A Testing Station For The End Of The World


This piece was originally published in Manqué Magazine, hence the US spelling. Find the orignal here.

“Woman has no consciousness — only that which is given to her by a man. She lives without self-awareness. Only man has consciousness.” — Otto Weininger

Turn of the century Vienna was a unique and troubling place. One of the city’s best-known authors, Karl Kraus, famously described the capital as a “testing station for theend of the world” — a city gripped by polarizing ideologies. This may have been anexaggeration, but at the time, Vienna was certainly experiencing rapid change.

In the decades leading up to 1900, the city saw immigration from all corners of the Austro-Hungarian empire, resulting in an increasingly multicultural population. This diversity was not always welcomed.

In 1897 the city elected a notoriously anti-Semitic Mayor, Karl Lueger, who stoked resentment of the Jewish middle classes and advocated for heavy restrictions on immigration. The University of Vienna, in particular, could be an especially hostile place for Jewish students; another Viennese author, Arthur Schnitzler, later recalled how they ran the risk of being challenged to dangerous duels by anti-Semitic students who did not want to study alongside them.

Social change was also arriving in the city, partly in the form of the emerging feminist movement, with women all across Europe challenging their exclusion from politics and education. At the time, Vienna’s feminists were typically diverse and their ranks ran the gamut from moderate liberals who sought modest reforms to political institutions, to the more radical socialists who believed that women would only be free when capitalism was overthrown.

The actual legal gains secured by the early feminists were modest, but that didn’t stop widespread panic among their opponents. For men used to occupying a position of power, women’s increased presence in public life signaled a troubling breakdown of traditional gender roles. This fear was heightened by emerging scientific disciplines such as sexology and psychology, which questioned whether sex and gender binaries were quite so rigid as had been traditionally supposed. Nobody was more troubled by these developments than Otto Weininger, a young Jewish philosopher registered at the University of Vienna.

Otto was born in 1880, the son of a middle-class Jewish couple. He was accepted to study at the University of Vienna in 1898, where he dipped in and out of an impressive array of subjects. In 1902 Otto successfully completed his Ph.D. thesis, although his examiners warned him to tone down the more blatantly misogynistic passages. Otto did the opposite: he expanded it.

Among other things, he added a new chapter on Jewish inferiority, and published it under the title ‘Sex and Character.’ His examiners were privately dismayed, but the work nevertheless found fans: the Swedish playwright August Strindberg and the Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein were particularly impressed.

Initial responses to ‘Sex and Character’ were mixed, and Otto was even accused of plagiarism by the German neurologist Paul Möbius, author of the charmingly-titled ‘On the Psychological Deficiencies of Women.’ On the fourth of October 1903, Otto shot himself at the family home. He died the day after in Vienna’s General Hospital, aged twenty-three.

‘Sex and Character’ is an exhausting read, requiring the reader to pore over hundreds of pages dedicated to proving women’s inferiority: “woman has no identity, she is nothing,” “it is only the man in woman that wants to be emancipated,” “the relationship between man and woman is the relationship between subject and object.” These claims become all the more troubling when we consider that they were written by someone so young.

Today we might speak of radicalization. But while Otto may have been an extreme thinker, he was hardly alone in his beliefs: after all, Paul Möbius had been very keen to claim ownership of the ideas expressed in Otto’s polemic.


Like modern-day male supremacists who often identify valid ways that rigid gender roles hurt men before misdirecting the blame to women, Otto was not wrong about everything. He identified genuine cultural trends — the crumbling of old gender hierarchies, the participation of women in traditionally “masculine” spheres — but instead of lauding progress, he responded with fear and hostility.

Otto’s understanding of gender could also be surprisingly fluid. He notes, for example, that all men and women possess a mixture of “masculine” and “feminine” traits. But again, he argued that this was nothing to celebrate.

Some early twentieth century feminists found something to admire in Otto’s willingness to think outside binary categories, whilst still disagreeing vehemently with his conclusions. In 1905, the feminist philosopher Rosa Mayreder, for example, wrote a detailed rebuttal of misogynistic ideologies, ‘To The Critics Of Femininity,’ in which she acknowledges Otto’s willingness to think beyond strict binaries whilst also pointing out his logical flaws and baseless prejudices. But Otto died before Rosa’s book was published, and he would never have been expected to defend his arguments to an educated, intellectual woman.

For those who lived longer, time did sometimes lead to a softening of opinions. Oskar Kokoschka is one example. Oskar was six years younger than Otto, and more inclined towards literature and art than science and philosophy. After university, he became active in the city’s Secessionist art circles before moving towards the rawer qualities of Expressionism.

Although he is most famous as an artist, Oskar was also a playwright who often used misogynist tropes in his work. In ‘Sphinx and Strawman’, first performed in 1909, Oskar depicted “woman” as an unfaithful, lying femme fatale. In 1918 he commissioned a female artist, Hermine Moos, to create a life-size sex doll of his former lover Alma Mahler, who had left him several years earlier. He later beheaded the sex doll at a party. Mahler, unsurprisingly, showed little interest in rekindling the relationship. She later reflected on the incident in her autobiography: “He finally had me where he’d always wanted me — a submissive, obedient object in his hand.”

The best-known of Oskar’s plays, ‘Murder, Hope of Women’, is notable for both its brevity and its violence. The action revolves around two nameless characters, Man and Woman, who fight for supremacy in a barren landscape. Woman originally gains the upper hand, but Man regains his strength and stabs Woman to death. The play’s spectacularly unsubtle message — that masculinity must triumph over femininity — was controversial even at the time. The artist Broncia Koller privately petitioned her male colleagues in Vienna’s Secession to stop exhibiting with Oskar. One performance of the play was allegedly interrupted by a group of soldiers who thought that the action on stage was real and Man had really killed Woman. (It is not clear whether this actually happened, or if Oskar invented the story to increase publicity.) The play’s defenders said that it should be read symbolically rather than literally — Oskar did not hate real women, they said, but was merely using “Woman” as a symbol of wild and uncivilized forces that must be kept in hand. We might wonder if this is much better.

Oskar’s symbolic murder of Woman stands alongside Otto’s ‘Sex and Character’ as one of the more extreme expressions of turn of the century misogyny. Unlike Otto, however, Oskar died in 1980 — long enough to see his youthful ideas challenged. Oskar never explicitly disowned the beliefs expressed in ‘Murder, Hope of Women’, but his extraordinary misogyny was not repeated in his later works.

One of the most important is that men like Otto and Oskar do not develop their ideas in isolation, but draw on ideas that are already prevalent in society.

The misogyny that runs through Otto’s and Oskar’s work is unpleasant, but it was not unique. On the contrary, turn of the century Vienna was gripped by misogyny that was extreme even by historic standards. Fearful of the emerging feminist movement and unsettled by political and social instability, young men lashed out at those they felt were undermining traditional social structures: women, Jews, sexual minorities. The relationship between men and women was framed as a battle for supremacy, accompanied by the fear that men were becoming “feminized” through increased contact with them, as well as of gender and sex differences were becoming blurred. Vienna’s misogynist thinkers glimpsed the possibility of a future outside rigid sex and gender hierarchies, and they didn’t like what they saw.


The extremes of turn of the century Vienna, of course, are not so removed from the present as one might imagine. In Europe, far-right politicians like Italy’s Matteo Salvini and Hungary’s Viktor Orbán are again stoking anti-immigrant sentiments, and the kind of anti-Semitic conspiracy theories once propagated by Karl Lueger are resurgent on both the left and the right.

