FISH
Once upon a time, if you’d have said to me you’ll go for a ride in a Mercedes-Benz I’d have conjured up a picture of luxury. I’d have been sitting behind the wheel bathed in rich leather and deep pile carpets. There’d be electric everything, wood fascia, the whole deal. And as I stared out of the front window, I’d see the classic Mercedes badge at the end of the bonnet.
The North African beige Mercedes taxi is a different beast entirely. It isn’t really a Mercedes at all. It’s something between a beat-up entry in Wacky Races and a physics-defying entity that laughs in the face of all known mechanical laws.
Until recently I’d never really thought about what the collective noun for cars might be but, standing by the taxi rank by the main square in Marrakesh, it occurred to me that maybe “a skip” would be a good bet. There was a skip of cars, all the same, yet all different. The same in that they were all beige Mercedes, four-door 280D model. Different in that some of them had doors that fitted, some had windows...
After a bit of chat about where exactly it was we were going and how much it was going to cost – the usual – we were ushered into a particularly… personalised model. It wasn’t held together so much by Blu-Tack as belief. And it was easier to believe if your eyes were that same herbal shade of red as our drivers. I can’t say I noticed that before we sat down.
“Which way are you going?” I said as I noticed that we weren’t going the way I thought I recognised.
“Don’t worry, my friend” said our driver, who introduced himself as Asif. “Don’t worry, be happy!”
As if.
I’d be happier if I knew where we were going and if you’re eyes weren’t looking so… relaxed, I thought. But didn’t say.
It was a two lane road. And there were three cars driving alongside down it. And a couple of mopeds. And some bikes with extended families hanging off them.
I think Asif spotted my concern.
“Don’t worry, my friend” he said as took his hands off the road and reached inside his jacket. “Have a cigarette! Don’t worry, be happy!”
I looked outside at the night as the red dust of the Moroccan sky reflected in Asif’s equally red and dusty eyes.
“Cheers Asif” I said, and I smiled to myself as I realised that I was having a cigarette, long after having given them up because they’re bad for your health. “Don’t worry, be happy!”
Poppy
Tuesday 2 October 2007
Friday 13 April 2007
Ace Mag
On Saturday March 10, the Pacific Life Open at Indian Wells held the usual promise: some lovely tennis, Andy Murray doing really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick trying and sweating and smiling before losing – just – to Nadal, Federer lifting the trophy and losing more liquid in tears than he ever did in sweat during the whole tournament. That was Saturday March 10. On Monday March 12, the Pacific Life Open at Indian Wells had become an unmissable, one of those rare events where anything might happen. What happened on Sunday March 11 was one of those things that a few years back might have vexed Mulder and Scully. On Sunday March 11, this happened: G Canas (Arg) def R Federer (Sui) 7-5, 6-2.
Later that night G Canas (Arg) had a spiritual conversion and is now living in a silent monastery in the foothills of Annapurna. For the rest of us, it was game on. Well, up to a point. Andy Murray did really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick tried and sweated and smiled before losing – just – to Nadal. And Nadal? Nadal found himself in the curious position of being in a final and playing a human being. Duly, he won a tournament for the first time in nine months.
His opponent was Murray’s victor, Novak Djokovic, the 19-year-old Serb and another of the next raft of challengers. The first teenager to reach the final since Agassi in 1990, he was attempting to become the first teen to win it since Boris Becker in 1987. Curiously, Nadal is less than a year older but looks – feels – like he’s a different generation. It didn’t take long.
"When my mother was giving me the milk, I was watching him win Wimbledon" said Novak as Boris presented him with his runners-up trophy. That puts things in a certain context, then.
The real winners were the sponsors of the ad breaks, “Stan James – The Sports Bookmakers” who, courtesy of G Canas (Arg) must have been baking cakes and booking holidays. It was a curious thing, having a bookie sponsor the breaks. The money is still gobsmacking: during the Roddick Ljubicic game, we were told that “this match brings Ivan Ljubicic’s prize money to $6million”. Ivan Ljubicic? No disrespect and he’s a good player and all, but $6million? Back in the day, you’d get bionic limbs for that sort of figure. Inflation, I guess.
Later that night G Canas (Arg) had a spiritual conversion and is now living in a silent monastery in the foothills of Annapurna. For the rest of us, it was game on. Well, up to a point. Andy Murray did really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick tried and sweated and smiled before losing – just – to Nadal. And Nadal? Nadal found himself in the curious position of being in a final and playing a human being. Duly, he won a tournament for the first time in nine months.
His opponent was Murray’s victor, Novak Djokovic, the 19-year-old Serb and another of the next raft of challengers. The first teenager to reach the final since Agassi in 1990, he was attempting to become the first teen to win it since Boris Becker in 1987. Curiously, Nadal is less than a year older but looks – feels – like he’s a different generation. It didn’t take long.
"When my mother was giving me the milk, I was watching him win Wimbledon" said Novak as Boris presented him with his runners-up trophy. That puts things in a certain context, then.
The real winners were the sponsors of the ad breaks, “Stan James – The Sports Bookmakers” who, courtesy of G Canas (Arg) must have been baking cakes and booking holidays. It was a curious thing, having a bookie sponsor the breaks. The money is still gobsmacking: during the Roddick Ljubicic game, we were told that “this match brings Ivan Ljubicic’s prize money to $6million”. Ivan Ljubicic? No disrespect and he’s a good player and all, but $6million? Back in the day, you’d get bionic limbs for that sort of figure. Inflation, I guess.
Saturday 10 March 2007
Maxwell's Big Chance
CHAPTER ONE:
It all started, naturally, with Maxwell C Wolf. He’d been the first to erode my life of single irresponsibility, the first to dictate that I work for him rather than simply for me, and somehow what started off as a simple bowl of chum had escalated to a Volvo with the contents of a lunchbox everywhere. Man’s best friend. Anyway, a friend came round for a chat . He’s working on a kids TV programme and it features a dog but the dog - Bentley - is a bit of a Joan Crawford, a bit of a prima donna. Won’t come out of his trailer if its too cold. The winalot’s the wrong shape... Method dog nonsense. So the friend told the story and looked at Maxwell and told the story and looked at Maxwell and... “So”, he says, “Can Maxwell act?”
What’s he got to do? He’s got to sit? Chase a ball? Bentley charges £250 a day. Can Maxwell act? Believe me, Maxwell can act. That was a month ago. Now Maxwell C Wolf is halfway through a course of ignatia, a homeopathic remedy designed to counter sadness and loss. He’s happy enough, but there’s something about his behaviour that seems, I don’t know, sad. Maybe it’s projection, but his ears are down, you know.. What happened? The day before shooting was to start Ð and Maxwell’s been up all night, sitting Ð we got a call from the production manager saying that Maxwell couldn’t do the job. Why not?
“He wasn’t in the union”, she said.
What do you mean?
“Sorry, he’s got to be in the union”.
Was Wapping for nothing? It was nonsense. The only concrete grief is insurance. Say the dog plays up and the shoot is held up? Who pays? Realistically, this isn’t a problem. Maxwell has a basic pet insurance and is insured for £100,000. He’s got to be. It’s a third party, fire and theft deal. Basically the union story was a nonsense. Maxwell was stitched up. Nepotism is rife in the media, everyone knows that. A dog-owner eat dog-owner business. Sorry, he’s got to be in the union, said the production manager with a can of chum in her pocket.
