Whither peace?

One thing you can be sure of is that I’m trying to self-destruct. I’ve got myself into a hopeless spiral of such unparalleled debauchery that even Dante would be shocked. Even I’m shocked. It’s all about loneliness I suppose – this is such a weird planet to be living on and none of us can ever hope, it seems, for peace. One of the most chilling pieces of dialogue to be spoken in a film was when the old woman revealed to Donnie Darko that “Every living creature dies alone.” It might be a bit trite, but by god, it’s true. We’re always alone; all of us.

I don’t believe in god, but if there were one then he’d be a right bastard. What sort of sadist would put us on a planet and let us struggle and fight our way through quagmires of misery like this? We try to understand our existence and we try to seek truth, but it’s impossible. All we can ever hope for is a lifetime of misunderstanding and shattered dreams. Even the most secure of us is still alone; still screaming into the void of despair and still bewildered. There are no answers to any of this; we are all just torturing ourselves with desperation and doubt.

I had an accident the other night and my teeth are loosened now (I went to the dentist to have this confirmed in case it was just part of my neurosis). My face is battered and swollen and my lips are bloodied and split. And do you know what? I don’t care.

I’m looking for something in this mad stupid vortex I claim to call my life. It can’t be found.

Flying Squad

I went to see Johnny Depp in “Sweeney Todd – The Demon Barber of Fleet Street” yesterday, and came out of the cinema afterwards feeling cheapened. What a dreadful film. Okay, it looks gorgeous enough, but it doesn’t do its job properly. Johnny and Helena Bonham-Carter certainly work hard at their individual roles, and the director Tim Burton creates some eye-catching spectacles for us, but there’s something badly flawed about the film as a whole. It’s trying to be both funny and gruesome at the same time, but fails to make the combination work in the same way that, say, Pulp Fiction does. The violence is gratuitous and insulting and I’m angry that I witnessed it – or rather, I’m angry that I was subjected to it.

Mind you, it wasn’t all bad - there were some fabulous performances from the supporting cast, notably Timothy Spall, Alan Rickman and (the genuinely funny) Sacha Baron Cohen; and the set design was marvellous too – the unremitting squalor of Mrs Lovett’s Pie Emporium was a masterpiece, and the grime of the London streets was straight from Hogarth (slightly different era I know, but you get my drift). It was a delight to see Depp’s pretty face twisted and snarling with menace; and of course Bonham-Carter who (as ever) plays battiness with alacrity, looked gorgeous (although you won’t forget her final scene in a hurry).

Notwithstanding that, I suddenly realized about half way through the film that I don’t actually like musicals. And Sweeney Todd is, after all, just that. Is that meant to excuse it perhaps? Not in my view it doesn’t.

But anyway, back to reality. I have to think very seriously about getting some exercise today. I went for an invigorating swim on Saturday, but apart from that I’ve done nothing but raise a glass to my lips all weekend. And struggling to the bottle bank this morning with a sack as weighty as one of Sweeney Todd’s dead bodies, I’ve suddenly realized where all my money has gone. A physical and financial ruin. Oh, pity me. Right, now where did I put that corkscrew...?

Distractions, distractions!

Hmmm, I’ve not had a good week really. Well, it’s probably been better than a lot of people’s - at least I'm not living under a dictatorship like the poor people of Belarus, and I'm still alive unlike dear sweet Heath Ledger - but the week hasn't been as good as I would have liked. I was meant to be very productive this week but I’ve been hampered by domestic irritants and other bureaucratic bits that, quite frankly, have blocked me.

However, I am making some (small) headway on the play that I’m working on, but it’s slow, slow work. You see, whenever domestic mayhem isn’t snarling like a dog at the gates of creativity, chasms of distraction open up before me - all filled with red wine, whisky and beer. What’s a man to do, eh?