And, along with a renewed push for women’s rights, there has been an equally reinvigorated misogynist backlash. In the U.S., hard-won abortion rights are being stripped away under Trump’s administration; in Spain, feminist protests against the infamous ‘wolf pack’ rape trial — which saw five men acquitted of rape because they did not use physical violence — sparked an uptick in far-right activism. In Canada and the U.S., male supremacists have committed terrorist acts inspired by an explicitly misogynistic worldview and a profound sense of resentment towards women. How does the new breed of misogynists compare to their turn of the century predecessors?

For starters, they are certainly more violent. Unlike Oskar and Otto, whose misogyny was of the purely intellectual variety, today’s male supremacists have put their beliefs into action with devastating effect. In 2014, 22-year-old Elliot Rodger killed six people in Isla Vista, southern California, before shooting himself. News reports indicated that Elliot was a frequenter of misogynistic online forums where members gathered to discuss their anger at women who refused to have sex with them, bemoaning their status as “involuntary celibates,” or “incels,” as they are no colloquially known. Before killing himself, Elliot sent a “manifesto” to his parents, therapist, and friends in which he described his desire to see a “War on Women” and fantasized about imprisoning women in giant concentration camps where he could sit in an enormous tower and watch them starve.

There is an enormous gulf between Otto’s and Oskar’s philosophical and literary musings and Elliot’s killing spree. Elliot’s “manifesto” is cruder and infinitely less interesting than Otto’s, which did at least question traditional binaries, and which provided a useful stimulus for feminist thinkers. But there are undeniable points of similarity. Both Otto and Oskar perceived women as hollow, hyper-sexual creatures lacking men’s’ capacity for reason and intellect. Elliot, in turn, described women exclusively in sexual terms, as tricksters and temptresses motivated by lust whilst denying sex to “gentlemen” such as himself.

Oskar depicted the relationship between men and women as a violent battle for supremacy, a perception that is echoed in Elliot’s use of the phrase “War on Women.” Elliot, who was himself multiracial, also accused men from Asian ethnic backgrounds of being “disgustingly ugly” and effeminate, leading him to be described as a “self-hating Asian” in much the same way as Otto was labeled as a “self-hating Jew” after his death. This intersection of racism and misogyny runs through Otto’s and Elliot’s writing, a warning that prejudices tend to overlap.

Elliot has become something of a hero among members of the incel community, but online forums also reveal historic sources of inspiration. Reading through incel message boards, it is clear that some find much to admire in turn of the century Vienna. In a discussion on one online forum, about Elliot’s “manifesto,” one user writes “if you think that’s bad read Otto Weininger.” Another 4chan commenter goes further: “Elliot Rodger was the 2014 Otto Weininger.” In a discussion of incel literature, one user recommends ‘Sex and Character’ as proposing a solution to “man’s foremost quandary, the Cunt Question.” Referencing Otto’s suicide, the same user concludes that he “probably just saw things as they are a bit too lucidly.”

Today’s Incels might see Otto as a visionary, but the past also provides lessons for their opponents. One of the most important is that men like Otto and Oskar do not develop their ideas in isolation, but draw on ideas that are already prevalent in society. In the aftermath of the Isla Vista killings, there was considerable debate regarding whether Elliot Rodger was a disturbed individual driven by personal prejudices, or whether he was influenced by pervasive cultural misogyny.

Chris Ferguson, a psychologist writing for Time magazine, argued the former, maintaining that misogyny alone did not turn Elliot into a killer. This is plainly true: most men with misogynistic views do not commit murder. But the list of other men linked with male supremacist movements who have gone on killing sprees — Alek Minassian, Chris Harper-Mercer, Nikolas Cruz, Scott Beierle — suggests that misogynistic ideologies do drive violence, even if the perpetrators were already displaying disturbing behaviors. Elliot’s beliefs were particularly vicious, but his choice of women as targets was legitimized by the resurgence of the anti-feminist far-right and, perhaps, at a lower-level, by a pervasive sense of entitlement to women’s affections — an entitlement which the MeToo movement has since thrust into the spotlight.

Placing misogynists like Otto and Oskar in a broader cultural context, rather than treating them as exceptions, forces us to examine the root causes of misogyny rather than just the symptoms. This is the reason that turn of the century feminists took aim at institutions — educational, legal, political — rather than merely targeting individual misogynists. But if we do choose to engage with male supremacists, turn of the century feminists also provide valuable tactical lessons.

Although there is little point debating with online trolls, some members of male supremacists raise valid concerns — about men’s mental health, for instance, or the pressure to provide for a family — but at the same time fundamentally misdiagnose the cause.

There has been considerable debate in recent years regarding the best way to engage with extremists: do we deny them a media platform so as to avoid lending them a veneer of respectability, or do we challenge them to rigorous debate in the hope that their views will be easily discredited? Both approaches have their strengths and flaws, and both were utilized to varying degrees by turn of the century feminists.

When ‘Murder, Hope of Women’ was first performed, the artist Broncia Koller maintained that her fellow artists should disassociate from Oskar and refuse to exhibit alongside him — an early form of no-platforming that ultimately proved unsuccessful. Broncia’s stance is entirely justifiable, but it does highlight the practical difficulties of boycotting prominent individuals: Oskar was a well-regarded artist, and from a financial and marketing perspective it is unsurprising that Broncia’s colleagues were unwilling to drop him as an associate. It is likely, too, that any public declaration of a boycott would have been gleefully embraced by Oskar, who deliberately courted controversy. Nonetheless, Broncia’s refusal to let Oskar off the hook is a reminder of the importance of going on the record, of explicitly condemning dehumanizing ideologies — especially when others are willing to let things slide for convenience’s sake.

A contrasting, but equally principled example is Rosa Mayreder’s willingness to engage in open debate with misogynists. Her argument, laid out in ‘To the Critics of Femininity,’ meticulously dismantles anti-feminist arguments, including Otto’s, and provides a much-needed voice of dissent. But, of course, there is a danger in thinking that reasoned debate will always overcome prejudice, largely because minority rights can easily become hypotheticals, and the most persuasive speaker is not necessarily right. That said, Rosa managed to critically engage without indulging or legitimizing misogynist views; she does not accept the premises of her male opponents, and manages to avoid becoming mired in their logical contortions even whilst highlighting them for the reader. It is unlikely that Rosa would have convinced a hardened misogynist, but her work provided a stimulus for other feminist thinkers and showed that it was not only men who were capable of expressing opinions about women.

Rosa’s critique also highlights the tactical importance of acknowledging the opponent’s motivations, even while vigorously rejecting their conclusions. Whilst Rosa is by no means forgiving, she accepts some of Otto’s assertions and concerns — that women are displaying “masculine” traits, and playing an increased role in public life — whilst pointing out his flawed interpretations.

Although there is little point debating with online trolls, some members of male supremacists raise valid concerns — about men’s mental health, for instance, or the pressure to provide for a family — but at the same time fundamentally misdiagnose the cause.

In these instances, Rosa’s ability to engage with her opponents’ fears even whilst denouncing their conclusions may provide a route to de-radicalization, offering an alternative explanation of the facts all the while not entirely dismissing their concerns. It also strips away some of the power of extreme ideologies, acknowledging a grain of truth whilst constructing a compelling counter-narrative.

Despite the misogyny of turn of the century Vienna, women did eventually win increased freedom in both the private and the public sphere. In 1897, Gabriele Possaner von Ehrenthal became the first woman to earn a Ph.D. at the University of Vienna. Only two years after Otto’s death, Elise Richter became the first female Associate Professor at the University.

