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!