A Brief Encounter

A strange thing happened to me once. I was on vacation from university and all my friends seemed either to be away or busy so I took myself down to the pub, alone but with a book. I remember it was Daphne du Maurier’s I’ll Never Be Young Again which – at the grand old age of twenty – I believed to be true. So, with a nice pint before me, I was immersed in reading when someone sat down at my table and asked me for a light. I looked up and saw a man of about thirty, dressed in a bizarre fashion, holding his cigarette expectantly.

I’d never seen anyone like this character before – imagine Russell Brand crossed with Johnny Depp, but without the good looks. His hair was unruly yet it shone with a kind of dark burning and his clothes – although reasonably typical of the fashions of that time – seemed flamboyant and vaguely theatrical. I offered him a light, which he took, and he inhaled deeply for a moment before letting out a stream of blue smoke as if he’d been toking on a joint.

“You see,” he said, and then paused to take another drag, “you see, the way I look at it is this: If you want to get on in life, you can always skip lunch but you should never skip breakfast.”

“Wise words my friend,” I replied, before returning to my book. He sat in silence for a while, smoking.

“Would you like to know what happens at the end of that book?” he asked.

“No thank you. I’m enjoying it and I’d like to find out for myself.” I was a little irritated that my peace had been disturbed.

He leaned back in his chair in a way that suggested both confidence and nonchalance. “I’ve never read it,” he said, “but even so, I can tell you what happens at the end.” He grabbed the book from my hand and closed it, laying it face-down on the table. I noticed to my dismay that one corner began to soak up a small splash of spilt beer. The man then leaned towards me and stared at me with eyes that resembled a wolf’s, and for an instant I thought I caught a glimpse of the frozen forests of the North in those cold and distant eyes. He took my hand and studied my palm.

“Something in your life has forced you to transform your personality,” he said. “The way you behave now is not your true character. Why is that? What massive trauma can have caused you to flip your personality on its head so?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said. “I haven’t changed anything about myself.”

“No?” He smiled and I saw a gold tooth flash like the beam of a lighthouse. “Then maybe I am mistaken.”

I knew he was not. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him. Something had made me change my disposition, and the spirit I displayed to the outside world was already far, far removed from my true nature. I was astounded that he could have known this. He began to stroke the inside of my palm, not with tenderness or affection, but with a sort of puzzlement as if he were searching for something.

“I can tell you this,” he said finally. “You have a long and tiresome journey to make before you arrive at your chosen destination. But worry not my friend, for you will reach your desired goal eventually and when you do, you will devote all of your energy to it and you will find the peace and harmony you deserve. Your ending – when it comes – will be a happy one.”

He grinned widely, planted a kiss on my forehead, and said: “Unlike that book you’re reading.”

And then he was gone.

TWTWTW

What a strange week it’s been. For a start, I’ve driven out to the airport three times – firstly on Christmas Eve to deliver my daughter’s boyfriend for his return to Paris; then on Boxing Day to deliver my daughter for her return to Paris; then today to deliver my other daughter for her flight to Geneva because she’s off skiing.

In the middle of all that was Christmas Day which I spent helping out at a Community Centre where we prepared and served Christmas lunch to a crowd of disadvantaged people (mainly pensioners). That was a very jolly affair, but quite hard work. We also tore around the area delivering hot meals to several elderly people who couldn’t actually make it down to the centre. Everyone was very pleased to see us and it was very refreshing – and humbling – to be making such a difference to people’s Christmas when otherwise they wouldn’t have received any visitors at all. A far better way of spending the day than just sitting bloated and drunk in front of the Queen’s Speech, stuffing down a last mince pie and the first of many brandies.

But now this. We end the holiday with Benazir Bhutto being assassinated and as I write, already incarcerated inside the family mausoleum. What this means for Pakistan is anybody’s guess, but predictions of unwarranted bloodshed and chaos aren’t entirely unfounded. Pervez Musharraf will no doubt claim that she was a victim of religious fanaticism, but none of this can ever hope to be justified in the name of god. It’s an old fashioned power struggle at hand here, I’m afraid. It was perhaps short-sighted of her to believe that she could return to her country and survive. Her father and both of her brothers all met violent deaths, so it seemed inevitable that she would suffer the same fate. Perhaps she thought that her glamour and fame would make her unassailable, but even she must have known that facing such vehement prejudice and hatred would render her totally exposed. Perhaps she thought Musharraf would protect her - however, could she have been that naive?

Yesterday was undeniably a sad day for democracy, but moreover it was a chilling and gloomy day for the world. The fact that some extremists believe that they can shoot and bomb their way towards achieving the election result they desire places the remainder of the democratic world in a dangerous situation.

There’s no negotiating with such people; there’s certainly no case for appeasing them.; and no matter how much Bush & Co strut around puffing out their chests declaring a continuing “war on terror”, it’s also impossible to crush them. So what are the options? It’s too ghastly to contemplate. We will no doubt see civil war in Pakistan before long and whereas we may not care much about what people on the other side of the world do to themselves, we need to bear in mind that Pakistan is a nuclear power. Whoever eventually wrests that terrible power by any means other than a democratic route will inevitably place the whole world in peril. Ms Bhutto may not have been the most skilful of politicians, and there may well have been some dubious and shady shenanigans during her previous years in power, but she wasn’t a terrorist. Her greatest wish was for democracy in her country, and now that wish has been shattered by evil and mindless barbarians using the simple but horrific "authority" of guns and explosives. Take note of the picture above - such scenes deceive us into thinking that everything in the world is just lovely. I wish it were so.

Happy New Year everyone?

We want the truth!

You will remember what I was saying the other day about not believing everything you read? Well, my daughter’s French boyfriend and I were discussing the issue of how many cheeses General de Gaulle said it would take to render a country ungovernable. We all know his famous quote “How can anyone govern a nation that has 246 different kinds of cheese?” or so we think we know. French Boyfriend and I couldn’t remember exactly how many cheeses were mentioned in this speech – I thought it was 462; French Boyfriend thought it was 673. But no, according to Google it was 246 although even that is disputed.

Wikepedia tells us that it might be 246, 256, or 265. What’s more, different quotes are attributed to this momentous pronouncement; and even different dates. Some sources place it in 1951, some in 1962; some say it begins: “How can anyone govern….” whereas others say: “Nobody can simply bring together a country that has 265 kinds of cheese” which I have to say sounds more plausible, even though the actual number of cheeses is at odds with most sources. Perhaps the problem is in the translation – maybe we should read the French version to find out. But my question is this: Why isn’t such an important speech accurately documented? Okay, so maybe a speech about cheeses isn’t quite as important as “Ich bin ein Berliner” – what a howler that was - or “I have a dream” (which might explain why Charles de Gaulle wasn’t shot), but surely we could expect some accuracy on this subject?

So, if we can’t believe Google or Wikipedia, what can we believe? Certainly not the internet which, in the same category as searching for de Gaulle’s quote, says that Britain has 700 varieties of cheese, which must be an absolutely blatant lie. I challenge you to name them. I only managed thirteen.

Another thing which annoys me (while we’re on the subject of Grumpy Old Men) is the ridiculous ritual of drinking Tequila. All that salt and lemon nonsense is so 1970s. Why can’t such things just be enjoyed for what they are? So I say: drink your Tequila naked; and eat your cheese with abandon.

A Turning Point

Hurrah! It’s the Winter Solstice! This is always my favourite day of the year and to celebrate, I plan to light a small fire on my balcony and then dance around it wearing nothing more than a strategically-placed feather and a bone through my nose. Oh, Happy Day! The nights will now get shorter; the dawn’s rosy fingers will begin to tickle me awake earlier and earlier. Summer is on its way.

I went to the Nottingham Creative Network’s Christmas bash last night which was held in an extraordinarily stark room inside the university. The room was painted completely white and there were no works of art adorning the walls. In one corner stood an eight-foot high Christmas tree entirely bare of any decoration – no baubles, no tinsel, no twinkling lights, no chocolate money, even no fairy! Nothing but the natural greenness of the pine needles. Quite an original idea and very attractive it was too.

