Road to Damascus

I'll never forget the time I was kidnapped by Yasser Arafat. Well, I suppose 'kidnapped' is too strong a word for it really; I and my party were merely 'inconvenienced' for a while, that's all. I'd been travelling through Jordan and Syria with my great aunt Dolores Mackliskey (she's the one who was knocked down by a lorry and survived; the one who later became a xylophone player), and we were staying in a lovely hotel in Damascus. One day, while we were having our usual breakfast of chilled fruit and honey - accompanied by mint tea of course - a gang of armed men stormed into the hotel and told us that we were all Arafat's prisoners. I can't remember the reason why, I presume he wanted to hostage us for some kind of advantage, but I remember Great Aunt Dolores being very affronted by this. The hotel wasn't air-conditioned and she wanted the doors to the small, stuffy breakfast-room opened, she said. We were told by a rather sweet-looking youth who was nervously brandishing a Kalashnikov, that this was 'impossible'.

Well, being a pedantic old soul, Dolores took issue with this. 'Of course it isn't impossible,' she said. 'Pushing a camel through the eye of a needle is impossible; getting my great-nephew here to buy a round of drinks is impossible; but opening a dining room door is not impossible; it's as easy as pulling the handle. Now get on with it.'

Faced with such logic, I half-expected him to do it. Instead, he looked warily at her and gestured with a circling of his forefinger to the forehead, indicating that he thought she was mad (and actually, many of us in the family might have agreed with him). 'Impossible,' he repeated.

Dolores was having none of it. She moved forwards saying, 'Let me show you, young man.' And before he could even slide off the safety-catch on his weapon, she'd yanked open the door, only to come face to face with Mr Arafat himself. Moving into the room, he became charm personified, and apologised profusely that we were all being so inconvenienced. He explained that we could not leave the hotel, but that we were free to move into the bar and lobby where there was more room, and more air.

Muttering, 'Well, I suppose it's never too early for a Martini,' Dolores made her way to the bar followed by myself, a fat Swedish man (unusual that – you hardly ever see a fat Swede), and two American women called, unforgettably, Mindy and Marta. We then joined up with the remaining hotel guests who by now had all been gathered into the lobby by various masked gunmen. There was a lot of noise and confusion. Arafat left the building.

About thirty-six hours passed before we'd drunk the bar dry. By then, Dolores had taken total charge of the group and was negotiating in her inimitable way with the young soldiers (unsuccessfully, I might add). However, she had prevented one American gentleman from phoning the White House in protest, suggesting that his call could only enflame the situation; she'd also ended an Italian woman's panic attack by slapping her repeatedly about the face (it looked to me like Dolores was enjoying it); and she'd recruited three Japanese students into helping her cook lunch and dinner for us all (the hotel staff had all mysteriously disappeared hours before). She even offered to feed the gunmen but they politely refused (they said) on religious grounds, but more likely because they feared they might be poisoned. They didn't know Auntie – she wouldn't hurt a fly.

Eventually, Arafat reappeared. Again he apologised most sincerely for the hardship caused, and thanked us all generously for our patience and understanding. Apparently - he rather sheepishly confessed - the whole incident had proved to be rather unnecessary, and something of a mistake. We were free to leave. Dolores shook hands with him, told me to get on with the packing, and teetered into the garden clutching the last of the gin. 'Next stop, the Dead Sea', she warbled.

Pride (but shame too)

Well, I said that I wouldn't be going too crazy on my birthday on Friday. How wrong I was! What started out as a simple quiet dinner with my daughter ended up with dozens of random people (some of whom I didn't even know) coming back to my flat for a right ribald session of drinking and dancing. My neighbour (who I'd mistakenly thought was away) sent me a desperate text message at 4:00 a.m. asking me to turn down the music as he was finding it impossible to sleep. I feel so guilty because I hate upsetting people. Needless to say, for some people the evening inevitably ended in scenes of sex and debauchery – somehow I think my flat inspires such excessive behaviour in people who visit. Not a very Buddhist standpoint, I admit.