And in this century, too, there are welcome signs that the pendulum has not entirely swung the other way. In 2016 Germany overturned a long-standing rape law which required women to prove that they had attempted to physically fight off their attacker. And while some US states are clamping down on abortion rights, Ireland — once one of the most conservative countries in Europe — held a 2018 referendum in which the population voted overwhelmingly to overturn the eighth amendment, which heavily restricted abortion. And in 2019, the UK criminalized “upskirting” despite the attempts of Conservative MP Christopher Chope to filibuster the bill in parliament.

Despite troubling challenges to women’s rights, it seems unlikely that modern-day male supremacists will be able to fully roll back the clock. Compared to turn of the century Vienna, women now occupy far greater positions of legal, political, and cultural power. But still, the turbulent context of Vienna — in which educated, articulate men espoused hate-filled ideologies — warns against complacency.

What should we do with ‘Dark Sites’, where tragic or sinister events occurred?


This article was first published on CityMetric: view the original post here

Disused buildings are an inevitable feature of urban landscapes. Businesses move premises and areas become undesirable; think of Hull’s ‘ghost estate’ or Liverpool’s deserted Garrick Street, where houses were sold by the council for just £1. Disused buildings and sites are a waste of valuable land, and can be addressed in two ways: demolition or re-development.

Deciding which can be controversial. In my corner of Leeds, debate is currently raging over whether to preserve or build over a historic Victorian train tunnel. Yet there is a consensus that something needs to be done – that abandoned structures cannot be left as they are.

But what happens when these sites or structures hold a deeper significance? ‘Dark sites’ – places where tragic or sinister events occurred – exist across the UK. We tend to associate them with haunted natural landscapes, like Mother Shipton’s cave, named after an alleged witch; the ‘witches cottage’ unearthed near Pendle Hill, or the ‘devil’s cauldron’ at Lydford Gorge.

But dark sites also exist in towns and cities: institutions, prisons, residential properties. If these sites are abandoned, the practical solution is again to demolish or re-develop. Psychologically and culturally, however, the stakes are very different. Dark sites occupy a prominent position in the urban landscape, attracting curious visitors and urban explorers. They also exert a powerful psychological influence, generating urban legends and providing a physical repository for fears and anxieties.


So what do we do with these most sensitive of abandoned spaces?

At sites where individual acts of violence took place, demolition, the opportunity to raze and start again, is tempting. In Gloucester, the home of murderers Fred and Rose West was flattened by authorities who removed the rubble and crushed it at a secure site – partly to prevent morbid souvenir-hunting but also, as the BBC puts it, “as a way of expunging the sense of evil linked to the place.”

In these cases, dark sites exert such a psychological hold that only ritual destruction feels appropriate. Even then, the space cannot be fully cleansed: the path that now runs over the site of the West’s house is an attempt to restore normalcy, but the gap formed between the other houses is a clue that something isn’t quite right. Demolition may have been the only real option, but even then the empty space acquires an eerie presence.


It’s unsurprising that communities want to physically erase the sites of violent crimes. In other cases, though, dark sites hold a deeper historic and social significance that can be commemorated. In these cases, redevelopment offers an alternative to demolition. High Royds Hospital was a psychiatric institution in Leeds which closed in 2003 and turned into housing. I remember walking around the site in the early stages of redevelopment. The grounds felt desolate, and it was easy to imagine the abuses that took place there.

They may feel abandoned, but disused sites like High Royds still attract visitors – most notably ‘urban explorers’. Urban exploration – the practice of entering and documenting abandoned urban structures – is not restricted to dark sites, but the theme of urban decay lends itself to the macabre (one of the most common images of High Royds is the white mortuary table).

‘Urbex’ photography can have a restorative function, shining a light on forgotten histories and helping to tell the stories of people who were ignored in life. Sometimes the focus on morbid details has the opposite effect, turning dark sites such as High Royds into a gothic house of horrors and its former residents into ghosts. In both cases, though, the increasing popularity of urban exploration shows the power of dark sites to catch the imagination.

These days High Royds is a high-end housing complex named Chevin Park. I’m not convinced Leeds needs more luxury housing, but I’ll admit that the re-development has restored a sense of normalcy. Its history hasn’t been forgotten: the water-tower is visible for miles around, and heritage walks are occasionally held on the estate. But High Royds is no longer an abandoned curiosity visited primarily by urban explorers and ghost-hunters. By moving a new community into the complex’s Victorian core, the development visually preserves a troubling part of our history whilst showing that some dark sites can be successfully re-integrated into their local environment.

Dark sites are not just abandoned spaces. They invite exploration, generate urban legends, and disrupt safe suburban landscapes. For these reasons they might be viewed as public spaces, even if many are fenced-off and privately owned.

When we talk about towns and cities we understandably focus on utility – transport links, housing. Disused sites are rarely thought of as contributing to the urban environment. For better or worse, though, dark sites exert an important influence on our towns, cities, and communities, and the question of how and whether we can live alongside them will remain relevant as long as they exist.

On The Moors

14690898_10154674385193854_3941306046263595934_nThis piece was originally published by Nature Writing. You can find the original here.

Heather moorland is rarer than rainforest globally. Growing up in northern England, I never realised it was unusual. The longest continuous stretch of heather moor in England and Wales is in North Yorkshire, and in the spaces between West Yorkshire’s industrial centres you can find Rombalds Moor and Haworth Moor, where signposts are written in English and Japanese to prevent tourists getting lost whilst channeling the spirit of the Brontes. The moors have comically bleak names: Hunger Hill, Bleakedgate Moor, Black Leech, Stake Hill, Stinking Stone, Bare Hill, James’s Thorn. I sometimes wonder if they were intended as a joke, but they probably weren’t.

Despite their ominous names I’ve always liked the moors. I remember driving over the North York Moors to Whitby, peering out of the window at the Hole of Horcum – a crater sunk into the endless expanse of dried heather. On that journey the moors marked a boundary, signalling that the sea wasn’t too far away. Years later the moors marked other boundaries. When I lived in the south I always looked out for the point where the M62 crosses the moors on journeys back to Leeds. I got to know that stretch well over the course of nine years – the curve of Scammonden water, the farm sandwiched between two motorway lanes, and the point where the motorway rises to become the highest in Britain and the landscape opens out into a sea of pale grass and heather. At night I’d sense a deeper blackness behind the hard shoulder. That was the moors, and I was almost home.

Now I’m back in Leeds I spend more time on the moors, and I’ve started to appreciate their contradictory nature. Moorland evokes wilderness; there’s a reason that Emily Brontë set Wuthering Heights in a landscape that is as unyielding as her characters. But moors are not always as wild as they look. Rombalds Moor, of which Ilkley Moor is part, has been fundamentally shaped by human activity. The area is home to the second highest concentration of neolithic carvings in Europe. Back when these stone circles and cup-and-ring carvings were created, much of the landscape was forest. The fact that it is now moorland is due in part to natural climate change but also human intervention – the clearing of vegetation to allow for crop growing and livestock grazing. In 2011 a group of local Druids protested against the creation of the ‘Stanza Stones’ – six poems by Simon Armitage carved into rocks on Ilkley Moor – on the grounds that it constituted vandalism of a wild place. Looking at the neolithic carvings and Victorian graffiti that litter the area, I’m not sure whether the moors are all that wild.

