Kingfisher

Squadka Goals

As its name suggested, the Co-operative Youth Association originated in the late nineteenth-century co-operative movement: technically, it had been founded in 1899 by Viscount Kettering, a disciple of Thomas Hughes's and one-time guild socialist in his youth, after a night of drunken reveling at Holyoake House. Kettering—later Lord Shrewsbury—had quickly abandoned the project after realising that aristocratic and lower middle class teenagers were less wont than he had hoped to bond over collective shop ownership and Christian socialism. But while Lord Shrewsbury busied himself chasing a post in Lloyd George's government, the project of his youth was revived as a socialist counterpoint to the nascent Scouts and the foundations of the modern C.Y.A. were laid.

At the level of its zero to six and seven to ten age brackets, the C.Y.A. which Michael knew was the worthy quintessence of outdoorsy, left-wing parenting, with tangled internal politics between its volunteers that were conducted in a constitutional framework that put Michael in mind of a 1970s trade union. Its teenage and young adult branch was more like a heavily-drinking older brother of IUSY and Young Labour's, constantly mocked for that time it was caught having sex in a field with the National Association of Young Farmers' Clubs. Viscount Kettering would undoubtedly have been so proud.

Though the ostensible heart of the C.Y.A. was camping, the national 15-25 steering committee rarely bothered with them in the autumn and winter. When it was cold outside their preferred strategy for "events" was to rent out the cheapest place they could find that would let an unaccompanied group of youths crash out for two or three nights in a row and to then expect their middle-class membership to get there somehow.

And so it was that Michael—his travel paid for by Central Committee because he had promised to take a few photos, meaning he would technically be getting pissed in an official capacity as press lead—spent his Friday afternoon on a three-hour journey from Acelmouth Victoria to Sandwell and Dudley, the nearest station to Sheepwash Community Centre. But this was not simply another C.Y.A. event for Michael: it was all part of the Plan.

The train to London became progressively busier as he headed north and the Victoria line was busier still. On the Network SouthCentral service he found himself and his rucksack wedged between a fat old man yelling into his phone about roof tiles and two judgemental students dissecting their friend's relationship with what Michael felt was altogether unnecessary gusto. His miserable luck had seen Mr Tiles follow him through Victoria station, where only the lack of signal underground had forced him to stop assaulting Michael's ears with half of an acrimonious argument about just-in-time supply chains—'I'll have to go now, I'm going down into the Tube.'

Michael felt that "going down" was rather an apt term to describe his journey through central London. It was something he did as rarely as possible for wholly selfish reasons and an experience that was sweaty, cramped and left a nasty taste in his mouth. By the time Michael reached London Euston he was in no mood to be funneled through a miserable concrete box and he ended up purchasing an egg sandwich to distract himself.

The 18.03 out of Euston was full and standing, though less rammed than the Victoria line had been. Michael absent-mindedly ate through his egg sandwich, rather hoping that its smell might encourage the public to shuffle away from him a little. It emptied out a little at Watford Junction and a little more at Rugby, allowing him to gain a seat. Sitting down was a physical relief, though he had to resist the impulse to vomit when so doing creased his stomach. That egg sandwich had not been good.

In typical fashion he only made matters worse for himself when the trolley service of drinks and light refreshments arrived and he decided on a black coffee and a KitKat to calm his insides down. The effects of the bitter liquid were briefly calming, but were also unfortunately cacatory, and that portion of the journey which he didn't spend sipping on the hot caffeine he spent lying back against the scratchy seat and wishing his digestive system were as robust as his youth ought to imply, or at least robust enough to spare him the burden of needing to use a train's on-board toilet.