Through Trinity providing subsidized hall space for us, we have been able to put on social events for people with learning disabilities over the last 8 years.

It is very hard for someone with a learning disability to have a normal social life. So with Trinity helping us put on full on monthly nightclubs is amazing. We have nearly  200 people dancing the night away at each Rhythm of the Night event and it is getting bigger and better. Join us on the last Thursday of the month and see for yourself...everybody is welcome!

2017 has been the best so far and we are thinking of inviting DJs and musicians with disabilities to perform at these social events, as we did with Plymouth's Funky Llama in 2016.

Trinity has supported these successful nightclubs with staff time, facilities and equipment. This partnership approach has been rewarding for everyone.

We have also seen from their wider community work that Trinity is committed to being a centre for the people of Bristol. Trinity has made a fantastic use of a valuable building and given it a new lease of life.

Tony Holdom, Creative Director, Misfits Theatre Company UK.

Nine Lives is a one-man show about asylum seeker Ishmael, played by Lladel Bryant, from Zimbabwe and his struggle to gain asylum in Armley. Bryant does a superb job of bringing the character to life, he is animated and convincingly plays Ishmael, and the characters he comes across, with lightness and ease.

The play explores what happens when Ishmael, who is seeking asylum because he is gay, starts the asylum process in Britain. The production focuses on the loss, creation and slippage of identity when faced with such a situation. How much of himself does Ishmael leave in Zimbabwe, how much does he hang onto and how much does he make himself anew?

This production, with beautiful African music introducing new aspects of the story, is a very honest and human account of this confusing, heart breaking and totally transformational time in Ishmael’s life. The script is excellent, the performance strong and honest and the design is elegant. There are no theatrical fireworks here, but there do not need to be, a simple story of Ishmael’s arrival and the difficulty in the decisions he has to make are powerful enough.

The script is written by Zodwan Nyoni, for Leeds playhouse where she was writer in residence in 2014. One of the effective aspects of Ishmael’s story is that it is entirely individual, prompting audience members to realise that asylum seekers are not a homogenous group in the same situation with the same concerns and problems, but each one is a person with their own very particular set of circumstances. Ishmael has to decide if he tells other African asylum seekers about why he is seeking asylum with the knowledge that he might be persecuted by his own countrymen or keep it quiet so he can seek the comfort of those with a shared background.

The narrative never rests, Ishmael is not allowed to settle, his story has no resolution. This echoes the transient, ever changing and never-resolved state that he is in. While he awaits the government’s decision as to whether Britain can harbour him, he has no firm ground to stand on. This production is very pertinent and has a lightness of touch that allows it to transcend the media coverage of this plight and depict one person’s difficult journey to a new start.

Dear Dance Marathon,

Thank you. I know we only spent a few hours together but I wanted to let you know how wonderful you are. Despite my aching calves and mysterious bruise, I miss you. You were a joy to be with. The friends I made through you might not last a lifetime but, for that one, lovely night, they meant so much. You made a team of two from strangers; we laughed, we tried and held on to each other.

At first I thought you were too good to be true and in a way I was right. Your trickery at first was subtle but once I realised the kindness in your lies I knew I had to forgive you. For some you made them feel inadequate; for others you gave them the courage to shine. And even though we floundered and fell, after knowing you for such a short time we all became champions. Even when our number was up we spurred each other on. Even when you stripped me of my purpose; an indignity which led me to the regrettable act of betraying my sister, still then, I fought on.

I saw so much through you. I witnessed amateurs evolve into experts. I saw kindness morph into competitiveness. I sensed strangers becoming friends and family turn into temporary enemies. You made me race to the finish line, flail in an attempt to regain my status, squish my sweaty body against an unknown other. And even though you may have turned me into a loser, well, I forgive you. You showed me humility; the sigh of relief in letting go of hopes of a trophy and cheering for our new, winning, friends.

So thank you Dance Marathon. Thank you for the fun, thank you for the music. Thank you for the artistry, thank you for the effort; I'm sure you must be tired so please go a take long and well deserved rest.

But know that - If we meet again - I'm on to you. And as I have already proved, I'm not above doing whatever it takes to leave our next night together as your dancing queen.

Love and very, very sweaty hugs,
Your not-so-bitter Loser.

Stand is the product of conversations. The conversations continued long after leaving the Trinity centre, but in silence; an inner-monologue set to my footsteps, set to snippets of strangers passing conversations. Stand made me consider myself, my actions.

It made me proud of that time I stood up to the racist man in the restaurant in Edinburgh and made me see my Mother’s pleasure in witnessing this in a new, brighter light. Stand made me hope that in the future I will be braver in making positive choices and not stop myself due to fear of an unsuccessful ending. Stand made me miss my younger self- the one who could be so riled up about the wrongs of the world.

Stand made my friend sad when she realised later that these were actors, not the activists, performing the verbatim transcript. Stand impressed me that the quality of performance made her think this.

Stand meant I was sure to find a bin to put my cigarette butt in and to feel guilty for all of the discarded ones that came before it and every dropped one that is sure to come. Stand reminded me that I am only human. Stand made me plump-up with pride for people. It made me deflate with despair in humanity.

Stand made me think of my friend who spends weeks, months living in protest sites; of the arrests, beatings, losses and wins. It made me question why I have been so hesitant to join him.

Stand made me wish I’d ordered the vegetarian quiche instead of this open-top ham sandwich but feel a little more at ease that at least the meat is locally sourced. Stand reassured me that standing-up can come in many forms. Stand is simple. It is sensitively, sometimes joyously performed. Stand made me want to know more, to do more. Stand made me want to be better.