A Cup of Kindness

It's New Year's Eve tomorrow. I hate New Year more than I hate Christmas. It's just a number, after all – there is no real evidence to say that January 1st actually exists except in the minds of Western people. Why should any more significance be attached to some random date in the darkness of winter, than it should to any other day of the year? Okay, so for the purposes of administration it is reasonably useful to begin somewhere – and I suppose that January 1st is as useful a place to start as any – but why attach such high emotions (and expectations) to what is essentially nothing more than a bureaucratic necessity?

'Happy New Year' and all that crap – why? Why do ardent young men spring proposals upon their simpering girlfriends at this particular time? Why do we make resolutions to change our wretched lives on New Year's Day when we could make those decisions at any other time of the year? Why do we find it necessary to throw parties, wear fancy-dress, crack open the champagne, or awkwardly cross-link our hands with our neighbours and sing 'Auld Lang Syne' (when we don't even know the words)? What's it all about?

I can't remember a single New Year's Eve that didn't end in disappointment. I usually find myself wanting to go home, or go to bed, at about 10:30 p.m., yet I know that I can't because I am duty bound – as a member of Western society – to stay the course until that final and fateful countdown: Ten...Nine...Eight...Seven... etc. Yawn, yawn, I say. And the fireworks – don't get me started... I hate the fireworks.

So, tomorrow evening I am planning to have a cup of cocoa and take a good book to bed by 11:00 p.m. That's what I'm planning – but I suspect that it won't happen. I suspect that I'll get dragged into some hideously unrealistic and artificially forced celebration of the coming of 2009 and will probably find myself snogging some random individual (when neither of us would give each other the time of day throughout the rest of the year) just as Big Ben chimes his usual mournful harbinger of new promise. It was ever thus....

This Is Paris Calling

Well, it's already Day Four in Paris and this is the first chance I've had to record any details about the trip. We had a totally trouble-free journey over here by Eurostar and arrived amidst the pre-holiday hub-bub of the Gare du Nord. Within minutes, Imogen (daughter number one) came by in a taxi on her way from Gare du Lyon where her train from Geneva had arrived a short time earlier. She picked us up with our huge pile of luggage. We had four ordinary suitcases, two steamer trunks, three portmanteaux, two hatboxes and a valise – the poor taxi driver was horrified. Indeed, this amount of luggage was to cause ourselves some consternation too, when we discovered that Sophie (daughter number two) had taken a delightful yet bijou apartment in Montmartre which was on the fourth floor and with no lift!

However, successfully installed at last, we relaxed with some Christmas Eve drinks. On Christmas morning we ventured up to the Sacré Coeur to do some shopping, partake of a vin chaud and take in the sights. I was given a lift up there on Sophie's scooter – an essential mode of transport when wishing to dodge the crowds and the high volumes of traffic. With total disregard to one-way streets and pedestrian-only areas, Sophie weaved her way up the cobbled hills and there we met up with Imogen and her mother on the steps of the famous church. The weather was gloriously sunny, if cold.

On Boxing Day, Sophie was back at work in the newsroom of the TV station where she is a journalist, so we travelled out to les banlieus to visit her. Her colleagues are all very charming and cosmopolitan and we even bumped into Clovis, Sophie's boyfriend, looking startled in his studio make-up because he'd just come off-air. We then went to a Lebanese restaurant for lunch where we drank Lebanese wine – delicious, and I can't wait to tell Johnny in Shaw's about it when I return to Broad Street. Later, Clovis came back to the apartment where we ate dinner, drank more wine and played darts. Later still, Sophie showed us an article she'd written about President Ahmadinejad's alternative Christmas Message to the British which was shown on Channel Four in the UK. It was a pity I missed it – but then I also missed the Queen's Speech too, so that doesn't matter.

The holidays are soon over and before long, it will be back to work for us all (ha!). Until the next time....

Very Clever

Hmm. You know I'm always going on about fields of kittens and such – well, today is turning into a field of landmines. I'm so busy trying to get ready for Paris tomorrow (for yes, dear reader, I am spending the Juletide festivities in the French capital) so I could really do without all the messy crap that seems to be coming my way today. There's murder in my heart today, so there is. I keep trying to remember the good things in life, and reminding myself that I'm so lucky (and I am, usually), but events seem to want to thwart my merry-tune whistling mode and send me burning to the curled edges of the map. I can't be bothered to explain, but there are at least five people in this city that I would cheerfully stab right now – and I don't even know one of them.

Right. Deep breaths. Bend ze knees, a-a-a-and, breath out. Very good. Oh no, that has just reminded me that there are six people I could stab. Well, seven if you count the person who has allowed their friend to park their car in my private parking space in the car park (which I pay for). It's so damned disappointing – I'm busy enough trying to do the normal things that people have to do at Christmas (especially if you're going away), without having to spend time calling the clamping company to get them to come over and immobilize some random delinquent driver. It's so discourteous to do this, just because someone doesn't want to pay on-street parking charges while they do their Christmas shopping. What am I supposed to do? I will now have to park on the streets myself, until they move - or park in one of my neighbours' spots and risk being clamped myself. Actually, I've a good mind to take a baseball bat to the offending car's windscreen. That's if I had a baseball bat, which I don't (hint, hint Santa).

I don't know what Santa is going to bring for me this Christmas - for years I've been asking for a pair of maracas and yet I have never received them. Quite what I would do with a pair of maracas I'm not sure, but they always sound so much fun when other people use them. There's no such thing as a 'Boxing Day Sale' in France, otherwise I might venture out on Friday and see if le boutique de la musique has a pair going cheap.

Well, thinking about maracas has cheered me up. Hurrah! The kittens are saved from being slaughtered after all. The next report will be from Gay Paree – hmm.

Dinosaurs R Us!

I read a startling report this morning. It states that researchers have found that women who drink even moderate amounts of alcohol develop a reduced ability to rate attractiveness in male faces, even when they have sobered up. What this means is that women are affected by the 'beer-goggle' syndrome for longer than are men. Extraordinary.

This rather distorts my theory about the so-called promiscuity amongst gay males. People have long since regurgitated the assertion that gay men behave like sexually-crazed rampant rabbits, compared with their heterosexual counterparts. It is thereby often claimed that homosexual men are somehow looser in their morality.

I've always asserted that this is codswallop. The simple fact is that all men - gay or straight - have the same biological instincts; a behavioural trait that is inherent in us all since primeval times. It's a man's job to scatter his seed as far and as wide as possible in order to propagate the species. As a foil to this, it is a woman's intrinsic job to protect the species; to be selective; to choose only those males who will strengthen the species. Therefore, when a man meets a woman, his instinct is to fuck. Unfortunately, because of woman's inbuilt selection defences, he often meets resistance. Ipso facto, when a gay man meets another gay man, there is often no such resistance – both have the same primitive urges after all – and so some kind of union ensues. It's not any more promiscuous or immoral for gay men to behave like this – it's just a question of mathematics and opportunity.

But now, this new reports says that women who drink (god forbid, what is the world coming to?) are less able to detect male facial symmetry, a marker of attractiveness and good genes, and therefore become less selective in their choice of a partner. Results have shown that the more alcohol a woman had drunk during the six months before a symmetry test was performed, the lower her performance in the test. The scientist who conducted these tests, Dr Kirsten Oinonen of Lakehead University in Canada, said: "My study suggests that women who drink alcohol are less able to perceive facial symmetry when sober. When sober, these women are worse at judging facial symmetry, and therefore may find less attractive men more attractive."