Wild or not, though, the moors can still be dangerous. For those who don’t know the landscape well it can be easy to lose your bearings. Moors lie on high ground prone to severe weather; it was this that led numerous planes to crash in the Dark Peak during the 1940s. A combination of fog and a lack of local knowledge led one military pilot to smash his B-29 Superfortress into the side of Bleaklow in 1948, with no survivors. In 1949 a civilian flight from Belfast to Manchester crashed on Saddleworth Moor, killing 24 people. The crash sites were too isolated for the wreckage to be removed and remains of planes still litter the Dark Peak today. In 2016 these obscure crashes briefly made headlines again when an elderly man was found dead of strychnine poisoning on Saddleworth Moor. Police initially searched the passenger list for the 1949 Belfast to Manchester flight, believing that he may have been a survivor making a final pilgrimage (this turned out not to be the case: the man was David Lytton, a Briton who had travelled to Saddleworth from his home in Pakistan, and the circumstances of his death were never fully established).

Most traumatic of all the deaths associated with Saddleworth Moor are the ‘moors murders’ of the 1960s, when Ian Brady and Myra Hindley killed five children and buried their bodies off the A635. In that case the vastness of the moors hindered police efforts to find the victims. Photographs of Hindley and Brady in desolate landscapes had to be painstakingly matched to real locations across the moor; the body of Pauline Reade was only discovered fourteen years after her death, and Keith Bennett’s body has never been found. It’s easy to see how this history could imbue the moors with melancholy. Even Manchester’s official tourist site makes oblique reference to Saddleworth’s sad reputation: ‘in contrast to its past, Saddleworth’s environment is now one of the attractions which draws city dwellers to breathe in its air’. The tone is almost apologetic, as if anticipating reluctance to walk on those moors almost 55 years later.

)n the Moors: Original art by Francesca Roe

The more I visit, the more I see the moors as shape-shifters. Visit Ilkley Moor on a warm bank holiday weekend and you’ll find a landscape strewn with life – climbers scaling the cliffs of the old Victorian quarry, families picnicking by streams. Cross Saddleworth Moor in January and it’s hard not to feel affected by the bleakness and the weight of its history. Perhaps the true nature of the moors is that they are a blank slate, taking on different characters according to our own emotions. For me, the most constant feature of the moors is their impassivity. On a recent walk over the moors from Bingley to Ilkley I climbed over a stile and sat for a while on the wall. The landscape opened out to meet the horizon. Without landmarks you lose your sense of perspective and distance, and the vastness of the moors swallows you up. There’s a freedom in being made to feel that unimportant – the moors don’t care, so you might as well let it go. There’s also an intense feeling of vulnerability; this isn’t a landscape where you can easily hide. The dominant feeling is exposure, the sense that you are visible for miles around. Exposure can be dangerous; it can throw you off-track and stop you being found. But it can also be beneficial, forcing you to look inwards when there’s nothing else to distract you. Moors are bleak, repetitive, and unwelcoming. It’s because of this that they are beautiful.

‘You were the last good thing about this part of town’: The Rise and Fall Of Leeds Corn Exchange

What do you do when you’re a teenager living on the outskirts of Leeds, able to get to the centre in half an hour but without much money? You find a space to hang out with your mates, where you can be in the middle of the city without having to pay for the privilege. Leeds has a lack of public spaces. City Square is strangely laid out, and Millennium Square feels oddly unloved (not to mention the private security). As a teenager the one place that fit the bill was the small plaza outside the Corn Exchange. It was ideally located at the busy intersection of Boar and Vicar Lane, close to the station, the shisha bars, and takeaways. It was also ideally designed for loitering, flanked by stone stairs that invited you to sit and watch the flow of traffic and pedestrians. No wonder, then, that the Corn Exchange became a meeting point for young people from all corners of Leeds who would get off the bus or train and head straight for its grand domed ceiling.


The Corn Exchange didn’t attract just any kind of young person. In the 00’s the Corn Exchange was Mecca for moshers, goths, and, later, emos. To put it simply, the Corn Exchange was home to the kind of misfits who would appear in a modern-day John Hughes film, complete with black hair dye, piercings, Korn hoodies, neon accessories, and thick rubber platform boots. The look was classically rebellious and in some ways it was also classically Leeds; the city had been the birthplace of goth in the 1980’s, home to bands like The Sisters of Mercy, Salvation, and The March Violets and independent venues like The Faversham which provided space for the scene to develop before it caught on in London. The goths who hung around outside the Corn Exchange in the 00’s might not have been aware of this history, but the presence of alternative shops like Grin and Off The Wall in the Corn Exchange, which first opened as an alternative shopping destination in 1990, was a reminder of Leeds’s goth pedigree.


As well as goths, the Corn Exchange was home to moshers. The term originated in the mosh-pits of the hardcore punk scene in Washington D.C. and California, but in West Yorkshire the term became a catch-all descriptor for baggy jeans, long hair, and hoodies emblazoned with metal bands – Slayer, Iron Maiden, Korn, Slipknot. Later, they were joined by emos – a term that, again, originated in the hardcore scene. ‘Emotional hardcore’ was initially defined by melodic guitars and introspective lyrics, but went through a pop blender in the 90s. By the mid 00s bands like Panic! at the Disco, Fall Out Boy, and My Chemical Romance crashed into the mainstream, combining melodic guitars with pop hooks and lyrics that embodied teen angst. Emo also had a distinct look: the first youth movement to develop in tandem with social media (specifically Myspace), emo spawned heavily stylised online profiles showcasing asymmetric fringes, snakebite piercings, black dye, and eyeliner. Myspace didn’t just help disseminate a certain image; in some ways, it fulfilled the early promise of social media by bringing people together. Whilst Myspace photos showed a healthy dose of narcissism (as any youth subculture should), the site also smoothed social introductions for a generation of teenagers. When I moved schools in 2007, I already ‘knew’ several classmates from Myspace, easing the transition.


The moshers, goths, and emos who shared space outside the Corn Exchange belonged to specific subcultures with their own music and fashion. To outsiders, though, these distinctions often failed to register, disappearing in a sea of black clothes. Despite their differences, what united the teenagers outside the Corn Exchange was a self-consciously rebellious image and their proud outsider status. In recent years ‘weird’ has become mainstream in music and fashion. Not so in 2006. Growing up at that time it often felt like a straight choice between being a mosher or a chav. The latter term is controversial today, increasingly perceived as a classist slur used to mock the working class. I don’t disagree; at university I heard my fair share of students using the word to dismiss people they viewed as beneath them. Growing up in Pudsey in the 00’s, though, the term was used by kids from middle- and working-class background to describe a specific youth subculture; a hard-man image not dissimilar to the macho stylings of the Mods or Skins, and a specific look – trackies, long socks, gym bags on strings. Most chavs I knew were working class, but not all (a guaranteed way for middle-class kids to piss off their parents was by donning trackies and hanging round the market at night). I also remember working class kids using the term with pride. In my first week at secondary school I was cornered by an older girl called Kelly:


‘What are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you a mosher or what?’

‘How am I a mosher?’

‘What are you then?’

‘I’m not really anything. What are you?’

‘I’m a chav’.


I managed to argue that I wasn’t a mosher, but Kelly wasn’t fully convinced. She wasn’t entirely wrong to feel that I was ducking the question – I was good at blending in with whatever group I was hanging round with at the time, which resulted in occasional conflicts like the time some of my mates threatened to beat up a goth couple in Pudsey Park. It was mostly teenage posturing but I felt guilty by association, and found myself in the awkward position of apologising to the goths who had taken shelter in the bandstand. My friends asked what I was playing at; just slagging them off, I said. As time wore on teenage divisions softened; I suspect at least some of my mates from Pudsey Park would be embarrassed if I brought up the incident today.


