Wide-Eyed Troubadour

Performance montage

2007-05-15T15:19:00.000+01:00

Life's a bitch

2007-05-14T12:11:00.000+01:00

I can still feel the blood pounding in the back of my head. My hands have been balled up into fists for so long I’m finding it difficult to type and I have a series of crescent shaped marks in the soft flesh of my palm left by my own fingernails. My eyes are bloodshot, my jaw is cramping and my teeth have been ground down to powder.

I wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

This morning I had the ‘pleasure’ of sharing my commute to work with three young actors from Birmingham’s esteemed School of Acting. These charming individuals spent the entire 20 minute bus ride complaining loudly in identical, theatrical automaton voices about every single other person on their acting course. No stone was left unturned in their seemingly eternal quest to root out every glitch, every weakness, every wrong inflection and mispronunciation in their colleagues’ performances.

“Did you see Rachel’s attempt at Juliet in her showcase? You know some people just can’t cope with classical texts, I don’t know what they were thinking giving it to her. It’s such a gift of a role and she does nothing with it.”

This kind of talk went on for the duration of my time on the bus. Discussed clearly and unashamedly for everyone to hear. Each of their friends were considered in turn before being summarily dismissed; picked apart and dissected using the blunt tools of a theatrical vocabulary cannibalised from A-level Theatre Studies set texts and applied with all the finesse of Neanderthal man learning to cross-stitch. What utterly contemptible morons. Not once did they turn the dim spotlight of their 2-watt critical facilities on themselves. In fact, as far as they were concerned, and by some astronomical coincidence, we, the humble bus-riding travellers of Birmingham, were luckily enough to be sharing our morning commute with the only three perfect exponents of theatrical technique that the BSA had ever seen. Even within the group a vile game of one-upmanship was being played out, with passing allusions to their own genius dropped in among the general vitriol, poison and unthinking crap they were spouting. All topped off with the pathetic caveat ‘Of course I love the girl but…’ as if this would make the whole insidious conversation any more palatable.

I hate this aspect of theatre. I hate the bitchiness, the insecurity, the need to beat down others to make yourself feel talented. What’s the point? Surely theatre is a collaborative art form which benefits immeasurably from a tight, supportive company intent on making each other look good? It’s moments like this that make me thank God that I didn’t follow my youthful dreams and fight tooth and nail to act professionally. Those idiots on the bus haven’t even finished their training and they’re already well schooled in the cowardly art of two-facedness. Do drama schools now teach Bitching as a module alongside Stage Combat and Lecoq?

And I have to say it makes me doubly grateful for how lucky I’ve been with amateur companies like the Crescent. The one-upmanship is still undoubtedly there but its tempered by an atmosphere of encouragement, support and a general ineffable joy in being able to practise the art of theatre. Perhaps as acting becomes a job that joy fades and all that is left are the harsh comments and bruised egos.

Of course there’s a twist in the tail and it’s one that I’m aware means I lose the moral high ground forever. Because by another astronomical coincidence I’d seen that trio of actors before. At a series of showcases at the Crescent Theatre of all places.

And they were shit.

The first rule of fightclub ...

2007-05-11T10:31:00.001+01:00

A long, long night at the theatre

2007-05-10T23:31:00.000+01:00

Ah, the technical rehearsal, that phenomenon known throughout the theatrical world as an experience akin to pulling your own teeth out with a rusty set of salad tongs while being mauled by a rabid yet surprisingly amorous grizzly bear. I’ve been to many a tech in my lifetime, both professional and amateur, in capacities that range from centre stage luvvie to the guy that makes sure there’s enough weak tea in the prop whiskey bottle. Without exception it’s the same story- the cast, who’ve had the play to themselves for the entire rehearsal period, resent the appearance of a black-clad army who have suddenly emerged from the shadows and started telling them what to do; while the crew seem to be of the opinion that the show would run much more smoothly without the unnecessary addition of all those morons in fancy dress. Consequently, the whole process moves at a snail’s pace, tempers rise to heights far above the fly gallery and the whole thing descends into a furore of hissy fits and dark words muttered into boom mics.

But I have a secret. A guilty pleasure I only admit to myself in private moments of introspection.

I love technical rehearsals.

I love the camaraderie that develops among the actors as we’re made to wait 45 minutes in the wings with no explanation or apology as far above our heads a single par can is refocussed stage right to limited aesthetic effect. I love sniggering into my headphones when a member of the chorus gets the dance wrong and head-butts a piece of the set. I adore the little games we invent to amuse ourselves, the stupid jokes that are only funny because it’s 2am and if we weren’t laughing we’d be seriously considering ending it all by throwing ourselves into the orchestra pit.

People group together in the face of adversity. It’s a fact of life. So even though we all know in a week’s time that we’ll be a cohesive company, even though come Saturday we’ll doubtless be sharing the plaudits of a job well done as a unified whole; this evening, for one night only, it’s us vs. them. It’s childish, it’s silly, it’s cathartic and it’s brilliant.

I’m as happy as a pig in muck at techs, I love every minute of them. They’re frustrating and time consuming and utterly inefficient but when you suffer through something together it brings you closer and if you’re luckily, when you reach the end of the whole ridiculous process, when you’ve forged your friendships in the fires of hell and even gained a grudging respect for the enemy, what you’ve got at that moment is the best reward of all.

You’ve got yourself a show.

The Threepenny Opera

2007-05-10T01:11:00.000+01:00

Why I do what I do

2007-05-09T22:59:00.000+01:00

Return to the Forbidden Planet

2007-05-08T16:07:00.000+01:00

Check your life support systems, strap on your rocket boots and prepare for the most gleefully exuberant theatrical experience of your Earth-bound lives. Join Captain Tempest and the crew of the starship ‘Albatross’ as they encounter DEVASTATING meteor storms, battle EVIL scientists and REVERSE THE POLARITY of the neutron flow to a truly alarming degree.

SEE a robot man play hot rock ‘n’ roll on a space guitar!
HEAR the roar of a planet-sized beastie with more teeth than brain cells!
SMELL the unmistakable tang of plasma beams and peppermint bubble gum!
FEEL the unrequited love of a lowly cook for an intergalactic cheerleader!
TASTE the excitement as life goes crazy for a group of star cadets trapped in a tin can, billions of miles from home!

With influences ranging from early 60’s Sci-fi Americana to Shakespeare, classic rock ‘n’ roll to Star Wars, this musical extravaganza is a life-affirming trip into the unknown delivered at warp speed by a cast of talented young actors and musicians from all over the country. Using diverse theatrical and cinematic techniques including puppetry, projection, model work and computer animation, they will bring this incredible production to life in just ONE WEEK. That’s right, an entire show conceived, rehearsed and performed in the time it takes most companies to decide on a colour scheme.

GASP! FAINT! SCREAM! Faith, hope & gaffertape are back with their most ambitious and explosive show EVER.

In space, no one can hear you ROCK OUT!

4th - 5th August 2007 @ 7.30pm, Abington Avenue URC, Northampton

In these stones, horizons sing

2007-05-05T23:25:00.000+01:00

Let me put this bluntly. There’s no way to sugar coat it, I’m a geek. A card carrying, statistic spouting, pedant spluttering member of the cultural elite. In fact I’m not just one kind of geek, I’m legion. I’m a computer geek and a theatre geek and a movie buff geek and a comics geek but more than anything else, oh so very much more, I’m a Doctor Who geek. Yes, from 1989 onwards I’ve been in the thrall of the timelord and I can’t think of a programme that’s had a more positive effect on my life. While other young boys had heroes who kicked balls into far off nets or slaughtered hundreds of enemy soldiers with a belt-fed machine gun, my hero defeated evil with little more than a bag of jelly babies and an off the wall sense of humour.

This may sound silly but I can actually remember making the decision to be more like the Doctor, to clown around and let people underestimate me, to attack any new situation with a mixture of childish enthusiasm and deep thought. I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to say that the man I am today owes a lot to the values instilled in me then. I still abhor violence, I still love traveling and meeting people, I even sometimes still walk with my hands clasped behind my back (although admittedly this did look very odd when I was 9 years old, I kept overbalancing and falling on my head).

Anyway, all of this is preamble to the fact that today saw myself and the Bannerman rocketing down the M5 toward Cardiff, the current home of the Dr Who production team. The sun was blazing, the windows were open and the conversation was lively and interesting. It was the perfect Bank Holiday weekend activity, a spontaneous road trip to a new city on a sparkling spring day.

Cardiff Bay is a truly amazing place, a real patchwork of architectural styles and eras, all crowding around the oval of the bay itself. Some of the buildings are simply beautiful, all cool grays and burnished bronze in the afternoon sun. I couldn’t quite escape the feeling I’d walked onto a set, what with so many of them having featured in the good Doctor’s adventures over the past two years. In an act of almost breathtaking geekiness, I even got my picture taken where the TARDIS was last seen landing.

There I am, all pleased with myself. What a content little wally I am.

Ha, but what a day. I’ve even written about it verbatim on the blog. And I almost never do that. It’s just that today I’ve seen Cybermen and Daleks, jumped over benches and laughed a lot about nothing in particular. It was such a liberating, surprising day and I didn’t even know it was going to happen.

I’ve stood where one of my heroes has stood and it made me smile.

Another beginning ...

2007-05-04T22:45:00.000+01:00

When you get right out into the country it gets really hard to see. We’re so used to city glow painting our horizons amber. But if you walk far enough in the right direction you can slip into an altogether deeper darker specimen of night.

This was one of those times. I knew I was holding my hand up in front of my face but there was no visual evidence to corroborate this story. I was alone, singular in a way that one can only attain when you’re not even sure you have a body anymore. I was 18 and newly single and I’d left home for the first time. I thumbed the play button on my brand new portable CD player and music erupted in the space between my ears. A new album, Stunt by the Barenaked Ladies. I remember following that country road as the world began to coalesce around me, as hedges and verges leapt out from the darkness stenciled in twilight.

You get to know yourself better as you get older and you forget there was a time when you and yourself were virtually strangers. Who were you going to be? What were you going to believe in? I remember being surprised when opinions sprung fully realised from my lips, stunned by the vehemence of my thoughts on the matter. I was in flux in that country lane, as ephemeral and shifting as my silver-lined surroundings.

I’ve been writing this blog for almost three years now. I write down what I can remember about what it’s like to be me. I write because I might forget it and because writing feels good when I’ve written (though rarely when I’m writing). I write because I want to get better and so from now on, every day, I’ll put aside half an hour and I’ll just write and see what I have to say for myself.

And tonight my time is up.

Hand in Hand

2007-04-21T15:07:00.000+01:00

Israel today is a state of contradictions. Its people hail from nations across the globe: (Ethiopia, Russia, and Canada to name a few) and yet, 20% of its citizens live in virtual segregation. These are Israel’s Arab citizens: crucially, not citizens of Palestine, but a distinct group: with a complex, politically charged identity of their own. Arab Israelis (to use the most common definition) often live in separate villages closely adjoining Jewish areas, throughout the state of Israel. Tensions between the two communities are rife: as are accusations of institutionalized inequality. Most adult Israelis cannot speak or understand Arabic, and Arab children only begin to learn Hebrew at secondary school, meaning communication is limited and often one-sided.

It is rare for members of one community to mix with the other: and, as seen throughout history, this deepens the lack of understanding between the two. Adults, secure in their own identities, can indoctrinate their children with ingrained prejudice, whether it is active (enrolling them in a segregated school), or passive avoidance (driving to the next town to buy a pint of milk rather than using the shop in the next neighbourhood). With education in Israel almost entirely segregated, drastic action needed to be taken to break the cycle of estrangement.

In 1997, Lee Gordon and Amin Khalaf, two teachers, founded the Hand in Hand Centre for Jewish-Arab Education was founded to build peace between Jews and Arabs in Israel by developing bilingual, multi-cultural schools. Secondary schools were built in Jerusalem and in the Galilee, and a third school was opened in the Wadi Ara, a predominately Arab area. Classes were initially small, with only 45 students: but this has increased to over 750, with each school over-subscribed. Each school has two Heads, one Arab, one Jewish; and each classroom is co-taught by Jewish and Arab teachers. Classes have an equal number of Arab and Jewish children, who are taught in both Hebrew and Arabic.

More importantly, Hand-in-hand schools, located in Arab areas, mean that communities are beginning to interact; from smaller activities like Jewish parents using the local grocer when they drop their kids off at school, to more meaningful ventures like jointly-run after-school groups and vocal Parent’s Associations. A shared interest in their children’s future and a desire to build community support for the schools - through investment of funds, public recognition, and government accreditation, has welded Arab and Jewish parents into active, committed community units, working together in unprecedented ways. And their voices are being heard: The Dovrat Commission, convened in 1995 to revamp public education in Israel, noted in its report the importance of establishing regional bilingual schools in Israel as a test case for the wide-scale proliferation of such schools in the future.

As any parent knows- schools are not only centres of education, but socialisation. Interacting with different groups fundamentally changes your perspective on life. The children at Hand-in-Hand schools can not only read shop signs, product information and newspapers in both national languages (something their parents can not), removing barriers to communication, but they also have a unique opportunity to find out what other groups experience. For example, the school has produced a diary of all the religious festivals, public holidays, and historical events of the calendar year, and the meanings behind them. This means families can begin to understand why Yom Ha’atzmaut (Israeli Independence Day), a day of celebration in Jewish culture, is called al-Nakba (The Catastrophe) amongst Arab populations (many of whom had lost relatives to deportation or conflict, or lost land and property), and is often accompanied by civil unrest.

Teachers lead guided discussion of these events to help children understand each other. Children are encouraged to talk about their feelings towards suicide bombings, riots and arrests, and to think about how they would resolve conflicts. As one little boy of 7 put it, after walking to school past a bus explosion a few roads away from his school ‘If the Jews and Arabs can’t sit down together and talk about the land fairly, then nobody should have it.’ The playground logic of this is poignant, but it signifies a growing hope for dialogue amongst the younger generation, who will eventually inherit the problems of their parents: but with a fresh battery of skills and understanding to overcome them.

The Silent Majority

2007-03-19T23:08:00.000Z

“Hamas!” “You terrorists! You should be ashamed of yourselves!” These were some of the angry cries thrown at myself and the other black-clad women who stood silently in the rain, in the centre of Jerusalem, protesting against the occupation of the Palestinian Territories. The women surrounding me were not Palestinians, or even Arab Israelis. They were staunchly religious Israeli Jews, who believe that what their country does in their name is wrong; and have kept weekly silent vigils of protest against the occupation since 1988.

In the ongoing conflict it becomes all too easy to focus on the injustices experienced by one side, and view the other as a tyrannical monster. The mantra I kept hearing during my trip was “when both sides are ‘right,’ how can there be compromise?” Of course, the conflict is anything but black and white, and from a foreign perspective, the pot-holed roadmap to peace and its depressing history can leave little room for sympathy.

But what must not be forgotten is that there are voices on both sides desperately working for greater peace and understanding. Galia Golan of Peace Now, Israel’s oldest peace movement, says polls show “a vast majority of Israelis (80%) agree with the idea of a two-state solution, a Palestinian state next to the state of Israel, and are willing to see a withdrawal from the Occupied Territories.” However, this silent majority is often publicly undercut by the forceful opinions of the few who do not accept this: and often, the same citizens who are desperate for peace do not believe the ‘other side’ shares that goal.

To combat this, groups have sprung up attempting to bridge the gap between Palestinians and Israelis, and actively demonstrate that not all Israelis are silent collaborators in injustice, challenging their government in the courts and on the ground. For some, their strong Zionist beliefs motivate them to do so: a concept that may sound strange to us, but is better explained by Rabbi Arik Ascherman, the director of Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR), who I met in Jerusalem, fresh from a days work harvesting olives alongside Palestinian farmers in the West Bank, protecting them from settlers.

“The way to be pro-Israel is to work for a better Israel, and the real Zionism is to work for an Israel that is not only physically strong but morally strong,” he said. “There is a false equation that if you voice any criticism of Israel you are de-legitimising Israel at some level. I believe the opposite.” Rabbi Ascherman’s words are bolstered by a lifetime of action on behalf of the Palestinian people by himself and other Israeli Rabbis, whose organisation has stood against government bulldozers intent on destroying Arab homes, challenging them with religious and international law alike, and facing arrest for doing so.

For me, the work that RHR and other organisations like theirs do is valuable on many levels. Visiting Bethlehem, a town that has been turned into a virtual prison by the encircling ‘security’ wall, I experienced the deep sense of isolation felt by those living there. The director of a Christian Arab school confided “When the wall went up, we didn’t hear from our partners in Israeli schools. It was like they’d forgotten we existed.’ One of the more insidious aspects of the Wall, the intifada and wars before its erection is the wedge it has driven between neighbours. Arab and Jewish populations are divided not only physically, but economically and emotionally, though decades of misunderstanding and conflict.