So, although a woman's instincts for natural selection can be temporarily waived whilst under the influence of alcohol, it would appear that her beer goggles stay in place for longer than they do on that minger she pulled in Revolution last night. As for him, his goggles disappear by morning and before she can say "Will you call me?", he's zipped up and gone – mission accomplished.

This is of some concern. If we believe the politicians – that the rise in female drunkenness is endemic – then, due to the subsequent fall in natural selection, our species is doomed. Ah-ha! So, we don't need the environment to fail; we don't need a nuclear holocaust; we don't even need Bird Flu. No, to ensure the demise of homo sapiens, all we really need is a few more crates of Vodka Redbull. Right, I'm off to call my stockbroker – shares in Smirnoff? Buy, buy!

I Wanna Go Home

God, what a night it was last night. Well, what a day in fact. I was rushing all over the place trying to get things done, but achieving very little. I did do one positive thing which was to have a meeting with Jennie Syson from the Hinterland project. She wants me to write something that is going to be projected onto the glass frontage of The Broadway during a month-long art installation on the theme of writing. This will be good for me because it will spur me into writing something new, and will push my name out on another project. There's no such thing as bad publicity.

Then it was on to my mate Jim Shorthose's book launch. Loads of people were there and everyone was in an expansive mood. I got chatting to a remarkable young talented musician who later played me his recently recorded album. He's called Adam Clarkson and his band is Captain Dangerous – the music was fabulous; extremely in vogue but also very original. Adam has one of the best singing voices I've heard in a long time. You should look out for them because I think they're going to be big. Or bigger. I took a photograph of him sitting in my apartment so that I can sell it on eBay when he's famous.

After Jim's book launch, some of us went on to the launch party of the Nottingham Writers' Studio. As you know, I'm on the studio's Board and the party was to celebrate our move to newer and bigger premises. It was good to see some of Nottingham's best known writers there, and even better to note that most of them were drunk. Unfortunately, throughout the whole evening – the last part of which was spent at the Broadway, before the aforesaid musician and I retired to my apartment – I managed to consume more than my own body weight in alcohol, which doesn't make rushing for a train to Birmingham this afternoon very easy. I need a break from all of this, so I do. When's Christmas?

Calm Before The Storm

I had a completely strange weekend. It seems that I wasn't destined to stand still for a moment and even though I have plenty of projects to finish, I couldn't attend to any one of them. On Friday evening I was shooting the scenes for this film I'm to appear in. I play a rather unpleasant character who has to face up to some rather unpleasant news - in complete contrast to my real life, of course, where I am a rather pleasant chap who only ever gets pleasant surprises.

The filming was followed by drinks, inevitably, with the rest of the cast and crew. Broadway was awash with luvvies, and with the odd Italian visitor thrown in for good measure. Luckily I didn't get (very) drunk because the following morning I had to head off to put up some Christmas decorations in my old house. I despise Christmas with a vengeance (and one day remind me to tell you about the time I spent Christmas trapped inside a tent on a mountainside with only a shaman from the feared Yanomami Tribe as company), so putting up the decorations was a double chore. Then it was back into town for drinks with aforesaid random Italian and my old friends the Finns. Even this was a restrained affair, despite the presence of the Finns who can usually drink for England. Or possibly Finland.

I was supposed to go sailing on Sunday morning but when we reached the sailing club, the river was over the banks, Ganges-style, and there was no wind, so all racing was abandoned. Thinking that I would get home in time to do something constructive with my time (such as finishing the three plays, two articles, one novel and several short film scripts that I have on the go), I was surprised to be invited to have just "one drink" in The Lord Roberts (such a cosy pub, with a roaring imitation-log fire). One drink, at half past two on a Sunday afternoon – where was the harm in that?

By midnight, I realized that something had gone wrong. In the intervening hours we had moved to the Broadway, then to my apartment where miraculously I managed to cook dinner for me and one of the Finns, then returned to the Broadway for the film company's 'wrap' party (the film is now 'in the can', as we say in the glittering world of movie-making. I hope you realize I'm being ironic here). Anyway, the party rolled on in a Sodom & Gomorrah kind of way and before I knew it, I was home (without any idea how I came to be here) with my stray cat scratching and biting for attention.

Back to work, methinks....

The Answer, My Friend...

At 6:00 a.m. today the wind was blowing at 23 mph from a South Easterly direction. At 9:00 a.m. it had dropped to 10 mph and switched to a Westerly direction. By 12:00 noon it's predicted to have fallen to 3 mph and blowing from the South. By 3:00 p.m. the forecast says it will be further reduced in strength, but now it will be from the East. By nine o'clock this evening it will have turned again and be coming from the North (brrr!). What on earth is going on? It seems we're in some kind of vortex, albeit a weak one. The only consistent factor to this aberration is that whichever direction the dear wind is coming from, and in whatever strength, it will bring rain all day. How terrible. Who wants to head out into the world in this weather? This puts into jeopardy Gordon Brown's hopes of us spending our way out of the current financial difficulties. I wouldn't want to go shopping in this.

This leads me to reflect on how we sometimes waste time involving ourselves in some meaningless exercise without recognizing it. Have you ever found yourself watching a television programme, only to snap suddenly out of a kind of trance to realize that what you're watching is a load of old rubbish? I have. Something similar happened to me this morning when I was listening to the Brian Matthews programme on BBC Radio 2. In this programme he plays a lot of very obscure recordings from the 1960s – mainly stuff that is justifiably forgettable (and thereby not even pandering to nostalgia which of course, ain't what it used to be). Eating my breakfast, I suddenly woke up to the fact that I was listening to a song by the Brook Brothers (1961) with the somewhat ridiculous title of "Ain't Gonna Wash For A Week". The lyrics were as meaningless as the title and sufficiently snapped me out of my listening lethargy to have me reaching for the 'off' switch. Hmm, I must discover a more consequential way of spending my time.

My guess is that you now feel exactly the same as you read this blog....

Catch you later.

Nottingham!

I'm involved in the most amazing project going on in Nottingham. It's called 'The Building' and it will be a showcase for all that is quality in the creative scene in this city. It is the brainchild of Sarah Davenport whose vision and innovation should be an inspiration to anyone who wants to see Nottingham move up from 4th position in the table of the UK's most creative cities (already an achievement). The city is putting together a bid to be nominated as 'World Design Capital' in 2012 – the current holder is Turin, Italy, and the following baton-holder will be Seoul. And then we're next. Last night we went to an event hosted by the City Council at which we were asked, as ambassadors of Nottingham, to contribute in any way we can towards making the city's WDC bid successful. It was a glittering affair with some of Nottingham's leading design talent present. We were given inspiring talks from two of the city's most ardent protagonists of the WDC bid - Simon Green (Director of Sustainable Development) and Councillor Malcolm Wood who, amongst his many interests and duties, serves on the Eurocities Cultural Committee. The place was buzzing with excitement (sorry for the cliché) and everyone wanted to get involved. Sarah's plans for 'The Building' will be an integral part of Nottingham's message to the world of design – it will help to put us on the map.

The theme for the bid should be 'Communication'. Design can be the babel fish in the multi-lingual galaxy of creativity; a tool through which innovation and inspiration can speak to everyone in the community. Artists, writers, film-makers and musicians all need design to help attract attention and through the power of collaboration, so comes the power of communication. So, whatever genre we work in, we can all support this bid and we can all help Nottingham to become internationally famous. We already have green tights and Brian Clough (not in the same icon, of course) but there is so much more recognition to be achieved. Let's do it, shall we?