The party was fun. A couple of people made Pecha Kucha presentations – the first, a talented (but mad) Polish photographer who told us that her best birthday present ever was a saxophone that she couldn’t play; the second, a jolly (but very talented) painter who revealed an unlikely fascination for Kylie Minogue. Very entertaining. Pecha Kucha is a presentation format where you get to describe yourself and your life to an audience using PowerPoint slides. The trick is that you may only use twenty slides, and that each slide must only be displayed for a maximum of twenty seconds. Therefore, your life is illustrated to a fascinated gathering within a total of six minutes and forty seconds. Another rule of the format is that as the presenter, you are forbidden from taking yourself too seriously. Sounds exactly like my sort of thing and I shall definitely be having a go next time. It’s a marvellous way to show off and at the same time, poke fun at yourself (before someone else does). The snag for me is this: Has my life been interesting enough to fill out even a meagre six minutes and forty seconds?

Who cares? I shall at least have a photograph of me dancing around my balcony fire to show them all. That’ll make ‘em laugh.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

There’s an argument currently raging about some women in Basra being killed by religious extremists for being “inappropriately dressed”. The supposed message here is that the city & region is already sliding into the grip of an Iraqi-style “Taliban” now that the vainglorious British have withdrawn. I suspect that this is partly a bit of fuzzy propaganda being put out to convince us that the British were a stabilising influence in the area, and that the Iraqis are all vicious loonies hell-bent on the suppression of women. Whilst it is true that many women have been unjustly killed in the area, there are probably many equally sinister reasons behind this, other than the seemingly convenient accusation of religious intolerance. Sorry to disappoint the Daily Mail readers amongst you, but the fact is that there are just some plain old-fashioned crimes against women being committed here.

If you look at the video of one of these incidents, you will see that some of the women appear to be appropriately dressed anyway, which suggests that – although horrible and inhuman as such acts are – there is something else going on here and that things are not as clear-cut as the press would have us believe. This is what I was talking about the other day – who can we believe when events such as this are reported? The British forces were never “in control” of the region anyway; they just sat inside their military camps and allowed the killing to continue outside. Whenever they did venture forth, which again was probably only for the British Government’s propaganda interests, the acute danger they were placed in was a hideous signal of the hatred the local people felt towards them. Was this a valid way to waste the precious lives of some very brave and beautiful young men and women?

No, by creating the impression that the British forces were stemming the tide of anarchy during their presence, certain areas of the press are hoodwinking us. This Government doesn’t give a damn about the suppression of women or about any other civil misdemeanour that may go on in Iraq; it cares only about excusing its horrendous actions in the country, and about masking its catastrophic waste of colossal sums of money and the even more pitiable squandering of dozens and dozens of young British lives.

Who to believe in this matter? Well, remember the David Kelly affair? I rest my case.

Old dogs, new tricks

My weekend has been both pleasant and unpleasant. Whilst I’m often fond of thinking that I’m a good person, and I try to moderate my behaviour so that I can be one, I sometimes fail. On Friday night I did something so naughty that I can’t even report it on a family show like this, but needless to say I don’t feel very proud of myself. Why do I do these things?

Well, it’s partly because I’m still readjusting to my new life. It was exactly one year ago today that I moved out of the stable setting I’d been occupying for so many years, and into my new existence as a single man in this city apartment. It seems like only yesterday that this happened, and back then I couldn’t have predicted that I’d still be here twelve months later, nor that I’d be able to recount the plethora of bizarre antics that I’ve been involved in over the year. But enough is enough - twelve months is quite adequate as a readjustment period, and the excuses now have to end.

So, now I am embarking on a new life. A life of sobriety, propriety, decorum and restraint. I shall closely study my Buddhism books; I shall remember to smile nicely at everyone I meet; I shall be kind to animals, old ladies and children; and I shall finish my novel.

[Hang on, you’ll have to excuse me – I just have to open another bottle of wine; back in a moment]

Now, [slurp] where was I? Oh yes, this eBay business. I know the site has been going for years but I’ve never used it before, being a bit of a Luddite in such matters. Anyway, I decided to sell something recently so I duly set up my account and posted details of my item for sale. Things were going well - with a few reasonable bids - until it was time for the auction to close. Imagine my delight to receive an email from eBay saying “Congratulations! You have sold your item – please invoice the bidder.” The price I had been offered was twice what I was expecting, so I was very happy indeed. Then, minutes later, I received another email from eBay informing me that the bidder was a fraudster and that my item had been removed from the list while they were “now restoring the account to its owner”.

I was confused. So I wrote to eBay to complain and guess what? I received a very detailed, extremely courteous and informative personal response explaining exactly what had happened and how eBay had taken the necessary steps to protect me. I’m impressed – customer service like this is hard to come by indeed, so well done to all you hidden gnomes on eBay and keep up the good work. Whoever is in charge of its Customer Service Department should hot-foot it down to BT and show them how it’s done.

Oh no, don’t get me started on BT. This is supposed to be my new life, where everything is all sweetness and light….. I’ll keep you posted.

By the way – having finally got rid of the stray cat in my life, I now have Boo-Boo the Bear Cub to deal with. Will I ever learn?

Nation Shall Speak Unto Nation

There’s a new website that’s been set up which tries to pull together items from a range of verifiable bloggers across the world and create a sort of news feature from them. This kind of thing has been done before, but this is a new initiative in as much as the bloggers have all been sourced and vetted by qualified journalists before they are allowed to submit. The whole thing is backed and hosted by the mighty France24 TV station (the equivalent of BBC News24).

It’s quite serious stuff (the strapline is “Your Eyes On The Globe”) and aims to take contributions from ordinary people who live inside the areas from where the journalism itself can’t always be trusted. For example, there was an interesting piece yesterday from a girl in Cuba, and today from someone in Turkmenistan.

I can see the value in this – serious journalists are currently faced with a dichotomy: the internet has posed a risk to their profession in that more and more people are relying on ‘facts’ they can read there; but the vast majority of this information is often unverified and could just as well be propaganda from unknown sources. At the same time, the general public is losing trust in journalism itself which means that in reality, we have a problem in believing anything we read. This new website seems like a serious attempt to stem this tide – young journalists with integrity and also with international connections have trawled the world for the reliable voices of real people and brought them together under a trusted umbrella. Check it out – the website is http://observers.france24.com/en (this takes you to the English version – the journalists who put it together are all bi-lingual so there is a French version too).

In the meantime, here’s another strange thing: Rarely can the British public be relied on to vote on anything in the right way, but last Sunday’s vote for BBC Sports Personality of the Year seems to have worked for once. Joe Calzaghe won – deservedly, because he has taken on some of the world’s best and emerged better and stronger and still retained his integrity. I was surprised (but pleased) about this because I had fully expected the populist vote to follow the usual press hysteria and vote for Lewis Hamilton (don’t get me wrong, Lewis is a high achiever too, but I so hate foregone conclusions), just as they did a few years ago when they mindlessly voted for that Beckham fella in preference to Ellen McArthur who had shown far more grit and personality battling against the southern oceans than he ever does flouncing around on a football pitch.

Mind you, I can talk. On Sunday I voted for James Toseland, World Superbike Champion, simply because he was the prettiest boy amongst the list and he plays lovely piano too!

I'll Be Damned

Now it is time for me to begin my annual rant about Christmas. I really hate this time of year but, as I’ve nothing original to say, I shouldn’t go on about it I suppose. I almost felt the need to lie down and meditate the other day, in the middle of Tesco (by the way, that’s another pet hate of mine – how many people say Tesco’s instead of Tesco? After all, people don’t say Adsa’s; they say Asda. Sainsbury’s is allowed, in case you are wondering, because it uses an apostrophe). But back to my near panic attack on Sunday.

Shelves stocked with neatly-packaged Stilton cheeses, speciality pork pies and those hideously expensive “festive” pre-cooked nibbles without which our Yuletide tables will be pathetically bare – it’s all vomit inducing stuff as far as I’m concerned. Kerry Katona has a lot to answer for, so she does, although I suppose it’s not all her fault really – the cheesy and charmless scripts given to her by the barrel-of-laughs writers at Iceland are supposed to make us think of her as the perfect mum and we're meant to want to be like her too. The only thing these advertisements do for me is to leave me cold (appropriately enough).

