Who Said That?

I was taken back to my childhood the other day, whilst listening to the radio. There was a record playing with the line: "Hey baby, let your hair hang down..." and this brought back a memory of me being totally bewildered by this apparent contradiction. Being too young at the time to be familiar with the common parlance of beatnik romance, I couldn't understand how a baby could let its hair down when it was apparent to anyone that babies have insufficient hair on their heads for any such abandoned activity. I remember being tremendously puzzled by many other such matters like this – I was a naive and withdrawn child you see, with very few social skills at all. Growing up in poverty in the backstreets of Naples, I simply didn't get exposed to the normal fashionable vernacular of modern 'cool' culture, such as it was.

Another phrase that used to confound me was: "Enjoy yourself – it's later than you think". How, I used to wonder, could it ever be later than I thought it was? To me, time was something indisputable, something rational, and something that could easily be discerned simply by looking at the clock. Surely, time could never be something arbitrary or something that could ever be mistaken? But now of course, now that I am old and decrepit, I am only too aware of what such an adage can mean. These days it nearly always is much, much 'later than I think'. I am constantly running against the clock anyway, but my predicament is normally worse than that – I have procrastinated and hesitated for most of my life in the absurd belief that I still have plenty of time to achieve what I want in life.

But then, whilst my feet are still running but going nowhere, and while the rush of life flashes past me on the moving screens by my side, I glance at the watch and realize to my horror that it really is, almost too late. So it usually is later than we think, and we should therefore never, ever be complacent about anything and we should always, always seize every opportunity we can and make the most of what we are offered. I can also remember being puzzled as a child by something my grandmother often used to say to me: "If at first you don't succeed, then try, try, and try again." I could never understand why there had to be three occurrences of the word 'try' in that maxim. Surely, I would think, it would be enough to say: "If at first you don't succeed, then try again." Little did I heed the true meaning of my grandmother's warning – that success often doesn't materialize on the second attempt either. As I said, I was very naive as a child.

Mind you, I don't think it was restricted to my childhood, this confusion of mine. As a teenager, I was frequently frustrated by the line: "I can see clearly now the rain has gone, I can see all obstacles in my way..." You see, in my limited imagination I reasoned that if there are 'obstacles in the way', how could it be claimed that anyone can 'see clearly'? Obviously I had no sense of irony in those days. Or perhaps I was just plain stupid?

Anyway, seeing clearly now, I can also see all the obstacles in my way of getting to Paris tomorrow. Before I can leave I have a list of things to do that is as long as the Channel Tunnel itself (even though I'm flying). So, I'd better get off this blog and get on with my chores. It is, after all, later than I think.....

It's All Over

Okay, okay – so I was wrong, and the world isn't about to end after all. Sorry about that. I don't often get these things wrong, but everyone is entitled to a few mistakes once in a while. I'm pleased that the flying ban is over anyway, because I'm booked to fly to Paris next weekend and I thought I'd have to cancel my trip. Now it looks like I'll be able to go after all. So hurrah for that!

I could do with a little break – after the "matters of the heart" that I spoke of a short while ago, I feel all washed up and rinsed out, so a short sojourn in Gay Paree is just what the doctor ordered. "Affairs of the heart?" you ask. Who would have thought that an old man like me could get into such a fluster about such a trivial thing as romance? But into a fluster I got, good and proper I can tell you. But now, I've sorted out my poor stupid head and heart, and the anguish has all been erased (I'm sure you'll all be pleased to learn that). The problem with "matters of the heart" is that they don't respond at all to rational thought, do they? It doesn't matter how often we tell ourselves that in fact, we're better off without such-and-such person in our lives and that in fact, jealousy is such a pitiable emotion that no reasonably well-adjusted person should allow it to compromise his self-esteem, yet still we suffer. And my goodness, I've suffered in recent days.