And talking of film-makers (and again, Nottingham already has Shane Meadows & Samantha Morton – two of the finest talents in the film industry), I am soon to appear in a feature film currently being shot in this very city by writer and director Tim Cunningham. Tim hopes to take the film to Cannes next year and who knows what international recognition that will bring? Yay! You heard it here first.

Oh!

It is generally accepted within the literary world that good writing should contain as few exclamation marks as possible. I do use the exclamation mark sometimes, but I'm uncomfortable with it because I read somewhere that using one to create emphasis is a bit like laughing at your own joke. There's a famous account of someone sending a telegram that contained a single question mark. I can't remember who sent it – it was somebody like Cole Porter who wanted to find out from his agent how ticket sales for his latest show were going. Whoever it was, he sent a telegram saying: "?" and the agent (immediately understanding what the question was) replied: "!" Rather neat, don't you think?

It's somewhat strange when an exclamation mark is used in real names. The English town of Westward Ho! is, I think, the only place name in the UK that officially contains one. Apparently, there is a town in Quebec called Saint-Louis-du-Ha!-Ha! which sounds like a really fun place to live, I reckon. As Nottingham is now bidding to become World Design Capital in 2012, perhaps we should rename the place Nottingham! so that the world might prick up its ears and listen. There are shows and films that have an exclamation mark in their title – Oh! Calcutta! is one example, as is Oliver! and Airplane! There used to be a television series in the 1970s called The Persuaders! which was very much in the genre of the typically stylish crime comedies that were around at that time, but I'm not sure why the exclamation mark was deemed necessary. It didn't last for long, but it gathered a small cult status amongst its followers, not least because the two detective protagonists were played by Tony Curtis and Roger Moore – both very big names in the early 1970s.

I used to love The Persuaders! because (like The Champions, which I wrote about a few weeks ago) it was glamorous and cosmopolitan and displayed a playboy world that I could only dream about as I looked up from the gutter to the stars. Curtis played a rough-edged American called Danny Wilde, and Moore played a British aristocrat named Lord Brett Sinclair. It amused me at the time that the producers of the show should have regarded this particular name as classy. Whereas 'Sinclair' (derived from St Clair) has a certain aristocratic ring to it (I have a friend called Adam Sinclair – he's pictured here – and I've always considered that his name lends him a certain noblesse oblige), 'Brett' on the other hand sounds rather thuggish to me. It's a bit like naming a character Lord Wayne de Montefiore or some such aberration.

Anyway, to get back to the subject, exclamation marks in writing should be used sparingly, if at all. So from now on, you will rarely see me using one, that's for certain!!!!!

Toodle pip, old loves.

Restaurant at the End of The World

I've never been too clever with fish. I'm talking about eating them here, not looking after them (my care for Mr Fishy and his friends was second to none). But eating them has always presented me with problems – I'm just not skilful enough to deal with the filleting and I nearly always end up with a mouth of bones – something that usually makes me gag with disgust. I was holidaying in Granada once and my friends and I had been wandering the streets looking for a suitable restaurant in which to eat, but for some reason most were either full or closed.

Eventually, we stumbled across what looked like someone's back yard that contained a few rough wooden tables and chairs. "This isn't a restaurant," I said, pointing to a line of grey washing that was strung across one corner of the yard. "Of course it is," my Spanish companion argued, so we sat down. Presently, a waiter emerged from the back door and approached us with a face like that of a traffic warden who has just discovered that none of the cars in his road has overstayed its ticket time. "Si?" he enquired. We asked for the menu. "We don't have a menu," he replied. We asked if we could order some food and he said yes, we could. In that case, we urged, can we see the menu?

"We don't have a menu," he repeated. Well, we asked, what could we order? "Fish," he said flatly. Fish? What kind of fish? "Fish," he said again, and asked if we would like to order some. "Is there anything else?" I asked. He replied that no, there was nothing else. Reluctantly, we ordered the fish.

About five minutes later, he reappeared carrying two three-foot wide platters, each piled high with every kind of fish you can list. A rather sulky girl followed him out with some plates and cutlery, and then an old woman with a moustache hobbled across the yard and slammed down two baskets of bread. They all disappeared back inside and closed the door. Dismayed, I looked at the dozens and dozens of differently-sized fish – some fried, some boiled; some battered, some not. Most still retained their heads and tails and it was immediately apparent that nearly all would have hung on to their bones too.

We all dived in, and very soon the table was strewn with fish remains as my travelling companions deftly recovered enough flesh from the carcasses to satisfy their hungers. Meanwhile, I was struggling with some kind of evil-looking snapper, trying to scrape off sufficient meat to make up a single forkful whilst avoiding choking myself to death on the bones. I can honestly say, it was the single worse meal I've ever eaten and I've never craved so much for a bag of chips, before or since.

It's All Mickey Mouse's Fault!

According to a report in today's newspaper, a Catholic monk has warned that society is in danger of losing its soul because of growing consumerism and the decline of religion. Well, I suppose he would say that, wouldn't he? He suggests that many people have become obsessed with work, sex and eating in an attempt to ignore their underlying unhappiness, and criticises corporations and industries that have benefited from promoting false notions of fulfilment, citing Disney as a typical example. Whereas it is likely that society is in danger of losing its soul (has probably already lost it), I hardly think it's right to blame little Mickey Mouse for any of this.

Fr Jamison, who lives a cloistered and privileged life as the head of the Worth Abbey states that: "Where once morality and meaning were available as part of our free cultural inheritance, now corporations [such as Disney] sell them to us as products." Hmm, this is an interesting viewpoint. I wonder, is it any worse that we can now choose to buy our spirituality, rather than having it forced upon us by a domineering and oppressive church? In the past, people like Fr Jamison, who advocated simplicity and humility in the lives of the common man, did so as a means of controlling the population. We were promised that the poverty and deprivation we had to suffer in today's world, would be more than repaid with untold riches in the next. How is that any less cynical than the promise of happiness now, which is what corporations like Disney appear to have on offer?

I do have some sympathy with his message however – he's right that the rise of celebrity culture does instil a certain dissatisfaction amongst some people. He says that: "Envy tells us to stop facing the challenges of the present life and to live in some future fantasy. Such envy drives a large part of our consumer culture. People need to learn to control their thoughts, and practice more self-discipline and self-control in their life."

I particularly like his assertion that there are "eight thoughts" which need to be controlled to help people to discover their happiness. Six of them - anger, pride, gluttony, lust, greed, and spiritual apathy (or sloth) - strangely already appear in the list of deadly sins (and who gave us those, I wonder?), but to these he adds sadness and vanity. He could be right, of course, but his message is slightly off the mark in my opinion. There shouldn't be anything wrong in any of us aiming for self-improvement – it is, after all, what has driven all creativity throughout the ages – and it isn't good enough that we should be told to put up with our lot and not strive for a better life. The problem is that people like Fr Jamison confuse spirituality with religious dogma, and I'll have no truck with that. He's guilty of envy himself because he's annoyed that Disney has more influence in today's society than the failing church.

Now, how about a nice pair of puppy-Dalmatian skin gloves? What's good enough for Cruella de Ville.....

