Listen To The Voice Of God

Oh god, I have been neglecting you of late, dear reader. I'm surprised any of you are still reading, more so because there isn't all that much to say really. I thought I'd have loads of free time once the festival was finished, but since then it's just been a mad social whirl and I can't even remember where I've been for the past week. Parties, parties, BBQs, more parties, work, meetings, dinners, theatre, more parties, cinema, more meetings, more parties. Oh, when will it all end?

Well not yet, that's for sure. I have a full agenda for the rest of this week and then on Saturday I'm doing a reading of my latest story 'How To Eat A Mango On A Building Site While Still Wearing Your Hard Hat' at the Lowdham Book Fair. I haven't even rehearsed the performance yet, and probably won't get time to do so (except in my sleep) which is a bad thing because presentation is everything in such matters. I don't even have a hard hat.

Now, to more serious matters. I understand that the scientists at CERN have found a way to listen to the sound made by whatever it is that their Large Hadron Collider produces whenever it collides whatever it does collide with whatever else. You can see that I fully understand the science of all this, can't you? Anyway, by capturing the sound, they will apparently be able to discover the 'harmonious noises' that are made at the moment the universe is created and from this, they will be able to identify the Higgs Bosun - the so-called 'God Particle'. This worries me slightly. Firstly, I'm not given absolute confidence that these boffins know what they're doing if all they need to discover the secrets of the universe is a pair of headphones. Aren't they supposed to have the most expensive and intricate measuring equipment known to physics for this purpose? Do they really need to listen for it?

Secondly, what are they hoping to hear that will convince them so assuredly of the presence of Higgs Bosun? Are they expecting a little squeaky voice to say: "Help - I am the tiny spark of All Creation and I am trapped inside the bosun of Higgs. If you release me, I will tell you everything..."? Hmm, it doesn't sound very plausible to me. Or perhaps they are hoping to hear the voice of god? That would give them a shock, wouldn't it? Imagine that - all the scientists are huddled around a little old radio, all sipping cups of Horlicks and all waiting expectantly for the emitted sounds of the 'particle'.... as they sit in silence, breathing heavily, they wait... one boffin nervously smooths her skirt, another straightens his tie, and yet another pushes his glasses back up his sweat-lined nose.

Then suddenly, amidst the static and hiss, comes the crackling sound of a tinny and distant disembodied voice: "So, earthlings, you have discovered how to tap into my private phone line have you? And you are hoping to discover the secret of the universe eh? Well let me tell you this, you snivelling little oiks, just exactly how this great universe of mine was created is none of your goddamned business. Now push off, the lot of you!"

Tee hee.

Well, I don't really have time to think about any of this. More parties to attend - tomorrow is the 'Midsummer Night's Dream' spectacle in the Great Ballroom of Nottingham's City Hall. Okay, so it's not exactly misdummer night, but apparently Oberon & Titania will be there to sprinkle some magic dust amongst us. Who knows? We might even learn the secret of life itself....

It's All About Me!

Okay, so you're fed up with me going on and on, blah blah blah, about the Triliteral Festival. So, all I'm going to say is that it all happened, it all went (nearly) to plan, and I'm amazed that we actually pulled it off. It was a great triumph and everyone enjoyed it. Yes, it was very very hard work - not just for the Triliteral Team, but for the actors, directors and producers too. We were all utterly exhausted after it - nine different plays in three days is one hell of an achievement - but it was all worthwhile. We all feel very proud of ourselves, I can tell you.

And so, now where do we go? Well, the first thing to do on Sunday evening was to have a huge after-show party in my apartment. The entire company, plus a couple of others, descended here for molte bevande. Several cases of wine and beer later, and everyone was everyone else's best friend. Some even became lovers - but I'm not telling you who paired off with whom. Well, not yet anyway. It was all great fun - although I think my neighbours may not have been quite as excited about the noise and revelry as we were (especially on a school night). Nobody in the building has spoken to me since.

