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I'm off to Birmingham tonight for a night on the razz with some old work colleagues. I like Birmingham – it has a strange buzz to it that somehow seems more cosmopolitan than Nottingham. Nottingham's great too, of course, and certainly has more a more artistic feel to it than Birmingham – oh dear, what a contradiction! Maybe I just like cities. I've booked a hotel for the night which although necessary, will probably only get used for a few short hours. That is, of course, if I even get there at all, and the roads haven't collapsed under a deluge of flood water. This weather is getting on my nerves, and such a contrast to this time last year when we'd already had weeks of uninterrupted sunshine (I know, because it was this that made me buy my open-topped car; fat chance I have of using that right now).
I'm a bit worried about my house near Trent Lock. In the great floods of 2000, we were told by the environment agency that we were only two hours away from being evacuated when, mercifully, the trespassing waters began to ebb and we were spared. Here in my city centre flat - high on the hill - I am safe, but over there I perhaps ought to think about moving the fish upstairs. Don't want them escaping.
As it is, the annual Summer Ball at my sailing club – due to be held on Saturday night - has been cancelled. The famous tea lawns upon which the marquees are usually erected have disappeared like Atlantis and, as we often party until dawn and then go sailing in our evening wear for a lark, it would be impossible to launch the boats. I suppose it might have been amusing to see the band playing – as if on the Titanic – with water swirling around their feet, but catching the trays of smoked salmon and champagne as they bobbed by in the blackness might not have been such fun I guess.
Cause and effect – a central theme of Buddhism – is at play here, one assumes. I was disappointed to see John Inverdale at Wimbledon yesterday, cheerfully announcing that he had been provided with a gas patio heater because of the "awful weather", so everything was all right. It's precisely because of your gas patio heater John, that we are having such awful weather. Switch it off man, and put a coat on. When I get to my hotel room this evening I shall turn the television off; not leave it on standby. I always do this. If this were done in every single hotel room, in every single hotel, in every single city, in ever single country – then we'd probably be enjoying strawberries and cream now, instead of sitting here in Wellingtons and a cagoule.
I am so excited to have received my cheque for the poem I wrote that is to be used in the sculpture being erected in Beeston. I've been published before, but this is the first time I've ever been paid for it. So, I am a writer. I wonder if I should start working on my acceptance speech for the Man Booker prize now?
Today is the 200th Anniversary of the opening of the Theatre Royal, Brighton. Listening to an article about this event on the radio today, I was reminded about the many great performances I have seen there. This grand and opulent theatre is a favoured venue for many pre West End runs of major productions, and there is often a big name appearing in the cast of some new or established play. In 1978 I was privileged to see Ingrid Bergman perform in N C Hunter's Waters of the Moon. My goodness, that woman had genuine star quality – you often hear about such things but it's very rare that you actually experience it. From the moment Bergman made her entrance on stage, there was a strange tingle in the air like electricity crackling around the proscenium arch. There was a luminescence about her which appeared to transcend normal human qualities. I felt a bit sorry for the other performers who were all completely acted off the stage. They didn't stand a chance.
Although it was a thrill to see many famous faces performing (I even saw Joan Collins struggling hard to cope with comedy as the phoney aristocrat in The Last of Mrs Cheney), it was usually even more fun to spot the other 'names' amongst the audience. The Theatre Royal Brighton is a good place to build up your portfolio for name-dropping. I once had a half pint of lager knocked over by Dame Flora Robson. It was an accident of course; she turned to speak to someone and caught it with her handbag (yes, a hand-bhaag?). So regal was she that she didn't even notice and swept away unaware that she now owed me eighty pence.
One starry night I sat next to David Bowie. We'd gone to see Eric Idle's play Pass the Butler starring the now tragically demised Willie Rushton, and Bowie was there with Idle and a couple of other faces whom I don't remember now. We'd spotted them in the bar having pre-curtain drinks, but I couldn't believe it when their party took their seats next to us. It was a very funny play and I remember Eric Idle roaring with laughter throughout – and he wrote it! In the interval I queued at the bar next to Bowie himself, both of us ordering pints of Bass. This shocked me slightly – he was such a GOD to me that I would have expected him to have ordered Ambrosia instead. He spoke to me that night; my claim to fame.
