they were civic centres that served as Town Hall, dining room, living room and wedding venue to their local communities.  As such, they were often the most lavish building in the area. Michael Parkin, in The Making of A Radical, describes the Crown and Anchor on Arundel Street, the site of the meeting:

“Enriched Carved Cornices circled the ceiling, which featured two large moulded centrepieces of carved flowers supporting the room’s chandeliers… festoons cascaded from the walls of an arched recess at the western end of the room, with the walls adorned with a frieze of eight panels… reportedly capable of hosting concerts, balls and banquets for at least 2000 people.” 

The fanciest pub in London was an appropriate meeting place for a group that aimed to bring working and middle-class progressives together. The Hampden Club took its name from Parliamentarian English Civil War general John Hampden, who, as one of the members of Parliament that Charles I tried to arrest, was and is held as a symbol of parliamentary independence (he’s the guy behind the slamming of the doors on the Queen’s messenger, one of the many bizarre rituals at the State Opening of Parliament). It had an eccentric mix of members: there was Major Cartwright, a naval officer who’d been kicked out for his political opinions, and Francis Burdett , an MP from the self-named Radical group who won his seat of Westminster after challenging his opponent to a duel and shooting him in the leg. Also present was Tommy Bacon, friend of Jeremiah Brandreth and one of the masterminds behind the Pentrich Rising (the event some historians call the last event of the Luddite Rebellion, and wot I talk about in the show).

            The members were gathered to debate the subject that was central to their cause: electoral reform. The proportion of the country who could vote at this time was laughably small: more than half the Members in parliament were elected by 100 voters or less. Like so many progressive causes, the Hampdens had to decide whether to triangulate their position for a broader appeal, or stick to their principles. The motion for a more “radical” bill to be submitted by Burdett, demanding universal male suffrage, vote by secret ballot and redrawing of gerrymandered constituencies, defeated a more “moderate” one that kept some property requirements for voting and an open ballot (ie one that could be influenced by bribery or threats). It’s hard to imagine any of these ideas as radical now, but the Times’ contemptuous description of the bill as “endeavouring…not only to overthrow the constitution directly and openly, but to subvert the very nature and habits of Englishmen”, and its ultimate defeat in Parliament, reminds me of that Mark Steel quote:“there are some people who think centre ground is a pretty horrible place”.

5 Things You May Not Know About The Luddites

Luddites. Be honest. What comes to mind when you read that word? Backwards, parochial sillies from the Days of Yore who smashed up machinery because they couldn’t handle the inevitable march of progress? Or maybe you think of the modern application of the term, the sort of faux-lo-fi hippies who complain “Gosh, GPS means no-one reads maps any more” (Google Maps is a map, Phillip, it’s in the name), or “I don’t have a TV, too many screens are bad for you” (What’s that, Phillip, a laptop? On which you are watching Netflix? YOU, SIR, HAVE A TV). Well stand back, internet, for I’ve been making a live show about the Luddite Rebellion, and am here to take a sledgehammer of research to the knitting machinery of your preconceptions.

1) They liked, and used, technology.

The Luddites were predominately workers in the textile industry, specifically stocking makers who made goods on a device called a stocking frame. This machine was invented in the mid-1600s and was the same kind of machine as the ones they were destroying over the course of the Luddite Rebellion (around 1811-1817). So what the hell was all this punk-ass smashing of shit about? Well, as Eric Hobsbawm writes, the destruction of machinery actually happened a long time after, and before, the Luddite Rebellion:

“the Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire and Derbyshire Luddites were using attacks upon machinery, whether new or old, as a means of coercing their employers into granting them concessions with regard to wages and other matters. This sort of wrecking was a traditional and established part of industrial conflict in the period of the domestic and manufacturing system, and the early stages of factory and mine. It was directed not only against machines, but also against raw material. finished goods and even the private property of employers, depending on what sort of damage these were most sensitive to.”

The Luddites were specifically targeting the assets of major industrialists, whatever they were. More Eric:

“The Lancashire machine-wreckers…distinguished clearly between spinning-jennies of twenty-four spindles or less, which they spared, and larger ones, suitable only for use in factories, which they destroyed.”

Their objection wasn’t to machines, but their use for mass production of shoddy goods, with the help of cheap labour, with the surplus value being hived off to a tiny business elite. Good thing that doesn’t happen any more, EH FOLKS?