Anyway, I have arranged with a very experienced playwright & theatre director to give my play the once-over before I push it out fully, so hopefully I might get the structure right before it’s too late. However, I’m still a little unsure how to set the tone. Do I go for a Noël Coward style and fill the stage with people in silk dressing gowns, cigarette holders in hand, all speaking in clipped English about tennis and the weather; or do I go for a more Brechtian tone – a bare, open stage and even barer dialogue? Maybe I should make it into a musical (my subject matter would work very well in that genre, actually, and it would be fun to write the lyrics); or perhaps I should make it more Pinter-esque and produce a tableau of dark shadows and elliptical menace?

Whatever I decide, I need to get on with it because it won’t write itself, that's for sure. So, what would you do if you were in my shoes? Would you stay at the word processor all afternoon and make some serious headway with the writing, or would you knock off early, go for a swim and then meet Dr Jim in the bar? Methinks that the latter arrangement might lead to me being distracted again, so I know what I should do.....

Oh dear, do I hear the wheels of the wagon falling off? Save me!

Life As We Know It

The image that foreigners have of Britain must present them with something of a dichotomy. I mean, in a recent article regarding immigration we learn that 550,000 people, who clearly thought this is a land fit to live in, took up residence in this country in a single year, mainly from Eastern Europe. On the other hand, we know that many foreigners view us as a nation of uncouth yobs living in a crime-driven and drink-fuelled society where no-one values family life, or even decent food.

How strangely appropriate then, is the poster that the Eurostar operators are using to attract Belgian visitors to this country. It depicts a heavily tattooed, shaven-headed man wearing leather boots and stripped to the waist; his naked back daubed with the cross of St George. I have reproduced the poster here from which you can see that the aforesaid skinhead is urinating into a delicate coffee cup.

I immediately recognized the (somewhat tentative) connection between this image and that of Belgium’s famous Mannekin Pis (or ‘Pee-Boy’ as he is sometimes known), but it nevertheless strikes me as rather odd to make such a connection when many foreigners might fear that the image could represent an awful truth: That visiting London might well subject them to a confrontation with a jingoistic hooligan whose only objective is to piss on them from a great height.

The Eurostar company defends this depiction by saying that Belgians “understand and appreciate the eccentricity of British life”, and claim that “Belgians have a passion and fondness for Britain and really understand our sense of humour."

Really? Well, if this is true, then they must be unique in Europe, or maybe the entire world. And this makes another piece of news I read recently even more alarming - that is that Belgium as a country may soon disappear. Apparently it has been difficult to construct a government in view of the long-standing linguistic split in the country - a split that has more recently developed into more of a nationalistic divide. France believes that Wallonia – the half of Belgium that speaks French – should be absorbed into the French nation because that is what its population wants. There are voices that say the other half of the country – the bit that speaks Flemish – should split to become a new country known as Flanders, or even to be merged into The Netherlands. Belgium would no longer exist.

Startling stuff, and not without its significance to ourselves. Notwithstanding that we would lose the one and only nation that apparently understands our “quirkiness”, but also, where would we be without that well-known party game: Can you name six famous Belgians? The world order crumbles, indeed.

Mea Culpa

Oh dear, I’ve done it again. I did something so absolutely bad this week that I really must be going straight to hell – and it’s not even as if there was any good intention there (as in being paved with etc). When will I ever learn? I am a very, very naughty boy and (if I didn’t suspect that I’d enjoy it) I’d invite Mr & Mrs Spank to pay a short, sharp trip to botty-land, oh yes I would. But don’t expect the salacious details by the way - I think I’ve said before that some of my antics are too debauched to recount on a family show like this. I’ve also wrestled on here before with the question about the difference between morality and integrity. Well, now I know there is no difference – I have neither, it seems.

But enough of the hair shirt. Some good things have happened to me this week too (though Lord knows I don’t deserve them) and I feel rather buoyed up with thoughts of the future. I was told that a contract I was expecting to pick up (paid work) will not now materialise so I have no work for a few weeks. So, this time I’m going to use the opportunity to write. Firstly I’m going to set about finishing this novel I’ve been working on (before I lose total interest in it), and then I’m going to write a play. Yes, a play. A nice big fat three-act play for the stage, full of costumes and glamour and treachery and despair and even, perhaps, a bit of music. I’m quite excited about the prospect although it’s all going to be terribly hard work (but it might keep me out of further trouble though, oh yes).