There are lots of moments like this, living in Brighton. Even our dog Pikey had her moment of glory. She was once kicked by the runner Steve Ovett – then at the height of his fame. He often used to train around the streets of Brighton and one morning was running past our flat when I was returning with Pikey from the park. As he thundered by, his foot kicked back and he accidentally caught Pikey under the chin giving her a bit of a start (she'd been daydreaming up to that point). Like Dame Flora with my lager, Steve didn't even notice and carried on his way, resolved and determined. We didn't mind – he had just won a gold medal at the Moscow Olympics and I don't think Pikey washed her chin for weeks. Here is a picture of her:
I went to see La Vie en Rose today at the Broadway. Marion Cotillard is outstanding as Piaf, portraying the singer's ferocious talent and more than spirited personality with a vitality and accuracy that has to be seen to be believed. The film is fabulously photographed, terrifically well acted, and smartly directed too. But for all that, it is in some ways a rather unsatisfying film. It is perhaps too disjointed in its attempt to be more than a straightforward biopic. The quick jumps from one time slot to another – some of which don't seem to have a valid excuse – create a certain confusion and lack of continuity, making it sometimes difficult to establish who was who and what they meant to Piaf, and at which particular time in her life they featured. Furthermore, there wasn't enough (in my view) of the triumph of Piaf's singing; too much of the tragedy. Notwithstanding that, I enjoyed it so if you haven't seen it, don't be put off.
It reminded me of a Bastille Day party we gave many years ago when we were living in Brighton. We'd invited loads of friends and had hired a cabaret act to perform in the garden. The performer was a strange little guy whose act was to impersonate Edith Piaf. He wore a black wig and a little black dress, and belted out her famous numbers with incredible enthusiasm and an accuracy to the voice that was worthy of Mademoiselle Cotillard. We loved him, and I just regret that we didn't have video cameras in those days (8mm ciné was such a faff) or that I didn't interview the artist afterwards to explore his motivation for such a bizarre performance. It was a great party – the invitations stated "Tumbrils at 2:00 a.m." which I don't think anyone understood at the time, but never mind.
However tonight's film also reminded me of something else. A lonely teenage boy who for some reason didn't quite connect with The Grateful Dead, or Jimi Hendrix, or Cream, and so would sit alone in his bedroom playing Edith Piaf records at high volume, much to the bewilderment of his parents and his peers. I remember that teenage boy, and how he thought he was unique but didn't know why, and how he wondered then what marvels the world might bring to him. I wonder what happened to him?
So, tonight's film was evocative to say the least. I've actually been a bit unwell recently and so my slightly sensitive disposition is my excuse for shedding a few tears at the poignancy of it all. But I'm still not sure whether I was crying for Piaf – the gamin of the gutter - or for that lost and lonely teenage boy sitting in his bedroom, dreaming.
I have in my possession a stone-age tool. It's probably one of the first ever multi-purpose kitchen gadgets – it's made of flint and is a scraper, a cutter, a chopper and a borer; all in one handy tool! At one time it must have been the pride of some stone-age housewife, fashioned for her by her bearded husband on one of his brief visits home from hunting. Foolishly, she lost it on a beach somewhere and, six thousand years later, I found it. I'd love to go back to return it.
But in terms of its age, my tool is a mere baby. Humans have been toolmakers for at least 2.5 million years and in parts of Central Africa there have been finds of man-made implements that are that old. But what I find really fascinating is that even before then, there are tools that were made not by men, but by apes. Yet apes rarely make tools anymore, meaning that those inhabiting the forests of the Congo today are not the descendants of those apes who were the toolmakers. No, for it is we who are those descendants – even though there is no archaeological evidence to prove it. The development (or evolution) of those first bipedal apes strangely appears to have petered out, only to re-appear hundreds of thousands (or possibly millions) of years later as the first bipedal human beings.