Saturday was understandably a bit difficult to get bump-started. However I did it, and met up with a couple of gay friends for lunchtime drinks and we went along to the Nottingham Gay Pride festival at the Arboretum – great fun. Lots of rainbow flags, Shirley Bassey impersonators, friendly police officers and loads of dogs for some reason (I'm talking canines here, not ugly people). I bumped into loads of people I knew - it seemed the whole of Nottingham was there; gay and straight. The weather was bright & sunny for a change, and the ambience just as uplifting. However, I needed an early night so I resisted the temptation to carry on to the after-party featuring Axe Girl and Bananarama.

Sunday morning I drove to Norfolk to watch the sailing – it's a special week-long sailing festival that I normally participate in, but this year I had decided to give it a swerve. I went along anyway because Purple Turtle (the boat I've recently sold) was competing, sailed by her new owners, and I wanted to take a look. I was absolutely delighted to see them win the race (which is more than I would have done) proving that she is a fast boat, but moreover that I was right to sell her. It was a lovely day – lots of sunshine and ice cream; the usual seaside fare. A bit of a tiring drive there and back, but it was worth it because I managed to hook up with the usual sailing crowd that I normally spend this week of the year with, every year. I felt a tinge of sadness not being part of it, but what the hell – there's always next year. Maybe I should buy a new boat….

All in all, a great birthday weekend. Now, back to work.

Message from an older man

It's my birthday today. What in god's name I want another birthday for, I can't imagine – but there we are. I used to like birthdays when I was younger – there was always that special feeling that it was your day, and your day only. Of course, that's never true either – millions of people must share the same date. I personally know at least three people whose birthday it is today, and then of course there are also the famous people who share the same date. Actually, I don't think there are many famous people celebrating on 27th July – well, there's the actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers who I think looks a bit like my friend Ivor Jenkins (who, strangely enough, is also Welsh); and there's the ice skater Christopher Dean (who, strangely enough, is also from Nottingham – this is getting spooky).

Anyway, I won't be doing any largeing it up today. I'm planning on a quiet dinner with my daughter this evening because most of my usual drinking cronies are away on holiday. I'll probably pop into Broadway for a drink or two at some point (well in fact I know I will because I've already arranged to meet a friend there later), but I won't be treating myself to anything new, because there's nothing I really want. It's true, I have everything I need really, so it would only be a waste of money to buy myself a gift. I've also told people not to give me presents because I'm trying to dispose of my possessions, not attract more. My mother & father gave me money, which I spent on whisky.

Well, I've finished the short story I was writing earlier in the week (the one about the cock-mad female poet), so now it's back to working on the novel. Once more unto the river!

Mettā Bhāvanā

Yesterday, at Buddhism class, we were discussing this new so-called 'spirit of community' that has apparently bubbled up from the flood waters of Gloucestershire and other similarly affected areas. Someone likened it to the wartime spirit of unity that was evident throughout Britain during the dangerous years of 1939-45. They talked of how, in the face of a common adversity, people were rallying around and beginning to 'look out' for each other, delivering much needed drinking water to house-bound neighbours whom they wouldn't normally consider visiting. However, others lamented how easily these communal bonds are broken once the threat of disaster has gone away, and wondered why people don't learn from these experiences and continue to hold these wartime values beyond the emergency.

I don't agree with much of this. Yes, it's true that a few caring individuals are helping out their less fortunate neighbours, but I suspect there is still a lot of greed and selfishness being manifested amongst these people; still an amount of me first; still some disgruntlement about 'why is nobody doing anything to stop this?' My guess is that the majority of people in this current situation are blindly cursing the government and demanding their 'rights' i.e. running water and assistance from the outside agencies. The government only has itself to blame, of course. By gradually eroding our individual responsibilities in many areas of British life, it has engendered a nation almost incapable of looking after itself.

Moreover, I'm alarmed that anyone would think the mood of the nation during the years 1939-45, that of 'pulling together', was a good thing. It would only be a good thing if it were spontaneous and intrinsic to our nature as human beings. I rather suspect it was more simplistic than that – I believe that in fact, it was something more chauvinistic than that; something more jingoistic. The so-called spirit of loving kindness would not have extended beyond our shores – for example, no such generosity of heart would have been shown towards the German people at that time. I'm not saying that it was wrong to be concerned about looking after each other, I'm just saying that it isn't really something to rejoice in when that community spirit is born only from a common hatred of others who are not in 'our gang'.

