Wendies Forever!

Well, this is good. I was so happy driving home on Friday evening – mainly because it was Friday, of course – but also because I was scheduled to go to watch some friends of mine perform in their band at Nottingham's 'Hotel Deux' (a splendid venue). I really like live music in most forms, and this was the first time I'd ever seen The Wendies play (except for an impromptu sing-along when I was off my face at James's stag do in Flagg, but that was years ago). Anyway, after a couple of very sociable drinks in one of Broad Street's better quality hostelries, we set off. What a fabulous evening it was, too! The Wendies (see picture above) were excellent – they play acoustic, with Bob and Paylor thumping out some stomping guitar, whilst James (in the somewhat manic disguise of a mildly deranged nevrotico) belted out the vocals with great verve. Their renditions of 'I Will Survive' (the Cake version that is, not Gloria Gaynor's) and Love's 'Alone Again' from the Forever Changes album, were just perfect. Well done, lads.

I've spent the remainder of the weekend dashing backwards and forwards meeting up with friends and entertaining people here in my apartment. I had intended to write this blog yesterday morning, but there simply hasn't been time. Today I've been to my sister's house for lunch because it is my father's birthday and so we had a lovely big family gathering. My first ever great-nephew (and my father's first great-grandchild), Albert, was there - just seven weeks old. I don't usually like babies, but little Albert is one of the best and he has an absolutely adorable face. Very well-behaved, too.

I now have to think about more serious matters. I read today that more veterans of the Falklands War have since committed suicide than were actually killed in the war. This extraordinary revelation comes after a recent spate of suicides within the British forces currently serving in Iraq. Three young men have shot themselves (apparently) in as many months, whilst on a tour of duty in Basra. Considering that Basra is one of the relatively peaceful areas of the occupation, this news is even more tragic. Three young, hopeful lives have been extinguished in as many months – these guys are serving their country and yet it seems there is little support for them in dealing with post traumatic stress disorder. The most recent suicide was of a 21-year old; it's heartbreaking. The army simply doesn't have enough resources to tackle the problem (i.e. not enough cash), and these boys are being left to fend for themselves. I don't know how much it would cost to provide better support for these youngsters, but I bet it's a lot less than the £1.4 trillion that Gordon is planning to spend on rescuing the bankers from the trauma of having to go without their champagne and lobster suppers. It's nothing short of disgraceful.

Thank My Lucky Stars!

I've said it before, I know – but then I've said lots of things before – but working for a living is extraordinarily hard. Well, perhaps 'hard' isn't exactly the right word. Bloody nuisance is more like it. It's after nine o'clock now and all I've done this evening is change the bedding, load the dishwasher (no, not with the bedding, that went in the washing machine) and cook dinner. I have to be in bed in an hour or so and I have my Spanish lesson to complete, a letter to write, AND I'm supposed to be typing up some minutes from a meeting I had a whole week ago! Doh! It's impossible to get these things done. When I was a man of leisure, I wouldn't even be home from early doors in the pub by now. I guess I should do my Spanish lesson in the car (I spend long enough in the damned thing) but I can't seem to write up the exercises and keep my eyes on the road at the same time.

Anyway, enough of this moaning – let's look on the bright side of things. I have so much more to be grateful for – I tell myself this each morning when that public enemy of an alarm clock wakes me up (it's a nasty-looking little thing, so it is). I resist the temptation to hurl it into the abyss (I keep an abyss in my bedroom; or at least I think I do because I'm assuming that's where things disappear to - such as my favourite socks and once, an entire cheese sandwich). I resist the urge to plunge the beastly clock into the toilet, or to smash it with the lump hammer I keep beside the bed (don't ask). No, instead, I cheerfully press the 'stop' button (I never use the 'snooze' button, for to do so is to sink into despair) and I leap out of bed thanking my lucky stars that I at least have a bed to leap out of, and not a shop doorway, nor a prison cot, nor a shallow grave.

I'm very lucky, me – nothing has ever gone wrong in my life. Well, unless you count the time that Great Aunt Dolores mistakenly sold me to white slavers – she thought that her command of the Outer Western Malayo-Polynesian languages was near-perfect, and she thought that she was asking for directions to the nearest rubber plantation. It turned out that she was offering my services as a gimp to the local chief – I'd already dug three salt mines and been hung upside down from a tree before she realized her mistake and came to rescue me. I had the last laugh though – it cost her a whole carton of her damned Lucky Strikes to get me back.

No, I've led a charmed life really. No complaints from me on that score. So, in just a few short hours I shall be thumping that 'stop' button again and jumping to the floor singing 'thanks' to the lucky stars that put it there, and not the abyss.

