Evenin' All

I read a report this morning that claims the British Police are targeting normally law-abiding middle classe people over minor transgressions of the law so that government targets can be met. It claims that officers are putting Home Office targets ahead of attending to the public’s needs and protection. As a result of this, the police force is becoming increasingly alienated from ordinary people. The report, by the think-tank Civitas (Institute for the Study of Civil Society) goes on to say that members of the public now find police officers to be "rude" and accuse them of neglecting their duties and failing to respond to reports of crime.

The report states that: "They are accused of concentrating on easy-to-deal with offending like speeding, while the real criminals seem to be getting away with it." One case was highlighted in which a 19-year-old foreign student was arrested, detained for five hours and cautioned for holding open the door of a lift in a London Underground station. The report said: "In a city where knife crime is exploding and the public are crying out for more police on the streets three officers are tied up for half the night arresting a young man for holding a lift door open with his foot."

Whereas this is certainly no surprise to me, it is nevertheless disquieting. I hate litter and I normally go to great lengths to avoid causing it myself. I will carry trash around in my pockets for hours until I can find a suitable bin to use. If I smoke in the streets (once considered so “common” by my dear mother, but now almost a necessity for those amongst us who are pathetic enough to require nicotine), I will carry the withered cigarette stub until I find a repository for it. And yet I admit to being a hypocrite in this matter because when I smoke in my car, I always throw the end out of the window. There’s no getting away from it - this is littering, plain & simple, and when last week I was spotted doing it by a policeman who took my registration number and who subsequently sent me a fixed penalty notice through the post, I thought: “It’s a fair cop, Guv,” and cheerfully paid my £50 fine.

Well, maybe not so cheerfully because whereas I was most definitely guilty, it’s slightly galling that my penalty has less to do with keeping the highways of this city clean (whenever was that important?), and more to do with some young officer achieving his monthly targets. I am not a prolific offender, but I was caught red-handed and was made to pay for my crime. This rankles slightly because wherever I go, I continue to witness people wilfully throwing down chip wrappers, drinks cartons, nightclub flyers, newspapers, cigarette boxes and all kinds of other assorted paraphernalia (even, on one occasion, a pair of shoes!). These people are clearly repeat offenders and yet it is unlikely that and of them will ever be apprehended. It rankles even more though, when I realize that I am probably just part of a different goal; I am a statistic that is necessary for perpetuating New Labour’s red tape, target-driven culture. Disappointing, but true.

All this makes my efforts to help thwart the authorities in the case of Hicham Yezza more relevant. The demonstration the other day was a splendid example of causing embarrassment to the establishment. There were hundreds of people there; the so-called “terrorist” document (which, by the way, can be freely purchased on Amazon) was read out loud; people waved banners and marched in silence; a tremendous speech of passionate support was given by Alan Simpson MP. Even though the authorities had sneakily ordered a deluge of rain in a nugatory attempt to dampen our spirits, we were not disheartened. After all, as someone said to me in an email this morning: “who doesn't like a bit of self-righteous socialising in the rain?” It was a serious event for sure, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun too.

Hicham Yezza is facing deportation to Algeria on Flight BA894 from Heathrow at 9.45 a.m. this Sunday, June 1st. He has expressed his willingness to contest the immigration charges in a court of law, but has been denied this basic right to a fair hearing. It is alarming that the Home Office seems to have lost interest in this legal process and is willing to deport him so hurriedly. Methinks, I smell a rat.

Normal Service Is Resumed

In contrast with the gravity of my previous posting, and the earnest mood in which I wrote it, this will be more like my usual postings because yesterday evening turned into one of levity and in parts, irresponsibility. It all began with a perfectly normal endeavour. My friend, the TV writer & film enthusiast Michael Eaton, had been sent a recently discovered and beautifully restored silent film of ‘Oliver Twist’ by the Hungarian Film Archive. He was keen to get the Hungarian captions translated into English so that he could use the film in a forthcoming talk he is giving. As I know a number of Hungarians, I had (not without some difficulty, I might add) arranged a meeting for this very purpose. It had been a stop-start affair trying to get the somewhat chaotically-organized boys to commit to a specific evening, but eventually we arrived at Michael’s house where we were all in a state of some excitement.

Imagine our mutual despair when, a few moments into the film, it was discovered that the captions were not in Hungarian after all. The boys recognized the language as Serbo-Croat, but did not have sufficient knowledge of the language to effect a translation. Michael was devastated, as was I. We trailed from the house feeling very inadequate and I drove the boys home. I was thereupon immediately exposed to some danger as the boys offered to ply me with copious amounts of wine and even began to prepare a huge dinner of roast pork and potatoes which they insisted I should share. As tempting as this offer was, and before it became necessary to abandon my car, I declined and returned into town. My plan was to have a single, sociable, drink in the Broadway and then retire to work on my play.

