Raineth on the just

Now, I'm not much of a party animal, but this week seems to have been one long round of eating and drinking. I blame the Bank Holiday - that started it of course - but since then I just keep getting dragged into restaurants for something to eat. Or worse – sucked into the vortex that is Broadway! I've had a piece of chicken in my fridge, waiting to be cooked for so long now that I think it's about to get up and leave of its own accord. I doubt if I shall have time to cook it today either, because I'm going sailing this evening and that's always a bit of a rush. I'm hoping this wind keeps up though, because sailing without wind can be tedious to say the least. It was blowing old boots last night but seems to be dropping now.

I used to have a theory that Thursday evenings are when the celestial wind machine gets turned off for its weekly service (we always sail on Thursdays). It can be blowing hard enough to shred the sails of the 'Flying Dutchman' all day but then by the evening, about five minutes before the race is due to start, the great turbine slows, the flags flag, and the water turns into a glassy black mirror. Sometimes, if the paint on the boat were wet, we could watch it dry and have more fun that way. At the moment though, the sign above the door of the building next door to the crack house across the road from here is swinging in the wind. Let's hope it stays that way, at least until we have finished our race.

Now, I'm not much of a sexist but many years ago I discovered that there's a real difference between men and women. Can you guess what it is? Well, if asked to state a preference, a woman will usually say that offered the choice between rain and wind, she'd choose rain. A man, on the other hand, would more often than not choose wind in preference to rain. And do you know why that is? Well, it's all to do with hair. Most women hate to get their hair messed up and therefore fear the wind because wind usually messes up hair something rotten. However, if it's raining, then a woman will usually use an umbrella to protect her well-prepared coiffeur from being annihilated. Men of course, don't often care so much about having the windswept look to the bonce but, like cats, hate getting wet. Similarly, many men think it's far too pouffy to carry an umbrella and so, if it rains, wet is what they get.

Now, I'm not the world's most masculine guy (to quote the Kinks), but I'll tell what I prefer: Wind wins every time for me. Hands down, mate. I'm a real man, me.

Hurrah!

Well, the unveiling of the sculpture turned out to be a charming event. The sun shone, the bronze artworks glinted, the band played, the Mayor beamed benignly at everyone. The sculptor – Hilary Cartmel – said some words, then I said a few words, and then I read my poem to a rather bemused audience who probably didn't understand it, and then we posed for photographs. My mum wore her best pearls, my father –as usual – shied the limelight, bless him, and my daughter Imogen stunned everyone with her glamorous dress and movie star sunglasses. All in all, a very pleasant morning. Okay, so I was mildly harangued by a Labour Councillor who for some reason had chosen to use the event to promote party politics (something I thought was unnecessary), but apart from that it was all jolly good fun.

I went to see The Bourne Ultimatum on Friday. This film has been much hyped as 'raising the bar for the spy and action genres for years to come'. Really? I thought it was overblown, badly photographed and demanded a bigger suspension of disbelief than even the plots of Holloaks. Nothing wrong with that, you might think – surely all this is perfectly compatible with the genre itself. But no, whereas this might be acceptable in a James Bond movie when it's all meant to be tongue-in-cheek, Bourne's director Paul Greengrass presumably expects us to take this seriously. Mind you, Matt Damon looked as fabulous as ever and yes, it's all great fun. Furthermore it was a huge treat to see Paddy Considine as the doomed British agent Simon Ross – if nothing else, go and see the film for him alone.

Paddy's not an infrequent visitor to Broadway, either. Good bloke.

Chim-Chiminee

Luckily, I was out of bed when the Aerial System Guy telephoned me at 7:45 this morning. I was a bit surprised to receive his call at that time – usually it's only my mother who will ring me before eight o'clock; more often than not to enquire whether my toe has recovered from being stubbed a week ago last Wednesday or something (mothers pay such attention to detail). Anyway, this guy said he wanted to come round to poke his instrument into my socket for some reason, but as I looked around at the carnage in my flat (which resembled Steptoe's Yard), I had to put him off for an hour. Anyway, he eventually turned up and performed the aforesaid poking before announcing that I had little or no signal and that he would therefore need access to the roof. As we couldn't get hold of the caretaker for a further hour, I gave him a cup of tea. This probably sounds like a great deal of inconvenience but I can tell you, it was not. As it happens, the Alarm System Guy is away on holiday so the Aerial System Guy made a suitable substitute.