What we need is for such a mood of giving - and of caring support - to be spontaneous, unconditional, and not motivated by the search for personal reward. When we can all achieve that, we can all be on the true path to genuine dharma. Imagine what the world would be like if that happened!

'Hello' Magazine It Ain't

I've been in meetings all day today – either down at the Studio or (inevitably) down at the Broadway Bar. It's all been quite exhausting, but also quite exciting because two writing friends and I are setting up a production company in order to publish a new Arts Magazine which we hope (nay, expect) to be a bit different from anything else that's on the scene right now. I've been bleating on for a while about the wealth of creativity in this city, so it's about time that there was a new showcase for it; something that's attractive and that will get people talking (and reading!); something that's a bit different from the other stuff that's out there.

The last time I edited anything (apart from a student anthology), was when I edited the in-house magazine for a company I worked for, years and years ago. It got closed down after the first two issues (the magazine, not the company) because I took a bit of a pop at the Managing Director. He was, after all, providing the funding. You see, I was loosely basing the magazine's style on Private Eye and so the whole thing was a bit satirical, but I suppose was also verging ever-so-slightly on schoolboy-ish humour. On the front cover of the second edition there was a photograph of the Head Office building, doctored to make it look like it was sinking into the ground on one side – rather like a (slightly wider) Tower of Pisa. Two speech bubbles were protruding from what was recognisable to everyone as the MD's office window. The first said: "What's happening? Why is the building sinking to one side?" And the second bubble read: "I'm afraid it's the weight of your wallet, sir. The building can't take it."

It was a harmless enough joke, I thought, but the MD called me into his office, threw his (free) copy of the magazine at me calling it "trash" (Trash? The man was a philistine), and said he was pulling the funding. So we closed, and my card was thereafter well and truly marked, I can tell you.

Hopefully, our new Nottingham-based effort will have more success. There'll be no jokes on the front cover though, I promise. Watch this space.

Carousel of Fun

I met a ukulele player last night. I've never met one before so I was particularly interested to find out more about him. He's only a young man too – I always expected ukulele players to be old, and a bit seedy. Someone my age will always automatically think of George Formby, but this guy has a happy smile and cheeky, youthful good looks. He performs in all sorts of venues and must be a great hit with audiences. I can't wait to go along to one of his gigs. It never ceases to amaze me what a diverse and talented community of artists and creative people we have in Nottingham.

I love the busking bongo players who play in Pelham Street – sometimes I'm in the flat working on a Friday evening and if I have my terrace doors open I can hear them, just over the back. It's such an exotic sound, and even if these guys are competing with the whooping and shrieking of the mob scene, it still cheers me to hear them. It gives me a sense of sitting somewhere else; somewhere tropical. I like to think I can smell the spices drifting in the air, or hear the sound of crashing waves on a sandy beach. In reality, it's probably the rising stench of stale beer, vodka and vomit that would drift in over my terrace, nothing more.

I have my daughter and her French boyfriend staying with me at the moment. This means that I'm not really getting much work done – too many trips out to the bars; too many expeditions to the local eateries. They're much more accustomed to café society than I am – they have been living in Madrid for the last year and a half; before that in Paris. Now my daughter has left Madrid and is moving to London, whilst her boyfriend is moving to Geneva but working in Lisbon. What cosmopolitan lives the young lead these days – living in Nottingham seems a bit boring after this. But I love it. My other daughter is currently studying in Prague before taking up a work placement in Warsaw, before going to Hungary for the Sziget Festival (billed as the most popular summer festival in Europe - see below left), before taking up yet another work placement in Paris. What a charmed life they all have!

Oh well, back to the novel. Oh, I must put some more rinse aid in the dishwasher.

Watch Out!

Once, I was bitten on the arse by a rabbit. My daughter (about 10 years old at the time) had this evil feral monster which was masquerading as a pet rabbit, called Twitch. That particular lapin hated all human beings with a vengeance. Even trying to feed the damned thing was like engaging in armed combat – I needed a riot shield even to put my hand inside the cage to collect the bowl. Then, having filled the bowl with food, I needed a baton to fend off the beast before I could dare to put it back in. When I did, Twitch would pick it up and hurl it – complete with contents - at the side wall, and then stomp back 'upstairs' before turning to glower malevolently at me, as if accusing me of trying to poison her.