Still, let’s not worry about kids programmes. There are toilet rolls out there to sell. Talking to Ann Head was instructive as far as Maxwell’s future was concerned. If a dog has a good temperament, that’s the first and most important thing. If you’re talking to him and he thinks you’re playing, he might want to come to you. If you tell him off, he’ll sit and stay but with his ears down as if he’s done something wrong. A dog who is going to be used in a central role must learn to do at least the three basics before any agent will look at him. A rock solid stay, a fetch and carry and, preferably, a speak on command. If he can’t do those, then his owner is unlikely to be good at training. People say to me aren’t you lucky to find a pretty white cat who’ll put his paw in a can of food, or how did you find a dog who would play the piano?. You have to look at the common denominator. A dog who will speak on command? Or play the piano? We looked at our non-musical mute hound and we looked at sweet lovely Elly and we heard Ann’s words ringing in our ears. It’s the same as with baby modelling. If you’re in it for the money, forget it. That’s the wrong attitude. Now, no disrespect to Maxwell, but this time, we thought we’d do our research. We started with a call to the Norrie Carr Model Agency, a member of the Association of Model Agents, no less. In a cute reversal of roles, we realised that the odds were that we’d end up doing the paying. Even though there’s no signing on fee, to get signed up your child have an assessment £25 signing on fee. £85 for half a page in the models book. Jackie at the Sylvia Young Agency. If a parent thinks of their baby as a commodity, they’re not going to do well in this business. Most people come to us because they’ve got babies and they want something to do. We tend to reject a baby if the parent has the wrong attitude. Obviously more research was needed. We checked around and found the inevitable friend of a friend. A make up artist, Susie made it sound perfect. Well, humane. I used it as a playgroup for my two when they were very small. It's good for little ones to be with other babies. The mums often find it a good opportunity to meet other mums and to talk about their new roles. But I'm going to give up when my girls are old enough to be bothered about whether or not they get the ad. They're two and four now and fine about it. They just see it as a game. They don't often get picked for the ad anyway and I don't think that they see any difference between a shoot and a casting. Both give them their 15 seconds in front of the camera. I have no problem with it. We should have known. But it all seemed so easy. A couple of months ago, a friend came round for a chat. She’s working on an advert and it’s for nappies and they need a new-born baby. They had one but there was SMA powdered milk instead of Cow & Gate in the changing room... So she says, can Elly act? She’s got to lay on her stomach? Elly can act. Believe me. Elly had to lie face down on a sheepskin and, wearing nothing but a skimpy T-shirt, do nothing. Look, the kid’s a prodigy Ð she was sucking her thumb on day one. This was nothing, and at four months she’d have the maturity and the perspective that a new-born just wouldn’t have. So we got to the casting session and there was this room full of Mrs Worthingtons with their tap-dancing, trumpet playing babies and we smiled the smile of the confident. I’d like to thank everyone... Elly, need it be said, was perfect. OK, so she wee’d just as the photographer snapped. It’s natural. No. The reason Elly was rejected was because her bottom was too... It wasn’t fleshy enough. From Twiggy to Jodie Kidd and now they decide that fat is a good thing for a model to be? So what’s the story? We look for very placid babies who are not necessarily the perfect baby to look at. It’s more important that they have the right temperament than the perfect face. They need to look healthy and have a good disposition. We might want to feed the baby when it’s not his feeding time, so the baby has to be flexible enough to do that. We need the baby to be able to go to other people - not just his mum. So the perfect eyes and face shape often has very little to do with it. And what about speaking on command? Or playing the piano? Sorry?. Still. On reflection, it’s good she didn’t get the job. We didn’t want Elly to turn into some Joan Crawford prima donna, some Bentley. And have her bottom staring down from a billboard poster? Modelling’s a nonsense. All that time spent waiting around when she could’ve been praticing her double-handed backhand down the line. There are more parents than babies who get depressed about the failure rate, said Jackie. It’s a natural instinct to be proud of your child and of course you want everybody else to think that your child is gorgeous. If you want a bit of fun, try modelling, but if you’re going to get depressed about it, find something else to do with your baby. If you’ve ever doubted the existance of a righteous God, then ponder this. It’s 10.44pm and Maxwell’s upstairs sleeping and Elly’s watching MTV with her mum. Meanwhile I’ve done my days work and I’m sitting here writing an article about how to get the children to work for you. u all Even though there’s no signing-Elly had to .. Then there was . £85 for half a page. Then there are the professional photographers to pay for Ð You haven’t got a portfolio? And for what? A rate of £30 an hour if successfully selected? was no more encouragingGet away from the agencies, go for the human touch. spect to Maxwell, but this timeand iTThat’s (£112.50 a day) genuine Jackie
It all started, naturally, with Maxwell C Wolf. He’d been the first to erode my life of single irresponsibility, the first to dictate that I work for him rather than simply for me, and somehow what started off as a simple bowl of chum had escalated to a Volvo with the contents of a lunchbox everywhere. Man’s best friend. Anyway, a friend came round for a chat . He’s working on a kids TV programme and it features a dog but the dog - Bentley - is a bit of a Joan Crawford, a bit of a prima donna. Won’t come out of his trailer if its too cold. The winalot’s the wrong shape... Method dog nonsense. So the friend told the story and looked at Maxwell and told the story and looked at Maxwell and... “So”, he says, “Can Maxwell act?”
What’s he got to do? He’s got to sit? Chase a ball? Bentley charges £250 a day. Can Maxwell act? Believe me, Maxwell can act. That was a month ago. Now Maxwell C Wolf is halfway through a course of ignatia, a homeopathic remedy designed to counter sadness and loss. He’s happy enough, but there’s something about his behaviour that seems, I don’t know, sad. Maybe it’s projection, but his ears are down, you know.. What happened? The day before shooting was to start Ð and Maxwell’s been up all night, sitting Ð we got a call from the production manager saying that Maxwell couldn’t do the job. Why not?
“He wasn’t in the union”, she said.
What do you mean?
“Sorry, he’s got to be in the union”.
Was Wapping for nothing? It was nonsense. The only concrete grief is insurance. Say the dog plays up and the shoot is held up? Who pays? Realistically, this isn’t a problem. Maxwell has a basic pet insurance and is insured for £100,000. He’s got to be. It’s a third party, fire and theft deal. Basically the union story was a nonsense. Maxwell was stitched up. Nepotism is rife in the media, everyone knows that. A dog-owner eat dog-owner business. Sorry, he’s got to be in the union, said the production manager with a can of chum in her pocket.
Still, let’s not worry about kids programmes. There are toilet rolls out there to sell. Talking to Ann Head was instructive as far as Maxwell’s future was concerned. If a dog has a good temperament, that’s the first and most important thing. If you’re talking to him and he thinks you’re playing, he might want to come to you. If you tell him off, he’ll sit and stay but with his ears down as if he’s done something wrong. A dog who is going to be used in a central role must learn to do at least the three basics before any agent will look at him. A rock solid stay, a fetch and carry and, preferably, a speak on command. If he can’t do those, then his owner is unlikely to be good at training. People say to me aren’t you lucky to find a pretty white cat who’ll put his paw in a can of food, or how did you find a dog who would play the piano?. You have to look at the common denominator. A dog who will speak on command? Or play the piano? We looked at our non-musical mute hound and we looked at sweet lovely Elly and we heard Ann’s words ringing in our ears. It’s the same as with baby modelling. If you’re in it for the money, forget it. That’s the wrong attitude. Now, no disrespect to Maxwell, but this time, we thought we’d do our research. We started with a call to the Norrie Carr Model Agency, a member of the Association of Model Agents, no less. In a cute reversal of roles, we realised that the odds were that we’d end up doing the paying. Even though there’s no signing on fee, to get signed up your child have an assessment £25 signing on fee. £85 for half a page in the models book. Jackie at the Sylvia Young Agency. If a parent thinks of their baby as a commodity, they’re not going to do well in this business. Most people come to us because they’ve got babies and they want something to do. We tend to reject a baby if the parent has the wrong attitude. Obviously more research was needed. We checked around and found the inevitable friend of a friend. A make up artist, Susie made it sound perfect. Well, humane. I used it as a playgroup for my two when they were very small. It's good for little ones to be with other babies. The mums often find it a good opportunity to meet other mums and to talk about their new roles. But I'm going to give up when my girls are old enough to be bothered about whether or not they get the ad. They're two and four now and fine about it. They just see it as a game. They don't often get picked for the ad anyway and I don't think that they see any difference between a shoot and a casting. Both give them their 15 seconds in front of the camera. I have no problem with it. We should have known. But it all seemed so easy. A couple of months ago, a friend came round for a chat. She’s working on an advert and it’s for nappies and they need a new-born baby. They had one but there was SMA powdered milk instead of Cow & Gate in the changing room... So she says, can Elly act? She’s got to lay on her stomach? Elly can act. Believe me. Elly had to lie face down on a sheepskin and, wearing nothing but a skimpy T-shirt, do nothing. Look, the kid’s a prodigy Ð she was sucking her thumb on day one. This was nothing, and at four months she’d have the maturity and the perspective that a new-born just wouldn’t have. So we got to the casting session and there was this room full of Mrs Worthingtons with their tap-dancing, trumpet playing babies and we smiled the smile of the confident. I’d like to thank everyone... Elly, need it be said, was perfect. OK, so she wee’d just as the photographer snapped. It’s natural. No. The reason Elly was rejected was because her bottom was too... It wasn’t fleshy enough. From Twiggy to Jodie Kidd and now they decide that fat is a good thing for a model to be? So what’s the story? We look for very placid babies who are not necessarily the perfect baby to look at. It’s more important that they have the right temperament than the perfect face. They need to look healthy and have a good disposition. We might want to feed the baby when it’s not his feeding time, so the baby has to be flexible enough to do that. We need the baby to be able to go to other people - not just his mum. So the perfect eyes and face shape often has very little to do with it. And what about speaking on command? Or playing the piano? Sorry?. Still. On reflection, it’s good she didn’t get the job. We didn’t want Elly to turn into some Joan Crawford prima donna, some Bentley. And have her bottom staring down from a billboard poster? Modelling’s a nonsense. All that time spent waiting around when she could’ve been praticing her double-handed backhand down the line. There are more parents than babies who get depressed about the failure rate, said Jackie. It’s a natural instinct to be proud of your child and of course you want everybody else to think that your child is gorgeous. If you want a bit of fun, try modelling, but if you’re going to get depressed about it, find something else to do with your baby. If you’ve ever doubted the existance of a righteous God, then ponder this. It’s 10.44pm and Maxwell’s upstairs sleeping and Elly’s watching MTV with her mum. Meanwhile I’ve done my days work and I’m sitting here writing an article about how to get the children to work for you. u all Even though there’s no signing-Elly had to .. Then there was . £85 for half a page. Then there are the professional photographers to pay for Ð You haven’t got a portfolio? And for what? A rate of £30 an hour if successfully selected? was no more encouragingGet away from the agencies, go for the human touch. spect to Maxwell, but this timeand iTThat’s (£112.50 a day) genuine Jackie
Men's Group
A storm is threatening our very lives today; If I don't get some shelter, man, I'm gonna fade away..."
