Rolling Years

It was my birthday on Monday. I hate birthdays – what's the point? Well, I suppose it's worth celebrating one's birth, in as much as it was presumably a momentous day when any of us arrived on this planet, but why do we have to count how many years it was since that glorious day? Some things are worth celebrating without mentioning how long we've been doing it. The summer solstice, for instance; or St Valentine's Day (oh no, don't get me started on romance). But we don't say: "How many years is it since our Val was beatified?", do we?

So on Monday, I went to work staggering under the weight of the massive amount of cakes I'd bought, and announced that it was my birthday. What should have happened then was that everyone should have danced around, ringing bells, pulling party-poppers and throwing rice, shouting: "Hurrah, let's celebrate the anniversary of Richard's wondrous birth!" But what happened instead? Well, this: Whilst unwrapping yet another double-choc mini-roll, Mavis from accounts asks, "Come on then, Richard. Tell us how old you are." Why do people think they have a right to know this? Why does it even matter? Well, as Patsy once proclaimed in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous, I loudly insisted: I'm forty-two! And if you believe that, you'll believe anything.

So what did I do for my birthday? After work I came home, washed the salt from my scarred and wracked body, and held a champagne reception for a dozen friends in my apartment. Not a good idea on a school night, but I recovered.

I hate birthdays.

Land Ahoy!

Gosh, I'm getting rubbish at writing this blog. I just never seem to have the time these days. Well, I guess that isn't strictly true because I have lots of time on my hands really, but I mainly waste it by messing around on Facebook, ironing, or trying to compile my Great Aunt Dolores's memoirs into something worth publishing. When she died, she appointed me as her 'literary executor' which was quite typical of her – a grand claim, considering that her writings are a somewhat meaningless jumble of incoherent ramblings, mainly about how she was the love-child of Coco Chanel and had once beaten General Franco in a game of strip poker ("Believe me boy," she once said, "he was no Spanish donkey, that's for sure. If you catch my drift, as Hazel would say."). So I shouldn't put my blog aside for these trivial matters – instead I should attend to you, dear reader, and I should do it more often.

I've been thinking about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens recently. I've been trying to compile a list of my favourite things because that's what is supposed to make us feel better. So, here is a list of some of the things that simply don't make me feel so bad when the dog bites, or when the bee stings:

· Whisky – and in particular, the first time I realized that I could drink it neat and savour its taste.
· Taking a scalding hot cup of tea back to bed on a Sunday morning and reading a book.
· Sneezing – well, this used to be a delicious pleasure, until we all became spooked by swine flu.
· Whisky – in particular when it's not drunken neat, but in a whisky sour. Yum!
· Thunderstorms – I love switching all the lights off and standing naked in the garden singing: "Come on thunder, come on thunder."
· Cutting my toenails – I used to be able to bite them, but my legs aren't bendy enough these days.
· Brown suede shoes – I once met a man who said that you could only be assertive by wearing shiny shoes. Well, he was wrong.
· Whisky – particularly when it's mixed with dry ginger.
· Speaking Italian – I can't actually do it, but it's a great idea.
· Getting to that point in writing a story when the character starts to tell me what he/she wants to do next.
· Kite flying – except that I've never actually done it. Well I have, but not successfully.
· Recovering from a headache – pure bliss.
· Whisky. However it comes.

So, those are a few of my favourite things. You'll probably have noticed how watching television doesn't appear in the list. Neither does chopping off my own head. Strange that.

Now, back to Dolores's memoirs.....

Huis Clos

Last week I was asked to review a performance of a new Nottingham theatre company. This is what I wrote:

"Halden Theatre is a new theatre group based in Nottingham that sets out to 'bring theatre to the people' by placing it back in everyday social environments such as bars, cafes and even outdoor public spaces.

Well, if the opening performance of Sartre's Huis Clos was anything to go by, the Halden Theatre group has succeeded. Last Friday's performance at Nottingham's Lee Rosy's gave us both the intimacy of a troupe of travelling players, and yet also the quality of an established repertory company.

In a space not much bigger than many people's living rooms, they managed to arrange a convincing set, an auditorium for 20 people, and even a technical desk situated in the wings! The acting and direction were as tight and controlled as Sartre's existentialist piece demands – all four characters were word perfect and together, impeccably timed.