On summer days, we used to put her in a run on the lawn; it was meant to be a treat for her - a break from the monotony of caged life. She seemed peaceful enough during the day, but when the time came to put her back into the cage, she was hell to catch. Either she would bolt as soon as the run door was opened, and my goodness she was fast – she'd shoot through to next door's garden before you could blink – or she'd wedge herself into a corner saying: "Reach in and try to grab me, if you dare".

Sometimes the only way to prise her out was to get on hands and knees, crawl into the run (protected by the heaviest duty garden gloves I could find) and corner her. I did this many times, and there are still scars on my lower arms to prove it. But one time she shot past me, turned, and before I could engage reverse gear, sank her teeth into my arse. It had been a hot day and I was only wearing some flimsy shorts, so those incisors really hit the target. My shorts were ripped, as was my left cheek; there was blood everywhere. What a monster! Yet my daughter loved her.

Well, yesterday's evacuation of Nottingham was rather a half-hearted affair. A few businesses closed their doors citing health & safety reasons; some pubs posted doormen outside to warn the public away. Shock horror, even the Broadway was forced to close, leaving the city's artistic community totally bereft, and presumably unable to function. It all felt a bit like 28 Days Later with the streets deserted and tumbleweed rolling through Hockley. The water company admitted to being 'baffled' by the apparent leak (it wasn't the reservoir after all), and there was even a video clip on the internet showing water company officials staring down manholes looking 'baffled', as if they needed to convince us that they really didn't have a clue what was going on. I half expected to see them scratching their heads.

Panic and chaos in the city. How flimsy is the fabric of modern civilisation – almost as flimsy as my shorts were on that day when Twitch bit me. Yesterday, the rabbit of dependency bit a huge chunk out of society's arse. And so it should.

Get on with some work!

This week has been crazy. It's a good job I don't work for a living; I'd never have the time! There's a café-bar in my local art house cinema (the Broadway) which is like a vortex. Once you get in there, it's almost impossible to get out. I'd been there yesterday for a meeting with a woman to discuss an anthology we're putting together, and although I was meant to stay only one hour, I was there for three. There is always someone I know in the bar and even when I plan to stay for only a brief chat, before I can escape someone else comes in and picks up the thread, and buys another drink, and I buy one back…. and so on. I even received some emergency PC support in there, from a novelist friend of mine who managed to sort out my wireless connection after I'd cocked it up. How about that?

Later, I was talking to a TV scriptwriter and he said "It seems there's a force of gravity that pulls all writers to this place." I observed that whilst this appears to be true, there was little evidence of anyone doing any writing. "Ah," he mused, picking up his glass of beer, "it's all research."

However today I am actually down at the studio doing some real writing (except that I'm not, I'm doing this blog). For some reason, this area of town has no water today. I rang the water company to enquire why and was told: "We have a problem with our reservoir". This information didn't seem too encouraging. If it were a mains leak, or a system power outage, or something like that, I could be quite confident that we'd only have to wait a short while and it would be fixed. But, a 'problem with the reservoir'? What does that mean? Has the reservoir disappeared, perhaps? Has it dried up? Is it being held hostage by armed bandits demanding that its water should be re-directed to other parts of Britain (you know, parts that don't have enough water right now – like South Yorkshire and the Severn Valley)?

I've just had a telephone call from someone outside the city telling me that the centre of Nottingham is being evacuated because there is an emergency. As I write this, I'm sitting in the centre of Nottingham, and I haven't been evacuated. There appears to be no emergency outside this building, although it is true that there appears to be few people too. What kind of emergency can this be? No water? Oh yes, that must be it.

"This is the police. We have to instruct you that the inability to boil a kettle poses a great threat to your safety. This means that we must evacuate the city centre immediately. Do not panic. Leave quietly and do not run. Do not take any personal belongings with you. Anyone seen trying to buy a bottle of Evian from the all-night Spar shop will be shot."

So it isn't just MY week that has been crazy, after all. It's everyone's.

Take me to the duckpond!