How differently did the events soon turn out to be. There was a carnival atmosphere at the Broadway – I had forgotten that it was ‘Indiana Jones’ night and a huge marquee had been constructed on the front terrace, housing a BBQ and several groaning buffet tables. Most people were in fancy dress of some sort – little Beth even came as a goldmine cart – and there were fedora hats, whips and snakes galore. The mood was seductive. Just about everyone was there, and just about everyone was getting very drunk indeed. Jay stood on a table to sing and later, over at Muse Bar, “Box-Office” Mark entertained us with a 1980s disco (which eventually, in accordance with the age-group of the majority of the revellers, transformed into a very sexy drum & bass groove). I did something that I never normally do these days – I danced! Rhythmically grinding away ‘entre les reins’ with my beautiful Danish friend Anja, I made a complete fool of myself. It must have been (for them) like watching your grandfather dance at a wedding. Cringe-making, and I hardly dare show my face there again.

I can’t remember leaving; I can’t even remember coming home at all. I just vaguely remember - as I was pouring myself a large (and totally unnecessary) glass of whisky - spotting that the clock on my cooker showed 4:00 a.m. This revelation seemed to have a sobering effect on me, and so I sensibly tipped the whisky back into the bottle and crashed into my bed. This morning I have to try to make myself look both presentable and serious. Later, I shall be attending a demonstration in protest at the deportation of Hicham Yezza, and this is not an event to be approached with any lack of dignity or significance. The story has now caught the attention of the international press. You can read another account of it on France24’s website by clicking here.

I shall spend the rest of today sober.

Stop the Deportation of Hicham Yezza

Now, for once, I’m going to get serious. There’s the most heinous breach of justice going on right now, right here, and if any of you value the liberty that we ‘enjoy’ in this country, you should sit up and take note.

A respected academic, Hicham Yezza, is tonight languishing in a deportation centre because of incompetence on behalf of the great British police. Hicham – who has no association with terrorism whatsoever – was arrested on 14th May on suspicion of terrorism charges. This was because he was unlawfully spied upon by his own university authorities (Nottingham University) after he downloaded, and printed, a manual produced by Al-Qaeda. He did this for research purposes only and not for any other subversive means at all. Hicham has no connection with terrorist organizations – as could have been verified by his academic supervisor if the paranoid police had been bothered to ask.

After six days (yes, six days), and after his friends and family had been harassed, investigated, and had their computers confiscated, Hicham was released without charge (the police could, unsurprisingly, find no evidence of a link to terrorism). Question One: Why did it take the police six days to establish this when one phone call could have done it? After his release, Hicham was immediately re-arrested on “immigration” charges. He has resided in this country – making a valuable contribution to academic life at Nottingham University in the meantime – for fourteen years. Now, due to a technicality related to his visa, he is being deemed an “illegal immigrant”. The Home Office has issued him with an emergency deportation order and he has been shipped off to a deportation suite. Effectively, he’s back in prison. Question Two: Why the rush?

The answer to Question One: Because, under the new anti-terrorism laws, they can. The police can react with inappropriate hysteria and subject anyone they like to internment on the flimsiest of “evidence”. Do you think a white person printing off a copy of an Al-Qaeda manual would have been subjected to this?

The answer to Question Two: Because the police wish to create a smokescreen to disguise their own inadequacies. Red-faced because they at last realized that they had made a false arrest, they reacted in typical knee-jerk fashion and found, to their satisfaction, that an irregularity in Hicham’s visa could allow them to re-arrest him, thereby “justifying” their original assertion that he is an undesirable character. It’s pitiable. Hicham, who is from Algeria, currently has an application for British citizenship pending – this has presumably been cast aside because of his so-called “illegal” status. The unintentional consequence of this is that Muslims become even further alienated and their opinions become further entrenched - and that is more dangerous than the printing of any manual, believe me.

There is an action group that has been formed to try to stop this shameful abuse of power. You can find out more at http://freehichamyezza.wordpress.com/ so please take a look. This isn’t just about a single individual in Nottingham; this is about protecting civil liberties for all of us.

I thank you.

