The Mad World In Which We Live

I never cease to be astonished by the stupidity of the population at large. I saw a report on Boxing Day morning of people queuing outside Selfridge's in Oxford Street, fervently awaiting the opening of the store so that they could sprint in to snap up some post-Christmas bargain or other. They resembled a rabble of lunatics, hell-bent on being the first to grab that must-have Gucci handbag or that to-die-for Hermes scarf. In the ensuing melée, several people were injured as glass cabinets were smashed and clothes rails were hurled about the store like javelins.

What is the point? It's not as if it's the 'End Of The World' or anything like that. Is it so important to acquire yet another addition to one's wardrobe or one's collection of chic accessories, that a sleepless night on the pavements of London is required? These people presumably already have sufficient possessions to fill a Louis Vuitton trunk, so why risk life and limb just to get your hands on more? The look of grim determination on their faces would not be misplaced if these people were fighting against the rigours of the Blitz for example, or struggling to find precious water in the squalor of the African mud-lands – but no, it's the revolting desire to attain yet another Moschino dress that drives on these fixated and desperate people.

I witnessed a little of this myself this afternoon in Nottingham's Top Shop store. Not quite at the same level of chic and extravagance as the Selfridge's sale perhaps, but the self-seeking disregard by the unguessable masses for other shoppers was nevertheless just as plain to see. Rummaging through the rails and racks of clothes, people were dislodging items from their hangers and simply allowing them to drop to the floor, to be trampled on and scuffed by the surging crowds. What happened to good manners and decorum? What heights of selfishness must these marauders have reached to so casually disregard the interests of anyone else? What do they think happens to these garments, strewn with such slapdash abandon? Nobody thinks of the weary shop assistants who must presumably have to restore order from this chaos; nobody cares that these same items must presumably be purchased later by another unsuspecting shopper. I suppose that's it – nobody cares. Nobody cares at all.

Later, of course, the tumbling crowds will have transferred their ravaging excesses from the shops of our arcades to the fleshpots of the city streets. Uncouth youths will be furtively pissing behind parking payment machines; girls with over-straightened peroxide hair and wearing the regulatory halter-neck top and white stilettos (with no coat, of course) will stand smoking as they queue for entrance to some ghastly sticky-floored bar. Later, as the globular vomit rolls luxuriantly down the frosted pavements, these two apparently mismatched tribes of young people will pair off together and lurch triumphantly into the Food Factory to abuse the hapless servants and to replenish the lost contents of their stomachs, before tottering and stumbling into a taxi (if they're lucky) or tottering and stumbling into the gutter (if we are).

Oh, how I love city life!

Oh, Christmas - What Fun!

And so, for the final part of this tragic tale of a cheerless Christmas…..

The atmosphere in the breakfast room was getting ugly. It was also getting dark outside and although we had lighting, it was bitterly cold inside. Hendrik had been despatched to the woodshed and was busy preparing a fire in the cavernous drawing-room fireplace. Norwegians are good at that sort of thing, apparently. Dolores was barking orders at us all and had forbidden Tinkerbelle from opening any more packets of food. She was to sit quietly on a chair (well, two chairs) in the corner, and say nothing. Balls was ordered to go upstairs and to drag mattresses from the beds and to bring them downstairs for airing in front of the fire. I was charged with getting the Aga lighted. Luckily it was oil-fired and there seemed to be a residual supply in the tank, so it was soon warming up nicely.

Meanwhile, my great-aunt was opening tins and packets of food, and singing carols to herself in a voice that would scare away rats. Concetta, the Italian girl, was instructed to collect some bedding from upstairs and to bring that down for airing too. “I’ve been in worse messes than this, dear boy!’ she yelled over her shoulder. “I once spent Christmas in a mountain hut in the Hindukush after I’d escaped from a Nuristani tribal chief. He was planning to marry me, you see, but I was having none of it. Three days alone in that hut, with just a sack of potatoes, a leather bucket, a goat and four candles. I killed the goat, of course.”

She had announced that we would all sleep together in the drawing room. The collective warmth of our bodies would be good for us, she declared, and also nobody would be tempted to sneak away to the kitchen to steal what meagre food there might be left. The preparations for the ‘dorm’ were going well, but not so with the food. By the time Dolores had emptied the contents of almost everything into a huge cooking pot, there still didn’t seem enough to go round. A search of the outhouses produced a shout of joy from Hendrik when he discovered a large string of old onions hanging on a wall. Many were covered in mould, and several were shrivelled into something resembling a dog’s bollocks, but there were enough remaining that could be rescued into providing a bit more substance to the yuletide stew in the pot. Concetta was given the job of peeling and chopping them because she had already been weeping with despair for two hours, so Dolores figured that the onions would make no difference.

A little while later, after our hourly ration of a spoonful of brandy each, Balls made his most substantial contribution to the whole affair when he discovered - locked in a cupboard whose doors he had cajoled Tinkerbelle into wrenching open - several guns, complete with ammunition. “This is more like it,” he said, strolling back into the kitchen. Grabbing a flashlight, he beckoned to me and Hendrik to follow him out into the fields. I soon discovered that there are some compensations for being an upper-class twit after all, when Balls managed to shoot five rabbits and some random fowl within half an hour. With Concetta watching (now becoming hysterical) we soon had them skinned, plucked and gutted, and into the pot they went.

Okay, so perhaps it isn’t such traditional Christmas fare – a rabbit & fowl stew containing spam, prune syrup and genuine Chinese chilli sauce – but it sure as hell warmed our bellies. Even Tinkerbelle seemed satisfied and actually complained of feeling “a bit stuffed”. It wasn’t long after that when we heard the doorbell ring. By the time we opened the door there was nobody there of course, but on the doorstep there was a case of champagne with a note saying: “With His Lordship’s Compliments”. The absolute bastard. By midnight, we had guzzled the lot and the game of charades that we played in front of the roaring fire was somewhat haphazard, confused, and unsurprisingly, totally incomprehensible to Concetta.

As I lay down on my still fusty mattress next to Dolores on hers, she whispered to me. “Boy, we’ve got to get out of here. Tomorrow, we shall hitchhike to the nearest taxi rank and go home. This is absolute shit. That rotten cad Maugersbury has let us down badly, and I won’t have any more of it. Stuck here with that chinless wonder Balls and Fatso, the human jelly-mound, is not my idea of fun, I can tell you. We’re splitting, as you young people would say.”

At this, Tinkerbelle rose up from her mattress like the raising of the Titanic (she had obviously heard what was said – my great-aunt was never one for much discretion). “Hey lady,” the American drawled, “have you ever thought of going over Niagara Falls in a barrel? You should try it sometime.”

“With you as the barrel, I presume,” Dolores murmured dryly.

The next day was Christmas Day and we ‘split’ the hospitality of the good Earl for good. We were given a lift by a milk lorry and before long, were on our way to the bright lights of the City. Happy Christmas.

The Misery Goes On

The list of things to do before Christmas hurries her flapping wings through the door, grows ever longer. Never mind – I promised you that I would continue this moribund tale of Christmas Past, so continue I shall....

"Hey Fatso," my aunt said, as the American woman popped the last of the chocolate into her great chasm of a mouth, "haven't you ever heard of sharing?" We all stared miserably at the empty wrappers on the floor. The American woman, whose name – ironically enough - was apparently Tinkerbelle, dusted off her dinner-plate sized hands and sniffed. "There wasn't time," she replied. "You may think you walk on water, lady, but five loaves and two fishes those few bits weren't. Needs must, you know."

