Damn You, Edith!

How often do we hear those words: "I have absolutely no regrets about what I have done"? I wonder whether in most cases this is actually true. Of course we are supposed to say that, aren't we, because 'having regrets' is negative thinking, and negative thinking now brings negative results in the future. So we feel obliged to banish all thoughts of regret from our minds and only to focus on the positive elements of our past. Easier said than done. There is a lot of common sense in this maxim though – I mean, every single action we have taken in our past has brought us right to the position we are at now. That is to say that I wouldn't be sitting here now, at this very place and at this very moment - writing my blog – without having arrived here by virtue of every single individual tiny action (or decision) taken by me in the past. Therefore, if I now regret some of those actions and decisions, it is logical to assume that I am in some way dissatisfied with where I am at this moment. And we are told (are we not?) that to be dissatisfied with where we are right now, is an unhappy state of affairs.

There is, of course, another view to be taken about this – that this focus on the power of now is nothing more than a load of old bollocks. Surely, it's acceptable to have some regrets because it is only from these that we learn lessons about our behaviour, and lessons about ourselves in general. Our lives are – and, I suppose should be – something like those books we used to read as children which had alternative story lines. At the bottom of Page One we are faced with a choice: Do we a) take the path into the deep, dark and mysterious woods (go to Page Three); or do we b) hitch a ride from the friendly farmer going in the opposite direction on his hay wagon (go to Page Five)? Looking back, we can chart our progress through the story-book, but what we cannot do is to read the book again and make alternative choices. We can only speculate about the journey (or journeys) that we might otherwise have taken.

I suppose the argument from the positive thinkers is that such speculation can only bring us misery and doubt. Who knows what might have happened if we had chosen to fight the ogre in the woods, instead of opting – as we did perhaps - to follow the yellow brick road? The trick must be to ignore those decisions where we believe that we took the wrong fork in the trail through the forest, and to take pleasure only from those decisions which we can see were the right ones. Unfortunately, I think it's more usual for us to forget about the right choices that we have made, and to think only about what we now think were the wrong ones. Inevitably, this must conclude that we are somehow dissatisfied with the status quo. My concern about this state of affairs is that by feeling unhappy about my current situation, I am only giving myself the power (and permission) to continue to be so. That has to be wrong, doesn't it?

So, maybe it shouldn't be a case of having 'no regrets', but more a case of recognizing the poor choices we might have made along the way, and examining our motivations for doing so. Then, the positive outcome from such an examination must be that we don't make those poor choices again. Isn't that what they call 'growing up'? Hmm, the (somewhat) depressing realization from this is that am I not a bit too old to be still growing up?

Well, you might think that – but I prefer to carry on growing, thank you very much. Oh yes, I'll take it on the chin – I do have regrets, and sometimes it can seem that the right answers in my particular life don't even come up for air, but I also have a resolve to be more vigilant in the future. I am right here, right now – and whether I was brought here by the friendly farmer or thrown here by the rage of the ogre, I can't change that. What I can change is where I go from here. I still have my ten fine toes to wiggle in the sand, and lots of idle fingers that snap to my command, so to hell with my regrets – let me learn from them – and look out world, here I come!

Richard Pilgrim is currently appearing in "Examining One's Navel Is Wrong" at a cinema near you.

Verging on Despair

Oh dear, life is spiralling out of control again. I was beginning to head into financial penury, so had to go looking for some paid work, and so the mammoths of commerce have determined that I return to gainful employment. This is a great pity, and certainly a tragedy to me, but unfortunately my (very) expensive lifestyle dictates such strictures from time to time. I have so many things to do, and now that I have to re-start turning up at the orifice every day, I have very little time in which to do it. I'm reading the eulogy at a funeral on Thursday (and I haven't even written it yet), and I also have my financial report for the Studio's AGM to write, as well as reading dozens more scripts for the Triliteral Festival (shortlisting begins on Sunday), and that's on top of an absolute snowdrift of paperwork to wade through... it's all quite ridiculous. I've long argued that working for a living is a poor use of one's time, and I don't swerve from that view now.