Speaking to my boyfriend about the tension between chavs and moshers, we slip into nostalgia; he recalls crossing the road to avoid the ‘Guiseley Massive’ – local lads acting hard in a suburb of West Leeds. At times, though, things could be genuinely unpleasant. The summer before I left Pudsey for university I was hanging around in the park at night. Our group consisted of a few emos, a few fans of classic rock, and a few (including me) who thought we were a cut above because we went to the Brudenell and read the NME. We were confronted by a group of local hard lads looking for a fight. ‘Which one of you is hardest?’, one of them asked. ‘Me’, I said, suspecting that they wouldn’t hit a girl and hoping to diffuse the situation. It didn’t work and my friends ended up getting a kicking. I knew most of the lads involved, and they were handed a restraining order in court. It was utterly pointless violence and, I suspect, partly motivated by the fact we didn’t look like them.


We we got away lightly. Two years earlier in 2007 a young goth couple, Sophie Lancaster and Robert Maltby, were attacked in a park in Bacup, Lancashire. A witness called the police: ‘we need an ambulance at Bacup Park, this mosher has just been banged because he’s a mosher’. Both Sophie and Robert were left in a coma; Robert recovered, but Sophie’s life support machine was switched off thirteen days later. In the aftermath, The Observer reported an uptick in ‘violent attacks targeting punk, goth and metal kids’. In 2008 a young goth named Paul Gibbs was attacked in South Leeds. His ear was sliced off by a man who stated ‘I’m a chav and I’m going to get some moshers’. In 2013 the Greater Manchester Police began recording attacks on goths and other alternative groups. I can’t prove it, but looking back it feels like there was a particular spike in hostility towards alternative groups in the mid- to late 00’s. Whether or not there really was a spike in violence, the fear of being a target also explains the draw of the Corn Exchange; strength in numbers. It’s no coincidence that the vigil for Paul Gibbs was held there.


If the Corn Exchange was a physical haven, the music also provided a psychological escape. Andy Doonan was a few years older than me in school. Speaking to him today, it’s clear that the music held a powerful appeal: ‘There were groups of materialistic ‘popular’ kids in school, and I think it was partly about rejecting that social hierarchy mentality. Combining that with slightly rebellious music was a win win! A lot of the nobheads didn’t ‘get’ that sort of music which made us lean on it even more’. If emo, goth, and metal music was a statement of rebellion and non-conformity, lyrics also touched on themes of helplessness and vulnerability – with the latter reaching its peak in the psychological melodrama of emo: ‘Back in school they never taught us/ What we needed to know/ Like how to deal with despair’ (Brand New); ‘Now I’m of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret/ Somewhere downtown where a burlesque queen may even ask my name’(Panic! at the Disco); ‘Son when, you grow up/ Will you be the saviour of the broken/ The beaten and the damned’ (My Chemical Romance).


Looking back, emo lyrics seem comically hyperbolic. They are also dubious in other ways. Rap and hip-hop are often criticised for sexism, but the (primarily) male self-pity that underpinned emo often lapsed into images of women as manipulative bitches; see ‘Lying Is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off’ (Panic! at the Disco), ‘Once a whore, you’re nothing more’ (Paramore, ‘Misery Business’), ‘In every circle of friends there’s a whore’ (Cute Is What We Aim For, ‘Newport Living’). Max Cussons estimates that he’s been to Leeds’s Key Club ‘a fair few (hundred) times’, and speaks articulately about the scene’s gender politics: ‘To me, in a lot of pop-punk and emo lyrics, there’s this thing of ownership and the idea of being owed something from romantic interests, partners and even exes […] I really think a lot of this rubs off on the fans too. I so often hear people getting mad that people they’ve been involved with are doing stuff with new people. I’ll hear shit like ‘it’s a shit thing for a friend to do’, ‘I can’t believe they came in with a new guy, that’s so inconsiderate’. Honestly the kind of misogyny you get in hip-hop, that’s crystal clear the way it is, the artists aren’t hiding anything and you can take it or leave it […] I don’t find that to be as dangerous as the kind you get in pop-punk that is very sneaky and hard to detect’.


At their worst, emo singers were archetypal ‘nice guys’ – seemingly kind, but nasty if rejected. Emo’s misogyny can be partly excused by immaturity. Paramore’s female singer Hayley Williams has recently distanced herself from ‘Misery Business’ – although, as Max points out, the song is hardly the worst offender in the emo/pop-punk catalogue: ‘I hate that Paramore got stick for that when there’s so much more toxic content from more mature musicians. Call me paranoid, but I really think it was because Paramore are fronted by a woman and people aren’t used to a song like that, coming from a woman in that scene’.


Emo’s questionable depiction of women didn’t attract much attention back in the 00’s. At the time, the press were mostly concerned with the notion that emo was a dangerous death-cult intent on glamourising suicide and self-harm. In 2008 the Daily Mail and the Telegraph ran similar articles describing a ‘sinister emo cult’, linking the movement to the suicide of a thirteen year old girl, Hannah Bond. The articles describe how emo teenagers participated in initiation ceremonies involving self-harm and believed they would join the ‘black parade’ when they died – a euphemism for the afterlife invented by the band My Chemical Romance. Running through these articles is the fear that ‘normal teenagers’ with no previous history of mental health problems were effectively being groomed by a death cult. In the Daily Mail article, ‘Why no child is safe from the sinister cult of Emo’, a student describes how her classmate was transformed: ‘He used to be normal but now he harms himself, he’s dyed his hair black and he wears dark clothes and a really long black coat.’


The fears expressed in the articles weren’t unfounded – the young people referenced did undergo drastic personality changes that coincided with their involvement in emo. However, I think they were misdirected. The authors never question whether the abrupt personality changes they describe might have occurred regardless (it is hardly unknown for mental health problems to emerge suddenly in adolescence), or whether the teenagers’ fascination with emo could have been a symptom rather than a cause of mental health issues. It is true that emo music could glamourise suffering – emos, like the goths and the literary Romantics before them, form part of a long lineage of Angry Young Men (or women) who wear their anguish as a badge of honour. Emo lyrics could be self-indulgent, depicting minor conflicts as dramas of epic proportions. None of this, though, was unique to emo and it hardly justified the salacious claims made in the press. I’m not sure that young people would have been moved to suicide on account of emo’s lyrics unless they were already, in some way, susceptible to their bleak lyrical content. The experience of adolescence will always be defined by strong and irrational emotions, and whilst emo music provided a new vehicle for the articulation of these feelings, it certainly didn’t invent them.


If you’d asked me at the time I would have been nonplussed to hear that emo music was to blame for teen suicides. Being on the periphery of those groups, I saw friends who already had depression, or even just low self-esteem, gravitating towards music that spoke about those experiences and made them feel less lonely. In retrospect, there was a degree of emotional frankness in those circles that was unusual for its time, pre-dating the organised social media campaigns we see today on Mental Health Day. It’s no coincidence that the people who are most vocal about mental health on my social media networks used to be emos, moshers or goths. This effect has also been noted by Emma Garland, who describes in a 2016 article how ‘emo has consistently been a logical gravitational space for many young people wrestling with feelings of insecurity, anxiety, and depression’. Garland also identifies a gendered significance, arguing that emo provided an alternative form of masculinity for young men who didn’t fit macho stereotypes; by embracing gender-bending fashions and emotional vulnerability, emo ‘emoted to an audience of hundreds of thousands in a world where men are encouraged to not be emotional at all.’ In 2017 I learnt that one of the lads who had attacked my friends in Pudsey Park had killed himself. I don’t know all the ins and outs, but there’s a certain sadness in the fact that a young lad showing off his masculinity by beating up emos in the park might have benefited from the emotional openness that they possessed.