My fridge/freezer has stopped working. This is somewhat disconcerting because I now have enough defrosted food to feed the Red Army (and only about two days in which to do so) but more alarming is the fact that I have no chilled champagne! This surely must be an abuse of human rights, but who can I complain to about this? Gordon Brown wouldn’t be interested; he’s off on some jolly jaunt to China or somewhere. I’d try phoning Nelson Mandela but I think I’ve lost his number. Ken Livingstone might be worth a go. Or I could just phone my landlord I suppose. It's a damned inconvenience, that's what it is.

And don’t tell me (Marie Antoinette-style) to drink Gin & Tonic instead – have you ever tried it without ice? Disgusting.

Well, slappa my thigh!

I’m luckier than a lucky star,
and luckier than most by far.
For when a friend one night suggested
(after several beers we had digested)
a visit to the Playhouse Show,
I readily agreed to go!

A Pantomime was last night’s sensation,
An art form peculiar to this nation.
Dick Whittington was the show to behold,
A delight for everyone, both young and old.
Young men in tights, old men as the Mrs,
a cat, some rats, a villain (for the hisses).
A load of bawd, a pile of banter,
the cast racing round at quite a canter.
Dick called to his cat: “Tom, I can’t find you!”
To which we yelled: “Look, he’s behind you!”

There was glitz and glamour, and romance too,
And dirty jokes (plus dirty deeds a few).
King Rat (boo hiss, we love to hate him –
oh, how the audience did berate him).
He plotted to send young Dick and friends
to the ocean’s floor to meet their ends.
His evil plan was quite a shocker,
to trap them inside Davy Jones’s Locker!

Though happily, they did prevail,
and found themselves inside a whale,
before escaping with a treasure chest
(this was the bit in the show that was best),
as we, the audience, donned 3-D specs
and were treated to some stunning effects.
We screamed, we flinched, we rocked with mirth
(I’m sure a woman in my row gave birth).
And then Dick and his crew washed up on the Isthmus,
this whole show was as camp as Christmas!

Unlike most theatre, Panto doesn’t care
even to pretend there’s a 'fourth wall' there,
so should it be said that Panto’s no biz,
we'd loudly shout back: “Oh yes it is!”

Thank you Fintan, for a great night out
(next time, remember, it will be my shout),
but after the hours we spent later in the Dragon,
I think it’s time that I went on the wagon!

How To Dress

I love fresh pineapple, but in the past I have invariably regretted buying one because of the mess and stress caused trying to get into them. Well, not any more. A friend gave me a marvellous gadget-thingy for Christmas, and it takes all the hard work and carnage out of the process. It’s fantastic – you just slice the top off the fruit, screw in the gadget (like a corkscrew) and hey presto, seconds later you lift out a perfect stack of neatly formed pineapple rings, uniformly sized and shaped. It’s just so wonderful – I’m buying pineapples all the time now. I eat it for breakfast, with yoghurt; I chop it into cubes to drop into curries and chillies; I even add it to avocados and mangos to make a delicious salsa salad. So I urge any of you who has previously despaired at the thought of extracting enough fruit to warrant the effort, to rush to the shops and buy one of these pineapple-thingies right now! You won’t regret it.

Spookily enough, I’ve just remembered that a pineapple makes an appearance in the very first scene of my current novel, but that’s probably not connected in any way; just coincidence.

I couldn’t sleep again last night. I was actually woken by a mischievous text message coming through at about 3:00 a.m. so I climbed out of bed and switched on the TV. I watched the opening two games of Andy Murray’s match against Frenchman Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in the Australian Open. I wasn’t feeling too confident when I saw how Murray (No. 9 seed) struggled to win his first game compared with the ease in which the unseeded Tsonga won his. Something told me not to watch any further, so I switched off and went back to bed where I read myself to sleep. Sure enough, I awoke this morning to hear that poor Murray had suffered a first-round defeat under the glaring Aussie sun, although looking at the score it seems as if Tsonga didn’t have it all his own way and that Murray put up a good fight. I wish I’d watched the whole match now.

