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I read recently that according to an ancient Mayan calendar, the world will end on 21st December 2012. You may scoff at this unlikely prediction, but remember - the Maya civilization is noted for having some of the most highly sophisticated mathematical and astronomical systems in the ancient world, as well as the only known fully developed written language of the pre-Columbian Americas. So they weren’t daft by any means.

Well I for one am quite encouraged by this news because I’m continually being told by all sources that I haven’t saved adequately enough for my pension, and so now I know that I don’t need to bother. I was planning to work until I reach 100 years old because I somehow can’t imagine myself living on £2.37 per week (which is all my pension will apparently be worth), but now it means that I don’t have to. This is most reassuring, and will prevent me from waking up screaming in the middle of the night – which so often happens now. I can sit back, relax, and start planning how to enjoy the next four years-and-a-bit.

There are all sorts of advantages that this news presents for me. I don’t have to bother giving up smoking now – what’s the point when we’re all going to die anyway? It also means that I can sell everything I own and then live pleasurably on the proceeds (which should, if I’m careful and avoid profligacy, last me four years I reckon). Strangely, this situation will also reduce stress in areas that you might not think feasible. By having only four years-and-a-bit remaining, I don’t have to worry myself about achieving those things that I haven’t so far achieved; or viewing those sights I so far haven’t seen. You might think that with such a short time left available, we should all be rushing off to visit the Grand Canyon, or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or the Taj Mahal, or any of the other wonders of the world that some of us haven’t yet seen (okay, I accept that for some of you, these sights have already been ticked off on your list – so don’t be so smug), but what’s the point? We can’t possibly see everything we would want to in just four years, nor experience everything we feel we should, so why bother with any of it? Wouldn’t it be simpler, and less stressful, just to hang around the Broadway and wait for the Great Day to arrive? I think so.

I’m going to keep this information to myself, however. If everyone else knew about it then there could be mass panic amongst the population with everyone following my example, and then I’d never get a free table on the Broadway terrace, would I?

The cheerfulness that I feel from this new discovery is only marginally darkened by the knowledge that because the Mayans predicted the Great Day to be 21st December 2012, I’m still going to have to witness the humiliation and disgrace that will result from the disastrous debacle that this country’s attempt to organization the 2012 Olympics will turn out to be. I wonder if the Mayans got it wrong perhaps, and that instead of the Winter Solstice, they miscalculated the dates and it should have been the summer one? Let’s hope so.

Gin and tonic, anyone?

Silence

I’m doing a reading at the Lowdham Book Festival tomorrow. It’s just an extract from my story about the cock-mad poet that was published earlier this year in Staple. I’m looking forward to it, although it’s a shame because the event clashes with the launch of Nicola Monaghan’s novella ‘The Okinawa Dragon’ which is happening next door, and I can’t be at both events. I think it’s the first time I’ve read my work in public since I took part in the Brighton Festival some years ago. There, I read a poem about drowning gerbils in a bag, which of course is something I would never do nowadays. Drown gerbils that is, not read poetry.

So, tomorrow I will be amidst the world of writing and no doubt will bump into many people I know; both friends and acquaintances. This will inevitably involve talking to people – you know, as in having conversations. Not so remarkable you might think, but in stark contrast to the experience that my friend Jinaraja is about to undertake. He is about to embark on a two-month solitary, silent retreat. This involves living completely alone in a hut in the Spanish mountains, not speaking (even to himself). There is no electricity – just a gas stove and a tap. His provisions will be left for him in an animal-proof bin located some way from the hut; Jinaraja leaves a note in the bin stating his requirements, and the following day the items will be there, but he won’t have seen who left them. It’s a bit like the system of Father Christmas really.

This whole enterprise sounds incredibly tough to me. I’m sure that if I couldn’t speak to anyone for two months, I’d go bonkers. I remember spending a weekend last year here in my apartment when I saw nobody. None of my friends was around to go out with; nobody visited or even called on the phone. By the Saturday evening I’d gone stir-crazy, and had to go out for a walk around the streets just to immerse myself in the human condition and prove that other people did exist. However, that made matters strangely worse because there’s nothing lonelier than seeing other people partying when you’ve nobody to be with yourself.