And this is why the presence of people like Rabbi Ascherman is so essential to give this area a shot at a lasting peace. Years ago, Arik was arrested when he ran to help a terrified 13 year old boy who had been tied to the front of a jeep by Israeli security forces as a human shield against stone throwers. He was beaten by the sergeant, and handcuffed to the jeep next to the boy, where he talked to him, reassuring him that everything would be ok. Later when the boy was asked about what had happened, he recounted the event, but finished: ‘…and then a tall Jewish man in a kippah came and saved me!’ It is this recognition of the humanity of the ‘others’, this common identification as people, not forces, that will provide the understanding needed for the foundations of peace.

An oak tree

2007-03-17T23:37:00.001Z

I saw a play tonight. This is what it was about …

A man loses his daughter in a car accident. Nothing now is what it is. It's like he's in a play - but he doesn't know the words or the moves. The man who was driving the car is a stage hypnotist. Since the accident, he's lost the power of suggestion. His act's a disaster. For him, everything now is exactly what it is. For the first time since the accident, these two men meet. They meet when the father volunteers for the hypnotist's act. And, this time, he really doesn't know the words or the moves...

And here’s the thing about this play. The actor playing the father has only met the actor playing the hypnotist one hour previously. He has never seen a script. He doesn’t know anything more about the show than the audience. He discovers it as he goes along - reading from clipboards, fed lines via an ear piece or obeying whispered instructions from the other actor (who also devised and wrote the piece).

It’s raw theatre. As in the moment as it’s possible to be. Like dancing on a knife edge blindfolded in front of a paying crowd. It’s impossible to describe really which makes it doubly annoying that I’m compelled to try. Even the initial conversation between the two actors ‘out of character’ is scripted with the guest answering simple questions like ‘Are you nervous?’ by reading ‘yes … a little’ off a clipboard.

‘Don’t be’ comes the grinning response.

But this isn’t wilfully bizarre theatre for its own sake. The form fits the message, the hesitant and lost actor at its centre able to conjure the broken and bleary world his character inhabits by drawing on the powerfully theatrical device of the play’s central conceit. He is bound to the audience as we discover together just what his life has become. He clings to the actor playing the hypnotist, relying on him for suggestion and encouragement - what to say, where to move, how to look, what to feel - a form of lucid voluntary hypnosis in its own right. More than anything I’ve seen in recent years, this play dances in the twilight place that exists between actor and character, contracting and relaxing that delicate membrane that allows a fictional creation to stand centre stage and the player to stand one atom further back. Stanislavski thought of this tension, this interplay between performer and performance as armour, breastplate and visor to be strapped on before every curtain up. For Meyerhold it was the handful of strings to tug the marionette. Here it is arguably the power of suggestion, the ability for objects in the mind to become fully realised on stage just because we will them to be. A tree becomes a child. An actor becomes a character. A script becomes a cry from the heart. What is hypnosis but the outward manifestation of internalised creativity? What is theatre, for that matter? When an actor steps on stage he creates a character out of thin air, he makes you believe on some level that there is a person in the room who isn’t actually there.

As the play progresses the scripted ‘out of character’ moments blend with the narrative ‘in character’ voices until every level on which you’re watching - the play, the concept, the hypnosis act, the father’s fractured inner life, the technical feats required to pull it all off - seem to come to the same conclusion. That we create the world around us, that reality is in the eye of the beholder.

But, of course, that’s just my opinion.

It was a memorable night and a fascinating piece of theatre. I’ll leave you with this - near the end, the guest actor turns to his co-star and reads the following from his clipboard:

‘You’re very good in this. It’s very well written.’

‘Thanks’ comes the carefully considered throw-away reply.

Perfect.

What I did at work today

2007-03-16T15:07:00.001Z

Here's a link for those of you reading this on Facebook.

Comfortable friends

2007-03-15T23:53:00.000Z

Sometimes science gets it right. It’s the smell of the memory that comes back first. The image is over-exposed and strangely tilted in my mind, as if some vast projector behind my eyes has buckled somehow and swept the image half off the screen. But the smell is as sweet and as distinctive as it was that morning, that soft January dawn we tumbled out of the manse door and struck out together to see the sunrise.

We were city folk, unused to the lazy burr of the countryside, scents compact and pungent - lavender, poinsettia and the scarlet long stem roses that bordered the peace garden at the end of the drive - ambushed our nostrils with bullish sensitivity. We were unused to the landscape and equally unused to each other, unused to the freedom we found in each other’s company. There were six of us -- or seven or five the image is still faded, water-damaged and treacherous -- a gaggle of loose limbs, high voices and wide smiles. We laughed a lot, I remember that and hugged even more, giddy with the ease, the sheer length of time we could hold each other without judgement or rebuke. Exciting times where nothing was pinned down or uncovered or investigated but haltingly. We didn’t know anything for sure yet, it was all up for grabs, it was still all to play for. Empty country roads, shuttered cottage windows and the sky like pulled velvet above us. Light on the horizon, we danced and jumped and balanced on crumbling stone walls as we made our way towards the park.

Helen let out that laugh, god I remember that laugh, like a dying animal that was inexplicably happy about its fate. Beside her Nic smiled and I wanted to go and hold her hand but the gesture would have seemed uncomfortable and forced and anyway Jon and I were soon racing through the dust of the car park towards the wooden adventure playground, quietly rotting into a public safety liability in one corner of the park. And there we hung upside down and watched the inverted sun drip slowly from the fields down into the sky. It was January the first, the world was new and so were we, I think Elisabeth started singing, I think Nic quoted Auden or Larkin, I know Jon got attacked by an inquisitive horse.

Because that’s what that morning’s become now, a 10 second anecdote, a nostalgic laugh about the sudden appearance of a hungry equine. But I remember more, I remember the hope and the wonder, I remember the heat in my cheeks and the utter certainty that this moment was sacred and untouchable ...

I remember the long stem roses that bordered the peace garden ...

Freeform wonderings

2007-03-15T00:10:00.000Z

Sometimes I meet someone and I think “I wish I was going to get the chance to know you”. There are people out there – cool people, funny people, talented people, beautiful people – they’re like a great idea just before you fall asleep or a postcard from a stranger delivered to you accidentally. They provide a moment of exhilaration or inspiration that you know you won’t hold on to, that will never be part of your life. A stolen experience from someone else’s diary, a perfect view from a speeding train that aligns momentarily- window frame, angle, perspective, light, something caught in the amber of memory that existed for you for that second but can never be recreated. You know that kind of meeting? A half smile across a crowded tube train from the cute girl with the pierced nose. An overheard joke told with precision and perfect comedy timing. A poem filled with clarity and deeply felt. I’ve met artists who I’d love to chat to for hours, writers who don’t know that I’m even worth speaking to, friends of a friend who pass the time of day, plant seeds of potential and vanish. I now realise -- too late, too late -- you can’t know everyone, feel everything, mean something to every single somebody. You have to pick your life like a bouquet, one flower, one experience, one friend at a time – surround yourself with colour and diversity and remember to celebrate the people you do have the privilege to know well, the places that feel safe and familiar, the experiences and instances that unfolded around you and you alone. And when another exotic life drifts past your eyes, a wind swept blossom of exquisite, unknowable beauty, don’t give chase or crane your neck to see where it falls, know that you are also something special, fluttering on the periphery of someone else’s world and that someone somewhere is yearning to know you too.

For Gwen & Stephen

2007-03-13T18:49:00.000Z

there are lovers whose eyes are silent reflective pools
for them love is a draft, a long cool drink, a thing of tranquility
they swim in its shallows, it soothes their skin, its touch is heaven
distilled in sweet nectar that pours from their lips
these lovers find in each other peace

there are lovers who’s eyes are flaming brands
for such as these love is a blaze, consuming warm flesh
as sparks fly from between their teeth, they flicker and bend and
blend together, spit and break and rush to embrace again
these lovers find in each other passion

there are lovers whose eyes are secret buried places
for their love is pregnant with possibility, precious and fresh and new
they are rooted to each other, twining together hand in hand and heart
to heart they grow heavy with fruit, strong and firm, bursting with life
these lovers find in each other sustenance

there are lovers whose eyes are studded with stars
for they know love to be vast, all encompassing, breath taking
they feel the gentle caress that fills every inch of their being they
dance on the swell and the ebb of the breeze, arms flung to the horizon
these lovers find in each other eternity

and there are lovers whose eyes are fixed only on each other
in them are oceans, infernos, tranquil gardens and thunder
they are the promise of life in all its fullness, scattering love like
rose petals and bright confetti, they are a blessing to all who know them
these lovers find in each other

everything

Making sense of it all

2007-02-23T09:46:00.000Z

We're back! Truth to tell we've been back almost a week now but Israel doesn't leave your consciousness easily and I still feel too conflicted to state anything categorically. Actually that's not strictly true (you see I can't even state I can't state anything categorically categorically) - there is one bald statement I'm pretty sure of - it was a trip that I'll never forget.

The holy land is a mess of contradictions, factions, violent reactions, victims and bullies, peacemakers and prophets. A powder keg of a country guarded by kids with machine guns. How can a place so inspiring be fractured so utterly by hatred? Why is it that something special must be carved up into bloody chunks so that everyone can have their piece rather than sharing the whole? That's simplistic and misguided and misses the point but every argument I come up with, every theoretical construct I create to explain to myself the situation seems woefully incomplete and naive. There is faith here, and when there is faith there is no need for doubt or fear or the merest hint of a whisper that you might not be right. And there is faith here, faith that a solution can be found, that the children of Abraham can live together side by side, that ultimately grace will prevail through the haze of flying shrapnel, criss-crossed by concrete slabs and coils of barbed wire. I sit before you and I feel humbled and powerless and inspired and nauseas, from the green slopes of the Galilee to the bulls-eye dead centre of the quarters of Old Jerusalem, there's work to be done and no clear way of doing it.

I can't finish this post, I can't decide whether to end on a positive or a negative. A note of succour or the grim status quo. Neither is wholly appropriate, one breeds apathy, the other denies hope. Perhaps it's best to leave it incomplete. Because it's by no means finished ...

Review of Blood Diamond

2007-02-08T15:09:00.000Z

'People back home wouldn’t buy a ring if they knew it cost someone their hand.'

In the 80s you could get away with heroes dancing unscathed thorough fire fights, dispatching bad guys one handed with semi-automatic weapons and driving vehicles off buildings for a laugh. Nowadays audience have begun to demand a little realism with their action. Bullets tear out chunks where previously they made tidy holes, violence shatters limbs and lives and people rarely get up and walk away. This new found lust for realism even extends to character motivations and has implications for the political arena in which a film is set, thus we have Bond villains who’d rather make a bit of money than destroy the world, government spies in the pocket of the oil industry in Syriana and now we have Edward Zwick’s Blood Diamond. In younger, simpler times, Leo DeCaprio’s Danny Archer would have been a gimlet eyed charmer, a smuggler with a quick tongue, quicker fists and a nice line in self-deprecating one liners. Solomon Vandy, the African fisherman who finds the eponymous rock that kicks off the plot, would have been played by an upcoming black comedian fresh from the set of Saturday Night Live. The two would bicker hilariously for a bit, get into a few scrapes with disgruntled mercenaries and eventually escape Sierra Leone with the diamond and a pair of colour coded beauties who’d lost most of their clothes in the excitement. No more however, instead we get a fascinating performance of dignity and fury from Djimon Hounsou as Vandy, a fallible, unstable protagonist of questionable virtue in Archer and a script which uses the chase movie structure to ask uncomfortable questions about Western civilisation’s casual ravishment of the African continent. Yes there’s still guns, car chases and things going Bang! in exciting ways but mindless escapism this is not. If anything the opposite is true – here is a film that forces you to think rather more than you’re comfortable with. A message movie in genre clothing that despite the glossy trappings has something valuable to shout above the noise of its explosions.

Not myself

2007-02-08T01:52:00.000Z

Skip back a few years and I’m working in the cinema. The trendy end of London, customers in Gucci and artful smart but casual, casual but casual, dragged through a hedge backwards and sprayed silver but casual. But for us it’s all the same, the whispered impact of cardboard against stale popcorn, the watered down Coke with 60% ice (minimum) and the sensation of not really being there at all. Cogs in a machine, we twist and turn as the hot dogs roll up and down the heated plate behind us and we mouth along to the RomCom trailer for the fifteenth time. And I write poems and hide them in people’s napkins, fill the backs of frozen food logs with black biro sketches, snatch kisses from ushers in fire safety emergency drills; hiding beneath my navy blue cap and yellow T-shirt the colour of nacho cheese. My badge says ‘Hi my name is Ahmed’.

Fast forward and it’s stock taking night at the music store and the door is barred and the lights are bright and I’m sailing between the aisles looking for the magic spot to put Moby’s Play. I have Bill Hicks on the PA system and I’m smiling to myself and laughing out loud a bit which is unusual. Around me everything is imploring me to buy anything, tokens, stickers, posters proclaiming discounts, free gifts savings, BOGOF, membership deals. But I’m broke and I’m rimy eyed and desperate for change. There’s a Persian girl with thick eye make-up, a pretty face, a mono-brow and a deep monotone voice to match. She’s obsessed with Nick Drake and she dances now through the shop to music that plays only in her head. And I look at her a split second too long and she notices and holds my stare a moment longer in solidarity. I still have Moby in my hand and I’m standing in Easy Listening.

Earlier today I’m told the play is cancelled due to a bomb scare. The roads are deserted in the centre of town and the policeman and I stand in the middle of Broad Street with blue tape stretched between us. I’m so angry, I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. But this is our world now, for whatever reason this set of people are trying to blow my set of people up. I can’t believe it, that such a theoretical conflict could have a physical impact on my life. I’m so bitterly disappointed. Then on the way home I hear on the latest NewsPod – real bombs in Baghdad, detonated in a busy market, they’re still finding body parts. Then I’m disgusted with myself.

I can paint the past in nostalgic hues. The world was different then. Bigger, safer, softer. No one categorically wanted me dead. The weatherman said that at four o’clock this morning, in two hours time, it will start to snow and it won’t stop for a very long time.

We’ll all wake up tomorrow and we won’t recognise where we are.

UPDATE:

The weathermen are clever.

The reason why I got my bike fixed

2007-02-05T22:14:00.000Z

Now I'm a mild mannered kind of fellow. I wouldn't say boo to a goose. Unless the goose had specifically asked me to (perhaps to cure a fit of hiccups). But if there was going to be one thing, one insidious, pointless, idiotic cultural tic that would one day see me snap like an atrophied elastic band, grab the nearest blunt/sharp/radioactive object and start swinging away like Babe Ruth in a cloud of bees, it's this - people on public transport who play their music through mobile phone speakers.

Where do I start? How do I begin to vent this tumour of pent-up hatred, this blood-boiling, gut-churning tidal wave of vitriol I have backed up inside me? What do I want to say to you, denizen of the back seat, ensconced inside your tattered hoodie, pustulant boils flung carelessly across your face with the lackadaisical air I have no doubt is applied to every area of your worthless, irritating life?

Well firstly I want to say, get some semblance of musical appreciation. If we have to listen to your music, if it truly is our sad lot in life to watch you play the moronic DJ to your toxic-looking mate in the seat opposite you, then at least let that music be vibrant or thoughtful or experimental or life-affirming. What we don't want to hear is querulous, mewling cretins spewing the musical equivalent of the Ebola virus over our quivering ear holes. We'd rather not listen to the preschool ramblings of a bigoted, closed-minded, no talent, bottom feeding Nazi Media Whore just because it has a semi-rhythmic beat behind it, thank you very much.

Of course such considerations are rendered null and void because you're playing the aforementioned musical aberration on POSSIBLY THE SINGLE WORST AUDIO PLAYBACK DEVICE IN THE UNIVERSE. When I was 4 years old I had a plastic record player made by Tomy that had better fidelity than that carcinogenic box of wires you clutch in your grubby paw. Seriously, dude, it sounds like a group of crickets are conducting a rave in a match box. And just because you're mindlessly bobbing your head along to the white noise like a life-sized meat marionette whose operator is having a seizure, it doesn't mean we're suddenly going to recognise it as music.

You dead-eyed, unthinking, arrogant, attention-seeking, TURBO GIT.

Thank-you. That's put off the stroke for another few years I reckon.

Video killed the text format star

2007-02-05T01:40:00.001Z

Here's the link for those of you reading from an rss feed.

Cruising for a bruising....

2007-02-04T23:19:00.000Z

So:

Wide and I are about to head off into the roiling cauldron of Israel and the OPTs, in less than a week. 2006 was, quite rightly, designated a year of crisis for the region by UK governmental reports and the media alike. And over the past few days, a further addition to the already pitiable situation of the OPTs has re-surfaced; the very real prospect of an inter factional civil meltdown of the two Palestinian political parties- Hamas and Fateh. Hopefully the talks brokered by Egypt will diffuse the situation; but it's difficult to know exactly how much use either party will be in easing the suffering of other Palestinian civilians.