But what’s so funny about this is that I hear the commentator apparently changed the poor lad’s nationality within the match. When he walked onto the court he was heralded as “Britain’s Number One”, but as he bowed out just a couple of hours later, he was labelled “the Scot, Murray”. Oh, perfidious Albion!

It’s my elder daughter’s birthday today. She’s a quarter of a century old. Oh dear, what does that mean to her crumbling, decrepit old Pa? I must get to the gym today – my legs are weak and bandy and feeling like this, I’d never ever take on Andy. Which reminds me, my story about the cock-mad poet is being published this month. I look forward to it.

What? Me, worry?

I’ve loads to do today. My flat is a disgusting mess which needs cleaning, and I still have to re-hang my bedroom door which fell off weeks ago. I have all the equipment, so there’s no excuse. I also need to go over to my old house because the fish need feeding – they’ll be so grumpy because nobody has been in to see them for three days. The biggest (Mr Fishy) has cornered the market in looking grumpy anyway. Since his lips fell off (a mysterious illness, two years ago – don’t ask) his mouth has always had that down-turned look and even on a good day he glares at you as if it were all your fault (being a fish, living in water etc).

Well, I finally made it to the much-talked-about Champagne Bar at St Pancras this week. A load of old rubbish if you as me. It’s a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes really: Everyone says it’s fabulous because that’s what’s expected, but nobody really says what they mean - that it’s just a big con-trick. You pay £10 for a single glass of (rather poor quality) champagne just so that you can be sneered at by an arrogant Russian bartender who, up until a week ago, was probably only a gay porn actor anyway. And there’s no heating, so you have to sit in your coat and gloves. And it’s billed as the longest bar in Europe which is just a big lie – the bar itself is as big as a pocket handkerchief; it’s just the longest row of tables in Europe, and I bet that bit isn’t true either. I’m sure the tables at the Munich Beer Festival are longer.

While I was in London (oh, I didn’t get time for my ‘adventure’ by the way), I went to lunch with an old friend in a restaurant by the river at Chiswick. It was a delightful place where you can watch the Boat Race going by (if it’s running, that is) and all the waiters are drop-dead gorgeous 'resting' actors. In that respect it reminded me a little of the restaurant on the roof of the Pompidou Centre in Paris where the waiters & waitresses are better dressed, and better looking, than most of the patrons. Mind you, at fifty-two quid for fish and chips and a risotto, it was nearly as expensive as ‘George’ is anyway. It was a lovely session though, and good to catch up on loads of news with my old pal.

Returning to Nottingham, I went to a fabulous party last night. My friend Amanda who is a playwright for theatre and radio - listen out for the Woman’s Hour serialisation of her play Bollywood Jane (or it might be Be My Baby; can’t remember) which is coming up in February - threw open her studio for a gathering of writers, theatre-designers, actors, choreographers and other reprobates. We all got wildly and irresponsibly drunk. I made a total fool of myself because I couldn’t resist rubbing the little red cheeks (I’m talking face cheeks here, before you start) of a mad Irish friend of mine. I think he became a bit fed up with this because he was trying to appear cool and manly towards a charming young female university lecturer and yet I was talking to him as if he were my little grandson. Hope I didn't wreck his chances. Oh dear, I am an old buffoon sometimes. Time to cut down on the sauce, I think (again).

Allons enfants!

Today I finally finished a long job that has been occupying my time for several weeks now. I’m quite relieved of course, but I currently have no other work in the pipeline so effectively, I’m unemployed. What’s to be done? I’ve been spending like a lunatic recently, and I also have a massive & crippling tax bill to pay so not only am I unemployed, but I'm penniless.