Do you know, I don't know what's going on, but something is. The other day I was standing at a Number 79 bus stop and I thought: "I wonder if a bus will come along soon?" And do you know what? Within ten minutes, one did! Spooky, eh? But what really scared me was this: The number on the front? You've guessed it – 79!! And 7 plus 9 makes 16 which just happens to be the exact same number as the one on the door of a flat just along the corridor from me. Wow!

Things like this happen to me all the time. Take last week for example. I was watching the film Bourne Supremacy which stars Matt Damon. I tell you, I went all hot and bothered when I realized that I used to know a bloke a few years back whose name was… Damon. This means something, I'm sure of it. It's even more scary when you think that I was at the Broadway last week watching Paris je t'aime (rather a strange film by the way, I don't think it works really) when I remembered that as a teenager, I used to have a Maurice Chevalier record. The title? Right again! Paris je flipping t'aime!!! These coincidences don't happen without a reason.

I hardly dare open my front door tomorrow. It's Tuesday 17th July. And guess what day the 17th April fell on? You've got it! A Tuesday!! Gedditt???

Do I have the power, or what?

A New Era

For the first time in many many years, I am boatless. Yesterday I sold Purple Turtle, almost by accident in a way. It's true that I feel a bit sad about this, but I also feel strangely liberated. Purple Turtle is a lovely fast racing dinghy (National 12 Class) but you see - I hardly ever sailed her. I've owned this boat since May 2006 but in all that time, I've only sailed her on a handful of occasions. My previous boats used to get frequently sailed by me, but these days my sailing tends to be in the form of crewing for another guy in his Merlin Rocket; I rarely take the helm myself anymore. So, why do I need a boat of my own? Many people have said to me in recent months: Either sail her, or sell her – and they're right, of course.

I realized that to keep an expensive boat for the sake of it, is just another manifestation of my ego trying to take control. It gave me a nice warm feeling to own that boat; it made me part of the 'gang'; I belonged. This is all bullshit, of course; just the ego talking. Still I was reluctant to dispose of her – still I clung to the false belief that she was necessary to form part of the statement about me, Richard Pilgrim. Then I read in this quarter's Newsletter from the Class Chairman that there is a shortage of available second-hand boats and that if anyone has a boat that they're not using, then they should consider selling it so that other people could enjoy the benefits. After all, a boat is built to get wet – not to sit gathering dust just to satisfy an old man's craving to 'belong'. So when someone contacted me who had heard that I don't use her very much, and who seemed very keen to buy her, I agreed to let him take a look. Even when he was carrying out his inspection, I still didn't believe it was really going to happen - until suddenly I found myself shaking hands with this man, and Purple Turtle was no longer mine. It had all happened so quickly.

Yes, I feel a bit sad about this - but at the same time I have made two very positive moves. Firstly I have said "Down, boy" to the ever-jostling, insidious ego (which is always a good thing to do); and secondly I have acted in an almost altruistic way by allowing the boat to be used and enjoyed in the way she was designed to be. Hopefully, I have made Purple Turtle (and the man who bought her) a bit happier.

So this morning, I feel good. Boatless, but good. Even the seemingly rather mundane act of selling a boat can have a higher meaning, perhaps.

Disappointment

I read an absolutely terrible and sad article today about a man (well no more than a boy, really) who has been convicted of the most horrible murder of a beautiful and vibrant young woman. The young woman – as indeed was her assailant – was a former pupil at Harrow School where her father also taught. After tricking his way into her home one evening, this young man subjected his victim to an attack of such obscene violence that even the worst example of sick movies ever produced by Hollywood couldn't match it. Quite terrible, and of course, very tragic.

But what I find just as offensive about this article is the way that it depicts the tragedy as being more shocking just because both assailant and victim had attended a so-called 'upper-class school' (indeed, much is also made in the article of the fact that the murderer was a student at Oxford too). This is as if to say that whereas we can expect such atrocities to erupt from the sewer-life of those less privileged in society, it affronts our moral code more so when we realise that even toffs have drug and mental health problems too. I am particularly incensed by this paragraph from Richard Edwards, writing today in the Daily Telegraph:

Miss Braham's family is steeped in success. Her mother Julienne, 50, is an artist and her older sister Alice, 30, works for a magazine and has represented Britain in a number of marathons, including London and New York.

