The JAMS’ Day Of The Book
August 24, 2017
I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write at any time other than manically at two in the morning. Thankfully, tonight ended earlier than yesterday — a mercy, since I was staggering through today on about two and a half hours of sleep.
Some volunteers don’t need to return until 4:30pm tomorrow. I, however, have to be back at The Florrie by noon to receive instructions from Gimpo. This doesn’t exactly fill me with comfort. With that in mind I resisted the pull of the Dead Perch Lounge after tonight’s official end and headed home for an early one.
Day Two began at 10am at the Bombed Out Church — a beautiful, iconic Liverpool building with its own history of art and community, and today, propelled to new heights.
We entered in pairs: one to the left, one to the right, forming two lines that snaked back and forth down the nave. Those on the left became “odds,” those on the right became “evens.”
We were told this was The Day of the Book. Enter The JAMs. Each volunteer would become a keeper of a page from 2023. That page would belong to us for eternity. Future editions of the book would list our names on our respective pages. The words would become meaningful to us in ways we couldn’t yet understand.
Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty then tore pages, one by one, from two copies of 2023 and handed them down the lines. Odds received odd numbers, evens received even.
I was given pages 181 and 182 by Jimmy; as an odd, I became keeper of 181. The first three words? “not getting confused.” Oh, the irony.
The brief was simple: find the other members of your chapter (mine: Book Two, Chapter Four, Shibboleth Now), and together create something. Anything. It could be individual work or collaboration. Each chapter would later record their contribution in a book titled Grapefruit Are Not the Only Bombs — three pages per chapter — and present it in 2 minutes 23 seconds that evening. We didn’t know about the presentation part until much later.
At first, our Chapter Four drifted around cluelessly. Two people bailed (and ended up producing nothing). The seven of us remaining decided to collaborate. We pooled our page themes: repeated mentions of John Lennon (not that one), religious groups (mainly the People’s Front of Judea), and the fact the chapter ended in a bar.
So naturally, we went to the Cavern Pub.
Along the way, we educated ourselves on Shibboleth: a principle or belief that marks a group, especially one that’s outdated or irrelevant. We were leaderless — our chapter leader had walked off. Messiah-less. Outmoded. The idea clicked.
After a pint (and maybe a spark of magik from crossing the infamous manhole cover), we had our plan. We’d form our own irrelevant collective and search for a messiah. We adopted three lines from one of our pages as our mantra:
You are the Messiah.
It is for you to reclaim The Promised Land
For the Children of God
We swapped “you” for “MuMu.”
Every collective needs a uniform. We found a fancy-dress shop and bought seven identical white hats, haggling 50p off each. To avoid looking like the world’s worst stag do, we scrawled 2:4 and our page numbers on them, sticking our pages to the hats like literary feathers.
We looked ridiculous. Perfect.
On Mathew Street, we convinced a busker by the Lennon statue to play Come Together. My six fellow members knelt before John Lennon, chanting our lines in white hats. I documented it (smart move — no camera duty for me).
We were an irrelevant group, praising an irrelevant messiah, in an irrelevant location, in the year 2019.
After a stop with Cilla Black, real magik struck. Three guys approached, curious. One looked a bit Jesus-y, so we declared him our messiah. Only afterwards did we discover he was wearing a Chill Out hoodie, in Liverpool on an Echo/KLF tour for Arena. It was meant to be.
Originally, we’d planned to collage screenshots and YouTube links into the book. But by 1:30pm we weren’t done. My page referenced John’s dead body in a canal. Naturally, we decided to end our society by throwing our hats into the Mersey. With fire, of course.
Armed with lighter fluid and Metro papers, we burned and tossed the hats in by the Open Eye Gallery. Watched them smoulder and melt. Then retrieved them.
And here’s where things escalated. With presentations looming, we stormed the Tate. Walked right in with our charred hats, presented them to the front desk as a “gift from The JAMs,” and shook hands. For a few minutes, our work sat front and centre in the Tate. Mission accomplished.
Later, our tech-savvy teammate built a site (link dead now) and spliced our footage into a short film. This became our presentation.
Back at the church before 6pm, we entered our three pages into Grapefruit Are Not the Only Bombs:
Page One read WWW.
Page two read 2019WARISOVER
Page three read .COM
Soup was served. The JAMs arrived. Presentations began.
I can’t do them justice. They were fantastic, funny, dangerous, ridiculous, inspired. Strangers became collaborators. Chapters became teams. The church became a riot of creativity.
Our own presentation was delivered by Ian Shirley, author of Turn Up the Strobe and fellow Chapter Four page-keeper. He asked the audience to raise their phones, explained our messiah quest, and directed them to our site. After a countdown — and a sly dig at Drummond and Cauty for us doing what they couldn’t — our video played.
The reaction? Giggles, laughter, relief. Even Jimmy and Bill cracked grins.
As I left the stage, someone whispered to them that I was “the girl with the tattoo.” They asked to see it. Jimmy made the classic mistake: “Did it hurt?” Bill kissed it — immediately regretting it, I imagine, since it was still coated in Bepanthen. Sorry, Bill.
What struck me most today was how much people achieved with the lightest push. Given freedom, we all dove headfirst into things we’d never normally attempt. I’d never in my life imagined walking into the Tate to hand over burnt hats. Yet there I was, sharpie-scrawled cap on my head, running around Liverpool like a loon.
This wasn’t art. Not really. It was just seven people having fun, inspired by the words of a different bunch of loons. But it was glorious.
And as we all sat on the steps of the Bombed Out Church for the group photo, another moment stuck with me. A local homeless charity approached, asking for spare change. By the time we dispersed, the girl collecting was near tears, filming herself: “I can’t believe this, this has never happened before.”
Yes, we’ve caused chaos. Yes, the city has rolled its eyes. But I’ve also seen volunteers generous with spirit, not just wallets. For every person we’ve annoyed, I like to think we’ve made another smile.
Tomorrow brings The Rites of Mumufication, The Great Pull North, and the Graduation Ball. Let’s keep enjoying ourselves.