Mind you, I wish they'd invent an alarm clock that takes thirty-six hours to get round, instead of twenty-four. To the man who does that, I'd take off my hat.

As if...

I went on an internet dating site once. I'm not sure what I was looking for, but I didn't find it. But what I found so amusing was that I saw lots of advertisements from people saying: "No time-wasters please". That's just about the most ridiculous thing you can put in one of those ads. As if anyone would take any notice? Can you picture the scene: there's someone sitting in front of their computer, browsing the Lonely Hearts Column. He sees an ad for someone he's quite interested in, and he's just about to fire off a reply saying: "Let's meet!" when something occurs to him....

... he suddenly remembers that he is not the type of person who is likely to follow through and he probably has no intention of ever meeting up. Oh no, he thinks, I'm a time-waster! I can't reply to this ad – it says so. It says "No time-wasters", so that counts me out. Oh bum! It just wouldn't happen would it? So why do people bother putting such a codicil into their ads at all? It's like putting a sign on your front door saying: "Please – no burglars". Yeah, I think I'll try it.

There's more to this. You could have cards printed to hand out to your friends and acquaintances saying: "Sorry, no gossiping about me behind my back" or "Please do not accept a drink from me unless you are prepared to buy me one in return". How hilarious would that be? It would be real fun to drive everywhere at 56 mph and have a sign in your rear window saying: "No overtaking". It would also be great to leave your car anywhere you chose in the city, with a sign on the dashboard urging the traffic wardens: "No parking tickets, please".

Or how about, when you're booking your travel arrangements, instead of writing in your dietary requirements for the airline, you could request: "Please do not seat me next to any lunatics, people with babies, or obnoxious children". Do you think they'll take any notice? Like hell they will.

Anyway, I can't sit here chatting all evening. I have work to do, and letters to write. I'm going to write to the Council because I've had an absolutely brilliant idea. I'm going to suggest to them that they have some signs made to put up in the street declaring: "No littering". Think it will work?

The Law, of course, is an Ass!

Now, this really is outrageous. Outrageous, I tell you!

My friend Hicham Yezza (you will remember him from my postings last year, if so click here) and the news is that he was recently found GUILTY of attempting to defraud the British government regarding his work permit. I haven't really researched the technicalities of the government's case because it probably isn't worth it ,considering the duplicity of our friends in power – but Hicham's case is the most disgusting breach of that justice that I can remember. Here is a man – the most peaceful and sensitive of men anyone could hope to meet – a man who left his home for work one day just like any of us might do, and who would (if it hadn't been for a sustained campaign to get his emergency deportaton stopped) have never seen his possessions again. Can anyone of you imagine that?

There are villains in this country, and some of them are illegal immigrants – that has to be acknowledged. I am sure that some of these people are probably terrorists with some fundamental and misplaced idealistic tendencies amongst them, but the simple truth is that Hicham is NOT one of them! The authorities are using him as a scapegoat – nothing more – and it makes me feel ashamed to be British. I am middle-class (except for the fact that I was born in the backstreets of Naples), and I am white. This gives me a great sense of probably misplaced protection that people such as Hicham can never enjoy. That is a horrible indictment of our society. Oh goodness, I'm lucky. Poor Hicham can't possibly be so lucky.

For fuck's sake – this guy has contributed to the intellectual culture of this country – he has even applied to be nationalized and to become a British citizen. Is this the right way to reward that commitment? Hell, no it isn't.

PLEASE, look at the link above and do what I (and many other people) have done: Write to Hich in prison; write to your MP; write to the Home Office; write to HM The Queen; write to slack-jawed Gordon Brown. Write to anybody – just make sure that Hich is not forgotten.

I remain, your faithful servant...

Something for the weekend, Sir?

Well, the most extraordinary thing happened to me yesterday. Sometimes I wonder about the way society is going. Brace yourself, gentle reader, for this tale is not for the feint-hearted.

It was early evening and I was in a busy city centre bar having a quick meal with some friends before heading off to a party. I went down to the basement toilets to take a piss, and was confronted by one of those 'grooming' guys – the kind you get in many French establishments (even in remote mountain-side restaurants). He had an array of products spread out before him: lollipops, sweets, condoms, plus all the usual paraphernalia for freshening up after enjoying the normal activities of relief. There was soap, towels, eau de toilette (!), hairbrushes and clothes brushes too. This cheery chappy beamed at me in welcome as I entered. So far, so good. There's nothing wrong with a bit of enterprise, especially if it's in the area of offering an old-fashioned service. But that wasn't all that was on offer.