I don't see these achievements as being 'steeped in success'. Many of my friends are artists; my daughter - and other people I know - have worked for magazines; and my brother has also 'represented Britain' (WTF?) in a number of marathons. This is just normal life. No, Mr Edwards obviously felt it was necessary to 'sex up' the story so that we could flail our arms in horror and despair that even such a 'successful' family could be contaminated by the evils of drug-culture and violence. Why is this necessary? Why can't it be enough that a young life has been tragically shortened as a result of appalling violence, whatever the woman's educational background is? Is it really so much worse that her assailant was failed by the expensive education system in which he was nurtured (and which apparently attempts to 'play down' the grasp that our drug culture has in its midst, for the sake of discretion of course), than any other young person who may be similarly let down by the failings of their inner city schools, or the lack of opportunity offered to them by their rural communities?

It's this sort of insidious journalism that irritates me. We see reported – en passant – endless stories of daily human heartbreak that befall our society's underclass, but when we learn (shock horror) that a marathon runner's sister has been horribly murdered, our indignation should apparently be further heightened to the point of gross outrage.

It's no surprise that the BBC has been accused of misleading reportage in respect of the Queen's supposed outburst during a photo shoot. This is another example of sexing up the facts to make our self-righteous anger seem more justified. Really, they're all at it – but it just won't do, you know. It won't do at all.

Drinking Again

Blurgh. I got well hammered last night at the Broadway following a photo shoot in Market Square to promote the Creative Business Awards. It was a great opportunity to hook up with a whole load of people, many of whom I already know, but many new faces too. I particularly enjoyed talking to the musicians and artists there because we writers can tend to be a bit partisan sometimes. I met some very interesting characters and it's just amazing that Nottingham has such a wealth of creative talent in its bosom. However, I ended up drinking too much which was a shame because I'd been very healthy up to that point – I have a gym and a pool in my apartment building and I'd used both earlier in the day and had been feeling very virtuous. Then I went and spoiled it all.

I'm having a real problem with flies at the moment. I don't know why they're called houseflies because they shouldn't live in houses. They irritate me but I can't kill them (it's not a very Buddhist thing to do). If I open my balcony doors they drift in and mosey around for a bit before leaving; but some stay. Nothing I can say to them will convince them to leave so I then spend ages shooing them back out, gently. It's quite a chore. There's one here now that I'm tempted to kill, but I won't. It seems a strange existence, to buzz around close to the ceiling not in a circle, but in a sort of square circuit making hand-brake turns before changing direction. Why do they do it?

I'm having lunch with my parents today – my mother called me yesterday to remind me that I'd promised to visit them but I had completely forgotten to do that, or even that I'd said I would. My memory is getting worse.

However, I won't forget to go to my Buddhist class tonight. It's the one rock in my rather turbulent life right now. I'm getting there.

Gybe-Ho!

I've had the most fabulous weekend away. It was the best sailing trip I've had in a long time, but for one particular reason. Recently I have, like Prince Tomohito (who apparently is fifth in line to the throne of Japan), been drinking too much. It's time to stand up and admit it. Now that I live alone, there is nobody to cast a disapproving eye over that fifth visit to the whisky bottle, nor to suggest that a couple of glasses of wine with dinner would be better than the three-quarters of a bottle I often indulge in. This is not to say I was being nagged before, just that it's easier to introduce a bit of self-restraint when you are fearing the disapproval of another.

So the drinking had become too regular, and needed to be curbed. My problem is that I lead such an unhealthy life these days; cooped up in my airless flat, boiling with heat from the restaurant below, staring endlessly at my laptop. And so, to remove myself to the bracing air of the oceans was exactly what I needed this weekend. There's nothing better than being at sea, miles from land, with only the wind and the sunshine and the diving gannets to create any focus. We decided, because the wind was forecast as south-westerly, that it would be better to head east to Salcombe instead of west to Fowey. We arrived in record time – albeit in a heaving swell that would suddenly yank the wheel from my hand and threaten to gybe the boat before we were ready to do so.