This reminds me of the time when we were giving a Christmas Eve party once. We'd been having some work done on the chimney earlier that day and the builder – for reasons known only to himself – had decided that he needed to climb to the roof for one last time, even though by now it was about four o'clock in the afternoon and almost dark. I was just putting the finishing touches to the newly-decorated living room in advance of the guests arriving for an early supper. The food was being prepared in the kitchen, despite the presence of two other workmen in there who had dug up the concrete floor (having discovered an underground lake bubbling beneath the house that threatened to make Atlantis of us all), and all was going well.

Then I heard a yell and, turning to look out of the patio windows, saw some mysterious objects bouncing onto the lawn in the dark. Going outside I saw that these objects were bricks and looking up, I noticed the builder (his arms embracing the entire chimney) surreptitiously flicking brick after brick away from the edifice. "I can't let go," he yelled, "or the whole thing will come down!"

Hmm. Thinking it was better to leave him to it, I headed back inside and continued to plump cushions and arrange ornaments ready for the arrival of the guests. Suddenly there was a dark and ominous rumble and from the fireplace there erupted a gagging, voluminous cloud of black soot and debris that proceeded to coat every single surface in the room, including me. The last few shards of brick eventually rolled onto the cream carpet and came to a rest. I was alarmed to hear another yell and noticed the builder slide to the ground from his ladder outside. He came into the room. "Sorry about that," he said, "the whole chimney gave way and I had to dismantle it brick by brick to stop it crashing through the roof." He surveyed the room and then looked at me – presumably the whites of my eyes were visible from within my blackened phizog.

"Oh well," he said finally. "At least Santa will be able to get down the chimney tonight."

Media Moguls

Yesterday we held the first board meeting of our new company Za Zen Publishing Limited. It's all very exciting, although there's a massive amount of work to be done in the coming months. Before the meeting we'd been to the bank to open the account and our new Business Manager looked rather crestfallen when we predicted our annual turnover – I think he was expecting to be looking after an operation the size of something like Random House or Harper Collins. Poor man. Never mind - who knows, we might surprise him once we get started.

Things are looking up on the writing front. I've had a story accepted by Staple Magazine which is a highly respected literary publication. I'm not sure what people will make of the story – it's about a cock-mad female poet – but I like it, and I even included some examples of the woman's poetry which was quite difficult because I don't write poetry. Having said that, this coming Saturday sees the official unveiling of the sculpture that features (in cast iron) my poem about Beeston's industries. The Mayor of Broxtowe will be there, and once we've all been photographed for posterity, there'll be tea and sandwiches for the guests. How terribly civilized. I am becoming a pillar of the community!

This puts me in mind of Henrik Ibsen (one of my most favourite playwrights, ever). His play The Pillars of the Community is brilliant – a savage attack on the complacent superiority and hypocrisy of the bourgeois; a sort of Fear and Loathing in the Fjords. This reminds me further of my own search for honesty within myself and how I must resist becoming a pillar of the community if it means living under falsehood. We don't need bogus pillars to cure society's ills; all we need is love. Dharmarchari Nagaraja said as much this morning on Terry Wogan's show – he said that without love, we'll all end up on our hands and knees vomiting into the gutter on a Friday night. A bit extreme perhaps, but I know what he means.

So hear this: Za Zen Publishing is there to help others, and to add to the creative profile of the nation - not to make new Rupert Murdochs of us all. Although the money might be nice…. hmmm.

Social Climbing

I've got a great idea for ending wedding-day stress. It's quite simple - I think all weddings should be state-controlled. It would work like this: A couple decides to get married and so register their intentions on a special government website called www.themarriagemeansmore.gov.uk. Once they've done this, there is a maximum period of six months during which the wedding must take place. If the wedding hasn't been arranged in that time, the engagement is automatically cancelled by the government.