As an organisation, the governing body has the right to administer education, health care, environmental protection and other essential civil functions. And yet, whoever rolls out on top of this scrum (democratically elected or not), they may not be able to carry out even these most basic of duties- tax revenues for this being currently withheld by the occupying power. So the doctors, policemen, teachers and dustbin men have not received a salary since March 2006. Amazingly, the strikes and closures only started a few months ago.

How does a nation function when it has no legitimate source of income? When the goodwill of its citizens inevitably runs out, who will step up act as the banker? What allegiances will be made? Who else will the state become beholden to? Who, exactly, is the current financial stranglehold targeted at- and do they really have the power to make it stop?

It's a far cry from the countries I visited when I was younger.

I remember Israel/Palestine through a series of flashbulb memories. The view between my father's arms as he swung me over his shoulders, walking down the Via Dolorosa away from a heated bartering session. The stinging sensation of foolhardily entering the Dead Sea with fresh grazes down my legs, and the acrid, unspeakable taste of the water. The coolness of the Church of the Nativity and its damp darkness after the heat of the sun outside. The unmistakable perfume of oranges in the dappled orchards, and the tanned, dusty width of the roads on the crossing to Jordan.

It seems that as we get older, more and more of the layers of comfort are stripped away from our worlds. We become aware of the political maps of areas, a painful palimpsest over natural beauty or architectural splendour. Here is your workplace-where you cannot work. This road is where the school run feels like a gauntlet. Here are the fields that your family can no longer farm. On that hill, someone was killed.

I think the next fortnight will be, for me, a negotiation: internally, with my own idealism, memories and guilt- and externally, with people whose opinions challenge mine- some times diametrically. I'm glad Wide will be with me- so at least I know I'll win some of the arguments!
-my secret strangulation method works every time....

Eh?

2007-01-31T14:53:00.000Z

This lady works very hard.

And has interesting tastes in millinery...

...trepidation...

2007-01-04T21:49:00.000Z

Well, I've finally done it.... I've quit my 'temporary' job! Yes, I am about to launch myself, like a confused minke whale, onto the silty shores of the full-time job-hunt. It worked for Wide (after the better part of a year), so I'm convinced the brazen terror of a dwindling bank account should be a good incentive to write more than two applications a month...
So, I'm going to treat this as a job. Get up early, get cracking, investigate contacts, telephone, cold call, smear attractive posters of myself across the lobbies of any development or lobbying organisation I can locate, call in all my favours. I'm even going to set myself targets- instead of 2 applications a month, I'll have at least two interviews. I might even go for training as to how not to frighten interview panels and yet provide a good soupçon of character. Mmmhmmm.

I really can't fail- 2007 is going to have to up the ante: another year in limbo (employment wise) would not be good for my soul...

Only 5 days til Christmas One!

2006-12-10T23:15:00.000Z

I'm so excited, I could widdle!

Alright- maybe not that excited. But still- I think it'll be pretty darn good... Wide's friends are all really amazing, wonderful people (except for one of them*) and they seem to have untrammelled fun of the sort that is highly contagious. Some of the things that they plan to do are a little confusing to me. For example: Stair Council. What is this? Is it simply, as first appears, a council on the stairs? I hope it's not like a real council meeting. They are exceptionally boring and bureaucratic- not really PARTAY! stylee.

The other reason I am glad about the existence of Christmas One is that, for much of the run up to Christmas 'proper' (ie, the 25th), I will be completely by myself, in my giant, old, creaky, freaky, chilly, drafty, other thingy house. Not good, especially at night (I worry about situations) seeing as the one time that I did hear noises downstairs and call 999, it turned out there was actually someone down there. It is beside the point that 'the intruder' was my cousin O'Fish, who was in fact a colleague of the 12 strong police team who attempted to storm the house about five minutes later (luckily it wasn't a wasted trip as he was able to run upstairs and give back a uniform shirt the sergeant had leant him). The real point is that now, when I hear creaky, clattery noises at night, I have a much harder job convincing myself that it's just the central heating.... I was fine living in a flat- but its very big trying to fill a five bedroomed house all by yourself, unless a passing serial killer conveniently dismembered you- but I really don't like the way that train of thought is heading, so I'll put that back in the box for later, when I've finally switched off the light and persuaded myself that yes, I did lock the back door.

This all told, the invasion of my humble abode by a goodly portion of brilliantly talented, affable, vivacious human beings (not that one I mentioned earlier **) will go a long way towards pulling me back from the brink of nervous insanity. Even if it only lasts a weekend.

Happy nearly Christmas everyone!

[*joke!]
[**not a joke. ***]
[***oooo, now I'm just messin' with your mind!]

Wii like to party

2006-12-09T12:52:00.000Z

Nintendo have always been one of my favourite companies and not just because it’s as mad as a bag of hammers. It’s one of the few technological giants that’s still interested in innovation, resisting the inglorious slide into the ‘my processor is bigger than yours’ one-upmanship favoured by its closest rivals. Such sentiments should be applauded in this surface glossed, focus group-addled age and surely the least I could do for my crazy Japanese friends was buy one of their lovely new consoles?

All of which goes some way to explaining why I was queuing up outside Gamestation in Birmingham at 10:30pm yesterday evening, fending off feather-sharp insults from passing drunks and accepting cold pizza from denim mini-skirted girls who clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Yes, the Nintendo Wii was launching at midnight and about 200 of us just couldn’t wait til the morning to buy one. What followed in the next two hours was a spot of wireless, hand-held gaming, some pretty impressive blagging on my part and a live satellite link-up with the Mushroom Kingdom but before we knew it Banners and I were back on the street, console in one hand and complementary Wii merchandise in the other.

And the good news is, it really is a wonder. The motion sensors in the controllers genuinely create a completely new way of playing games that feels amazingly intuitive and suitably divorced from anything that’s come before. Two of our friends had never played computer games but within minutes they were smacking digital tennis balls around with the rest of us. This morning my Mum and Dad both beat me at bowling – they’ve NEVER beaten me at a video game in their lives before.

So it seems the future is well and truly here. The gamepad is dead, long live the Wiimote.

I just wish they’d thought of a better name …

Red at work- I'm paid to cuddle

2006-12-05T00:26:00.000Z

Life as a cartoon

2006-12-04T23:54:00.000Z

Students in the mist

2006-12-01T19:45:00.000Z

Today was a day of gentle, heart softening nostalgia. There are occasions in my job where I return to university campuses and the experience is always beatific. There was a while there where I had my suspicions that the dreamy, cobwebbed blanket that settles on me on these occasions was some toothless, low-yield iteration of envy but I’m not so sure anymore. Time is different here, place folds in on itself trailing tattered fronds of brickdust-caked sellotape and photocopied fliers at its edges. And through it all drifts the student, in all its many forms. Male, female, fashionable, scruffy, academic, nerdy, sporty, fraught, laconic, immature. Untouchable. Cocooned in a world that holds them a hair’s breadth from reality. It’s hard not to adore them, feel protective towards the fragile academic cloisters through which they move and interact. Because here everyone owns their potential. And that’s the mystery ingredient, the extra oomph that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck- the sheer undiluted potential of the place and its erstwhile inhabitants. Nothing here had been decided yet, it’s all still all to play for, no doors have been closed or plans made that can’t be undone. Potential, like a spur, a treasure map, a telescope, an idol.

It’s brilliant, fascinating to an observer, even one like myself who has, when all’s said and done, made very few intractable decisions myself and am immeasurably happy with the ones I have made anyway. But it’s strange because even in the 5 years that separates me from them I’ve changed to such a degree where I’m not one of them anymore. I could probably pass for one at a stretch but they are intrinsically different, fireworks that could quite simply go off in any direction whereas the showering sparks of my own trajectory are already painted magnesium-white halfway across the night sky.

This feeling I get as I walk among them, anonymous, half-smiling – it isn’t envy, a longing for blue touch paper unignited and intact. It’s something else, something better, something deeper.

I think it’s contentment.

Cheese eating surrender monkeys

2006-11-30T22:36:00.000Z

Okay, in order of importance.

I'm starving.

I'm detoxing and I can feel the chemicals seeping out of my pores. I'm beginning to miss the peaks and troughs of the caffine jump-start, midday strung out on a sugar rush and the long slow afternoon descent into a yawning gulf of blissful whatever. Two weeks I've got to suffer this, two weeks of filling up on naturally cloudy pressed apple juice and five different types of mushroom. Oh god, deliver me from rice cakes with yeast extract and spicy lentil soup. I dream of caramel and gingerbread hot chocolate, anything that's sweet and sickly and can be broken down into simple proteins and turbo-injected into my blood stream. Hydrogenated fats, tropical oils, glucose, sucrose, fructose and cocoa solids. I'm feeling far too awake, too alert and altogether too perky.

Also of note. My friends and I are geniuses, at least within the strictures we set ourselves. The humble pub quiz, at which, last night, we excelled and annihilated the competition, beating the nearest team by a full eleven and a half points. That's pretty good, people, we could have torn up our answer sheet for round one and still won with a couple of points to spare. I celebrated with a glass of tap water and a good nostril full of the heady scent of smothered chicken breast - smokey bacon, mature cheddar and sticky, sticky BBQ sauce.

I want these two weeks to be over.

Badly.

Lunar voodoo and all that jazz

2006-11-28T23:57:00.000Z

We sat there entranced. From the very first note which rang from her lips like cut crystal we were lost. Her voice smoky and blue, spilling from cherry red blossoms below midnight black forever. Jazz baby, intricate winding melody amidst syncopated, broken rhythmic shrapnel. Throaty and thoughtful, breathless and ballsy, random and relenting by turns. And so fingers plucked, brushes brushed and hands danced across the keys like drunken soldiers on parade. Oh what a night! To be sat there, huddled among friends, letting the evening wash over and into us. Effortless cool, muted trumpet screaming from the depths, the performers joined in a thrumming, tumbling juggernaught of the sublime.

Imelda May,
can I just say,
that was ... stunning.

Goldenrod and the 4-H stone

2006-11-12T23:50:00.000Z

I think it's very easy to undervalue people because you don't know their full story. Clearly, we can't even have a perfect understanding of the tribulations facing people we know very well... but what about the judgments we make about acquaintances, people we work for or with, people sharing the crowded confines of public transport, people brushing past in shop doorways, telesales reps who call from a witheld number on your mobile just as you've taken the much-savoured last bite of your doughnut, forcing you to swallow it without enjoying it properly...
I really feel compelled to try and change my behaviour because of things I've learnt today. Someone I know has been in so much pain, and hardly complained. They've continued to work tirelessly, had time for my daft side-projects, been forgiving when I perfumed their office with prawn flavoured noodles, and maintained a cheery grin throughout. I can't work out whether that's just what happens as you get more mature- you conceal your own problems so everyone else can function without worry, you allow others wider margins for error than you allow yourself.
It is also so, so easy to take people for granted. It's an awful cliche, but I've been considering how I would have felt if I'd never known about this person's problems, and never had a chance to say thanks for all the small kindnesses they've shown me. That's probably a bit too melodramatic for some, but with changes happening all around me, friends moving on to different stages of their lives, friends moving closer together and further apart, people re-negotiating their lives and their identities, I don't have an excuse not to be humane to everyone, no matter how foul I'm feeling.
Three years ago, I was serving behind the counter in my university shop when I noticed a girl had been standing in front of the tins of beans for about five minutes, not moving. When she eventually came to the till, I noticed she'd been crying- and it was the least I could do to get her some tissues, and ask if there was anything I could do to help. She shook her head without saying anything and left the shop- but about three months later the same girl tapped me on the shoulder as I was walking through an underpass and thanked me. I said I didn't think I'd done anything- but apparently just asking was enough to help her feel better.
Today, it isn't acceptable to be seen showing emotion outside of a very limited circle. My father goes to a mens' retreat one weekend a year, which is apparently one of the only places where men of his generation feel comfortable enough to cry in public, to talk about their fear that they might not provide for their families, about their problems communicating with their kids, about the pressures and expectations they deal with everyday. On my train today, there was a woman of about fifty sitting across the carriage from me, wearing a suit, who kept her dark glasses firmly fixed on throughout the journey- and it was only when I saw her shoulders shaking that I realised she was crying.
I'm not saying that we should, or could, wear our hearts on our sleeves at any given opportunity. Neither am I suggesting that by offering someone a kleenex you can solve their problem- (and it would very stupid of me to suggest this, unless the reason they were upset was because they had dolloped jam from their doughnut on their silk jacket whilst trying to take a telesales call). Rather, what I think is that I need to be more forgiving, generous and compassionate with the people surrounding me on a daily basis. Hopefully that might help, in some tiny way. the feeling of lonliness or vulnerability that stop people being able to ask for help when they need it. Graciousness in the face of minor irritation has never come easily to me, and there definitely has to be something more I can give, but I suppose tolerance is a start.

Look who Red looks like

2006-11-05T12:20:00.000Z

http://www.myheritage.com

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

2006-10-03T21:48:00.000+01:00

Anyone who knows me at all knows I love Aaron Sorkin. Not carnally obviously but with a deep-seated reverence and awe befitting his planet sized writing talent. I'm not blind to his faults, I know all his characters speak with the same voice and he can be a little smug but to be blunt who the hell cares? The West Wing makes me glad to live on a planet where something can be written that is so intelligent, funny and politically astute. News Night makes me cry with laughter and want to go hug all my friends. Sorkin creates characters you care about, daring and passionate, eloquent, sassy and noble. I want him to write my life, some times I think he does.

The point of this slightly queasy fan boy outpouring is I've just watched the third episode of his new show. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip started good, got better and is now barrelling along full throttle like some crazy, runaway whirligig juggernaut of titanic entertainment. Witty dialogue. Check. Off the chart smarts. Check. Bravura camera work. Check. Foxy female leads. Check. Chandler and Josh. You betcha sweet ass. It is utterly wonderful. So here's a quick public service broadcast from Troubadour Towers

'People of the UK, you heard it here first - this is the next big thing, this is what you'll be talking about 'cross the water cooler in 2007'.

Now at last we can forget we ever cared what those polar bears are doing on that stupid island.

Welcome to Gafferville

2006-09-07T21:53:00.000+01:00

I remember I was sitting on a picnic hamper. And I had a cardboard cut out of a light bulb in my hand. That’s when it happened. Sitting there stage left, crouched out of sight, watching some of my favourite people in the whole world perform Godspell. The show was going well, the marquee we were performing in was packed to beyond its capacity, people were standing outside, craning their heads sideways through the flaps just to get a look at us. At the end of each song the applause rushed over the cast like a thunder storm, a bubbling, breathless mass of sound that picked them up and flung them headlong into the next scene, buoyed by the general outpouring of support and appreciation. The show was obviously a success, an understatement perhaps, we had surpassed anything we had dared to hope possible. But it wasn’t the cheers or the rapt attention that changed everything, it was something else …

A little history. We had rehearsed the show for only two days prior to coming to the Greenbelt festival at Cheltenham Racecourse; two days of desperately trying to remember what we’d done over a year ago when we’d last performed this particular version of Godspell. Most of the cast had returned (along with a couple of brave new recruits) and from then on the process had been equal parts joy, pain and madness. But here we were, back together, firing on all cylinders - my brave little band of players stepping out onto an unfamiliar stage and just owning the place. Burning so brightly with star wattage that it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

And that’s when it happened. Something in the eyes of the cast as they glanced at one another, something in the interplay of harmony and accompaniment, something in the air …

Suddenly I knew with absolute certainty that for once in my life I was exactly where God wanted me to be, doing exactly what he wanted me to do and the knowledge of that sublime commission seemed to merge with the notes of our final song of redemption -- as the audience surged to its feet in applause -- as the cast, my cast, my wonderful, talented friends raised jazz hands heavenwards -- as the world around us boiled with colour and fury.

So I just want to say thank-you. Thank-you to everyone involved in that incredible event. Thank-you for one of the most life-affirming experiences I’ve ever had. Thank-you for your grace and hard work and talent. You people blow my mind.

Brief sketches of beautiful people

2006-09-03T23:05:00.000+01:00

There’s a guy I know. He’s just about the cleverest person I’ve ever met. Whatever he turns his hand to he can do brilliantly within weeks. Except accents, they always come out Jamaican. He isn’t a distant, detached sort of man, he’s kind and he’s thoughtful and he’s gentle too. This man – this friend of mine – is like a rock, he is, I suppose, a sanctuary from the relentless, uniform onslaught of time and the ceaseless flux of growing older. Because however strange and other my life becomes, my friend is always familiar, like we see each other every day instead of every other month. Things just seem brighter and better when he’s around.

And there’s this other guy, I know. He’s the brother I never had. He’s family, our lives knitted together at a cellular level and protected by layers of scar tissue. And we were friends at a time when anything was possible and life was full of songs and stories and despite everything we’re closer now than we’ve ever been. Because we understand, I think, how lucky we are to have a friend like the other, someone who understands without effort, who remembers when others forget, someone, in short, you would trust with your life. I wouldn’t be the same person without him.