Shine A Light

What a packed week it’s been! On Monday I went to see the Poliakoff play (see previous entry), then after a brief sojourn of ironing on Tuesday, things simply spiralled out of control - again. On Wednesday we had our ‘Word of Mouth’ event at the Royal Concert Hall – this was a reading event provided by the Nottingham Writers’ Studio where a selection of studio members read out (or had performed) their work in front of a paying audience. I had volunteered to man the bar which involved buying and delivering the wine and then attempting to quench the thirst of dozens of clamouring writers and their adoring fans. Quite a task.

On Thursday I attended the dress rehearsal of the launch of Unleashed Limited’s latest project: ‘Finding Beauty’. This was a series of art & performance installations set in a derelict police station in the centre of Nottingham. There was a woman taking Polaroid photograph after Polaroid photograph of her own Polaroid photographs; the world’s smallest rave set in one of the piss-stinking, graffiti-scorched cells; a woman hiding inside a bag whilst showing a film of herself not hiding in the bag; a cardboard ice-cream van serving real ice-creams (gratis, providing you were willing to be filmed accepting them); a tribute band to The Band That Never Was – it was all there at Unleashed.

The dress rehearsal was completed to satisfaction, and so Friday night saw the launch of the real event; the Press Night. The guest list was rigorously checked by corset-clad faux policewomen on the door; a male model (painted white) sat on a shooting stick and criticized the guests’ outfits (I wore a gold brocade shirt with orange-striped trousers, heavily mocked). This was a fabulous event - the place was buzzing with life as the massing crowds milled from room to room admiring the various exhibits and installations. I was interviewed by the BBC (in what had once been the custody suite) on my impressions of the photographed photographs. It was all huge fun so well done to you, Unleashed!

Today was a complete contrast. I attended an all-day audience with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. It was a series of spiritual teachings about the meaning of life and about finding inner peace and satisfaction. In some ways it was rather predictable and fairly high-level, but the Dalai Lama is such a lovely man that it was just enthralling to be in his presence and listen to him expound his musings on the human condition in his laid-back, almost comical style. The young girl who washes my hair asked me recently who "this Dalai Lama fellow" was – she had thought he was some sort of comedian. In his own way, he is. One piece of advice he had to give on the subject of finding inner happiness is: Never take yourself too seriously. I don’t have a lot of trouble in following this particular piece of advice – I wore my elephant trousers today and nobody could take themselves too seriously wearing those.

More of His Holiness’s teachings tomorrow. I can’t wait.

Roger the Cabin Boy

One of the strangest periods of my life was when I once worked as a deckhand on a cargo vessel called the ‘Arco Humber’. At the time I was living near Shoreham Docks in Sussex and had just been sacked from my job as personal trainer to the actress Dora Bryan. One Sunday afternoon I took a walk in the April sunshine and found myself standing on the rails of the huge lock that connected the docks to the open sea. I was absent-mindedly watching the ‘Arco Humber’ as she was slowly being lowered down to sea level before being released to the expanse and romance of the world’s oceans.

Without thinking of anything in particular, I eventually realized that I too was being watched. I became aware that a man in orange overalls was leaning against the stern rail, smoking. He beckoned to me. “Want to come aboard?” he shouted. “Take a look round?” At this point the ship’s deck was now level with the lock-side and so, without considering the consequences, I vaulted over the rail and joined him. “Smoke?” he asked, offering a packet in his blackened, greasy hand.

I don’t recall now quite why I was offered – and accepted – a one-trip job as a deckhand on the forthcoming voyage to Panama. Apparently they were a man short after one of the crew had jumped ship to join a circus that had been sited on Shoreham Common that weekend. The ship was to be tied up for a while before the tide was deemed suitable for setting out, so I had enough time to run home to collect my passport and a small bag of essentials. Within the hour I was back and found myself being installed in a small (somewhat smelly) cabin, sharing with Enriqué, the guy who had hailed me aboard. I then began four weeks of the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life (except for that time when I was potato-picking in Herefordshire, but that's another story).

As the ship fell and rose beneath us whilst we pitched into the black troughs of the Bay of Biscay, and as we later languished in the blistering heat of the South Sargasso Sea when technical problems had caused a temporary engine failure and we were adrift, my job was to scrub the entire deck clean in a Sisyphus-like task, trying to keep the salt from forming a potentially dangerous film. At nights we sat in the stinking saloon with the other guys where we played cards, drank rum and smoked endless cigarettes whilst Joseph, the Philippino cook, fed us – invariably - with lamb stew and curried potatoes followed by pancakes coated with maple syrup and dried apricots. Sometimes there would be boiled fish, complete with the heads. If it hadn’t been for Enriqué’s incessant attempts to beguile us with his somewhat erratic (and usually unsuccessful) magic tricks, we might have become bored to the point of madness; we might have gone stir-crazy.