Where did we go, during that time? Why did we disappear for such a huge period of history, and why is there the missing link? It's a little bit like in Blue Peter where you never quite saw the full construction of the model, there was always "one I made earlier", so you never quite saw how it was done. Do you think this could indicate the presence of a higher being? Was von Daniken right after all, and god really was an astronaut? Maybe that's how it was done – there are the apes, very nicely developing their bipedal and tool-making skills thank you, when along comes god and says: "Oh, I can't be bothered to leave the cameras rolling while this all takes place. Come on you lot, under the counter with you." Then, after the aeons have tumbled slowly by, hey presto! he brings out the (nearly) finished item and plonks it down in the dusty plains of Chad or Kenya, or the misty jungles of the Congo, or wherever. Well if that's how it happened, I call it cheating.
And anyway, why didn't the same thing happen where man's evolution since that point is concerned? I mean, did we really have to watch the whole process from the stumbling, grunting, hair-covered Kenyanthropus platyops to, say, the supremely glabrous and highly-toned athletes we see on our tracks today? Why did the cameras continue to roll on this one? Perhaps the celestial equivalent of Valerie Singleton was worried that instead of pulling out from under the counter a Colin Jackson or a Steven Redgrave, we'd accidentally be presented with a track-suit & baseball cap-wearing, burger-eating youf? Hmm, evolution moves in mysterious ways, doesn't it?
So you see it's been two days now since the Summer Solstice, and aren't those nights drawing in, eh? I told you so. I had a bit of a crazy night recently when I had intended that my head would stay intact but as usual, I ended up filling my body with impure substances so that (again, as usual) I lost control of my senses. You'd think I'd know better at my age. This would be funny if it weren't for that fact that I'm sure it's all ruinous for my health.
I've been eating some Pimientos de Padrón today – commonly known as Padron peppers. Anyone who has eaten tapas in Spain will know them – they're little green peppers about two inches long which are roasted (or possibly fried?) in rock salt and sometimes garlic. They're delicious as an aperitif with a long cold beer or a nice glass of chilled white wine. For some reason that I've never been able to establish, only some of them are hot (as in spicy, peppery hot). It's impossible to tell which ones will burn your palate so eating them is bit like Russian Roulette – sometimes you can go through a whole plate full, shared with a couple of friends, and never find the bullet in the chamber. Sometimes you seem to get three in a row and then you have to reach for the white wine or beer, quickly. In truth though, they should be eaten in the sunshine at some terrace bar in Spain - with friends. Eating them alone, in a Nottingham city centre flat whilst pigeons beat at the windows, isn't quite the same.
But then lots of things aren't the same when you take them out of context. Look at holiday romances (not that I've ever had one). I've known plenty of people who have met the man or woman who will supposedly answer their desperate prayers whilst holidaying, only to discover that Dolores or Ramón or Jean-Claude or Vitály turn out to be disappointingly like Darren who works in the chip shop, or Sharon from the cake stall, when they get home and meet up again. People often confuse setting and romance with love. Setting and romance certainly exist as a temporary condition – there's no denying it. Enduring love is however (in my experience) unsustainable.
All love is a chimera. That might even be the title of my next novel.
The Summer Solstice is here. I awoke to a sky of egg-shell blue, trailed with the odd wisp of hurrying clouds. To some, this might signal a mood of optimism and joy but for me, it's a harbinger of darkness. You can accuse me of possessing the half-empty-glass syndrome if you like (today, you'd be right), but the Solstice brings no pleasure for me. It's downhill all the way from here; down towards the dismal days of December, just around the corner now.
I once spent a few weeks in a place close to the equator and here there are no such influences to swing our moods. The days and nights are of equal length all year round. There's something rather comforting in the predictability of that – no lingering sunsets, no loitering dawns. At the end of the day there's the sun's rush to get the day's business done as it plunges hastily over the horizon in a matter of moments only; twelve hours later and the night's brooding blackness ends with just as little warning when this great golden orb pushes itself into the sky almost as fast as you can blink.