I know that the wheels of commerce have to turn, and I know that this once-a-year opportunity to exploit the public has to be exploited itself, but really – who apart from the shareholders of our mega-retailers actually enjoys this festival of blackmailed-induced indulgence? For blackmail it is – we are forced to believe that unless we deck out our homes in tinsel and gold; overload our groaning tables with crispy duck parcels, mini hot-dogs, and mini chocolate cups; and set the log fire a-blazing, then we are failures. As long as we can pile high our foil-wrapped parcels under the tree (sprayed, of course, with flame-retardant chemicals and tastefully prepared in this year’s fashion colour – last year, black was the new green I believe), then all will be well with the world.

And don't get me started on the annual Office Christmas Dinner with its badly-cooked food (selected from a disappointingly low-choice menu as long ago as October), its usual display of the inappropriate groping of young Chantelle from Despatch by some spotty youth from Sales, and it's opportunity to pretend that you always really liked "dragon-features Mary" from Accounts. Alice, pass the sick bag!

There. Rant over for another year. I thank you.

Take That!

The day I saw Ingrid Bergman in Hunter’s “Waters of the Moon” turned out to be memorable indeed. Now I’m no Stage Door Johnny, but after the play I was wandering past the side door of the Theatre Royal when she appeared, fur-clad, about to alight into her limousine. She stopped when she saw me – I was dressed as one of the Three Musketeers at the time (don’t ask me which one) and thereby attracted her attention. Being Swedish by birth, she offered me a pickled herring. I of course refused this and informed her that being a vegan, anything other than a fried radish would be anathema to me. This appeared to disconcert the Hollywood beauty – but after a brief moment she threw back her still beautiful head and roared a guttural laugh that seemed to echo back to the pine forests of the frozen north.

In another moment, she was gone and I headed off in the opposite direction. I’d only been walking for about five minutes when I encountered a man dressed – incredulously – as Cardinal Richelieu. I presumed he was on his way home from a fancy dress party (whereas I often dressed like this when I’d run out of clean underwear). This was too good an opportunity to miss. Here was my arch-rival, the evil and cunning accomplice of the evil and cunning King Louis.

I challenged him to a duel and, drawing my sword, pranced around him swishing and stabbing at his flowing crimson robes. He was clearly very alarmed and began staggering away from me whilst at the same time (inexplicably) covering his ears. Perhaps he thought I would chop one of them off. Unfortunately, as he turned to escape, he tripped on a dodgy paving stone and landed arse over tit in a nearby flower bed. It was at this point that the police car drove by – well, it didn’t exactly drive by; it stopped. I was arrested on suspicion of affray, of perpetrating ABH, and of carrying an offensive weapon (the last bit wasn’t exactly fair, I told them, especially if they’d seen what I’d seen revealed underneath the cardinal’s skirts as he fell – now that was offensive). I spent the night in the cells before they decided not to press charges. But they did confiscate my (plastic) sword and break the feather in my hat. Outrageous.

I should have accepted the pickled herring.

When The Sleeper Awakes

The only thing standing in the way of me and success is a lack of energy. And I’m exhausted. I went to a nice party last night at Bluu, hosted jointly by Dance4 and CCAN (Centre for Contemporary Arts in Nottingham). There were all sorts of people there including the ubiquitous Michael Pinchbeck, renaissance man, who only last week was himself a human art installation (he sat for two hours on a bench in the foyer of Broadway with a plaque saying “Come sit with me for a while, and remember” – something worthy of a Turner Prize I should say). However, last night the pain in my ribs was growing; made worse earlier in the day I suppose by hauling a heavy briefcase to Birmingham and back. The pain was making me feel uncomfortable so after a few drinks, I left the party. I decided to risk everything by taking some rather dangerous painkillers – despite imbibing of the aforesaid alcohol – and went to bed early.

I don’t think I’ve ever slept for so long in one stretch. And yet, far from feeling refreshed, I feel sluggish and drained this morning. I had difficulty waking up in the first place, and lifting my wretched body out of bed was like pulling a wooden spoon from a pan of solidified porridge. I’ve had to cancel a meeting I had this morning, and am now sitting here with barely enough energy to press the keys on my laptop. And I’m still in pain.

On the brighter side, I’ve been invited to write an article for an on-line magazine, so at least I have another opportunity to get my name out there into the big world of letters. Someone told me yesterday that my surname is “posh”. Pilgrim? Posh? I hardly think so – he who would valiant be and all that maybe, but not posh. I have a friend whose surname is Cremieu-Alcan and another called Urquhart – they are posh names indeed – but when my by-line appears above my article I doubt if people will assume that I’d been born with anything but a plastic spoon in my mouth. However, I like my name: Richard Charles Pilgrim – it tells you exactly who I am. A knob perhaps, but not a nob (and there is a difference).

Snatched

If you don’t ask, you don’t get – that’s a maxim by which I try to live these days. As an adage, it’s advice you hear all the time, but it’s not always that easy to follow is it? Sometimes - by asking directly for what you want - you risk getting a slap in the face with a wet kipper, but in my view that’s still better than being left guessing about whether the answer to your question would have been 'yes' or 'no'. So these days I don’t bother with any pussyfooting – I just come out with it and ask for what I want on the premise that if I ask often enough, I may just get it eventually.

Trouble is, the answer is invariably negative. I must be asking the wrong people I suppose but that’s always been my problem – the wrong people are (in my opinion) always the right people. I guess the real 'right' people just don’t interest me, unless we’re talking politics (which one should never do of course).

I’m rambling on because I’ve broken a rib and the pain is sending me delirious. I did it yesterday when I was out sailing in ferocious winds. We capsized badly, broke the mast, and I was thrown into the freezing water with such force that I caught my ribcage on the gunwale as I went. The whole episode was a bit crazy because we had to wait about thirty minutes before the rescue boat arrived (we no longer had means of propulsion, having no mast), during which time the boat was almost completely under water (and we with it- we'd climbed back in at this point). When I was finally transferred to the rescue boat I was trying to throw a line back to the stricken boat but my crewmate dropped it, whereupon it snaked into the water and immediately became wrapped around our propeller causing our engine to stop. So, now the rescue boat had no means of propulsion either and we were all adrift in a 40 mph wind, heading for the weir. Dangling by my toes from the back of the boat, I managed to untangle the rope from the propeller, re-start the engine, and we were on our way to safety. Nothing to write home about I know, though my ribcage is still killing me and I can barely sit up.

It’s a good job, after all, that I’m not in the throes of some passionate affair. Thrashing around in bed with someone would no doubt put unnecessary pressure on my thoracic region and presumably turn pleasure into pain. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?

Bring on the Solstice

Well, it seems I’ve finally shaken off the stray cat. I locked the cat-flap and dispensed with the milk-saucer over a week ago and there’s been no sign of him since. Usually, taking this action has no affect because he normally comes banging at the flap with his paw and mewing loudly, but this time he seems to have taken the hint. Like all stray cats he’s probably found someone else to take him in and right now he’s no doubt curled up on a sofa somewhere in this town, purring. I hope so anyway – I wouldn’t like to think of him squashed under a bus somewhere.

I’ve found someone who might want to turn my hypothesis about Rumpelstiltskin into a play – if I write the script. You may remember that I wrote here about this fairy tale some time ago; about how I view Rumpelstiltskin as the only one in the story who behaves with any honour, surrounded as he is by a cast of duplicitous, scheming, selfish and weak characters. There’s a guy I know who runs a theatre production company and he has been thinking for some time about staging something in which we don’t cheer when Rumpelstiltskin loses, but where we see him as the maligned hero instead. This guy has suggested that we collaborate on putting something together from a story I wrote some time ago called ‘The Tattoo’. My story is an allegorical version of the fable set in Nottingham’s clubland, where the Rumpelstiltskin character is portrayed as a guileless youth called ‘Young Tony’; the Queen as a chavvy, selfish tart; and the King as a ruthless drugs baron. It could work.