Salcombe was as picturesque as ever (see picture) and we tied up to a mooring in the middle of the harbour opposite the town centre. There was a bonus – I had forgotten that it was the Merlin Rockets' Salcombe Week and I was excited to see so many of them darting back and forth around the estuary, dodging the various moored yachts and diesel-guzzling gin-palaces that (like us) were visiting the town. We took the water-taxi into town because we couldn't be bothered to inflate the dinghy, and went to the Yacht Club for dinner where the Merlin sailors were also holding a reception to celebrate the beginning of their week. I bumped into many old faces – people I hadn't seen for months – even a guy I'd shared a room with earlier this year whilst skiing in Switzerland (who, bizarrely, boasted "Oh yes, I've slept with Richard Pilgrim" – some boast!). It was great fun. The next morning we viewed the Merlins' first race from our vantage point in the middle of the harbour, enjoying a better view of the race than anyone ashore would get.

But the great thing about this weekend was that it has shaken me out of my lethargy and yes, although we drank and ate according to our appetites, none of it was to excess. And because sailing a thirty-eight foot yacht is quite a physical thing to do (always running around grinding away at sail trimming etc.), it was a really healthy time. We had a pretty tough beat back to Plymouth with crashing waves and a force 5/6 headwind heeling the boat at an almost permanent 60 degree angle; it was tiring, but fun. I feel rejuvenated and glowing.

Now, back to the novel. I have to spring my man from jail.

Excuses, excuses

The good news is that I started to work on my novel again. It's been so long since I started this one that I probably ought to scrap it and start something else. But no, for I love this one and many people have told me that it's almost right (note, almost) that I feel sure it's worth picking it up again. I'm in the middle of a two-month 'sabbatical' (i.e. I have no work) and I really should be using the time constructively. Instead, I've been holidaying, drinking, blogging(!) and cleaning my flat (which still, strangely, looks like a tip). At least all my washing and ironing is done.

It's really horrible how sometimes we can find any excuse at all not to sit down and begin writing. Oh, it's time to start writing – but no, the windows need cleaning; oh, it's time to start writing – but no, I should wash my hair…. I know it's naughty.

Anyway, I now need some legal advice. My protagonist – to my surprise – has been accused (wrongly) of murder and is in custody. And I don't have the faintest idea how to get him out. How do these things get resolved? This isn't a crime thriller, and I don't actually know very much about the law or police proceedings at all, so I wonder just how I'm going to get him released. He can't languish in jail for the remainder of the novel – he has one or two people to shag first. Oh dear, whatever shall I do?

I'm about to go away yachting for the weekend. I'm not sure where we'll be heading but the boat's in Plymouth and we'll most probably just beat our way down to Fowey which takes about eight hours. We'll hitch to a mooring in the creek, near to Daphne du Maurier's old house, and go ashore for dinner. I love sleeping afloat, tucked into my little cabin. The rise and fall of the boat; the whack of the water as it slaps against the hull; the wind in the rigging. I won't even need the usual tumbler of whisky to get me to sleep!

I'll have the full report on Monday. Who knows, I may even get the inspiration for my get-out-of-jail card.

Gone but not forgotten

So, George Melly has died. Another great British eccentric passes on and our cultural life becomes (although one hopes only temporarily – see below) a bit poorer. I met George once. He was giving a concert that was attended for some reason by the Mayor of Erewash and, because I was a Councillor at the time, I was invited to meet him after the show. He was magnificently flamboyant; as camp as Christmas; irascible yet jolly; risqué. What a character. And his performance was fabulous - classic Melly. Loud, rumbling, stomping, shaking and rocking – he entertained us with his singing and ribald jokes for hours, wearing (of course) his trademark colourful check suit and cheeky fedora. It's always when personalities like George die, that we begin to think that the Golden Age of great performers is coming to an end. I'm sure people said the same thing when Bessie Smith died, or Fats Waller, or countless other larger-than-life entertainers.

It probably isn't true; there must be some rising stars out there who can replace the outrageousness and flamboyance of performers like George and Bessie. Although are there? In today's world of instant (and therefore short-lived) fame – à la Warhol – will performers have the kind of longevity required to sustain a career in which they eventually become a legend? I somehow doubt it really. And please, please, please, nobody mention Elton John.

Goodbye George.