Exasperated, Dolores then tried to arrange a collection of cash so that someone could be despatched to the village shop before it closed. It turned out that the foreign-office chappie was 'temporarily embarrassed' and had nothing on him, the Norwegian boy tipped just £2.47 from his pockets, the Italian girl had nothing on her, and Tinkerbelle only had US dollars. Dolores turned to me and so, with a sigh, I reluctantly handed over the fifty pounds I had in my wallet. "You boy," she pointed at the young Norwegian, "take that simpering little doll with you and get yourselves down to the village shop. Buy everything you think is appropriate, but make sure you don't forget the brandy. And oh," she gestured at this point towards Tinkerbelle, "you might get a tub of lard for this one if there's any money left over."

Some time later, we all sat around the breakfast room table under a stark and unfriendly fluorescent light, staring gloomily at the miserable array of cheerless food before us. It lay there, tipped despairingly from the Norwegian's sack after he had returned from the shop.

"It's all tinned stuff," complained Balls, turning over a can of minced steak (with onions and gravy). "Didn't they have any fresh food?" Tinkerbelle held up a small can between her immense fingers. "What in hell's name made you buy this? Concentrated Prune Syrup from Cyprus? This is crap!"

"I got one of everything," the boy (whose name was Hendrik) protested. "They didn't have very much left." Dolores looked at him with disgust. "What is this?" she demanded, holding a small can of spam at arm's length. "Spam? I don't think I've ever come across anything more lacking in taste since I met that dreadful Mrs Baron in London with her three ghastly children - Darren, Karen and Sharon."

"Look at this one," Tinkerbelle laughed. "It says it contains genuine chilli sauce, made from a traditional Chinese recipe. Since when did chilli come from China?" At this, Balls lifted his head. "No, it's true," he said, "they eat a lot of it in the east. You know, Bangkok or somewhere."

"So?" she snorted. "They eat a lot of hamburgers in Hamburg, but that don't make them German." She threw the offending can of chilli sauce at his head. Luckily it missed him and whistled passed his cowering face, crashing into a jardiniere in the corner, smashing it.

"Was any of this really sensible, Hendrik?" Dolores asked. "Most of it does appear to be a waste of money you know. I really cannot imagine any of us here - not even Fatso - bothering to add just one egg to this pack of ready-to-bake chocolate dropcakes. We don't even have any eggs. You could at least have bought more alcohol. I mean, this isn't going to last us very long." She held up a half bottle of brandy which looked suspiciously as if it should be given to the cook. "This Christmas pudding doesn't even contain alcohol, according to the packet at least. What we need here is a pudding like the ones my old school pal Barbara Craddock used to make. Boy, you knew you'd had a Christmas pudding then. The best you've ever tasted, and with so much brandy, rum and whisky inside that I'd have to hide the keys to the Bentley after just one portion. Where is old Barbara when you need her, eh?"

Nobody cared to say anything else. It looked like it was going to be a somewhat low-spirited party for us all. Meanwhile, Tinkerbelle was busy ripping open a packet of cocktail-sized pork pies. There should have been one for each of us - the packet contained six pies - but she slid them into her open gullet as one, and so they disappeared.

To be continued.....

And No Such Festive Cheer

Oh dear me, gentle reader, I have been neglecting you since my last posting. It's been quite a week, I can tell you – there's a lot going on. In the bric-a-brac store that I laughingly call my haphazard and chaotic life, the various shelves, nooks and crannies are crammed - nay, stuffed – with both the delights and the detritus of the gorgeous bazaar. But now, to continue the story...

Sitting in the damp and gloom of the lodge's depressingly dismal drawing room, we very soon realized that we were in a pickle. We had all arrived by taxi, and it seemed that the house was miles from any noticeable civilization, so we were trapped. The huge American woman was the first to complain. She had rumbled her way into the kitchen and was slamming a succession of cupboard doors angrily. "Why isn't there any goddamn food in this hell-hole?" she bellowed. "A girl could starve to death here in a matter of minutes. What does that bastard think he's doing?"

Indeed, what did his Lordship expect that we were going to do? And where was he? With no telephone (and this was in an age before mobiles), we were isolated; completely bereft of any means of communication. We felt like we were sitting ducks, but without the feathers. My aunt decided to take charge of the situation (now there's a surprise). It was obvious that someone needed to – the American woman was by now simply screaming at the top of her voice and stamping her huge feet in anger; the chinless wonder Balls had sunk into a melancholy silence; and the Norwegian youth and his bird-like girlfriend were clinging to each other sitting on a decrepit Louis Quatorze chaise-longue, she sobbing.

As Dolores stood by the massive marble fireplace, which resembled the entrance to a great black sinister cave, she clapped her hands to call order. However, before she could speak, Enstone (his Lordship's "man") appeared in the doorway, as if from nowhere. He coughed politely, stopping my aunt in her tracks. "I have a message from his Lordship," he announced, but said nothing more. Dolores eyed him with malice. "Then out with it, man!" she barked. Hesitantly, he told us that the Earl had apparently decided, at the last minute, to spend the holiday at his villa on the Côte d'Azur, and had flown out that morning. According to Enstone, we were still welcome to stay, and we were to 'make ourselves at home' and enjoy the break.

"Make ourselves at home?" Dolores mocked. "Make ourselves at home? Just what kind of a home is this with no food, no drink, no bedding, no heating, no nothing? Are you absolutely barking mad, man?" Her accusations were echoed by the American woman, now wobbling with rage. The others simply stared at him in disbelief. I said nothing.

"There is a shop in the village," Enstone replied, "but you'll have to be quick as it closes at four. There are logs in the wood store, for the fire. You should find some bedding in one of the cupboards on the landing, or there are... there are the dust sheets from here. I'm sorry, there is nothing more I can do." And he was gone. Even the normally indefatigable Dolores was somewhat disconcerted at this. She tried to splutter a response, she even demanded that Enstone return to the room to account for himself, but he failed to appear and it seemed that we had been well and truly abandoned by old Maugersbury (or "Morgie", as my aunt referred to him). Nobody knew what to say; there didn't seem anything suitable to say.

In silence, the American woman picked up a glass paperweight from the bureau and hurled it into the fireplace whereupon it smashed into a host of glittering shards. Pointing to the rest of us, she shouted: "I'm going to eat one of you, if I don't get some food immediately. That fucking treacherous bastard will pay for this when I see him!" At this, the Norwegian youth quietly opened his backpack and pulled out a rather crumpled half-eaten loaf of bread, a square of flattened cheese, and a medium-sized chocolate bar. "You are welcome to these," he murmured.

The poor boy - he nearly got killed in the rush.

To be continued.....

Not So Merry Christmas

Well, it's Christmas again. You probably don't need me to tell you that – you've no doubt noticed the odd trapping of the festive season that has crept into our high streets and onto the media, tipping us the wink that Santa is on his way. It's not a good time for me – for whilst I enjoy the fun of the actual day itself (that's December 25th for those of you who aren't sure), it's the 'build up' to it all that I find so difficult to tolerate.

I remember a particularly dismal Christmas I once spent in the company of my Great Aunt Dolores (the one who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone before accidentally killing herself by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel). She'd promised me a sumptuous and opulent festive holiday when she'd invited me to stay with her friend (and erstwhile lover, so she claimed) the Earl of Maugersbury. "A country house Christmas, boy," she'd said. "You can't beat it. Servants on hand to do all the messy stuff, nothing to do but eat and drink, and then go out to bag a few birds on Boxing Day. A real English Christmas."