To continue, I have a friend who inspires me. He is a treasure trove of laughter and imagination and story. We became friends without really making the decision to and it took years to realise just how much our friendship meant. He not only makes me laugh out loud but his enthusiasm and talent and support are a god-send and the relationship he has with his equally-wonderful wife has taught me so much about the nature of love. Their house, and the peace I find there, is one of my favourite places on Earth.

I work with three people who are each individually amazing but together they are astonishing. And the work we do together is the thing I’m proudest of in my whole life. There was a dream of a place where young people could find themselves and each other and in the drama and community of that time perhaps discern a fraction of something bigger and even more sublime. And my fellow travellers have gifts that I can’t even begin to quantify and they use these talents in music and words and paint and voice to perform miracles of wit and wonder. I feel so privileged to stand beside them and count myself amongst their number.

Finally, there is a girl who is my partner in life and the yardstick by which I measure all others. She has the voice of a nightingale, a genius level intellect and a big soft heart that means she cares about other people so much more than she cares about herself. She is selfless and stubborn, beautiful, opinionated and wise. My punk academic philosopher, my joyous, unearthly angel with the skew-whiff halo and the lovely smile. I feel so proud and so lucky to be with her, her love is like rocket fuel, now no star, no undreamt galaxy is beyond my grasp.

I feel so blessed, I feel so happy, I thought you should know.

Me, death & the white van man

2006-08-16T19:04:00.000+01:00

The world spun under my wheels, buildings flashed by like smoke stacks - landmarks rendered soft and inconsistent by speed and peripheral vision. My bike is a rusty, wheezing nightmare of patched-up rubber and dented, groaning bearings but if the morning light falls just right and the sound of my velocity is sufficient to mask the agony of the aging mechanism beneath, it is still a pleasure to ride. And there I was, fragments of real life streaming past me, hunched up over blurring wheels, riding the morning thermals to work.

My route to the Jewellery Quarter takes me over a number of ancient bridges, brick work carbon-stained and pitiful from centuries of barges passing, coughing and belching beneath and trucks and lorries thundering above. As you hit the top of the rise the canal system races away from you on both sides- brown water with rainbow squalls, bordered on both sides by greying vegetation and sporadic, pitiful starbursts of dirty purple and dark amber flowers. For a moment it is like falling through time, this anachronistic crossway that shrugs off the 20th century and disappears to the horizon, but then tyres hit pavement and you are catapulted back into a world of Vauxhall Corsas and advertising billboards.

On this particular day, as I raced down the far side of the bridge I noticed a dip in the curb that would allow me to move from the pavement back to the road and onwards down the unbroken sweep of the High Street towards the red brick buildings of the Quarter beyond. Without really thinking I pointed my front wheel towards this depression but for some reason had second thoughts at the last moment. Synapses fired and I turned my handle bars away, the rubber treading on my wheel barely grazing the edge of the curb as a white van, seemingly from nowhere, shot past missing me by centimetres.

Now I don’t know how fast that van was going but as I looked up it was already too far away to read its license plate. What’s absolutely certain is had I continued on my former vector and joined the road, I wouldn’t be here now. I’d been in several pieces scattered across the street and possibly floating in the canal.

And that would have been it. No more stupid blog entries, no more weekly shops or nights in with my family; no more weeks of light and wonder, no more worrying about my weight, no more Perfect Dark marathons. It would all just have ended with a sudden percussive impact and a sack of skin hitting tarmac.

I know, believe me I know, I’m not being profound, I know wiser men than me have discussed this since the dawn of civilisation but I don’t think I’ve ever truly realised before how the mundane and the sublime moments in our lives are equally precious. When my own personal white van of inevitability finally ploughs me down, will I be thinking of standing ovations and tropical sunsets or the way my Dad sometimes smiles, something Red said that struck me as funny, if I’d paid the gas bill … ?

I think there’s always going to be a piece of me lost in that moment, that split second decision that saved my life, at the interchange of past and future, caught between the pavement and the sky …

Tescos vs Iconic Silver Age Hollywood Horror

2006-08-15T23:42:00.000+01:00

So I'm having an 80s party. We're not going to dress up or anything, we're just going to eat 80s food and watch 80s films, observe the Blockbuster in its foetal stage before it learned how to be charmless and slick and effortlessly forgettable. I've always loved that particular genus of 80s cinema, there's this whole group of films that are linked by nothing more than a puppy dog enthusiasm to please, at least one bit where a woman with big hair gets topless and that rubbish 80s special effect that looks like blue lightning. You know the one, the one that the Emperor splurges from the end of his finger tips in Jedi (although doubtless George has buffed that particular FX up to a pointless digital gleam for the latest 'I want a 100ft statue of JarJar Binks built at Skywalker Ranch' Edition of the trilogy).

Anyway, I digress, several times, lets concertina in the tangential meanderings and get back to the point. Short Circuit, Inner Space, Back to the Future, Flight of the Navigator - these are serious films, classics of an loosely recognised genre powered by cheesy music and dodgy blue electricity, they require serious snacks - 80s style.

Consequently, there I am in my local branch of Tescos loading my basket with Wagon Wheels, Discos, Space Raiders, Pez Dispensers, Hula Hoops, Sherbet Dip Daps, Iced Party Rings and enough ingredients to make some seriously good toasties (ham and egg being a personal favourite). But as I walk up to the till I sense that something has gone seriously wrong.

It appears Tescos have hired The Creature From The Black Lagoon to do the night shift.

And its name is 'Sharon'.

The creature regards me for a long moment. Something very close to intelligence flickering behind its dead eyes. Slowly and with great effort it begins to speak, opening its thick lips in a hideously strangled attempt at communication.

'D'you need help with packing?'

'No thank you' I say, giving it what I hope is a placating smile 'I'm sure I can marshal my faculties sufficiently to take on the enormous task of putting groceries into plastic bags. After all, I didn't educate myself to degree standard in order to go about balancing produce on my head or pathetically resorting to sellotaping it to my upper body and torso after failing to unlock the mysteries of your carrier bag system.'

This does not go down well with the creature. My botched attempt at levity seems to anger it still further and it flares its nostrils in a way that makes me afeared for the safety of nearby womenfolk. I decide to change the subject.

'Buy one, get one free on the Iced Party Rings, I notice'

The creature ignores me, the full weight of its bestial cognitive capacity employed in the task of dragging various items over the barcode scanner. But somewhere deep down inside its powerful body a growl has begun that is so low frequency I can feel it vibrating my internal organs. I decide now would be a good time to concentrate intently on a display of 25% off electric toothbrushes.

The rest of the transaction passes without incident except for the fact that I can't get everything into the bags and end up holding some of it in my teeth. The creature takes my money, presses some buttons at random as if to see what they might do and then gives me an approximation of the correct change.

'Fhank choo' I manage through teeth clenched around a variety pack of Monster Munch, before turning smartly on my heel and running for my life.

One can only wonder at the wisdom of hiring iconic silver screen monsters to tend to late night shoppers but I guess we have to presume that it makes some sort of sound financial sense. Thinking about it I'm sure I saw a Triffid behind the deli counter and Mecha-Godzilla having a fag by the delivery entrance.

Strange times, but I can't worry about it now, I have a party to plan ...

The Big Big Brother Phone Vote Con: Boo Hoo

2006-08-14T11:50:00.000+01:00

I don't normally print other people's articles but this was simply too good not to flag up. See what you think ...

"What more innocent pleasure is there in life than building up a good head of hate for some berk you've never met, then spending a tenner or so voting and re-voting for them to be booted out of the Big Brother house? Whereupon they'll vanish completely from what you laughingly refer to as your 'consciousness' (although you're sure there's a 'science' bit in there somewhere... 'sinescence'? 'Saucisson'? Whatever), because that's what you *paid* for with the money you earned picking your teeth at Superdrug. It's not like the housemates' tweezered removal, like the expunging of a tick swollen with the sucked blood of public attention, will give way to 100% ubiquity in all papers and across all media for the next two weeks, longer if they get a woeful television show of their very own. Nah - because this is Britain, you hear? And we play *fair*. You only have to look at the totally just and decent treatment meted out to the BB inmates by increasingly sadistic and power-mad producers to know that.

Alas, it seems it ain't so. In a dazzling feat of Machiavellian telly-twistage/an increasingly desperate attempt to keep slack-jawed viewers interested and/or riled (delete as applicable), 'Big Brother' has given agog viewers the chance to vote some of the bastards we hoped we'd never hear of again back into the house. This, far from being a nifty move, actually ruins any shred of dramatic tension that was previously engendered. It's like 'The X Files' carrying on after Mulder and Scully have snogged, only five hundred times more crap.

But it's certainly whipped up publicity, which is the DNA of 'Big Brother', its cells and its nasty toenails and spit. The trouble is that the idea may actually have backfired. Apparently Channel 4 may be obliged to refund the squalling fools - 2,700 of whom have complained - for their squandered phone vote money. The complaints are vociferous, most featuring the phrase 'we paid *good money* for this', in order to differentiate the legitimate funds used from the ones raised through selling drugs. Regulators are looking into whether or not it was inexcusably dodgy to exhort people to pay to vote housemates out forever, and subsequently allow them to be voted back in. If they decide that it is, the channel might have to refund £3 million or so. The Sun, champion of the little guy and the spoilt brat, has got up a petition, to go with its petition about not hanging dogs from trees, and about bringing one cute photogenic limbless/eyeless child back from a war zone, because that's almost as good as helping the other few thousand who aren't quite so cute. God bless them.

Firstly, if we may calmly address the complainants - not only is there a war on, there are about fifty fucking wars on, you mewling cretins. Get some perspective. Secondly, on what would you have spent that money you willingly and gladly and knowingly frittered away? Oven chips? Hair putty? A ringtone designed by NASA to instantly pulverise the frontal lobes of any unfortunate passer-by with its sheer nuclear-strength irritatingness? Thirdly, did you try and get a refund for the emotional investment you made in the new 'Star Wars' trilogy? Are you that easily upset? And have you ever quibbled over the thousand ways you are genuinely ripped off every day, by banks and service providers and your scrounging mates who never buy a round? Fourthly, does it even occur to you that the charities Shelter and the Teenage Cancer Trust were getting 10p from every normal vote, and so if you whine and pule about getting your money back, and the craven idiots in charge of refunds cave in and refund you, you are essentially doing your bit to whip the duvet from a shivering homeless person and yank the IV from a 14-year-old leukaemia sufferer? Well?

Oh and fifthly - what did you *expect*? 'Big Brother' has been running for several years, has snowballed into a summer-long beast with ever-higher stakes, and needs to employ increasingly drastic measures to keep twots like you engrossed. You're put out that the twist 'is on the viewers when it should be on the housemates', but if you couldn't tell that this has ever been the case, and that the viewers are mere speckles of bug poop on the less important side of the screen, then you shouldn't be allowed to even own a television in case you try to eat it.

You should be pleased they didn't take your dosh and use it to give all the housemates plastic surgery, so you can't even tell which bandaged, groaning nonentity you're voting out of the hospital. You should be grateful you've even got the money to waste. We should be demanding money from *you* for buying into the whole racket, and thus ensuring Channel 4 is unwatchable every evening until September, and that the osprey-shrieks of Nikki and the gumball-mouthed-mumbles of Glyn ring in our ears when we're trying to sleep.

Not long now. Not long. It's going to be OK. There will once more be documentaries, and films, and new drama, and surreal comedy. And one day even 'The Friday Night Project' will die alone in its seedy bed, like something out of 'Seven' only with stupider hair and fewer laughs. We're going to get through this. It's OK. It's OK."

I am in awe of these guys - they are fantastic writers. Go here for more:

The Friday Project

There is no 'My friends rock' in team

2006-08-10T13:09:00.000+01:00

Well our little digital community has started to pick up some serious momentum. What with Shoelace channelling Maddox and Tucker Max to predictably nose-thumbing and side-splitting effect over at Balls to Monty and Cowboy Funk going Into the Neon Sun with some truly evocative and thought-provoking writing it seems my posse is going global. Even the Gaffertape Messageboard is ablaze with geek rants and self-referential love fests. And it drops my jaw to think what we're capable of now, how this new media is making traditional publishing routes look as antiquated as a guy with a lute riding from town to town singing about last year's coronation or beheading or interesting plague. Whatever.

I love how much closer the world is. Distance has collapsed in on itself and we can push through the membrane of linear space and reach people a lifetime away. Everyone is now in earshot. We can huddle from the four corners of the Earth.

And this is brilliant news because what I love more than anything else in the world is being in a gang. I want to be Face in the A-Team. I want to be Wash onboard Serenity, trading gags and bullets with embittered Space Mafia. I want to join the Avengers and borrow Thor's shampoo, I want to hang out at Central Perk, I want to be one of the Dirty Dozen who survived. I want to fly Memphis Belle, I want to share a flat with Daisy and Tim, I want to discover who stole Mrs Simkins famous sponge cake as part of the Famous ... six. I adore teamwork, shared purpose and group memories. Do you remember when ...? a friend used to say, is a phrase which binds people together for life. The Scooby Gang, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Spooks, The West Wing, Hustle, Starsky and Hutch ... these are great teams, they are part of something bigger than themselves. And they get to banter.

Because as you grow older you move away from your friends, you set up your home where the work is and there's no more popping round to your mates for tea. No more deciding to watch the sun rise at 5 in the morning. No more 'do you remember when?'.

But now there's the internet and suddenly we're all together again. Chatting every day, making each other laugh, coming up with mad plans for the future. And suddenly without warning ... I have my gang back, I'm part of something bigger again. So I can work on a new show poster design with Cowboy Jonny or shoot bad guys atop digital mountain peaks with Shoelace. I can congratulate a group of people on a brilliant theatrical production and even though they are now spread out across the whole country, they'll all hear me.

People say technology is creating a sterile and sectioned society where no one talks anymore. I disagree, perhaps one day in the future machines will rise up and throw off the yoke of human dominion and crush us under their electronic heel but until then I say give them a break.

They gave me my friends back.

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul rememb'ring my good friends

2006-07-11T17:43:00.000+01:00

This is how I write – I agonise over every word. I don’t leave a sentence until it conveys just what I want it to. It’s a heart breaking way of working and really stressful and it results in a couple of hundred words every few hours. So I’ve decided to reverse the trend and this blog is to be the opening salvo in my war of attrition with my better nature. After all, hardly anyone reads about us, who wants to hear about the continuing adventures of two lost souls bimbling about the planet, talking too much and inventing funny dances when they get bored? Perhaps three other people.

This site is not, it has to be said, the Disney World of the information super highway, it’s not a tourist trap or a place of historical interest. It’s a forgotten backwater populated by freaks and geeks with hearts of gold. The kind of place that city slickers break down in and slowly come to learn the value of love from the slightly backward townsfolk. In other words it’s a perfect place to experiment. So I’m going to worry less about semantics and more about saying what I mean. I’m going to type at a rate of knots and cover the page with words just to see what happens. It’ll be therapeutic and mixed up and hopefully, hopefully charming.

So what’s on my mind at the moment? Friends. Let me elaborate – at this point in my life I am lucky enough to have made the acquaintance of a number of the best people currently living on planet Earth. They are a eclectic bunch that include (in no particular order) an immigration officer, a theatrical education co-ordinator, a PhD student, several charity workers, a sound technician, an EMA grant manager and an actor/designer/consultant/network engineer … chap. These people are the mystic element that changes the dross of the every day Rumpelstiltskin-like into shiny gold. I have never managed to shake the rather outdated concept of ‘best friends’ but I now find myself in a position where friendships can speak for themselves without recourse to labels and definitions. Some I see once a year, some I see on a weekly basis but suffice to say that I am extremely grateful that each one of them is in my life.

I’ll leave you with this:

“In loneliness, in sickness, in confusion- the mere knowledge of friendship makes it possible to endure, even if the friend is powerless to help. It is enough that they exist. Friendship is not diminished by distance or time, by imprisonment or war, by suffering or silence. It is in these things that it roots most deeply. It is from these things that it flowers."  -Pam Brown

Growing up

2006-07-10T23:19:00.000+01:00

I am trying to be a grown up. I am trying to get into the habit of washing my clothes regularly, to keep on top of the problem rather than waiting until I physically can't force any more clothes into the laundry basket before I succumb. I now have a skin care regime, I go to the gym regularly, I clean saucepans before the foodstuff gets welded to the metal through days of neglect. I dust, I clean, I turn my mattress over bi-monthly and moisturise my leather sofa once every six month to prevent cracking. I file away bills between metal dividers and have learned how to iron my shirt.

Half the time I feel great to have entered this hallowed arena of adulthood, to breath the rarefied air reserved for mature lungs. The rest of the time I want to jump over picnic tables, stay up all night watching rubbish 80s horror films, create magazine montages on my walls and cook melted cheese and salsa nachos in the microwave. Because this month I turn 26 and I can no longer pretend I'm nearer 20 than 30. Simple maths will prove me wrong, 2010 looms like a thunder cloud on the horizon and it's so close now I can see the electric blue veins snaking across its underbelly. I mean how did this happen? One minute your dressed as the killer from Scream and filming an alternate version of the music video for B*witched's 'C'est La Vie', the next you've got a staff of three and a stack of appraisals to do. It seems like only yesterday we dressed Milner up as an Egyptian mummy and made him return 'The Mummy Returns' to Blockbuster video.