From the age of about 15 to 18, I’d sometimes wander down to the Corn Exchange in the knowledge that I’d bump into at least one person I knew. The Corn Exchange, Dry Dock, The Cockpit – they felt like part of the furniture. It never occurred to me that they wouldn’t last. In 2005 the lease for the Corn Exchange was bought by Zurich Assurance. In 2007 Zurich unveiled plans to transform the Corn Exchange into an upmarket food emporium. Independent traders were forced out by rent increases and clauses prohibiting the sale of gothic or pagan clothing. The plans coincided with a sudden police interest in the young people hanging around outside the building, who had been largely left alone up to that point but suddenly found themselves threatened with ASBOs and dispersal orders. There were petitions and protests; Michael Chan skived off school to attend. He remembers the Corn Exchange as ‘a great part of the old history of Leeds’, describing how the building was used by ‘traders back in the day’ before becoming somewhere ‘for the emo/punk/rock sort of egos to hang out’. His comments reveal a respect for the building and its history at odds with the image of the young people outside as anti-social trouble-makers. They also serve as a reminder that the Corn Exchange was always intended to be a social space where people could gather – whether emos or corn traders. The protests didn’t work. The Corn Exchange was closed for redevelopment, and re-opened in 2008 just in time for the financial crisis. Although the re-branded Corn Exchange was struggling to attract tenants and visitors, security guards kept a zealous watch over the plaza. I remember being asked to leave the now-empty steps where I was sitting and eating a sandwich. Maybe I was putting off the gourmet foodies who never did arrive.


The lack of tenants eventually forced Zurich’s hand. From 2010 independent businesses and cafes began to move back to the Corn Exchange, although it never fully regained its alternative atmosphere and my mother will always hold Zurich responsible for ripping up the aged wood floorboards and replacing them with generic pine (‘a tragedy’). Although independent traders slowly returned the emos, moshers, and goths never really did. Some of them moved down by the train arches; the stragglers pitched up under the bridge just off the Calls. For the most part, though, the moment had gone. The next few years saw the closure of venues (The Cockpit and The Cardigan Arms in 2014, Carpe in 2015) which had been central to the scene. Change isn’t always bad: the refurbished Cardigan Arms is nice, and Leeds still has a decent number of alternative nights and venues. It’s probably also true that the scene would have died down in time, as the teenagers outside the Corn Exchange turned into adults and new genres emerged. But what the re-development of the Corn Exchange showed was how quickly public spaces and local scenes could be shut down, and how easily people considered undesirable can be excluded from the urban environment through indirect means – shop and venue closures – and more overtly draconian measures like ASBOs and dispersal orders which Michael Chan, rightly, describes as ‘shameful’.


Speaking to people who used to hang around the Corn Exchange there’s sometimes a lingering sense of embarrassment. Not many people want to go back and read their Myspace bio or dig out shit poems they wrote in 2005. It’s not helpful to be too nostalgic: despite their anti-hierarchical leanings the emo, goth, and mosher scenes had their own social divisions, a point made by Tom Carabine who I remember back in school as the embodiment of emo, but who states that he ‘wasn’t cool enough for the uncool kids’. The misogynistic tendencies of emo and pop-punk have never gone away. Nonetheless, looking back at the Corn Exchange and the friendship groups that formed around it, it strikes me as positive that a generation of young people could claim part of the city as their own and find music that spoke to difficult experiences. Talking to people who were involved in the alternative scene, the overarching narrative is one of gratitude – at finding somewhere they could fit in whilst still retaining a sense of individual identity, and finding a sense of unity in the face of a society that could be unforgiving. There are still places in Leeds where young people meet and hang about, but as the city becomes increasingly gentrified I’m struck by how easy we had it, and how much more difficult it would be for that scene to find a home today.


Sources you might like:

The Chav/Mosher divide:





Emo and gender:



Emo and mental health:



The Corn Exchange and Re-Development:




High Royds: Hopes and Realities in Menston’s County Asylum

When I was little my grandparents owned an antiques shop in Menston, a small village split between the cities of Leeds and Bradford. Menston is suburban, but if you drive 5 minutes outside the village you quickly find yourself in semi-rural landscapes: farms, fields, and, to the west, ‘the tops’ – the long stretch of moor that eventually brings you to Ilkley. As a child my knowledge of Menston revolved around the park and my grandparents’ shop – my grandad’s workshop in the cellar, my grandma’s ridiculously large shoe collection under the bed, and the white wrought-iron chair on the pavement where I’d sit and watch cars go past on the main road. Even at that age Menston seemed small.

It wasn’t just a child’s perception – Menston really is small. If you search Menston on google maps a red pin falls onto a small patch of grey a way north of Leeds and Bradford, closer to the brown patchwork of Ilkley Moor than the city centre. Go back through old ordnance survey maps and Menston shrinks before your eyes; in 1906 the major landmarks are there but the modern bungalows are missing; in 1896 Main Street is a dark thread running through fields; in 1851 Menston Methodist Church and Menston Hall are surrounded by blank space, interrupted by occasional quarries and coal pits that are still faintly visible on satellite images today. On the 1851 map, to the south of Menston proper, sits a small holding called High Royds. In 1896, a dark semi-circle appears east of the holding: a cluster of rectangular buildings, roads, and labels; Mortuary, Infectious Diseases Hospital, County Lunatic Asylum. This is the Western side of High Royds Hospital, split between two different ordnance survey maps.

High Royds Hospital opened in 1888 as the West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum and closed in 2003, one of the last institutions of its kind to be shut down. The complex of gothic buildings was designed by the county architect, J. Vickers Edwards, and was situated on a 300 acre site removed from the urban centre. This isolation was intentional: the asylum was conceived as a self-contained village, complete with its own doctor’s surgery, fire station, shops, graveyard, and railway, which peeled discreetly away from the main line somewhere between Guiseley and Menston. Like many of the grand civic projects executed by the Victorians the hospital combined function with art: the main corridor featured a mosaic floor patterned with the white Yorkshire rose, the walls were decorated with glazed Burmantoft tiles from Leeds, and the main building housed a full-sized ballroom with arched windows and a gracefully curving roof.


Visible for miles around: High Royds clock tower from Menston

For those familiar with High Royds’s history, its grand buildings may seem at odds with its grim reputation. At the time of its opening, however, High Royds was perceived as a symbol of progress – an interpretation that was not entirely unjustified. Victorian asylums such as High Royds were, at least to some extent, a genuine attempt by the state to improve the lives of people with mental illness, constructed as a response to abuses at private asylums such as London’s infamous Bethlem Hospital and increasing discomfort at the notion that those with mental illnesses were ‘degenerates’ who should be imprisoned rather than treated. Significantly, the Lunacy Act of 1845 stipulated that the mentally ill should be seen as patients rather than criminals, and made provisions for the establishment of new County Asylums where treatment, not punishment, was the order of the day. Without this context, it is easy to dismiss High Royds and other County Asylums as symbols of a backwards era in which mild conditions were ‘treated’ with lobotomies; for all their many failings, however, High Royds and similar asylums did represent a departure from earlier understandings of mental illness as a form of criminal degeneracy, towards a less judgemental perception of mental illnesses as conditions that could be treated like any other.

