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.