Oh well, such are the joys of being self-employed I suppose. I must now turn my attention to earning some cash. I suppose I could go on the streets and sell the Big Issue (except that I don’t have a dog); I could become an Alarm System Guy (but it’s just taken me over half an hour to assemble a simple piece of exercise kit that I bought recently, so I don’t think I’m cut out for screwing and fixing); or perhaps I should try doing some writing instead. Yes, the time has come to stop talking about it. The time has come to take action and to do it instead. The time my friends, the time has come.

Ho hum [idly taps his fingers]. Oh, is that the dishwasher that needs emptying? Or perhaps I should carry the bottles and cans down to the recycling bin? Maybe those windows could do with a clean? What about my Leaning Tower of Pisa pile of ironing – it won’t do itself, will it? And I guess I really should do something about the state of my oven. On the other hand, I haven’t been to the gym for a while, so I think it’s really quite important that I pay a visit immediately. And then I could have a swim. Why is it I wonder, that when I’m all ready to sit down to write, there are just too many distractions out there. Oh no, I think I hear the call of the pub!

That Sarkozy fella (le Président de France) is at it again. He has announced that he will close down France24’s English-speaking & Arab-speaking sections because there is “no way a state-owned broadcaster should be broadcasting in anything but French” (he didn’t make this announcement in English by the way – I’ve translated it). Who is he kidding? Doesn’t he want France’s flagship news provider to be broadcasting to the whole world? Well okay, if he only wants people inside France and North Africa to be watching & listening, then that’s his choice I suppose. But who does he think contributes most of the stories for his newsroom? French-speaking correspondents? Do they heck-as-like. Come off it Sarkozy – la belle langue lost its battle to be the lingua franca decades ago and no amount of your xenophobic buffoonery will change that I’m afraid. Poor man.

Maybe I ought to write him a letter? At least I’d be writing something. Now, what’s the correct French expression for "deluded fool...."?

Anyway, I’m off to London tomorrow to celebrate both of my daughters’ birthdays. I’m also anticipating a bit of an adventure there, but I’ll let you know about that when I get back.

Toodle pip, old loves!

I Told You So!

Ah, you see – it’s not often that I’m proved to be right but this time, I am. It’s official: Christmas is bad for you. Apparently today, Monday 7th January is labelled as “D-Day” by the forces of our legal profession as they swarm back to their desks after an extended holiday break. The “D” in question is for Divorce. Solicitors cite today as showing the biggest surge in people beginning divorce proceedings and it’s all because of that damned bean-feast known as Christmas. The so-called ‘Festive Period’ is seemingly the peak time for cheating - a fling at the office party perhaps – and provides prime grounds for separation. Throw in family rows, financial worries, and (somewhat churlish, this) disappointing presents, and the boom in New Year divorce proceedings means those lucky blighters in the legal profession will soon have their cash tills ringing.

Add to this that over the Christmas holiday people spend longer periods of time together than normal, so there's more opportunity to argue (what does this say about us as a social species?), plus what one lawyer has described rather chillingly as “the impact of relatives”, and it’s a clear recipe for the fabric of marriage to crumble. Then, with most people making New Year resolutions and thinking more about what they want for the future, there comes even more temptation to boot out 'her indoors' (or him, of course) and start afresh. What a sorry state we’re all in, eh?

What I find so amusing about all of this though, is that at the very time of year when we are all meant to be celebrating what is strictly a Christian festival, one of the basic foundations of Christian life – the bastion of marriage – is being eroded by that very festival itself. Now that’s what I call neat!

I also learn this morning that it’s only five weeks to go until Lent begins. Oh dear, the remorseless grind of the religious calendar never stops for some of you, does it? I wonder which area of society’s slender veneer will be rubbed through by that particular fiasco? Tally ho!

D'you wanna be in my Gang?

Someone asked me yesterday whether I had ever been a Goth. I retorted that this was a most extraordinary question for someone of my age – I’m not sure for how long Gothic has been a style choice for people, but I’m pretty sure I was already too old to make such a choice by the time it was. Well, mused my questioner, there must have been a trend of some kind that you followed at some point in your life, surely?