This play is so famous that it could have been daunting for the cast to deliver. Not so – Richard Bolton as the Valet presented us with exactly the right balance of mischief and indifference, whilst Lian Duan playing the working-class lesbian Inèz gave us a truly convincing portrayal of the honesty and understanding that sets this character apart from the valet's other two victims.

Natalia Douglas, as the self-obsessed Estelle, gave a faultless performance. Estelle's character is one who believes that her own coquettishness and arched manner present her to the others as an innocent and mistreated waif. Yet Natalia Douglas manages to unmask the character as being perhaps the most heinous of the three with such delicious spite that we, the audience, are shocked. Perfect.

Guy Evans was the personification of the hapless and miserable Garcin. His physical appearance was exactly that of the lothario that Garcin believes himself to be, and yet with consummate ease Evans managed to show us what Sartre wanted us to see – an emotionally crippled coward, wracked with deceit and weakness. When it came time to deliver one of the most famous lines in history, it must have been tempting to 'bottle it' or at the least to turn it into a cliché of bathos. But Guy Evans handled it with the gravity and pathos that the line deserves. Even though we might have already known what was coming, when he eventually stared into oblivion and uttered the words: "Hell is other people", we were almost surprised.

Thinking of famous lines, there'll be another one coming up soon in one of Halden Theatre's future productions. I can't wait to see how Daniel Hallam deals with Lady Bracknell's "A handbag?" when they do Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest.

Halden Theatre has only two permanent members of the company – director Daniel Hallam and producer Barry Paul Horrell. Their aim is to engage the community in theatre and they want to include as many people as possible, both in terms of participation in the productions, and with the audiences they attract. Judging by their début with Huis Clos, they are already bound to succeed".

I give you the Halden Theatre company: www.haldentheatre.co.uk

Next time, I shall tell you about seeing Captain Dangerous at the Splendour Festival - sharing the bill with Ash, The Pogues, and Madness!

Allons Enfants!

Since I last wrote here, I've had a full week. I've been to the opening of an art gallery; a performance evening to celebrate writing work from the Nottingham Writers' Studio; a wedding party (more of that later); a leather fetish party, and an audience with two famous novelists. On top of that, I've also been to work (no mean feat I can tell you) and I've also been keeping my stray cat supplied with endless saucers of milk; visited the old dear in her nursing home; and found time to socialize down at the old Broadway. What I haven't found time to do is to eat or sleep. Or write this blog. Not good.

Anyway, the wedding party was huge fun. My nephew's new in-laws have an enormous garden and they had arranged three marquees, a disco, a bandstand (with a great 70s retro band) and more alcohol than you could shake a stick at. There was also a bucking bronco which I failed to have a go at (I've done it before and I don't remember lasting very long) and lots of lovely people. The trouble was, the dance floor was – well, basically, the lawn – and unfortunately after the hog roast (scrumptious) it started to rain. The copious supply of booze was a good decision then, because it caused us not to notice the relentless drizzle, and so we danced in the rain. Very strangely, we were liberated and we just didn't care how wet we became. And there were fireworks. It was a great night.

I went to a Tai Chi class tonight. I thought it would be easy – just a bit of standing around on one leg and waving one's arms in the air. Not so – it's incredibly complicated and it's meant to be that way. Apparently, the method is to focus one's mind so closely on the movements of the body that one has no time to think about going to Tesco, or mopping up the flooded balcony, or writing a process document for the HR department (all things I have on my agenda right now). It's a bit like meditation in a way, but it hurts a bit more. I enjoyed it and can't wait for next week. The only problem was, this was a session on offer at work in Northampton which made me late getting home from work. Nothing wrong with that, although I had complaints from the stray cat because I'd locked the catflap and he was waiting for me to come home.

Now, let's think about my next posting. I don't want to write about myself again – all this gossipy news isn't so good for the average content of this site. No, I think I might write about the French Revolution (although I should do that today really, it being Bastille Day – allons enfants de la patrie!) or I might write about how this government is an absolute disgrace. What I won't write about is how everyone is going around excusing Michael Jackson for being a mad monster-zombie by saying that he was 'such a talented musician'. That's like saying Ian Huntley was 'such a good caretaker'. Everything is relative.