Whilst standing in front of the urinal, a youth emerged from one of the cubicles and came forward to inspect my cock. Slightly disconcerted, I continued with the activity that I had gone there for, and politely answered his enquiries concerning the kind of evening I was having, and about what my plans were for later. When I'd finished, I was then attended to by the beaming chappy with the soap, and thought I was on my way. But no, for the aforesaid youth then approached me and offered me a blow-job for a fiver. When I declined his generous offer, he became rather insistent and tried to pull me into the cubicle saying, "Come on, it won't take long and I need the money. Don't be shy."

I asked the grooming man if he approved of such trade being plied in what isn't even a gay bar, but he replied that he had never seen this youth before and had no idea what he was doing. I made my excuses, tipped the man, and left. Back upstairs, I couldn't quite believe what had just taken place. Did the management know what was going on in their establishment? Should they be told? Another member of our party insisted that I had made the whole thing up, until he went downstairs and the same thing happened to him.

What is going on? Am I living in a red light district? I'm not easily shocked (ed: how could anyone who has travelled the world with your Great-Aunt Dolores Mackliskey be easily shocked?) but this incident made me feel that the fabric of society is being quietly torn. However, if any of you out there want to know the name of this establishment, I'll tell you for a fiver :)

Divine Decadence!

Well, I've seen some funny things in my time, but tonight I witnessed a scene that was straight from St Trinian's or at least, the Keystone Kops. Actually, there was a serious side to this, but it was still funny nonetheless. I attended a gala night to celebrate my friend Susi Henson's new corset collection. Susi is a fabulous designer and has created corsetry for Leona Lewis, Madonna, The Scissor Sisters AND Girls Aloud, and was launching her new collection tonight at Dogma in Nottingham. BTW, I happen to know the chef there quite well – don't eat the cream of mushroom soup (just kidding). I went along with James, my magician friend, and Greek Adam – he of the famous light sculptures at Nottingham Castle last month. It was a fantastic night of free drinks and canapés and just about everyone in Nottingham turned up to party and to admire the wonderful creations of a certain fin-de-siècle splendour.

But the (not so) amusing incident occurred towards the end of the evening when Susi received a call to say that the premises beneath her fabulous salon had been burgled (or at least, had encountered a break-in). Outraged (justifiably), Susi mustered her troupe – a corseted array of elegant models – and set off in pursuit of the offenders. The sight of a gaggle of stiletto-wearing girls clad in little more than corsets and fishnets, armed with headless half-mannequins (which were bedecked in exotic basques, lace and feathers) rampaging through the streets of Nottingham to do battle with the recidivistic thugs who had dared to break & enter into the hallowed halls of Eternal Spirits (for more information on Eternal Spirits, click here) was a sight to behold, I can tell you. It reminded me of an old film where the outraged protagonists go on a rampage with their pitchforks (can't remember the film – if anyone can, then please let me know). I could just picture the thugs being floored by a corseted dummy as they made their getaway up Hockley Hill, and then begging for mercy as they lay bruised and battered by studs, leather and Plaster-of-Paris on the pavement.

Go, Susi, go!

Lazy, idle good-for-nothings.

I am currently knee-deep in paperwork. One of the downsides of working for a living (ed: just one?) is that there's so little time to deal with administrative matters. I used to be a very good administrator – I was always up to date with everything that the poor Postie could throw at me. But now, there are bills unpaid; letters unanswered; invitations un-rsvp'd; all sorts of detritus is lying around my apartment screaming "Look at me! Look at me! Deal with me first!" Well, I say this to you paperwork: Get a life and deal with yourself. That's the trouble with paperwork – it has no self-motivation; no get-up-and-go. Paperwork is totally and utterly bone-idle and just sits there, passively, expecting me to sort it all out. Hmm, I think I need a sorcerer's apprentice. Or Mary Poppins, perhaps.

And another thing – meatballs aren't all they're cracked up to be either. I can't remember if I've ever eaten them before. If I have, then I've never cooked them, that's for sure. I bought some recently from Asda (other supermarkets are available), because I've been intrigued about them ever since I was a child and I used to hear that ridiculous song on the radio (a parody of "On Top of Old Smokey") in which the lyrics went:

"On top of spaghetti
All covered with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed."

I never quite understood this. Even growing up – as I did - in poverty in the backstreets of Naples, I'd never eaten a meatball, nor could I envisage what they looked like. So when I saw them on sale in the supermarket, I bought a packet. Not having a clue what to do with them, I boiled them in a tomato and onion sauce (suitably seasoned, lashing of garlic etc.) and ladled them onto a heap of salted pasta. Well, what a disappointment. The sauce and the pasta were both scrumptious, but the meatballs were like marbles of tasteless stodge. I'm not sure what went wrong there, but I wondered if perhaps they were the wrong size. Can you get different sized meatballs? Anyway, tomorrow it's back to the fish pie. Much safer.