Hmm, if only that was how it had turned out (although despite her expected protestations, I was privately determined not to join the shoot, nor the Boxing Day hunt for that matter). Sadly, the reality of that Christmas was very different indeed. Sumptuous and opulent it was most definitely not.

It all started when Lord Maugersbury telephoned my aunt two days before the event to announce that the west wing of Broadwell Hall (the ancestral pile) had been destroyed by fire the previous evening. "Not to worry", he had apparently soothed. "We'll all retreat to the lodge and have our Christmas there. It's a tiny little place though, only eight bedrooms, so I've had to tell Lola and her gang that they'll have to stay away. Hope you don't mind, old love?"

When we arrived at the lodge on the morning of Christmas Eve, it was obvious that the place hadn't been used for years. There were dust sheets over everything, there was nothing to eat in the pantry, the cellar was empty, and the heating obviously hadn't worked in decades. Dolores and I were the first to arrive, to be greeted by Maugersbury's "man" Enstone. He informed us that his Lordship had been called away but would be back later, and that we were to make ourselves at home. The place was freezing cold, dripping with damp, and smelt like the inside of a grave. Next to arrive was some Foreign Office chum of the Earl's who introduced himself as the Hon. Algernon "Cricket" Balls. He seemed a bit phoney to me, and talked such rubbish that Dolores nicknamed him "Loada Balls" within five minutes. We were then joined by a loud-mouthed twenty-stone American woman in a fur coat, followed by a handsome blonde Norwegian youth accompanied by a sparrow-like Italian girl who seemed incapable either of speech or hearing, and who simply stared at us from under a thick fringe of frizzled black hair.

Nobody removed their coats, and for a while we all sat around in chairs (without removing the dust sheets) and waited for our host to arrive – no doubt loaded up (as we were hoping) with hampers crammed with Christmas delights, cases of wine, cartloads of logs for the fires, and a retinue of faithful retainers in tow to attend to our every whim. As we sat shivering in the grey light of that dismal day, we soon realized that we were in for a horrible shock. Enstone was nowhere to be found, and when I checked the telephone, it was dead. It was lunchtime by this point, and we were all cold, hungry and thirsty. There wasn't even so much as a glass of cheap sherry or a box of dates to be had. What on earth was to be done?

To be continued.....

Under Pressure

I did something rather silly the other day. I bought a blood pressure monitor. It says in the instructions that these contraptions are a good idea because by monitoring our blood pressure at home, we get a more accurate reading. Apparently we become artificially stressed when we are in hospital or at the doctor's surgery and this of course distorts the readings.

So, now I keep getting the little machine out of its box, and testing myself to see what's what. Before I started this, I had absolutely no idea what a 'good' or 'bad' reading was – and I didn't really care either because I always feel healthy, despite the huge amounts of abuse I give my body, and so I didn't think there was any cause for alarm. Well, I was wrong. The instructions tell me that an ideal pressure reading should be at, or below, 120/80. The first number is apparently one's systolic blood pressure, which is the highest pressure when the heart beats and pushes the blood round the body. The second number is one's diastolic blood pressure, which is the lowest pressure when the heart relaxes between beats. Fascinating stuff, eh? Well, the whole thing makes me feel a little queasy, I have to say.

Anyway, this little contraption I have gives a reading as you'd expect, but it also gives you the average of all the readings it has taken since I started. I'm a bit disappointed to discover that my average is 139/85 with the highest reading being 141/88 and the lowest 116/75. Now, what do you think is the reason for such variance? The instructions tell you to take readings at roughly the same time of day, in roughly the same frame of mind, and in roughly the same position (seated). I follow these rules, settling myself on the sofa in what I assume is a relaxed state, and yet the readings reveal that on some days I am more agitated than on others. Why is this? Could it be that on some days I more stressed? If so, then the amount of things I have to do all the time should mean that my blood pressure is at a constant high!

Well, little machine – I am going to trick you. The next reading I do will be when I am lying in a darkened room having just meditated, with incense sticks and scented candles burning around me, and with Albinoni or whale music playing on the stereo. Ha! See then if you can find a reading of 141/88 – if you can, I'll take a hammer to your smug little screen and smash it. Oh dear, I don't think I've thought this through somehow......

Personal Assistant Required

It's odd how my life seems to control me, instead of the other way round. This is not good, of course. My timetable has been shot to pieces in recent days, and it's not because of any profligate behaviour on my part, I assure you. In fact, I've been very well-behaved of late, honest I have. No, my problem is responsibilities. I'm a very responsible person, I'll have you know. When I agree to do something, I do it. The trouble is, I always seem to agree to do too much. I think it's because I'm such a wonderful human being, so I'm always in demand (and I hope you're not going to disagree with that, or I'll punch your lights out).

They say (whoever they are) that if you need something doing, ask a busy person. Well, cor blimey mate – I know I'm busy, but this is ridiculous! You can stop asking me now. Please, stop. Yes, yes – I know what you'll say: That it's all my fault because I can always say 'no' if I want to, but I've already told you that I'm a nice person – and nice people always try to help where they can. However, I have my own projects to attend to (I've already told you about the exciting writing festival that I'm helping to organize for next summer) and therefore, those people in my list of 'drains' (see previous blog) need to remember that. For instance, I'm meant to be learning Italian, but despite there being a daily slot in my timetable for doing that, I never get the chance. And don't even ask me how bad I feel about not getting to the gym every day – although what's the point of attaining the perfect body when I don't even have the time to show it to anyone (even if there were anyone who was remotely interested in seeing it)?

So, now is the time to take stock (again – groan, groan) and prioritize. And what of Christmas? Well, I hate the whole thing anyway and sincerely wish that as an institution, it could be abolished. I'm meant – like everyone else – to start sending out ridiculously inappropriate cheery greetings to the people I know. Given my current commitments, this is an impossible task. However, I have actually made a Christmas cake – don't ask me why I did this because I simply don't know. I don't normally begin to think about the yuletide festival until it's almost too late, so how I managed to plan far enough ahead to bake a cake eight weeks before the event is a mystery. What's more, I've been feeding said cake with brandy on a weekly basis; which is something I think one is meant to do. This week's dosage, however, struggled to seep into the fabric of the cake (despite an adequate number of holes being pierced into the surface). I think the poor thing has had too much. God knows what state it will be in when it wakes up on Christmas morning – it should definitely not attempt to start the car, that's for sure.

Anyway, while I'm rambling on here, there are chores a-plenty waiting to be done. Nobody is going to help me get these things done, so I must make a start. My timetable says: "Look for a job." Well, sod that for a game of soldiers – there just isn't time.

Tipping The Balance

Ha! This is funny – my (slightly eccentric) sister gave me a lifestyle tip yesterday during one of her sumptuous luncheon parties held in her elegant country home. She is receiving some lifestyle coaching second-hand, through a friend who is attending a class and who is passing on the gems week-by-week. The tip I received is to draw up a chart of all of my friends and to categorize them thus:

1. Drains – those friends who only steal your time, resources and energy; the self-obsessed;
2. Radiators – those friends who spread their energy and warmth and so are uplifting to one's life;
3. Enemies – those who pretend to be friends but who would actually destroy you if they could;
4. Inspirationalists – those friends whom you might aspire to be like (people of inspiration).

So, I have drawn up an Excel spreadsheet and down the left-hand side column I have typed in the names of everyone I know. Well, not quite everyone because that would take me a month of Sundays to complete, but the names of the people I see regularly, at least. The next four columns are headed up with the above four categories and against each name I have put an 'x' in the relevant column. It's quite interesting to see how the balance has worked out. Unfortunately, my sister hasn't yet learned (second-hand, of course) what conclusions can be drawn from the final statistics, nor what action one should take from the completed table, but mine doesn't (so far) show such happy results. There seem to be more 'drains' than there are 'radiators'.