I’m getting quite excited about things now, although not for the reason that many people will be getting excited. Today is the 1st of December and of course, it’s the day the first chocolate of the Advent Calendar gets eaten (I don’t have one, by the way). This simple ceremony will inevitably instil excitement in millions of people throughout the land as they build towards the festival held here on 25th December. I hate this time of year, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’m a person who believes in non-violence, I’d rip the very head off the next person to utter that most ubiquitous and banal of enquiries: “Are you ready for Christmas?”

Happy Days

It’s my parents’ 61st Wedding Anniversary today. That’s them in the picture, on their wedding day. Last year, on the Diamond Anniversary, they were pleased to receive a hand-written (if brief) note from The Queen congratulating them on the occasion. I wonder if my parents remembered to return the gesture this year as I appear to have noticed a brief mention in the press that Her Madge & hubby celebrated a similar milestone this month.

I only managed to make it to a meagre 27 years – a mere blink of a cat’s eye in comparison, but still a lot longer than the standard marriage in Soapland. I love soap weddings (not that I watch TV of course, unless it’s the fabulously-acted and immaculately-written Hollyoaks). What always makes me laugh about soap weddings is the way that ordinary people, who usually demonstrate such poverty that they can barely afford a bottle of Lucozade from the Mini-Mart, can suddenly deck themselves out in the finest millinery and haute-couture when called upon to witness a pair of scallies getting hitched down at the local church/registry office/social security office. Incredible.

But more of this later – for now, I have to go. I need to check my bank account for secret donations. Hopefully, I’ll have received one.

What a whopper!

I’ve been working very hard this week (paid work, that is) yet still I don’t feel very satisfied or fulfilled. I’m still ill with this wretched cold that I’ve not been able to shake off – I must be seriously run down for it to have lingered so long. I can’t believe that one human body can produce so much mucus – where does it come from?

You know what I hate? Well, lots of things really, but what I hate mostly (apart from slow walkers) are liars. Apparently, the TV Licensing Authority tells lies. I’ve seen its TV commercials where Paul Merton’s sad leather sofa kicks out the titanium shredder and informs us that its database knows “every address where there isn’t a TV licence.” This must be rubbish. I currently rent my apartment and I suspected that my landlord had paid the TV licence for this address. But to be sure, I rang the authority and asked them to check.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, “but we can’t tell you whether there is a licence for that address. We can only tell you when there isn’t.”

“But isn’t that the same thing?” I asked. “And surely, if there isn’t a licence, then you must be able to tell me that much?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “My advice to you is to buy a licence to make sure.”

“But that might mean that this address then has two licences,” I protested.

“Yes, it might,” he said.

What a scam. As it happens, I contacted my landlord (who lives in America) and it transpires that there is indeed a licence for this property, and that he has paid for it. So this is just daylight robbery on behalf of the authority. Paul Merton is (apparently) being made to tell lies on its behalf. Well, if Paul Merton isn’t lying, then the boy on the telephone is. So which is it to be? I’m happy that I’m not breaking the law (it wouldn’t be worth it anyway; not for the rubbish that is shown on TV these days – see previous blog), but someone is. If it’s the boy on the phone then we’ll forgive him because he’s only trying to earn a living. But if it’s the TV Licensing Authority which is lying, then shame on the bosses there. Who is that, do you think? Is it Gordon Brown? Well, there’s a surprise!

The Chattering Classes

The recently-demised writer and broadcaster Alan Coren once said: "Television is more interesting than people. If it were not, we should have people standing in the corner of our rooms."

I had a great respect for Coren – he was witty and erudite and was possessed of a dazzling intellect, but I have to disagree with his treatise on television. How can the endless round of ‘celebrity’ reality shows, cookery/gardening/housebuying ‘documentaries’, expositions of chavvy families behaving badly, or educationally subnormal victims being whipped into a fight by a supposedly ‘sensitive’ interviewers be more entertaining than holding a lively conversation with one’s friends?

We were promised, when the explosion of channels took place a few years ago (I’m old enough to remember when there were only two), that we would be offered more choice, more control. Not so. I wanted to watch something the other night whilst doing my ironing (yes, my life is so exciting I know) and the choice I had was A Place In The Sun: Home or Away; Katie & Peter Unleashed (groan!); Gardeners’ World Special; and Are You Smarter Than a 10 Year Old? (not if you watch crap like this, you’re not). Anything else on the digital channels is either a repeat, or worse still - a repeat of a repeat.

I’m not the first person to say that what we need on television is more good thought-provoking drama. But maybe what we need more than that, is less television all round. We need more people standing in the corners of rooms engaging in energetic conversation. I think I might invite the Oxford Union Debating Society to hold its next event in my living room and I’ll serve sherry and Madeleine cakes as well. I think I might also take an axe to my TV whilst I still have the brain cells to use one.

Look Out!

I’m worried. We are being threatened and no, it’s not the Iranians or the Ruskies or even the Croatian football team that could be endangering our Nation’s very existence. It’s the humble jellyfish. Well actually, there’s nothing humble about them at all from what I read - they’re evil killers. I saw this headline in the newspaper:

“More than 100,000 salmon worth over £1m have been killed in a freak jellyfish attack.”

The vast invasion happened off the County Antrim coast in Northern Ireland and apparently, the ferocious attack lasted for nearly seven hours with the jellyfish covering a sea area of up to 10 square miles and 35ft deep.

Why would they do this? Had someone alerted the Jellyfish President that salmon are really the spawn of the devil and therefore must all die like infidels? Did someone in the Council of United Jellyfish decide that the continued existence of the salmon is a threat to the values and way of life of all marine invertebrates, and that they must therefore be eradicated before that way of life is undermined? Well, what I'd like to ask is this: What about the values and way of life of our own dear Sovereign Queen? For yes it is true - the newspaper article referred to the fact the Queen had salmon on her 80th birthday, cooked by a top Irish chef. There's the nub of it - do these jellyfish want to deprive an old lady of her dinner?

My real concern, of course, is that they won’t stop there. Buoyed up by their recent successes against the salmon off the Irish coast, what’s to stop these jellyfish fellahs from thinking that they can now advance further and attack us too? These billions of creatures (known curiously enough as ‘Mauve Stingers’ – which sounds a bit like a 1960s pop group if you ask me), with their billions of evil brains, might well have their collective eye on our very own treasured and sceptred Isle itself.

We must prepare ourselves. We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!

Failing that, we could just nuke them.

A Royal Visit

I was reminiscing recently about the day in 1974 when my family received a visit from the deposed Empress of Austria. Zita had been the wife of Karl, the last Emperor to reign over the vast Hapsburg empire of Austria-Hungary, and had been living in exile since the end of the First World War.

We were staying at my Uncle Jasper’s villa in Switzerland at the time. The morning had been spent pursuing the usual pleasures – smoking faux cannabis through the ornamental hookah just to annoy Aunt Charlotte; skinny-dipping in the lake with the German girls staying next door; teasing Xavier, the muscled young gardener who (as usual) was working stripped to the waist.

After lunch we were all lounging around on the terrace as was our habit, when one of us noticed a rather quaint little steamer crossing the lake. It was clearly making its way towards our landing stage at the foot of the lawn and intrigued, we all stood up to see who might be on board. The boat slowed, pulled alongside the stage and a gangplank was lowered. First ashore was a tall man wearing the uniform of an admiral of the Prussian navy, followed by a rather stout lady in a pin-striped suit and brogues. They stood to attention without seeming to acknowledge the rather bemused party of onlookers that stood on the terrace above.

Finally, two elderly ladies emerged from the cabin and began to make their way onto the lawn. One was dressed in a kind of ball gown made from lilac chiffon; the other was all in black – rather in the style of a nun – with a black lace veil and a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. Both ladies wore pearl necklaces. They were followed by a bald-headed man in a dark suit. They all paused at the foot of the gangplank and looked up at us expectantly. Uncle Jasper put down the air rifle that he’d been shooting empty bourbon bottles with, and strode off across the lawn to greet them.

