We Can Fight Them On The Beaches

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

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

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

How Very Dare You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing For Your Supper

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

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

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

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

It's just a purrfect day...

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

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

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

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

TFI Friday

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

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

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

The New Life

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

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

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

Courage mon brave!

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

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

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

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

Road to Marrakesh

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

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

Party On!

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

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

Dear Jim

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

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