Jinaraja’s solitude will be surreal I expect. He won’t even have a radio so there will be no news from the outside world at all. He’ll be ignorant of the world’s events, some of which of course could be momentous. There may be a conflagration caused by the Israelis striking at Iran; there may be oil discovered under the streets of Harare prompting the world to decide that it has to remove Mugabe from power after all; the Queen might abdicate; there may even be a British winner at Wimbledon (okay, so now I’m getting ridiculous). But none of these events will be known to Jinaraja until he returns to the world. How strange.

I think I might try a bit of this myself. I might pick a day next week when I don’t leave the apartment, when I switch off my phones, leave my laptop at the office, unplug the radio and TV, and simply wait. Will I go mad? Will I fall asleep and dream of the spinning world of society? Watch this space, and I’ll tell you.

The Sacred And The Profane

I had a bit of a mixed bag of a day yesterday. My friend Jinaraja came for lunch which, pleasant enough as it was just to have his company here, was further enhanced by being able to eat outside on the balcony. He came bearing gifts of chocolate, coffee and chanterelle mushroom paté, and I fed him with couscous & roasted vegetables with a mango and avocado salsa salad, followed by raspberries from his native Scotland. It was a dignified and uplifting occasion and afterwards Jinaraja sat with me over coffee and told me that he could see into my soul and that he felt that I could find happiness from within my own nature, and that it has nothing to do with external forces. I have the capacity, he was sure, to light myself up with my own brand of joy.

I felt from this experience that nothing can ever go wrong for me; that I only have to release this energy from within myself and opportunities for security and pleasure will present themselves to me readily. I felt peaceful and illuminated when he left.

And then, guess what? I spoilt all that harmony & balance by getting hideously, hopelessly and horribly drunk later on. The lovely Sarah D had called a gathering to celebrate the arrival of the Icon Magazine boys (up from London). Matt & Sam are an integral part of the ‘Unleashed’ business plan and so Sarah was certain that everyone involved with the project (and many others who are not, too) should meet them. I intended to have a few civilized drinks and then make it an early night – Jinaraja’s little talk had left me with an intention to be virtuous. But it was not to be. As more and more people arrived – like wildebeest gathering around a watering hole – it became less and less easy to drag myself away. The crowd was so large that we spilled firstly onto the terrace, then into the street, then across the street into Muse bar and beyond. There was a mad cacophony of babbled nonsense and there was ribaldry aplenty too. Far from exuding an air of peace and contentment, all I was exuding was an aura of alcoholic fumes and a quality of lechery and lewdness. The night ended in an act of debauchery so shameful that I can’t even mention it on a family show of this kind. So much for virtuous living.

This led me to wonder how long I can go on forgiving myself for my lack of personal integrity. Just how many times can I make excuses for myself, hoping that nobody will notice? Who do I think is giving me permission for this bad behaviour but myself, and who do I think is watching me? Avoiding negativity takes effort and vigilance; behaving in a mindful way requires a great deal of focus. Some Buddhist teachings recommend using white and black stones to represent the good and bad actions we have carried out during our day. This helps us to visualize our level of mindfulness (or not, as the case may be). Oh crumbs – my pile of black stones would be as high as the mountains of Tibet today, whereas my solitary white pebble would stand shivering alone in the cold.

The Buddha described our bodies as being like a ‘bubble in water’. It looks big and solid at first, but with just one little prick, it’s gone. Interesting analogy, don’t you think?

Eco-Fest 2008

I went to my first ever music festival this weekend. Strange, you might think, that someone of my age has never been to a festival before, but there you have it. I suppose it's because I have never before been attracted to camping in a field of mud and then standing in the rain so far away from the stage that the band playing on it is unrecognizable. This weekend wasn’t like that at all. It was a very small family-friendly festival called Eco-Fest, held on a site near Louth in Lincolnshire. We had a fabulous time – we arrived at lunchtime on Friday and didn’t stop partying until we left on Sunday afternoon. The weather was mixed (a bit damp & drizzly on Saturday) but everything worked perfectly anyway. I’ve never cooked on a camping stove before and even though I only had one burner, managed to provide an evening meal for myself and a full English breakfast for James and me on both mornings! I’m very impressed, and even might do it again.