The Power of the Voodoo

Well, now I know how David Dimbleby feels. On Sunday, despite it being one of my only (very) few free days, I was 'working' on behalf of the Studio in as much as I was hosting an event at our local arts & media centre – The Broadway. It was part of the ScreenLit Festival and the event was meant to show the audience how sometimes, the finished product that we see on the screen is not the piece that the writer originally intended to create. It's true (as any writer will know), so much of what ends up in front of the viewing public started its life as a conception of something very, very different. So, we showed two short films and played an episode from a BBC Radio4 drama series, and then I chaired a panel talking to the writers so that they could explain to the audience how their ideas were originally conceived.

I had a set of questions that I'd previously scripted – the kind of thing that gave the panel the opportunity to spell out where they were first coming from, and why, and then I threw it open as a Q&A session for the paying public to find out a little more. It was a great exercise in tact, diplomacy, and skilful helmsmanship because I wanted to give each of the three writers the chance to share their views and experiences with the audience, but I also needed to ensure that the questioners in their seats felt they were getting a fair and balanced crack of the whip too. It was all huge fun and I enjoyed myself enormously. I think that I'm cut out for such things – too bad that I've only realized it now, in the twilight of my years...

Actually, those years are going to be shortened even further if I don't do something about my eating habits. I haven't eaten a full meal in a whole week. I keep my body going on fruit, salads, nuts, and the occasional bacon sandwich. The trouble is, I never seem to have time to cook anything that would be recognized as a meal and, although I have a freezer that is crammed with earthly delights, I never seem to have anything suitable that is available (or defrosted) to cook. I don't think this can be good for me. Moreover, the fact that alcohol and cigarettes are always readily available in my small, city-centre apartment means that I too often reach for those instead of reaching for the griddle pan. It would be fairly simple, I presume, to go out somewhere to eat, and at least I wouldn't have to load the dishwasher afterwards – but I never seem to have the time.

So tonight, when I should have been out sailing (but it was cancelled), I have put a potato and a piece of chicken (that I miraculously remembered to defrost this morning) into the oven. I now sit in anticipation of these aforesaid two items transforming themselves into a meal. It has required an enormous amount of effort just to get this far, and I'm half-tempted to let them stay in the oven and burn themselves to a cinder simply because the effort of getting up from the table and retrieving the said items seems almost too great to sustain. But I won't do that, because the memory of my distended belly as I grew up in poverty and starvation in the backstreets of Naples is too vivid for me to do anything so wicked as to waste food. So, soon I shall be tucking into a delightful meal that I intend to call 'Potato and Chicken' and I might even end with an indulgent square of Turkish Delight (given to me by my sister who recently received a luxury food hamper but passed on all the things she didn't like to me).

Then, with my belly full of food and awash with a delicious Rioja that I've just opened (sadly, the bottle is already looking a little empty), I might recline on the sofa and watch 'Question Time' on the television. It's chaired by the urbane and eminently controlled David Dimbleby, of course. The man who stole my job, of course. Hmm, do I have time to make a voodoo doll, I wonder?

Hello Again!

If I have any readers left (which is unlikely, after such a long absence) then I apologize for keeping you waiting for news of my Italian trip and other events. I've been having a fabulous time recently – although Great Aunt Dolores disgraced herself as soon as she arrived at the airport in Milano by failing to declare the three litres of brandy that she'd hidden in her over-sized wellingtons. Never mind, we still made it to Lake Garda.

What a beautiful place! Gorgeous, dramatic scenery; charming picturesque villages huddled along the shore; delightfully friendly people; and all topped off with wonderfully sunny weather. We stayed one night in a small resort at the bottom end of the lake before taking the boat the following morning to Malcesine, our destination for the wedding. The trip was a serene and pleasant ferry ride, stopping at all the tiny nestled villages along the coast. A much better way to travel than by bus or train. And what a lovely wedding it was too – the ceremony took place on the roof-top terrace of Malcesine's small castle. The views were dazzling; the formalities were quaint and unstuffy; and the local dignitary conducting the event gave the bride and groom a whole bagful of useful presents, mementoes and trinkets as a reward. You wouldn't get that in the Registry Office on Shakespeare Street in Nottingham, that's for sure.

