STAT Magazine

Cracked Street and a Half, Haydock Street, St Helens 27 – 31 August 2026 Glass is a fluid suspended in time. With the appearance of a solid and the molecular structure of a liquid, it occupies a threshold state. Glass artistry is similarly liminal. A revered tradition, its status all too often hinges on its history rather than its precarious future. Running from 27th to 31st August, Cracked was an exhibition confronting the realities of present UK glass artists and their craft.

all photographs by Lucy Evans The first time I stepped foot into Wigan Roller Rink, I was eight years old. My parents, my cousins, my sister, my auntie and uncle, were all there. It was a family day out, and the first thing I remember is bursting into tears when my mum put the quads on my feet. I was absolutely terrified of that imposing wooden rink, covered head to toe in shin pads, wrist guards, knee pads. A cushion for my weak bones and fragile confidence.

It’s a Friday afternoon in Bolton town centre, and the town sounds like any other. Close your eyes, and you’ll hear pigeons squawking and swearing at each other, teenagers speaking in tongues incomprehensible to those over 21, and a man with a selfie stick beseeching everyone to join his Instagram live. Listen more carefully, though, and you’ll hear something else: an older sound, an earthy sound. Melodies from another place and time.

Agony Massive are being born. They haven’t stopped being born – screaming into existence all hollow-eyed and starved through sodden morass at the Devil’s Apronful, Pendle Hill – and Agony Massive won’t be done being born until they’ve dragged the world they are from through to this one. When you see them you’ll know. Agony Massive are going to kill you. There’s a village nestled deep within the Forest of Bowland called Dunsop Bridge.

The Blue Bell New Meadow Street Labour Club Potting at the Parkfield Billy Barney’s Piano Bar On It The Charnock Hotel A Fine Balancing Act Home Fans Only Mirror Mirror on the Wall Distant Echoes of Revelry The door slowly creaks open then slams shut behind me. Everyone stops in their tracks and you can hear the proverbial pin drop. I enter with trepidation then proceed to capture all the quirks and characters of another great British institution.

Lem lived in our attic for a bit. He was my stepdad Jackson’s best mate. He was a lanky man, big outdoor wrinkles on his outdoor tan. He had a sandy mane of hair, like a ginger nut cockatoo. He consumed coffee round the clock. Jackson and Lem would lean against the sides of the walls in our long, narrow kitchen. During his stay, the screeching of Jackson and my mum turned down to a simmer. Less cupboard slamming, no shouts from downstairs. My midnight stomach knots untangled.

“Quad bike bow hunting. We’ve touched on that, haven’t we?” It’s a stormy September evening in Bickershaw Country Park near Leigh and my mate Hamish is talking me through his time as a Project Officer for Lancashire Wildlife Trust. He’s going through a list on his phone and so far topics have ranged from arson and joy riding to warbler walks and hot-wired diggers. Quad bike bow hunting for deer does what it says on the tin.

header photo credit: Tse Hei Long As an artist, I’m always sussing out which fairs are worth attending. Shuffling into all sorts of zine-stuffed venues over the years, I’ve often wondered which ones are worth the money for a table, which ones have organisers that give a toss about their vendors. Very often I put myself in front of stallholders and ask bluntly: “Has it been busy?” In this article I’m going to find answers to these questions, and I have no intention of holding back.

Number 18 Museum Street in Warrington is a rather unassuming looking abode. The most I can ascertain about the place is that it’s a hostel for homeless and vulnerable people, set up by the charity Room at the Inn in the wake of Warrington YMCA’s closure. Naturally, the people at the charity are keeping tight-lipped. But given number 18’s history, it’s following a long tradition of anonymity and secrecy. Until 1993, number 18 was the discreet seat of a power without responsibility.

This month’s The Black Lights festival has billed itself as “a dream you can’t wake up from”. And its smattering of visual, sound, and performance art – esoterically dubbed as The Third Wave – promises exactly that. From 26th to 28th of June, The Black Lights is staging a psychic takeover of Blackpool via sight and sound. Its Third Wave will “alter” the town’s “internal logic”, by warping the interiors of hotels, cinemas, galleries, and civic spaces with artistic installments.