'What Happened to Smithdown Social Arts Hub: How Monetising a Social Hub Can Backfire' by Kelvin Stott—guest blogger

There was a time when I was quite excited about Smithdown Social Arts Hub in Liverpool. I first heard about it around 2016. It was only about a twenty-minute walk from where I live, and the idea immediately appealed to me. Here was something on my own doorstep that seemed to offer exactly the sort of thing I like: art, workshops, music, events and, above all, somewhere local where people could meet and do things together.

The name itself was part of the attraction. “Smithdown Social” sounded like a place that was genuinely social—somewhere you could go along, meet people, see what was happening, take part in something and become part of a local community. I was looking forward to going.

Then I discovered something which changed my view of it: virtually everything they did had a fee attached. If you wanted to take an art class, you paid for that particular class. If you wanted to attend a workshop, you paid for the workshop. Events had their own charges too.

Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with charging for an art class. Tutors have to be paid, materials cost money, buildings have rent and bills to pay and community organisations don't run on fresh air. I understand all of that.

But for me, the problem was what seemed to be missing. I had imagined a community space which had some paid activities but also free ones. What I encountered seemed more like a venue where participation itself generally involved paying for something. That was disappointing.

There is a big difference between saying, “We've got a community space, come in, see what's happening, meet people, look around, and if you fancy doing an art workshop tonight, that's £10”, and saying, in effect, “If you want to participate in what we're doing, there is a charge for everything”.

The first creates the feeling of a community space. The second feels more like a series of commercial activities taking place in a “community-oriented venue”. And that matters particularly for the people who might need community spaces most.

Someone on a comfortable income might not think twice about paying £10, £15 or £20 for an individual activity. But someone on a low income, a pensioner or an unemployed person or simply somebody who doesn't want to spend money every time they leave the house, faces a different proposition. A genuinely open community space can provide something valuable even when you don't buy anything.

And this is where I think the word “Social” in Smithdown Social's name created an expectation which, at least for me, wasn't quite matched by the experience. I wasn't expecting everything to be free. Nor did I think that artists and tutors shouldn't be paid. What I was hoping for was a mixture: some activities that cost money, alongside some things that were free or genuinely open to local people.

Perhaps there could have been exhibitions that people could simply walk into. Free drop-in sessions. Occasional community evenings. Somewhere to sit and meet people without having to book an activity. Paid workshops could then sit alongside those things and help subsidise the wider operation. That kind of mixture would have made sense to me.

Instead, my initial enthusiasm gradually turned into a feeling of disillusionment. The place was physically close to me, and I liked the idea of what it represented, but I didn't feel that it was really my local social space. It was somewhere I could pay to participate in particular activities.

That distinction is especially significant now because Smithdown Social has subsequently faced serious financial difficulties and has ultimately lost its premises at 455 Smithdown Road. When I passed the building recently, it appeared to be closed, with a sign indicating that a food business is due to open there.

It would be rash to assume that this happened simply because Smithdown Social charged people for its activities. There appear to have been much wider financial pressures involved, including the difficulty of obtaining funding and the costs of running a physical premises. The organisation itself appealed for financial support when it was struggling to keep going.

But its story does raise a bigger question about what we mean when we call somewhere a “social hub”. A community organisation still has to pay its bills. It can't survive purely on good intentions. If a large part of the income comes from charging the people who use the place, there is an obvious tension. The organisation needs customers. The customers need to feel that they are getting something worth paying for. And suddenly the organisation is operating in a very different environment from the traditional community centre, club or informal social space.

A commercial café can charge for coffee because selling coffee is what it does. An art school can charge for art classes because teaching art is its business. But when an organisation presents itself as a community social hub, people might reasonably expect something more than a collection of paid activities.

This article is a personal account of someone's experience and perception of Smithdown Social Arts Hub. Its inclusion here does not necessarily represent the views of this blog or constitute an endorsement of the opinions expressed. (Ed)

From Greenwich Village Folk to Liverpool Poetry

When I first became involved in Liverpool’s poetry performance scene in late 1991, I wondered if the scene could, to some extent, encompass ideas that I had read about regarding the 1960s Greenwich Village folk scene, which I had read about through my interest in Bob Dylan.