When the date for the wedding has been selected, the couple simply book a slot in one of the state-owned wedding centres that are situated around the country. There will probably be a centre near to you. Although there is a six-month time limit, it is advisable not to set the date too early so that there's time for the couple to attend a course of three special 'Marriage Induction' lessons which will be led by government instructors. These sessions will focus on the meaning of marriage and will not include any reference to the wedding day itself, apart from a confirmation of the date and time it will take place.

When the wedding day arrives, the couple – newly informed and appraised of what the institution of marriage means – will arrive at the state-controlled centre. Here, there will be a straightforward civil ceremony (scripted) in which the couple will be reminded of the reasons for their attendance (i.e. their wish to be married), and their vows will be made. A strict dress code will be imposed, consisting of a lounge suit for the man and a smart cocktail dress for the woman. The couple may be attended by a maximum of eight guests, and there will be a simple state-provided buffet, with wine, in the centre's cafeteria (all celebrations are to be conducted within a one-hour period after the ceremony).

All citizens who wish to marry will only be provided with this option.

See how this would end wedding-day stress? Everyone – from royalty to workers – would all get exactly the same day so there would be no rising frenzy to try to secure the best venue, the longest stretch limo, the widest brimmed hat, the most-encrusted fingernails, or any of the other myriad of elaborate paraphernalia that preoccupies most couples these days. Such preoccupations inevitably obscure the real reason for what the day is all about anyway, and only cause arguments, envy, disappointments and the inexorable rise of the wannabe ego. My solution would restore marriage back to its proper role in society and remove the focus from the wedding to where it should be – on the relationship between two people who (should) love each more than they love a good party.

I'll write to Gordon Brown immediately.

Mink Pigeons

I went to see a really good local band last night. They're called The Mink and are yet another example of the young talent we have here in Nottingham. Oh yes, there are bands everywhere in this country – everywhere in the world, of course – but it's the networking that works so well in Nottingham. There's a creative village here in which everyone with talent hooks up with each other – writers, poets, musicians, artists, film makers (don't forget that Shane Meadows works from an office inside the Broadway building). We're all here, and we all support each other. Well, The Mink was an excellent mix of funk, jazz, pop, rock and soul – the set had it all; I was electrified. The lead singer (see picture) belted out his numbers with the confidence of Elvis or Sinatra (I'm sure there are more contemporary examples but I'm old, don't forget) and yet he displayed the empathy and pain of someone like Billie Holliday. Quite remarkable.

This led me to think about pigeons. I've no idea what the connection is except perhaps this: I am surrounded by creative people just as I am surrounded by pigeons. Pigeons are everywhere in the city – there's one sitting on the table on my balcony right now, staring in at me. The other morning I was sitting with my balcony doors open and one actually hopped inside my flat and stood looking round the room as if to say 'Oh, so this is what it's like on the other side of the glass, is it?' The trouble with pigeons is that they're an absolute pest: disease-ridden, destructive, shit-producing pests who often ruin the paintwork of my car whilst it's parked in the (supposedly) secure underground car park we have in this building. And yet - they're also beautiful to look at and are one of the urban world's great survivors. I have a real dichotomy of emotions about them. I both hate them and love them and of course, when you look at their stupid faces that always display an expression of curiosity and total bewilderment, it's hard to consider doing them any harm. I think there ought to be an order (a public order, that is) that says pigeons should show the same respect to their victims as we do to them.

Just as young talented groups like The Mink should adore their fans in the very same measure as their fans adore them. That's only fair, don't you think?

Bacchus Revisited

Honestly, I really really did try to be well-behaved this weekend. But alas, the road to hell is – as ever – paved with good intentions. It started out quite well. After a very productive Friday with my business partner (we've set up a new publishing company and will be media moguls by this time next year), I met up with a group of old friends for dinner on Friday evening. That went well – nice food, nice company. It was all quite restrained in fact and I was in bed for 3:00 a.m.