He returned with the party and we all made room for them at the table. None of their party, I noticed, sat down until the lady in black was seated herself. In faultless French, the Prussian Admiral introduced the lady in black as Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Zita of Austro-Hungaria. I was all for retorting “Yes, and I’m the Emperor Napolean and this is my sister the Duchess of Windsor", but for some reason Uncle Jasper seemed to be taking these weird people seriously and if anything, was behaving somewhat deferentially towards the old trout. He called Lola (his maid) and asked her to prepare some tea for us all. Because there were so many of us, she had to get the (now shirted) young gardener to help her, but the tea duly arrived complete with a tray of assorted dainty cakes. I remember the conversation was polite and banal – we talked of the weather and of the beauty of the lake. They were all quite chatty, except for the woman in the brogues who said nothing.

After a while the Empress spotted the air rifle propped up against a wall. She asked my uncle if she could have a go and rather nervously, he agreed. Without moving from her chair she took the rifle, loaded it herself, and fired at the bottles on the far wall. As the first bourbon bottle exploded in a very satisfactory shower of tinkling crystal, she laughed. ‘How very strange,’ she said in perfect English. ‘I was a member of the House of Bourbon before I was married. What a coincidence, eh?’ And she winked at me. She went on to destroy the remaining four bottles without wasting a shot.

Eventually this bizarre little party prepared to leave. The Admiral thanked us for our hospitality, the Empress was helped to her feet (she managed to stand on the tail of Aunt Charlotte’s red setter in the process; the sleeping dog yelping so loudly that the sound echoed across the lake), and they all floated silently across the lawn and down to the landing-stage.

Very soon, with a hoot of its siren, the tiny boat had gone and there was only a whisper of black smoke staining the white-blue sky to remind us that we hadn’t actually imagined the whole episode. A bewildering little incident indeed.

Sore Nose

Not much to write about at the moment because I’ve been ill all week AND I’ve been looking after the stray cat (nobody looks after me, I notice!). I did manage to drug myself up enough to make it out to dinner on Tuesday – I really didn’t feel like it but a good friend of mine is leaving Nottingham and it was his farewell dinner, so I greatly wanted to make it. The reason he’s leaving Nottingham is because - after 3 years of training - he’s recently qualified as a nurse but (surprise, surprise) cannot get a job here in Nottingham. This is because our pernicious Government has created an NHS where there are now circa 3.5 million managers (each with their own laptop and Blackberry), but only about 7 nurses and 4 doctors to look after the whole country. It’s a scandal and, even though she was eventually sacked (hurrah hurrah!), is all the fault of Patricia Hewitt. But don’t get me started on that.

In the meantime, my friend has had to move to London to find work (where presumably there are a few more posts available in case an MP or top civil servant should fall ill) and so we went out to dinner to celebrate his departure. I chose a dish containing whole killer chillies in the hope that I could blast the fever from my poor wracked body, but I still have it.

Then last night I had to dose myself with drugs again and drag myself out of bed to attend the reading of a short story that I’d written. It was an evening of prose and poetry organized by the Studio and we even hired an actress to do some of the reading. My story was a kind of monologue as if spoken by a woman nearing retirement, so it was better that I didn’t read it (although some people might say that I’m nothing more than an old woman who should be retired anyway). It was a fascinating process actually, to hear my words spoken by someone else. The actress, Jemma Walker (who came all the way from London for the event!) was terrific and chose to put a slightly different spin on the character from the one I had envisaged when I wrote it. I hugely enjoyed the fact that someone else can place another interpretation upon a character that I had invented. Maybe I should write a play next? Anyway, the audience appeared to enjoy it too.

And so, this morning I had to force myself out of bed early because I also have a living to earn. I can’t say it was easy as my head feels like a two-week old melon that’s been fired at by a double-barrelled shotgun, and my throat seems to have been lined with rotating razor blades which are activated each time I swallow or cough. If I don’t get rid of this damned virus soon, I’ll starve to death for lack of earned income. Now then, what do they say about starving a fever? I may have no choice of course, although it may be that you should feed a fever and starve a cold perhaps? I can’t bloody well remember.

Up and Down

I’ve had a real roller-coaster of a weekend. Or maybe you’d call it a curate’s egg of a weekend. There were definitely some good parts. I spent a really sweet evening in Birmingham on Friday, having dinner with some old friends. Not as riotous as previous evenings maybe (I caught the late train back to Nottingham), but very enjoyable nonetheless.

On Saturday I had lunch with my both of my daughters and their mother – it’s a rare occasion when all the girls are in Nottingham at the same time – and that was a very jolly occasion with champagne and sparkling Shiraz (not bad, but in my view a waste of a good Shiraz really). Then on Saturday evening I had dinner with some business partners which was extremely pleasant and fairly productive too - it's good to get back on track with pushing the business forward and I'm lucky that my business partners are also nice friends. On Sunday it was back to my old home for lunch with the girls before taking Sophie out to the airport for her return to Paris. Sad to see her go yes, but it's gratifying that she is returning to her exciting job there. Imogen then returned to London - just as sad to see her go - where she has a demanding job in the City to keep her busy. Old Pa is left behind feeling bewildered.

However, all of the weekend's many pleasures were irritatingly laced with the thread of an intermittent presence by the Stray Cat who (at the same time) both pleases me yet causes me grief. I have to get rid of him somehow, but I don’t think these creatures take any notice of rational human beings do they? No matter how often I shoo him away, he just keeps turning up when he's least expected and mews pitifully, expecting attention. Maybe I should move house?

Oh, and now I'm ill as well. I'm sure it's Lassa Fever or something equally fatal. This might be the last blog I ever write...... Goodbye, cruel world.

Tee hee!

I witnessed a rather amusing incident the other night. I was out on the town in Southampton, drinking with my daughter and some of her friends – nothing too extreme, just a few glasses of wine and a lively chat. The bar we were drinking in was about to close so I volunteered to nip across the road to find out if the bar there was staying open longer. Unfortunately, upon approaching the Crombie-clad doorman, I tripped on a dodgy pavement and slightly stumbled. Honestly guv, I wasn’t drunk (well, not much); it was a genuine stumble.

“You can’t come in here, you’re too drunk mate.”

“No I’m not. It was the pavement – look.”

“And I say you’re too drunk – go home.” He sounded menacing now. The more I protested, the more aggressive he became.

Luckily, I was then joined by my daughter and her friends. I told them what had happened. One of the party (female) then poked the doorman in his (rather full) belly and said: “What criteria are you using to make this judgement? Are you trained in alcohol assessment?” He demurred that he was not. “So, you are not qualified to make valued judgements of this sort?” she asserted.

“He seems drunk to me,” the doorman said, somewhat defensively.

“Have you been cleared for this sort of thing?” she asked, staring him directly in the eye. “Have you been checked?” He looked rather confused by this but admitted that no, he hadn’t been checked. My Defence Council then went for the jugular. “Which prisons have you been in?” she asked.

This rather took him aback, but he began to list the specific establishments of Her Majesty that he’d been a temporary resident of. “But I’m clean now,” he said meekly. “I’ve been clean for three years.”

“Hmm,” she said, still staring at him. “I think you’d better let us in, don’t you? All of us.”

“Of course, of course.” He opened the door for us and waved us in. “Have a nice evening.”

So you see, it is possible to prick the aggression of these people, and it was so funny to see that man turn from a confident bully into a humble confessor. How very strange night life can be sometimes.

Sleep

No time for a proper blog today – even if I had anything interesting to say – because I’m off to Birmingham to do some real work and then I’m driving to Southampton for my daughter’s graduation ceremony. Should be good and at least the weather looks promising. In fact this weather is remarkable, don’t you think? It’s November and we’re still sitting outside the Broadway in the evenings (well, not right now of course). The Government’s anti-smoking campaign doesn’t seem to have worked so far.

At least I’ve finally finished my piece that is going to be read by an actor at next week’s Writing Showcase evening. We’re holding a session in a local bookshop where members of the Writers’ Studio will have some work read out by an actor to a paying audience – all a bit daunting if the audience don’t like it! We’ve organized some free wine to try to get them to be more receptive, so hopefully it will go without a hitch.