On Saturday we had a wedding party to attend. Alastair Paylor and Joni were getting married on the Solstice (yes, Saturday was the real Solstice – forget about this leap year rubbish making it Friday; that’s what leap years are for), and they had arranged a Druid ceremony. We had a specially cordoned-off area of the camp site so that all the wedding party could pitch their tents together, so in a way we had our own version of ‘Freetown Christiania’ (à la Copenhagen) where we flew Tibetan flags and had Buddhist prayer flags strung from tent to tent. In keeping with a total lack of tradition, Alastair & Joni had planned that the reception should take place before the actual ceremony, so the assembled guests gathered around to drink a champagne toast and cook whatever food they had brought with them on the various barbeque grills. There was a great festive atmosphere, but with a family bias, so it was all good clean fun. After the feast and the speeches (yes, there was even a Best Man), we all made our way from the campsite down to the main arena inside the festival site. At midnight we gathered around the burning wicker man while the Druid Priest did his stuff and once the marriage was consecrated we all cheered and then danced madly, long into the night. I think we should have danced naked – it was a pagan ceremony after all – but maybe that would have frightened the children. Or the horses.

Anyway, a fabulous weekend all round, and one which I shan’t forget in a hurry. Congratulations go to Alastair & Joni who seem so happy together – a joy to behold. Their children, Maddie-May and Bodi behaved impeccably throughout. A perfect time.

And the music? Well, I didn’t see all of it but most of what I did catch was entertaining and earnestly performed. The highlight was the outstanding percussion group Sambalada who beat their rhythms into the flame-lit night with such exotic fervour that we all became mesmerised. I’m thinking of an excuse to throw a party so that I can hire them as the act. I love percussion anyway, but this group – with its eclectic mix of mainly latin percussion instruments driven by the pounding bass of the SuRdos – is just extraordinary. See the link opposite.

Now it’s Monday again, and I’m planning. Yes, I'm planning for the New Life (again). Let's hope I get somewhere this time.

Love and Marriage

I went to a charity event last night. It was fashion show held at Nottingham’s Escucha bar and featured the burlesque collection of designer Susi Henson from Eternal Spirits. It was a fabulous evening – the massing throngs in the audience were dressed almost as fashionably as the models on the catwalk, and there was a VIP area where the assembled guests there rattled their jewellery along with their credit cards. We were treated to a glittering array of gorgeous models parading in a range of stunning outfits, interspersed with various cabaret acts for our amusement. There was a Dean Martin impersonator, a couple of other singers and a music-hall style burlesque stripper (see photo). It was a charming evening all round – it began with dinner at Ranj’s house and then we walked up to the bar where we joined darling Sarah D from Unleashed together with her gorgeous boyfriend, plus many others. It ended madly, as usual, in Muse Bar.

I’m going to be out of town for a few days from tomorrow, and I won’t have any access to Tinterweb at all. I’m going to a music festival in a farmer’s field and I shall be camping (no jokes, please). I’ve never actually been proper camping before and I’m very excited about it. The reason for attending the festival in the first place is to celebrate the marriage of some good friends of mine. They are holding a Druid ceremony amidst the festival on Saturday, which of course is the Summer Solstice. The dress code for the ceremony is described on the invitation as ‘fancy dress’, so I plan to wear a basque (inspired by last night’s fashion show) and my elephant trousers.