This morning however, I gave myself a good talking to. I have deleted a certain person's number from my mobile phone (because the alcohol-sensitive keypad hasn't yet been invented - you know what I mean), and I have decided to look on the bright side. I have been examining the qualities of said "certain person", and weighing them against the negative points (and believe me, there are many). What it boils down to is that yes, I am very definitely better off on my own. Abso-flipping-lutely! There's no doubt about it. But I have to admit - it ain't 'alf lonely, Mum!

And now, let us turn to something more cheerful. I was thinking the other day how strange it is that if we cook pizza at home, it's likely that we'll share a twelve-incher with our partner (that's if we have a partner that is – oh, don't get me started on that again), but if we go out to eat in a pizza restaurant, we get given a whole twelve-incher all to ourselves! Now why is that? Are we more greedy when we go out to eat, or is it just that restaurants can't be bothered to cut a pizza in half? I was wondering how it is in restaurants in Italy. Well, not so much wondering really, because I know the answer – I was in Italy earlier this year on my skiing holiday and I ordered a pizza one day for my lunch. Out it came, all twelve inches of it, and down it went (along with a refreshing glass of beer). Accordingly, I approached the slopes in a much more leaden fashion that afternoon, that's for sure.

Another thing that puzzles me is this: Why has my electric fly-killer broken, just as the fly season is upon us? Has it done this in protest at being left unused for several months? It seems rather a coincidence to me. You may remember that for a long time I refused to kill the flies that seasonally invade my apartment, but then I had an epiphany after my trip to Venice last summer, and decided that killing flies is a necessary evil. So then I bought myself this electric fly-killing gizmo-thingy which I reasoned was at least a humane way of disposing of these pests. But now that it's broken (grrr), and now that I've become so accustomed to the killing, I simply beat them to death with a newspaper. Hurrah!

Goodbye Cruel World

There's nothing to report today. Well, there is this: The world, as we know it, is about to end. Actually, that's a bit of an unnecessary claim – it's not just the world as we know it, it's the world in total. It's all about the LHC in Switzerland – the machine. It's the machine that is causing these earthquakes and volcanoes ,you see. And the volcano in Iceland is bringing about more chaos than you can imagine. We shall very soon run out of food (this country has been unable to sustain itself for years), and then there will be rioting in the streets. Rioting in the hills, and on the beaches.

After that, we will all go completely stir crazy because we will suddenly realize that we're absolutely trapped on an island (and it will be crazier than 'Lost', believe me) and that's the point when we all start to eat each other. Meanwhile, the poor Kenyan farmers – unable to export their beans to the UK – will start burning their land, thereby causing a total breakdown of African political relationships and the entire continent will explode into civil war.

And then, at about this time, the financial markets will totally collapse because nobody will be able to fly into London to do their special deals, and there'll be no money for us to withdraw from the cashpoints. Even if there were food to buy, we couldn't afford it. Next, the European nations will remember that we are - after all, - an island, and from this will spring their age-old hatred of us and they will inexplicably declare war on Britain, en masse. Stormtroopers will storm (as is their wont) through the Chunnel, and the Queen will be imprisoned and replaced by Carla Bruni, coincidentally reconciled with her errant husband Nicolas, soon to be declared Emperor of Europe. But it won't last of course. The Chinese government – still able to fly – will send over its generals to crush the New Empire and turn the citizens of Europe into vassals of the Mongol tyranny.

Then Iran, jealous of the Chinese dominance, and fearful of the crushing of Islam, will launch a nuclear attack on everyone else in the world and so, we all (some of us still shackled in our new slavery) are doomed.

This isn't fiction, this is fact. You read it here first.

Doing Something Dreadful, or Away With The Fairies?

Life's a funny thing – I've recently been trying to think really, really positive things about my life because anyone who has read 'The Secret' will tell you that thinking negatively only brings negative things into your life. Hmm, well, I don't think that this old Universe fella has been listening to me at all because I have had one hell of a load of shit in recent days. Amongst other tortuous events, this also concerns matters of the heart (strangely enough). Now, I know what you're going to say – how does an old codger like me end up with luuurve problems at my age? You might well ask – it's ridiculously undignified I know, but sometimes even we wrinklies get the odd flutter of emotion that causes us to abandon all caution, and so we continue to hope that something that shouldn't really be on offer to us, might still be.