But you know what the saddest thing on the planet is? Someone trying to regain former glories, people who live in the past rather than the present. I guess I need to look forward to the second half of my twenties and take the decision to make them even better than the first half.

At least my clothes will smell better.

Curses

2006-05-26T20:46:00.000+01:00

Well, that just about beats it. Getting told that you are too enthusiastic about a job you are going for seems like a really great reason not to get it. I can't see why my interviewers would think that, I didn't offer to clean their houses, babysit their kids or even sleep in the office. In hindsight, maybe clinging to that older guy's leg and weeping profusely when they told me they'd finished was a bad idea.

The more astute of our readers may glean from this that I have managed to obtain an interview in my long-suffering (and yes, just about everyone within my earshot is suffering alongside me) search for meaningful employment. In fact, I've had more than one, and have bagged another for next week. The significant feedback i've gotten from both of them amounts to 'well, you came second.' There is only one solution to this.

Maybe someone could advise me on the best way to impregnate degree certificates with anthrax? Killing off all the competition is obviously the perfect strategy to secure myself a fabulous position.

That reminds me of an ex-boyfriend I dallied with in days of yore.

He rang up the week after he'd started university on the brink of tears, convinced that he was dying. Of what? you may well ask... Well, he had discovered a large (and apparently bubonic) buboe upon his sprightly chest. This, and his status as a student at one of our most elite institutions, marked him out as the target of a terrorist hit. He was dying of anthrax.

It took a while for me to convince him to go to the nurse, who informed him that no, he was not dying. He had a zit.

Anyhow, this boyfriend is now progressing up the UK Indie charts (or at least the alternative alternative charts) at a rate of knots, so I'd better not spread any scurrilous rumours, it's really not beneficial for the karma...

At least if I haven't managed to get my foot in the door of a lovely 'Save the World' style job yet, my better half is doing enough for the both of us, having just been promoted to head of his unit. Sigh. I'm so proud... ...maybe he'll employ me instead...

...I think the 'leg clinging' tactic might work a little better on him...

Pan-handling

2006-03-13T20:36:00.000Z

This weekend my lovely younger brother and I visited the delectable Wide in his nest of comfy sofadom. (The new sofa is a little like sitting on a slightly melty giant chocolate marshmallow. Without having to wash afterwards of course.)

After watching a brilliant group of prodigious school-kids play Funk-Indian-Jazz fusion at the Symphony Hall, we went home and had a lazy takeaway pizza, watched comedy and played x-box. I could get used to being a boy. If that's what boys do, of course.

In the morning, we were woken to the smell of frying eggy bread as my brother embarked on his premier culinary masterpiece. (I say this because omelettes are the second thing he learned to cook. Then apple crumble. That's it.) He was doing very well- until, of course, he dropped the pan on the floor- flattening it on one side. This wouldn't be that bad... except that this pan was the joyous pan of great expense (which had not even known the touch of the rough side of a sponge scourer... ['no! use the soft bit!']) brought by Wide's parents to replace the pan which little brother flattened on his previous visit. Visits=2. Non-spherical pans=2. He can't do it with ours, it's made of cast iron...

Other than that, the weekend passed smoothly, and all departed refreshed and on good terms. Huzzah.

I, pod

2006-03-09T23:40:00.001Z

Just a quick one. Check out this thread from the launch day of the very first Ipod. How funny.

A spot of history.

Or this, which shows I'm not the only one with too much time on my hands.

Ooooh the suspense.

Okay, be good.

The four horsemen of the apocraplypse

2006-03-06T23:35:00.000Z

Ladies and gentlemen, a bleak day has come.

'It's Chico Time!' is number one.

Don't talk to me about how the economy looks like melting emmental- if the public pound can float this bum-trinket of a record, we've got a long way to go before we hit rock bottom.
(I wonder how long we've got before he gets sponsored by Burger King?)

Habibi

2006-03-05T23:48:00.000Z

Not to sound overly political or preachy here (which, try as I might, I can rarely avoid) but judging from my experiences over the past few weeks, the world would be a softer, happier place if we made space for differences.
At the moment I am jiggling around on my seat listening to the lastest thing in Arabic pop music- which reminds me of when I used to enjoy a spot of shabi and belledi, (or for people who prefer the term, bellydancing). This is mainly because they've nicked a sample from a traditional gwazie song and cut it into you typical 'long distance lament' love song.
Speaking of bellydancing, this week I took a group of students around Parliament. We arrived in the lobbying chamber just in time for the Speakers Procession- a very formal affair with special metal heels and shiny pockets. I wonder if it gets galling doing it day after day.
The students were very hushed and then started whispering amongst themselves... 'look, over there!' 'Can you see?' ' Is it really them?!'

I was very proud of them: '...yes, isn't it fantastic, the democratic process in action..'

until I realised Shakira 'lucky that my breasts are small and humble' of Laundry Service fame was standing opposite, looking small, sweet and blonde.

Suffice to say she gave everyone big kisses- so I can see how she'd beat the Speaker- don't think you'd catch them doing that.

Are human rights universal?

2006-03-02T17:24:00.000Z

My mind is a fug of qualitative questions. I’m attacking the problem from too many standpoints, interrogating it down to a tiny nub of philosophical fluff. To begin with, are human rights universal? Well, clearly they’re not. Witness Coca Cola using union bosses’ heads as footballs and four year old workers picking themselves apart making trainers to cushion our heavy Western soles. Clearly, human rights in the modern world are fluid and subject to the laws of economics. But now I’m pulling that old political switcheroo and answering the question I wanted answered. So to start again, from a Christian perspective- why don’t I just throw around some well worn homilies along the lines of God created everyone equal? I could talk about basic human rights like food, water, education; safe things that no-one would question, so that everyone can solemnly nod their heads and forget what I said. But this is what I believe, I believe it’s an abomination that people starve, die and rot in a world that God created with enough resources to easily provide for its citizens. I believe we can argue the semantics of human rights until we’re blue in the face, but in every instance the answer is simple and it’s only pride, apathy or greed that stops us from recognising that. Everyone deserves the right to live and contribute to the richness of our shared existence. End of story.

I'm not a poet but, buddy, I know it

2006-02-25T21:23:00.000Z

I want to be a journalist in the 50s. I want to toil away on a battered old typewriter, wreathed in blue smoke. I want slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed spectacles, rolled-up sleeves and red braces. I want to stick it to the government. I want a liver like a pin cushion and a 40 a day habit sucking on unfiltered cigarettes. I long for the glamour of a by-gone age where men were men and women said ‘Sure’ in breathy voices, thick with Brooklyn tang. God dammit, I want to call my friends ‘fellas’, I want to knock back large scotches in badly lit bars.

As much as I love living in the shiny twenty-first century, complete with slick chrome surfaces and frosted glass, there’s a part of me that longs for metal filing cabinets and battered wooden desks. For whirring ceiling fans, white noise and static. Days long gone, almost forgotten. One blusey note fading away to nothingness.

Good night, and good luck.

Tap Dancing Elephants

2006-02-24T22:11:00.000Z

I never intended to use this blog to describe what happened to me on a day to day basis. I wanted to use it to note down the thoughts which these events inspire. Some entries are musings, some are heightened versions of real events, and some are completely random and divorced from anything approaching reality. However, for a rather amusing and factually accurate account of my last week then I would check out the awesome literary stylings of Shoelace in Balls to Monty.

Here is what I learnt this week, in no particular order:

1. Spending time with another couple is fun and kind of reassuring.
2. Spending time with a friend of prodigious talent and sparkling wit is reviving and encouraging.
3. When staying up to 4am doing battle with evil international spies, tread carefully, you may wake the neighbours.
4. Writing a screenplay is equal parts heaven, hell and madness.
5. There are several ways to wound a man holding you in a bear-hug from behind.
6. Shoelace can cook any food in any style.
7. The pizza place is farther away than I remember.
8. Chocolate production is chiefly undertaken by small, brown beans with arms and legs who live in a magical chocolate world lorded over by a deranged parrot and sexually-aggressive bunny rabbit.
9. A good sofa, one that makes you glad to be alive when you sit on it, can transform a room from mundane living space to AWESOME ENTERTAINMENT PARADISE.

And finally ...

Gentle readers, please join me in congratulating the frighteningly intelligent and unfeasibly sexy Red as today she collected her MA in Colonial and Post-Colonial Cultures. Most people couldn't even understand the title of her course, let alone run rings around the country's educational elite in pursuit of said qualification. On top of everything, she was the highlight of the graduation ceremony, sweeping onto the stage to grand applause and performing a highly dramatic stooping bow direct to the audience before engaging Lord Attenborough in such lively conversation that the whole event ground to a halt for the duration. Inevitably, this sterling performance of academic joi de vivre provoked a ripple of good-natured laughter and a second, much deserved round of applause. As so often with Red I wanted to shake my head in embarrassment and simultaneously leap to my feet and proclaim my love. In the end I was just happy to see her honoured for all that she is and all she has achieved.

Life with Red can be mortifying, inspiring, challenging and rewarding. It is also never dull. I am so glad to have her with me.

This is her day. I hope she feels the potential that suffuses every particle of her being and looks to the future with both hope and determination. One day, very soon, she will achieve great things; there is absolutely no doubt in my mind.

My girlfriend will change the world.

A Thought ...

2006-02-23T02:48:00.000Z

"See, I'm fully willing to honour "Valentines Day" as long as the female in question honours "Naked Nintendo Day"."

Bash.org, people. Quotes for the noughties ...

Fun with Photoshop

2006-02-11T16:36:00.000Z

The Gang

2006-02-11T16:12:00.000Z

Under a vest

2006-02-09T19:53:00.000Z

I was arrested the other day.

Okay, back up, tone down, start again.

I was stopped by the police.

Better, truer, come on, elucidate.

One thing about being a white, straight, middle-class male is that you rarely get looked at with suspicion (another is that you are always in the demographic that's oppressing the other, smaller demographic - oh to be in some kind of minority). This is why, on the whole, it was rather a refreshing experience to be stopped by the police. Actually I think the guy was rather taken aback by my enthusiasm on being detained.

Picture the scene, there I am, merrily making my way through the barriers at Waterloo when a rather kindly looking policeman approaches me with an apologetic look on his face.

'Hello, sir' he says, smiling a little sheepishly.

'Hello' I smile back enthusiastically, giving him an encouraging wink.

'Could I have a look in your bag, sir?' and before I can answer 'I have to, you see, sir. I count up to five and every fifth person I have to ask.'

'To look in their bag.'

'Yes, sir.'

'What if they don't have a bag?'

'Then I don't ask them, sir.'

'Lucky them. Do you ask the next one or do you count another five?'

Pause while he looks at me. I chance another wink. 'I was rather hoping I could look in your bag, sir?'

'Yes. Good point. Well ... go ahead.'

'Sorry about this, sir. It's just every ...'

'Fifth person with a bag. Absolutely. I understand. Don't worry about it, I'm rather enjoying being called 'sir' actually.'

'Yes, sir' He scrabbles around in the bag for a moment 'Well, that all seems to be in order.'

'You've missed a bit.'

'Pardon me, sir?'

'You've missed a section. Of the bag. There's a front bit. Plenty of room for a bomb in there. There's a zip at the side.'

'I see. Um ... is there?'

'What?'

'A bomb.'

'No.'

'Good.'

'Would you like to see?'

'I suppose it couldn't hurt, sir.' I open the front bit and he has a quick look. 'There we go. Nothing of interest there, eh?'

'No, sir.'

'Unless you like Maltesers.'

'As you say, sir. Now I need to take down some details ...'

He then proceeds to note down my name, my address, my age, my height, my build ('proportionate'), my self-defined ethnicity ('really very white') and what I'm wearing. I wonder why all this is relevant and if I'm being charged with 'possession of chocolate whilst on a GI diet' but he seems happy enough with my answers. Tearing off my copy of the information he wishes me well and sends me on my way. I can't resist one final comment.

'You must meet some interesting people with this job.'

'Sometimes, sir. Sometimes.'

And then I'm gone, down the escalators, into the depths of the earth.

My hands are still slightly trembly...

2006-02-09T17:08:00.000Z

My hands are still slightly trembly…

This is because a couple of hours ago, I had to wade in (well, toddle, really, there was carpeting rather than water) and break up a fight in my workplace. I’m sure our readership can picture the scene- about six young men of rather tall persuasions (or maybe everyone looks tall when you are 5”4), and little old me bumbling on in… One of them had just finished attempting to integrate his friend into the plaster on the wall and was repeating the process with the aforementioned carpet when I came on the scene, with highly persuasive declarations of pacifism… ‘what on earth do you think you are doing? I won’t have any of this!’ with much animation, of course.

Funnily enough, they all stopped and looked very contrite (suitable for all occasions, see…). I was quite chuffed. I’ve never even seen a real fight before, just silly shoving matches between drunk people, and I wasn’t entirely sure I had the capacity to wield that much authority… but life is full of surprises. Talking to a colleague, she mentioned that her tried and tested method of breaking up rumbles is to shout ‘Sausages!’ at the top of her lungs… By the time people have figured out what she’s shouting about, they’ve stopped.

I’ll have to try that next time.

Oh What a Lovely Blog

2006-02-05T20:51:00.000Z

Listening to: Nizlopi - Half these songs are about you - Much more than just singing about big yellow diggers. I'm loving this album - I love the lyrics - part five year old, part literate genius. And they're eclectic and quaintly over-produced like the best groups that cut their teeth doing acoustic gigs. It's like - oh, all these new toys to play with. This one makes me sound like I'm in a big echoey cavern, cool, lets put in an electric string section. Bless and also, kudos.

Had a lovely weekend with Red and although the purpose of this blog is by no means a dry record of events, I feel I must commit to binary that during the course of the last few days we've:

Eaten out at the kind of restaurant that piles the food artfully upwards in a tower with mashed potato as the foundations and long, thin pillars of chive for decoration. (The Green Room)

Watched a cult, piece of theatre where the audience gender ratio is 20:1 against me (The Vagina Monologues)

Spent nearly a whole day in our pyjamas (My Flat)

Been out to a dank, underground pit to hear angry young men strum guitars and teach us cockney rhyming slang (The Barfly)

Breakfasted at a popular coffee shop and lectured the barrista on the importance of buying fairtrade (Starbucks)

Additionally I've:

Spoken in a ridiculous accent for two hours (Brideshead)

Watched a preview of the new Disney film about an alien invasion of anthropomorphic chicken land (Chicken Little)

Come over all Brechtian and sung music hall songs (Oh What a Lovely War)

So there we go. How's everyone else's weekend been?

Foamy Armpits

2006-02-01T20:46:00.000Z

It occurred to me today that my Deodorant and Shaving Cream bottles look exactly the same.

I fear the consequences.

The muffin, the muffin, the muffin's on FIRE

2006-01-31T21:36:00.000Z

Turning from my television set, half an hour previous to this posting, I was surprised to see a plume of smoke billowing energetically out of my microwave. 'Hmmm' I thought 'That doesn't look good' and then in quick succession 'That doesn't smell so good either' and then finally 'Ahhhhhhh, my eyes are burning from all this smoke.' Spurred into action I proceeded to run blindly around the room for a bit before flinging the door of the microwave open to reveal what looked like two small lumps of coal but which were in reality two of my Sainsbury's Finest Cracked Pepper and Cheese Muffins. By this time I was having to hug the floor so I could breath. I was petrified that the smoke alarm was going to go off any minute and that I'd finally have to meet my neighbours. It didn't. I can only conclude that what I have installed in my ceiling isn't a smoke detector at all but some other sort of detector entirely. Maybe it detects foxes or something.

Anyway, I am now shut away in my bedroom while the rest of the flat slowly desmokes via open windows and extractor fans. Hopefully when I open the door it won't be zero visibility anymore. Perhaps before this evening is out, I'll be able to see my TV again, who knows? Whatever happens, I have the unpleasant feeling that my home is going to smell like Pudding Lane circa. 1666 for a good few days to come. If there's a moral in this I am yet to find it.

Oh well, muffin ventured, muffin gained.

Groan!

In search of pecuniary fulfilment...

2006-01-27T15:59:00.000Z

Alright, so it's not just pecuniary fulfilment I'm gunning for...

After a rather long hiatus, I feel obliged to our wonderful readership to update you on the meanderings of my existence. Also, Wide's little prick (or should I say, stab?) has spurred me into action.

Since I finished the grand master-verk in September, I have been variously engaged in going to Venice, snow-assisted light sabre fights, paint spillages and, perhaps most importantly, carving out a niche for myself in the rat race.