A further complication to absolute condemnations of the asylum is the mixed record of the treatments used at High Royds, and particularly the experimental cures developed in the early twentieth century. Perhaps the most infamous of these treatments is Electric Convulsive Therapy, in which electrical currents are passed through the patient’s brain in order to induce seizures. Archival footage of patients undergoing Electric Convulsive Therapy is unsettling, but ECT is still used – albeit with caution – to treat severe depression and psychosis, and has vocal defenders among those who have found it effective where more conventional treatments have failed. During the 1970s, the use of lithium as a treatment for depression and bipolar disorder was developed by Dr Roy Hullin at High Royds; like ECT, lithium is still used today to treat severe cases of depression. Another challenge to black and white interpretations is posed by the minority of patients who express fond memories of High Royds in its later years. Among the many personal stories hosted on the High Royds Hospital blog (sources listed at the bottom of this post) is that of Wendy McNeill, an American exchange student at the University of Leeds who was hospitalised at High Royds in the 1990s with bipolar disorder. In her account, Wendy describes the positive relationships she formed with staff and expresses gratitude for the standard of care she received. Whilst High Royds should not be romanticised, these more positive accounts do complicate blanket characterisations of High Royds as a symbol of a backwards era.

Despite the good intentions of its founders, however, many aspects of High Royds’s history do fit the popular image of the asylum as a warehouse where vulnerable patients were routinely abused and subject to devastating clinical ‘treatments’. Among the many failed interventions used at High Royds was insulin shock therapy: developed in Vienna and Berlin in the 1920s, this treatment involved injecting schizophrenic patients with large doses of insulin so as to induce short-term coma. Footage of insulin shock therapy shows patients sweating and undergoing seizures before being brought round via a nasal tube. Lobotomies – the surgical severing of the frontal lobe – were carried out at High Royds into the 1970s. The procedure essentially amounted to the wiggling of a sharp instrument in delicate areas of the brain in the hope of severing the ‘bad’ connection, and could leave patients incontinent and unable to speak. In 2010, the BBC  broadcast a documentary named ‘Mental: A History of the Madhouse’, which examined High Royds’s status as an archetypal Victorian institution, and highlighted the enduring effects of experimental treatments of patients’ lives. One scene shows Maggi Chapman, a housewife who was hospitalised in the 1960s due to violent outbursts, describing how a doctor convinced her to sign up for a promising new treatment – the insertion of an electrode into her skull in order to burn out a piece of her brain. The archival footage of the procedure is unpleasant: Chapman is clearly distressed when the electrode is switched on, and asks the doctor repeatedly why he had to do it. He brushes her off as if she were a naughty child. In the documentary Chapman recalls how the doctor knew when he’d found the ‘right’ part of her brain when he saw her pupils dilate in fear. If patients were subjected to traumatic clinical procedures, danger could also come from outside: in 2014, a report into Jimmy Savile’s crimes in Leeds and further afield revealed that he had been accused of sexually assaulting several women at charitable galas held at High Royds in the late 1980s. This association with Savile did little to redeem High Royds’s already questionable reputation.

In 2007 I left my old secondary school in Pudsey and began taking the bus to Menston where I met my future partner, Chris. My school and his house were situated just across the road from High Royds. Over the years his family told similar stories to the ones I’d heard from my own; stories about patients who would wander off-site and into the village, sitting on the white chair outside my grandparents’ shop or turning up in back gardens. Some of these stories were darkly comical, like the time my dad encountered a man sitting on an antique chaise-lounge in my grandparents’ shop, claiming to be the Duke of Bedford’s son only unrecognisable on account of his extensive plastic surgery. Some were less so, like the woman who wandered into Chris’s house and said she was in High Royds because she hurt people, even though she didn’t mean to. By the time I started sixth form the hospital had been shut for 4 years. The site had been purchased by a developer and was earmarked as a luxury housing complex with Victorian architectural features. One lunchtime, when building work was still in its early stages, I walked around the site perimeter with friends: the buildings were fenced off, the grass was dry and the saplings that had been planted by the developers did little to break the monotony. Despite the signs of construction the site still felt distinctly abandoned. Later that day an online search alerted me to the existence of a graveyard over the road from the main site, tucked behind the ambulance station on Buckle Lane. 2,861 unclaimed bodies were buried in this small field between 1890 and 1969, sometimes deposited three-deep. The only clue as to the field’s purpose was a run-down stone chapel. Once, walking home from the pub with Chris, I jokingly suggested a night-time detour via Buckle Lane. Neither of us dared go.


The old mortuary: welcoming

For a long time my interest in High Royds could be described as a macabre fascination. I enjoyed the eeriness of the graveyard and the hospital grounds in the same way I enjoyed watching horror films, taking pleasure in the feeling of uneasiness. At this time, High Royds seemed less like a real place where real people had lived than it did a symbol of all the unpleasant things that society swept under the carpet. In this respect, High Royds fulfilled the same function as the derelict house in the woods or the old building at the end of the road – it provided a vessel for the expression of deeper fears about the unknown and the hidden. One side effect of this symbolism, however, is that the urban legends that grew up around places such as High Royds can obscure the actual histories of the people who lived there. If High Royds represented the dark and the unknown, its inhabitants quickly became what the German philosopher Edmund Husserl would have described as ‘the Other’ – people who are fundamentally different from ourselves, who don’t belong. To put it in less elevated terms I thought people who had been committed to High Royds were probably loonies, and assumed they were nothing like me.

As I grew older my interest in High Royds became less detached. Some time around 2010 I started to wonder if I was entirely sane. I’d begun having strange thoughts that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and which didn’t bear much relation to my daily life. One Sunday afternoon I found myself sitting a metre above the floor on the sink in my room, imagining that I was sitting on a skyscraper about to jump. It was ridiculous, but I found myself climbing onto the sink repeatedly over the next few weeks. Then it stopped, and I shrugged the incident off and forgot about it. Then, in 2014, I read a news article about a man who was burned alive in a horrible industrial accident. It was as if a switch was suddenly flicked on, and for the next week I found myself sleep-deprived, ostensibly writing my thesis but actually trying to imagine how it would feel like to burn alive, what it would be like to watch a loved one burn alive, holding my hand over the hob for a split-second to try to get a sense of what it would feel like, and being afraid to sleep. I set myself a time limit: if this didn’t stop by the end of the week I’d visit a doctor and find out if something was medically wrong. And then, again, it receded. Only to flare up again a fortnight later when I read another article that made passing reference to an unsolved kidnapping. Over time I developed the ability to spot these fixations before they developed, and if I saw something that set alarm bells ringing I’d imagine locking a series of doors to shut out the image. I eventually visited my GP, who said I probably had some form of mild undiagnosed anxiety or OCD and that I could see a psychiatrist if I wanted. I didn’t bother, figuring that there’d be no shortage of psychiatrists if I changed my mind.


The intrusive thoughts I experienced were disturbing but, relatively speaking, mild. What they did show me, however, was that you could be living a normal life and suddenly be confronted with strange thoughts and preoccupations. It was an uneasy realisation and it made me wonder how many of the patients at High Royds had held down jobs, relationships, families, only to find themselves unexpectedly gripped by something beyond their comprehension. It wasn’t just because of my own experiences; during this period I was studying for a PhD, which led me to research the treatment of mental illness – and particularly the incarceration of women on spurious grounds – in turn of the century asylums. Although I didn’t focus on High Royds, researching other grand old asylums such as the Salpêtrière in Paris made me realise just how flimsy the medical evidence for commitment could be, and the gendered dynamics that meant women were disproportionately locked up for reasons that often amounted to little more than scientifically legitimised prejudice. I was struck by the sweeping diagnosis of ‘hysteria’ in female patients, a condition that seemed at best a vague catch-all descriptor for diverse psychological conditions, and at worst a way for male clinicians to incarcerate women who didn’t fit society’s view of appropriate feminine behaviour. Re-watching the BBC documentary on High Royds, I realised just how easy it was for ‘normal’ people to wind up in an institution and never leave. I was struck by the story of Jean Davison, born in 1950, who left school at a young age and quickly became depressed. She was initially admitted to High Royds for a week of respite, but was sedated and convinced to sign up for a course of ECT. One week turned into 5 years. In High Royd’s early decades the discharge rate was just 30 per cent. If High Royds represented a noble aspiration – to provide asylum, in the truest sense of the word, to those who needed it -, the asylum quickly became a place that kept people ill, with powerful sedatives and institutionalisation giving little chance of re-engagement with the outside world.