After Panama and the staggering grandeur of its canal, we unloaded our cargo of fertilizer, turned round, and headed back to Britain. Sometimes when we were lying in our bunks, either sweating in the cloying heat or wrapped in prickly blankets trying to hold on to the sides in an attempt to stop ourselves from being tossed to the floor (not always successful), Enriqué would send me to sleep with his inexhaustible supply of tales of his former life as a gaucho working on the plains of Argentina. Sometimes, when we could afford to take a couple of hours off during the day, we would lie pinned to the foredeck by the scorching sun, naked. We believed then that an all-over tan was de rigueur.

Arriving back in Shoreham, Stavros the captain asked me to sign up for a second voyage. I was tempted – oh, I was so tempted. Enriqué, calling me his ‘little blonde puppy’ (I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was peroxide), begged me to stay. But no, I decided to return to my flat and to my life amidst the fleshpots of Sussex. I decided that I had a life to get on with. Being Dora Bryan’s personal trainer had never really suited me; nor had washing salt from the burning metal of the ship's decks, if the truth were to be told. I decided that I needed a proper job.

Thirty-two years later, and I’m still looking. How different things could have been if I'd stayed aboard the 'Arco Humber'. How so very different.

To sleep, perchance...

With apologies for using an image that has appeared here before, I’ve just realized that I promised to send part of my novel to the person who had agreed to act as the pilot of the balloon in my forthcoming play about the Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785. The trouble is, I failed to keep a copy of his email address and so I fear that without that, the email will never be sent and most probably, the play will never be written. I also agreed to send him a subliminal message in the form of an exquisitely written piece of (meaningless) prose – something I have also failed to do. How can I be so recalcitrant?

I went to see a play this evening. It was Stephen Poliakoff’s ‘Breaking The Silence’, performed at Nottingham’s Playhouse Theatre. Fabulous set design and beautiful staging but, I am sorry to report, the direction left something to be desired. I felt apologetic for the actors who battled hard with weak direction and a not-so-clever script. I think the play was written in the mid-eighties and bore some of Poliakoff’s trademarks in as much as it contained his epic themes of tortured family relationships that swirl amidst catastrophic and momentous historic events, but it failed to ignite the reasonable emotional response that it was supposed to (with me, at least). There was a fantastic piece of (presumably very expensive) stage management at the very end of the play, but it left me cold because there was no exploitation of this (and this was not Poliakoff’s fault). However, all live theatre is good and so it would be churlish of me to denounce this slice of drama as a failed effort, particularly as I was a guest of my good friend Fintan Ó Higgins who should be thanked for giving me the opportunity to view this spectâcle for free. He's a good man, so he is, that Fintan.

And now for that exquisite prose (well perhaps not the most glittering of styles, but heavy-eyed and hunting the ombres of the night as I am, it's the best I can do): "Reclining lasciviously on a high balcony, I wet my swollen lips on the fragrant blackberry taste of the red wine whilst appraising the luminescent qualities of a watery full moon, dangling in the clarity of a barren night sky (that’s the moon, not me). The shiver of an uncustomary May breeze upon me, I struggle to reassure my timid friend that there is no displeasure to be sought from his paramour’s apparent coolness. I endeavour to bolster his trembling heart by facing him with the supposition that the mysteries of the female affection are as perplexing as a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma." (Yes, yes, I know that last bit is really Winston Churchill and not my own exquisite prose; but it was ever thus). I continue: "My friend must take courage and strike out for the valiant solution. 'Action Cures Fear' – an aphorism that scatters all hesitation for the faint-hearted; a maxim by which to live if any of us is to realize what we truly crave".

But what I crave now is the email address of my erstwhile pilot for the balloon. I can't believe that I was so stupid as to have lost it, and if anyone out there knows it, please send it on.

Syttende Mai

Saturday was the 17th May or - as my strong, blonde, ice-eyed Norwegian friends would say – “Syttende Mai”. This is a special day for the Norwegians - it is their Constitution Day; the day when the whole nation celebrates with flags, parades, and many renditions of “Ja, vi elsker dette landet” (the National Anthem). I’ve only ever seen it once, and that was thirty years ago when I travelled over to Oslo with the Ipswich football team which had just won the FA Cup the previous weekend. We celebrated on the plane and then we celebrated in the streets. The revelry on this day in Norway is a pageant of youth – yes, for even though the entire country (of any age) engages with the jubilation, it is the youth of Norway which has its day on Syttende Mai.