And why is this? Well, maybe that's the point of drawing up the chart – it tells us more about ourselves than it does about our friends. From the figures, it would be safe to assume that I have allowed myself to become surrounded by too many of the kind of people who take me for granted, who abuse my friendship and my hospitality (and generosity too), and who are not prepared to give me very much in return. Whether they do this consciously or not is irrelevant; it's more relevant that I allow this to happen.

So what should I do? Cut those in the wrong columns out of my life completely? Or should I just be more aware of their motives and deal with it? Whose responsibility is this anyway? The estranged Mrs Pilgrim recently called me a 'loon-magnet' and perhaps she was right. Is there something of the victim about me? Well, if so, now is the time to put that right. I'm not going to focus on those two columns that seep negativity into my battered life – instead, I shall focus on the other two groups. And to those people who fall into those categories, I say: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Welcome To The Cabaret!

The last time I had anything to do with theatre (well, apart from the time when Great Aunt Dolores had her disastrous run as Phaedre in Paris's Comédie-Française), was when I was a member of a travelling theatre company in my student days. We took an old van, some mouldy costumes and a few tatty flats to Austria, where we managed to baffle the locals in a string of remote alpine villages with our somewhat tortuous interpretations of Ibsen, Brecht, Rattigan and even some Pinter. I was a dreadful actor, and probably an even worse stage manager, but it was a fun trip and we all became firm friends and thought we were all heading for stardom.

So, it is with some delight that I am helping to organize a festival of new stage writing here in Nottingham. Basically this is a writing festival, but it will culminate in the performance (by professional and semi-professional actors) of the winning scripts. We intent to invite the submission of scripts, mainly from new or emerging playwrights, and we shall have some independent judges who will select the winners whose plays will then be performed over three days in various venues around Hockley in Nottingham. This will take place in the summer of 2010.

I'm working in conjunction with the already established Halden Theatre Company (click here for details) whose productions are both professional and effective. This will be a quality festival and will hopefully produce some new talented writers for us to talk about. I'm so excited by the whole idea and even though it's going to be a lot of hard work, it will be hugely enjoyable. One of the best things about it will be the opportunity to network with so many creative people in the city. It means spending time with both new and established writers, as well as liaising with the venue managers and working with the actors too. On top of all that, there's the added satisfaction of knowing that we'll be pushing out some superior and innovative new writing to the public. Everybody wins!

At the moment, we're having a heated debate about what to call the festival. We want to find a name for it that's seductive, slightly zany, evocative, and also representative of the message we're trying to send out. We're throwing ideas around like mad, but haven't settled on anything yet. When we do, and we're ready to broadcast the details, you'll be the first to know, gentle reader. In the meantime, we're having fun. Again, everyone wins. Wooh!

My Family Without The Animal (please)

I have an awful lot of projects on the go at the moment – so many in fact, that I wouldn't have time to work, even if I had a job. The little squares on my two-week timetable are almost filled up. This lends my life a somewhat regulated slant – I'm not entirely happy about this in some ways because it means that everything is prescribed, and there isn't much room for surprises. In other ways though, it's a great boon to my plans because without it, I might become so unstructured that I wouldn't achieve anything at all and everything would fall apart.

However, there are some surprises that aren't really welcome anyway. Take last night for instance – the square on my timetable showed 'Ironing', so I heaved the ironing board into place, and the iron, and was just about to fetch a load of clothes from the airing cupboard when there was a tap on my apartment door. I live in a fortress with (supposedly) no unauthorized access from the street, so a knock on the door is always a surprise. Thinking that it must be someone from one of the other apartments – someone calling to borrow a cup of sugar perhaps – I opened the door. It wasn't a neighbour at all - no, it was that damned stray cat which had somehow slipped through someone's legs and gained a surreptitious entry to the street door.

The wretched creature was demanding a saucer of milk (several in fact) and of course, some attention. So, I had to put away the ironing board and spend several hours throwing balls of wool for it to chase. A fruitless pastime, if ever there was one. I thought I had rid myself of this pest some time ago, but just when I am relaxing in the assumption that I am finally cat-free, it turns up again. I read Gerald Durrell's 'My Family And Other Animals' many many years ago, but one of the memorable scenes in that book is when Gerry's mother receives a letter from some disliked relative announcing an impending visit. At this point, the family was living in the sprawling Daffodil-Yellow Villa and so the poor beleaguered mother's only solution was to move to the smaller Snow-White Villa, thereby fending off the unwelcome visit by declaring that there was simply no room for additional guests. A cunning plan, if somewhat inconvenient.

I feel a bit like doing something similar. I don't want to move from this apartment, but if that is the only way that I am going to be able to shake off this wretched stray cat, then I may have no choice. Or maybe I should just leave the country, with no forwarding address? Hmm, that's an idea....

Battling On

I am relentless in my pursuit of goodness. Every day I resolve to be good, yet every day I always - in some small way - fail. Each morning, as I leap from my bed, I make a promise to myself to do only good things today; to spread only love and happiness around me; to banish all negative thoughts; to smoke less; drink less, exercise more.

What happens? I forget all about it, that's what. Having first convinced myself that only good things will come to me if I'm good myself, I waiver and buckle at the slightest setback and this subsequently causes me to start behaving badly. Sometimes I only do a small thing that's bad – maybe two or three cigarettes over my daily quota, or perhaps an extra three fingers of whisky, late into the night. Other times, I conduct myself with such alarming depravity and malice aforethought, that this causes my heart to sink when I realize that once again, I have lost the principles by which I should live. Why am I so weak?

I can remember a single occasion when I was about four years old and my mother was chiding me for doing something naughty. "You have turned from a nice little boy, into a bad little boy," she told me. A casual, throwaway comment for an harassed young mother to make, perhaps, but it cut me to the quick. I remember retreating behind the sofa to contemplate this new revelation. What shocked me at the time about that particular remark was that it was complete news to me that a person could change from being good to being bad. I distinctly recall being dismayed that I was no longer 'good' because I had – until then – assumed that my 'goodness' was unassailable. I had, somewhat naively perhaps, been under the misapprehension that the world was divided into two types: The bad, and the good. My brother was undoubtedly bad and I, on the other hand, was undoubtedly good.

This news that I had somehow strayed across the Rubicon was devastating. What perplexed me most about this was that I made the assumption that once the crossing had been made, there was no going back. I was now a bad person, and therefore doomed to a life of evil; a life of weakness, iniquity and shame. Ever since then, I've been struggling to smash the curse. Yet failing.

Is this is what is meant by "Life's rich battle"? If so, I need a stronger army. Perhaps that's what the Salvation Army was created for? Oh, to be a Pilgrim!

Accidental Animator

Hello, gentle reader. I've been 'through the mill' (as they say) in recent times. Since the excesses of the previous weekend/week, I decided to have a few quiet days and to give myself some time to re-group the senses. So, I've been spending some time with my poor old lonely father, and doing plenty of housework too. I've also been catching up on paperwork, and trying to cut down on the drinking. I also went to see an art installation created by a friend of mine called 'Accidental Animator'. It was such a cool concept that maybe the new Nottingham Contemporary gallery should commission Anne-Marie to repeat this exercise in its lofty halls there. It might improve matters, in my opinion.