I’m rather tired this morning. I can’t sleep properly these days, even on nights when I don’t get disturbed by that damned cat. I think I’ve lost the habit. Maybe I ought to take more whisky with the cocoa. Hic!

Black Dog Day

A friend of mine says that there is a difference between integrity and morality. Well of course there is; the English dictionary gives them different meanings for a start. So, for example, it’s a lack of integrity that causes someone to arrange to meet a friend and then to forget to arrive; but it’s a lack of morality however that tempts someone to embark on a sexual liaison with, say, their best friend’s wife.

I suppose we’d all like to think that we contain both qualities; that we have both morality and integrity. But I think a person can contain conflicting qualities at the same time. There are people, I’m sure, who would think nothing of stealing a book or a bar of chocolate from a shop but who would never dream of stabbing a good friend in the back. Others might pride themselves on their honesty as an upstanding citizen, yet at the drop of a proverbial (and paid for) hat will spread poison and gossip about someone they claim to be close to.

Which is it better to be? I suppose you’re going to say that neither trait is defensible, but I wonder whether having either integrity or morality (or both, or neither) is a matter of personal choice. I would like to investigate whether the lack of either attribute in someone is actually the result of some subversive conditioning and whether the perpetrator of any vice is in fact the real victim. If a person has the integrity to run after a woman in the street to advise her that she has inadvertently tucked her skirt into her knickers, yet lacks the morality not to sleep with the partner of a good friend, are they really in control of their own actions?

Hmm. A difficult conundrum indeed. I might conduct a survey.

Cool for Cats

Last night I went to see Jools Holland in concert with his fabulous Rhythm & Blues Orchestra. This was the first night of a UK tour which takes in the Royal Albert Hall and ends at Christmas in Brighton. It was absolutely stomping! I’d been anticipating a good evening but was nevertheless unprepared for the sheer energy and exuberance that pounded out from the stage. Boogie-woogie, R&B, Stride, Rock & Roll – it was all there in a magnificent and eclectic set of number after rocking number.

One of Jools’s many qualities – and one which we see revealed in his TV shows – is his ability to provide a showcase for all the talent appearing with him. Every single member of his 16-piece orchestra was given a solo spot in which they could shine and enthral us with their individual style and flair. There were some wickedly good musicians amongst them – don’t let anyone tell you that trumpets and trombones are merely boring support instruments. The Salvation Army never sounded like this. Amongst the trombone players was the legendary Rico Rodriguez – an amazing 73 years old, but still belting it out like a good ‘un. He’s a master of Jamaican Ska and did, I believe, play with The Specials back in the 70s & 80s.

On vocals, Jools treated us to the delights of the soaring melodies of Louise Marshall and the thumping blues voice of Ruby Turner. But the pièce de resistence was the arrival of Lulu who rocked us into a frenzy and who even included her yardstick hit from the 60s ‘Shout!’ On drums was Gilson Lavis – looking strangely like John le Mesurier – who has played with Jools since his time with the group Squeeze.

A magnificent evening, after which I found it difficult to get to sleep. And all this after the Mahem Party at the Broadway the night before. That was a riot too – one of the best Hallowe’en parties I’ve ever been to. All the usual Broadway luvvies were there, dressed in the most outrageous and flamboyant of costumes. A far cry from my day when all we could come up with was a bit of black eye makeup, a smear of fake blood and a bin liner. It’s been quite a week and I’m just thankful that I declined to go to the ‘Living Dead’ party at the Pitti Patti Club the night before that. There’s only so much fun an old man can take, you know.

We Can Fight Them On The Beaches

I used to think I was a good judge of character, but recently I seem to have been making some serious mistakes. Why is this? Well, I’ve recently embarked upon a new life – after many, many years of domestic stability, all of a sudden I have been thrown into a maelström of independent turbulence. It’s like I’ve been cast on the foaming sea of change without the help of navigational charts, nor even a rudder. For all my maturity, this has caused me to make some poor decisions and employ some flawed judgement where personal relationships are concerned. What I thought I saw as the truth, was in fact nothing more than a chimera.

I was supposed to be going to the Pitti Patti Club tonight for an extravaganza of fun in anticipation of the festival of Hallowe’en tomorrow. Lots of my very favourite people are there, and it promised to be a riot of exuberant costumes and eccentric indulgence. I was greatly looking forward to it, but then - because of recent events in my personal life - I suddenly lost the heart for partying and I decided not to go. Instead I stayed home and cooked pizza. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been trusting the wrong people – we can all do that – but it’s because I’ve been in denial about this for weeks now and that means that my normally faultless judgement has failed me. The disappointment I feel over this is immense.

Time for a cup of cocoa and a security blanket, I think.

How Very Dare You?

I feel all bothered and ruffled. I had a bit of a spat this evening with a young man who called unexpectedly at the door of my apartment. He was a charming enough boy, but the message he came with was shocking beyond belief. He represented Nottingham City Council and asked me to enter my personal details onto the form he was brandishing. Failure to execute this simple act would, he told me, render me liable to a £1,000 fine.

What is this all about? I asked why my details were needed and he told me that it was for the ‘voting register’. Well, I informed him, I have two addresses and I am still registered to vote at my official residence which isn't this one, so I didn’t need to be included on his ‘voting register’, thank you very much.

“Do you live here?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “but this is not my official address. I have a vote in another district.” He seemed unable to understand this. “If you live here, you must sign this form or you will be fined one thousand pounds”. Tough talk indeed.

I asked him again why it was deemed necessary for me to sign this form and again he said it was for the ‘voting register’. He told me it is against the law not to sign. Against the law?!? I told him that by signing his form I would then be eligible for two votes. That is against the law, I told him. Universal suffrage does not extend to schizophrenia, I told him. What do you say to that, young man?

Deaf ears, is what he said. “You have to sign or you will be fined,” he insisted. “I don’t care if you have another address. You have to sign; it’s the law.”

“What the fuck happened to civil liberties?” I retorted. “Take your stupid little form and poke it! Do you think I pay two lots of council tax just so that you can come round here on a Saturday evening to harass me? Bugger off!”

Poor boy – he was only doing his job, and I’ve finally turned into a grumpy old man. I ain’t paying no fine of £1,000 from no Fascist council! So instead, I’m headed for jail.

Dancing For Your Supper

I went to an extraordinary event tonight. I’ve been to many book launches in my time, but this one was unusual – it was the launch of three separate books (novellas really) by three different authors, but all published under the ‘Crime Express’ imprint which is part of Five Leaves Publications. I went with two friends of mine, one of whom has written a couple of crime novels and the other who mainly writes fiction for young adults. What was strange about this event was that the three writers in question each had a different motivation for writing their novellas. There was Stephen Booth who declared himself not a short story writer; Rod Duncan who only wrote his story because he wanted it to be a film script; and John Harvey who identified himself as a short story ‘tart’ and who – despite having published a string of highly acclaimed novels – simply loves writing short stories.

However, what was really unusual about this launch was the audience. There were few people there under the age of forty; few people who weren’t writers themselves; and few people who weren’t already devoted fans of at least one of the featured writers. It was almost like a fans’ convention; a bit like a group of groupies (is that the best collective noun, do you think?). This was no bad thing of course, but it did remind me somewhat of a rather cosy little club. The publisher who organized the event clearly knew his target audience – obviously he'd worked out that they were mainly non drinkers because unusually, he’d laid on more fruit juice than alcohol. Most odd. In fact, what alcohol there was on offer was mainly guzzled by the aforesaid crime writer, a benign but debauched lady poet, and me - reprobate me.

Afterwards we retired to a local hostelry where we sat under the awning in the garden so that we could smoke and chew the fat about whether Britain is really a secular society or whether actually, we’ve never been interested in religion at all. That’s another debate entirely and not one that will be solved here, that’s for sure.

I think I might start my life again. Maybe this time I’ll get it right.

It's just a purrfect day...