Malcesine was followed by Verona and then Venice. The latter was fascinating, as you'd expect, but in many ways unpleasant. It was certainly delightful to witness the famous traffic chaos on the Canal Grande and there's masses of fantastic art to look at – but the city itself is tacky, shabby, crumbling (I guess I could be missing the point here), smelly, overcrowded and ridiculously expensive. And the Venetians are so unbelievably rude! And don't talk to me about the Piazza San Marco! I'm still glad I've see it all though – I can't imagine that it can last much longer if global warming really does go the way those boffin chaps predict, so I nevertheless felt immensely honoured to have been there.

Next time I'll tell you about a literary event I hosted back here in Nottingham. I was David Dimbleby! I think I've been working in the wrong job for years! Oh, it was ever thus....

Buon Viaggio!

Well, I have been neglecting you recently - unfortunately I've been rather busy. As well as having to work for a living (how rude is that?) I've also been entertaining the Red Army in my apartment. They're a rowdy bunch - they don't eat much, but by god, do they drink! The man down at the bottle bank has given me a season ticket now. I had to throw them out in the end (the Red Army, that is, not the bottles).

Then, I spent the whole of Saturday stage-managing the fabulous 'Star Factor' show which was exhausting, but huge fun. Everyone enjoyed the most spectacular display of son et lumiere and some really enthusiastic singing (yes, there is a euphamism in there). Anyway, the evening was a huge success and we succeeded in raising almost £3,000 for cherry-tee.

Can't write more, dear reader, as I'm about to leave for Italy. We're going to my nephew's wedding which should be a most elegant and joyous occasion. Luckily, the entire family is gathering on the shores of Lake Garda which hopefully might put my Great Aunt Dolores (with whom I'm travelling) on slightly better behaviour than usual. She's always a bit quiet when presented with members of (as she calls it) the 'better side of the family'. I still don't think it will stop her from slipping a Mickey Finn to the priest and trying to look under his cassock. Her usual trick, when in the company of men of a religious bent.

Full report on my return. Arrivederci!

It's Our Fault, Of Course

What happened to the revolution? Only a couple of weeks ago the entire British public seemed to be baying for the blood of our dearly-beloved elected leaders. By the way that the audience of BBC's Question Time was behaving towards the spluttering apologists on the panel – with sneers and jibes and angry, derisive barracking – one could be forgiven for assuming that the mood in the country was one of such fury and such scepticism, that a proletarian uprising was only just around the corner.

But what happened instead? Well, who knows what happened? The mutiny collapsed just as quickly as it had inflated itself. Within days of the howling masses threatening to tear down the vaulted walls of St James's Palace, everything went silent. Now, two weeks later, do you hear the bellowing of the enraged mob when you stand by the photocopier? Do you witness the clamouring masses, armed with pitchforks, heatedly calling for justice in the saloon bar of your local pub? No, you don't. And why is this?

Well, this is because of a lot of things. It could be that we have been told that the recession may be over; it might be that we have anguished over the tragedy of the doomed Air France flight; perhaps it's because we have rejoiced in the somewhat ridiculous fact that our brave boys managed a spectacular win over a football team from a small town in Hampshire (England 6, Andover 0); or is it because we have basked in the early summer sunshine which has presented to us many a burnt shoulder or a reddened cleavage? Can any of these events have caused us to dilute our revolutionary fervour? Well, maybe – but there was something far, far worse that probably caused us to back gingerly away from the barricades with our tails between our legs. Something that frightened us into submission in a way that we foolishly hadn't seen coming.

Thinking that we could give old jowl-features Brown a good old-fashioned "British bloody nose", we accidentally (in our smugness) elected two BNP monsters to the European Parliament. Oops – we suddenly realized that we had inadvertently let Jack out of the Box; we'd let the Genie out of the bottle. Far from the us being merely subdued in our revolution by some good news (or even by Gordon's bullying of the Parliamentary Labour Party), the appalling realization that we had unwittingly unleashed the Bogeyman, stunned us to retreat rather speedily from the brink of the abyss.

The irony of this situation is that the very institution that we always thought would save us – our Great British Democracy – had failed us. We have been shocked rigid by this aberration of our shallow attempts to bring down the system, and like the defeated cur that we are, we have slunk back into our dismal lair and in our subservience, are pathetically licking our seeping wounds. How pleased Gordon must be.