The idea this time was to create a collage of a scene using recycled material (largely, discarded flyers from the many and various venues around Nottingham), and getting the visitors (i.e. the audience) to participate in its creation by ripping or cutting their own shapes and sticking them on to the canvas. Anne-Marie had sketched out in pencil a Nottingham montage featuring such iconic landmarks as the Sneinton Windmill, the Council House, Vicky Centre flats, the Right Lion (as opposed to the Left), and even the Loft Bar building itself. All that was required then, was to cut and paste the detail – the 'colouring-in' bit. Great for occupational therapy!

The really nice thing is that the piece was actually built by people who perhaps wouldn't normally interact with art form at all; people who live in Nottingham too.

But there's a clever twist to this. The finished collage is not the main player in this installation. No, the picture itself is just the 'cause' to the real 'effect' and is not even required after the event. In fact, the picture could be jettisoned almost as a by-product (bit cruel though). For while people were helping to create this trompe l'oeil before our very eyes, our clever Accidental Animator was filming the progress and creating stills of the developing scene. These stills will then be used as an animated film showing the build up of the picture, projected onto the walls of the Loft Bar. It will be a bit like a massive flip-book created not by just one artist, but by many. A real, live, living flip-book, if you like.

On a dreary, weather-pounded winter's afternoon, this colourful and cheeky window of art-in-the-making is just what you need to cheer you up. So, my rehabilitation is going well. Watch this space. You might see a new 'me' emerging.

Sing As We Go!

I just wonder what the world is coming to. Corruption, corruption, corruption everywhere. I now see that (according to the headlines) 'Sleaze chief David Curry quits over £30,000 love-nest expenses swindle'. It is alleged that this man, a Tory MP, has quit as chairman of the Parliamentary Standards & Privileges Committee over claims that his taxpayer-funded home had been used as a love nest for his mistress. He reportedly claimed almost £30,000 for a second home that his wife had banned him from visiting. It is said he had used the house, in his Yorkshire constituency, to meet a local headmistress who was his lover.

This man was meant to be the guardian of standards; a watchdog to protect us from the abuse of power by those people whom we have elected to govern us. What a bloody cheek these people have. It's nothing short of rampant hypocrisy, that's what it is (well, that's if David Curry's duplicity turns out to be proven). I've not experienced such hypocrisy since I witnessed my Great Aunt Dolores selling the 'Socialist Worker' at the gates of a power station during the 1984-5 miners' strike. I wasn't at all happy about driving her to the picket line in her Bentley. We had to park around the corner while she changed from her mink coat and cashmere dress into a boiler-suit and donkey-jacket (which she'd ordered her maid to deliberately 'distress'). When I complained about this seemingly duplicitous charade, she told me not to be so stupid.

"You're just a lily-livered liberal, boy," she said, "whereas I am a real red-bloodied socialist. Don't forget, I fought with Hemingway in the Spanish Civil War." At this, I reminded her that Hemingway didn't actually fight in the Spanish Civil War, he just reported it. "That's what you think," she retorted. "You weren't there. He was the most courageous of men. We were lovers, you know – until that bitch Martha Gellhorn came along and usurped me. She didn't want him; she was just jealous of me".

My Great Aunt often talked nonsense of this kind. Her memory of events, and her political credentials, were always blushed red with a more than flamboyant imagination. But back to the picket line and the Socialist Worker. I was humiliated with embarrassment when she forced me to dress in what was her idea of the outfit of a fish-wife: A hideously tatty paisley-patterned frock, headscarf, and wrinkled stockings. I don't think anyone was convinced by this, but the guys on the picket line were far too busy shouting 'Scab' to notice.

When Dolores had finally sold all of the copies of the newspaper, she led the boys in a chorus of the 'Red Flag' and passed around a bucket for the donation of coins. "For the little kiddies' Christmas presents," she yelled, flashing her gorgeous white teeth.

Back in the Bentley, she wriggled out of her boiler-suit and donkey jacket and flung them out of the dark-tinted window. I didn't get an opportunity to change out of my outfit because I was driving, so when we pulled up outside 'Euphoria', possibly the smartest restaurant in the area adjacent to the power station, I was still dressed as Gracie Fields – and not in her smarter years, either. By this time, Dolores had finished counting the contents of the bucket.

"Hmm, not bad. A hundred and forty-two pounds and seventy-three pence," she announced, pleased with herself. "Should buy us a decent lunch in here." I was staggered and aghast by this. I pointed out to her that this was money that she had collected from poor starving, striking miners. Half of it was meant to be handed over to the publishers of the 'Socialist Worker', and the rest should have been earmarked for the little kiddies. To squander it on a lunch of lobster Thermidor and rump of Dovedale beef with braised asparagus, was both immoral and illegal.

"Rubbish," she snorted. "It's called re-distribution of wealth, if you didn't know. Now come along – no time for you to change. You'll do, dressed as you are."

Sighing, I followed her into the restaurant. Sing as we go, and let the world go by....

Nottingham Contemporary Can Lift Spirits (Just)

I went to Nottingham's newest art gallery today. Nottingham Contemporary opened at the weekend but, despite it being only around the corner from where I live, I've been too busy to pop down there for a visit. It's a good job that I wasn't quivering with anticipation about it, because I'd have been sadly disappointed if so. Two years behind schedule, and £3 million over budget, the end result hardly seems worth the wait. The building itself is uninspiring and bland – from the bottom of Middle Hill it resembles a corrugated-iron grain house, and is far outclassed by the elegant deconsecrated church next door that is now a cocktail bar (have a look at the picture - the strangely glowing building on the left is the new gallery).

Internally, one wonders what all the time and money was spent on. This great vast box contains only four rooms for the actual art which is, after all, its raison-d'être. The gift shop almost gets more space than the pictures. The stairs that lead two floors down to the café-bar (and away from the art), resemble the entrance to Hitler's bunker – stark, bare concrete walls looking almost as if they're already stained with damp. Yes, yes, I'm sure that polished concrete is very fashionable these days, but it does nothing for me. The café-bar itself, with its uniformed waitresses moving genteely amongst the tables with pots of tea, is far too posh. I was hoping for something more bohemian; something with an artistic, intimate feel. This is no 'Au Lapin Agile', I can tell you.

Maybe it's early days only, and perhaps the building will develop an identity as time goes by. I hope so, because it has been much heralded as the new artistic hub of Nottingham. It has certainly pulled off a coup with one of its opening exhibitions – a collection of David Hockney's early works including the iconic 'A Bigger Splash'. I always find it fascinating when I see the original version of an image that has played a part in the artistic representation of a generation. It makes me quite shiver.

Even though I was less than impressed by Nottingham Contemporary today, my visit nevertheless lifted my spirits. Today I have been unusually disheartened by a series of personal problems that even my normal effervescence couldn't solve. My timetable had collapsed amidst the chaos of debauchery and entertainment, my self respect was at an all-time low and - to quote a line from the theme from TV's 'Friends' - my love-life was D.O.A. So wandering amongst Hockney's collage-paintings and sketches of nude boys lifted my somewhat dull spirits and put a new spring in my step. In fact, it gave me the energy to write this blog. So there, you've all benefited.

Another Lost Weekend

The new timetable was a great idea. It was really beginning to work and was shaping my days into something constructive so that I was actually achieving results. A most productive week was drawing to a close, and targets were being met. I was feeling pleased with myself. I'd held the meeting with the film producer who is anxious to get my film about the non-transvestite made, I'd done my shopping and made my arrangements for all other domestic chores to be ticked off – tick, tick, tick. All good.

And then, on Friday afternoon, a chance encounter with someone I'd only met twice before, caused a sudden and dramatic nuclear fusion that the time since then has been spent in an ever-spiralling whirlwind of drinking and debauchery, such that I have now lost the plot completely and the timetable lies in tattered shreds on the stained floor of despair. Oh dear. Not good.