La Plume de ma Tante

Each morning I receive an email giving me my 'Word of the Day' in Spanish. I'm always surprised by what I receive because although I have a reasonable vocabulary in Spanish, I usually get delivered with a word I've not before encountered. However, it's quite amusing to discover the context in which the authors decide to place the word – it's normally a sentence so obscure and bizarre that it's hard to envisage a circumstance in which it might be used. The other day I had 'tiznar' which means 'to blacken' and the phrase was "If the kitchen containers become black from the smoke of the flame, the combustion isn't good". Hmm, I suppose if I'm sitting in a tapas bar in Madrid I could always pop my head into the kitchen and call out to the chef: "Oi, Pedro! Here's a quick tip for you - si los recipientes de cocina se tiznan por el humo de la llama, la combustión no está siendo buena". I suspect that I'd probably get a handful of patatas bravas thrown at my head.

Today's word is 'vinagre' which means 'vinegar' (quel surpris, as they would say in France). And here's the context: "More flies fall in a drop of honey than in a barrel of vinegar". Yes, I can easily understand the value of learning this phrase. Imagine sitting at a shaded table outside a small Valencian restaurant and being troubled by flies. On the table is a jar of vinegar. How impressed my travelling companions will be when I can turn to the young camarero and say "Oi, Pedro! Remove this vinegar and replace it with a drop of honey on the tablecloth. For don't you know, young man, that caen más moscas en una gota de miel, que en un barril de vinagre?"

I am teased by the promise that tomorrow's word will be 'alcista' which means 'upward trend.' I can't wait to see what essential phrase I'll be learning about that one. Olé!

A Winter's Tale

Lots of my friends have been complaining recently about the cold. Poor heating, presumably - or poor insulation perhaps - causes them to take to their beds with hot water bottles, nightcaps, scarves, mittens and even fur coats, in an attempt to stave off the biting temperatures. I can picture them now – their little red noses poking out from the duvet; icicles forming like miniature diamonds on their brittle eyelashes; their bones chilled to a degree where they feel they could snap.

I hold the dearest sympathy for them – my apartment is so warm that I rarely have to wear any clothes at all whilst at home alone, and it is a more rare event indeed when I have to switch on my heating (even if I knew how to). My gas bills must be the lowest in the western hemisphere. I'm not quite sure why this is, but I suspect it may have something to do with sitting on top of a Chinese restaurant, and being sandwiched between (and beneath) other apartments whose occupants presumably burn faggots in their hearths night and day, winter and summer.

I wasn't always so fortunate, of course. I remember spending Christmas in my brother's North Yorkshire farmhouse one year, and it was so cold that trying to keep warm involved taking a hot bath, fully clothed (and even then, one needed to break the ice off the surface of the water). The situation wasn't helped by my brother's pet goat Gertrude, who insisted on eating the putty from the outside of the window frames, causing all the panes of glass to fall out just as the snow blizzard hit the side of the house. The closest we got to being warm that year was when the howling gale, raging through the glassless windows, dragged the flaming brandy from the top of the withered Christmas pudding and set fire to the tablecloth. That was a treat indeed.

And now I hear that the arrival of an unusually large number of waxwings from Scandinavia heralds an equally unusually cold winter ahead for us. See the picture above - don't you think it looks rather a cross little bird? Maybe that's because it objects to being given a name that sounds more like a beetle than a bird. I'm sure it would prefer to be called the 'Greater-Crested Cilla' or something like that. Anyway, no-one is really sure why these birds have begun to migrate here in such large numbers, but on the Continent these mysterious "irruptions" (as above-normal levels of arrivals are called by the bird-following fraternity) used to prompt superstition and fear amongst the population. In some areas, waxwings were named "plague birds'' because their visits were said to coincide with epidemics (of what type, it is not reported) but in Britain, large numbers have traditionally been linked to a cold, hard winter. Ladbroke's have already heeded this information and have slashed the odds against us having a white Christmas.

Oh crumbs – don't tell me I'll have to put some clothes on at last. It's less than a month to go until the Solstice, remember. Winter draws on.

Healing Times

I've spent the entire weekend up to my armpits in wallpaper paste. My siblings and I decided to offer to decorate our parents' sitting room as a Christmas gift. It's useless trying to buy them anything because they have everything they want or need, so this seemed like a good idea. We could, of course, have engaged some professional decorators to do this – but it seemed like more of a meaningful gesture for us to do it ourselves. We had two days in which to complete the task and – although it was a bit like 'Changing Rooms' at times – we achieved it ahead of schedule. Hurrah! My parents were delighted to see their children working in cooperation (we're usually always falling out) and were so pleased with the result that they treated us all to lunch in a local hostelry - probably costing them more than it cost us in materials, but hey ho. It was immensely satisfying to do some physical work for a change and very gratifying to see the completed job, all neat & smart, at the end. I'd forgotten how proficient I am at hanging wallpaper too!

Today I have just participated in a thread that my friend Martha posted on Facebook. You had to grab the nearest book to you (no cheating; no searching for something highbrow and impressive) and record the fifth sentence on page 56. The book nearest to me was 'The Pretender' written by my friend David Belbin (you can read about it here) and was close to my laptop because I'd put it there after David's book launch last week. I was a little unsure what the fifth sentence on page 56 was – I didn't know whether to include the half sentence that the page began with, or whether 'Sales Rep Wanted' (the contents of an ad) actually constitutes a sentence, so I plumped for this: "I was surprised to find that it was still going". It has a lovely feel to it, that sentence. I'm constantly surprised to find that anything is still going, so it holds a certain resonance for me too. Anyway, it will be interesting to find what other people post to this thread. So far we've had a line of political theory, something in French, and a line about the Tunnel of Fudge lovers. Hmm.

I have lost count of the times that I have started a new life. It's probably the same number of times that I have tried to stop smoking, or decided to think of kittens instead of thinking of unpleasant people. However, today I need to start again. I haven't yet worked out what the new life is going to be, but I'm about to embark on a process of evaluation and I'm hoping to emerge from that with a solution. A dear friend gave me a healing lamp yesterday – it's made from crystalline rock salt and it's meant to support and improve my creativity, while at the same time positively add to my joy of living. Since I'm in desperate need to change my thinking, and an even more desperate need for some joy of life, this could be the very thing I need to help me on my way.

I'll keep you posted.

Jingle Bells

Now, it's well known amongst my friends that I don't like Christmas. I don't even like Christmas at Christmas time, but I particularly don't like Christmas in November. However, I was persuaded to go down to the German Market in Nottingham's Old Market Square last night and there, Christmas was already in full swing. There was a seasonally-bedecked choir singing carols for all it was worth; the giant Norwegian Pine was fully illuminated; we had fake snow billowing around in the cold night air; and Jack Frost was springing around on those strange springy feet that some people wear in order to make themselves appear bionic. Someone was even dressed up as a Christmas Pudding, although Santa was conspicuously - and strangely - absent.

So really, I should have hated it all – it represented everything I usually find distasteful and furthermore, it represented it all just way, way too early. However, I enjoyed myself – perhaps because I was with some nice people, and perhaps because I can no longer be bothered to raise a grumble about things which aren't really worth grumbling about. The media gives us quite enough harbingers of doom to ponder upon, without me inventing any more. So, I milled around the market, stuffing my face with burgers, garlic mushrooms and rosti whilst swilling (rather weak) Glühwein served in tiny earthenware Steins decorated with Alpine scenes. All in all, a jolly excursion, and the best bit was the sight of a real-life Polar Bear which had travelled all the way to Nottingham for our amusement (see picture).