So, my recent sojourn of leisure is about to end and this means that I have to make the best use of the (short) time available to me before I have to begin ironing shirts and filling the car with petrol etc. How best to use that time? Well, I could try polishing up my latest novel 'Twice Into The River' because I have a meeting with a literary agent about it next week, but I don't feel quite in the mood for that today. Alternatively, I could start to tackle any of the numerous chores – some of which are detailed above – that befall me à ce moment de l'heure, but somehow that too seems rather onerous and sensible. I think what is needed right now is a bit of debauchery. Pure, insouciant, decadent, self-indulgent debauchery. This, I think, would be a fitting end to my recent period of – well, to be honest - pure, insouciant, decadent, self-indulgent debauchery. Hmm, there's something about my priorities here that I find vaguely unnerving.

The long and the short of it is that I have to go back to work in order to survive. This, clearly, is a disaster. But talking of disasters, did I ever tell you about the time (years ago) when I bought a pair of jeans that were too small for me? I went into a shop to buy a new pair, and the woman assistant insisted that denim should fit like a "second skin". She selected a pair for me that were really too small, but she was somehow convinced that they were appropriate. I struggled into them, and although I could do up the top button, I couldn't pull up the zip. This, the woman assistant saw as a good sign. "If you can get the top button done up, then the zip will follow," she said, full of confidence. I began protesting that it was impossible, when she suddenly reached in and dragged me out of the changing cubicle. She then began struggling with the zip herself, but her talon-like nails were hampering her efforts. Exasperated, she then demanded that I lie on the floor which I did, whereupon she then knelt, straddled across my body, and began tugging and heaving at the said zip. "Better not let my husband see me doing this," she grunted through clenched teeth. Finally, after a Herculean effort, the zip was up. Triumphant, she dusted her hands and stood up. "Get up then, and let's have a look," she said. Finding that I couldn't even bend my legs enough to get into a sitting position, I remained where I was. So, the woman called for another assistant and between them they took my shoulders and heaved me into a standing position – I was upright to be sure, but I was as rigid as a cardboard cut-out of myself.

"What do you think?" she asked, smiling widely. What I thought didn't really matter – there was no way I was going to get out of the jeans anyway, so I had to keep them on. I paid, she put my old jeans into a bag, and I shuffled out of the store in a somewhat stiff-legged manner. I can't remember how I managed to get into bed that night, but I rather suspect that I wore those jeans continually for several weeks thereafter.

My old friend Horace asked me to remind you of this: "Choose a subject equal to your abilities; and then think carefully what your shoulders may refuse, and what they are capable of bearing". If you bear nothing else in mind in your busy lives today, bear this, gentle reader.

Egg On My Face and Leg Waving

It's been quite a week since I returned from Italy. Lots of meetings, parties, lunches, drinks etc. Certainly there's been little time for getting anything productive done – although I suppose that everything I do is productive in one way or another. Everything has a purpose. However, I'm not so sure that the dreadful faux pas I committed last night will have served much purpose. I was attending the launch party of my good friend Maria Allen's new novel (see here) and was chatting away to someone about my less than favourable view of a particular publishing house when I realized that I was standing next to the Managing Director of said publishers, and he'd heard every word! He didn't look too pleased, so I made a swift exit and wandered over to another friend of mine – a novelist too – who was talking to some chap I didn't know. I began regaling him with the story of my faux pas, but not really in a very apologetic manner, when my friend introduced me to his companion – it turned out that he was a director of the same publishing company! Oops – how to ruin one's chances of publication in just five short minutes! Oh dear, you can't take me anywhere really, can you?

The other evening I went to see Tom Ford's new film 'A Single Man'. I sat through it thinking: 'This is awful' although in retrospect, I suppose there are some good qualities to it. It was very well-acted (particularly Colin Firth who did a tremendous job at conveying bereavement in a very sympathetic way), and it seemed reasonably well directed too (it is Tom Ford's first foray into film, so I suppose he should be congratulated). It was also absolutely gorgeous to look at – a very creditable portrayal of 1960s California; deliciously sumptuous and very authentic. But the reason why I had been sitting there thinking that it was quite awful, was nothing to do with the film really – it was because I finally woke up to just what a bad writer Isherwood was. I'd read most of his stuff years ago and I'd enjoyed it at the time, but that was probably because I was young, impressionable and the seduction of the glamour and the clandestine sexuality in his writing was hard to resist. Now I'm all grown up, I see it as nothing more than self-indulgent and maudlin sentimentality. However, I would still recommend the film because it's so lovely to look at. Go see it.