Scratch Perverts

An interesting thing happened to me the other night. Well, I found it interesting – as an old man – but maybe you youngsters have seen this all before. I met a young Hungarian waiter in a restaurant who is also a part-time DJ and who sometimes works at The Social and the Rescue Rooms (two of Nottingham's best music venues). He took me back to his house and introduced me to his four housemates, all Hungarian and all part-time DJs too. Between them they demonstrated the intricacies of scratching – how there are two turntables working (I think) at different speeds and each playing a different kind of music; one for the background and one for the scratch, although the background one can also be scratched to create an even more complex sound.

I've seen this done before, of course, but I've always thought it looked both simple to do, and rather unnecessary. Now that it's been explained to me, I realize that it's not at all simple and requires real flair and real talent. Moreover, it is a truly creative activity that requires a solid focus and a 'spot on' ear for sound that I (for one) have never appreciated before. I was shown the various techniques used to create a cluster of different moods and rhythms, depending on the results the DJ is trying to achieve on the dance floor. It was also explained to me that there is new equipment available for 'digital scratching' but that, amazingly, the software for this isn't as responsive as the human ear (or mind) and that it's impossible to create a living sound from it that is really capable of touching the vortex of human emotion. Not until they improve the software, stated one young Hungarian (Balazs), will he be dispensing with his vinyl. Quite so.

This was all amazing, of course. But what made the evening so especially delightful was the way that each boy would, in turn, spend time on the turntables doing "his" own stuff. There was a kind of gentle competitiveness in this that meant that each one of them was trying to perform, both for me and for each other, better than the last one. After a while we were joined by a Spanish boy (who also works the Rescue Rooms) whom some of the Hungarians honoured as 'the Man' and said I had to listen to him because he really knew how to scratch. I have to say that yes, he was good, but to my untrained ear I couldn't tell the difference; they were all extremely skilful and I enjoyed it all.

What was refreshing about all of this was that I was witnessing a show of some kind of male 'bravado' - in as much as they each wanted to out-impress each other - yet it was all so gentle, and so creative. There were no insults, only laughter; no swaggering, only admiration. I thought it was a wonderful way to spend an evening – this was home entertainment at its best and, instead of spending a few hours in the pub working out who can drink the most, this group of lads choose to spend their time creating something that will take them to a wider world.

By the way, the title of this blog is not derogatory – this is the way these guys refer to themselves when they are introduced to you!

Carnival Time

I'm afraid the riotous antics of Friday evening in Birmingham meant that I didn't get back to Nottingham in time for the last day of the Lowdham Book Festival. This was a shame because I don't normally miss it; there's always something interesting to dip into, and usually many old faces to bump into and to catch up on the news with. Looking at the programme though, the only thing I'm really sorry to have missed was the launch of Clare Brown's new novel Dream Laboratory which is apparently about 'love, sex and dangerous nocturnal obsessions'. Sounds fascinating, and all the more ironic that I should have missed the launch just because of my own night of debauchery containing, I suppose, the same ingredients!

At about five o'clock in the morning I was awoken by a great commotion outside the door of my hotel room. Shouting, screaming, doors banging, music - it all sounded too good a spectacle to miss so I opened my door to take a look. The corridor was populated with seemingly dozens of half-dressed young people, all engaged in cavorting in one way or another. A drink was thrown at someone; two boys were engaged in a passionate kiss; a girl was lying on the floor, laughing; others were fighting. The door opposite mine opened and a young man looked across at me, bemused. "What's happening?" I said. "I don't know. It's outrageous," he replied, before being leapt on by an unseen occupant of his room and dragged back to bed.

Next, a beautiful young man emerged from the next room wearing what looked like backless baby-doll pyjamas. "Oh my chile," he purred, "this noise is unacceptable. I am a transsexual and I NEED my beauty sleep!" I demurred that any amount of sleep was too late to save my looks, before he too was hauled roughly back into his room by a naked black youth.

I had clearly woken up in bacchanalia. I noticed then that there was beer dripping down the outside of my door and so, as two briefly-dressed girls staggered towards me pouring vodka down their tops, I stepped back inside, closed the door, took a swig of cough medicine, and returned to bed.

When I finally got up at about 9:30 - head thumping - I peeked outside. The corridor was now bare, and silent. Had I imagined it?