Mind you, I have engaged in some worthwhile pursuits too. I went to the cinema on Friday evening to see the much lauded 'Bright Star', Jane Campion's latest film offering about the love affair between poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne. It had been described by critics as 'exquisite', and in some ways, it was. Well, the photography was exquisite, but little else. The script was diabolical and unbelievable; the acting not much better. A big disappointment.

On Saturday I went to a fabulous private art viewing and bought a beautiful piece of artwork. I just wish I could remember what it is called – I'll have to ring the artist and ask him, and also how he did it (it's some kind of digitized print). If the artist ever makes it big, it might be worth a fortune in the future, and then I won't need a pension!

Sunday night (after a relaxing and healthy walk around the University Lake) saw us at the Malt Cross for a musical extravaganza – a tribute to the great Tom Waits. There was some fabulous singing and playing from people like Mink (slightly reduced in numbers, but Ian Oxlade's voice seems to have matured into something even more extraordinary and totally spell-binding). Also reduced in numbers was the group Shakes, who are a regular turn at Shaw's Restaurant – keyboard player David surprised us all with his completely authentic rendition of a couple of Waits numbers. Terrific stuff – although the show was nearly stolen by Ali Hazeldene's unbelievably charismatic singing; more mesmerising even than Odysseus's Sirens. See picture below.

Unfortunately, all of these excellent pursuits were accompanied by the consumption of very large quantities of alcohol. In fact, more alcohol in one weekend than any sane person should consume. Which is why we are not sane, perhaps. And who is "we", you might ask? The chance encounter I had on Friday afternoon with someone I hardly knew, turned into a full-on bonding for the next three days. We've hardly been out of each other's company for all of that time, which is quite a strange thing. We even watched a film on TV last night – we'd both seen it before and both remembered enjoying it. What a shock – it was rubbish. Bad script, bad acting, terribly mis-cast all round – what a shambles. The film? It was 'Little Voice'. To be avoided at all costs.

Hopefully, better news tomorrow.

L'Acrostiche

Today's Thought For The Day is highly appropriate to the situation in which I find myself. It says that when faced with a challenge that feels as if it is bringing a negative change in our lives, it is worth remembering that every single thing that happens to us is ultimately for our own good. How true that is!

Here is the reasoning behind this: Change is necessary because without it, nothing happens. We have to move old things out of the way to allow newer, better and more amazing things to come to us. When I was told that I was being unceremoniously booted out of my last job before my contract had ended, I was tempted to curse and swear. But it didn't take me long to remember that all change should be welcomed and that, as black as this news might have appeared to some people, it appeared to me as an opportunity.

Every time I get too comfortable, it is necessary to shake myself up and look for new openings. Getting too comfortable causes me to take my eye off the ball; to lose sight of the goals I really want to achieve. I mean, I was never going to get my novel about rent boys finished while I was slaving away at Northampton and driving for three-and-a-half hours every day

So, whilst it is still necessary to earn money, my somewhat rude ejection from my last contract has forced me to look around for something more suitable. But more importantly, it has given me the opportunity to get back into circulation with my favourite people – the writers and film-makers of Nottingham. And here comes the good bit – a film producer has shown some interest in making my film - the one about the man whose wife thinks he's a transvestite, but isn't.

Even though nothing may come from this (there are many false starts in the film industry), it's really great that a serious film producer has shown serious interest in my script. It's only a ten-minute short, but it's a start. If nothing else, it has boosted my confidence at a time when I really could use it. And the nice thing is that it only came about from a chance remark made during a chat over a beer, where said producer was present. That conversation wouldn't have taken place if I'd been at Northampton, no sir!

Chance is not something that happens to other people – it happens to us all, but some people don't actually see it. The difference is to keep one's eyes open and never, ever, see anything as negative. Sure, bad things will happen – but the answer is not to let those bad things knock us off course.

Rare is the change in anyone's circumstances that can't be exploited to find something better, but it's all a case of application; it's all a question of attitude.

Each and every one of us has a responsibility to ourselves to search for the best we can do, and to do it. Maybe my film script about the man who isn't a transvestite will never appear on the screen, but at least I'll have given it a go; at least another door can be creaked open a notch.

The momentum of this new spirit of optimism might even see the completion of the novel about rent boys, or even, the novel about the woman who died but didn't. There's so much to do, but the satisfying truth about this is that there is only one person who can do it. And that person, is me.

Never Do Today....

I have sorted out my timetable now. I made lots of little squares in columns under a heading for each day, and began to fill in the squares with all the things I need to do (this was after drawing up a 'To Do' list yesterday). The problem was, there weren't enough squares to fit everything into one week, so I had to convert it into a two-week timetable. We used to have one of these at school – where the timetable was issued to us in two halves: 'Week One' and 'Week Two'. It was quite strange how frequently I used to forget which week were in and would turn up at the wrong classroom to attend a lesson that would be a full week away. Occasionally it would be quite useful to pretend that one had the wrong week, because that would be a suitable excuse for 'forgetting' to hand in some homework that one had somehow failed to complete. We used to think the teachers were stupid in those days.

So, my new two-week timetable is finished and ready. It took me most of Monday on Week One to complete it, so the task and chores listed therein for that day didn't receive any attention. Today is Tuesday of Week One, so let me just check what I should be doing [PAUSE]. Oh, I see that I should be writing my blog at this very moment – what a coincidence! Well, my timetable appears to be working, despite experiencing a slight hiccough this morning by oversleeping. The universe temporarily deserted me by causing me to forget to set my alarm last night and that, coupled with a rather drunken late night throwing balls of wool for the stray cat to retrieve, meant that the activity I had set for Session One of the day ('Looking for a Job') was missed. Doh! However, I have allowed myself some free periods during the day – this is for contingencies – so maybe I can catch up on the missed session later. Or maybe not.

This is all a bit anal I suppose; I feel a bit of a nerd, doing this. But it's all part of the plan to create a New Life and is really quite necessary – if I didn't try to organize myself, I'd probably just lay on my back all day waving my legs in the air. As an occupation, waving one's legs in the air is not conducive to making good progress, and so should be avoided. I might even take this nerdiness one step further and print off my timetable, laminate it, and stick it on the wall. How about that? The trouble is, that would eat into the time already allocated for the next activity, so I'll have to shift that task down a bit. Oh dear, I can already see this whole plan failing, especially as I don't really like doing the next activity. Procrastination is the order of the day, perhaps? Did I schedule any time for that, I wonder?

Or maybe I should make a Christmas cake? I've never done that before so I fancy giving it a go – and of course, this means that I can waste even more time by cycling to the shops to buy the ingredients. Okay, so there's no square in the plan that says 'Make Christmas Cake', but I see that there is a 'free period' coming up next on the Week Two bit of the timetable. Is it permissible to switch weeks willy-nilly, do you think? It has to be done.

C'mon: Stick 'Em Up!

I've had one crazy week since I returned from Switzerland. The plan was to get home, stop drinking, and spend time re-organizing my wretched life into something that would (for once) actually work; something that would deliver the results I've been trying to achieve for the last one hundred and fifty years; something that would provide me with the fulfilment that I always crave. Not so.