Today, provided I get my skates on, I am off to a Beaujolais Nouveau event at Shaw's. The fun kicks off at 9:30 a.m. whereupon we are promised a 'meaningless' talk about the origins of the Beaujolais wine, after which we will be served with a full English breakfast and – to start proceedings and set the tone for the day - a half bottle of the aforesaid beverage. Hmm, I suspect this will probably lead to the imbibing of larger quantities than a mere half bottle before the day is out, so who knows what carnage will ensue later on Broad Street? Ah, Broad Street – all the world is there and yet, apart from a few struggling fairy lights that Edin decided to erect in his window as long ago as September, there is no sign of Christmas. Hurrah!

Right – I'd better get those skates on. What a pity we didn't get more of that fake snow stuff last night, for then I could have skied down the (albeit short) hill to Shaw's. Bring it on!

An Englishman's Home

I had a lovely evening tonight. I met Alexei Sayle – he was doing a reading and a book-signing at the Broadway and because it was a Nottingham Writers' Studio event (I'm on the board, and part of the profits go to us), I was fortunate enough to have a drink with him and his publicist from Hodder & Stoughton. He's a very witty and laid-back sort of guy (Alexei Sayle that is, not the publicist, who was nevertheless an awfully pleasant person). He was extremely self-effacing and very surprised and grateful for being where he is now. After the session we had to wait for a while for him to join us because he was on the phone to his mum – how normal is that?

Tonight's events were in complete contrast to last night – I had some maniac (who claims to be a friend) hammering on my apartment door demanding to be let in "or else". I never discovered what the "or else" would constitute because fortunately, he gave up the fight and left before I had need to call the police - although not before disturbing my neighbours with his obscene threats, shouted through my letterbox. I was surprised to discover my own reaction to this situation – my apartment is my home, and yet sometimes I (and certainly others) forget this. Most of the so-called friends I have appear to view my apartment as some sort of drop-in centre for the egotistically challenged – somewhere where they can park their massive egos and imbibe of the free alcohol that's usually on offer. Well, this has to stop.

I have a right to feel secure and safe in my own home, and I have a right not to be violated and abused therein (unless I choose to be, of course). Somehow, somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten Voltaire's golden rule: "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent" and I have allowed myself to give that implicit consent without realizing that I have done so. Well, fuck you mister. It's my own field of kittens from now on.

You heard it here first....

We Can Have It All

I'm drinking Earl Grey tea at the moment – I have these delicate little tea-bags that were part of the food hamper that my lovely daughters sent me earlier this year for Fathers' Day. They're made from a kind of fine chiffon-like material, as opposed to the bland paper ones that we get in this country, and presumably they're expensive. There aren't many of them left, but that doesn't matter because the point is, I have some now. Who cares about the future? What is important in life is what we have now; and for now – I have an abundance.

This leads me to think about the axiom that says we should always look for the joy in the current moment. We should not look backwards, nor even forwards, but take only from life what we are experiencing at this very point of consciousness. Many bad things may have happened to me in the past (although I've never really had anything go seriously wrong in my life), and I may have committed many flawed actions in life myself – but that doesn't matter. What is important to remember about the past is that it has only ever brought me to the point I am at now, and that point is only the starting block for what is to come, so both can be disregarded. It is this singular moment – yes, this very one – which gives me the power I require to achieve the rest. The real secret of power is consciousness of power.

I once read a quote in a book somewhere. It was from Henry Ford and it said: "Whether you think you can or think you can't, either way you are right." I believe this actually says it all – I've nothing more to add. It's all in the mind, you see. Plato was right.

Armed with this knowledge, I'm setting out today full of energy; full of the potential to use that energy to make the world a better place. In this single moment, I have sufficient power to change myself, and everything else too.

There – now don't you all feel better already?

Keeping Up The Fight

Today, I had to give myself a good talking to. It's not an easy thing to do, to lift one's heart when it's heavy with anger and bitterness. But such emotions – if harboured there – only beget more of the same, so they must be banished. Banished and replaced with joyous thoughts and images of fields of kittens instead. Yesterday I was in a really good mood – I had a fabulous journey back from Geneva after spending a really lovely weekend in Switzerland. I'd had the most pleasant of times which had made me so happy – I did lots of sightseeing and spent some really quality time with my daughter Imogen and her boyfriend Olivier. I was feeling relaxed and happy, and then my return journey to the UK was trouble-free and most amusant.

Unfortunately, returning to Nottingham life did not bring its own joys when later, I was ill-fated enough to encounter several people in Broad Street who presented me with negativity and bad karma. This was most unpropitious, and definitely not in keeping with my new spirit of optimism and bliss. I am forced to admit that I was temporarily blown off course – temporarily, I stress. Today I decided that I needed to whistle that happy tune once more, and invite only nice people into my life. I thought it was all going well until suddenly, I encountered a dark demon lurking in a penumbral cavity of my heart and I found myself plunging into bitterness and anger once again. This is when I recognized the requirement for a good self-talking to. "All that we are is a result of what we have thought" – so said the Buddha. How right he was. Or, if you believe in what quantum physics tells us about the space-time continuum, how right the Buddha is.

So, only happy thoughts from now on – and happy chances that those thoughts will bring. I have so much to be thankful for and I am one of the luckiest people alive really. Let me tell you about something that happened to me on Friday. I'd had lunch with Imogen who then had to return to work before meeting me later. I went for a stroll on my own and after walking for less than five minutes, I suddenly came upon Geneva's famous Jet d'Eau, thrusting its way skywards before me. This immediately transported me back to my childhood when I used to watch a TV programme called 'The Champions' starring Alexandra Bastedo, William Gaunt & Stuart Damon. These three played a team of secret agents working for a Geneva-based organization called 'Nemesis' and they all had superhuman powers (albeit limited) as well as exceptional intelligence. It was glamorous, cosmopolitan and stylish and a stalwart of 1960s British TV. It was also a forerunner of today's 'Heroes' (which I have never seen but which I understand has attracted a similar cult status). Anyway, the opening credits of this programme featured the three characters standing in front of Geneva's Jet d'Eau which is a giant single-jet fountain on the edge of the famous lake.

As a shy & lonely working-class boy, I would dream of standing on that same spot and of being as smart & attractive as the characters in the programme. Back then, it seemed impossible to me that I would ever stand in such a spot – how could I? How could someone like me, from the backstreets of Naples, ever hope to follow in the footsteps of 'The Champions'? And yet I did. And here is a picture to prove it.



Do you think this has given me superhuman powers? Hmm.....

The Glee Club

They're still at it – those buggers in the newsrooms of the world. Always trying to talk us down instead of telling us about those lovely fields of kittens; revelling in the doom & gloom that they themselves are delivering to us! It's quite scandalous, and I am seriously thinking of smashing my TV and radio (if it weren't for the fact that I'd miss the sparklingly written and fabulously acted 'Hollyoaks', and also 'The Archers'). Well, I for one am going to stick my fingers in my ears and begin to sing 'la la la' whilst skipping across the meadow with a happy smile on my face. If everyone were to do this, there would be no further black news to come and we would be saved. I've said this before – why don't these politicians and journalists understand anything about collective consciousness? We are what we think, and if we think despair, we'll have despair delivered to us. It's as plain as a pikestaff - if I can see it, why can't they?