The Triliteral Festival is coming along nicely, although it is still taking up quite a bit of time on the administration front. We are getting very excited because we now have only eight days to go before the submissions close, and already we've had lots of very interesting scripts. Hopefully we'll receive even more in the final week, and we're really looking forward to that. We still haven't finalised all of the venues yet, and we also have a bit of a problem with rehearsal space, but these are just challenges that we're happy to meet. Our biggest challenge is, of course, funding – so the begging letters will be going out next week! Watch out, all of you with money. Anyway, there'll be more news on all of this in forthcoming weeks, so keep reading.

Now, what shall I do with the rest of the day? I have to say that I'm strongly tempted to do nothing but wave my legs in the air, but unfortunately the length of the 'to do' list precludes such an indolent activity. I am now faced with the usual dilemma: Which of the many tasks on the list should be tackled first? Oh, hold on.... my legs seem to have begun an involuntary shake... and yes, they're raising themselves into the air... and... and I just can't stop them. Doh!

Holiday Snaps

Well, I'm back from the Alps, and I'm sorry for not giving you the regular updates as I had promised to do. Unfortunately the hotel I was staying in, although very well-appointed in most of its facilities, didn't have an internet point for some reason. This meant that in order to get a connection I had to trudge half a mile up the hill, in the snow, and wait in line for access to what was seemingly the only connection in the village. Believe me, when you've been out on the slopes all day and your legs are aching and rattling like a supermarket trolley, and when you've finally removed your ski boots and flopped heavily onto the comfortable sofas of the hotel for a few après-ski drinks, the LAST thing you want to do is trudge up the hill in the snow. All you really want to do at that point is to sink into a hot bath with a glass of whisky balanced carefully on the edge.

So I have neglected you, gentle reader. But it was all in a good cause – the skiing was fabulous, although not all that challenging. Cervinia (Italy) is not actually a very challenging resort – there are only three black runs and the reds are really only what the French would call blue (the grading of the pistes is always only appropriate for each particular resort), so we weren't exactly pushed very hard. We did do some tough runs though – we went so high at one point that we were able to look into Switzerland, and the temperature up there was sometimes as low as minus 20 degrees Celsius. The sunshine was glorious though, but at those altitudes (circa 11,000 feet) it's easy to get burned. My nose is rather red as a result.

However, being challenged is not always welcome (particularly at my time of life) and the fact that most of what we did was fairly easy, meant at least that I could spend time improving my technique and improving my speed. This I did, and I skied better and faster than I've ever done before. I "crossed the Rubicon" in terms of style, and managed to acquire that deliciously elegant swagger that you witness in those infuriating people hurtling down the slopes who were clearly born to the practice. The problem about coming down the more challenging pistes is that the opportunity to practise style is not there – it's more about getting down the mountain in the best way one can; elegantly or not. But fear not, gentle reader – I only had one fall all week, and it wasn't that spectacular either, so no broken bones or even bruises for yours truly. I've been very pleased with my efforts this week and if I had the money (or the time), I'd go back quickly so that I could improve even more.

I tried hard with my Italian too. I find that the Italians are more polite than the French, and will encourage you to keep going and will reply to you in Italian, rather than lapsing into English at the slightest detection of a less than perfect accent. So, I was able to make my purchases, book restaurant tables, ask for directions etc, and managed to understand the responses too. But then, sitting on chair-lifts going up to the next run, you often find yourself accompanied by a pair of native speakers babbling away to each other without seemingly drawing breath or even listening to each other, and then all understanding becomes lost – so there's still a way to go for me yet.

And now, back to work. I'm a bit tired to be honest – yesterday was a long day because we had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to get to the airport, then we were delayed by a blizzard and then had to wait even further while they de-iced the wings of the plane before take-off. Therefore, my approach to work today is one of a gentle attack, rather than an exuberant explosion of energy – so you'll have to forgive me. The TV is tempting me to switch it on too – coverage of the winter Olympics beckons. On the other hand, why would I want to watch someone else coming down a mountain with a lot more speed and grace than I could ever manage?

Oh well, maybe I could dream.....

Update From Italia

Well, here I am in Italy - and the skiing is fantastic. However, it is such a bloody nuisance trying to find an internet connection that I will not be posting again while I am here. So, gentle reader, you will just have to wait until I get back for an update on all the fabulous things I have been doing this week.

A presto (as they say here in la bella Italia)!

Ciao xx

Buone Vacanze!