My friends getting married are heterosexuals, but there has been a lot of talk in the press recently about the rights and wrongs of gay marriage. On this subject, I would say this: According to those who would claim that the bible prescribes on this matter, marriage exists for two main reasons – to provide a stable and loving relationship in which two people can support each other throughout life; and to create an environment for the procreation of children. Okay, nobody would deny gay people the opportunity to enjoy the first of these – everyone is entitled to find a partner with whom they can share the joys and tragedies of life, whether that’s with a person of the opposite or of the same sex. So that just leaves the thorny issue of procreation. Well, whereas it is true that homosexual couples face biological challenges to reproduction, so it is with many other relationships. What about couples who are incapable of having children? What about couples who marry when they are already too old to have children? What about those couples who don’t actually want to have children? Are we to deny these people the opportunity to marry too? Of course not.

Leave people alone to do what they want with their lives, that’s what I say. If two people are lucky enough to find a partner whom they can love and cherish for the rest of their lives, then good luck to them, whatever the mix (or not) of their gender.

The Kindness of Strangers

Well, last night I attended a party to welcome home Hicham Yezza. Hich is the guy we’ve been campaigning to have released from his inhuman and unjust incarceration after being falsely arrested on suspicion of terrorism in May. The poor guy was released yesterday from a detention centre in Dover and came straight to the welcoming party before even going home to collect his thoughts. He walked into a crowd of dozens of well-wishers, blinking into a plethora of cameras and flashlights (the BBC was there, interviewing) yet he conducted himself with such dignity and humility that it was we who felt humbled and awe struck.

Hicham is innocent; that much we know. But the intractable Home Office officials have painted themselves into a corner with his case, and yet won't admit it. They can’t even decide what it is that they believe he has done – they don’t even have access to the original paperwork from when Hicham first arrived in this country thirteen years ago. So, on a vague suspicion that he just might be here illegally (but not being able to say why) they imprisoned a perfectly decent citizen for thirty-two days. This is totally unacceptable – to deny a man his liberty on nothing more than a vague misunderstanding when they don’t even know the facts of the case themselves, is simply an abuse of power.

The most pernicious aspect of this whole debacle is that the Home Office feels that it has a face that needs saving. Its officials know that they have forced an aberration of justice, yet they feel incapable of admitting so. They have been prepared to waive Hicham's human rights in order to sustain their own dogma and to hell with the disruption that this may cause to a law-abiding individual's life . Do you know, one of their justifications for sending him to a detention centre in Dover (just about as far away from Nottingham as you can be) was that he “has no friends or family in this country, so it doesn’t matter where he is kept”. This is a man who has lived and worked in Nottingham for thirteen years and who can demonstrate his bedrock of loyal support by the hundreds of people who turned up for the ‘Free Hich’ rally at Nottingham University’s campus on the 28th May, and by the hundreds of letters, faxes, emails and text messages he has received since he was arrested. To call the authority’s standpoint in this matter crass, is an understatement.

It was a delight to see this articulate and dignified individual back amongst his friends last night. His story makes me ashamed to be British. The law may be an ass, but it’s a fat-ass at that. These kind of deviations from common sense must happen all the time – I’m certain that Hicham’s case isn’t unique – and I suspect that this ‘incident’ might have passed unnoticed by me if it hadn’t been for the call to arms from my friend Gearóid Ó Cuinn. Other people in Hicham's situation may not be so lucky; they may not have a network of intelligent and educated colleagues who are able to raise the alarm and to mobilise a campaign in the way that Gearóid and others did. Clearly, our campaign has been an irritant to the Home Office which was presumably hoping to spirit Hicham out of the country before anyone would notice.

So I would warn you all to be vigilant. Hicham is an Algerian, and he’s a Muslim. But in this case, it’s our own Government that is behaving as the terrorist; it’s King Gordon’s own troops that are attempting to wrap us in a horse-hair blanket of fear in our beds.

Don't let them get away with it.

On The Wagon?