I had an extraordinary time the other night. I took this drug mephedrone – the one that's in all the news because it's about to get banned because it kills everybody who takes it. Sometimes known as 'Meow Meow' or some such ridiculous name, I only took it because it wouldn't be breaking the law to do so, and therefore I can. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Well, let me tell you that I can now see what all the fuss is about – it's very pleasant. Very pleasant indeed. I had the impression that it was something like what I would call a 'light' drug – a bit like 'mild' cigarettes were meant to be when the whole tar & nicotine issue raised its ugly head in the 1970s.

You won't need me to inform you that it has been in the news recently following the awful death of two teenage boys in Lincolnshire who had taken it. The media hounds are of course out in force, baying for blood, and the Government is responding in its usual knee-jerk reactionary way – more so because there is election fever about, I suspect. Anyway, I decided to give it a go because I felt sure that there must be many, many thousands of happy customers who – unlike the tragic boys – had lived to tell the tale.

At first, I felt nothing except a slight burning sensation in my nose. Then, as I lay back on the sofa and put my feet up on the coffee table, relaxing into a comfortable recumbent position, it occurred to me how much I loved my strange little friend Tom. “You OK?” he asked. “I am absolutely fine,” I replied, smiling widely. “I really love you.” “It’s working then,” he replied sardonically. A few minutes later, we were both sitting round in a euphoric haze, smiling benignly but with an incomprehensible, overwhelming desire to dance. It was nearly impossible to keep still. However, even under this sort of debauched influence, I can still retain a shred of dignity from somewhere, and so I resisted the urge to dance, thankfully (because, in the words of Robbie Williams, "I dance like me dad").

I suppose that I ought to tell you that it was a horrible experience, and that you must never do it yourself, but I can't do that. I am not advocating that you should take drug use lightly. There are many devastating implications of illicit drug use – I have had friends whose lives have been completely ruined by such excesses. And as for myself, I wouldn't want you to think that I can only have a good night because I’ve taken something to make me feel as though I am enjoying myself. It would be better to think that 'm having a good night because I'm genuinely enjoying myself.

That notwithstanding, I had a lovely time - but it is inevitable that this 'drug' (for it is not yet known as such) will be banned soon. The sad fact is though, that it is only a matter of time before another 'legal' substance pops up on the market, and the same problems will be created all over again. And despite that it is still legal, and I could therefore take it again (for the time being), I won't do it. I had an amazingly pleasant experience and hey, there was a bonus - I didn't die! But the thing is, I cannot deny that I was still out of control while I was under the influence, and being out of control can never, ever, be a good thing.

Now, to get back to my miserable life.....

Bye Bye Baby

Oh dear, I feel just like those old people do (you know, 'parents') when they experience that 'empty nest' syndrome. You see, now that the selection process is over for the Triliteral Stageplay Festival 2010, there's very little for me to do for a while. I've now had to hand over to my lovely boys and their young, talented friends who will be dealing with all of the artistic side of things - that is the auditions, casting and rehearsals. In one way this is most appropriate because I'm working full-time down at the salt mines these days, and so can't get involved in much during the day anyway, but I do feel somewhat 'out of the loop' and it's left me feeling slightly bereft. I've had to wave bye-bye to anything truly hands-on for the time being, and it's like seeing my lovely babies leave for University or something, and I'm left here all alone while they go off and have fun.

Of course, in true fashion, my naughty boys haven't even kept me up-to-date with what's going on. They're too busy even to remember about me, and who can blame them? When you're having fun doing something that you love, who wants to remember about the old man sitting alone in the homestead, wondering in silence what on earth is going on? I suspect that the only time they will think of me is when they want their washing done, and then they'll just parcel it all up and send it home without even a cheery note. By the way, I am speaking metaphorically here – I don't really do their washing.