Anyway, I'm off to Switzerland in the morning (so won't be blogging for a few days). I haven't been there for about eighteen months so I'm greatly looking forward to my trip. Switzerland is a great place to be – it's much cheaper than the Eurozone these days and everyone is very cheerful and polite. It's no myth either, that the trains run on time – they really do! I've been packing my suitcase tonight – I've never been much of a light traveller and as usual, it's been a struggle trying to stay within my baggage allowance. One thing I'm definitely taking with me is my teeth jet-washer – it's fabulous and I love it, despite the mess caused (imagine how it is when you jet-wash your car). I'm also looking forward (although shame-faced emoticon should appear here) to smoking inside bars. Switzerland – in line with most of Europe - introduced a ban on smoking in public places in July. However, it was discovered in mid-October that the parliamentary vote for this was undemocratic and the law was repealed. Apparently, within an hour of this news breaking, restaurants and bars were putting ashtrays back onto tables and immediately everyone was smoking away as if nothing had ever happened. I'm actually not that bothered, but the sheer Toytown lunacy of the situation appeals to me enormously, so I shall light up with glee!

And glee is what we need more of. Has anyone thought of telling the governments of the world that this entire so-called crisis might just have been avoided if only they'd have promoted more glee? Just a thought.... (smiley face emoticon should appear here)

I Need A Holiday

Oh dear, quite a bit of turmoil since I last wrote (hence the gap). My last report, dear diary, concerned the excellent evening's entertainment at the burlesque night in Escucha. The following evening saw us attending the launch party for GameCityThree (now finished - see http://gamecity.org/ ) which was an extraordinary affair. The most generous organizers had laid on a free bar which was welcome – although possibly dangerous – and I met some remarkable people. I fell into conversation with a chap who seemed to have a theory that we could create a black hole without any of the expense or fuss of The Machine. If his theory works, we could be in trouble.

Thursday night was meant to be quietly spent at home but instead, we were trapped in Shaw's (we never go into Edin's anymore – not since I was grossly insulted by one of the bar staff, whose customer-facing skills could do with an improvement) and I didn't get home until very late, making Friday's various meetings a little shaky. I spent the whole day rushing backwards and forwards getting the final arrangements into place for the Studio's move on Saturday. It was hectic and fractious and left me feeling drained of energy. I hardly wanted to get dressed up for Danse Macabre's private viewing that evening at 'View From The Top Gallery', but Sarah persuaded me that it would be worth it and came over to help me get ready. I ended up looking like a cross between a pantomime dame and a freak show (see picture), but we nevertheless went along. Again, the generous organizers had provided a free bar which we carefully utilized whilst viewing the absolutely stunning exhibition of art & design. The work – from a variety of different visual artists – was of the very highest quality. We moved on afterwards to the Broadway's 'Mayhem' Festival (mayhem indeed) before ending up for a riotous night of excess and abandonment in Shaw's.

Saturday (with thick head) was spent racing from one meeting to another, partly trying to get the City Council on board for 'The Building', and partly trying to get the various architects and clients to iron out what they want (it all came right in the end), as well as supervising the office move for the Studio (I was excused for the large part from carrying boxes and furniture because I had done all the organizing). That all came right in the end too. The Studio has now moved to spanking new premises in the heart of Nottingham's Lace Market and a bright and exciting future is ahead of us.

The remainder of the weekend was spent in an alcoholic haze (although I did go sailing) and trying to keep my Stray Cat #2 supplied with liquid refreshment. We met up with our Finnish friends who seem to be able to drink anyone under the table (certainly me) and the party just rolled on and on. My apartment looks like a bomb has hit it and frankly, I can't be bothered to tidy it up at all. In fact, right now would be exactly the time to create the black hole – now, what was that chap's name....?

Fred Bear Rules!

Apparently - according to government statistics – more than three million people in Britain are drinking to 'dangerous levels'. Hmm, I'm surprised that the number is so low, considering the amount of people I see staggering around amidst strewn chip wrappers and vomited kebabs in just my small area of Nottingham's streets. I'm not usually one of these three million reprobates, you understand – although last night you could have been forgiven for thinking so. I went for just one drink at Escucha's 'Frankengrind' event, and this was only so that I could support my lovely friends Matthew and Charlotte who run Danse Macabre (click here for more info) and who were staging a Burlesque evening in aid of a breast cancer charity. The show was just too fabulous to leave after only one drink, and I consequently ended up joining the staggering masses as I made my way home many, many hours later.

The event was expertly compered by the outrageous Fred Bear who I'd last seen in 'Bearlesque' at the Pitti Patt Club and who teased and cajoled the audience with his flamboyantly camp badinage. It was all fantastic fun and a great deal of money was raised for charity as well. There were more G-strings and nipple tassels than you could shake a breasticle at, I can tell you. I love strip shows – especially ones wrapped in horror, like this one.

And of course, this is all a precursor to Friday's Danse Macabre spectacle where even I will be decked out in fancy dress and stepping out in my fishnets and stilettos. It promises to be a great evening to promote an exhibition that brings together artists from a "variety of disciplines whose work explores the darker aspects of the subconscious mind". I'm greatly looking forward to it, especially as it's to be followed by the 'Mayhem' festival at the Broadway. There'll be no need to change out of the fishnets and basque as we head off to a late-night maelström of decadence and fantasy in Broad Street.

I can't wait, and moreover - this kind of activity is the only way to confuse and defeat the Machine. We must all do everything we can in this respect, oh yes.

I'm In Love With Anne!

I've always admired Anne Reid as an actress – she appears to be able to bring warmth and humour to any role she plays – but I saw her in last night's BBC Four drama 'In Love With Barbara' in which the depth and strength of her talents were revealed in their true glory. She played the indefatigable and cranky Dame Barbara Cartland in this beautifully scripted docu-drama (written by Jacquetta May) about one of the twentieth century's most lampooned characters. Matt Lucas's portrayal of Dame Sally Markham in Little Britain was an amusing and clever send-up of the famous romantic novelist, and it might have been tempting for the writer and producers of this latest drama to adopt a similar vein. However, they chose instead to portray Dame Barbara with an intelligence and sympathy that was most unexpected. Yes, she was an inexorable snob who wore too much jewellery and make-up, but there was a much more complex and yes, stronger side to this woman too.

The device used was to run two inter-connected stories: one, featuring a few months in her life as the woman we all knew and recognized – the pink chiffon draped, pearl & diamond encrusted, flamboyant show-off from the 1970s; and then secondly, a younger Barbara – more vulnerable, more damaged, yet more resolute than we would otherwise have known. This younger Barbara was brilliantly acted by Sinead Matthews who (incidentally) bears a remarkable and uncanny resemblance to a younger Anne Reid, and who somehow managed to portray a woman who – although very different from the Barbara we know – was the woman whose steely resolve in the face of tragedy and despair formed the personality that emerged in the later years. Sinead Matthews was the caterpillar and chrysalis to Anne Reid's butterfly. Two amazing performances and a deeply clever script – well done to everyone.

If you missed it, and want to witness how this surprisingly intelligent production managed to rehabilitate a figure of general ridicule into a character of sympathy and understanding, then you can catch it again several times this week on BBC Four or watch it on BBC iPlayer at:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00f7zg2

So, uplifted by this story of bravery and determination, I shall set about making my own day as exciting and rewarding as one of Dame Barbara's. Now, where is my string of pearls, and where is my pink chiffon outfit? More to the point, where is my secretary...?