So that was that. Men's group done and dusted. I made every effort not to know what was going to happen and probably that's just as well. It wasn't what I thought, but I don't know what was. If I'd have given it any thought... Forget it. I didn't. I think it helped that I don't have any issues about the masculinity thing. Though having just said that word I also admit that there's not a lot about that word I understand. Maybe that's my gift, maybe it's my curse. I don't know. I'm not a male in the old sense - in my father's sense - but I'm not not a male in that sense either. I provide the cash. I pay the bills. I take care of things. I think in general we follow the old Jewish tradition - you know, the old joke: The man makes all the big decisions - whether we're going to war, what the interest rates are... - while the woman makes all the small decisions - where we live, where the children go to school, what we're going to eat tonight.
There was a lot of chat about 'the masculine' and there was that word that Matt picked up on - besieged. I'm not sure about any of this. Most of the language that was used was language that, in the greater world, would be described as 'feminine'. It was tender and warm and loving. Even the words that don't necessarily have a female connotation, words like strong and brave and noble... why are these given a gender? Aren't these just traps we fall into? Why must we assign words and feelings to gender. Listen, Graham cried and we metaphorically applauded. Yet crying. Isn't that a girlie thing to do? Surely the only way forward is that we leave al that labelling behind and just consider ourselves as people? I don't mean to discredit the notion of a 'men's group' nor do I intend to because most if not all of the exercises we did were either interesting or valuable, but all this did make me question the validity of our exercise. The agenda is set by the agenda of the people involved. Of course.
Having said all that... what a lovely opportunity to spend some time with a group of men, talking about things that were important to us, listening to each other, caring for what each other says. When was the last time anyone had a conversation where the person speaking gave 100% and the person listening gave 100%? It doesn't happen. But here it happened and that was fantastic. Spending time listening and talking and just being in a completely selfish way. This is my time. It's a fantastic luxury.
Also, it wouldn't have worked if it had been cross-gender. I don't know why - and that's something I'm going to have to think about - but I just know that not only was it easier being all-male, but it made it possible to be honest. Talking of honesty, I was frankly amazed at how quickly everyone got with it. There seemed to be no settling in period, no testing the water. Everyone just seemed to jump in. I was surprised and I think that the idea to fill in that initial questionnaire was a masterstroke. It immediately helped focus the mind, helped concentrate thoughts. Would it have made a difference if we'd have known that no one was ever going to see them? No idea. The other smart set up was getting us to put blindfolds on before the Sweat. That whole thing - the blindfolds, the walk outside holding hands... - was the perfect way to both concentrate your mind and take your mind off what was to happen.
A downside? I felt there was a certain pressure to say things when really there was nothing to say. I'd liked to have had a bit more outside stuff, a bit more fresh air and nature. And - and this is something I've not thought through at all - but what might it have been like to have an exercise that was intensely physical. You know, get us all absolutely shattered physically and then... then we talk. That state of being physically spent, I dont know how you'd do it but it's an interesting state. Wrestling?
Another downside. There was too much of an air of solemnity. It was all - understandably - very serious. I felt discouraged from making gags, from being a smartarse . Probably a good thing.
The initial exercises about our fathers... My feelings about my father came as no surprise really. It's a bitch that he died. 20-odd years on, I still can't believe it. But there's nothing to add here. No new thoughts. I know now that it was a relationship that was supposed to be an adult thing, that if have hung around we'd have been mates - proper mates having a laugh and stuff. It was never meant to be an adult/child thing. By all accounts he had that with Stephen.
It's a strange relief to find that everyone's experiences are so similar. The absent (for whatever reason) father was a fantastically strong image and as a father it made me realise the importance of being there, both physically and emotionally. This was a good realisation because I'd been having problems with my decision to give up work and the strains that was putting on the family. Was it a selfish 'sacrifice'?
The actual sweat was a strange one. In the build up, I was so concerned about the physicality of it all that I didn't give much thought to it. But it was amazing and my first instinct was that impulse that Teletubbies tapped in to so brilliantly. Again, again. The heat I didn't find a problem, though there were times when James was throwing water on the 'grandfathers' when I though "OK OK enough bloody water already". (Thought: why are they called grandfathers? Must remember to ask James). It helped that I stuck my hand outside, just that psychological safety net - there is an outside. I can't see anything but there is an outside. It was a curiously thrilling experience and one I'd like to repeat again soon. I know that the next time I won't be so fearful of it all and that will help my flow. I was pleased that I didn't feel the need to take on another persona. No judgements - if that's what other people want to do, fine. But it's not me. There was a time when I'd have felt pressured to follow suit - "Er, hello. Squatting Donkey here...." But I just went with what I felt. And that felt good. It's very easy to say things like "Be honest" and "Be true to yourself" but it's not so easy to do. It's easy to say that "the energy in the Sweat wouldn't let you be anything other than true to yourself, but - while that's true - it's still bloody hard.
The fire after was fantastic. It was curious. I felt wonderfully post-coital, that afterglow. It was like we'd all just had great sex, were spent and were now sitting around doing the cigarette thing.
I came away thinking that everyone there was a good person, a sweet. But I guess that's what happens at places like this. Will any new friendships bloom? Doubt it. Will any of the taking names down and "We must get together" stuff happen? Doubt it. Will even the names get passed around? We'll see. I'd like to be surprised, but what do you think? None of that means anything really, It's just the way the world works. I'll stay friends with Graham because I am friends with Graham and that's cool too. He surprised me. I was incredibly touched by him showing emotional cracks during the gown exercise. It was brave and real and very human.
I need to get in touch with 'The Warrior'. I don't feel those impulses at all. I should, I think, take up a high pressure sport. I listened to Matt talking about surfing and the other water stuff and it was properly inspiring. I'm sure there's benefit to be gained from that, an energy to tap into. Listen, if nothing else I'll get fitter, but there's every chance a new door might open and that would be to everyone's benefit.
For me, one of the most interesting things was the drum beating exercise. Beating out the rage and the anger. One by one, different men came and went, banging the drum in their own ways and letting out deep primal roars and screams. I looked on as they did and, of all the exercises we'd done, it seemed to me the strangest. When it came to my turn... I was going to pass – after all, that was every man's prerogative – but I wanted to just be in that space, I just wanted to hold that drum. To see how it felt. So I went into the centre of the circle, kneeled on the cushion, held the drum. Nothing. I stroked the drum. Nothing. Tapped it with my fingers. Nothing. It was a strange thing but even though I'd been with these men for the best part of two days and I’d been through all sorts of psyche-stripping exercises with them, I felt a huge rush of peer pressure. Bang and scream. That's what everyone else has done. That's what they’re waiting to hear. That's what you’re supposed to do. When I started I was quite self-conscious. It took a while for me to get out of my head but while there's were times when, in truth, I might have held a part of me back I didn't’t ever respond dishonestly. What’s the point? And apart from anything else, everyone else would have seen through it. I’m not sure you can hide in these situations. Anyway – the point is, that I wasn't’t going to bang the bastard drum now. I wasn't’t going to start being dishonest at this stage of the game. So I was holding this drum, trying to locate the rage and the anger within, thinking of what to do when James said to me "How would express passion?" This took me by complete surprise and, frankly, I didn't know what to say. To say that it came from left field is... accurate. I thought we were banging drums, expressing anger, outing rage. What had that got to do with "How would express passion?" In that classic way that you always think of the smart retort after the event – you know, the classic put-down – I now know I should have just shown James that my passion comes from a hug, a kiss, a smile, a warm embrace. Not banging a drum and screaming. Now – and here's a thought – does that make me a unimaginative, passionless lover? I don't know. Anyway, the smart retort escaped me and I just return to my cushion. There was a muted "Ho" from the assembled menfolk. Did they understand? Did they know what I was thinking? Did they think I was hiding back? Interpret it as an emotionally constipated response? I sat there thinking about all this and – by now I knew the score – knew that we would go round in a circle and explain 'how that all felt'. Should I say? Maybe in retrospect I should have had a bit of a rabbit, but at the time I just felt that I didn't care what people thought. I was secure in my response. Really. I feel really comfortable writing that, knowing that it's not a lie or a cover-up. I think that also maybe I felt that if I wasn’t really careful it might come across as sounding smug – I haven't got any rage. I haven't got any anger. I deal with it before it builds to that.
One final thing. I was incredibly touched that James gave me that picture of "The King". I've no idea whether it was a deliberate act, whether there any thought involved - and if there was, what that thought might have been. I've no idea whether James thought I was the oldest there or the most deserving or the what. Maybe I was the nearest. Maybe they thought I was the most needy. You know, I didn't know then and I don't care now. If it wasn't a deliberate act then I'm going to tick the box that says Nothing Happens By Accident and say that it 'was meant'. There. That's even better for this bastard ego.
So that was that. Men's group done and dusted. I made every effort not to know what was going to happen and probably that's just as well. It wasn't what I thought, but I don't know what was. If I'd have given it any thought... Forget it. I didn't. I think it helped that I don't have any issues about the masculinity thing. Though having just said that word I also admit that there's not a lot about that word I understand. Maybe that's my gift, maybe it's my curse. I don't know. I'm not a male in the old sense - in my father's sense - but I'm not not a male in that sense either. I provide the cash. I pay the bills. I take care of things. I think in general we follow the old Jewish tradition - you know, the old joke: The man makes all the big decisions - whether we're going to war, what the interest rates are... - while the woman makes all the small decisions - where we live, where the children go to school, what we're going to eat tonight.