What interested me about that folk scene was not just the music, but the way the whole thing worked as a cultural ecosystem. There were open-floor sessions where relatively unknown performers could take part, but established folk singers would also appear as guest performers. There were folk clubs, folk magazines and folk radio programmes that promoted local performers and events, and these different parts of the scene reinforced one another. This meant that the open floors provided new performers; the established guests brought attention and prestige; the magazines and radio helped spread the word; and the whole process helped create a larger and more vibrant cultural community. This made me wonder whether something similar could happen for Liverpool poetry.

In September 1991, David Bateman, a poet I had known for a few years, mentioned that there was a relatively new poetry open-floor night called The Evil Dead Poets Society based at The Pilgrim pub in Pilgrim Street, and invited me to it. At the time, as far as I was aware, this was the first such poetry venue in Liverpool, or at least in the city centre. And by November, I could see that the Greenwich Village folk scene model did have the potential to be transposed onto the Liverpool poetry scene.

One part of my idea was that established poets could appear as guests at the open-floor nights. The local poets would continue to have their opportunity to perform, but occasionally an established poet would be brought in. I thought this could benefit everybody: the guest poet would attract an audience, the local poets would gain exposure, and the Evil Dead Poets Society would gain a higher profile. I mentioned this idea to David Bateman on 24 February 1992, and he said he liked it.

I was also thinking about how local radio could become involved. On 24 November 1991, I had discussed with David Bateman the possibility of approaching Radio Merseyside about a regular programme dealing with local poetry readings and events. I also discussed it with Peter Corbett, a local visual artist I knew.

I then wrote a letter to Radio Merseyside suggesting the radio programme idea. Their response was that it could not be done, not because poetry itself was unsuitable for radio (after all, Radio Merseyside already had a weekly poetry programme at that time in which people could send in poems to be read out by the presenters) but because Radio Merseyside represented the whole of Merseyside, and a programme devoted specifically to the Liverpool poetry scene could appear unfair to listeners in other parts of the the region.

At a meeting at the Pilgrim pub on 12 March 1992, about a plan the group had come up with for a second poetry venue with a more structured programme. One of the group members told me the second venue would have a set programme, consisting of a nationally known poet supported by two poets chosen from among those who went to the Evil Dead Poets Society open-floor nights. I told this person that I had mentioned a similar idea to David Bateman a few weeks earlier, and asked if David had passed it on to the group. The person said they didn’t know.

Unfortunately, after I had organised a poetry reading for the Liverpool Festival of Comedy in the summer of 1992, a few members of the Evil Dead Poets Society fell out with me, for reasons I never fully understood. As this made me feel awkward in their company, I eventually left the group.

The later history of the Liverpool poetry scene, as recounted in David Bateman's 2001 book Gladsongs and Gatherings, describes how, during 1992, the Evil Dead Poets Society developed monthly guest nights alongside its open-floor nights, with regional arts funding helping to support them. The first grant-funded guest night featured the American poet Michael Donaghy in October 1992. The group also changed its name to the Dead Good Poets Society that year. When I read this account in the book, I was puzzled that I had not been mentioned in a footnote regarding the idea.

Over the next few years the Liverpool poetry scene expanded considerably. The development of the Dead Good Poets Society was only part of it. There were new poetry groups, library poetry events, workshops, magazines and other performance events. By 1996, performance poetry had become quite high profile in Liverpool's cultural life. The open-floor model continued, and existed alongside guest poets, funded events, workshops, poetry and music fusion events and other forms of collaboration. This was particularly interesting to me because it was the kind of Greenwich Village folk scene ecosystem I had been imagining and advocating for in 1991.

Also in 1996, Radio Merseyside gave the scene some attention, with various one-off programmes about the scene in that year.

So, in a few short years, the Liverpool poetry scene had changed dramatically. In 1991 I was suggesting ways to nurture greater visibility for a relatively small poetry scene, and by 1996 there was a much larger and more interconnected poetry scene that was itself generating enough activity to attract radio coverage.

I should point out that I am not claiming that I created Liverpool's poetry renaissance in the 1990s. That would be absurd. There were many other poets, organisers, arts workers, venues, libraries and funding bodies involved, and the scene developed through the efforts of many people.