Oh well, I suppose I shouldn't begrudge them their bit of fun – but I can't help imagining the worst; speculating on what might have happened at today's auditions (whether they have found the stars of our shows, or whether it's all been a procession of wannabe Dorothys). Actually, you'd think that the plural of 'Dorothy' would be 'Dorothies', but that doesn't seem right either.

As for me, I return to the sailing season tomorrow. I'm not sure that I'm in the mood for it really – it's still quite cold out there, and the idea of getting togged up in lycra and neoprene and blasting round the racecourse in this weather isn't exactly appealing. Actually, if the wind is anything like it is tonight, there won't be much 'blasting' around anyway – we'll probably just sit in the doldrums, battling the current, freezing our balls off. Never mind – at least it will provide me with some exercise and fresh air, two things I don't get much of, cooped up in the dark and dismal conditions down at the salt mines. And at least if there's little wind we won't capsize (not that we usually do; we normally win). Notwithstanding that, I'd still rather be skiing – I had an email from the Ski Club of Great Britain today (the weekly newsletter) in which it said that there's still plenty of snow in the Alps. Hmm, perhaps I could take off – after all, they won't miss me back at Triliteral HQ, will they?

And now, to football. I just watched the opening minutes of the Manchester United v Bayern Munich game and I was dismayed to see a banner hanging from the stands declaring: "Rooney – The White Pelé". What the fuck is all that about? Couldn't they just have said "The British Pelé" or "The Manchester Pelé"? It's disgraceful, that's what it is. And who was this Pelé fellah anyway? Was he any good?

In Bed With Roy

Well, my three days of freedom are nearing completion and I have to tell you, gentle reader, that the champagne corks did not pop, as I had hoped. Instead, I have been industrious and diligent in my approach to my chores (never-ending), and have refrained from indulging in the usual Bank Holiday mayhem that has so often ensnared me in the past – the usual effect in other years has been that the extended weekend becomes telescoped into something seemingly much shorter, simply by looking through the bottom of a whisky bottle.

So there isn't an awful lot to report to you really, and I suppose it's somewhat selfish of me to expect you to spend some of your own valuable time reading about something which is, in effect, a non-event. The most delicious pleasure I have enjoyed this weekend is the sheer joy of getting out of my bed at around 7:00 a.m. (nearly two hours later than I habitually arise during the working week), making a cup of scalding hot tea and taking it back to bed to sit, propped on my pillows, reading a book. At the moment I'm wading through yet another biography of Churchill, this time it's Roy Jenkins's reasonably compact 2001 offering. I say 'reasonably compact' because I have before tackled Randolph Churchill & Martin Gilbert's ridiculously over-detailed ten-volume effort and so Roy's contribution, which is only a single volume and comes in at a mere 912 pages, is almost pamplet-like in its comparison. Nevertheless, the biography could still have benefited from some far stricter editing than it appears to have received in its preparation. Despite the book containing some quite sparkling and lively prose, there are some passages where Roy Jenkins rambles through some fairly pointless anecdotes and frequently engages in 'whispered asides' that seem to have less to do with pushing the narrative along, and more to do with exhibiting Roy's own flamboyant knowledge of the political nuances of the twentieth century.

That notwithstanding, I'm enormously enjoying the book – not least because I can rattle through a chapter each morning, ensconced in my lovely duck-down duvet, nestled into my plump and scrunchy pillows, sipping on my deliciously hot tea. This has to be a far, far greater pleasure than the normal holiday horror of waking up too late, head thumping and wth a mouth feeling disappointingly like a scraped hedgehog. So, even though my Easter break has been largely uneventful (and I'm not including here the encounter with the estranged Mrs Pilgrim who for some reason off-loaded onto me dozens of vegetarian burritos and fajitas, and endless trays of somewhat tasteless soya yoghurts), I feel that I have enjoyed a fulfilling break from the Salt Mines.