Well, now I don’t know what’s going on. My stray cat came home tonight covered in blood and not purring. God knows what happened to him earlier, but because cats can’t talk (especially in the state he’s in), I’ll probably never find out. This is a shame and a pity because I’d been having a very good day up until that point. I’d been sailing all afternoon in a special trophy competition and we won! The weather was magnificent – clear sunny skies and a very manageable breeze. It was a fabulously healthy way to spend a Sunday afternoon and exactly what I needed after the very identifiable stresses and strains of the previous week. I didn’t expect to win this competition so it was a particularly pleasant surprise that we did.

Then I was invited down to the Broadway to watch some films being shown as part of the Bang festival of short films (yes, it's true - the Broadway Cinema actually shows films as well as sells beer). That was a jolly event - spent with people I like - and it would have been the end to a perfect day until (that is) I came home and was followed into the flat by a tom cat mewing loudly and showing obvious signs of distress. It’ll take more than a saucer of milk to sort this one out, that’s for sure. I think I'll leave it until the morning.

What I’ve decided I need right now is a skiing holiday. I enjoy skiing more than sailing really and although I absolutely love being on water (it immediately calms me), nothing beats hurtling down a mountainside with the wind roaring in your ears and your legs and knees aching from the massive pressure of trying to make your next turn better than your last. I always sleep like a baby when I’m in the mountains (although how much of that is due to liberal amounts of après-ski extravagance, I wouldn’t like to comment). Skiing is a great way to tire the body (far better than staying up all night partying, although that too can have a similar effect) and there’s nothing nicer than getting back after a hard day on the piste and sinking into a deep, hot bath with a large glass of whisky to hand. Decadent maybe, but I wish I were doing that right now.

In fact, maybe I will. After all, stray cat is fast asleep; the washing machine and dishwasher are loaded; my homework is all done – I’ve nothing to worry about, have I? Time for a little self-indulgence I think.

TFI Friday

The Creative Business Awards dinner went very well last night. It was just like the Baftas really, with short films put up on a giant screen to showcase the nominees in each category. The winner of each category was then announced upon the opening of the ubiquitous golden envelope. We (The Nottingham Writers’ Studio, that is) didn’t win in the Writing category. However, the award went to a very worthwhile victor – Michael Pinchbeck who is a theatre writer whose work includes the acclaimed drama The White Album which I saw at Nottingham Playhouse last year and much enjoyed. So well done to Michael – a deserved winner (and he’s a member of the Studio as well so in a way, we’re all winners). Earlier yesterday I'd delivered my presentation about the Writers' Studio to a seminar being hosted by the Nottingham Creative Network. This also went well, despite me cocking up a couple of my PowerPoint slides and being told by one guy (a graphic designer, I think) that my use of ClipArt was "crap"! Oh well.

I’m off to Birmingham today to do so some real (i.e. paid) work. It’s a lovely sunny morning so I suppose I could drive, but I think I’ll take the train. That way I can read something peaceful and calming - I could really use that because this week has been rather stressful in several different ways. It’s nicer getting the train in the middle of the day because obviously, there are no crowds of commuters. Fewer of those horrible sniffers that always seem to sit near to me (why don’t people blow their noses anymore?), and more old ladies going on trips to see grandchildren wearing their best coats; their suitcases loaded for them by the station staff. I sometimes use my iPod if the sniffing gets too distracting but, because I can’t bear to hear the tschh tschh tschh from other people, I usually don’t have it on loud enough to drown out all the snorting of nasal mucous. Oh well, it helps me to improve my tolerance of other people I suppose, and this is always a good thing.

I read an interesting quote the other day: "We live in a culture more accepting of men holding guns than holding hands" (Ernest Gaines). Kinda neat, don’t you think?

The New Life

I’ve just had the best night’s sleep I've had in a long time. I’m not quite sure how I achieved this since last night was hot enough to bake a rabbit and I’d only had the minimal amount of alcohol, but there we are; sleep I did. When I woke up at about 6:30 I did something that I haven’t had the luxury of doing for a long time. I made myself a cup of tea and took it back to bed to read for a while. Reading in bed is one of the best indulgencies one can afford oneself and I love it (I’m not sure I’m actually loving the book I’m reading at the moment – Lionel Shriver’s ‘Post Birthday World’ – but that’s another story). Reading in bed in the morning is one of my favourite things (along with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, of course).

Anyway, I’m quite busy today. I’ve been neglecting the administrative side of my life recently, so today it’s back to the boring stuff like washing & cleaning, paying bills and replying to the various communications that I’ve been neglecting to deal with to date. I also need to earn some money because the drinks cabinet is looking a bit threadbare these days, and the fridge contains nothing but three bottles of champagne and a two-week-old mango. I also need to write the script for the talk that I’m giving next week at the Nottingham Creative Network seminar. The organizer (my mate Jim) has asked me to provide some PowerPoint slides – but what would I put on them? Since the talk is all about writing in Nottingham, should I put up some images of people chewing on pens; tearing up pieces of paper in despair; starving in lonely garrets perhaps? Or maybe I should put up an image of me, lounging in a smoking jacket on a chaise-longue with a glass of claret and a foot-long cigarette holder? Very Oscar-ish if you ask me.

This reminds me: I’m attending the gala dinner for the Creative Business Awards next week. The dress code is ‘Black tie with a twist’. Mmm, I wonder what that means? I think it’s appropriate that I should wear a ball-gown with a mink stole, but what about a tiara too? A bit over the top do you think? Before the dinner there’s to be a champagne reception and I’m wondering if they’ll be serving Ferrero Rocher chocolates. “Oh, Sheriff of Nottingham, you are spoiling us”. Incidentally, did you know that the current Sheriff of Nottingham is actually a woman and looks absolutely nothing like Keith Allen? Diable, on s’arrête!

Courage mon brave!

My favourite quote of all time is: “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” It’s from the fabulous Eleanor Roosevelt who, when people ask me who in history I'd like to go back to meet, I’d choose. This quotation from her is so simple and yet just so true too. I used to be unbelievably shy as a child and anyone could make me feel inferior in those days. A good example of this would be my earlier experiences of getting my hair cut. In the late 1960s there was this very trendy new salon in Nottingham where everyone at school would go for a trim. For some reason I was convinced that if I entered that place I would be immediately laughed out of the door and told that I just wasn’t trendy enough to have their exalted scissors touch my inferior locks. How ridiculous was that? Once, I tried to pluck up the courage to go in – I must have been around fifteen at the time – and if I walked past the salon once, I must have walked past it a dozen times. Each time I had the temerity to look through the window, trying to convince myself that all I had to do was open the door and walk in, the fear would grab me and drag me further along the street. I hated myself for being so weak.

Anyone who knows me now would be surprised at this revelation. I don’t know when it was that I read the wise words of Lady Eleanor, but I can remember devising from it a new life motto for myself. “You can walk into that hairdresser’s of life.” This became something of a mantra for me and slowly it helped me to overcome my innate shyness and develop a trust in myself that has seen me through life ever since. I never flinch these days from entering a room full of strangers; I’ll talk to anyone; I’ll go anywhere. If I don’t know something, I’ll ask the question (there’s another proverb from somewhere that goes: “He who asks something that he doesn’t know is a fool for a moment; he who doesn’t ask remains a fool forever”).

If you think about what Eleanor Roosevelt was saying, it’s obvious. Bullies and snobs rely on their victims’ own weaknesses to succeed; they need permission from their victims before they can feel superior. So always, always, always deny them that permission, and you’ll be just fine. Give them your consent, and you’ve only yourself to blame.

This is all good advice. But just so that you don’t go from here feeling too serious, I’ll leave you with another of my favourite quotes, this time from W C Fields: “Always carry a small flagon of whisky in case of snakebite. Furthermore, always carry a small snake”. Wise words indeed.