In such a place there are no varied seasons to make us feel wistful or to make us yearn for another time. Nothing to make us fear the encroaching web of Jack Frost; no roseate fingers of the dawn to give us false hopes.
In Norway – as in many places – they celebrate the solstice with the nearby "St. Hans Night" which, despite its religious associations, is in fact a secular festival marked by huge bonfires, alcohol, and bacchanalian all-night parties. I once spent such a rioutous night on a beach in Kristiansand in the south of the country; a party of enormous proportions attended, strangely enough, by representatives of the British Navy.
But today I feel only the heaviness of my heart. I know this is wrong and that I should welcome the light that today - the longest day - brings with it, but I think we're all allowed at least one day of maudling despair. I'll be back to normal tomorrow, you'll see.
What a fabulous weekend in Oslo! There'll be no Norwegian lesson today (you'll be relieved to hear), although it is interesting that the Norwegian word for to try is prove, which of course is the original meaning of our word prove as in "the exception that proves the rule".
Anyway, those Norwegians know how to party. Our friends had a marquee erected on their lawn which looked strangely like a cross between the minarets of Brighton's Royal Pavilion and several giant Ku Klux Klan outfits. There were eighty people sitting down to dinner, all served by two diminutive Chinese cooks. The forty bottles of champagne we consumed before we even sat down to begin on the dinner wines, gave promise to an eventful evening. There were speeches and toasts, fireworks, a rock band and dancing.
Even though Oslo is in the south of the country, it still remains light for most of the night. We had about two hours of semi-darkness – during which we subdued ourselves with coffee, brandy and cosy chats – and then the smiling sun reappeared and we were off partying again as if it were the same day. I collapsed at 5:00 a.m.
During the party I met up with people I hadn't seen for ten years; twenty years in some cases. Essentially we're the same people, but our faces say something else. What happened to that handsome youth with the wolf-like eyes and wild golden curls? He's now a respectable, neatly-haired, benignly-smiling man, slightly paunched.
Everything is change, the only difference is whether we accept it or not. If we don't, we suffer.
When my flight landed from Oslo last night, I was informed that my luggage hadn't made the same journey. The boy was very apologetic and told me that it was somewhere in Amsterdam instead. I've since been informed by text message that it's left Amsterdam and is on its way to Birmingham from where it will make its way, alone, to my house. I hope it makes it. My favourite t-shirt is inside. Our possessions have lives of their own, it seems. Which is as it should be.
My grasp of the Spanish language is so pitifully low that the other day I nearly made a stupid mistake; the type of mistake that we often smugly laugh at Johnny Foreigner for making. I was travelling on a bus from Madrid to Valencia and was sat in a window seat, facing the sun. I was getting quite warm, so decided to explain to the man sitting next to me that I would like to move to a cooler seat on the other side of the bus. I'd noticed on a restaurant menu earlier that the word for hot food is 'caliente' so I thought I could just say to the man "Perdone, soy caliente" and he'd stand up to let me out. However, I wasn't too confidant that I'd made the right choice of verb (I sometimes have difficulty remembering which indicates a permanent, and which a temporary state). So I said nothing and the sun went behind some clouds anyway, so it didn't matter.
I learned later that 'soy caliente' would have told the man next to me that I was declaring myself to posses the personal characteristic of being hot, as in: "I'm HOT!" Not exactly a modest claim for anyone to make, I'm sure you'll agree. Notwithstanding that the (only) half-correct term should have been 'estoy caliente', this too would have been inappropriate. Apparently the correct phrase is 'tengo calor', meaning I have heat. Much neater.