I'm quite excited about my forthcoming ski trip. I go to the Italian resort of Cervinia on Sunday, and it can't come soon enough. The wonderful thing about skiing is that all the normal daily stresses, preoccupations, worries and fears simply disappear when you get to the slopes. The head is immediately emptied of all the everyday scattered detritus that usually fills it to the rafters, and you are released from all anxiety; liberated from the shackles of domestic living by the wide-open spaces and the awe-inspiring (and frankly humbling) views. Skiing is immensely physical and the only thing that matters is keeping the body strong – the mind then looks after itself. I've been training like a lunatic in the gym in recent weeks, in an attempt to strengthen my thighs and knees, so now I am ready for anything. This year, I aim to go faster than ever before. I have my own skis and boots – the boots help a great deal because rented ones are usually ill-fitting and always hurt. A couple of years ago I spent about two hours in a fabulous little shop in Tignes having my boots re-moulded so that they fitted my feet exactly. Being comfortable is just as important as being safe.

Right then, I must get on with my 'to do' list because I have millions of things to clear up before I go away. This is all about de-cluttering my mind in advance, so that when I do hit the slopes, the mountain vista has its job already half done. The Pecha Kucha thing the other night went okay – I made a suitable fool of myself, of course – and within the confines of the elegant and ornate oak-panelled dining room of Nottingham's City Hall (known locally as the Council House – see picture left), there were some really good presentations. Most of the people took themselves a tad too seriously perhaps, whereas I just camped the whole thing up and made people laugh. I learned this trick years ago – as a youngster, growing up in the backstreets of Naples, I was terrified of being laughed at; it was real paranoia, and I was unbelievably shy and nervous and always worried that people were laughing at me behind my back. So one day, I decided to make bloody well sure that people laughed at me – thereby removing any doubt and so consequently removing the paranoia – and I've been acting the goat ever since.

At the Pecha Kucha event, my lovely friend James Parker did a presentation that included some magic (not such a random idea, by the way – he is a magician). He was talking about the collaboration between magic, creativity, politics and ethics and his speech was both lively and interesting, but the climax was a sort of visual analogy towards what we all desire, which is 'Peace', and he produced a pure white dove as if from nowhere. The audience were amazed and enthralled by this, but it created a practical problem – what to do with the dove after the event? We were all planning to retire to a local cocktail lounge for extended drinking (such a rare event of course), and the dove could hardly accompany us. So James asked if he could leave it in my apartment. It's still here, and I've been chatting away to it because I feel it might be lonely. I've been trying to trick it into telling me how the aforesaid magic trick is achieved, but I think that it too must be a member of the Magic Circle and it has remained tight-lipped throughout my gentle interrogation. Doves are presumably very discreet birds, which I suppose is why magicians use them, and do not use parrots. Parrots are right gossips, so they are, and would blab all the trade secrets for the price of a sunflower seed, I'm sure.

Well, dear reader, there will now be a short hiatus in my ramblings to you. I won't have the time or inclination to blog while I'm away (only a week), and internet access is limited in the Alps anyway. Instead, you can log in here to find the occasional update – I won't be rambling away with the usual nonsense, but I will be sending you occasional messages and titbits of news from the resort. If by any chance I go silent and you don't see any postings from me, it will mean that I am lost in the snow so you must then despatch a large St Bernard dog, complete with obligatory cask of brandy around its neck. Thank you, gentle reader.

Arrivederci! Torno presto; faccio subito!

Save Us From The Bigots!

That was rather a strange thing, I thought – the Pope getting involved in British politics? Seems a bit of a goat-dance if you ask me, and not entirely appropriate in my opinion. I assumed that he was pontificating (excuse the pun) on some totally irrelevant issue and that none of us need to listen. However, when I looked a bit closer at the content of what he said, I began to get somewhat uncomfortable. He was questioning the legitimacy of our equality laws, and suggesting that they are mis-placed in modern society. WTF?

Basically, what the old fathead was saying is that British equality laws (which surely should be the same as those in Italy, or anywhere in Europe?) are opposed to the teachings of the Gospel. What he means, of course, is that the Gospel doesn't say that it's okay to have gays and lesbians in the top church-type jobs; that's what he means. Although he dresses up his argument as some kind of pseudo-philosophical debate, when you peel away the fancy words, all you get is good old-fashioned plain bigotry.

He said that staying true to the Gospel “in no way restricts the freedom of others” but rather “serves their freedom by offering them the truth”. What truth would that be then? Would it be the "truth" that says that all gays and lesbians have somehow chosen to pursue a path of sinful debauchery, and that they should repent from their ways or go to hell? So, our "freedom" is protected not by laws, but by the Gospel, as long as we accept it as the "truth"? What a load of old rubbish. The law is there to protect us from exactly this kind of hypocritical restriction that the church would like to impose upon us. Pah!