I have been drunk every evening since then – in fact, on one occasion I was actually drunk in the daytime (shock horror). I have to point out that there have been excuses – friends keep calling round and forcing me (at gunpoint) to open the vessels of alcohol. At one point, a friend of mine became so drunk that he fell over onto a table and split his head open. There was blood everywhere, I can tell you. Ever the opportunist, my friend decided that his injuries should provide a few days off work and asserted that he could easily claim that he'd been mugged. To corroborate his claim, he thought it might be a good idea for me to punch him in the face, thus augmenting the bruising and scarring he had already suffered.

Can you imagine that? Me, the perfect softie, punching anyone in the face? I refused, of course - only to incur the wrath of my friend, whose conclusion that my failure to secure him a few days blagged off sick rendered me liable for a punching myself. Luckily, my lovely face was spared a beating, as he forgot all about it when he passed out. Passed out, yes - but not before upsetting a full pint glass of Coca-Cola all over my coffee table and thereby destroying all books and magazines in his path. This sounds like a rock-and-roll life, but I assure you that it is not. This is small-town life; this is Hockley life; this is not life.

So, I have decided to have a quiet night in this evening, alone. My plan is to formulate a plan. What I feel I could do with is a timetable. You know, the sort of timetable we used to have at school. I could divide up each day into period-size chunks and allocated an activity to each period – something like this:

Week 1
Period One: Finish unfinished novel about rent boys
Period Two: Do something about getting a job
Period Three: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Four: Attend to paperwork and sort out my mother's estate
Period Five: Italian Lesson

You get the kind of thing. I feel that a more structured approach to the day might reap some benefits. It would certainly be better than my current agenda, which appears to be:

Week 1
Period One: Get up and check email and Facebook
Period Two: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Three: Continue to check email and Facebook
Period Four: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Five: Pour drink

Well, at least I'm listening to the radio right now, instead of watching the X-Factor. That has to be a good start, don't you think? Watch this space.

La Belle Suisse!

I had an absolutely fabulous time in Switzerland. At one point, when we were down at the lake (which only the English call 'Lake Geneva' by the way), I decided to feed the ducks with an old sandwich I just happened to have in my bag. More fool me – the poor ducks didn't get a look in as I was immediately surrounded by a thousand seagulls, all shrieking for a bit of the action. I felt just like Tippi Hedren as they circled my head, some hovering just in front of my face, looking plaintively at me as if to say: "Me! Me!" One actually hit me in the eye with a beat of its wing – they were that close.

As I threw the bits of sandwich into the air, followed by bits of a sausage and some pieces of chicken (my bag is indeed resourceful), the lucky ones grabbed at a piece as it flew past them, and then wheeled quickly away as if they were terrified that another gull might snatch the morsel from their very throats. It was surreal and delightful experience. Not only did I feel like dear old Tippi (would that I had her fur coat and leather gloves), but I also felt like the Bird Man of Alcatraz; the old women in Mary Poppins on the steps of St Paul's; or maybe just Worzel Gummidge.

Anyway, the remainder of the weekend went really well too. We took the train on Sunday to Montreux where I tried to find any trace of the fire that inspired Deep Purple's 'Smoke On The Water', but I suppose it isn't something that would even be remembered, forty years on. I did stand next to the bronze statue of Freddie Mercury which stands, for some bizarre reason, on the palm-tree lined promenade in front of a rather tacky children's playground. The whole promenade is a bit tacky, to be honest – it clearly has delusions of grandeur as it attempts to ape the rather more cosmopolitan seafront at Monte Carlo. These flâneurs were not of the same calibre as can be found on the Côte d'Azur, let me tell you.

However, it was lovely to be beside the massive brooding waters of the lake, and it reminded me of a time when my Great Aunt Dolores (she who was knocked down by a lorry and yet survived, and later took up playing the xylophone) hijacked a steamer on its way from Geneva to Lausanne. She didn't use violence of course, but she used her formidably persuasive powers (otherwise known as aggressive bullying) to convince the captain to divert to Thonon-les-Bains where she had arranged a secret rendez-vous with the Aga Khan - or so she claimed, for unfortunately we were arrested immediately upon disembarkation and were forced to spend the next two days in the confines of the splendid Town Hall. I'll tell you more about that next time.

   

1066 And All That!

We're a funny breed, the British. We hate to see the underdog losing at anything (which is why we are such ardent supporters of football, I suppose) and so I always cringe whenever I watch University Challenge because it always seems that one team absolutely bashes the other. I don't understand this – especially when we get to the later rounds when the teams are meant to be the cleverer lot of the bunch. It's quite extraordinary that a team which bashed another in an earlier round (and therefore became viewed as smug at that juncture), suddenly becomes bashed by a different team in the next round. So what happens then? Well, those oh-so-smug young men and women of an earlier round suddenly emerge as our pitied and hapless heroes. Especially if they're good-looking.

So there you have it – we don't actually like winners in this country. So, herein lies the rub: For a nation that so clearly despises success, how come we managed to build the most expansive and most successful empire in the history of the world? It doesn't seem altogether congruous that a breed of people which so often routs for the underprivileged and the downtrodden, should at some point in its long history become one of the most aggressive and belligerent people on earth.

I have the answer. It was those bloody Normans wot did it. The Normans came to this island and performed a magic trick – they bullied us into submission, yet made us into a proud and arrogant people at the same time. Some trick, eh? How strange though, that the French (for it was they) should have exported some trait of character that as a nation, they then instantly lost for themselves. And what do we learn from this? That there is such a thing as a national trait? Sounds a bit jingoistic to me. A bit xenophobic, almost.

So what is a nation anyway? Is it just a team on University Challenge to be cajoled and bullied by the likes of Jeremy Paxman? Your starter for ten: Bzzz! "Harrison of Somerville". Oh, you got it wrong, Harrison of Somerville. Again. Do we feel sorry for you, or were you too smug anyway?

We should all treat our own lives as if we were a nation. We should ensure that we are proud of our achievements, yet we should be humble in our privileges. In the words of Winston Churchill: In war - resolution; in defeat - defiance; in victory – magnanimity. There's a lot of truth in that.

A New Era!

A new era began yesterday. For the past nine months I've been contracting at Northamptonshire County Council but suddenly – although I was due to go on there until the end of the year – they've run out of money and have had to boot me out, early. I'm not alone in this – several contractors have been summarily dismissed in an effort to cut costs – but whereas most of my colleagues (both contractors and permanent staff) have viewed this development with dismay, I see it as an exciting opportunity.

It's very easy to become complacent in any role, and if I hadn't been so callously kicked out when I was, I probably would have gone on until the end of the year, and even longer perhaps (before the financial truth hit them, they had a tendency to renew contracts wherever possible). It was all getting rather cosy and because of sheer laziness on my part, I probably would have stuck at for as long as I was allowed to, even though I hated it. Now I have been forced out of my lethargy and have no choice but to think of something else.

God knows, I will miss the money – of course I will. But all of life is change; and all of life is a challenge. So I must embrace that change and that challenge and set out upon an adventure to find something new, something better. And the strange thing is that I am very, very, very confidant of finding it. That's what makes my life so much fun. This has all happened so quickly that I have not had time to "line up something else" (as in "Have you got something else lined up?"), but I don't care. If this opportunity hadn't come along, I'd have wallowed in the misery of getting up at 5:15 every morning and driving 140 miles every day for months to come. So bad for my body; so bad for the car; and so bad for the environment.

So I do not wail or gnash my teeth in self-pity. I laugh at my so-called misfortune and I set my sails for a new adventure. Something good will come from this; it always does. When I think of some of the scrapes I've been in, I marvel at the miraculous escapes I've been presented with. I'm excited – something new is around the corner and I know that (as ever) it will be something good. I'm on the Yellow Brick Road; I'm going back to Kansas.