There was a lot of chat about 'the masculine' and there was that word that Matt picked up on - besieged. I'm not sure about any of this. Most of the language that was used was language that, in the greater world, would be described as 'feminine'. It was tender and warm and loving. Even the words that don't necessarily have a female connotation, words like strong and brave and noble... why are these given a gender? Aren't these just traps we fall into? Why must we assign words and feelings to gender. Listen, Graham cried and we metaphorically applauded. Yet crying. Isn't that a girlie thing to do? Surely the only way forward is that we leave al that labelling behind and just consider ourselves as people? I don't mean to discredit the notion of a 'men's group' nor do I intend to because most if not all of the exercises we did were either interesting or valuable, but all this did make me question the validity of our exercise. The agenda is set by the agenda of the people involved. Of course.
Having said all that... what a lovely opportunity to spend some time with a group of men, talking about things that were important to us, listening to each other, caring for what each other says. When was the last time anyone had a conversation where the person speaking gave 100% and the person listening gave 100%? It doesn't happen. But here it happened and that was fantastic. Spending time listening and talking and just being in a completely selfish way. This is my time. It's a fantastic luxury.
Also, it wouldn't have worked if it had been cross-gender. I don't know why - and that's something I'm going to have to think about - but I just know that not only was it easier being all-male, but it made it possible to be honest. Talking of honesty, I was frankly amazed at how quickly everyone got with it. There seemed to be no settling in period, no testing the water. Everyone just seemed to jump in. I was surprised and I think that the idea to fill in that initial questionnaire was a masterstroke. It immediately helped focus the mind, helped concentrate thoughts. Would it have made a difference if we'd have known that no one was ever going to see them? No idea. The other smart set up was getting us to put blindfolds on before the Sweat. That whole thing - the blindfolds, the walk outside holding hands... - was the perfect way to both concentrate your mind and take your mind off what was to happen.
A downside? I felt there was a certain pressure to say things when really there was nothing to say. I'd liked to have had a bit more outside stuff, a bit more fresh air and nature. And - and this is something I've not thought through at all - but what might it have been like to have an exercise that was intensely physical. You know, get us all absolutely shattered physically and then... then we talk. That state of being physically spent, I dont know how you'd do it but it's an interesting state. Wrestling?
Another downside. There was too much of an air of solemnity. It was all - understandably - very serious. I felt discouraged from making gags, from being a smartarse . Probably a good thing.
The initial exercises about our fathers... My feelings about my father came as no surprise really. It's a bitch that he died. 20-odd years on, I still can't believe it. But there's nothing to add here. No new thoughts. I know now that it was a relationship that was supposed to be an adult thing, that if have hung around we'd have been mates - proper mates having a laugh and stuff. It was never meant to be an adult/child thing. By all accounts he had that with Stephen.
It's a strange relief to find that everyone's experiences are so similar. The absent (for whatever reason) father was a fantastically strong image and as a father it made me realise the importance of being there, both physically and emotionally. This was a good realisation because I'd been having problems with my decision to give up work and the strains that was putting on the family. Was it a selfish 'sacrifice'?
The actual sweat was a strange one. In the build up, I was so concerned about the physicality of it all that I didn't give much thought to it. But it was amazing and my first instinct was that impulse that Teletubbies tapped in to so brilliantly. Again, again. The heat I didn't find a problem, though there were times when James was throwing water on the 'grandfathers' when I though "OK OK enough bloody water already". (Thought: why are they called grandfathers? Must remember to ask James). It helped that I stuck my hand outside, just that psychological safety net - there is an outside. I can't see anything but there is an outside. It was a curiously thrilling experience and one I'd like to repeat again soon. I know that the next time I won't be so fearful of it all and that will help my flow. I was pleased that I didn't feel the need to take on another persona. No judgements - if that's what other people want to do, fine. But it's not me. There was a time when I'd have felt pressured to follow suit - "Er, hello. Squatting Donkey here...." But I just went with what I felt. And that felt good. It's very easy to say things like "Be honest" and "Be true to yourself" but it's not so easy to do. It's easy to say that "the energy in the Sweat wouldn't let you be anything other than true to yourself, but - while that's true - it's still bloody hard.
The fire after was fantastic. It was curious. I felt wonderfully post-coital, that afterglow. It was like we'd all just had great sex, were spent and were now sitting around doing the cigarette thing.
I came away thinking that everyone there was a good person, a sweet. But I guess that's what happens at places like this. Will any new friendships bloom? Doubt it. Will any of the taking names down and "We must get together" stuff happen? Doubt it. Will even the names get passed around? We'll see. I'd like to be surprised, but what do you think? None of that means anything really, It's just the way the world works. I'll stay friends with Graham because I am friends with Graham and that's cool too. He surprised me. I was incredibly touched by him showing emotional cracks during the gown exercise. It was brave and real and very human.
I need to get in touch with 'The Warrior'. I don't feel those impulses at all. I should, I think, take up a high pressure sport. I listened to Matt talking about surfing and the other water stuff and it was properly inspiring. I'm sure there's benefit to be gained from that, an energy to tap into. Listen, if nothing else I'll get fitter, but there's every chance a new door might open and that would be to everyone's benefit.
For me, one of the most interesting things was the drum beating exercise. Beating out the rage and the anger. One by one, different men came and went, banging the drum in their own ways and letting out deep primal roars and screams. I looked on as they did and, of all the exercises we'd done, it seemed to me the strangest. When it came to my turn... I was going to pass – after all, that was every man's prerogative – but I wanted to just be in that space, I just wanted to hold that drum. To see how it felt. So I went into the centre of the circle, kneeled on the cushion, held the drum. Nothing. I stroked the drum. Nothing. Tapped it with my fingers. Nothing. It was a strange thing but even though I'd been with these men for the best part of two days and I’d been through all sorts of psyche-stripping exercises with them, I felt a huge rush of peer pressure. Bang and scream. That's what everyone else has done. That's what they’re waiting to hear. That's what you’re supposed to do. When I started I was quite self-conscious. It took a while for me to get out of my head but while there's were times when, in truth, I might have held a part of me back I didn't’t ever respond dishonestly. What’s the point? And apart from anything else, everyone else would have seen through it. I’m not sure you can hide in these situations. Anyway – the point is, that I wasn't’t going to bang the bastard drum now. I wasn't’t going to start being dishonest at this stage of the game. So I was holding this drum, trying to locate the rage and the anger within, thinking of what to do when James said to me "How would express passion?" This took me by complete surprise and, frankly, I didn't know what to say. To say that it came from left field is... accurate. I thought we were banging drums, expressing anger, outing rage. What had that got to do with "How would express passion?" In that classic way that you always think of the smart retort after the event – you know, the classic put-down – I now know I should have just shown James that my passion comes from a hug, a kiss, a smile, a warm embrace. Not banging a drum and screaming. Now – and here's a thought – does that make me a unimaginative, passionless lover? I don't know. Anyway, the smart retort escaped me and I just return to my cushion. There was a muted "Ho" from the assembled menfolk. Did they understand? Did they know what I was thinking? Did they think I was hiding back? Interpret it as an emotionally constipated response? I sat there thinking about all this and – by now I knew the score – knew that we would go round in a circle and explain 'how that all felt'. Should I say? Maybe in retrospect I should have had a bit of a rabbit, but at the time I just felt that I didn't care what people thought. I was secure in my response. Really. I feel really comfortable writing that, knowing that it's not a lie or a cover-up. I think that also maybe I felt that if I wasn’t really careful it might come across as sounding smug – I haven't got any rage. I haven't got any anger. I deal with it before it builds to that.
One final thing. I was incredibly touched that James gave me that picture of "The King". I've no idea whether it was a deliberate act, whether there any thought involved - and if there was, what that thought might have been. I've no idea whether James thought I was the oldest there or the most deserving or the what. Maybe I was the nearest. Maybe they thought I was the most needy. You know, I didn't know then and I don't care now. If it wasn't a deliberate act then I'm going to tick the box that says Nothing Happens By Accident and say that it 'was meant'. There. That's even better for this bastard ego.
Parkway
I don't mean to bang on about this - and don't worry. I'll soon get back on track and get back to the important things. Talking of which, it's 10.55. The woman on the loudspeakers just announced that we're half an hour from Bristol.
"Our time of arrival will be just after 11.30" she said. Suit your self. Made me laugh. Got to get your humour where you can these days.
We've just reached Tiverton Parkway. What is it with this part of the country and Parkways? There's Bristol Parkway. Now there's Tiverton Parkway. There's no Brighton Parkway. What is it? Is Parkway a derivation of some old Wessex word meaning station? You see? A mind like a razor, a bloody razor. Mid-life crisis, mid-life schmisis. What do these people know?