I thought about this for a while and couldn’t remember being a member of any particular “gang”, even in my youth. Whether by design or by accident, I never seemed to want to hunt with the pack – when my contemporaries at school were wearing army great-coats, I wore a red velvet blanket draped around my shoulders; when Afghan coats were de rigeur, I instead chose to sport an elegant (lady’s) fur coat given to me (appropriately enough, perhaps?) by the manageress of a pet shop where I held a Saturday job.

I suppose the closest I ever came to following a recognized trend was in the glam-rock era when I would adorn my face with outrageous make-up, had a blue streak put in my hair, and squeezed my small ass into skin-tight brightly coloured satin flares atop mega-stacked platform shoes. I particularly loved that era because it was the only time I’ve ever been tall; and the only time I've ever been gorgeous. It’s a pity that there are no surviving photographs to prove it (at least in my possession). Even so, this slavery to a certain style only lasted a short while before I resorted to a blend of individual anonymity that nobody else seemed to be aware of. I remember that for two whole years I wore wooden Norwegian clogs on my feet, long before they became - for a while - fashionable.

I have always been something of a mis-fit, and even when I was consciously trying to emulate Bowie or Bolan, I would still add a twist that was uniquely me - something that would quietly say: "I'm not really the same as you, it just looks like it". I identified strongly with Camus’s L’Étranger and often used to fantasise that I had been abandoned on the wrong planet by a passing space ship, or at least that I had been accidentally swapped at birth and really belonged to a family of eccentric European aristocrats living on borrowed time and borrowed money in some crumbling rococo palace in Bavaria or somewhere.

Perhaps I should re-invent myself? Maybe the next time you read this blog, instead of seeing ‘Richard Pilgrim’ at the top of this page, you will see my real name: Baron Rudolph von Piffenffeffer-Winkelstein. Yes, I’m sure that’s right.

The Road To Hell...

I became so irresponsibly hammered on New Year’s Eve that it took me a long time to recover on Tuesday. Blimey, I thought I was meant to be behaving with a new-found decorum too; I was only a bit merry by midnight – although perhaps I should have suspected otherwise because by the time the bells chimed I was dancing like a loony with a whole bunch of friends (I don’t normally dance, you see). And so, at about one o’clock, I began to prepare to head homewards – I’d had a lovely evening, was feeling pleasantly tipsy, and thought that an ‘early’ night would round it all off. Then someone invited me to a party and of course, the little demon in my head urged me to accept and so I went along, whereupon I became guilty of an increasingly serious assault on a bottle of Jack Daniels (as well as some strange concoction that Little Jim called "Man-whisky") and alas, I didn’t get home until dawn.

Oh dear, and I was due to attend lunch at my parents’ house in a matter of a few hours too. After snatching a quick cat-nap, I plunged myself under a cold shower, quickly dressed and took a taxi over to Beeston. Dear Mummy & Daddy, I am so sorry for not doing your specially prepared lunch proper justice; it was rather ungrateful of me considering the amount of trouble you had taken on my behalf. I really, really promise to go on the wagon from now on. And it’s true – I went to the Broadway on my way home this evening to catch up with a few friends and I only had a cup of tea. Yes, a refreshing cup of tea. Now I’m at home cooking a lasagne (for which I was disappointed to discover I have no lasagne in the cupboard), and about to do some work. This is the start of 2008 – a year of production and diligence. I might even get around to doing a bit of ironing later; I have a Leaning Tower of Pisa-type stack to do, so I really need to get on with it.

I’m off to Birmingham in the morning (snow permitting). British weather reports are so strange. “Heavy snow” was what the BBC was forecasting for the Midlands, today on the lunchtime news. Quite outrageous scaremongering I call it. By this evening, the reports have changed to “light dusting” which of course, may or may not be true. I’m not overly optimistic about Cross Country Trains coping with any level of dusting so I’m thinking of taking a small hip flask with me tomorrow, just in case (oops, there goes my tee-total commitment).

I’ll let you know how I get on. If you don’t hear from me within a week, send a St Bernard to New Street Station immediately.