Like A Circle In A Spiral

Oh dear, blogging seems to have gone out of the window for a while. There's just too much to do, and now that I'm a fully-paid-up member of the working classes, so little time in which to do it. I have an ever-growing 'to-do' list which fails dismally in its efforts to reduce itself. I've taken to adding things like "Empty the bins" or "Get drunk" or even "Go to bed", just so that there's at least something I can cross off in the mornings and so that I get at least some sense of achievement. But it's not very fulfilling doing that – it's just like my dear mother always used to tell me when I was at school: "If you cheat in your exams son, you're only cheating yourself." So I never did.

This reminds me of a time when my Great-Aunt Dolores (she who was run down by a lorry and yet survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone) made me spend a summer with her in Paris. She'd been in a disastrous run at the Comédie-Française playing the lead role in Racine's Phaedre. It was nothing short of vanity acting – she'd paid for the production herself so that she could take the title role – and believe me, she was no Sarah Bernhardt. Her performance was laughable really, and the only reason that nobody ever told her that was because she bribed everyone to say that she was good. She'd have been better off at Les Folies Bergères where at least people could have laughed at her without guilt.

However, as a result of her efforts, we were invited everywhere that summer. Dinners and soirées in all the best places in town. We met everyone from presidents to pop stars, from divas to whores, and it was an endless round of champagne, caviar and les huîtres. One day, when there was no matinée at La Comédie, I suggested to my great aunt that we should take a trip out to the Bois de Boulogne and enjoy some sunshine. "Don't be ridiculous, boy," she said as she slapped me round the head with her bone-handled parapluie, "we don't even have time to fart today, let alone piss around in some fancy park. Now get your skates on, we're expected for tea at La Contessa di Cenapesce's hotel in an hour. I'm trying to set you up with her daughter – ugly as fuck, but loaded. Though knowing you, you wimp, you'd probably prefer her footman. I'll never get you married off at this rate."

I was exhausted by the whole thing, I can tell you. I've never been much of a party-goer anyway, and this interminable circus of salons and suppers at Maxim's was taking its toll. To be honest, it was harder work than when Dolores and I walked the Pilgrim's Way to Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain. Even though she insisted that I crawl the last half a mile on my hands and knees while she beat me with a donkey stick ("Good for your soul, boy"), I still preferred that simple trip to having to dress up and be polite to the glitterati of Paris.

However, I had the last laugh that year. Oh yes - La Contessa di Cenapesce's daughter turned out to be her son, in drag! Was Great-Aunt Dolores's face red then!

Ah, Madame!

It's strange how life goes, don't you think? I have these very well-meaning intentions to behave myself and have early nights and not go out on the town etc., and then it all goes wrong when I receive more invitations than I can cope with. Tonight I went to this year's launch of the Nottingham Creative Business Awards. You will remember that two years ago we (The Nottingham Writers' Studio, that is) were runners-up n these awards, and we're still debating whether to enter the competition this year. Notwithstanding that, I decided to attend this evening's launch party – after all, there was lots of free booze and food in the glittering and palatial ballroom of Nottingham City's Council House.

But what of the morality of all this? While there are people living on the breadline in this city; people who struggle even to feed their children or to pay their rent or rates – we, in our privileged position of Arts Council grants and other nefarious funding; we, with our well-paid jobs and extravagant dividends from the shares that we hold – we don't even have to pay for our drinks when we turn up for parties like this. It does seem to me that there is something inequitable about this arrangement, but the shaming thing about it is that we forget that simple fact when someone offers to top up our glass, or force upon us another mini-quiche or stick of satay. I almost feel like a sleazy MP.

But then again, I pay my own rent; I pay my own Council Tax, electricity & gas charges. I pay for my own food, my own accountant's bills, AND I pay for my own charity donations (whether given in church or not). I don't expect – or receive – state reimbursement for any such items. So although I do sometimes stuff my snout in the trough, I pay my way too. I've always done that – unlike our present politicians who only seem to feather their own nests without any regard for public accountability.

What pisses me off is this: These people who are now resigning from their self-indulgent sinecures are bleating that these latest revelations are damaging their health and their families?? They should have thought of that before they began to stick their fat engorged tongues into the bowl of soured cream. The most annoying thing about all of this is that for the likes of Jacqui Smith (and the odious – truly loathsome – Patricia Hewitt), they'll skulk away from Parliament into some hugely remunerative directorship of an equally grasping and excessive sort.

Yep, I think it's time for a revolution – but please, just because of my little party tonight, don't put me in the tumbrils first!