I'm sure that you weren't expecting a Spanish lesson today, but I'm using this as a metaphor for how when we fail to communicate properly, people can often receive an incorrect impression of us. Having two versions of the verb 'to be' (as the Spanish do) helps these situations. For example, you could be sitting with a friend listening to his conversation and you could announce: I am bored and your friend would not know whether you meant that your pathetic life was going nowhere, or whether you were simply finding his conversation to be less than stimulating. It gets even more complicated if you were to say: I am enlightened for what would that tell your friend? That he is efficient at explaining matters to you, or that you had found inner peace for yourself?
Well, I'm off to Oslo for a few days now, so no blog until next week. It'll be a Norwegian lesson then, I expect.
Well, I'm back from Madrid. Actually, I suppose I could have arranged some internet contact while I was away by using an internet café, but to be honest I was too busy having a good time. It was fabulous. I moved on to Valencia for a quick dinner with some friends and thought the place was incredible (I've never been before). It has so much history (I even saw holes in the city walls caused by Napoleon's balls) and as I arrived in the city, they were holding the festival of Corpus Christi – street processions; idol-worshipping; mountains of rose petals strewn in the path of heavy wooden carts that carried huge effigies of Jesus and his saintly mum; bells; choirs; marching bands; and yes, some hysteria. All very colourful and spectacular, but all vaguely disturbing too.
Anyway, moments before I left for Madrid I received news that some words I had written are to be incorporated into a new sculpture that has been commissioned in Beeston (nr Nottingham) to celebrate the industrial history of the town. I'm thrilled – the sculptor is an extremely talented lady called Hilary Cartmel who only works in cast iron (or bronze). She likes to include words into her work, but doesn't use her own, so she invited submissions from interested parties – and I was selected! There's going to be a grand unveiling with the Mayor (of course) and the press, and Hilary has invited my parents along too because they both worked in Beeston's industries both before, and after, the war (no, not the current debacle that Tony Blair organized, but the real war when people died for freedom and democracy, not oil). Anyway, I'm quite excited to have been chosen, and am looking forward to seeing my words immortalised in bronze for all of Beeston to view (before the graffiti obscures it, no doubt). Picture of the sculpture above.
I think I'll wear some harlequin trousers and pointy shoes at the ceremony. What do you think about a basque?
Firstly, I'm going to be away for a few days without my laptop or any internet connection, so there won't be an update here for a while. Mind you, I'm not all that regular anyway, so I don't suppose any of you will notice.
I was sitting in a pub the other day (people watching, of course) and there was this young girl sitting opposite me. She was wearing large hooped earrings, lip gloss, white-tipped fingernails – you know the sort. She was preoccupied with tapping out a message on her mobile phone and I could see by the look on her face that she was having some difficulty. Suddenly she looked up as the barman emptied her ashtray.
"You know the word greatest?" she said. "Is it ist at the end or est?"
Unfortunately the young barman was Spanish and told her that his spelling of English wasn't that hot (unlike him), but he said it probably doesn't matter.
And that, my friends, is how the written language evolves. You don't have to be the greatist speller on earth to make yourself understood, do you? Try as we might to defend the rules of grammar and spelling, the written language is now victim to the barrage of newspeak that text messaging has launched. Whilst development is inevitable, nevertheless it makes me rather sad. What was the point of toiling away at school for all those years, trying to get it all right, only to learn now - from a Spanish barman - that it "doesn't matter". I blame Anthony Burgess - his A Clockwork Orange started the rot.
Bring back Strunk & White, that's what I say.
I once rowed across the channel for charity. It was part of a scheme to help boost the efforts of the charity Turning Point which supports social care programmes for young people with drug and alcohol related problems. The initiative was to take one of four challenges from specific sports – running, cycling, rowing or climbing. The big names of the time in each of the various sports lent their support to it all - I can't remember which personality was connected with the rowing aspect, but I think it might have been Steven Redgrave.
The idea was to select a challenge that represented a certain distance (e.g. rowing the length of the River Thames, climbing Snowdon, running a marathon etc.) and to raise sponsorship. The trick was that it was all supposed to happen using gym-based equipment only and had to be verified by a qualified instructor. I was super fit in those days and regularly used the rowing machine in my local gym, so I thought I'd opt for rowing across the English Channel. I chose to go from Newhaven to Dieppe (a distance of 63 miles) and drew myself one of those progress meter maps with the route marked out; colouring it in as I went.