I hear that Nick Clegg is calling for a "different kind of politics" to save Britain. What's that, then? Politics where the self-interest of the politicians takes second place? He's having a larf, he is.

I'll vote for anyone that bans paperwork and meatballs, I will. Where's that party then?

What Witching Hour Is This?

Well, now that I've calmed down about the cacophonous Italians, I can turn my attention to more serious matters. I had a short play of mine performed before an audience last night. It was just a 10-minute two-hander that a pair of stalwart young actors from the Theatre Royal's pool had a go at. I love seeing my work performed – it's a very strange feeling to see the two-dimensional people I invented in my head starting to speak and move. These two, Gary Keane & Emma Carlton did an excellent job and (as all actors should) found facets to my characters that even I hadn't seen. Well done. The audience laughed in all the right places, anyway.

Tonight, after a fractious day at the orifice, I'm going to the social evening at the Writers' Studio. That's if I get this entry written, my ironing done, and dinner cooked beforehand. This working-for-a-living malarkey doesn't half take up some time, I can tell you. I barely have chance to wash behind the ears – or to partake in the usual 3-fingers of whisky - before it's off to bed again. Somehow (and don't ask me how) the night passes all too quickly and before I can say "It must be against Human Rights to be forced to use an alarm clock!" I'm waking up again and the whole caboodle starts all over again. Is this how you lot have been living for all these years? I take my hat off to you, that's all I can say.

A friend of mine is unfortunate enough to have become ill recently, and found himself being sectioned and subsequently incarcerated in the locked psychiatric ward of our local hospital. I went to visit him the other day, and it was a rather unnerving experience. As we sat chatting, I had this sudden fear that I might not get out again. I could just see myself going towards the door, only to be gently ushered back by the nurse saying: "Come along now, you know you can't go home yet. Put your slippers back on and take a nice comfy seat in the dayroom." I felt gripped (unreasonably) by the possibilities of a Kafka-esque situation developing, and wondered how on earth I – wearing lime green socks, a T-shirt bearing the slogan: "Dirty Old Men Need Love Too", and with my dyed blonde hair standing on end as if I'd accidentally trapped my head inside a wind tunnel – could convince the staff that I was only a visitor? I'm planning to visit him again this weekend, so if you don't hear from me after that, please write to His Excellency the Nabob of Ward 66 and tell him that I am really, really – despite appearances – quite, quite normal. Tell him also that my pet dodo will die of starvation if I don't come home, and that I also need to clean at least one of my seventeen bathrooms.

There, big sighs....

Ciao Bello!

Well - the Italians, eh? They're a funny bunch, arent they? I've been all over the place in my time but strangely, I'd never been to Italy until I went there last week for a skiing trip. Of course, I've met a lot of Italians along the way – indeed, a close friend of mine is half Italian – but I've never before been amongst them in such numbers. They don't half gabble on. They wore my ears out, I can tell you.

I've had a fabulous week of skiing – the conditions in Sestriere were just absolutely perfect. There was an unbelievable amount of snow, making for an easy time down the pistes – but it had all fallen before we arrived and so we had totally clear skies and a blistering golden sun, every single day! I did some really energetic and challenging skiing – I even did the World Cup Giant Slalom run (featured on BBC's Ski Sunday last week) from top to bottom. Great fun, even if my legs did feel about to buckle like crumpled paper by the end.

However, I was amazed by the Italians' seeming inability to remain silent for longer than even a millisecond. I sat on a chair lift from Borgata up to the top of Banchetta (8,400 feet above sea level) with two young women who talked continually at each other at exactly the same time (ed: not good listeners, then?). It was like listening to an opera where two opposing voices sing against each other – the fact that they babbled at the pitch of sopranos made it all the more amusing and entertaining. Another couple I shared a chair lift with talked incessantly and at speed to each other, except for the few minutes when they simultaneously got out their mobile phones and inflicted their yelling flow of words onto someone else. I half suspected that they had phoned each other because they both ended their diatribe with an enthusiastic 'Ciao!' at exactly the same time, before launching their vociferous attack on each other once more.

So, my cunning plan to get my own back is to learn Italian before I return to the country in June for my nephew's wedding. I shall also be taking with me a supply of oxygen so that I don't need to draw breath, and then I can direct an uninterrupted stream of babble at everyone I meet. I can't wait. The Italians are lovely, fun-loving and generous people; but they're people who simply talk too much, and too loudly. So, if you can't beat 'em – join 'em! Grazie mille!