The youth of the country parades with its horns and drums and form what they call the “Russtog” (Red Train) where high school graduates create a reticulated column of floats, cars and vans upon which they loll and sprawl in drunken indulgence. I neglected to say that this procession is preceded by the “Barnetog” (Children’s Train) which is where the tots of this great land display their loyalty to the homeland with flowers and of course, the ubiquitous flags. There is a gala atmosphere of the most exuberant and abandoned kind, and it's all huge fun.

The odd thing is that I learn that my daughter Imogen (who lives in Switzerland) is in Oslo this weekend, specifically for these festivities. She is witnessing the fun and madness that I witnessed, but exactly thirty years later. This reminds me of another strange and similar coincidence - that the first time I ascended the Empire State Building in New York, it was exactly thirty years since my father had visited the very same spot. Generational spans; how strange they are, eh?

Anyway, I have had a peculiar Sunday. I walked along the road to Damascus and lo, I beheld my own Epiphany. I have always held a certain tenacity to good manners but now I have woken to the fact that manners (contrary to the adage) do not maketh the man. What really maketh the man is the ability for totally unsentimental ruthlessness. I am sick of being used and abused by everyone and so from hereon in I intend to be entirely self-sufficient, and so fuck you, fellow man. From tomorrow I will not even consider the needs of others because it will be my own needs that are paramount – if I encounter others who require my help with anything, I will only give it if it benefits me too. Notwithstanding that this may seem simplistic and even materialistic (and certainly selfish), that's just too bad - we are all alone in this world and that is exactly as it should be.

I am on the brink of a New World Order. I will rely on no-one but myself. I will prevail.

The Agony and The Ecstasy

My friend Fintan O’Higgins (or Fintan Ó Higgins as he might prefer to be called – I think the apostrophe is an Anglicisation to replace the accent (or ‘fada’) used in the Irish), involved me in a fascinating conference at the Lakeside Arts Centre yesterday. The theme of the conference was ‘Making History’ and was an attempt to explore how journalists, photographers and theatre makers present to us a world in conflict. There were some absorbing presentations that challenged the audience to reflect on the way that images of war are delivered. Do we believe what we are presented with? With so much digital technology at our fingertips, are the pictures that we see on our screens and theatre stages fact, fiction or – perhaps more controversially – mere art? We were made to ask: Who tells our stories? Who creates our histories? Who is telling the truth?

There was an excellent talk from academic Gearóid Ó Cuinn who examined how in war photography (as in any photography) a circuit is created between the photographer, the subject and the viewer. Who takes the fullest social & moral responsibility for what we see? Then playwright Sarah Grochala talked about how she uses photographic imagery as inspiration for her stage plays to explore the accountability of those who present, and those who view, representations of conflict. We were shown some harrowing images and I doubt if any of us could have failed to examine our own culpability - or perhaps innocence – when confronted by these impressions. Strong stuff.

By contrast, and perhaps by necessity, I went sailing after the conference. With a decent wind – albeit it in the worst possible direction – we hurtled round the course struggling to keep the boat flat and the sails trimmed for optimum performance. It was quite hard work, especially trying to keep the spinnaker filled (my job) when at one point there was a tail wind that seemed to spin through 180 degrees within the blink of a cat's eye (it’s the interference of the large trees on the river bank that does this). Anyway, we won the race with a convincing lead and came ashore to a welcome supper of roast chicken and creamy rice pudding. But with both the mind and the body having been challenged during the day, I felt exhausted towards the end and fell into my bed for a deep (but troubled) sleep. I somehow managed to oversleep this morning.

I’m sure that most of you realize that in truth, I never gave that lecture to the Montgolfier Institute on the subject of the Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785. However, I now intend to write a stage play on the subject, and I have already found someone who is willing to act in the part of the balloon’s pilot. There will undoubtedly be technical challenges to the staging of this event – for a start, it will involve burning down the entire theatre at each performance. This may render the play’s tour unprofitable and may result in aesthetic protests, but I think I know someone who would be very glad to see this – especially if the play is performed only in theatres with the word ‘Royal’ in their names. I should be able to find a few of those, I think. Watch this space.

Night & Day

I have written a play which is being performed this evening at the Djanogly Theatre in the Lakeside Arts Centre. Although I’ve had successes in fiction, poetry & journalism before, and last year I had a monologue performed in public by an actress, this is the first piece of drama of mine to be performed before a paying public. It was fascinating to attend the rehearsals and watch my characters emerge as real people before my eyes. The actors and also the director each had slightly different ideas about who these characters are and about what their voices should sound like; but it wasn’t entirely inappropriate and most of their ideas gave me a new vision into what I had actually written. It was as if I had given birth to a healthy living creature, but that these people were now breathing new life into its personality and spirit. Quite spooky.