2) They had a pretty great sense of humour (and branding)

The Luddites had a major advantage in that their leader, referred to as “General Ludd” or “King Ludd” was a fictional character, and thus he could never be captured or killed by the establishment. This didn’t stop numerous government agents and officials being completely convinced he was real, and investing phenomenal effort and energy in seeking his capture. The Luddites would stoke this paranoia as much as possible, writing letters to the authorities signed “Ned Ludd’s Office, Sherwood Forest”. The local militiamen, of which 12,000 were deployed at the peak of the rebellion, started having full-on hallucinations of his appearance. According to one account “a militiaman reported spotting the dreaded general with ‘a pike in his hand, like a serjeant’s halbert,’ and a face that was a ghostly unnatural white.” The Luddites also knew how to get the right image for the Instagram of the 1810s (which was… just looking at things), wearing black handkerchiefs over their faces like your favourite screamo-rappers and giant, matching sledgehammers named “Great Enoch” after the blacksmith who made them.

3) They liked to drag it up every once in a while

One raid in Stockport was led by two men in women’s clothing claiming to be “Ned Ludd’s Wives”. Nobody really knows why or what it meant. I just love sharing this fact.

4) Their cause was backed by Lord Byron

The bisexual, drug addled, bear-owning legend himself took part in a debate in the House of Lords over a bill to regulate the stocking trade so that shoddy goods wouldn’t flood the market place. Although he condemned the violence of the Luddites, he went on to a sweeping and impassioned condemnation of the economic and political conditions in the North of England that had caused it, claiming it to be worse than any territory under the Ottoman Empire that he’d recently visited. As he later described it: “I spoke very violent sentences with a sort of modest impudence, abused everything and everybody, put the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour, and if I may believe what I hear, have not lost any character in the experiment”. Just another day at the office for the B-man.

5) Their rebellion got quite close to civil war.

As the first restrictions on gun ownership and usage didn’t enter the British law books until the following decade, everyone and their mums were packing heat in the 1810s. The Luddites weren’t afraid to use them either: raids where merchants refused to give up their machines often broke out into gun fights. Over time, as soldiers flooded into the North, what started as (an admittedly extreme form of) collective workplace bargaining through direct action took on more and more of the shape of open revolt.  Discontent hit a high-water mark in the first half of 1812, when the prime minister was assassinated, two pitched battles happened near mills in Lancashire, and riots in big cities became almost weekly occurrences. The ensuing government crackdown was as reasonable as you’d expect from Lord Liverpool, the super chill guy who once said “France is our natural enemy ; she is more so as a republic than as a monarchy”. As well as making the breaking of stocking frames a capital offence (better not accidentally knock something over at work guys), Liverpool’s government passed the Six Acts, which removed the right to bail for people under arrest, outlawed public meetings of more than 50 people, banned anti-government writings and heavily taxed newspapers. The Six Acts were not fully repealed until 2008. So in a very real way, we still live in a world the Luddites created. Fortunately, though, we’ve resolved all the issues about automation, capitalism and state power combining to create poverty and chaos, so THAT’S ALL FINE.

Jack’s aforementioned live show opens at Exeter Phoenix on the 26th & 27th of September and the Civic, Barnsley on the 29th  of September. He will not be breaking any theatre lighting or sound equipment. Not deliberately, at least.





Here’s What You Could’ve Won #3: An Airship Fleet

[Part of the Here’s What You Could Have Won series, where I take issues from the news and make whimsical fag-packet calculations of things that the £205 billion due to be spent on replacing the Trident programme of nuclear submarines could buy, in preparation for the tour of my show Nuketown]

Guys. Bear with me.

In 1930, the last British airship to be made in the 20th century, the R101, set off into the skies over Cardington, Bedfordshire. It really was the Titanic of the Air: a bevy of high-profile guests were on board, including the Air Minister Lord Thompson. There was a full dining car painted with a faux marble effect, a kitchen, and a promenade section with huge glass panes. It was 200 metres long, an unsinkable ship, designed to set a new passenger line between England, Egypt and India.

Unfortunately, the R101 met a similarly Titanic-esque fate, crashing in an unexpected storm over France, killing 48 of the 54 people on board.  The British government almost immediately abandoned its airship programme, followed shortly after by nations the world over.