Those of you who know me will probably be scoffing at this right now. You will probably be thinking that my peaceful sojourn was not enjoyed through choice, but was somehow enforced upon me – and in a way, you'd be right. I did have plans for weekend - plans that had promised to provide more excitement than I have in reality enjoyed (and which also caused me to decline an invitation to go to Cornwall to celebrate a friend's birthday – something that I would have dearly loved to have done), but those plans collapsed at the eleventh hour. However, I have a new view of life these days: Not to let the negative feelings of disappointment keep me away from my desires. No, I now resolve to turn any disappointment into a positive belief and I know that soon, very very soon, my time will come.

In the meantime, I suppose that time spent in bed with Roy Jenkins will have to suffice.

Happy Easter, dearest reader.

Relief From The Salt Mines

Although it's Good Friday today (and therefore a Bank Holiday), I've still been working. The Triliteral Stageplay Festival is now complete as far as Phase One is concerned, with all of our judges having returned their scores for the shortlisted scripts, and so we held a meeting this afternoon to finalise the selection and to sort out the various directing and casting requirements that the selected plays have thrown up. It wasn't as simple or as straightforward as we'd assumed, but between our diligent Producer (Richie Garton) and our knowledgeable, if flamboyant, Artistic Director (Daniel Hallam), it was all sorted to satisfaction.

It was quite a strange process really – we had decided to use a system where the judges were asked to score each script according to a set of established criteria, and only the top nine plays would then go forward to production in the festival itself. There were some surprises – some scripts did better than we had expected; others not so well. We had already made a commitment that the top-scoring script would be taken and produced at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August, so it was reassuring that on this level at least, the judges returned a verdict that exactly matched our expectations. The highest scoring play turned out to be the one we liked the best too, so we're delighted to have been given the endorsement to take it up North in the summer. Wooh! Full details will be appearing on the Triliteral website in due course.

And so now I have three days before me where I am not required to turn up at the Salt Mines (nor be beaten by the evil gang-master), and my plan is to spend those three days on myself. Easier said than done, of course, because there are always chores to be carried out, even when I (seem) to have some free time to myself. All this reminds me of the time when I was kidnapped in Colombia by the FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) and was forced into hard labour for the production of cocaine. I was meant to be on holiday, travelling with my history tutor from university, and it was meant to be a sightseeing trip only. We had mistakenly believed that we were travelling in what was (now euphemistically) known as a 'safe haven'. It turned out to be anything but that – our kidnappers had already plotted our insouciant wanderings and had apparently targeted us as potentially rich pickings in their ferocious drugs war.

Their aim (as I understand it) was to use us as a bargaining commodity – they needed money to conduct their battle against the other established drugs-cartel chappies (whoever they were). I was somewhat puzzled by this state of affairs – I'd always assumed that dealing in cocaine would have brought in sufficient cash for these bandits not to need to augment their coffers with the few shillings that kidnapping a worthless Briton like me could bring in, but what do I know about such matters?

I think it was the jungle marches that proved to be the hardest. God knows why these banditos felt the need to walk everywhere – I'm sure they had adequate resources to take a taxi if they'd needed to. But walk they did - endless miles of trekking though sweating, face-slapping foliage; interminable slogging across ravines; wading through swirling black rivers teeming with piranhas; and hacking through snake-infested undergrowth (have you ever seen what happens to a man's flesh after he's been bitten by the notorious fer-de-lance?). For some reason, these guys just loved to keep walking. It probably wouldn't have been quite so bad if Herbert del Orez (my history tutor) hadn't been in a wheelchair – our captors refused to let anyone push him along except myself. Before that sojourn in the jungle, I had weighed twenty stone if I had weighed an ounce, but not by the time we'd finished – who needs a diet when, with a bit of carelessness, you can get kidnapped by FARC?

Anyway, that's all in the past so let's not dwell on such matters. Instead, let's look to the future – how to spend the next three days of freedom, eh? Oh, did I hear a champagne cork popping? Bring it on!