Road to Marrakesh

Life has been a bit crazy for the last week. I’ve had all sorts of things going on and met loads of new and fascinating people. On Friday night I’d been invited to a private preview of a new gallery exhibition here in Nottingham. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it. I made the mistake of agreeing to meet up with someone beforehand at the Broadway and as ever, we just got sucked into the vortex and couldn’t get away in time to get to the showing. My apologies to the gallery owner - you know who you are. Later we went to a party held in a private members bar in the Market Square. This was an unusual experience for me because for once I wasn’t the oldest person in the room. It was quite strange really because I recognized the type of people as being of my era, but they didn't look like me. Some of them looked as if they were still living in the early 1970s – there were flowing skirts and beads, droopy moustaches and cowboy boots, even a tie-dyed t-shirt. And don’t get me wrong, this was no fancy dress party; these people were dressed in their everyday wear. This made me reflect on how the personal images of people in middle age tend to fall into three or four ‘types’. There’s the type of people who were at this party – still wearing what suits them best; things that remind them of their happiest times when they first set out on the long road of new promiscuity, marijuana and smoky-boozy pubs; a style not unlike Hideous Kinky I suppose. Then there are the types who conform because they always wanted to be like their mums and dads and who wear grey suits for going to work, and soft Cotton Trader woollens with chino trousers at the weekend. And then there’s me – a rather pathetic twat who dresses like a contemporary teenager (I even have a hoodie believe it or not), quite forgetting that he’s grown old and wrinkled and that there’s at least one – possibly two - generations separating him from most of the people he spends time with. I’m not sure that I really want to belong to any of these other ‘types’, but I don’t think I can go on as I am for much longer, so maybe I should create my own type and walk the streets decked out as a Regency Dandy complete with white silk stockings and a powdered wig. Yes, I think that would work very well.

Anyway, the rest of my weekend was spent attending a variety of other gatherings. After lounging around outside the Broadway on Saturday – a gathering that seemed to get more and more out of hand as the evening hurtled on, we went to watch Stiff Kittens (or rather to listen to them working the floor) at the 'Hot Tramp' event in the Market Bar. This was supposed to have been preceded by Beth’s birthday bash at ‘Enjoy The Ride’ but we didn’t make that unfortunately because the vortex was swirling again. However I did manage to get back to Muse Bar for the after party, but by this point the whole evening was getting out of control so I went home because the stray cat needed a saucer of milk, and it's nice when something needs you, isn't it?

Party On!

Well okay, so I’ve never been one to turn down an invitation (I’ll go to the opening of a bag of crisps if necessary) but last night I turned down an opportunity to go to the press launch of Anton Corbijn’s new film ‘Control’ which is a biopic of legendary suicide-singer Ian Curtis (Joy Division). The reason I turned down the invitation was because Wednesdays are the night for my Buddhism class, so I went there instead. However, on my way home from Buddhism (which was spiritually uplifting, by the way) I dropped into the Broadway for a quick drink and somehow got dragged along to the ‘after party’ for the film’s debut. This was a private function at Nottingham’s ‘Blue’ club where we were fêted and wined amongst the glitterati of Nottingham’s creative talent. The esteemed Sir Paul Smith (fashion guru - and I think he paid for the whole event) was there, as was Paul Fraser (co-writer with Shane Meadows of ‘TwentyFour Seven’ and his own 'Scummy Man') and lots of other charming and erudite people – all (like me) getting hammered on the free booze and complimentary fish and chips (no, really - there were these mini packets of fish & chips wrapped in faux newspaper; so chic) . What a night! Doctor Jim was holding court admirably as was a really charismatic and fascinating young film-maker called Richard Graham. We need people like Richard in this city – he represents the future for us all.

The problem is, I am due to attend a breakfast seminar in aid of ‘Creative Technologies’ at the Nottingham Playhouse tomorrow – it starts at 7:45 a.m. so I guess there will be a few bleary/red eyes staring down at the free bacon sandwiches in the morning. Strangely, I don’t care because this is what being a writer in Nottingham is all about. I even met a man who writes software – just like I used to do in my former life. He knows what a nested loop is, all right.

Dear Jim

Well, I went to my mate Jim’s book launch last night. It all started fairly civilised – sipping free wine and eating from the scrumptious buffet of locally-produced delicacies (including some bizarre “Magyar” sausages); there was plenty of circulating going on because everyone who is anyone on the Nottingham creative scene was there. The event was hosted by the Nottingham Creative Network and they sure know how to throw a party. However, once the overture was finished, we moved into the launch proper where there were speeches and readings – Doctor Jim looked dapper and sartorial in his black suit – but once that bit was over, the serious fun began. Needless to say that the organizers provided more wine than they really needed to, and some people inevitably lost control. It all ended with scenes of great jollity and laughter outside the Broadway where we were entertained by some crazy Irish monologue-writer who happened to have the hardest, flattest stomach in town (I know, because I thumped it). And if anyone is worried that I might have had a late night - I didn’t. I was in bed by 11:00 p.m.

I see that we are currently being treated to some “sensational” new photographs of Diana, Princess of Wales taken just moments before her death. We see the back of her head as she turns to check whether her trailing paparazzi have been shaken off. This is truly sensational: “Woman Looks Out Of Rear Window In Car” is a fabulously ground-breaking piece of journalism. Who would have thought such a thing was possible? It certainly is a comfort to me to know that the job of the jury in this inquest will be made so much easier by having seen such a revealing photograph. Of course it’s as plain as a pike-staff (to the jury, one hopes) that if a woman can swivel in her seat to look out of the rear window of her limousine, then it must mean that Prince Philip did it. They could save months of wasted time and millions of wasted pounds by just doing the summing up now. M'lord, I rest my case.

Night Road To Death (Part two)

But my experience wasn’t over that night. I had more to come. After our encounter with the machete-wielding cigarette saleswoman, the boy taxi-driver restarted the engine and very soon we were bouncing our way along the track to rejoin the main highway. The overhead lights on the main road were a welcome sight, I can tell you. After a few more miles in the right direction, we approached the city. Low dusty buildings lined the streets and the bright lights of the occasional high-rise block glinted in the dark sky across town. I felt slightly stupid to have mistrusted the boy and spread my arms across the back seat and smiled. Then - almost on cue – he turned the car off the main road again. This time he appeared to be heading down a sandy track alongside a broken fence. I could tell that this was unlikely to be the road to my hotel. I queried his decision to leave the main road, but he stayed silent. The road began to peter out and the sand became deeper - it was evident that we were heading for the beach. All light disappeared and it was as if a black mist had descended. I could see nothing in front of the car.
'Turn back,’ I said, ‘this is not the way to the hotel.'

The boy said nothing. He peered into the darkness, but still continued to edge the car forwards. He seemed to be looking for something. Then I began to make out the dark shapes of some other vehicles parked along the beach and out of the darkness in front of our car, I noticed a gigantic ghostly figure dressed in a flowing white gown. The figure remained motionless as we passed slowly by and then another figure appeared straight ahead, and another, this time to the right of us. The silence was forbidding; the darkness oppressive. It was obvious to me that the boy had brought me here to be sacrificed by some weird religious cult.

'Why have you brought me here?' I asked. I could hear the waves tumbling gently onto the sandy beach a few yards away, but the next thing I heard was the grind and smash of a protesting gearbox as the boy struggled to put the car into reverse. We hurtled backwards; sand swirling around us as the tyres span in the shifting ground. The boy looked over his shoulder, his arm gripping the back of the passenger seat, his young face frozen with terror.

'What is going on?' I shouted.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know what this is.'

As I peered out of the rear window, a white-cloaked figure stepped into the path of the car. The boy thumped his foot on the brake and clouds of sand rose up around us, choking the night's blackness even further. A face appeared at the window, smiling.

'Can I help you?'
'What the fuck is this?’ I demanded. ‘What are you doing here?'
'What are you doing here? Are you lost?'
'What do you want?' I called.
'We want nothing from you, my friend. We are Muslims. We have come here to pray and very soon it will be time. That's all. You are lost, right?'
'We are looking for the Eko hotel,' I said.
'Ah, I see. Well, you took the wrong turning at that fence back there. Turn around, go back, and keep the fence to your left. You can't miss the Eko, it's straight down the road in front of you.'
'Thank you. Thank you, sir.' I appeared to be babbling. I felt like an idiot.
'Welcome to Nigeria,' the man said, still smiling.

The boy turned the car around and headed back towards the road. 'Sorry about that,' he said.
'Too fucking right you’re sorry.' I sank back into my seat. 'Now give me one of those fags, will you?’