Sadly, like a marvellous ice-sculpture, one starts with a glowing, sharp view of one's expectations from a career. And as the competition heats up and the stimulating opportunities grow thin on the ground, there begins a sense of... slippage.
So, I have now broadened my ideal job description from 'creative academic benign-Machiavellian rock star activist' (something like bono, I suppose) to include other ways of making life better. Like policy research. Let's face it, I was always going to end up doing something of that ilk.... and I haven't really got the legs for leather trousers, which are probably necessary to fit the profile of the former career.

So! Its application time... and I am blowing my trumpet so vociferously that I am in danger of running out of metaphorical puff....

It's all going rather well

2006-01-27T14:17:00.000Z

I can't decide if people write more when they're happy or sad. Look at Red, she writes when she's stressed, hence the proliferation of posts around dissertation time and now nothing. I write when inspired which is seldom if ever at home. This is no bad thing, my job is so stimulating that when I get back to the flat I just want to have a mug of Fairly-traded cocoa and to sleep. Or carve down digital slopes of binary snow to the sound of Paul Simon & Martha Tilston. Or watch something vaguely amusing on cable.

Favourite shows to be numbed by at the moment:

Wide's Top TV Pics

My Name is Earl - Very funny and stars the awesome Jason Lee who is due a bit of public recognition if you ask me.
Scrubs - The Wizard of Oz episode rocks
Life on Mars - Could go either way but it's better than almost everything on British TV at the moment
Hyperdrive - Not Red Dwarf alas, but probably better than Seasons 7 & 8
Celebrity Big Brother - Joking, I'd rather crush my eyeballs with my own hands

Have started rehearsing for Brideshead Revisited, I'm Sebastian, I have a teddy bear. I'm ever so excited and the group I'm working with have an actual theatre. Thrilling! That was me trying to sound a bit theatrical.

Did it work I wonder?

Little and often, that's the key.

Toodles.

Living in the Future

2005-10-09T14:18:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting in a shop writing this. I'm waiting for a shop assistant to talk to me and so I've decided to whip out my laptop and start blogging. I have a wireless connection to the internet, I'm sitting in Birmingham city centre and I'm communicating globally. It is at times like this that I think 'Wow, I'm living in the future'. In fact I'm feeling very now, very switched on, very plugged into my generation. I'm part of something big and shiny and technologically advanced. Perhaps I will let slip a girlish giggle of sheer joy and everyone will look at me funny. Or perhaps I will order a pizza to be delivered to the shop. Or fire up MSN and talk to my friends online. Or browse through every single album I own. Or download pictures of people getting hit in the crotch by footballs. Ha ha, witness me, a computerised collusus with fibre optic veins and a RAM chip plugged directly into my brain pan. I am invincible, immune to viruses and spy ware, my thoughts carried through a network of thrumming digital wires to land slap bang in the middle of your monitor. I can ... play solitare without any cards, sweep for mines without getting blown-up. I'm high on information, drunk on data, spaced out on html protocols. I'm so advanced I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, I just made that last bit up and it still makes sense to me. And through the rush of ones and zeros I can still here my mother's voice.

'Don't eat the red Starbursts, you know what happens to you.'

Freude, schone gotterfunken- tochter aus Elysium

2005-09-02T16:18:00.000+01:00

(Not quite sure I spelt all that right...)

But, indeed, joy, in large, wibbly dollops.

My opus is in- and I am jolly pleased. Thanks to the help and support of numerous fantastic friends and family, I've even managed to retain a large portion of my sanity. Multimedia bonus....

Now everyone will have to be incredibly nice to me or I'll start posting large chunks of it on here, pdf stylee. (Cower, mortals!) No, I won't really subject anyone to that. But maybe M&D would like a copy. Any takers, hmmn?

So. Now I think I'll go and get myself a career. Golly. Doesn't life move quickly?!

oh sweet lord....

2005-08-28T14:17:00.000+01:00

I'm amazed I can actually type this, as my fingers are slowly being worn down to stumps with a combination of gnawing and pressing the delete button.
That's right, I've gone over my word count. Damn me and my verbosity.

So, I'm now involved in a 'hatchet job' on my beloved umpteenth draft. This is a highly emotional process... my poor little babies (paragraphs, that is) are being heavily denuded of floral prose. I just hope it still reads like 'me' at the end of all of this.

Ho hum. Three and a bit days to go. Around 1000 words to trim and then replace with a nice watertight (as if that's possible with the level of subjectivity here!) conclusion.

Then I'm out into the 'real world'.

I think that's possibly slightly scarier?

Custard

2005-08-03T11:23:00.000+01:00

Why, oh why did I tell my tutor I'd have a chapter and a half finished by Friday?
Probably because I will!
Hah!

No, really, I can honestly see myself getting somewhere with the interminable mass of words I have floating in front of me on my screen... Currently it's a bit like when you mix a little bit of water with custard powder. Its sloppy and runny, but when you hit it, its hard. So, I just need to keep whacking it with all the ideas I have, and good things shall come of it, I'm sure(ish).

The chapter I'm working on at the moment is a bit of a tense one in numerous ways- it's all about purdah, so it has an element of 'hot potato' about it. I remember listening to a recording I made once (Apathy, anyone?) and thinking 'god, I sound so white and middle class.' Well, I feel a bit like that now- desperate not to write anything condescending, but having strong opinions nonetheless. Quite a difficult one to get past, unfortunately.

On the home front, the entire clan has gone gallivanting off to France. I wish I was there too. There is something about Taillet that is quite inspirational- a complete lack of material distractions, whereas sitting in the Library here, there is a man using a power drill not ten feet to the right of my head, and no toilets anywhere for half a mile. (Closed for renovation. The evil black blocks of doom are finally made spacious and light just in time for my departure. Thanks, guys, for four years of incendiary graffiti.) If only Taillet had a very well stocked library, a reliable power source and a shuttle link to Wide and Snapper's houses, it would be perfect. Sadly, these things only exist in Brighton.

S the Studded has now moved into a new house up the top of a hill. I shall be helping him with the burning of stolen dead animal carcasses on Saturday. (oh how I love my little PC dictionary- the definition of milkman is even worse...) yes, a barbecue. Joy! I can't eat any of it, of course, but I have threatened to make rice-crispie cakes....
And then it's off up to the land of tumbling tornadoes and flat-pack fiascoes... sunnyish Brum, (oh-ho, I know Wide doesn't like that, but I think it sounds like a cute little inoffensive car, so much nicer than Beeeeehming'am) to see my most wonderful other half on his return from playing with little kiddies and even littler kittens. He rang me the other day and all I could hear was incoherent squeaking. From him, not the kittens. He has been staying with Catwoman and Kes whilst running a theatre week... and now wants a kitten for himself. I wouldn't mind, as long as we can call it Fido...

Right!
off to slap the custard a bit more... (gosh, that sounds a little cheeky on a second reading....)

Avast!

2005-07-14T22:17:00.000+01:00

What a spiffy old week I am having. After travelling down (technically up, but I can never get it right) to London, I spent a wonderful evening nursing a poorly Wide, who, having spent the previous few evenings loudly declaiming in his inimitable manner, had completely lost the power of speech, and was reduced to a gollum-esque whisper. Dear me. I dosed him up with medication, dumped him in the bath, and burnt dinner, ending up with a beige sauce instead of a white one, but nonetheless, I'm still in the good books!
The next day I had the great pleasure of meeting up with Lard and Shinke for a yummy dinner at wagamamas, where I marvelled at the levels of food colouring in my fish protein bits nestling in my noodles. I'm sure there are some varieties of crab that are neon pink, but they don't tend to retain this attribute when cooked and re-formed. Why is this supposed to make it more appetising, one wonders?
Excitingly, I also got to see the second half of the extended edition of Return of the King... which was great, and, as those of you who know a little of my LOTR obsession may gauge, pant-wettingly exciting. Except for the interminable ending, which was unexpurgated and as incredibly boring as ever. Like an orchestra finishing Mozart's horn concerto by dropping their instruments and blowing limp raspberries at each other.

On Tuesday, I went shopping, and having spent far too much money on other people in the past few weeks, decided to treat myself to a few goodies for Sunday, which, as some of our swelling readership may be aware, is the 1 year anniversary of Wide and I's first meeting. In person. Less on that later. Huzzah! Much fun will be had, I'm sure.

Even better, on Saturday, my excellent younger sister, Floppy, has curtailed her round-the-world jaunt to come back to the roost. I will be steaming up from Brighton to indulge in much storytelling and gossip when she arrives at Heathrow. And also lashings of big hugs.

Must dash, as the lovely S the Snapper has prepared me a super supper of aubergines and other yummy things... which is wafting enticingly in from the kitchen. Mmmmmm.... lucky me!

Ouch

2005-07-03T13:43:00.000+01:00

I (almost) had an infinitely productive week. It would have been if I hadn't had a painful and embarrassing mini-op on Thursday, which rendered me immobile for most of the adjoining dates between now and then. If I hadn't had my loyal and long suffering friend S the snapper with me to offer me succour and soup, I'm really not sure I would have managed at all. The delightful lass not only came to pick me up from the hospital in a taxi, but also trooped round all of sunny Brighton's pharmacies searching for a prescription, two thirds of which, alas, proved elusive, one third not being in stock anywhere, and the other having gone out of production.

So, I have now repaired to the suburban hinterlands of Kingston for a little RnR with the family. Last night, I met up with two old, misplaced, and very lovely friends at a dinner party, who in a similar vein of pseudonyms, shall hereafter be referred to as Tipples and WonderWoman. Being slightly older than me, they provide an effective gauge as to where I should be in two years time. Suffice to say, it's moderately intimidating- nice jobs, own accommodation, fulfillment, goodness me. A lot to get done.
We had a good old chat about the Live8 concerts continuing across the globe. WonderWoman, having traveled extensively, has quite a good handle on development issues, and she and I were marveling at the sheer scale of what needs to be achieved in order to facilitate equality and social justice. Tipples, however, summed it all up for us by telling us the parable of the starfish, which I have summarised below:

The Parable of the Starfish
An old man was walking along the ocean shoreline one morning after a very high tide. As he wandered he noticed thousands of starfish that had been washed ashore and he realized that they would die if they were not returned to the sea. But there were so many, there was no way to save them.
He looked up from the sand and in the distance he saw someone bending, reaching, then standing and tossing something into the sea.
He approached, and realized that a child was methodically grasping a starfish and throwing it into the ocean, repeating the gesture again and again. The old man stopped the child and asked, "Why are you bothering? There are miles and miles of beach and thousands and thousands of starfish. You can't possibly make a difference."
The child looked at the old man, bent down, grasped another starfish, tossed it gently to the sea and replied, "But it made a difference to that one."

It was a lovely evening. Plus, not having seen my friends for a good while, it meant I had the chance to go on at length about the brilliance, attractiveness, talent and kindness of Wide, and the rambling, relatively romantic manner of our meeting; a topic which I always enjoy expanding upon. Wide, at this point, is quite hoarse, having discovered the pitfalls of open-air theatre on the first night. He had to give interview for BBC Northampton this morning, and apparently sounded like Yoda (but of course, with a revised understanding of grammar). Dear me. Of course, I know a little bit about what he means, having had to contend with amplified instruments for a while. Usually on finishing a long set, I sound like Barry White for ten minutes. This can occasionally be used to good effect.

Oh my. I must sign off now as my wonderful little brother, Puke, is giving me a lovely shoulder rub. How many 15year old boys would do that? Hurrah!

Fire and Fury! I have eaten smoke from the very mouth of cannons, Sir

2005-06-26T14:52:00.000+01:00

Had a great rehearsal today. Lots of energy, lines coming more or less when I needed them to and a very funny scene involving a Mexican stand-off with a pair of flint-lock pistols. I am now very much looking forward to performing and, by jove, it's less than a week before curtain up. Not that we'll have any actual curtains because it's an outdoor performance but hey ho!

What else has been happening? I've got back into contact with some old friends who I used to really enjoy spending time with so that's lovely. Whether we'll actually manage to stay in touch for any appreciable amount of time is a matter of some conjecture but hope springs eternal. I have also received rather a large amount of money from one of my Grandfathers so it looks as though my dream of a shiny new Apple IMac may well become a reality. Goodness, life is good.

Today The Sparrow and Red are throwing a lovely tea party in the garden of Spak's work in Lewes and the weather seems to be gearing up nicely for the occasion. Warm and sunny without being oppressive. I wish I was there but I have a battle to wage come tomorrow morning, fighting my way through the thicket of my store room to ascertain just what I'm going to bring with me to Birmingham. More letters from the front line follow shortly.

PS- Someone bid on Charlie in Ebay. How exciting!

Sugar High

2005-06-24T22:48:00.000+01:00

I'm surfing a wave of glucose-related chemical imbalances. My fingers trip over the keyboard like a stampede of wildebeest who've drunken too much coffee. I am flying on wings spun from candy floss, I am pogoing around on a stick of Brighton rock. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in five weeks - I've eaten chocolate. The richest, most fattening, to die for chocolate I have ever had the immense satisfaction to stuff into my cakehole.

The problem is my body can't handle it, my legs won't stay still, I've got a head ache, my jaw hurts, my teeth are jangling around my head, humming and blurring like xylophone keys. It's safe to say I'll be back on the old GI diet tomorrow. Oh yes, ain't nothing but brown rice and oat cakes for this little space cadet from now on.

We went to such a posh restaurant this evening. The kind of place where the chef has certificates of excellence covering every wall. How could I refuse a dessert in a place like that? I'm only human after all.

What else, what else? Oh yes, above is a picture of Father Troubadour taking the air in my new flat. Notice his faintly effeminate gait, notice the funky up lighter on the wall, notice my cool double doors. Incidentally I like the idea of giving all my friends and family faintly ridiculous pseudonyms. Red's taken to it like a duck to water, even I'm having trouble deciphering what and who she's talking about. Still she's hilarious with it, so who am I to complain?

Spent the day on Ebay. Fancy a lovely scooter? Then click below.

My lovely scooter, Charlie

Other than that, I've a smile on my face for the whole human race and everything's coming up roses. G'night, my imaginary readers, sweet dreams.

(What do imaginary people dream of? Maybe it's reality, maybe pretend people dream us into existence?)

Scorcher...

2005-06-24T11:43:00.000+01:00

Good grief, it's hot today. I wish I didn't have to visit all my jobs.... I wish I hadn't had to get up at six this morning....

blah, blah. Of course, it could be much worse.
For example, I've already had a nice cold footbath with rose petals and essential oil. Can't complain there.
My tutor read my cobbled-together chapter and liked it. She wants to read more of my stuff, and has given me another month to show her more. Equally good. (as a footbath? What?)

And, best of all, tomorrow is my best friend's birthday party on Brighton Beach. I'm really looking forward to spending some quality time with her- what with her going back to Rome, and me up and down the country like a yo-yo, I haven't seen her that much, and when I do, it always reminds me of how much I like her. Same with all my friends, I suppose. It's nice to get to a stage in one's development where you no longer feel obligated to mooch around with people you don't especially click with, simply because they are part of your extended social circle. It makes for much more stimulating evenings. Speaking of which, Spak (Wide's sister) and AAAh! (her bezza) are coming also. Fantastic. The next day we shall repair to Lewes to partake of a cream tea. I have offered to bake scones. Bwahaha... Little do they know what they have let themselves in for! (Actually, baking in 35F+ temperatures probably won't be all that much fun, but, c'est la vie...)

incidentally, poor old Lard is not coping too well at Glastonbury. Never eat the 'skank-burgers' my dear. It's just not worth the risk..... I do hope she gets back in one piece. Maybe she'll have dreads? I did, once......

Aw, look at moi chaap down thaar...
Don't ee' just look 'appy in front of 'ee big 'ouse?

Apologies for the vernacular. It's a hangover from speaking to someone last night at my job (the peon of evil one). the conversation went something along these lines:

Me: Hello, can I speak to Mr Bloggs?
Bloke: No, ee's bailin'.
Me: Bailin?
Bloke: Yur, bailin ay, with ee nuncle.
Me: Does he have a mobile number I could try?
Bloke: Well, ee did 'ave, but ee draawped et in ay trough.
Me: A trough?
Bloke: Yur, et were full o waar-er an shoite.
Me: Oh dear.
Bloke: They don't wurk too well underwater, loike....
Me: Right. Sorry... I'll try back later...

I suppose that's a valid excuse, my dad dropped his phone off a roof once. Still works, though....
For the rest of the evening I felt all D.H Lawrence-y.

Right!
Back to the grindstone....

In the Middle of Our Street ...

2005-06-24T00:19:00.000+01:00

This is my new house. It is an old Victorian conversion and it rocks, not to put too fine a point on it. Open plan kitchen, bright, spacious and oh so modern, daaaaaaaaarling! It even has a lovely corner bath and double shower cubicle. I can almost hear Red giggling in the distance. Gosh, I'm so cosmopolitan.

Butterflies....

2005-06-23T11:26:00.000+01:00

Usually, these are a good thing. In this context though, (namely, the day before meeting my supervisor to discuss my supreme lack of progress) they are not.
I've read numerous articles, books, poems and critical clap-trap over the past two weeks and enjoyed the vast majority. However, actually putting anything with an element of coherence down proves more and more difficult the more I read. Gadzooks. I have fallen into the classic 'research' bind.