Old Benedict XVI then goes on to say: "But I think there is a misunderstanding, because sometimes in government legislation, equality seems to be that we are all absolutely equal, which we are not. We are equal in dignity, beyond that each one of us is unique.” Well that much is true, but it still doesn't mean that legislation shouldn't be in place to prevent discrimination, does it? There's no "misunderstanding" here, as far as I can see.

Peter Tatchell, the homosexual rights activist, said: “He seems to be defending discrimination by religious institutions and demanding that they should be above the law. Pope Benedict is likely to make highly partisan political criticisms during his forthcoming visit to the UK. Most British people will not welcome a meddlesome pontiff who opposes our equality laws.” Absolutely right, Peter me old lad.

Anyway, enough of my soapbox antics – I'm sure it's all as dull as ditchwater anyway, and I have to get on with rehearsing my presentation for tonight's Pecha Kucha event. At this event, I am hoping to recount the episode when my great-aunt Dolores knocked out a skinhead in a London pub. She was a bit of a bigot herself, was Dolores, and not especially tolerant of what she called "queers" as it happened, but she also hated bullies (which was a bit rich really, considering how she bullied me for years). This skinhead was trying to pick a fight with some diminutive little fairy who had apparently been "eyeing up his arse" (squeezed, as it was, into the skinhead's skin-tight bleached jeans). Dolores was having none of it – smaller herself than even the young fairy, she marched up to the brute and climbed onto a nearby table. "Pick on someone your own size," she told him, before flooring him with an exocet-style left hook.

Unfortunately, she hadn't spotted his three burly friends sitting nearby so all in all, we were rather lucky to get out of there alive. Oh, I do so miss her!

Pecha Kucha

For some mad crazy reason, I've agreed to take part in another Pecha Kucha event this week. If you don't know what this is, it's an event where a whole bunch of people get up and talk about themselves in front of an audience, with the aid of a PowerPoint presentation. We all get a slot of exactly six minutes and forty seconds to tell the world all about our inner selves. We have to present twenty slides, and talk about each slide for twenty seconds. Six minutes and forty seconds precisely.

I did one a couple of years ago in front of a packed audience. Then, I talked about the key points in my life which had shaped my character and which had collectively delivered the 'Richard Pilgrim' that they saw before them. The rule of Pecha Kucha is not to take oneself too seriously – in fact, you are actually encouraged to include a dash of self-mockery in the presentation. I have no difficulty in doing that – I've always made a fool of myself in general anyway, so finding topics that allowed me to poke fun at myself is fairly easy. It seemed to go okay last time.

This time, the topic is one of the future, not the past. It's about New Year's Resolutions (despite taking place in February), and about how we are going to set about improving our lives in the coming year. Hmm, I don't really bother with NY Resolutions as a rule – there doesn't seem to be much point in choosing a specific spot on the flip-over of the Gregorian calendar to make a list of areas of improvement for ourselves. We should be doing that all the time – we should be seeking continual advancement of our wretched lives, and therefore, to think about such matters on what is really just an arbitrary date, seems somewhat simplistic.

That notwithstanding, I've needed to prepare some thoughts for this forthcoming presentation on what exactly I am hoping to achieve this year. I can't very well stand up and talk about not making any plans for the future – well, not for six minutes and forty seconds anyway. Really, these events are just decadent ego trips, that's all. I mean, isn't it a bit self-indulgent to imagine that other people are even remotely interested in what our plans for the year are? I don't suppose that anyone present will care – let alone remember later – whether our various schemes will ever be realized. No, if we were honest, we'd admit that it's all just a glorious excuse to talk about ourselves for a while, and to get a captive audience to listen. I'm hugely looking forward to it.

The event takes place in the grand and opulent ballroom of Nottingham's City Hall and there is going to be a massive gathering of the city's chattering classes – like the massing herds of wildebeest assembling at the watering-hole, we'll congregate around the champagne and smoked salmon before taking to the stage, one by one, to deliver our hedonistic stories. I've prepared twenty slides that feature images of my future - both sublime and (truly) ridiculous; both sacred and profane. I absolutely adore performing in public, almost as much as I adore talking about myself, so it's a "win-win" jamboree as far as I'm concerned.

And if people laugh at me, I'll have achieved my aim. It's all about the humiliation, really.