So, back to the future. What does it hold for us, eh? Well, we have definitely decided to do the whole thing again next year (we must be bonkers, I know). We have put ourselves very firmly on the map of Creative Nottingham and we really can't stop now. But in the meantime, I have become involved in another festival with a totally different flavour. Nottingham's Broadway Cinema will be staging its 3rd Annual ScreenLit Festival in 2011 and I have been invited to sit on the festival committee. I'm really excited by this because ScreenLit is a really high-profile festival (yes, even higher in profile than Triliteral). This year's festival (April 2010) featured Armando Iannucci, Dave Spikey (of 'Phoenix Nights' fame), Peter Capaldi, Chris Morris ('Four Lions'), John Harvey - and much, much more! The committee is made up of some of Nottingham's most savvy and influential media people, so I'm really chuffed to be invited to join them. Methinks it's time for me to wave 'bye bye' to the salt mines and seek a career in the Arts. The fact that I should really be considering retirement at this point is irrelevant - and anyway, my pension is worthless (as is most people's) and I'm going to have to work until I'm 100, so I may as well make it worthwhile for the rest of it.

I notice that it's Royal Ascot this week. I went once - many years ago - but on the day I was there it poured with rain and all I saw of the Royal Procession was a white-gloved hand waving ceremoniously through a tiny window in the hood of what can only be described as an ancient, horse-drawn perambulator. I seem to remember winning loads of money though.

Anyway, a couple of Facebook jokes for you, in case you missed them:
1) "You give £2 a month to a hungry African, and what do they do? Buy a bloody trumpet!"
2) "The Americans will invade another country in the pursuit of oil, yet they complain like fuck when it's delivered right to their doorstep."

Toodle pip, old loves. I promise to be more regular from now on.....

Banged On The Run

I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, with only three days to go to the Triliteral Stageplay Festival, I'm incredibly busy chasing my own tail. The nine casts are almost word perfect, the nine sets are in final stages of completion, the lighting rigs are built, and the wardrobe department is now bulging with nine sets of costumes. So yes, we're nearly ready, and ticket sales are going better than expected - so why the hell am I still having trouble sleeping???

Oh, I must calm down - I'm sure it will be all right on the night. I've always been a bit of a worrier really, a trait (or weakness) which used to infuriate my Great Aunt Dolores to the point of violence. We were once locked together in a toilet on the Orient Express with absolutely no chance of escape, and no chance of our screams being heard either, due to the heavy wooden panelling and the screeching & rattling of the wheels. Why would I worry in such a situation, you may ask? Well, apart from the routine anxiety of being in a confined space with Dolores when she was dangerously off her head on cocaine (that was why we were in the toilet in the first place), I was also concerned that we would miss our connection at Krakow. If we missed the connection at Krakow, then we wouldn't make the steamer departure from Istanbul the following day, and if we missed the steamer then we'd never get to Hopa in time to take the train to Tbilisi. And at Tbilisi, we were meant to be hooking up with the only man in Western Asia who could save us from jail (don't ask me to explain here, but Dolores and I were on the run from the Austrian police at this point - well, it would be more accurate to say that it was Dolores who was on the run, not me, but she never shied away from implicating me in her many criminal activities whenever she had the opportunity).

So, I think I was justified in worrying, to be honest. Dolores, however, showed no signs of concern as we hurtled past the rivers and lakes of Poland towards our destination. Despite being incarcerated in an (admittedly lavish) washroom with no means of escape, Dolores remained calm. She even rolled herself a joint (in those days, you could smoke on trains) and encouraged me to take a toke of it, insisting that it would "decrease my hysteria". I don't think it was hysteria I was in the grip of, but I was certainly concerned about the possibility of being handed over to the police - not least because the railway officials, when they presumably managed to release us, would find it somewhat surprising that a young man in a Magdalen College tie had somehow managed to get himself trapped inside a marijuana-reeking toilet in the first place.The fact that I was trapped with an eccentric looking elderly lady wearing nothing more than a fur coat and a feather-trimmed corset (my great aunt liked to dress for comfort when travelling) would no doubt have amused them further. No matter how many times I had found myself in the most unlikely of scrapes with dear Dolores, I was always fearful that there would always be one time when finally, she wouldn't be able to explain her way out of the situation.