This is beautiful. There's a vast expanse of water, river estuary or something, down by Exmouth and there all these wading birds flocking around, having a bit of a nibble, a bit of a swim. In the middle, well not right in the middle, but a fair way out, there's a sandbank. Not big, it's just gently jutting out of the water and there's a bloke standing there, fishing. The sun is reflecting off the water and glistens. How perfect. Newton Abbott. Maybe we'll come and live in Newton Abbott. We could write The Juicy Guide To Newton Abbott (sounds like my kind of job) and after lunch when that was finished, we could stand on a sandbank and catch fish. Maybe build a barbecue on the sandbank. Cook the fish. Invite a few sandbills over. Maybe an oyster-catcher if they're around. What's the monthly mortgage repayments on sandbank? Can't be much, can it? Still, it's a bit of a relief not having to write about Busta Rhymes and pretend I know what the story is and talk about the interesting use of samples. The interesting use of samples? I hate the whole sample culture. It's such bollocks. Write your own bastard song instead of stealing snatches of other people's music. If I did that, if I tried to, say, write a book by using 'samples' of other peoples books, I'd get hammered. Sampling? Bloody plagiarism. Bitter? Not at all. No, it's a challenge, this mid-life crisis. And anyway, I was reading that thin children are this season's must-have accessory.
It's a lovely part of the country, down here. If only it wasn't so far. Plymouth. When I used to pay attention to the football results and all those place names came upon the teleprinter, these places and names I'd never heard of and certainly had no idea where they were or anything,I never figured Plymouth to be the sort of place I'd say was nice. Plymouth? What is it? The River Ply? I don't know. Suddenly Plymouth's turned into Coronation Street, all back to backs and terraced roofs. Liskard is the next stop. Maybe that'll be better. Liskard? Is that real? How come there isn't a Liskard Athletic languishing at the bottom of the Third Division? Because I never heard Len Martin say "Leyton Orient 2,Liskard Athletic 0" does that mean its not a legitimate place?
There's a sweet - sweetish - irony going off to lecture on the joys of journalism the week after I got the sac... cutbacked. Once you get past the obvious gag, I can't quite work out whether it's a good thing. After all, there's the old "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" line. And I guess that most of the students - well, the sussed ones - will assume that I haven't got a job anyway. I'm teaching therefore I haven't got a job. Fuck it. They're only students. It's a 4.30 class. Odds on, I'll be the only one to turn up.
Day Two of the mid-life crisis and it's going well. I've come up with a few ideas but nothing's stuck: Cranial osteopath was too last century. Counsellor? Too last week.
Here's an idea. I could try and do the journalism thing again but under a pseudonym - how fucking bastard post-modern funny would that be, huh? But... it's too much potential grief. If my new persona (young female, of course) wasn't a roaring success, well that would be double confirmation of the same thing. The writing's just the writing and... But what if she was a roaring success? What if... Well, what would that say about the previous incarnation? No, that's too much to think about.
It happens. Now then, you might not know this but I'm not what you could justifiably call a religious man. Well, being Jewish, i don't suppose I have to be. Chosen, innit. Maybe last time out I was indeed a particularly religious man, maybe a priest or something. Some mad shamanic geezer with a big hat and flowing robes and mad eyes and a strangely devoted young female acolytes hanging on my every word who broke away from the orthodoxy of his church and founded a new radical branch - a new religion! Strangling chickens and hurling fresh blood over my congregation, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was good because, like I say, I came back chosen. Or should that be Chosen?
Like I say, I'm not a religious man when you lose your job and you find that the last two records you've got to write about are the new albums by the Appleton sisters and Mel C, well you've got to wonder whether it isn't Our Lord saying to you "Jedski, it is time to knock it on the head. And while you're there here's a couple of records to make sure you don't look back on it with any fondness".
I think I'm going to give the Appleton sisters album 5 stars. Call it a triumph. How dull would it be if I got all bitter and laid into it, tried to score cheap gags. No, much better to be magnanimous. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.
"Our time of arrival will be just after 11.30" she said. Suit your self. Made me laugh. Got to get your humour where you can these days.
We've just reached Tiverton Parkway. What is it with this part of the country and Parkways? There's Bristol Parkway. Now there's Tiverton Parkway. There's no Brighton Parkway. What is it? Is Parkway a derivation of some old Wessex word meaning station? You see? A mind like a razor, a bloody razor. Mid-life crisis, mid-life schmisis. What do these people know?
This is beautiful. There's a vast expanse of water, river estuary or something, down by Exmouth and there all these wading birds flocking around, having a bit of a nibble, a bit of a swim. In the middle, well not right in the middle, but a fair way out, there's a sandbank. Not big, it's just gently jutting out of the water and there's a bloke standing there, fishing. The sun is reflecting off the water and glistens. How perfect. Newton Abbott. Maybe we'll come and live in Newton Abbott. We could write The Juicy Guide To Newton Abbott (sounds like my kind of job) and after lunch when that was finished, we could stand on a sandbank and catch fish. Maybe build a barbecue on the sandbank. Cook the fish. Invite a few sandbills over. Maybe an oyster-catcher if they're around. What's the monthly mortgage repayments on sandbank? Can't be much, can it? Still, it's a bit of a relief not having to write about Busta Rhymes and pretend I know what the story is and talk about the interesting use of samples. The interesting use of samples? I hate the whole sample culture. It's such bollocks. Write your own bastard song instead of stealing snatches of other people's music. If I did that, if I tried to, say, write a book by using 'samples' of other peoples books, I'd get hammered. Sampling? Bloody plagiarism. Bitter? Not at all. No, it's a challenge, this mid-life crisis. And anyway, I was reading that thin children are this season's must-have accessory.
It's a lovely part of the country, down here. If only it wasn't so far. Plymouth. When I used to pay attention to the football results and all those place names came upon the teleprinter, these places and names I'd never heard of and certainly had no idea where they were or anything,I never figured Plymouth to be the sort of place I'd say was nice. Plymouth? What is it? The River Ply? I don't know. Suddenly Plymouth's turned into Coronation Street, all back to backs and terraced roofs. Liskard is the next stop. Maybe that'll be better. Liskard? Is that real? How come there isn't a Liskard Athletic languishing at the bottom of the Third Division? Because I never heard Len Martin say "Leyton Orient 2,Liskard Athletic 0" does that mean its not a legitimate place?
There's a sweet - sweetish - irony going off to lecture on the joys of journalism the week after I got the sac... cutbacked. Once you get past the obvious gag, I can't quite work out whether it's a good thing. After all, there's the old "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" line. And I guess that most of the students - well, the sussed ones - will assume that I haven't got a job anyway. I'm teaching therefore I haven't got a job. Fuck it. They're only students. It's a 4.30 class. Odds on, I'll be the only one to turn up.
Day Two of the mid-life crisis and it's going well. I've come up with a few ideas but nothing's stuck: Cranial osteopath was too last century. Counsellor? Too last week.
Here's an idea. I could try and do the journalism thing again but under a pseudonym - how fucking bastard post-modern funny would that be, huh? But... it's too much potential grief. If my new persona (young female, of course) wasn't a roaring success, well that would be double confirmation of the same thing. The writing's just the writing and... But what if she was a roaring success? What if... Well, what would that say about the previous incarnation? No, that's too much to think about.
It happens. Now then, you might not know this but I'm not what you could justifiably call a religious man. Well, being Jewish, i don't suppose I have to be. Chosen, innit. Maybe last time out I was indeed a particularly religious man, maybe a priest or something. Some mad shamanic geezer with a big hat and flowing robes and mad eyes and a strangely devoted young female acolytes hanging on my every word who broke away from the orthodoxy of his church and founded a new radical branch - a new religion! Strangling chickens and hurling fresh blood over my congregation, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was good because, like I say, I came back chosen. Or should that be Chosen?
Like I say, I'm not a religious man when you lose your job and you find that the last two records you've got to write about are the new albums by the Appleton sisters and Mel C, well you've got to wonder whether it isn't Our Lord saying to you "Jedski, it is time to knock it on the head. And while you're there here's a couple of records to make sure you don't look back on it with any fondness".
I think I'm going to give the Appleton sisters album 5 stars. Call it a triumph. How dull would it be if I got all bitter and laid into it, tried to score cheap gags. No, much better to be magnanimous. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.
Other Room Services
CHAPTER 9: Other Room Services (with apologies to
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time tio that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's wghat his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at yoou and I think law would suit yoiu. Tghere's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remembre whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly uninelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes towatch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Schmissues.
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time tio that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's wghat his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at yoou and I think law would suit yoiu. Tghere's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remembre whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly uninelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes towatch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Schmissues.