"Her heaving bosom betrayed the passion she felt for the darkly handsome young Viscount..."

Pesky Mad Scientists

I have a suspicion that those pesky old boffins at CERN have switched the machine back on, without telling us. This week has seen some rather fractured events taking place and I sense that the normal flow of life has been zig-zagged by some haphazard phenomena. I won't go into details, but I've had an uncomfortable week and the new life that I was planning has been somewhat disrupted. I think I can blame the machine for that – after all, I am nothing if not skilful in my actions and thoughts, so it can't be my fault. I have been really busy this week - not least, putting a huge amount of effort into arranging the Studio's move to new premises (all unpaid, of course). However, it's all coming together nicely. I shall be relieved when it's all over though, because I can then hand over to the Studio's new coordinator whose responsibility it will be to deal with all ongoing administrative matters (paid, of course - not that I'm bitter).

It's a queer fact that in the very week when I've also made massive inroads into sorting out my own paperwork (and my previously chaotic life), they should turn the machine back on and thereby attempt to thwart my efforts. This has not been without its frustrations, I can tell you. I feel as if I've been walking through treacle and the whole sorry business has left me feeling drained and exhausted. I need a break really – a break from this paperwork and a break from the mad, dancing social flurry that is Hockley Life. I wish I could get out of town for a few days. As they say in Spanish, no necesito mas atestar en mi vida.

On another matter, I notice that the postcode with the fourth highest record of burglaries in the whole country is NG8. Hmm, I'm not quite sure which area of Nottingham this is (I live in NG1 – the postcode that is, not the gay nightclub), but I'm disappointed by this statistic. Come on you burglars – stop it! People have precious few possessions as it is, without you stealing them, and even though I've said that I'd like to escape for a few days, I still want Nottingham to be a nice place to live. Don't we all?

Fear Is The Key

The only person I've ever been frightened of (apart from the man who once chased me down Kensington High Street with a bag of mince) was my parachute instructor. I have always had a fear of heights – I often dream of being stranded on top of a crumbling, teetering needle of rock hundreds of feet above the ground – but I once thought that perhaps I could cure this fear by throwing myself out of a plane. So, many years ago I volunteered to undertake a parachute jump for charity. In those days, there was none of this 'tandem' stuff where you get strapped to a qualified person and where you have nothing to do but enjoy the ride and smile for the camera. No, in those days you were on your own – you had to leap from the plane and control your own descent.

It was a weekend affair - we spent the entire Saturday and half of Sunday practicing jumping off four feet high boxes so that we could get the landing right. I understand that today, the parachutes are sufficiently controllable to be able to land gently, on one's feet – but back then there was no method of slowing the pace and after drifting down from the sky, you hit the ground with a right wallop and a crash, I can tell you. The only way to absorb & diffuse the energy (and thereby avoid splintering every bone in your body) was to bend the knees smartish, and launch yourself into a roll on the ground; head over heels. This manoeuvre was what we had practised over and over again.

Anyway, eventually we were airborne and the tiny plane had climbed to the required 2,000 feet. It doesn't sound very high, does it? However, when you're crouched on the floor of a door-less Cessna, peering out as the colours from the fields drain away into a uniform muddy brown, and the airfield beneath you shrinks to something the size of a postage stamp, two thousand feet seems like an awfully long way to fall. It was at this point when I realized that my fear of heights had not been cured, and that here I was, teetering on the equivalent of the crumbling column of my dreams. One by one, my three fellow jumpees left the plane, screaming - and then it was my turn. I knew in my heart that it was impossible for me to jump, and I no longer cared about the money I wouldn't be raising for charity by not jumping (it was the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and at that point I felt that people could be as cruel to children as they damned well liked, as long as it meant that I didn't have to die). The instructor ordered me to the edge, but all I could think of was an old Charlie Drake song from my childhood: "Please Mr Custer, I don't wanna go...."

And then I realized that I was more frightened of the instructor than I was of dying (his training had been vicious and cruel; army-style). I was terrified of him becoming angry at my failure, of him calling me a sissy, and of his disappointment – so, quietly resolved to the death I was about to face, I edged my legs out, and jumped. And it was beautiful. My parachute opened like a dream and as the noise from the plane's engines disappeared and was replaced by the whistling of the wind, I drifted down towards that ever-growing postage stamp in a state of perfect peace. I hit the ground with a perfectly-practised roll, gathered in the silk of my chute, and walked back to the control tower with a grin that was wider than a Cheshire cat's. Success - I had done it!

I still have a fear of heights though. The next thing I did was to abseil off a two hundred foot high water tower, and that scared me shitless too. Some things are meant to be.

It's A New Life!

There was absolute carnage on the river yesterday. We were entered into a special competition to win a trophy for the class of boat we sail – which is a Merlin Rocket. I was all geared up for what promised to be a very tough and physical day, but still looking forward to it because we have won this trophy for the past three years in a row, and I expected to win again. However, my crew mate had injured his shoulder at the last moment and although he would have been okay to sail in more benign conditions, yesterday's wind was threatening to gust up to 35 mph – too strong for a weak shoulder to handle. So, we opted to forego the racing and instead, volunteered to man the rescue boat. Boy, were we needed! People were capsizing everywhere – broken masts, shredded sails, snapped shrouds – we were darting about the river throwing tow lines and plucking people from the freezing waters all afternoon. It was all huge fun and I got nearly as much exercise as I would have done sailing the boat! However, it was very cold out there and like a fool, I was inappropriately dressed, so when I arrived home I needed a delicious home-made chicken curry and a good bottle of Rioja to warm me up. The perfect day!

And now I'm hoping for the perfect week (nay, I'm expecting it). It's Monday morning and there's work to be done. My diary is full for the whole week – meetings, inspections, social intercourses, Spanish lessons, piano lessons etc. It all has to be done and there's no getting away from it. But the other thing I need to be on the lookout for this week is the unexpected. It's the unexpected that makes the world such fun – and if we make our minds up, the unexpected can only be good. However, yesterday evening I was surprised by something I saw on television. I don't often watch TV but last night, curled up on the sofa after my curry and wine, I switched on Stephen Fry's documentary about his trip through America. He was visiting the oddest place I've ever seen – The Garden of Earthly Remains. It was an enclosed garden somewhere in Tennessee that has hundreds of rotting dead bodies simply strewn about it, wrapped in a series of anonymous black bin-liners. A most extraordinary place – the curator of which was a disarmingly charming young lady who luckily, confessed to having a poor sense of smell. She cheerfully explained why the sight of ants crawling over a cadaver's bare feet gives an indication as to how long the 'individual' (her word) has been dead. Fascinating.

It could only happen in the US of A.... but then, only in the USA would we see the likes of one of Bush's & McCain's old friends rooting for the opposition. Colin Powell's blistering attack on the Republican candidate (and that scary woman Palin he chose for his running mate), and his glowing endorsement of Obama, is just awesome. Go for it, Colin - you're fab!