But I do think the fact that I was proposing this particular model at such an early stage is worth mentioning. In doing so, I was merely taking something I had read about in books about Bob Dylan and the Greenwich Village folk scene and trying to adapt it to Liverpool poetry in 1991.

"The Mystery of Liverpool's St John's Beacon' by Simon Noakes - guest blogger

'Why the Far Right Deny they are Far Right' by Robert Miller—guest blogger

The reluctance of far-right movements, politicians and commentators to accept the "far-right" label is one of the defining features of modern political discourse. While left-wing, centrist or moderate conservative groups generally operate within established self-identifications, figures on the radical right almost universally reject the tag.

This denial is rarely accidental. Instead, it stems from a combination of strategic optics, historical baggage, mainstreaming goals and genuinely divergent self-perceptions.

In post-WWII Western society, the term "far right" is inextricably linked to fascism, Nazism, white supremacy and totalitarian violence. Because standard political norms treat these historical precedents as uniquely abhorrent, accepting the label "far right" carries an immense political cost.

For modern populist and nationalist figures, adopting the term would mean accepting instant political isolation. Rejection of the label is a form of stigma management—a deliberate attempt to distance themselves from 20th-century atrocities while promoting policies that critics argue share underlying ideological themes.

To gain actual political power, pass legislation or win elections, political movements must build broad coalitions. The tag "far right" acts as an immediate electoral ceiling, turning off moderate conservatives, swing voters and mainstream media outlets.

By framing themselves simply as "patriots", "common-sense conservatives", "populists" or "the silent majority", these figures make their platform accessible to everyday voters. The denial serves to pull the Overton window—the range of ideas tolerated in public discourse—further to the right without triggering the defense mechanisms of democratic institutions.

The refusal of the far right to self-identify as such is a mix of tactical communication and ideological self-defense. By reframing their beliefs as popular, mainstream nationalism while dismissing official labels as hostile establishment propaganda, these movements effectively protect their public image, expand their electoral reach, and reshape political norms from within.

T.E. Lawrence and Rory Stewart: A Comparison

There is an interesting resemblance between T. E. Lawrence and Rory Stewart. At first glance, the comparison seems a little odd. Lawrence belonged to the First World War and became one of the most famous figures of the twentieth century. Stewart is a contemporary British former politician, diplomat and writer. Lawrence operated in the Arab Revolt against the Ottoman Empire; Stewart found himself in post-invasion Iraq. One became “Lawrence of Arabia”; the other became a rather unconventional Conservative politician who eventually left Westminster. Yet their careers share a curious pattern.

Both were unusually young, highly educated British men who found themselves operating in complicated foreign societies, apparently far beyond what their age and formal position might have suggested. Both became useful because they could move between worlds. And both acquired something of the aura of the exceptional individual: the person who seems able to accomplish things that conventional institutions and officials cannot.

The comparison also raises a more interesting question about Lawrence himself. Was his remarkable career really the result of some almost inexplicable personal genius, or was he an unusually talented man who happened to be placed in an extraordinary situation?

The answer is probably somewhere between the two. Lawrence was genuinely exceptional. But the circumstances in which he operated amplified his abilities, while the stories later told about him amplified them further.

Lawrence did not begin the Arab Revolt as “Lawrence of Arabia”. He was a young British archaeologist and intelligence officer who had acquired an unusually detailed knowledge of the Middle East. He had travelled extensively in the region before the First World War, spoke Arabic and had worked for British intelligence in Cairo.

When he was sent to the Hejaz in 1916, his formal role was essentially that of an intelligence and liaison officer. He was expected to establish contact with the Arab forces and report on the situation. That is considerably less dramatic than the opening of David Lean's 1962 film, in which Lawrence appears to be plucked from obscurity and sent into the desert to meet Prince Faisal. He rapidly demonstrates that he understands the Arabs and the desert better than the conventional British officers around him, and before long seems to be shaping the campaign himself. The reality was slower and more complicated. Lawrence became influential because he proved exceptionally useful as an intermediary between the British and Arab sides.