Mind The Gap
CHAPTER 7: Mind The Gap
I had a brainwave. I'd sell the tickets, make a few bob and go. Fuck the gig. I'm bored with the idea of the gig. I've had enough of the gig. It's 3 in the afternoon and I've had enough of the gig. I'll make a few bob and it's 100% profit. Can't say fairer than that. No one will mind. No one will mind because no one will know. Who's going to know? It's a standing gig. No seats. I'll sell the tickets and even if the PR people are there, they'll never know. It's not like at some Arena when they put all the hacks in the same row and what are yoou going to do then? There's Tom from the Mail and Dick from the Guardian and Harry from The Times and... a couple of Norwegian students sitting where Johnny Express should be. The Astoria's easy. Also, this is one of those one-off, pre-tour showcase gigs. One of those 'I've got a new album coming out and I'm going to do this little gig before I set off on the Stadium tour - for the fans.' The fans. There'll be hundreds of them milling about outside hoping to get lucky, hoping that some kind-hearted journalist will give them their "plus one" ticket out oif the goodness of their little journalistic soul. Don't laugh: I've done that. I've given tickets away. I once gave a Strokes ticket away when the touts were desperate, when they were gagging for it. There was this lovestruck couple, moping. They really wanted to get in and I had two tickets. Again, it was standing. Easy. What to do? Sell a ticket to the tout? Or give the ticket to the couple? It was raining. Cold. This couple were huddled together, hoping in that unrealistic way that is hope. I decided to be good. I'd give the ticket to the couple. Listen, it was cold and raining. But - and this is the but - but just as I handed over the ticket, I knew I'd made a mistake. They uncurled and both put out a hand. They both wanted it. They were going to squabble over it. I hadn't thought this through but this was going to cause grief. My act of kindness was going to cause this couple to fight, maybe split up. "But I thought you loved me". "If you really loved me, you'd give me the ticket". "And if you loved me you'd give me the ticket." (Actually what happened was this: I gave my ticket to the woman, obviously, because while I'm as new as a potato, I am at heart a man and a man never stops trying to impress women doesn't matter who they are. She took the ticket. They looked at each other, then went over to the tout. They sold the ticket and went out for a meal on the proceeds.) I wasn't going to do that again. This time I was going to tick the box marked "profit". Get a cab to Victoria. Maybe buy something. But somehow life never quite works out how you expect. I get to the Astoria. There are thousands of people milling outside, all walking around with intent. All looking pissed off. Slowly - no, quickly - it dawns on me that they're not punters at all. They're touts. And they've all got tickets to sell. And they're not interested in buying any others. So I hailed a cab to Victoria. Got the train home. Me and my two tickets. You can say what you like, but this would never happen at a Will Young gig.
Last night was the night of the Juicy Awards, my splendid wife's exotic creation, and it went, I think, better than anyone had a right to expect. Well, maybe it went as well as Gilly expected, but to me, this exceeded all expectations. Big and glitzy and star-studded - Norman was there. What can I tell you? I kvelled like a mother whose daughter was marrying a doctor. Ostrich feathers flew. There were a couple of dissenting voices but, you know, fuck it. I was going to bang on about haters (it's irony, silly) but I thought about it and thought I risked sounding like a Middle Aged Jewish version of the So Solid Crew. The Reasonably Solid Crew. The So Solidish Crew. Anyway. It was a fantastic night. A rare treat. It's a curious thing to see someone have an idea, to see them struggle to recognise it, to see them work at making it real, to see it happen. My wife the visionary! I played my part with gusto. Well,I was going to play my part with gusto, but gusto couldn't make it so I did it myself. I decided to model myself on Denis Thatcher. And, be fair, I think I did OK. It was a part I'd been waitintgfor all my life. Hanging around in the background, rabbiting and drinking vodka and tonic. (Yes, I know Denis was a G&T man, but the vodka was a personal touch). Did anyone ever think that, behind closed doors, Denis was really the power - the brains behind the operation - and not the emasculated old soak he appeared? Didn't think so cos no one made that mistake last night either. Butme and Denis, we know. We know the truth.
I had a brainwave. I'd sell the tickets, make a few bob and go. Fuck the gig. I'm bored with the idea of the gig. I've had enough of the gig. It's 3 in the afternoon and I've had enough of the gig. I'll make a few bob and it's 100% profit. Can't say fairer than that. No one will mind. No one will mind because no one will know. Who's going to know? It's a standing gig. No seats. I'll sell the tickets and even if the PR people are there, they'll never know. It's not like at some Arena when they put all the hacks in the same row and what are yoou going to do then? There's Tom from the Mail and Dick from the Guardian and Harry from The Times and... a couple of Norwegian students sitting where Johnny Express should be. The Astoria's easy. Also, this is one of those one-off, pre-tour showcase gigs. One of those 'I've got a new album coming out and I'm going to do this little gig before I set off on the Stadium tour - for the fans.' The fans. There'll be hundreds of them milling about outside hoping to get lucky, hoping that some kind-hearted journalist will give them their "plus one" ticket out oif the goodness of their little journalistic soul. Don't laugh: I've done that. I've given tickets away. I once gave a Strokes ticket away when the touts were desperate, when they were gagging for it. There was this lovestruck couple, moping. They really wanted to get in and I had two tickets. Again, it was standing. Easy. What to do? Sell a ticket to the tout? Or give the ticket to the couple? It was raining. Cold. This couple were huddled together, hoping in that unrealistic way that is hope. I decided to be good. I'd give the ticket to the couple. Listen, it was cold and raining. But - and this is the but - but just as I handed over the ticket, I knew I'd made a mistake. They uncurled and both put out a hand. They both wanted it. They were going to squabble over it. I hadn't thought this through but this was going to cause grief. My act of kindness was going to cause this couple to fight, maybe split up. "But I thought you loved me". "If you really loved me, you'd give me the ticket". "And if you loved me you'd give me the ticket." (Actually what happened was this: I gave my ticket to the woman, obviously, because while I'm as new as a potato, I am at heart a man and a man never stops trying to impress women doesn't matter who they are. She took the ticket. They looked at each other, then went over to the tout. They sold the ticket and went out for a meal on the proceeds.) I wasn't going to do that again. This time I was going to tick the box marked "profit". Get a cab to Victoria. Maybe buy something. But somehow life never quite works out how you expect. I get to the Astoria. There are thousands of people milling outside, all walking around with intent. All looking pissed off. Slowly - no, quickly - it dawns on me that they're not punters at all. They're touts. And they've all got tickets to sell. And they're not interested in buying any others. So I hailed a cab to Victoria. Got the train home. Me and my two tickets. You can say what you like, but this would never happen at a Will Young gig.
Last night was the night of the Juicy Awards, my splendid wife's exotic creation, and it went, I think, better than anyone had a right to expect. Well, maybe it went as well as Gilly expected, but to me, this exceeded all expectations. Big and glitzy and star-studded - Norman was there. What can I tell you? I kvelled like a mother whose daughter was marrying a doctor. Ostrich feathers flew. There were a couple of dissenting voices but, you know, fuck it. I was going to bang on about haters (it's irony, silly) but I thought about it and thought I risked sounding like a Middle Aged Jewish version of the So Solid Crew. The Reasonably Solid Crew. The So Solidish Crew. Anyway. It was a fantastic night. A rare treat. It's a curious thing to see someone have an idea, to see them struggle to recognise it, to see them work at making it real, to see it happen. My wife the visionary! I played my part with gusto. Well,I was going to play my part with gusto, but gusto couldn't make it so I did it myself. I decided to model myself on Denis Thatcher. And, be fair, I think I did OK. It was a part I'd been waitintgfor all my life. Hanging around in the background, rabbiting and drinking vodka and tonic. (Yes, I know Denis was a G&T man, but the vodka was a personal touch). Did anyone ever think that, behind closed doors, Denis was really the power - the brains behind the operation - and not the emasculated old soak he appeared? Didn't think so cos no one made that mistake last night either. Butme and Denis, we know. We know the truth.
Farringdon
CHAPTER 7 - Flooding At Farringdon
As the boy ran into the train station, hre glanced up at the large round clock that hung down inthe middle of the concourse just above the coffee stall. Late. It was all too late. Despair filledhis soul, but little did he realise that only 20 minutes later he'd be hurtling past a sign for Three Bridges. Redemption comes in the most unlikely of forms, but this time the source of his relief was entirely predictable. As he started to sing "Life. That's the name of the game and I wanna play that game with you" to himself, he heard the station announcer do what station announcers had been doing since time began. "We're sorry to announce that due to... " He didn't need to hear any more. Would you Adam and... " the boy said, a comical reference to the fact that the reason for his trip to London was to listen to the new album by Eve, a very important R&B singer he'd never heard of but who Spurs were apparently interested in signing.
As the train thundered along, he wondered what Eve might sound like. He guessed that maybe there'd be about 16 tracks, that it might be about 73 minutes long, that the first song would be called 'Introduction', would be about a minute and a half long and... Life is full of mysteries. Still the train flew along, oblivious to the disasters at Farringdon. Burgess Hill... Haywards Heath... Three Bridges... He considered the next stop, Three Bridges. It was a place that was pivotal to the railway system. All trains went through there so it obviously existed, but he'd never met anyone who came from Three Bridges. He'd never met anyone who knew anyone who came from Three Bridges. There was nothing about it he knew of - and he'd asked. No one ever said "There's this nice country pub, yeah, just by Three Bridges". Then there was the name. Three Bridges. This too was a mystery. Two Bridges, the boy thought, I can get my head around that. One Bridge in, one bridge out. One this way, one that way. That makes a kind of sense. But Three Bridges? Where does the third bridge go? What purpose does it solve? Who built it and why? Will they ever build a fourth bridge? Maybe it was a wartime relic, a code for some long-forgotten defence system.
The train stopped. A man got on who's too fat for the seat. He's sitting there, looking fantastically tall in the way that vrey fat people look tall when they sit down and taking up nearly two seats. Fancy being that fat. How does it happen? Didn't he get to a stage a while back where a seat wasn't good enough and think "Uh-oh. Think I'd better be losing me some weight here". I don't know. It could be that he's halfway through a seriously life-changing diet, he's just lost six stone and what looks like an expression of fat to me is, to him, a major triumph. Maybe it's his first time on a train and it's all come as a terrible shock to him.