Previously I was worried that Wide and I would just tumble along in a state of apathetic existence, the presence of the other allowing for corners to be cut. At least for him, now, with his wonderful success (hooray!) that's not really problematic. Whereas for me, I'm running out of excuses not to be doing things. It's an excellent opportunity I have in front of me: the chance to make something incisive and enlightening about literature- but with so much information, I hardly know where to start. It's a veritable Gordian knot, and I have yet to find which end to pull to unravel the whole thing.

In the meantime, I'm content to immerse myself in the sugary and preservative syrup of relationships and poetry... Almost becoming the 'tethered cow' that I'm writing about.
Snap out of it, girl....

Which is pretty much what everyone- (Wide, M&D, Snapper and Studded, Lard and Hopeful) have been saying. If I worked as much as I worry about working, I'd be fine... gah.
So!
Now, I think I'll go and do just that.

In Praise of my Dad

2005-06-19T16:01:00.000+01:00

This entry is only going to make any kind of sense to people who a) know my Dad and b) know Dr Who but for that extremely select demographic I am proud to present

Episode 1 - What if the Doctor regenerated into my Dad?

SC1. INT. TARDIS CONSOLE ROOM - NIGHT

[CHRISTOPHER ECCLESTON’S DOCTOR HAS JUST REGENERATED INTO MY DAD. ROSE STANDS A FEW STEPS AWAY AND DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.]

DOCTOR:
Hello. (MAKES A SILLY FACE AND ADJUSTS HIS GLASSES) Sorry about that, young Rose, I have to get used to these glasses. (BEAT) Where did these glasses come from anyway? (LOOKS AROUND THE ROOM WILDLY) It must be about time for a cup of tea.

ROSE:
Doctor? What’s happened to you?

DOCTOR:
I’ve changed. The time vortex destroyed my former body and so I grew this new one. Jolly inconvenient if you ask me, which you didn’t. Yes, nasty things time vortexes- this is why I never open the sun roof while we’re travelling.

ROSE:
It’s like you’re a completely different person.

DOCTOR:
(SUDDENLY BURSTING INTO SONG) Some enchanted evening, you may meet a stranger … (TO HIMSELF) Voice in a million. Now which button makes the tea?

ROSE:
Can’t you remember?

DOCTOR:
(LOOKING AT THE CONSOLE) Well I know which button turns it on. I learnt that last week, it’s the big red one. (PRESSES BIG RED BUTTON AND HALF THE CONSOLE EXPLODES) Hmm, perhaps I better look at the instructions. I never was very good with computers.

[THE DOCTOR EXITS THE ROOM THROUGH AN INTERIOR DOOR. ROSE FETCHES A FIRE EXTINGUISHER AND BEGINS TO GET SOME OF THE SMALLER FIRES UNDER CONTROL. THE DOCTOR RE-ENTERS READING THE TARDIS INSTRUCTION MANUAL. HE HAS TAKEN OFF THE COOL LEATHER JACKET AND NOW WEARS A NICE DIAMOND PATTERN JUMPER, SENSIBLE TROUSERS AND SOME DORKY SHOES]

DOCTOR:
Now where did I put my sonic screwdriver? Oh, I remember, in my shed.
[HE WALKS OVER TO A SMALL WOODEN BUILDING IN A CORNER OF THE CONSOLE ROOM WE’VE NEVER NOTICED BEFORE AND GOES INSIDE]

DOCTOR:
(O.O.V) Would you like a Cornetto, Madam?

ROSE:
(CONFUSED) Er … yeah, all right.

DOCTOR:
(STICKING HIS HEAD OUT THE SHED) What’s the magic word?

ROSE:
Please.

DOCTOR:
Here you are. I can’t find the sonic screwdriver but I’ve found my sonic shoe polish and my sonic bicycle pump.

ROSE:
Is that gonna help us at all?

DOCTOR:
Not especially. Your legs go up a long way, don’t they?

ROSE:
I guess so.

DOCTOR:
You should put some more clothes on. You’ll get chilly.

ROSE:
Well it’s your fault, you should have set the heating to come on earlier. Get it nice and warm.

DOCTOR:
Well, I’ll jolly well do that now. (WALKING OVER TO THE CONSOLE) Don’t worry, I’ve had lots of experience at programming the heating.(HE PRESSES A SERIES OF BUTTONS AND THE OTHER HALF OF THE CONSOLE EXPLODES) Oh damn double bitch pig. (THE DOCTOR LOOKS SLIGHTLY EXCITED TO HAVE SAID SUCH NAUGHTY WORDS, HE BEGINS TO TITTER BEHIND HIS HAND) Tee hee, tee hee.

ROSE:
Doctor, what the HELL are you doing?

DOCTOR:
Now, now young lady, you go wash your mouth out with soap and water. We don’t want that kind of naughtiness round here, do we? Oh no.

ROSE:
Excuse me?

DOCTOR:
Yes you may but be quick and wash your hands. That was a good one, wasn’t it? Ha ha, jolly funny if you ask me.

ROSE:
Which I didn’t.

DOCTOR:
Which you didn’t. Would you like to have a go at driving the TARDIS?

ROSE:
What … like steering it?

DOCTOR:
Yus.

ROSE:
Yeah, okay, what do I do?

[THE DOCTOR PRESSES SOME BUTTONS AND A STEERING WHEEL EXTENDS FROM THE CONSOLE]

DOCTOR:
Have a go. It’s like driving a car – except a billion times more complicated and a trillion times more dangerous. Oh and if you crash you could destroy all life in the universe as we know it.

ROSE:
Aren’t you a bit worried?

DOCTOR:
Of course not, I’ve got the jolly old dual controls.

[HE PRESSES A BUTTON AND A SECOND CONSOLE RISES UP NEXT TO HIM. HE SWITCHES ON THE VIEW SCREEN AS ROSE TAKES HER PLACE BEHIND THE WHEEL.]

DOCTOR:
Alright then, Miss Tyler. If you could ease the TARDIS into first and just accelerate a little bit to get a feeling for the controls. (BEAT) That’s good. (BEAT) That’s very good. Now we are heading straight for that planet at a rate of about five times the speed of light so you might want to turn left. Any time you’re ready. Left. No, the other left. Rose. Watch out for that spaceship. Look, I really think I better take over.

CUT TO:

SC2. EXT. SPACE - NIGHT

[WE SEE THE TARDIS HEADING STRAIGHT FOR A HEAVILY ARMED BATTLE CRUISER, AT THE LAST MOMENT IT STOPS, EXECUTES A SMART THREE POINT TURN AND REVERSES INTO A PARKING POSITION]

SC3. INT. TARDIS CONSOLE ROOM - DAY

[THE DOCTOR LOOKS UP FROM HIS CONSOLE AND CLAPS HIS HANDS IN A SATISFIED MANNER]

DOCTOR:
Well, that took care of that. I’m afraid that was a major fault, young Rose. You’ll never get your 4th dimensional driver’s license at this rate. Right, let’s see wants on this jolly old battle cruiser.

SC4. INT. BATTLE CRUISER FLIGHT DECK - DAY

[THE TARDIS MATERIALISES IN A LARGE ROOM FILLED WITH COMPLEX MACHINERY AND POWERFUL COMPUTERS. THE DOCTOR AND ROSE OPEN THE DOOR AND STEP OUTSIDE]

DOCTOR:
Oh, I say, look at all these flashing lights. It’s just like Christmas.

ROSE:
What is this place, Doctor?

DOCTOR:
Well from the sound of the engines and the type of technology on display, I’d say we’re on the flight deck of a Type-5 Dalek Battle Cruiser with hyperspace capabilities.

ROSE:
Wow, I see you’re as impressive as ever.

DOCTOR:
And there’s that sign of course.

[HE POINTS TO A SIGN WHICH READS: TYPE-5 DALEK BATTLE CRUISER FLIGHT DECK (NOW WITH ADDED HYPERSPACE CAPABILITIES)]

DOCTOR:
That helped as well, you understand.

ROSE:
Wait a minute, did you say DALEK battle cruiser?

DOCTOR:
I did indeed, Miss Muffet.

ROSE:
Well, doesn’t that mean there’s going to be some …

DOCTOR:
Some what? Daleks? I shouldn’t think so. These ships pretty much run themselves. Modern technology, eh? I don’t really understand it but …

DALEK:
(O.O.V) EXTERMINATE!

DOCTOR:
What was that?

ROSE:
One of your non-existent Daleks.

DOCTOR:
I suppose if I’d thought about it, they’d still need one or two on the ship. Just to do essential jobs like making the tea and the hoovering. Actually it was only recently that humans realised Daleks could hoover. (BEAT) Or was that hover?

[SUDDENLY A DALEK COMES INTO VIEW AND FIRES ITS LASER AT THE DOCTOR, HE DUCKS AND A TELEVISION SCREEN EXPLODES ABOVE HIS HEAD]

DALEK:
EXTERMINATE!

DOCTOR:
You always say that. (TO ROSE) It’ll be nice having dry towels again, do you think we can cope?

ROSE:
What?

DOCTOR:
It’s just that when you get old and senile you tend to say the same things over and over again.

DALEK:
EXTERMINATE!

DOCTOR:
Exactly. (TO DALEK) Hello, old chap, I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, Rose.

DALEK:
You are the Doctor, you are the enemy of the Daleks. Exterminate, EXTERMINATE.

DOCTOR:
I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Baldroubadour.

DALEK:
Does not compute, does not compute.

DOCTOR:
(OFFERING A CRUMBLED PAPER BAG) Would you like a jelly baby? The only thing is I do tend to find they spoil my appetite.

DALEK:
Makes no sense. Error, error, initiating torture ray.

[A BEAM OF ENERGY BURSTS FROM THE DALEK’S GUN, IT ENCOMPASSES THE DOCTOR AND HE SCREAMS IN PAIN]

DOCTOR:
(THROUGH GRITTED TEETH) Ahhh … I’ll be glad when I’ve had enough of this.

ROSE:
Doctor, are you alright? Is there anything I can do to help you?

DOCTOR:
(IN SOME PAIN) No, no, I’m fine really, I’m as fresh as a little daisy … that’s being tortured by a laser gun.

ROSE:
There’s got to be something I can do.

DOCTOR:
Create a distraction, when I say run, run … RUN!

[ROSE SPRINTS PAST THE DALEK WHO STOPS SHOOTING THE DOCTOR AND TURNS TO PURSUE HER, AS IT DOES SO THE DOCTOR RUNS UP BEHIND IT AND ATTACHES A LARGE YELLOW BOWL-LIKE BIB TO ITS HEAD. IT SWIVELS ITS EYE-STALK BUT CAN’T SEE ANYTHING.]

DOCTOR:
I picked that bib up for next to nothing … jolly good isn’t it?

DALEK:
Can’t compute, what is the point of the yellow item? Error, error. Danger, situation outside operational parameters.

DOCTOR:
It’s for cutting hair … not that it’ll be much use to you.

[THE DALEK EXPODES WHILE TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THE LOGIC BEHIND THE YELLOW BIB]

DOCTOR:
That’s the trouble with technology these days. It doesn’t last. I blame today’s throw away society. When I was a boy you used a TARDIS until it fell apart and even then you tried to mend it.

[THE LIGHT FALLS OFF THE TOP OF THE TARDIS AND ROLLS TO THE DOCTOR’S FEET]

DOCTOR:
I rest my case. (AS ROSE RUNS UP) Everything alright, cheeky monkey?

ROSE:
No it’s not, I’m scared and I’m tired and I feel like I’m going to burst into tears.

DOCTOR:
Well pull yourself together, you big girl’s blouse. Ha ha, that was a good ‘un. Come on.

[HE MOVES TOWARDS THE TARDIS]

ROSE:
Wait, where are you going now?

DOCTOR:
I’ve got something to show you, Rose Tyler. I promised I’d show you the universe, after all, but first I’m going to show you The Bill. We’ve missed the first ten minutes but we can always go back in time and see the beginning. Come on, hurry up, it’s the one where June runs around a bit and looks miserable.

[THE DOCTOR STRIDES INTO THE TARDIS HAPPILY, FOLLOWED BY A BEMUSED LOOKING ROSE. AFTER A FEW SECONDS THE BLUE POLICE BOX FADES FROM EXISTENCE.]

DOCTOR:
(O.O.V AS THE TARDIS FADES AWAY) It’ll be nice having dry towels again, do you think we can cope?

END OF EPISODE

Times they are a Changin'

2005-06-17T18:54:00.000+01:00

The more observant amongst you may have noticed that I have been joined on this site by my beautiful (and let's be honest here, frighteningly talented) girlfriend. Yes, that's right - I'm not doing an MA, nor do I have a 'lovely bloke'. I have had letters about this - believe me. If you're in any doubt as to the author, simply look at the last line - I'm Wide-eyed, she's Red. We fight crime.

In other news, things are changing faster than the pants of a compulsive eater at a laxative factory.

Sorry, let's just pause for a second while I wipe that image from my memory.

Right, now where was I? I'll just read back on what I wrote previously ... Christ, I just read it again. I doubt I'll ever get laxative man out of my head now.

Moving on here is a list of changes ...

1. My Grandpoppas moved house today, my childhood environs are being taken away from me piece by piece. Sad to see the old place go but happy to see Poppas so content and in love.

2. This change needs a bit of an explanation - as I neared the end of my third year out of university I was beginning to get the feeling that perhaps I should be doing a little more with my life than cataloguing popular culture and eating my parent’s food. Perhaps, I thought to myself between mouthfuls of doughnut as Yoda gave Count Dooku a sound thrashing on the TV, I should get one of those job things I’d heard so much about from people with money. I mean even my little sister had one and I’d had a two year head start on her. With these thoughts burning like a beacon in my Sci-Fi addled brain, I resolved there and then to do something about it, I would bring the evil Empire to its knees, I would stop the insidious power of the Sith dead in its tracks, I vowed to … then I remembered I wasn’t a Jedi, put the plastic lightsaber down and went to find the Guardian Job pages.

Finding a job isn’t as easy as it sounds, not when you’re looking for a career, something you actually care about, and especially when the job of writing, producing and starring as Dr Who has already been taken (Davies, Eccleston – I’m looking at you). Nevertheless, after months of rejection, aptitude tests, interviews, plastering, call centres and murder mystery parties I finally caught a break- my good friend Mr Colin Kemp only went and e-mailed me the job of my dreams.

To cut a long story short, I applied, was short listed, interviewed and got the job. It was harder work than that sentence implies. So as of 4th July 2005 I will be Christian Aid’s Higher Education Resource Officer. I don’t know what’s cooler – that I get to write for a living (and about something I care about no less) or that that acronym for my position is HERO. Basically I get to help shape, design and write all materials pertaining to Christian Aid’s student outreach programme. It’s my job to enthuse students about key development issues whether that be writing on the Pressureworks website, print based articles or going off to universities and leading workshops. I am over the moon … and moving to Birmingham.

3. I am now no longer going to do the journalism course. Finally I know which road to choose. It has been a scary few weeks.

4. I worked in a call centre for a couple of weeks. I am now no longer doing that either.

5. I have a new theme song.

The First Exercise

2005-06-04T23:53:00.000+01:00

My first exercise in procrastination is avoiding solidifying my ideas for what is fast becoming my opus, namely, my MA dissertation. This has mostly taken the form of:

1. Frenetic depiliation
2. Dyeing
3. Exercise
4. Seeing my lovely bloke
5. Setting up this

All of them have been fairly enjoyable.

Hack!

2005-05-27T01:51:00.000+01:00

Today I attended the interview for my journalism course which was an experience to say the least. Firstly it must be said how stupid I am. Not only did I not know who Andrew Motion was (Poet Laureate, fact fans) but I also couldn't remember, or just straight didn't know, the two official languages of Belgium, what AM means after a politician's name or who wrote Pride and Prejudice ... okay perhaps I did know that last one.

It's J.K. Rowling, right?

Anyway, after a two hour aptitude test (which I forgot to bring a pen for) I finally got around to speaking with the head lecturer chap. And he really liked me. He said he was glad that I had applied because when he talked to me at the open evening, he thought I was the kind of guy he'd really want on the course. Ah, the old troubadour charm - not only does it get me drinks and cancelled parking tickets, it also helps me better myself academically.

Anyway, I'm really happy- it seems whatever I do in September, it's going to be really enjoyable. Huzzah!

Ps- Red got her marks back for her essay - 85% and a shot at a distinction for her MA. God that girl's good.

Fork in the Road

2005-05-21T11:50:00.000+01:00

I guess few people understand at the time that they are making life-changing decisions. It's a gift, I suppose, when you absolutely, categorically know that what you decided will change the entire course of your existence. Nevertheless, here I am, two roads stretching away from me in opposite directions. Both with rich rewards on the horizon, littered with obstacles and pitted with potholes. Which one will I choose? No one knows.

Least of all me.