That is where Rory Stewart provides such an interesting modern parallel. Following the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Stewart was appointed Coalition Provisional Authority Deputy Governorate Co-ordinator in Maysan province in southern Iraq. He found himself responsible for an extraordinary mixture of tasks: elections, development projects, tribal disputes and civil-military relations. He operated in an environment of growing unrest and eventually faced a siege by Sadrist militia.

Again, the formal title does not quite convey the reality. Here was a relatively young British man dealing directly with local political leaders, tribal figures, military officers and an increasingly hostile population. Like Lawrence, he had been placed in an unfamiliar society under extraordinary circumstances and given responsibilities that appeared disproportionate to his age and formal position.

The strongest resemblance between the two men is therefore not that they were soldiers, politicians or adventurers. It is that both became useful because they could operate between institutions. Lawrence understood the British military and intelligence establishment, but he also understood Arab language, culture, geography and politics. He could explain one side to the other. Stewart found himself in a similarly awkward position in Iraq. He had to interpret local political and tribal realities to coalition authorities while simultaneously explaining the intentions and limitations of the coalition to the Iraqis with whom he was dealing. This is a particular kind of talent.

The intermediary does not necessarily possess the greatest formal authority. Instead, they become valuable because they can enter a room occupied by people who do not understand one another and make communication possible. They know enough about both sides to translate not merely words, but assumptions, expectations and fears. Such a person can become extremely important very quickly. And it is also easy to see why such people could become legends.

There is a long tradition behind the British fascination with the exceptional individual abroad. Imperial history is full of stories of men who supposedly succeeded because they possessed qualities that ordinary officials lacked. They understood the people, understood the terrain, ignored bureaucratic conventions, lived among the population, improvised and took risks. Above all, they seemed to possess an almost instinctive understanding of what needed to be done.

Lawrence fits this pattern almost perfectly. His knowledge of Arabic and the Middle East was real. His ability to establish relationships with Arab leaders was real. His willingness to travel through dangerous territory and operate alongside Arab forces was real. But these qualities could easily be transformed into something larger: the image of the extraordinary European who somehow understood an entire foreign society better than the institutions of his own government did.

David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia inevitably reinforces this interpretation. The film gives Lawrence the dramatic centrality required by an epic. The Arab Revolt becomes, to a remarkable extent, Lawrence's journey through the desert. He appears to understand what must be done before everyone else does, and to possess the imagination and courage necessary to make it happen. That makes superb cinema, but it also creates the impression that Lawrence was indispensable.

But an intermediary can be genuinely talented without being the person who controls events. This distinction is crucial in Lawrence's case. The Arab Revolt did not begin because Lawrence arrived and gave the Arabs a plan. It was an Arab political and military movement with its own leaders, objectives and internal divisions. Faisal had his own ambitions. Auda Abu Tayi had his own interests. Arab soldiers and officers were already fighting, and the Hashemite leadership had its own relationship with Britain. Lawrence entered an existing historical process. He became important within it, sometimes extraordinarily so, but he did not create it. Nor did he control it.

He could influence Faisal. He could advise British officers. He could help coordinate operations. He could encourage particular strategies and sometimes carry them out himself. But he could not determine the ambitions of the Hashemites, the interests of other Arab leaders or the ultimate decisions of the British government.

The same distinction applies to Stewart in Iraq. Stewart could negotiate with a tribe, organise an election, attempt to resolve a dispute or defend his compound. His position gave him considerable responsibility at ground level. But he could not determine British foreign policy, the overall strategy of the occupation or the eventual political settlement. This is what makes the comparison more interesting than a simple claim that Stewart was a modern Lawrence. Both men illustrate the limits of individual agency inside a much larger political structure.

The exceptional individual can sometimes achieve remarkable things at ground level. They can solve problems that bureaucracies struggle to solve. They can establish relationships that formal institutions cannot. They can improvise when procedures fail. He can sometimes achieve an extraordinary amount precisely because he is willing to operate outside normal institutional boundaries. But they cannot necessarily overcome the political assumptions of the institution above him.

Lawrence eventually encountered this problem in its most painful form. He became increasingly disillusioned with the gap between British promises to the Arabs and the political settlement that followed the war. The man who had helped persuade Arab leaders to cooperate with Britain discovered that his own influence was limited when confronted by the larger strategic and political interests of the British Empire.