I’m thinking of abandoning my play about The Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785, and instead writing another one called: “Friday the Thirteenth – The Great Market Square Piggy-Back Disaster of 2008”. It might be said that this doesn’t hold the same universal appeal of my first idea, but it is the playwright’s job to turn a simple story of human interest into a dramatic tableau of man’s plight. And so it was that on Friday evening the lovely Richa suffered the indignity of la tombée as she was unceremoniously hurled from the shoulders of her errant knight and landing - with some force - on her head. The marble slabs of the Elysian Fields (aka Nottingham’s Market Square) understandably greeted her delicate skull without yielding, and the result was a night in A&E and eight stitches. A sorry tale indeed, and I wish my friend Richa a speedy recovery. As I write, she is refusing to feel daunted and has vowed not to allow a mere eight stitches to stop her from sallying forth. That’s the spirit! They say that the best antidote to falling off a horse (or in this case, shoulders) is to get right back on again. Steadfastness will be the theme of the new play, I think.

I’ve had a mixed weekend so far, but it isn’t over yet. After comfortably winning our race on Thursday evening I came home and went to bed, thereby closing a third complete day without alcohol. Not much of an achievement in many people’s eyes maybe, but rather unusual in my case. However, I made up for it on Friday evening and managed to end the night babbling nonsense and boring the pants off a young friend of mine back at my apartment, staring through the bottom of a whisky bottle. Saturday was spent in sober pursuits visiting - amongst others - my lonely billeted fish (who seemed pleased to see me) and my Buddhist friend Jinaraja (who seemed pleased to see the cakes I took for him). Later I went to a small dinner party in pursuit of romance (and found it!) but because I had to drive there, I had another evening completely devoid of the demon drink. This is looking good, both for my bank balance and for my health. Moreover, it might be good for my career too – given that I had one, of course.

Who would trust the BBC, eh? Okay, so their news coverage seems relatively impartial, and the ‘Archers’ appears to be a fairly straightforward story of simple honest folk, but those weather reports of theirs are just a web of duplicity and deceit. When I looked this morning, it said sunshine all day. This was propitious because I am going to a BBQ this afternoon and I was hoping to drive there with the hood down on the car. Now I look through the doors onto my patio and I see huge black clouds rolling perilously over Weekday Cross, threatening rain. We’ll be huddled under the gazebo like sheep at this rate.

At least I’ll be sober. Get thee behind me, Satan.

Dark Ages

I remember learning about the principle of habeas corpus at school, and I remember feeling extremely excited and proud that our forebears could have been so enlightened, and so intrinsically decent, to have brought such a concept into statute as long ago as they did. How long ago was that? The Act of 1679 is often quoted as being the definitive piece of legislation, but I seem to recall that the origins of the premise lay much further back than that, inside the Magna Carta of 1215.

How strange then, that whilst most western democracies become more enlightened as they strike out into the 21st Century, ours is moving backwards. In a few short years we have begun to retreat – at a frightening speed - into the iniquities of the Dark Ages. The prospect of universal ID cards, DNA databases, more CCTV cameras, and now this – internment – all leads me to wonder whatever happened to the ideal of our civil liberties.

You will have deduced from this that I am opposed to the introduction of 42-day detention. This is not because I am an Islamic terrorist, nor even that I have any sympathies whatsoever for people who would indiscriminately murder our citizens (myself included). No, my opposition to this latest move is this: It is unnecessary, it is insidious, it is authoritarian and above all, it is dishonest. Gordon Brown repeatedly tells us that the ‘vast majority’ of people whose opinions have been sought are in favour of this extension. Really? I wonder what question they were asked. If the question were: “Would you be in favour of detaining people without charge for forty-two days based mainly upon their ethnic origins and the colour of their skin?”, I wonder how many people would then answer “Yes”.

But whichever way the British public would answer this question, that isn’t the point. An enlightened government sometimes has a responsibility to legislate ahead of public opinion, rather than follow it. This is what happened in the case of capital punishment – despite public opinion being very much in favour of retaining hanging at the time, Parliament took the step to abolish it (correctly) and then waited for public opinion to catch up. In the roughly 40 years since this happened, that is exactly what public opinion has done. So Gordon Brown’s assertion that he is acting ‘because the public wants it’ is a poor excuse for what is really a thinly-veiled attempt to boost his flagging popularity and to stamp his waning authority on his disaffected party. It’s more than just pathetic; it’s sinister and an evil use of power.