Golden Brown

I've had a really really good week - and yet the surprising thing is that next week, it's only going to get better! After the excesses of last weekend (another 'lost' one I'm afraid), I decided to calm down and get on with some work. There are some people who live by the adage that whatever you put into life, you take out – and they're right, aren't they? So I've been putting loads in this week and consequently, taking loads out. I've managed to finish my year end accounts at last (fourth attempt) and have appointed some new accountants who are very, very nice people indeed. In fact, a rather strange thing happened when I went along to see them yesterday – I bumped into Gordon Brown, our esteemed Prime Minister. He was in Nottingham visiting the building where my new accountants are housed and as we were walking up the stairs, he was casually walking down, accompanied by a bodyguard. It was one of those random photocopier moments when both sides have to give way to each other, and he just smiled at us and said 'hello' then continued on his way. Whatever you may think of Gordon (and some people don't think very much) he's nevertheless a major player on the world stage and to meet him haphazardly on the stairs of a Nottingham office block was a rather surreal (and not unpleasant) experience.

Then last night I broke my week-long abstinence by going out to dinner to celebrate the birthday of my lovely friend Cat. The fact that I was twenty years older than the oldest other person there didn't seem to matter as we chatted and feasted away in one of Nottingham's better Italian restaurants. These talented young people design and write games for Sony Playstations and what they produce gets enjoyed by millions of youngsters across the globe from Beijing to Murmansk to Capetown to Rio de Janeiro. It was amazing to consider that I was sitting in a room with people whose work and output engages all these anonymous people sitting inside their millions of unknown homes, thumbs twitching. We had a lovely evening and ended it in the hidden caves of one of Nottingham's most well-known pubs (no, not Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem) where I also bumped into another friend of mine, the iconic designer John Whittington – look out for his new design for the iPod box which you will be able to plant in your garden and get an apple tree (get the connection?).

On my way home I discovered my little stray cat scurrying along beneath the walls of the city. He came in for a saucer of milk and for a moment seemed content to sit still and purr indulgently. However, very soon he felt the tug of his wandering star and was off out of the catflap, disappearing into the night, leaving me to reflect on how lucky I am to have had such a good week. Watch this space for more good news coming my way. Yay - a result!

Just Whistle A Happy Tune!

Someone wrote on Facebook yesterday that instead of continually reporting about the economic meltdown, the Press ought to be writing about fields of kittens and bumble bees instead. An excellent suggestion - although some of you might remember that I wrote here some time ago about the demise of the bumble bee and how it heralds the end of the world. According to Einstein, if bees disappear from the world (and it would seem they might, if we're not careful), then mankind has two years left on the planet.

Notwithstanding that, I prefer to talk things up, rather than down - unlike those bloody doom-merchants at the BBC. I always switch on to the 'Today' programme on Radio 4 in the mornings, but I'm considering changing to the levity of Terry Wogan's programme instead. This morning's newsreader seemed almost to be revelling in the details of the latest developments (recession, unemployment figures etc.). It's as if the editorial bosses enjoy piling on the misery, day by day. We're only just taking our first, faltering steps into the sunlight following the sheer horror of the banking collapse last week, and we're just beginning to feel cautiously optimistic that the worse may be over, when wham! They hit us with more black portents. Don't they realize that by deliberately labouring these points they cause further nervousness within the markets, and very soon everything will start to topple once more? Do they know nothing about collective psychology?

I'm not advocating a total 'head in the sand' approach by any means, but for fuck's sake – can't they head up the news with something more positive and then slip in a bit of bad news at the end as a rider? I'm convinced that these news wallahs actually choose to broadcast these omens of catastrophe with malicious relish. I think that HM The Queen should quickly pass a law that forces the BBC to begin all news broadcasts with such items as: "A field of kittens has recently been discovered just outside Oxford..."

So, Tally Ho everybody! Don't listen to those harbingers of misfortune – they're just pathetic souls who probably spend their tea-breaks stabbing compasses into each other for entertainment. I can even report my own good news today – as I write, the plumbers are actually here, in my apartment, sorting out my leak. I shall soon be having my first shower in five weeks! Hurrah!

To Be A Pilgrim

This has been both a good week and a bad week. Good, because there have been lots of exciting developments in respect of 'The Building' – which is fast becoming a hot topic of interest within Nottingham's creative network and beyond – but bad because some of my own personal behaviour has been markedly unskilful. Unskilful conduct is one of the scourges of any effort towards achieving a Buddhist way of life (presuming, of course, that this is what I am trying to achieve). Some of my actions this week have been so reprehensible that it's hardly surprising that the karma is swiftly returning in the form of some hard slaps around the face. Details of these actions are not suitable for revealing in a family show such as this, so I won't elaborate – but suffice it to say, I only have my stupid self to blame. I have not been good.

Today is Sunday 12th October and the sun is shining in an eggshell-blue sky. I ought to have been up early and perhaps have sallied forth into the breeze of the morning and taken in some exercise. I ought to have cleaned my flat, or done my ironing, or written some words, or learned some Spanish – but instead, I have been moping around my apartment staring out of the streaked windows (which I ought to have cleaned), drinking milk. The reason for this languid state of affairs is because I drank too much alcohol yesterday. What started as a sensible cup of tea in Lee Rosy's, soon rolled into a hogshead of wine and a cask of beer in several of our local hostelries. We did at least manage to eat something in a Greek restaurant (the one which we didn't think existed), but apart from that the day was convincingly unwholesome.

Tomorrow is Monday 13th October. I shall call it 'Skilful Monday' and if I catch myself doing anything in the slightest that doesn't adhere to that premise, I shall ask someone to give me what the Spanish call a bofetada (as distinct from a palmada) which is a strong slap in the face. Form an orderly queue, please.

Farewell Jeremy!

Last night we said goodbye to another of Sarah's assistants. You may remember me telling you that just a short time after the unfortunate canal-swimming incident, Raoul left the company to become a lap-dancer in Barcelona. We're delighted to learn that he's doing very well for himself out there, and we wish him well. Now it is Jeremy's turn to leave us. Both boys (devastatingly handsome, as you know) were using assumed names and working 'undercover' as waiters in Edin's – now Jeremy has asked to leave the company so that he can pursue his career as a champion salsa dancer overseas. He leaves for Cuba in the morning, where we are certain that his fame will spread widely across the entire latin world. So last night in Edin's we celebrated Jeremy's departure with a party - complete with alcohol drinking, piano-playing and even an impromptu magic show. As a farewell gift, Sarah presented Jeremy wth a pair of beautiful snakeskin Cuban-heeled boots, their toes tipped with real diamonds and their heels covered in flashing silver. He was delighted. Good luck for the future Jeremy, we shall miss you.

As I write this, I learn that the tax-payers of this country are to inject a "mind-boggling amount of money" (John Humphries's words) into the banking system in an attempt to stem the haemorrhaging of the economy. It's impossible to predict where this will end – some economists are predicting a "total global meltdown". Hmm - this is a catchy phrase, but what does it mean? If the meltdown is truly total, then presumably when it's over, there'll be nothing left. And if there is nothing left, then where will it have gone? If all the money that is owed to the banks is gone, then anyone who owns money in the banks will lose that too. The banks will own the assets of their debtors, but as those assets will then be worthless, the banks will own nothing. Nobody will own anything; nobody will owe anything; nobody will be owed anything. This is a strange situation indeed. It would seem sensible, therefore, to allow this catastrophe to happen, and then to wipe the slate clean and start again (after all, the apes didn't hand down a banking system containing trillions & trillions of dollars to the human species – no, we must have started with a big fat zero at some point in our history, so why not let us do it again?). There, problem solved.

So we shouldn't worry about a global meltdown. If it does happen that we go down, then we all go down together, so what the hell, eh? We will have equality at last. Right, I must go and ring the Chancellor immediately - he's bound to be interested in my theory.