It took me six weeks. Half way through, I had a half-page spread in the Nottingham Evening Post (complete with photo of me pulling away in my rowing shorts), and even a mention in The Times. It was great fun and I raised a lot of money for the charity; even the Mayor of Erewash sponsored me! And I was even fitter when I'd finished.
I was reminded of this today when Turning Point was in the news calling for more attention to be given to the problems of 'older people' who drink too much at home. As I stared at the empty whisky bottle on my table, it got me thinking. Hmm.
I live alone. I've only been doing this for a few months though, and I'm not sure yet that I'm quite used to it. I've never lived alone before, ever. In many ways it can be quite liberating – for all the obvious reasons – but in many ways it can be quite maddening. I've never been a person for chatting on the telephone, so some evenings if I start to go stir-crazy and crave human contact, I go out for a drink just to check that the world is still spinning out there (my apartment is very quiet).
I don't mind sitting in a bar on my own, but I wonder what other people think of me? It goes without saying that they must view me (if they even notice me at all) as a sad old loser, and it's easy to think of myself in that way too. But it's not true. Drinking alone gives you a great opportunity to people watch and like all writers, I'm good at that. Too good actually, because sometimes when I'm not alone, my friends accuse me of not paying them enough attention; too roving is my eye.
I can't do it for long, though. I only ever have one drink. To have two drinks alone in a bar would seem too sad, too lost. I sometimes take a book with me, but it's difficult to read and watch the antics of my fellow drinkers at the same time.
Sometimes I just wander the streets so that I can take in the bacchanalian scenes of debauchery taking place. I live in the very centre of a large city; in an area specifically designated as a place of special binge-drinking. Often I see blood, vomit, piss – all generously disgorged onto the city's pavements of gold, as if the emission of bodily fluids is something we should all share. I see half-eaten kebabs, pizzas or chips thrown carelessly into shop doorways, or hurled from the lowered black windows of some passing limousine. Sometimes though, I see dancing and laughter, and kissing.Hogarth would have loved it.
The last time I was in Madrid, I went to a bullfight. Many of you will be alarmed or disappointed by this. I am alarmed and disappointed by it myself. I made the mistake of deciding that - although I disapprove of bullfighting - I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. This is very weak justification; I suppose it's a bit like saying I disapprove of mugging old ladies but I'll do it once, just because I've never done it before. However, I went along to the Plaza de Toros not knowing what to expect.
I was completely wrong to go. By paying money to these people I was giving them licence to perpetrate their barbaric activities. The whole event was pointless, cruel and boring. I think the Spanish call it sport, but that's not what I would call it. The bull stands absolutely no chance and is taunted, deliberately confused, dazed, exasperated, worn down, tortured with pikes spikes and swords and finally, killed. If he's lucky, he'll be put out of his misery with a single blow from the matador's sword; if he's not, he'll linger on in even more pain while the incompetent and cowardly matador has another go. After he's dead, his carcass is dragged from the arena by horses and then these jolly lads bring on another bull for exactly the same treatment. Then another… then another…. until the afternoon is over. Pointless, or what?
I have contributed to this carnage and I'm not proud of it.
The only (slightly) encouraging aspect to the afternoon's events was that there were very few young Spanish people in the crowd. The arena was only half full anyway, hopefully indicating that the popularity of this cruelty is diminishing, but the majority of the Spaniards there were elderly men, toothless and flat-capped and accompanied by their (mainly) fat wives. They'll all be dead soon.
The discouraging aspect of the afternoon was that the remainder of the 'audience' was made up of tourists, like me. All no doubt convincing themselves that they were only there 'for research purposes'. This is a pathetic excuse and if we all stopped going, the whole industry would thankfully collapse in time.
Hemingway has a lot to answer for if you ask me.