I had intended to have an early night last night. I wasn’t feeling too bright, and exhaustion from a sleepless night the day before was setting in. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of dropping by the Broadway on my way home from dinner and it was here that I was soon hijacked. Drink after drink kept coming my way and although I didn’t become intoxicated to the degree of a loss of dignity, I nevertheless experienced an impairment of judgement – the kind of impairment often associated with the ingestion of alcohol. It all started with having to meet two very sociable people from the BBC who wanted to interview me about my involvement with the Nottingham Writers’ Studio. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have probably left after one drink and been safely at home reading a book before dark. As it was, more and more of my Broadway comrades came along and before I could say ‘No thanks, I’ve had quite enough’, I was tottering home unsteadily after the night had turned cold, and I crashed into my bed without a single word of Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea having been read.

So here I now sit, the roseate fingers of the early dawn having already uncurled before I had woken, wondering what I can do today to rescue my downwardly spiralling and pitiful existence. I think it would be a safe and wise thing to abstain completely from the demon drink in future. Whereas it is true that our old friend Horace once wrote: “No verse can give pleasure for long, nor last, that is written by drinkers of water”, I nevertheless believe that clarity of mind and purity of spirit is what I need right now. I’ve tried the “everything in moderation” route, and it leads to nowhere. Well it does actually; it leads to desperation and ruin.

I have been dreaming for half the night about arguing with people and wonder why this should be so? Arguing with people is both debilitating and discouraging to the creative mind. I awoke with a sense of injustice and unhappiness, whereas I should have woken with a sense of excitement and anticipation about seeing the audience’s reaction to tonight’s performance. The world premiere of my play ‘Feeding Time’ is almost upon us. It is being billed as the work of an ‘emerging’ writer. Maybe I should have a facelift so that in future, my work can be announced as that of a ‘young writer’? The babbling press would always prefer that, I’m sure.

Will I Ever Learn?

What a ridiculously crazy weekend! There really isn’t another way to describe it. Try as I should to find a more erudite phrase to depict the antics of the last three days, I can’t. Ridiculously crazy says it all. Hideous kinky even.

I finished work (well, what I laughingly call work) on Friday evening and immediately (although not deliberately) plunged into a smudged blur of social excesses that hasn’t been rivalled for a long time. It all began with a gala atmosphere outside the Broadway on Friday evening – like the massing herds of wildebeest on the dusty grasslands of Africa, the world and his creative mother seemed to be gathering round the watering hole; there was restlessness and anticipation sizzling in the air. It became difficult to tear ourselves away because just when we thought we’d finished our final drinks, someone else would wash up, pull up a chair, and begin the process all over again. From thereon in, the vortex swirled and pulled with all its energy until any sensible efforts to resist were nugatory. The weekend had begun.

Along the carousel ride of the next forty-eight hours we ate great feasts of dripping meat and roasted vegetables; we cavorted with Danger Mouse & Penfold; we danced on high balconies; we sang with Peggy Lee and we sang with sweet-voiced Jay in a garden of delight in Sherwood. Yesterday afternoon’s bacchanalian revelries were of such gigantic proportions that they left me feeling – as I lay on a sun-soaked litter being pampered by oil-coated Nubians – slightly as if I were fiddling while Rome burned. We all had enormous fun but I fear that we were laughing so much that nobody managed to notice the tears I was inwardly shedding.

And now, as I sit amidst the glowing embers, surveying the charred and smoking ruin that was once my life, I need to wake up. The reveille has sounded and I have to take immediate action if I want any kind of phoenix to rise from these ashes at all.

The trouble is, I feel slightly dazed in the head and heart (particularly the heart), and this makes decision-making decidedly difficult. And potentially dangerous. As I said - a ridiculously crazy weekend.

I Blame Sex

We are often being told that the love of money is the root of all evil. Well, I wonder how true that is? If we’re looking for the actual root of evil, surely we have to go back further than that, by which I mean that there must also be a root for the love of money. I think we might be getting close to it if we conjecture that the love of sex is a deeper drive towards iniquity. It could be argued that the desire for sex is the motivation to everything we do. After all, why does any of us desire money in the first place? The answer to that is that we believe that money will make us more attractive to others. Money provides us with the ability to buy nice clothes (for example), but why do we want to have nice clothes? Because we think that by wearing them, whoever we might wish to attract towards us will find us more desirable, that’s why.