In the meantime, I took an early flight this morning for Geneva and so am spending a delightful few days in the cleanliness and efficiency of Switzerland (so don't expect another blog from me until next week). I have brought with me a few clothes, but also some essentials that my daughter (whom I am visiting) misses from her old life in blighty: A few bags of Bombay Mix; some Cheddar Cheese; a couple of big bars of Cadbury's Dairy Milk; and some Twiglets. Hurrah! What a feast we shall have!

And you'll all be delighted to know that Great Aunt Dolores (she who once went over Niagara Falls in a barrel and who later took up playing the xylophone after being knocked down by a lorry) won't be coming with me. Well, she hardly could – having been dead for years.

And if I suddenly become overwhelmed by morbidity whilst I am taking my Swiss sojourn – well, there's always Dignitas!

Travels With My Aunt?

Oh, I've been neglecting you again. Well, before you start moaning, you should consider what a life I have. It's crowded beyond measure! My life is more crowded than the recent rally outside the BBC to silence the odious Nick Griffin; more crowded than the lynch mob camped outside the home of the even more odious Jan Moir; more crowded even than the party to celebrate the launch of Jordan's new breasts; and certainly more crowded than the mob scene we saw at this Sunday's Hockley Hustle (what a party that was!). Crowded indeed.

The main reason that I have so little time is because I have to go to work every day. This indeed is an inconvenience that most people I know don't suffer. It makes me feel so terribly normal all the time; I can't explain how difficult it is fitting such a tiresome pastime as full-time work into my crowded life. I'm expected to party like it's 1999, yet I still have to get up at 5:15 every morning and drag myself off to a full day of useful commerce. A tall order, let me tell you.

I went to the theatre on Saturday to see an adaptation of Graham Greene's 'Our Man In Havana'. I read the book 35 years ago and so couldn't remember too much about it, but by the time the first half had finished, I was beginning to wonder: What is the point?? The actors were trying so hard with an absolutely awful script (written by Clive Francis), but the whole production was apparently missing the point completely. There was no plot; no characterisation; no tension; no drama. Not exactly a good recipe for a successful stage play (in my opinion). As we sipped our interval drinks, I was ready to give up on the will to live. But then, like a football match, this bizarre production (which had the audacity to call itself a play) became a production of two halves. Suddenly, in the second act, the penny dropped. This wasn't a play at all – it was a pantomime! And as a pantomime – as an absolutely surreal and meaningless farce – it began to work.

Once I'd abandoned the idea that I needed to find real meaning in this somewhat manic adaptation of Greene's famous novel, I felt relaxed and satisfied. The novel was certainly comic (in parts), but it certainly wasn't farce. The humour in Greene's work was subtle and ironic (as you would expect), yet the writer (or director Richard Baron, perhaps) had decided that this should be translated into pure, unadulterated slapstick. And as such, it worked. So finally, I saw the point.

I understand that the same team also adapted Greene's 'Travels With My Aunt' which I also remember as being a splendid novel (although I think, unfinished). I'd have liked to have seen that – but then again, I have enough horrid reminiscences of travels with my aunt, that perhaps it was a good thing that I missed it. Hmm, maybe I should write a play.

Those Bastards!

An extraordinary day today! I set off to work with a real spring in my step, and full of confidence that I was going to spend a happy day, and that nothing – nothing – would bring me down. Then something happened – admittedly something bad – that caused me to stumble in my confidence and despite my best intentions, my spirits plummeted. I had intended to go out this evening, to watch all or part of 'Hatch Abroad' which is going on in the very street where I live, and Broad Street - the street where I spend most of my social time. As an example of what's going on, read this:

"The evening starts and ends at the Nottingham Arts Theatre (actually on George Street, where I live). International playboys 'Reckless Sleepers' were ensuring our smooth departure to Hatch: Abroad as The Pilots. At the other end of the night, the grand finale will be provided by Annette Foster, in the fascinating and unsettling guise of Marlene Dandy, and topped off with a crash, a bang and an ooh-la-la by 'The Polka-Dot Can-Can Troupe'. In between those points in time, the length of Broad Street is something to dive into. Running from north to south, the first port of call is the Lord Roberts. Here in the basement Daniel Hunt is presenting a two-man exploration of what it means to cross borders and enter new territories, while Rachel Parry is extending an invitation to be intimate with a woman, an outsider, a stranger."

That's only a small part of it – there's loads more going on with dozens of other performance events across the dozen or so arts venues that surround my apartment block. How lucky I am, to be living amidst such eclectic delights! And even though all I have to do to enjoy it all is roll out of the door to be amidst the thick of it all, I feel so dis-spirited by today's events, that I simply can't be bothered. My apartment, with all its mundanity, seems a better place to be, somehow.

This feeling is a big disappointment to me. I've been reading about how our lives are shaped by our thoughts and emotions, and so I really wanted to shape something uplifting and special. Instead, I can only manage to shape a rather flat, hardened turd – and that isn't right at all! It's all very well for these self-motivation gurus to encourage us to control our own perceptions, but what are we supposed to do when confronted by a bunch of real cunts (as I was) during our normal working day? Woah! It was meant to be that by sheer positive thinking, I wouldn't even be faced with any negative experiences at all today. Well, that's a load of bollocks because, even though I was dancing around the office in the very best of moods today, there seemed to have been some darker forces that had decided they were stronger than that.

Oh well, tomorrow may be better. I'll just remember that old adage - and one that surely, should be one of the best ever maxims to live by (if only we could keep it up): "Don't Let The Bastards Grind You Down".

And the best thing about all of this is? Well, no matter how grotty things might seem right now, at least I have the power to change them. Imagine being a nineteenth-century factory worker with no hope? Oh yes, I'm one lucky adult male, all right.

Jan Moir - Dancing On The Grave Of Stephen Gately

There isn't much more to say about Jan Moir's evil and poisonous article in last week's Daily Heil. Some far better writers than I have already brought this pathetic woman (pictured left) to task - Charlie Brooker for one - and more power to their typing fingers, I say. The fact that this spiteful, nasty little hack was even allowed to peddle her vile filth before the British public is enough of a wonder, but that she even felt justified in her loathsome attack on a defenceless dead person is a total mystery.

What I would like to comment upon, however, is just that. What was this malicious bigot's motivation for writing such an article? This is a question we must ask ourselves – and the sad answer is that she clearly felt capable of oozing such bile because she felt comfortable in doing so because she sees herself as a "member of the club". Brooker called her article a "gratuitous piece of gay-bashing" but he singled her out as if she had invented such vitriol herself. In fact, she was just luxuriating in the confidence that she is not alone by holding such views. She was fully expecting her wicked malevolence to be welcomed by her readership. And this, dear reader, is the awful truth. There will have been many, many Daily Heil readers sagely nodding their dogmatic heads in agreement with her. Of course Stephen Gately deserved to die – he was gay, after all.

The fact that the Press Complaints Commission is powerless to handle the furore of outrage that has poured in about this disgusting piece of fascist dogma is sweet justification for her foul words. Only Stephen's family is entitled to complain about the filth that she wrote – and are they likely to do that, given that they are in a state of shock and grief? Of course they won't - they have more dignity. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an adage that the despicable Ms Moir seems to have forgotten. She has not only attacked a defenceless young man and his family; she has also attacked the very ramparts of morality and decency.

The dangerous truth though, is that she obviously feels that her insidious venom is the lifeblood of her odious readership. And she is probably right in that, at least. That is what is so truly awful about her article – more awful even than its hateful content.

We need a wake-up call, that's for sure. Aux armes, citoyennes!