Stewart encountered a different version of the same problem in Iraq. His responsibilities placed him close to the consequences of coalition policy, but proximity to a problem is not the same thing as control over it. He could see the difficulties of the occupation at ground level and attempt to respond to them, but he could not redesign the entire intervention.

The circumstances were obviously very different. Lawrence was operating during a world war and within an imperial system; Stewart was working during an occupation undertaken by a modern coalition. The comparison should not be pushed too far. But the underlying pattern is worth noticing.

Both men entered situations in which conventional institutions struggled to understand the environment around them. Both became useful because they possessed unusual personal abilities. And both demonstrated how easily such abilities can be mistaken for comprehensive power. This is perhaps the central problem with the mythology of Lawrence.

The popular story encourages us to imagine that the right man (and historically it usually was a man), possessing sufficient courage, imagination and understanding, can solve an apparently insoluble problem. History is generally less obliging. Courage is not omnipotence, and intelligence is not control.

Lawrence's later reputation complicates matters further because he participated, to some extent, in the creation of his own legend. Seven Pillars of Wisdom is not a neutral record of events, and some of Lawrence's claims and descriptions have been questioned or challenged. This has sometimes encouraged a reaction in the opposite direction: if Lawrence exaggerated his achievements, perhaps the achievements themselves were largely fictitious. That does not follow.

Lawrence really did undertake dangerous journeys. He really did operate with Arab forces. He really did expose himself to considerable danger. He really did become an important liaison between Faisal and the British. The fact that his experiences were later shaped into a powerful personal narrative does not mean that the underlying achievements disappear.

The more interesting question is not whether Lawrence was brave or whether he was a fraud. It is how much of the Lawrence legend should be attributed to the man himself and how much to the extraordinary circumstances in which he operated, the institutions that relied upon him and the storytellers who came afterwards.

Rory Stewart provides a useful modern perspective on this problem precisely because he never became “Stewart of Iraq”. Modern Britain is much less receptive to the imperial hero-making that produced Lawrence's reputation. Stewart nevertheless possessed several of the qualities associated with the older archetype. He was a highly educated young British man who went somewhere difficult, abandoned the comfortable headquarters when necessary, immersed himself in local society and attempted to understand political realities through direct personal contact.

His willingness to walk through towns and villages and talk directly to people distinguished him from the image of the distant Western official operating behind institutional walls. It also made for compelling stories. And compelling stories have a tendency to simplify. The young official who understands the locals becomes the man who understands the country. The administrator who solves a difficult problem becomes the man who can solve the crisis. The intermediary becomes the hero.

The comparison should not be taken to mean that Stewart deliberately created a heroic persona comparable to Lawrence's. Lawrence's relationship with his own legend was unusually complicated, whereas Stewart's story belongs to a very different media and political culture. The similarity lies instead in the way an individual operating in an unfamiliar environment can become the focus of a much larger story.

That transformation is important because it reveals something about how historical reputations are constructed. Exceptional individuals are often easiest to understand when history is reduced to a story about character. It is more satisfying to say that Lawrence possessed extraordinary courage and imagination than to explain the complicated interaction of Arab politics, British strategy, imperial interests, local rivalries and wartime circumstances that made his particular career possible.

The same temptation exists with Stewart. His ability to operate among very different groups in Iraq was real. His willingness to experience the consequences of policy at ground level was real. But neither quality made him master of the situation. His story is interesting partly because of what he could accomplish, and partly because of what he could not. That may be the most useful way to understand Lawrence as well.

Lawrence did not merely participate in history; he became a character in the story of his own history. Stewart offers a fascinating modern echo of that phenomenon. His career reminds us that Britain still occasionally produces the same kind of figure: the unusually capable young outsider who enters a foreign crisis and suddenly finds himself carrying responsibilities far greater than his formal position would suggest. But the comparison ultimately tells us less about the similarities between the two men than it does about the limits of the exceptional individual. Neither man could control the larger forces surrounding him.

That is perhaps the most revealing lesson of all. The intermediary can influence events without commanding them. The exceptional individual can compensate for institutional weaknesses without overcoming them. And the person who appears, from a distance, to have mastered a crisis may in reality have been operating within a narrow space between forces far larger than himself.