Next to me is a young mother with two young kids. They're maybe four or five. She keeps leaning over to attend to them and, as she leans, her jeans - those skinny hipster types with the waistband cut off - slip down to reveal the smallest glimpse of the top of her bottom. Builder's crack, I think it used to be called but she looks nothing like a builder and crack? I don't like the word crack. When she was little, LouLou used to call her bottom her "topham". This is, I think, a much more suitable word. Anyway, she keeps leaning over and it's difficult not to... just a little flicker of the eyes. Does she know she's doing it? Does she know I'm doing it? Silly to even ask.
As the boy ran into the train station, hre glanced up at the large round clock that hung down inthe middle of the concourse just above the coffee stall. Late. It was all too late. Despair filledhis soul, but little did he realise that only 20 minutes later he'd be hurtling past a sign for Three Bridges. Redemption comes in the most unlikely of forms, but this time the source of his relief was entirely predictable. As he started to sing "Life. That's the name of the game and I wanna play that game with you" to himself, he heard the station announcer do what station announcers had been doing since time began. "We're sorry to announce that due to... " He didn't need to hear any more. Would you Adam and... " the boy said, a comical reference to the fact that the reason for his trip to London was to listen to the new album by Eve, a very important R&B singer he'd never heard of but who Spurs were apparently interested in signing.
As the train thundered along, he wondered what Eve might sound like. He guessed that maybe there'd be about 16 tracks, that it might be about 73 minutes long, that the first song would be called 'Introduction', would be about a minute and a half long and... Life is full of mysteries. Still the train flew along, oblivious to the disasters at Farringdon. Burgess Hill... Haywards Heath... Three Bridges... He considered the next stop, Three Bridges. It was a place that was pivotal to the railway system. All trains went through there so it obviously existed, but he'd never met anyone who came from Three Bridges. He'd never met anyone who knew anyone who came from Three Bridges. There was nothing about it he knew of - and he'd asked. No one ever said "There's this nice country pub, yeah, just by Three Bridges". Then there was the name. Three Bridges. This too was a mystery. Two Bridges, the boy thought, I can get my head around that. One Bridge in, one bridge out. One this way, one that way. That makes a kind of sense. But Three Bridges? Where does the third bridge go? What purpose does it solve? Who built it and why? Will they ever build a fourth bridge? Maybe it was a wartime relic, a code for some long-forgotten defence system.
The train stopped. A man got on who's too fat for the seat. He's sitting there, looking fantastically tall in the way that vrey fat people look tall when they sit down and taking up nearly two seats. Fancy being that fat. How does it happen? Didn't he get to a stage a while back where a seat wasn't good enough and think "Uh-oh. Think I'd better be losing me some weight here". I don't know. It could be that he's halfway through a seriously life-changing diet, he's just lost six stone and what looks like an expression of fat to me is, to him, a major triumph. Maybe it's his first time on a train and it's all come as a terrible shock to him.
Next to me is a young mother with two young kids. They're maybe four or five. She keeps leaning over to attend to them and, as she leans, her jeans - those skinny hipster types with the waistband cut off - slip down to reveal the smallest glimpse of the top of her bottom. Builder's crack, I think it used to be called but she looks nothing like a builder and crack? I don't like the word crack. When she was little, LouLou used to call her bottom her "topham". This is, I think, a much more suitable word. Anyway, she keeps leaning over and it's difficult not to... just a little flicker of the eyes. Does she know she's doing it? Does she know I'm doing it? Silly to even ask.
Glasgow
"Welcome to flight F09 from Stanstead Airport to Glasgow Prestwick International Airport..." It was that "International Airport" bit that bothered me. You'd never get Heathrow calling itself Heathrow International Airport. We know what it is. But Prestwick? Bless. I am a proper airport, really. It wasn't much choice, going by plane. If I'd have wanted to go by train I'd have spent 16 hours in that carriage (that's of course, delays notwithstanding) and £244. By plane? An hour each way and £53 all in, including taxes. Of course, there's always the "geting to and from the airport" question to consider and I guess that evens things out, time and cost wise.
Glasgow. I haven't been to Glasgow for a while. Not since seeing Roxy Music there last year and OK, so it's not Yokohama or Seoul on some all-expenses paid jolly but it's international air travel to and from a proper airport and if I'm really nice and if the Gods are smiling, Lord Express might even pay me.
It's a curious thing with these budget air flights. You still get that visceral thrill of going to an airport, of getting on a plane... Is that a generational thing? Will there soon be a Saturday night TV show called something like I Love Going On Planes? That feeling of exotic wonder, of 'we could go anywhere, do anything', does it still happen?
Was there ever a place called Thousand Island? A place known for its unique salad dressing? Or was the salad dressing named Thousand Island to indicate the myriad influences that had gone into it? 'An exotic blend of a thousand different tastes'. That sort of thing.
Glasgow. I haven't been to Glasgow for a while. Not since seeing Roxy Music there last year and OK, so it's not Yokohama or Seoul on some all-expenses paid jolly but it's international air travel to and from a proper airport and if I'm really nice and if the Gods are smiling, Lord Express might even pay me.
It's a curious thing with these budget air flights. You still get that visceral thrill of going to an airport, of getting on a plane... Is that a generational thing? Will there soon be a Saturday night TV show called something like I Love Going On Planes? That feeling of exotic wonder, of 'we could go anywhere, do anything', does it still happen?
Was there ever a place called Thousand Island? A place known for its unique salad dressing? Or was the salad dressing named Thousand Island to indicate the myriad influences that had gone into it? 'An exotic blend of a thousand different tastes'. That sort of thing.
Reading
Chapter 4 - One For Sorrow, Two For Joy
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question and sometimes I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. (We’ve also taken a Saab estate with leather this and wooden that which is much more exciting but is, as you might say, off message). This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying it by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. You know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern Mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, there wasn’t a proper time mentioned. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today and yesterday was a Tuesday and today is a Wednesday. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem... What can I tell you? I got a ticket.
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question and sometimes I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. (We’ve also taken a Saab estate with leather this and wooden that which is much more exciting but is, as you might say, off message). This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying it by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. You know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern Mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, there wasn’t a proper time mentioned. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today and yesterday was a Tuesday and today is a Wednesday. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem... What can I tell you? I got a ticket.
Black Rod
"We're off on the Road To Sheffield... " I'm sure there was a Bob Hope film called that, but I can't place it right now. The best part of 5 hours on the train with nothing to do except look at the cows in the fields and ponder the mysteries of life. Here's a curious thing.
We've just passed Kettering. Just as I was pondering the death of ambition, we've just passed Kettering.... What the fuck use is Kettering? Where's Kettering on the Monopoly board? It's the sort of thing to turn a man religious. You know, that old gag where you ask God for proof of his existence and say 'Just give me a sign' and it starts to thunder and there's lightening and you stand there saying 'Just give me a sign' . Exactly. As I type the words 'the death of ambition we go through Kettering. No disrespect, like.
Anyway. So I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present). The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was full of inquisitive concern. I'd be aware. On top of things. Full of resource. Now? Now, no. I think it was the Black Rod story that did it for me. Not that I know anything about it. Not that I read about it or talked to anyone about it. And maybe that's the point. Once upon a time, I'd have read and talked. Made funny comments and witty gags. Feigned world-weary cynicism while buying in to the whole thing. Now it's gone. I don't want anything to do with it. I don't care who Black Rod is. I don't want to know who Black Rod is. I don't want anything to do with Black Rod. I know, instinctively, that Black Rod and all who sail in him is a lot of old bollocks. That it means nothing. I know that there are pages and pages of newspaper written about him/it, that there are yards of column inches about him/it - maybe indeed by him, that there have been God knows how many minutes of radio chat where some John Humphrys character does that public school bully routine that passes for a political interview thing with him. The Today programme. More boorish bollocks where adult conversation is reduced to three minute segments of shouty macho rabbit. (Maybe it's all a gag. i don't know). I'm not entirely sure whether it gave up on me or I gave up on it. Whether I lost interest in the world or the world lost interest in me, I don’t know. There are questions, but you know, I just don’t care. And, it's a curious thing, but it’s all quite liberating. Here I am, aged 22, and I find myself uninterested - genuinely - in the outside. (This is difficult, not least because I've chosen to make the diminishing return that I still laughingly call my living in newspapers). I can't look at a newspaper without thinking it bollocks. I can't listen to the news without knowing that it's just lies - and lies that are irrelevant to my life. I can't read a columnist without... No, forget it. I just can't read a columnist. Is it age? Is it middle class complacency? The thoughts of an inwardly-obsessed parent? Which kind of brings us back to Kettering – except that Kettering is back there and we’re coming up to Derby.
So what do we do? What do we do in the space where Real People have their Black Rod? Escape into a fantasy world maybe. Live a life that's got one foot in the real - the school run and all who sail in her - and an Alice In Wonderland life in the head. A secret life. Actually, that's not so strange. I had a curious story recently where I... No, maybe we'll save that for another trip. But the point is that if l'il ole me can have one of those, well, anything is possible.