Unfortunately Saturday went a bit pear-shaped. Following a virtuous start when I took a birthday present of a lobster (cooked) to an old lady who lives in a nursing home (she has no family at all and so otherwise would get no visitors on her birthday), I pitched up at – you've guessed it – the Broadway, ostensibly for a quick drink while I waited for my daughter to join me. Several pints later I was still sitting there in the sunshine having been joined by several other writers and film-makers who often hang around there. Finally, Imogen arrived. Later we ate sushi, washed down with more beer and sake and later still found ourselves in Tantra where we met up with a crowd of hedonistic lunatics we hadn't met before. They invited us back to a house in The Park (one of Nottingham's smarter districts). The house was huge – it belonged to the parents of one of the crowd – and had a seemingly unending supply of food and drinks plus a swimming pool (heated). Well, needless to say, scenes of the utmost bacchanalia ensued whereupon most of the sunshine-kissed youngsters ended up in a state of puris naturalibus (i.e. naked), and even those who remained clothed soon became very, very wet.

Of course, modesty prevented me from divesting my own clothes - after all, my daughter was there but moreover, the sight of my ancient naked body might have dampened the spirits somewhat. Pity really, because I enjoy swimming. It was a riot and only ended when the police arrived (about 6:00 a.m.). Luckily there was nobody floating face down in the pool (shades of a Michael Barrymore party), nor had we succeeded in pushing the family's Rolls Royce into the water (à la Keith Moon and the infamous Oasis album cover). Actually, I think it was an Audi anyway.

Sunday was naturally a low-key affair. Not even a trip to Broadway. And I forgot to watch the Perseid Shower last night. Boo Hoo, but I think I might get another chance tonight. Will I need shower gel and a cap?

Shut the f*** up!

I've been working really hard down at the studio recently, and whereas it's much easier to focus there than at home (no dishwasher to empty; no flies to chase), there is one distraction that is beginning to test my sanity. Opposite the studio there is a small apartment block where I can only presume there lives a crack dealer (or some such public service operative). They have a doorbell system that is so over-amplified it sounds like a very loud warbling telephone bell. People arrive to gain entry to that building with remarkable frequency. The mornings are okay, just the odd visitor – some of whom look like regular people (whatever that means), but the afternoons! It starts hotting up at about 3:30 p.m. when they begin to arrive almost by coach party. My desk overlooks the street and I can see the door to the building as I type. Being a nosey sort, I can never resist raising my eyes from the keyboard whenever I hear that sickeningly familiar warble-like claxon that heralds the arrival of a new visitor, desperately seeking entry.

To say that most of these people are irregular types is perhaps a slight injustice. Some of them look as if they might even be able to hold down a job, but the majority appear to be typical of the shifty, shady, underbelly world of unemployment, drink and drugs. Track suits and baseball caps are de rigeur, as are dark glasses and gold chains. Balabalabalabala, goes the doorbell, followed by something muttered discreetly into the intercom. The door buzzes open and inside they go, only to reappear (more often than not) a few minutes later. Then it's a short pause on the threshold, a quick glance up and down the street, and they're gone. I could be wrong – they might just be popping in to wish someone a happy birthday.

I don't really care what they are up to, but when you're trying to work and you hear this balabalabalabala every other minute, it becomes a bit wearing. Couldn't they have a doorbell system that didn't resound into the street and that could only be heard in the apartment being called? What is the point of announcing to the entire neighbourhood that yet another smackhead customer has arrived at No. 43? But there's more – sometimes the visitor (for whatever reason) is denied access, and it's then when the real disturbance starts. Often the denied visitor will repeatedly press the bell (balabalabalabala) hoping, somehow, to convince the occupants inside to relent. Others will move into the centre of the road and start bellowing various names up at the high windows. One boy yesterday – presumably not equipped with any heightened sense of social responsibility – began pressing every single doorbell on the keypad, one after the other, over and over again, until he at last made some form of human contact. Clearly disappointed that whoever it was who responded was not the person he wanted, he resumed his unyielding attack on the keypad and kept it up for a good two minutes before moving on. Less time than it takes to boil an egg I admit, but quite long enough to boil my brains.

By this time, I felt I could have used some drugs myself, just to block out the inexorable warble-like ringing that had now taken up residence inside my head.

Balabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabalabala!

Lights, camera, action!