Now. Am I saying we should send government ministers out to die in flimsy death-balloons? No. Not in this blog anyway. Like I said, hear me out.

80 years on from the end of the era of the airship, new ones are emerging. Companies are attracted to the same virtues that once drew governments to lighter-than-air travel: the ability for vertical take-off and landing to obviate the need for landing strips, their potential for greater energy efficiency, and their increasing possibility for greater speeds. Two years ago, the Airlander 10 became the first airship to be inflated at Cardington for more than three quarters of a century, with a top speed of 100mph and the ability to carry thirteen tons of cargo. That ship was made with an old airship model the US had got bored of and sold them for cheap, and backed by Kickstarter, its most high-profile donor being Iron Maiden frontman Bruce Dickinson. Imagine what could be achieved with investment from more than just legendary metal singers and the kind of people who will spend $50,000 backing potato salad.

The Airlander 10 cost £25 million. Assuming some efficiencies from mass production are counterbalanced by the costs of R&D and some bigger ships,  our £205 billion gets us a fleet of 8,200 ships. At home, you could hop on one from your local station at any city in the country, and tear through sky with electric engines on a beeline to your destination, soaring above our decrepit rail network, and our choked-up roads, held in serene suspension over the moors and beaches. Abroad, China’s terrifying New Silk Road project would be met by a smaller, quirkier English version, with driverless ships taking raw materials, machinery or even whole buildings and dropping them into parts of the developing world hampered by poor road access. Even if safety wasn’t greatly improved you’d still be more likely to die in a car accident. And they’re so pretty. Wouldn’t it be worth the risk?

The Imperial Airship programme behind the R101, for all its flawed thinking and the ethical vortex of the Empire behind it, signified a people that believed in a future. A future that we would be a major part, perhaps the leaders of. That attitude seems vastly absent from people across the political spectrum. We used to think we were inches away from colonizing mars, flying cars and 1-hour work days. Now there are only competing images of decline and dystopia. This blog miniseries has been me trying to recapture some of that 20th century optimism. And maybe giant balloons is a weird way to start. And no, it’s probably not the best use of £205 billion of public money. But its still better than nuclear bloody submarines. And, to me at least, its an interesting comparison of like for like. Of course if that money appeared today it should go on housing, healthcare and education. But if it were ringfenced for quixotic, unwieldy future tech, wouldn’t a Skytanic or two be so much more fun? Or, as the man Bruce Bruce himself put it: “I told my wife, I’m about to put £100k into a big bag of helium. It may go up in smoke. She said, people have to dream, and unless you can dream something it’s never going to happen.”.


Here’s What You Could Have Won #2: Nationalising Facebook

[Part of the Here’s What You Could Have Won series, where I take issues from the news and make whimsical fag-packet calculations of things that the £205 billion due to be spent on replacing the Trident programme of nuclear submarines could buy, in preparation for the tour of my show Nuketown]

Ah Facebook. Where else can you humblebrag about your new job, post your new avocado workout and furtively masturbate over pics of university acquaintances? People are getting increasingly vexed about the rise of Facebook, both in terms of its monopolistic control of social media, and the, um, intriguing applications of its technology by home-grown old-school British villains Cambridge Analytica. Now even the mega-rich are turning on it, as Zuckerberg and Apple CEO Tim Cook throw shade at each other, like, well, two nerds in a Facebook comment war.

If domestic geeks are going to use Facebook data to rig elections, they might as well do it for MI6 and, y’know, rig them the right way. On the real though, nationalisation would offer the potential of far greater transparency on how data is used. At a bare minimum, it would mean some elected officials would be snooping on your late-night drunk-messages and not a private company. And it would give the British taxpayer access to a slice of its tasty $4.7 billion per year in profits.

But Jack, you comment while Timehopping back to that Amazeballs Night With Fiona And the Squad, would Zuckerberg want to sell? He wasn’t very keen on sharing the fun when he was Jesse Eisenberg learning dance moves from Justin Timberlake in that one movie, was he? Well, it’s complicated. Normally, on a publicly traded company like Facebook, for every share you buy you get one vote at shareholders meeting, where the companies big decisions are made. So if you buy more than half of the company’s 2,986,000,514 shares, you get a controlling stake: you’re the boss. Our £205 billion doesn’t quite buy us all of Facebook, but it gets us a 62% stake. But Facebook, as in most things it does as a company, does things differently. They have two different classes of shares. Class A (one share, one vote) and Class B (one share, 10 votes, owned exclusively by company insiders). Through owning a shit ton of class B shares, he has 60% of the votes despite only having 16% of the shares. This, for some reason, is perfectly legal, meaning a company gets the liquidity of trading its shares on the stock market that being a public company provides, with the same total control by one or a few people that a private company does. Isn’t Capitalism a BLAST?