Taking it up a Notch

2005-05-10T23:05:00.000+01:00

I'll be honest. I've never had to work that hard to be the best thing in a show. I'm not a great cook, I can't kick a football to save my life but stick me on a stage and for some reason I tend to own it. This aptitude is of course balanced out by my numerous and colossal ineptitudes in every other fields of human endeavor. Nevertheless, when it comes to stage craft, I got serious game.

Which was why, on the whole, it was such a surprise that I got blown off the stage by a bunch of middle aged men this evening. I've obviously been on the subs bench too long. My triumphant return to the world of theatre has hit a snag. Namely, the rest of my cast is brilliant, breath-taking, magnificent. Dammit!

So I make a resolution right here and right now, I'm taking this to the next level, I'm going to go out there guns blazing. From now on this warrior poet takes no prisoners. Armed only with a salvo of perfectly crafted bon mots I aim to shang-hai this little play of ours out from under the middle-aged spreads and balding pates. Just you see if I don't.

In other news - I managed to tip a bowl of dirty toilet water over Father Troubadour while attempting to clear up after a kitchen ceiling leakage. He was, it is fair to say, entirely unamused by the incident.

In Praise of my Mum

2005-05-09T15:31:00.000+01:00

I’m standing with my mum on an empty London street and the air is alive around us. Snowflakes dance and spin and sparkle like constellations, falling stars from the slate grey sky. It is beautiful and unreal. Next to me my mother grips my arm and squints at the blank windows that rise up either side of us. She hasn’t been here for over twenty years. But this used to be her world.

It is as if we are tuning in an old television set, glimpsing a signal amidst the white noise and static. Through the snowstorm I begin to assemble a picture of her past, of the girl she was and the woman she became. We walk the streets of her youth, pressing our faces up against windows, slipping between parked cars and vivid memories. She shows me where she got her first job, where she worked when she found she was pregnant, the last door she walked through before leaving this life behind forever. How she carried me with her as she exchanged this world for another. She holds on to my arm a little tighter and we both smile. I try to imagine what it must be like to be a mother, shielding another person with your skin, protecting them with your flesh and nourishing them with your blood.

Earlier, sitting in our front room, I ask her whether she has any regrets about giving up her career to have children. She looks me straight in the eye and tells me she wouldn’t swap the time she had with me and my sister for anything. She tells me that there were days where she spent whole afternoons just sitting here holding us in her arms. I want to cry at that moment because I understand just how much we mean to each other.

My family life is scarily calm. It is worryingly free from argument and hostility. The rare exception being me and my mum. We yell and scream, we tear strips off each other, we hang up phones and slam doors. My dad and my sister look on bemused because it just doesn’t occur to them to act like that. But it is part of who we are that we feel things deeply and completely. We recognise these qualities in each other and I think it rubs us both up the wrong way sometimes. She doesn’t want me squandering my potential and I’m forever trying to gain her approval for my actions but can tell instantly when I don’t have it. We can’t stay mad at each other for more than ten minutes though. If I phone her back after an argument, the receiver doesn’t even get a chance to ring before she picks it up again.

I read a lot about my generation, about how we don’t have values or role models to aspire to. I can’t find any correlation to that in my own life because I am surrounded by people who engage and inspire me. I look at my mum and I see all the qualities I hope to one day possess, images of her like a string of paper figures decorating my life.

My mum speaking to hundreds of people about her faith and her hunger for justice.
My mum sewing me another super hero costume … and one for my teddy bear.
My mum sitting with her family and just quietly glowing with happiness.
My mum’s look of resignation as another treasured possession shatters on the floor.
My mum holding my dad’s hand for no other reason than that they belong together.
My mum cooking for the twenty teenagers that just turned up on her doorstep.

My mum standing on a street corner with snow in her hair, telling me stories about a time before I was born when pound notes floated down from the sky - making me feel so lucky to have her and so blessed to be able to share in the story of her life.

Agitation

2005-05-08T23:50:00.000+01:00

The only thing constant in this life is change. Go on, thrash me with a wet kipper for my twee homilies. Man, things are changing fast. It's enough to give a chap whiplash. I went to see my great aunt today and she is dying. She is literally collapsing in on herself and there's this burning, wonderful spirit at the centre of this dried up shadow puppet of a body. It breaks my heart. Friday, my cat broke her leg and had to be put down and when I visited her she looked so normal and serene and she purred fit to burst when I scratched her behind the ears. Then we closed the cage door and we signed a form and we charged her death to a credit card. She was lying on a blanket that was the cover for our back room sofa, a little piece of home for comfort as the needle bore down on her. We didn't return for the blanket.

This evening was better, I sat up with Alex watching stupid kung fu and eating chocolate biscuits. We always laugh so hard I end up crying, tears literally pouring down my face. We were doing exactly the same thing five years ago and it feels like a part of my identity, choking on my Mars Bar as another Chinese dude pinwheels through the air on wires. Later we burned ourselves a Mix CD and hit the streets, windows down, playing KUNG FU FIGHTING at full volume. Everything's changing, get a job, get a home, get a future. Define yourself by your occupation, beliefs, interests and shoe size. Conform, act out, make something new or bathe your eyeballs in unmitigated dross. It really doesn't matter with Carl Douglas blasting in your ears, fuelled by a sugar rush of nostalgia. If all goes well the essential topography of my life will have changed completely by next month. If not, I'll still be here - tapping S.O.S in Morse code on the keyboard.

Me + Ground = Brakes

2005-04-08T00:44:00.000+01:00

It’s funny, I think the last time I felt this useless was when I was still at school. As you grow-up you tend to shy away from things that you aren’t naturally good at and concentrate on your talents. Thus you feel like a competent and skilful person. This is why I have spent my life acting, writing, telling jokes and playing with computers. Now, for reasons that momentarily escape me, I have plunged myself into an environment where everything I am required to do is something that I have no facility for. Building, destroying, speaking French, tidying … the list goes on and on and today came to include skiing. The surprising thing about all this is that, bar the odd moment of introversion, I’m loving it. I rejoiced as I struck the icy ground again and again with my face, I marvelled at my speed and my inability to even begin to control it. I sailed through the air with a big grin plastered across my face, a tiny patch of red against all that majestic, heart-stopping, tumbling whiteness. For four hours I was a mass of legs, skis, snow, poles and blind faith, parts of me flying off in all directions, jubilant and terrified and alive. Later on I drilled holes, bent my protesting body into complex pieces of origami to access stubborn screws and cut ragged lines through various pieces of wood with a jig saw. I’m not perfect, I’m not even close to competent but I’m beginning to suspect that may be okay.

Local Herbs

2005-04-07T00:41:00.000+01:00

Strange how one day can bring so many highs and lows. Yesterday’s delights ranged from wine tasting at a beautiful vineyard to smashing a hole through the floor of the house. Adrian was not in the best of moods and a serious water leakage did nothing to lighten his mood. Today we put our dinner on at 8am and slow cooked it above the fire – beef, mushrooms, tomatoes, local herbs and fromage blanc. As I sat eating it on the common land outside the house I was overcome by a intense feeling of well being. Either life is good or Adrian isn’t telling me precisely what the ‘local herbs’ are. Either way I missed Laura and had to text her immediately.

Ugh!

2005-04-06T00:40:00.000+01:00

Ugh!

Taillet

2005-04-05T00:39:00.000+01:00

Since I arrived in Taillet I’ve had this feeling that I’m going to do something incredibly stupid or harmful. Something that’s going to irreversibly damage a precious object. I had no idea whether that object would be something of sentimental value, something of financial value or indeed Adrian and me. Well I can stop worrying now because it turned out to be an antique shelf that Adrian had been saving to put in the bathroom. One swift smack from a mallet later and it was la poubelle bound with no hope of repair. This moment of horror was compounded by Adrian going mental in the corridor with a string of expletives and, perhaps only in my mind’s eye, a little dance of frustration. I can understand his irritation, don’t send a writer to do a man’s job.

Our situation is wonderfully volatile, constantly surprising and extremely interesting. In some ways we are such different people and in many others, so similar. I have extremely vivid memories of the past few days and record them here, in no particular order, so they will stay with me.

• An early morning monologue that neatly encapsulated all our immediate neighbours, village gossip and local topography. This while I was still tucked up in bed and two thirds asleep. Half-remembered banter (ADRIAN) You shouldn’t worry about scorpions, a sudden, loud movement and they’ll just scuttle off … (ME) Does that work with Adrians too?
• My insistence we call ourselves Team Chris and the subsequent adoption of an entire ethos. Team Chris means embracing diversity. Team Chris means eating a different animal every day.
• Eating at Jean-Paul’s house, a French chef who looks like he stepped out of the pages of Asterix the Gaul. He had a cute little girl called Adele who kept sticking her tongue out at me when no-one else was looking. I guess I was the only other person in the room with a comparable grasp of the French language.
• Slow cooking a great steaming pot of Sausage Casserole on top of the fire and filling it with turnips and carrots and celery and tomatoes. Feeling proud and happy as we sat and chatted- like I’d achieved something worthwhile.
• Listening to Adrian playing his guitar with a skill bourn of experience and passion.
• The view from the front of the house. Breathtaking in a literal sense, it pushes the air out of your lungs in an appreciative sigh.

The region has been an inspiration to so many great artists and innovators, I don’t feel worthy somehow of the gifts it bestows on my imagination. There are subtle humours in the air, I tune into them and am lost, useless for long moments. Standing there smiling amidst the dust and the banging and Adrian’s frustrated cries. I enjoy the work and I enjoy these quiet times, the precious seconds between hammer blows where something clicks and the world lights up like a solar flare. I think of the books I’m going to write, I think of the stories I’m going to tell. I think of her, knowing this place effects her in exactly the same way.

We tear through this world, we splinter and break through structures and modes of behaviour that have stood for hundreds of years. Sometimes to make them better, sometimes to destroy them forever. Stone walls, shattered porcelain, a kiss on the cheek, wood spitting and cracking open in the flames. I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Teapot

2005-04-04T00:38:00.000+01:00

I regret not being able to speak French. The idea of shutting people out, of never getting to know them because of a minor linguistic technicality is irritating to say the least. The village is a world spun from history and isolation. There is magic here, as real and potent as the shifting indigo horizons.

The work has begun and, as predicted, I am as useful as a chocolate teapot. Today we cleared the kitchen and screeded the floor with a rubbery cement substance that I couldn’t pronounce properly. I was mostly in charge of mixing said substance and we’d been going no more than ten minutes before my hand fell off and dropped into the bucket. Not literally of course.

The Francophile and the Poet

2005-04-03T00:34:00.000+01:00

There was a sense of detachment. A feeling of letting go as we slipped off the beaten track and were swallowed by the foothills of the mountains. It was an evening wreathed in mist and something of the cold otherness caught in the back of my throat. Adrian was firing on all cylinders, rattling out stories like one of those stock reader machines you see in old movies. Colourful tales of village life tripped out of him like ticker-tape, he would pause for a moment, frown and then suddenly launch into another story without even bothering to finish the last one. All delivered with the kind of wild eyed enthusiasm that picks you up and sweeps you along with it. He reminds me of her, I hear her in the turn of phrase, the passion for language and living. Both of them, they don’t feel the need to insulate themselves from any of it, life, they throw themselves headlong into the chaos and grab great handfuls of the raw, precious stuff of existence. Outside the landscape was glorious and ancient and impassive. I thought about all the devices I use to stand once removed from it all – the camera obscurer of my mind that picks up images and turns them inside out and upside down. Sometimes I’m too busy turning beautiful moments into works of art to really live in them. The window felt cold against my fingertips, Adrian pointed out a deer as it darted across the road. In the distance I saw a bell tower and it was exactly how I imagined it would be.

Later, lying within the crumbling stone walls of the house, trying to stretch myself thinly enough to fill the room with my presence, I feel such potential in my fingertips. The very same fingers that pressed at the indifference of the car window now feel alive with power. This house is a battery, it stores up potential, it hums with echoes of things to come. It changes and grows unrecognisable. Like a child. I feel safe, I feel exposed, I feel lost, I feel inspired. I feel far from her and close to her heart. I am expectant. I can’t wait to feel at home.

Gladiators of Cranium

2004-12-12T13:18:00.000Z

I know my avid readership of one will be champing at the bit to know how the evening with the 'rents went yesterday. Did the best laid plans of mice and men (and mum) ... etc? Well, I shan't leave you in suspence any longer. Twas a great success, the food was blissful, the company impeccable and the evening rounded off by a close and well fought game of Cranium. We were all having such a good time that our guests nearly forgot to go home (too much Bucks Fizz perhaps?).

Action Stations

2004-12-11T13:06:00.000Z

The hour cometh. There is excitement in the Troubadour house today because we are playing host to my girlfriend's parents. We are all rushing around like headless chickens who have also, by a double stroke of bad luck, dropped their compasses. Cushions are plumbed, carpets are hoovered, dust is wiped and blown and sucked. In a typical example of family brilliance we have also decided that now would be the perfect juncture to put up the Christmas decorations so we are soon to be knee deep in tinsel. Oh joy of joys, deck the halls with tacky glitter, fla la la la la, la la la la.

The menu for tonight has also taken hours of deliberation and disagreement. Blood has been spilt amidst the herbs and melted butter but finally we have a winner. Chicken in an Orange Mascarpone sauce with stuffed peppers and pesto mash. And for desert? Oh beautiful, wonderful divine providence that has brought us to this moment - Individual Banoffe Puddings. I am literally drowning in saliva at the very prospect.

I shall leave you with that image.

Christmas List

2004-12-09T14:23:00.000Z

I'm having one of those days. Decided to comfort myself by writing a Christmas list, complete with handy links to the relevant websites. I'm nothing if not systematic when it comes to matters of commercialism.

DVDs

1. Red vs. Blue DVDs – Seasons One & Two

http://www.redvsblue.com/estore_dvds.shtml

2. Napoleon Dynamite DVD

http://www.playusa.com/playusa.asp?page=title&r=R1&title=502490

3. Seinfeld DVD Box Set

http://www.playusa.com/playusa.asp?page=title&r=R1&title=502490

4. Bill Bailey – Part Troll DVD

http://www.playusa.com/playusa.asp?page=title&r=R1&title=502490

5. Adam & Joe Show DVD

http://play.com/play247.asp?page=title&r=R2&title=157836

CDs

Juliet Turner – Season of the Hurricane

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0001Z64VS/qid=1102598787/sr=2-1/ref=sr_2_19_1/202-2209844-4915866

Rosie Brown – Clocks and Clouds

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00069MPYY/qid=1102598970/sr=1-2/ref=sr_1_10_2/202-2209844-4915866

Ani DiFranco – Little Plastic Castle

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B000063586/qid=1102600579/ref=pd_ka_1/202-2209844-4915866

Books

Ultimate X-Men: Volume 2 (Hardcover)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785111301/qid=1102599483/sr=1-37/ref=sr_1_2_37/202-2209844-4915866

Ultimate Spiderman: Volume 2 (Hardcover)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785110615/ref=pd_sim_b_dp_3/202-2209844-4915866

Hey Nostradamus!, Eleanor Rigby, Life After God – Douglas Coupland

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/search-handle-url/index=books-uk&field-author=Coupland%2C%20Douglas/202-2209844-4915866

GAMES

Prince of Persia 2: Warrior Within

http://play.com/play247.asp?pa=mchp&amp;amp;page=title&r=XBOX&title=174273

Burnout 3: Takedown

http://play.com/play247.asp?searchtype=XBOX&searchstring=Burnout+3&page=search&Go.x=0&Go.y=0

AND Finally …

Texas Hold’Em Poker Set

http://www.iwantoneofthose.com/POKHOLVAR.htm

Inflatable Sumo Suit

http://www.iwantoneofthose.com/SUMSUI.htm

(Not Really)

2004-12-08T16:37:00.000Z

Me and The Sparrow

A little about me

2004-12-08T15:32:00.000Z

This is what worries me about my ability as a writer. I don't think I'm tormented enough. I think all the truly great literary geniuses had demons- they were damaged, mentally scarred beyond recognition. I had a lovely childhood, a fantastic upbringing and I'm very happy with myself. It's a real cross to bear.

Anyway, about me. I have been writing for as long as I can remember which on a good day is several weeks ago. I once won a Mars Bar for a model I'd made from a vegetable. I don't like fish. I have a problem shaving, there's this little bit under my chin I can never get. People think it's a 'soul patch', I have no idea what they are talking about. I enjoy erudite and witty conversation, I wish I lived in one of those brilliant film noirs where every exchange is delivered with sexually-charged panache, machine-gun fire banter as sharp as a new pin. Clowns freak the hell out of me. I'm constantly amazed at the capacity of the human heart (metaphorically not physically). I recently discovered I could roll my tongue which was a relief because, genetically speaking, it means I'm not adopted. Not that I was that worried, from my Dad I got my sense of humour, from my mother my vulnerability. Neither of them saw fit to bestow upon me their fantastic organisational skills. I can juggle though, not that it's a direct substitute or anything. I'll stop now.