Well, the Riverside Festival was good fun and Sam, the young ukulele player gave - as expected - a superb performance. He has a singing voice that can soar with energy when needed, but which can just as easily retreat into poetic yearning and softness as well. His own (sometimes anguished) lyrics are original and tender, and his interpretations of other classic songs are provocative. It was most excellent, and a good start to the festival. Later we moved on to watch other performances on the various stages there. This for me is the whole point of going to the festival – unfortunately, the majority of Nottingham's hoi-polloi seem to attend for different reasons (the flashing and screeching of the funfair; the queasy smell of the burger vans; the impatient cram of the beer tent). Later in the evening we watched the rhythmic pulse-beat that was Nuru Kane & Bayefall Gnawa from Senegal. Electrifying - and a sweaty, chaotic climax to the day's music. And yes, I am aware - before anyone points it out - that in the above photograph, Sam is not playing a ukulele. That is my fault.

Guess what? There's a picture of me appearing in this month's brochure from Broadway. A few weeks ago I wrote here about a photo session involving many of the creative people living and working in Nottingham. Well, one of the photos taken at that session is featured both in the magazine 'Left Lion', and in the Broadway brochure. True, you'd need a magnifying-glass worthy of the Hubble telescope to spot me, but I'm there; I'm on the map. So, even on those very infrequent occasions when I am not actually sitting in the Broadway bar, I'm still in the building!

Toodle pip, old loves.

Time Is Running Out

I don't mean to alarm you, but we've all only got a few years to live. We're doomed. And the reason? It's not what you might think – it won't just be global warming, or a nuclear holocaust, or collision with a massive meteorite, or even the arrival of unfriendly aliens that will cause our demise. No, it's far simpler than that. It will be something known as Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) that will eventually wipe us human beings from the face of the earth, and a lot sooner than we thought possible. It's all about bees.

Albert Einstein predicted this years ago. He said: "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would only have four years of life left. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man." Frightening isn't it? Apparently, bees are disappearing faster than ever before - in some areas of the UK, honeybee numbers have dropped by as much as 80 per cent, while bumblebees across the country have declined by 60 per cent since 1970. And it's not only in this country that this is happening; the disappearance of bees and the associated CCD is taking place on a world-wide scale.

At the moment, scientists have no single theory as to why this is happening – loss of natural habitats maybe; a massive increase in parasites perhaps; even (and this one sounds horribly plausible) the impulses from the millions of mobile phones causing interference with the bee's signalling system. The one thing they all agree on is that the decline of the bee is more rapid, and seemingly more unstoppable, than anyone could have predicted.

So, what is the government here doing about it? Well, as you'd expect, it's taken action – yes, it has slashed bee research budgets and caused world-class bee experts to be laid off from UK research institutes. How very timely. The British Beekeepers Association has publicly slammed Defra's current allocation of £180,000 for research, calling it "paltry". And yet it has been estimated that the economic contribution bees make to agriculture in the UK each year is £1 billion (globally it's thought to be between £20 - £50 billion). This country (and the planet) needs our bees!

Everyone should be concerned about this. You can help: You can join the Bumblebee Conservation Trust (see link opposite), and you can write to your MP to urge for more pressure on the government in support of the British Beekeepers Association. Do something now! If we take the humble bumblebee for granted, they will take their business elsewhere and abandon the planet completely.

Four years left. You have been warned.

My Head Hurts!

We had a really good session at the Writers' Studio social evening last night. It was perhaps one of the best yet – there were all sorts of people there, the place was heaving; standing room only. Even the young ukulele player came along (he's only loosely eligible to attend, by virtue of the fact that he writes music, but we like him anyway because he brings a bit of youthful glamour to the place). There was some really good networking going on too, with everyone swapping contact details with each other and several joint projects being discussed. So, a big Thank You to Jon McGregor whose brainchild the setting up of the place was, because it's definitely proving to be a great venue for Nottingham's writers to convene.

I'm going to be working on the novel again today. It's going well. I managed to get my protagonist out of jail (it was relatively easy actually) and now he's making his next move to destroy the family that has betrayed him. I was also having some difficulty with a few plot directions that I needed to weave in and wasn't quite sure how to do it. I always trust my instincts when this happens and give the characters a free range to solve the problems themselves. It usually works, and I had a real stroke of luck yesterday when I was struggling to get the central character to take action that he wouldn't normally take – how was I going to do that? In the end, one of his fellow characters solved the problem for me and led my man down the exact path I wanted him to take. All I have to do now is learn to write properly and I'm home and dry.