In the end, it didn't come to that. With a physical strength that belied her eighty-plus years (it must have been the cocaine), she wrenched the solid brass toilet-roll holder from the wall and, bracing herself against my back for further leverage, proceeded to use it to smash her way through the wooden panel of the door. Once a suitable hole had been created, she delicately pushed her hand through it and opened the door from the outside. Stepping into the corridor, she threw the brass holder out of the window, dusted her hands, and led me back quietly to our seats.

"There you are, boy," she said. "The old girl saves your worthless bacon again, you snivelling wimp. Those Bundespolizei fellas from Wein will not catch us now. You did remember to pick up my bag of Charlie before you left the toilet, I presume?"

I had, of course. If nothing else, know my place.

The Final Countdown

Things are really hotting up now, in respect of the Triliteral Festival. We have less than two weeks to go and there's still a raft of work to do. Rehearsals are going well and luckily the actors are all doing a splendid job and really enjoying their work. We've had quite a few of the writers along to see how the rehearsals are going, and in the main they're all very pleased with the results so far. Set-building, prop-gathering and costume-making is also coming along at a pace, but there's still quite a bit more to do on that front too. With nine different plays being performed over three days, in three different venues, with roughly fifteen different actors, four directors and a producer - it's all something of a strategic tightrope, let me tell you! I woke up screaming this morning. But hey, that is (as they say) show business.

Tickets are on sale and if you want to buy some, then click here. There are some terrific performances emerging, and all the writing is new, so you won't have seen any of these plays before. There'll be something for everyone, and all the details about the plays are available on Triliteral's website - just click on 'The Shows' and take your pick!

Yesterday I went to see my mate Adam play with his group at an open air concert in the centre of Nottingham. The concert was called 'City Pulse' and it was absolutely free (pity there was no sunshine). Captain Dangerous were, as expected, excellent - but they were followed by an equally talented and entertaining troupe of strolling minstrels, the awesome 'MANIÈRE DES BOHÉMIENS'. Apparently formed through a mutual love of sitting on sofas and improvising, Manière des Bohémiens play a mix of the French swing popularised by Stephane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt, energetic eastern European gypsy-folk, and a smattering of many things else. They were fabulous - not least because they are the only band I've seen in a long time to feature an accordionist! And what a spectacular performer he was - young Jonny Kerry (so young! picture abve) played like a veteran with real panache and quirkiness. I loved it. Watch out for them!

My Great Aunt Dolores (she who was run over by a lorry yet survived and later took up playing the xylophone, only to die even later by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel) once ran away with an accordionist. He was a Hungarian gypsy called Janós - poor as a church mouse but Dolores, for some reason best known only to her, had convinced herself that he was in fact a Count from an ancient noble family and that he owned a huge sprawling Transylvanian castle with vast lands (she never quite worked out that Transylvania is not actually in Hungary). She told everyone that he would very soon be re-claiming the fortunes out of which he had presumably been tricked by his wicked uncle Vlad, and then would be whisking her away for a fairy-tale wedding. Dolores and Janós lived together for a short while in Paris - she claimed that they shared a romantic little garret apartment while she took in washing to support him, but I know that in truth they lived in a suite at the Hôtel George V, paid for by her. Apparently (so she said) he would play the accordion to her while she danced naked in the dust, underneath the attic roof (for this, read: dancing on a massive Empire double-bed underneath a cascading crystal chandelier, whilst sipping vintage champagne). When he'd practically bled her dry, Janós ran off with a Spanish waiter and so Dolores skulked back to England and - to recoup her fortunes - married some obscure Irish banker who was trampled to death by an elephant two years later.

My life seems rather dull in comparison. If only....