Apparently, it could all prove to be nugatory anyway, because the proposed legislation will never get past the House of Lords. The irony of this makes me chuckle really. It required the foresight and determination of King John’s good barons to bring the concept of habeas corpus into being as far back as 1215. Now, 800 years later, it will be the good barons of today who will stop King Gordon in his tracks.

Hurrah for that, although it's very depressing that we have to go right back to the beginning, as if we have learned nothing in all those years.

Don't Look Back!

I had a bit of a wake-up call the other night. I awoke at about 12:30 a.m. feeling exceedingly ill. I don’t know whether it was something I’d eaten, or just a strange bug that I’d picked up, but I got out of bed and for the next five hours I was subjected to horrible poisonous bile being forcibly projected from every orifice of my body. Every time I collapsed back into my sweat-soaked bed, I fell into a fevered delirium for a few moments before having to jump up again and rush once more for the bathroom. It was exhausting, painful and debilitating. By morning, although the vomiting etc. had ceased, I was so weak I could barely stand.

My friend Dharmachari Jinaraja, from the Buddhist Centre, came round and took me out for a slice of toast and a cup of tea. It took me half an hour to nibble away at the toast fearing, as to be expected, that it wouldn’t stay down for long. Luckily, it did – but I was so weakened by the effort that I had to come home and sleep for the next six hours. I finally felt sufficiently recovered to hold a book for long enough to read (just a couple of hours) and then managed to find enough energy to change my stained and tousled bedding before slumping down again. A fitful night of anxiety, hallucinations, restlessness and panic thereby followed, so that by this morning I was almost ready to stab myself.

However, I won’t do that. Instead, I aim to embark on a new programme of healthy endeavour and industrious pursuits. Yes, I know you’ve heard this before, but I’ve never felt this close to death before (except, perhaps, for the time when I was caught in a tornado off the mango swamps of Norfolk, or maybe the time when my car broke down, as night was falling, on the deserted barren road on the wrong side of Mount Teide in Tenerife), so I feel it’s now time for a re-appraisal of my life.

I’ve been so swamped recently by the things I have to do, that it has paralysed me into doing very little at all. So today, apart from attending to a few essential and urgent actions, I am going to write down all the tasks that are awaiting completion and then put them into an order of priority (in terms of importance versus urgency). Then I am going to draw up a timetable and allocate specific hours in the day for getting these tasks achieved. Understandably I do not see, in that timetable, great blocks being set aside for lounging around the Broadway – although there might be a chance for the odd ‘free period’ to appear. We’ll see.

Everything is impermanent and we haven't a moment to waste. Jinaraja told me yesterday that: "Your death is as certain as the man's who already has the knife thrust into his heart". A sobering thought indeed. So my friends, as ever, it is onwards and upwards. There’s nothing like being slain by a temporary illness for sharpening the mind and (strangely) for lifting the spirits. Tally ho!

Bad Karma

So, now I have felt the effects of bad karma. I’ve always suspected it to be possible, but always felt that any negative experiences I have had have been part of a chaotic order (an oxymoron, surely?) in which bad things certainly happen, but they happen without being aimed at any specific targets. Now I know differently and have just been whiplashed by the return of bad karma, so locked on to the original misdemeanour was it, that it’s almost as if it had the qualities of an Exocet missile. I am too ashamed of my own mean-spiritedness to admit here what I did, but it has taught me an important lesson, I can tell you. So, I shall be pure in thought from now on.

Well, that’s confession time over – now, what of life? Several things have happened since I last wrote. On Thursday evening we took part in our usual race on the river, but this time only managed second place - a scandal! We made some tactical cock-ups at the start and although we managed to claw our way back up from seventh position, we couldn't quite make it to first. With a stronger wind, we’d have won.