I'm very excited today because I'm meeting up with the alarm system guy later, and I'm finally going to get this door entry system worked out. Also, tomorrow we're all going to the Riverside Festival to watch the young ukulele player perform. If you wish you could go too, but can't, then do the next best thing - listen to his music by clicking on the link to the left. Go on, you won't regret it!

Morality Sucks

When I was sitting in the writing studio the other day, a hole appeared in the road outside. It was about the size of a large pizza but looked quite deep and would certainly have damaged a car (or pedestrian) if anyone had accidentally driven or fallen into it. There was much consternation, which was what made me look out of the window, and I even saw someone in a yellow jacket actually scratching his head as he peered in. Later, two Police Community Officers were sent to guard it (protecting the public, of course) so I took them out a cup of tea because it looked rather a boring job, standing by a hole in the road.

Later still, contractors came and discovered that the pizza-size cavity was just the start of it. Once they began to investigate, a great chasm as big as the Round Towers of Copenhagen opened up, and it was evident there was a honeycomb of dark caverns beneath the road. I began to fear for the stability of the building, but they assured me that we are safe. I didn't take those guys tea though because, well, frankly I couldn't be arsed.

What are these underground pockets of space meant to be? Is it mining subsidence, perhaps? Well, I think it's clearly the work of dwarves, mining for gold (how many dwarves, I can't be sure - perhaps seven?). This then reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin, who crashed his foot through the floor in a self-pitying fit of pique when the Queen finally discovered his name. Maybe he caused the hole in the road? I used to read the story of Rumpelstiltskin to my children when they were little. What a sorry tale of corruption, weakness and inverted morality it is too! We're all supposed to cheer for the Queen when she finally manages to discover the name of the strange little man who wants to take her baby away, and likewise we're supposed to feel gratified when he gets his "come-uppance". Well, let me tell you how it really is. It's quite long, but bear with me:

· Some lily-livered miller shakes in his boots when he's summoned to meet the King, thinking the King might chop off his head (when probably all the King wanted was to order a loaf of bread).
· Saying the first thing that comes into his silly empty head, the miller tells the King that his beautiful daughter can spin straw into gold.
· The King (interest now aroused) orders the miller to send his daughter to him. The miller, without a shred of concern for his daughter's welfare (what a great dad!), orders her to go to the castle that night.
· King orders girl to spin a pile of straw into gold, or face getting her head chopped off (how very reasonable and conciliatory).
· Girl cries, but is helped by Strange Little Man who really CAN spin straw into gold. His reward - a piece of her (presumably rather cheap) jewellery. Not much to ask for saving the girl's head.
· King gets greedy and so the next evening gives the same command. Girl cries again, but her neck is once more saved by SLM in return for her last piece of jewellery.
· King gets greedier still, but this time says that if the girl will spin the most humongous pile of straw into gold, then not only will he NOT chop off her head, but he'll marry her too (filthy old pervert).
· Girl cries again and, having no more jewellery to hand over, rashly promises that her first born child will be given to SLM. She clearly has no intention of keeping her promise.
· Girl marries King; Queen gives birth; SLM comes to claim his rightful reward (she did make a promise, after all).
· Queen reneges on her deal. SLM, instead of saying "You lying, cheating bastard", or calling his lawyer, agrees another deal with Queen – if she can guess his name, he'll give up his claim on the child.
· Queen uses her power, money and influence (not her intelligence) to learn the SLM's name. Basically, she uses the royal spy network to trick him into revealing it.
· Although he is enraged, Rumpelstiltskin (for yes, it is he) keeps his promise and agrees to give up his claim on the child. Doh!

So you see, although we are meant to be relieved for the Queen, the morality of this story is all wrong. It says that if you are weak and morally irresponsible towards your children (the miller); or if you are avaricious, unmerciful and a psychopath (the King); or if you are scheming, deceitful and untrustworthy (the Queen) – then that's okay, you win, and we all cheer. Hurrah! But if you are hard-working, honourable and your word is your bond (Rumpelstiltskin), then you lose, and you are despised.

And we read such stories to our children? No wonder the fabric of society is collapsing. Just like our road outside.