So our majority stake would get us the money, but not the power. But does Zuckerberg really want to be in charge of the monster he created? As Trevor Noah from the Daily show riffed: ‘Mark Zuckerberg started out by basically making a “hot or not” website for his college ,and now America is counting on him to protect the integrity of its elections”. Mark, I implore you, let go of this Atlas-like burden, go focus on philanthropy and Farmville, and leave us to counter the post-Brexit lapse in trade with some super-targeted pork pie ads.

Here’s What You Could Have Won #1: A Thousand Years of Grit

[Part of the Here’s What You Could Have Won series, where I take issues from the news and make whimsical fag-packet calculations of things that the £205 billion due to be spent on replacing the Trident programme of nuclear submarines could buy, in preparation for the tour of my show Nuketown]

I write this in the middle of Storm Emma, a rare Siberian weather pattern that has crept its way west like Kutuzov’s armies fresh on the heels of Napoleon. I am snug indoors with the dog, but outside the world is collapsing. Non-essential travel is discouraged. Chatham ski slope has closed due to too much snow. A great yellow penis of frosty doom drags itself over the land, and all the English doth lose their shit. At times like this a uniquely English clash of weather and local politics emerges over the subject of gritting. In Sheffield, the ongoing furore over the private contractor Amey’s destruction of thousands of ancient trees continues to bubble over, with the council apparently prioritising gritting access roads for tree-cutters over important traffic routes. One things for sure – there’s never enough grit and never enough people to spread it. It’s a spicy microcosm of the debate around prioritisation of public resources that I’m getting sticky with in Nuketown.

Grit (which is actually rock salt), helps snow and ice melt faster and helps car tyres grip the roads. It is mined domestically and distributed by local authorities, who are compelled to grit their roads under the 1980 Highways Act. The UK puts 2 million tonnes of it out every year. So if we spent the £205 billion purely on materials, how much would we get?. The BBC recently found out the cost of rock salt per tonne in different parts of the UK, with the priciest being Torbay at £38 per tonne. Setting the cost at that of the fancy, fancy riviera salt of my southern neighbours, we get 5,394,736,842 tonnes. Stacked into cubic metre bags one on top of each other, this would stretch to the moon and back 54 times.  Spread evenly, it would slather the entire island of Britain 173 metres deep. True Grit.

But Jack, you howl from the avalanche-hole you are trapped in: what use is all this grit with no-one to do the gritting? Right you are, these sturdy guardians of our fine minerals must be taken into account. This article put pre-austerity spending on gritting across the UK at £150m per year. I’m not sure if this figure has since been cut, but let’s give it a one-third increase either way and bulk it up to £200m. Ignoring inflation (because that’s no fun), and assuming a steady and unlimited supply of grit from our nation’s mines, as well as ruling out savings from automation by increasingly powerful and hilariously named machines, the new Royal Chartered Institute of Gritters could keep churning grip-dust onto our lanes and byways from now until the year 3043. But then what would we complain about?




Nuketown Villages #6: “Nietzcheville”

[These blogs describe and document the villages made by audiences as part of my new project Nuketown.]

Name: “Nietzcheville”

Made by: Audience at performance at Bike Shed Theatre, Exeter (35 people)

When: 23/09/2016

Buildings featured (from left to right, non Exhaustive List): DJ-Tron 5000 the Mech DJ, the Gateway, the Community Centre, the Anti-Bungalow, the Market, the Ziggurat of Ugliness, the Custard Pool, the House, the Tiny Nuclear Submarine (thanks dad), the Castle.

Themes discussed: “Beauty and the Beast libraries”, markets, freedom.

Jack’s Thoughts: The audience really blew us away with this one. There was also a handsome Tardis that didn’t make it into the pics.

Quote of the build: “We have art in order not to die from the truth” – Nietzsche (by way of my mum).