On Friday evening I attended a gala dinner at the Council House, hosted by the Lord Mayor. It was in honour of Alan Sillitoe (possibly Nottingham’s greatest living writer) and there were so many literary luminaries amongst the guests that I felt a bit of a fraud really; a bit like Chantelle must have felt in Celebrity Big Brother that time. Of course, the “chain gang” was out in force too - more gold insignia than you could shake an Alderman’s stick at, but I’ve attended dozens of “chain gang” events in the past, when I was an elected Councillor, so in the words of Shania Twain, that don’t impress me much. During a lull in the proceedings I poked my nose into the Lord Mayor’s chambers only to be caught red-handed by his personal valet or someone of similar ilk. He kindly took me on a tour of the private quarters which have some of the most impressive 16th Century oak-panelling I’ve ever seen (including a secret panel). The building is 20th Century, but these panels were retrieved and restored from an earlier Council building that had been demolished. Intriguing stuff – the most interesting room was the original 1920s bathroom, complete with a huge enamelled bath and its gleaming over-sized taps.

Yesterday I went to a party held in the overgrown gardens of a large Victorian villa in Mapperley Park. There were dozens of people there, some of whom danced on the lawn later. It had all started out fairly civilized, with people sitting on rugs drinking wine and eating from the vast array of food available, chatting sensibly. Later, as intoxication (from various sources) kicked in, people began talking nonsense and running amok amongst the dripping rhododendrons and throughout the crumbling courtyard. Before my poor wee head wobbled off its unstable shoulders, I came home. It was early enough to witness the scenes of abandonment that were still being played out on the streets of central Nottingham. I was invited to join in this revelry (by phone call, that is), but something told me that to do so would have been taking an action that I would later come to regret, so I declined and went to bed.

This morning the sun is shining and I have duties to perform. I have also been invited out to lunch by my parents and so I must try to make myself look less red-eyed, and more like I spent last evening in sober company rather than at some riotous assembly in the home of Bacchus.

Wish me luck. I will try to generate some good karma for you if you do.

Decline And Fall

Before I begin today’s entry, I must tell you that I was eventually contacted by the young man who I had cast as the pilot in my forthcoming play about The Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785. I was both delighted and relieved to be informed that he has been practicing his ‘standing-in-a-balloon-basket wave’ because, as the actor himself has declared, this will be the defining image of the play.

But what of life? Well, my parents often use the phrase - when describing events - of something going from ‘the sublime to the ridiculous’. Yesterday was certainly that. After a busy morning of meetings to discuss a new Business Plan for the Nottingham Writers' Studio, members of the committee walked through town to view some potential new premises. We were alarmed to be confronted by dozens of heavily armed police officers patrolling the pavements in the sunshine. They were guarding the Courthouse where a high-profile case was being tried. With their sinister looking black weapons cradled rather casually across their chests, these officers struck me as being disturbingly trigger-happy. As I passed by one group, the pointed barrel of one almost brushed my shoulder and I thought how easily a wrong word or move could result in tragedy. A helicopter shuddered overhead and momentarily, the sunshine lost its warmth

In the afternoon I attended a meeting at Nottingham University headed as "Understanding the Threat: Freedom & Rights versus The Politics of Fear". The speakers were Moazzam Begg (ex-Guantanamo detainee and author of 'Enemy Combatant'), Jeannie Robinson (National Executive of the Universities & Colleges Union) and Rob Owen (National Executive of the NUS). It was an exciting and impassioned event with additional input from the event organizer Gearóid Ó Cuinn, as well as an impromptu speech from Rizwaan Sabir who is the student arrested at the same time as Hicham and who was also held for six days without charge. There were some powerful messages being communicated.

The possible highlight of the meeting though, was a speech made by Hicham Yezza himself. His voice, from inside prison, was relayed by mobile phone via the PA system which meant we had to concentrate very hard in order to hear his words. You could have heard a pin drop. Hicham ended his speech by thanking everyone for their support of his case, adding that we are a “credit to Britain”. I was immediately struck by the irony of this as I wondered how Britain’s de-humanisation and brutal treatment of this decent young man could be considered a ‘credit’ to anyone.