Why do we do anything? Why do we want to drive fast cars, or achieve artistic or sporting greatness, or grasp political power? Some of us fool ourselves into thinking that we may be doing some of these things for altruistic reasons, but even those amongst us who recognise that these desires are merely ego-driven, are still unaware that the ego is only disguising the real coercion – the need for sex. We believe that without money, nobody will be interested in us and therefore nobody will ever be willing to pull off their clothes and climb into bed with us. If you don’t believe me, then why is there an ever-present craving within us to look younger, a craving that is so much more easily met by the accumulation of wealth?

So, I submit to you that the hinterland of immorality is not the desire for money at all – it is the desire for sex. But maybe we have to hack even further into the undergrowth for the root of that desire too? Could it be that our primeval urge isn’t really about procreation at all, but about the underlying yearning just to be liked? I’ve talked before about our search for our soulmate and so I now conclude that this simple, natural force within us is – paradoxically – the real root of all evil. This is an injustice, for if the seemingly innocent need to be liked is the cause of our malevolence, then it would appear that there is no hope for us at all.

Notwithstanding that we are hopeless as a human race, I also hear this morning that more specifically, there is little hope for us as a nation too. Apparently, the latest edition of The Rough Guide To England says that we are a nation of “overweight, binge-drinking, reality-TV addicts”. Seems a little harsh – I for one am neither overweight nor am I interested in reality-TV. Who are these libellous cynics? Damn them, I say!

Onwards and Upwards.

No Pussyfooting!

I had a dream last night in which I was listening to someone telling me something I didn’t want to hear. To my astonishment I found myself saying to this person: “Oh, would you mind awfully if I asked you to stop speaking? I know you are interested in what you are saying to me, but I am not. I would really prefer not to listen to you any longer so if you don’t mind, please be quiet.” I said all of this in a very cheery tone and with a charming smile on my face. The person I was with (I know not who it was) readily agreed to my request and furthermore, bore no ill-feeling towards me for having made it.

How refreshing if this were how things worked in real life. But no, for in real life we often find ourselves patiently listening to things which hold no interest for us and yet, because of our innate politeness, we are powerless to terminate. The funny thing about dreams is that everything appears to be feasible and rational – I remember in this one thinking how easily I had ended the conversation and even wondering why I had never employed such a simple and effective measure before. I made a commitment to use this method from then on and this had the immediate effect of making me feel confident and socially assured.

Of course, upon waking I realized immediately that this is impossible. There are many situations in life where this wouldn’t work, and some where it wouldn’t even be desirable. We all like to make a good impression on people and this means that we sometimes have to bear out being talked to when in truth, we’d either like to be talking ourselves, or listening to something more interesting. There are certain nuances of etiquette that prevent us from being completely honest with other people; our desire to rub along nicely with our fellow human beings often subjugates our wish to speak our minds. This is a social requirement, but one which I wish were not present. Today I am going to try an experiment. At the risk of alienating myself from those around me, I am going to employ this method whenever I’m listening to something I don’t want to hear. With a friendly smile and a caring (but firm) tone, I shall hold up my hand and ask the speaker to stop. I fully appreciate that this action may be reciprocated and that I may also be asked by others to end what I am saying, but that is as it should be, and I won’t be able to complain. At least this method will display more courtesy than the alternative of simply being interrupted or talked over (which I often am). I’m looking forward to this experiment and if I succeed in having any friends left by the end of the day, I’ll let you know.

Another thing I’m going to do today is to write a list of things to do. I am anticipating this list to be very long and in that respect there is an argument for not compiling it at all. Sometimes, to be presented with a series of tasks that appears to stretch over the horizon can be intimidating, and even cause a panic attack. I shall try to stay calm. A strong head is required in these circumstances; a strong head and a sturdy heart. Onwards and upwards!

In view of what I was saying above about social protocol, I think that today’s message from Horace is fairly apt: “A portion of mankind take pride in their vices and pursue their purpose; many more waver between doing what is right and complying with what is wrong.” A wake up call, indeed.

Aye, aye, sailor!

I’ve just been away on another yachting weekend. I was ready for it – ready to get out of Nottingham; ready to get away from the Broadway and get some wind into my peroxide-coloured hair and some ozone into my beleaguered lungs. As usual, we motored down to Plymouth and picked up the yacht. On board, a nightcap (or two) before retiring and then waking to a fruitful breakfast before setting sail. It was sunny, but the wind was blowing old boots and soon we were whipping along trying to chase an enormous motor yacht that looked as if it belonged to Roman Abramovich (but probably didn’t – see picture). Imagine having a weekend cruiser that requires a fucking tug to get you out of the harbour!