Learning more about the people who lived in asylums like High Royds, and the social attitudes that helped keep them there, made me look at the site in a new way. In 2018 I was in the middle of a multi-leg move from Bristol to Leeds. We’d handed in notice on our flat just in time for the winter storm nicknamed the ‘Beast from the East’, and found ourselves moving back to the North in terrible conditions. One night we stayed at Chris’s house, directly opposite High Royds. Snow was beginning to settle and there was a stiff wind. I suggested a night-time walk round High Royds to get out of the house. We entered through the back road. I tried to take photos of the old clock tower and ended up with blurred, blackened images that looked like out-takes from The Blair Witch Project.


High Royds, Blair Witch Edition

This time, though, the site didn’t feel as eerie as it once did. In the eleven years since I’d first walked round the grounds the development had mushroomed, and the snow and the darkness couldn’t muffle the tell-tale sounds of habitation – doors opening and closing, light spilling onto the pavements, cars creeping cautiously over black ice. Several weeks later we returned in daylight. This time we could see the extent of the development – new builds nestling among older sandstone, banners proclaiming new luxury apartments in the old clock-tower, women on horses heading for a ride out. Occasionally something would jar: on our way into the complex we came across the old mortuary, still abandoned and fenced off, looking squat and unwelcoming. For the most part, though, the site seemed to have suddenly lost the atmosphere it once held. I wondered if I could ever live in the old buildings. I decided I probably could.


Luxury Apartments in the old clock tower

I still don’t know exactly what I think of institutions like High Royds. In many respects its closure was long overdue. Generally speaking, I’d say that people with mental illnesses should be supported within their communities rather than in institutions. The problem is what happens when there is no community, when mental health services are overstretched and underfunded. Although the abuses at High Royds and other asylums were more than sufficient to justify their closure, it is wise to remember that Thatcher’s emphasis on ‘care in the community’ was intended in great part as a cost-cutting measure, and that the enduring stigma attached to mental illness can make re-integration difficult. Part of me also wonders whether there is a place for institutions like High Royds – a space where all necessary services are provided on-site, giving patients time away from a pressured environment. Then I remember that this may be fine in theory, but the reality was that the majority of High Royds’s early patients never left the asylum, and a significant number wound up in the mass graves at Buckle Lane. Despite the failings of community care, it was only after leaving High Royds that people like Maggi and Jean regained control over their lives; if they had been hospitalised twenty or thirty years earlier they might never have been able to do so.

The asylums are not going to re-open any time soon, which leaves a question – what do we do with sites like High Royds today? Although High Royds might be the most impressive asylum complex remaining in the UK, it is far from the only historic site of its kind (the former buildings of the Stanley Royd hospital can be found in nearby Wakefield, and there other well-known abandoned sites at Glasgow and Barrow Gurney in Somerset). An obvious solution would be a museum, where the story of the asylum could be made accessible to the public. A friend who studies linguistics is currently researching letters that were written by patients at asylums including High Royds, but which were never sent to their intended recipients by staff. The letters are held in the collections of the West Yorkshire Archives in Wakefield and I had no idea that they were held there until recently. Part of me thinks these letters should form part of a public exhibit – not just on account of their obvious public interest, but because it seems fair that people who received little attention in life should receive some in death.

High Royds is not going to become a museum. In this case, perhaps the best alternative is what is currently taking place – re-development. Visiting High Royds over several years I’ve seen the grounds slowly being re-inhabited, people moving into the old buildings, and maybe discovering the history of the site. Perhaps over time High Royds will become just another residential area, a normal part of the landscape. This might seem a risky approach: if High Royds becomes just another part of Menston, maybe the hospital will become just another jumble of buildings and its history will fade from collective memory. I think this is unlikely, however: the distinctive character of the buildings hasn’t been diminished by the re-development, and local engagement with the history of High Royds seems to have increased steadily over time, with ex-patients frequently taking the lead. In 2009 a group of local volunteers raised funds to restore the chapel and construct a new memorial garden at Buckle Lane cemetery. The group in charge of the restoration was overseen by Derek Hutchinson, who had himself undergone ECT and a lobotomy whilst a patient at High Royds. The opening was attended by Jean Davison, who has written a book about her experiences since leaving the hospital. The rise of urban exploration and photography has also resulted in a renewed fascination with High Royds, allowing those lucky enough to find a way inside to develop a more personal connection with the old site and share their findings with others. I’ve never set foot in High Royds, but after a friend uploaded photographs he’d taken inside on social media it’s been easier for me to reconstruct the interiors in my head. So long as the buildings remain and the stories of its inhabitants are preserved, I can’t see the public fascination with High Royds fading any time soon.

High Royds’s legacy is complicated. Some of the treatments used at High Royds did have a medical benefit, and some patients such as Wendy, who was hospitalised in the hospital’s later years after the most damaging treatments had been phased out, found that the asylum provided a useful service. Nevertheless, a greater number of testimonies emphasise the loss of freedom, failed treatments, and enduring trauma experienced by patients. Although some doctors and medical staff held a genuine belief in the value of High Royds and similar institution, some also used patients as experimental guinea-pigs with little regard for the devastating effects of failed clinical experiments on their lives. Although it is true that ‘things were different back then’, it is still hard to shake the feeling that some of the things that took place at High Royds – documented abuse, patients signing consent forms under heavy sedation – were unacceptable even by the standards of the times. Talking about lessons to be learnt from High Royds might be a cliché, but given more recent scandals in care homes and closed wards it still seems necessary to emphasise the damage that can be done by prejudice, ignorance, and lack of empathy. Hopefully the increasing public interest in High Royds’s history will help us to cast a more critical eye on the present, and to recognise that whilst the use of lobotomies and insulin therapy may seem incomprehensible today, the attitudes that enabled the mistreatment of patients at High Royds have not entirely faded.


Sources you might like:

‘Mental: A History of the Madhouse’, 2010, 59 mins, BBC 4, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oswUssXzFlY&gt;

Wendy McNeill’s story appears on the High Royds Hospital blog, which is run by local historian Mark Davis. See <http://www.highroydshospital.com/galleries/better-than-wuthering-heights/&gt;

A 2008 newspaper article from The Wharfedale Observer detailing the restoration of Buckle Lane, featuring quotes from David Hutchinson, can be found here:< http://www.wharfedaleobserver.co.uk/features/featuresbehindnews/2291095.how_a_group_of_people_are_trying_to_restore_dignity_to_2_800_forgotten_souls/>

Recent abuse scandals at care homes and institutions suggest that social isolation of residents and staff prejudice are recurring themes in the present. See:




The John Rylands Library in Manchester has numberous photographs related to High Royds, which can be viewed here: Picturing the The West Riding Asylum, Menston, Yorkshire, 1901