Unfortunately, following the meeting, events turned to the ridiculous. We were meant to be attending a show at the Playhouse called ‘Nottingham Has Talent’. We were dangerously close to being admitted into the auditorium when we recognized that the majority of the audience was made up of ten to fifteen year-old girls. Realizing therefore that the majority of the acts would probably be somewhat talentless attempts at hip-hop or rap, we decided it was probably not for us and so we retired to the bar. Several hours later, and feeling ridiculous, I suddenly remembered being told an adage some years ago: “When someone invites you to drink as much as you like, never take them up on it”. Too late to save last night's dignity, I fear.

Right, now I must tune to BBC Radio 4’s ‘In Our Time’ with Melvyn Bragg. According to my sweet friend Richa, this is the highlight of the week. Let's find out, shall we?

By Jingo!

I was supposed to have been going away for three days over this previous weekend, but my poor father fell ill and we were forced to cancel. Apart from the obvious concern for his health, and the disappointment over a cancelled trip, I was in some way excited on Friday that I had three days of extra time stretching before me; three days which I could use to achieve almost anything. So what did I do? Almost nothing.

I appear to have been gripped by the heavy coils of some crushing lethargy. Any motivation I ever had has been dampened by an inexorable inertia so torpid that I feel as if I’m being drawn down into a dangerous quagmire. I am weakening whatever feeble grip on reality that I ever had. Perhaps it is time to withdraw from the world; to become invisible? Maybe I need a time for deep reflection; a time for self examination; a time for re-invention.

I drink too much, that’s for certain. Drinking too much - even if it is in balance with earning too much - is bad enough, but I haven’t been living by Mr Micawber’s maxim for a long time and, just as he predicted, the result is misery. So, if I were to draw up a list of New Year’s Resolutions (I could always pretend that June 3rd is the beginning of the ‘Year of the Non-Indolent’), I ought to put “Reduced intake of alcohol” at the top. Some would argue that “Doing more paid work” should feature in the prime spot, perhaps. Hmm, working for a living certainly has its appeal as a sensible use of time, but it’s also a terribly inconvenient intrusion into profligacy too, don’t you think?

And now my thoughts turn to the question that we should adopt in this country a “Britishness Day”. There’s some merit in this idea – or there would be if it weren’t currently being championed by Immigration Minister Liam Byrne. The fact that someone in immigration is so keen on this idea, immediately arouses my suspicion. There are some interesting arguments both for and against such a concept, but on balance I think it’s anathema. Why do we need such a day? Is it really, as Liam Byrne says, an opportunity to "celebrate what we like and love about living in this country"? I’m not so sure. I think that it’s either:

a) a rather shabby attempt to force immigrants to conform by giving them a jolly good street party with jellies and cakes, or
b) a reaction to a somewhat schoolboyish jealousy of other nations which have national days; a sort of “It’s not fair! Those Irish chappies have such a good time on St Patrick’s Day, we want some of the fun too!”

Either way, it’s not appropriate. Such a day would only further entrench jingoism amongst our already divisive society, and would do nothing to promote a true national unity.

However, if this idea does gain credence, then which day to choose for such a celebration? An obvious choice would be St George’s Day, but given that this has already been hijacked by tattooed yobs wearing English flags and red crosses painted on their ugly faces, I doubt if this would encourage much “Britishness” (incidentally, my spell-checker throws out the word “Britishness” and suggests “Brutishness” instead. Apt, perhaps?) Another option (suggested by a friend of mine) would be October 25th, St Crispin’s Day and the anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt, but this would hardly be conducive to Anglo-French relations, I think.

Liam Byrne has, of course, suggested August Bank Holiday. He describes this as the “Great British Weekend” and therefore entirely appropriate for a celebration of this nature. Come off it, Liam – you’re just a horrid meanie and you don’t want to give the poor British worker an additional Bank Holiday, that’s all. If we are to indulge in this kind of unwelcome xenophobia, then please do so by giving we hard British workers an extra day off.

Hard British worker? Moi? Shome mishtake, shurely? Right, it’s back to the list, immediately.