Anyway, enough of such gas-guzzling monstrosities, we were sailing (somewhat smugly) under the wind and decided to head off down to Fowey in Cornwall. A bit of a mistake. With a 35 mph wind behind us and seas as lumpy as my old ma’s porridge, we had an uncomfortable ride, I can tell you. I felt unusually bilious and had to take to my bed for the second half of the voyage, waking just in time to arrive in the tranquil haven that is Fowey harbour – having left all the hard work to the others. Fowey is a delightful place; it looks - from our vantage point moored in the middle of the estuary - like a model village; a wedding cake of a town; rather Gormenghast-esque in my opinion. We went ashore for a (somewhat disappointing) dinner and a few drinks before hurtling back across the estuary in the dark in our (somewhat unstable) inflatable dinghy; just a small rubber torch lighting the way.

Whenever you stay in a harbour or marina that is not your home port, you become a temporary member of the local yacht club (providing that you pay your mooring fees). Fowey yacht club boasts amongst its previous commodores (read: “head honcho”) the redoubtable Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. I couldn’t remember who Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch was, but I knew I recognized his name from reading biographies of other luminaries from the 1920s & 1930s (as was my habit as a young man). Since returning from our trip, I’ve looked him up and learn that he was a Cornish-born eminent writer, poet and literary critic, and that he was also a prominent member of the Liberal party. I belong to one of the oldest inland sailing clubs in the country (Trent Valley Sailing Club; est. 1886), but we can’t count anyone as prestigious amongst our past commodores, I fear. I already knew, however, that TVSC once had a rear commodore by the name of Simon Elliott who is the brother of a good friend and fellow blogger of mine – Sally Moreton (www.sallymorten.blogspot.com). Small world, ain’t it?

However, I had been hoping that my trip to the South Cornish Seas would have brought me some respite from the angst and trauma of my everyday life here in Nottingham. But alas, on my return I find myself just as bewildered and dismayed as I was before I left. I took a friend with me, and he seemed to be equally unaffected by the liberation that the sea was meant to bring. Ah, "La Mer, Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs..."

So, to end, a couple of quotes from the ever-reliable Horace:

a) "Few cross the river of time and are able to reach non-being. Most of them run up and down only on this side of the river. But those who when they know the law follow the path of the law, they shall reach the other shore and go beyond the realm of death."

and b) "He who postpones the hour of living is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses." Hmm, Carpe Diem and all that.

Toodle pip, old loves!

New Order

I still have this mystery illness. I say ‘mystery’ because although in every respect it resembles the common cold, I’m sure there’s an element to it that in my case, will prove fatal. I’ve been trying to push it aside (as I’ve said before, I wasn’t allowed to be ill as a child), but it keeps lingering in the wings, threatening to overtake me and thereby spoil my forthcoming weekend of yachting on the high seas. So, I’m taking loads of drugs and overdosing on Vitamin C in the hope that I can chase it away for good.

It’s turning into a week of highly-charged emotions all round. If I were one of those people who believes in celestial influences, I’d be tempted to think that this is because of some shift in the fabric of the universe, but it’s more likely to be nothing more than the culmination of a collective anxiety caused by the everyday stresses of modern life. With illness, work pressures, ‘no-work’ pressures, matters of the heart, and matters of ever-shrinking available time, it’s no wonder that some of us end up in a somewhat febrile disarray. Just when I probably needed it most, I completely forgot to go to Buddhism last night. I might try meditating here; I’m sure it will help.

I was recently invited to write an article on my memories of the 1968 student riots in Paris. The problem with that is, I don’t really have any. All I can remember of that period is that being a bit of a Francophile, I was dismayed to see the destruction and unrest that was taking place. I was too young to understand the philosophical arguments of the movement, and struggled to work out what it was that the students and others were rioting and striking to achieve. I now learn that many of the students themselves didn’t have a clue what they were really rioting for. Sure, there were complaints about the centralisation of France’s education system, and there was certainly discrimination in the workplace, but why was that enough to spark a revolution of such importance? May 1968 has become iconic as a milestone in the development of today’s France, but I say that the intellectual ideology of that period was somewhat indulgent, and that the protagonists of the Situationist movement were driven more by philosophical fashion than by a desire to change the real order of things. For a start, it’s interesting to note how many of them were men and moreover, how many of them are now ‘establishment’ figures themselves.

This reminds me of a time when I sent a postcard to Tony Blair. It was about three years into his New Labour presidency, and a time when people were just beginning to express a slight unease about the way that old Labour principles were slowly being eroded. My postcard was rather rude if I remember – it said: “Hi Tony, now that you and your crowd are walking on hind legs, I wonder how long it will be before you start wearing clothes and sleeping in beds?”

I assume that he grasped the allusion.