Rod schmod. So now I'm of to Sheffield to see a Rod of a different hue. Rod Stewart. A hotel for £34 and in. No cinema. I fell for Rod back in 197whatever it was - 2? I'd just bought Maggie May from Rhythm and Blues on Stamford Hill, a strange little shop that had been placed - dropped - in this predominantly middle-class Jewish ghetto. Sitting in between Losner's dress hire shop and the E&A salt beef bar, it was a record shop unlike any record shop I knew. It sold soul, Stax, R&B and ska but mainly anything with a rock steady beat and you'd walk in there off the street, opening the door trepidaciously and there'd be smoke (nothing dodgy I think, just smoke) and this incessant "boom tchig-a, boom tchig-a" of the beat and these black geezers in trilbys hanging around. I was used to Hassids in Homburgs, the streets were full of them, but this was new. It's funny the things that stay with you, but I remember sneaking into this strange place, standing around uncomfortably before scuttling off. Anyway, I bought Maggie May there and got home and played it - was it still the red Dansette or the white Fidelity Unit 4? - and that was OK. I knew it obviously. But played the flipside and that was me. I was hooked. "If I waited long enough for you. I'd find a way to believe that it's true. Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried. But I've got to find a reason to believe."Sheffield. Odds on, there's someone on this address list who was born in Sheffield, who fell in love in Sheffield, who had their first snog in Sheffield but blimey. With respect. Sheffield? Still. It could have been worse. Ronan Keating was also playing in Sheffield.
We've just passed Kettering. Just as I was pondering the death of ambition, we've just passed Kettering.... What the fuck use is Kettering? Where's Kettering on the Monopoly board? It's the sort of thing to turn a man religious. You know, that old gag where you ask God for proof of his existence and say 'Just give me a sign' and it starts to thunder and there's lightening and you stand there saying 'Just give me a sign' . Exactly. As I type the words 'the death of ambition we go through Kettering. No disrespect, like.
Anyway. So I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present). The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was full of inquisitive concern. I'd be aware. On top of things. Full of resource. Now? Now, no. I think it was the Black Rod story that did it for me. Not that I know anything about it. Not that I read about it or talked to anyone about it. And maybe that's the point. Once upon a time, I'd have read and talked. Made funny comments and witty gags. Feigned world-weary cynicism while buying in to the whole thing. Now it's gone. I don't want anything to do with it. I don't care who Black Rod is. I don't want to know who Black Rod is. I don't want anything to do with Black Rod. I know, instinctively, that Black Rod and all who sail in him is a lot of old bollocks. That it means nothing. I know that there are pages and pages of newspaper written about him/it, that there are yards of column inches about him/it - maybe indeed by him, that there have been God knows how many minutes of radio chat where some John Humphrys character does that public school bully routine that passes for a political interview thing with him. The Today programme. More boorish bollocks where adult conversation is reduced to three minute segments of shouty macho rabbit. (Maybe it's all a gag. i don't know). I'm not entirely sure whether it gave up on me or I gave up on it. Whether I lost interest in the world or the world lost interest in me, I don’t know. There are questions, but you know, I just don’t care. And, it's a curious thing, but it’s all quite liberating. Here I am, aged 22, and I find myself uninterested - genuinely - in the outside. (This is difficult, not least because I've chosen to make the diminishing return that I still laughingly call my living in newspapers). I can't look at a newspaper without thinking it bollocks. I can't listen to the news without knowing that it's just lies - and lies that are irrelevant to my life. I can't read a columnist without... No, forget it. I just can't read a columnist. Is it age? Is it middle class complacency? The thoughts of an inwardly-obsessed parent? Which kind of brings us back to Kettering – except that Kettering is back there and we’re coming up to Derby.
So what do we do? What do we do in the space where Real People have their Black Rod? Escape into a fantasy world maybe. Live a life that's got one foot in the real - the school run and all who sail in her - and an Alice In Wonderland life in the head. A secret life. Actually, that's not so strange. I had a curious story recently where I... No, maybe we'll save that for another trip. But the point is that if l'il ole me can have one of those, well, anything is possible.
Rod schmod. So now I'm of to Sheffield to see a Rod of a different hue. Rod Stewart. A hotel for £34 and in. No cinema. I fell for Rod back in 197whatever it was - 2? I'd just bought Maggie May from Rhythm and Blues on Stamford Hill, a strange little shop that had been placed - dropped - in this predominantly middle-class Jewish ghetto. Sitting in between Losner's dress hire shop and the E&A salt beef bar, it was a record shop unlike any record shop I knew. It sold soul, Stax, R&B and ska but mainly anything with a rock steady beat and you'd walk in there off the street, opening the door trepidaciously and there'd be smoke (nothing dodgy I think, just smoke) and this incessant "boom tchig-a, boom tchig-a" of the beat and these black geezers in trilbys hanging around. I was used to Hassids in Homburgs, the streets were full of them, but this was new. It's funny the things that stay with you, but I remember sneaking into this strange place, standing around uncomfortably before scuttling off. Anyway, I bought Maggie May there and got home and played it - was it still the red Dansette or the white Fidelity Unit 4? - and that was OK. I knew it obviously. But played the flipside and that was me. I was hooked. "If I waited long enough for you. I'd find a way to believe that it's true. Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried. But I've got to find a reason to believe."Sheffield. Odds on, there's someone on this address list who was born in Sheffield, who fell in love in Sheffield, who had their first snog in Sheffield but blimey. With respect. Sheffield? Still. It could have been worse. Ronan Keating was also playing in Sheffield.
Dolly
Chapter 3
Everyone's got this secret life that goes on inside their heads, but what happens when it gets out? You take my little Dolly. A right old Looking For Mr Goodbar - but who'd have thought, who'd have guessed?
I found it fantastically sexual - find it or found it? - even if it was really quite strange. But that perversity was part of the thrill. There I was, taking the kids to Queen's Park playground, helping LouLou to have a wee - "Do you want a wee or a poo? Are you sure?" - while at the same time my hand was slipping inside Dolly's black thong and gently rubbing her wet, expectant… yeah well, you know. And Elly and LouLou had no idea what I was doing to Dolly and Dolly had no idea what I was doing with Elly or LouLou.
Harmful or harmless? At this stage of the game, I really don't know. Pleasurable, certainly. I can't tell you how I was turned on by yesterday's game obviously it was a kind of tantric non-ejaculatory orgasm - but I kinda like them, I kinda like the blend of release and discipline. Did she get anything out of it? I don't know. I guess I'll get a feel for that later. But given the chance, I'll get better at this. I'll learn.
Its strange how you can get a feeling for someone just through this most unsatisfactory method of contact. Really, text messaging doesn't work for me because you can't rabbit, you can't allow your thoughts to flow, everything gets abbreviated. The structure of your words the abbreviated and then, to accommodate them, the structure of your thoughts get abbreviated. But it's an exploratory process. Maybe how it works is this. Maybe because your thoughts are so uncluttered it leaves more room for the imagination and maybe that's where the soul lies.
Dolly has now taken on almost completely new persona. She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to.
Blew it. Like a kid with a new toy, I broke it just as I was getting to understand how it worked. It was such a long shot - such a long shot - and I didn't play the percentages. I don't know why I didn't - I usually do - but this time I didn't. It's so funny. If I'd have only given it a minutes thought, if I'd have only taken a step outside my bulging underpants and looked at the reality.
She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to. But that's it. That's what happened. You - you dickhead - got confused between the reality and the fantasy. The reality was that she's a nice Jewish girl who's maybe feeling like she's in a rut and is playing with the idea of breaking out but would never actually do anything about it - and rightly so. Why on earth should she? With so much to lose and so little (actually nothing) to gain, why should she? And you, you've got exactly the same to lose and exactly the same to gain - precisely nothing.
Here's another question. Is the erotic fantasy heightened or diminished by the reality? Diminished is the obvious answer, but is it the true answer? I think so but there's a side of me that is drawn to what she represents. Why? I don't know. It's what I ran from all the time I was near it but... It's too bloody simple to start talking about fucking the past, but maybe it's a control thing. Wanting to get some sense of retrospective control. Listen, just because its tin pot fortune cookie psychology doesn't mean it's not true.
And now? Now I don't know. That was part male stupidity, part stupid dick-thinking, part sabotage. It's interesting that all that chat I had with Gill and Helen the other night about flirting and what men want... what they said is exactly true. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind? What do you think? That you're so bloody attractive, so bloody clever that rules fall in front of you like dominoes? Just a little bit arrogant, no? For someone with as many hang-ups as you, you don't half push it sometimes. And now you're paying the price.
But never mind. Don't be so hard on yourself.
That's the other interesting thing. That you think you're such an individual but you do just the same things as everyone else, fall into the same traps, do the same idiot things as everyone else. Maybe it's all a delusion, maybe it's just an illusion. What is it about this age that makes us open, so open to chance? The chance that we might throw it all away, the chance that everything we've worked for... gone. And for what? A momentary grasp for some strange confirmation that we're not old and not grey and not boring. That we can all still be young and vibrant even though we know we're probably not.
Everyone's got this secret life that goes on inside their heads, but what happens when it gets out? You take my little Dolly. A right old Looking For Mr Goodbar - but who'd have thought, who'd have guessed?
I found it fantastically sexual - find it or found it? - even if it was really quite strange. But that perversity was part of the thrill. There I was, taking the kids to Queen's Park playground, helping LouLou to have a wee - "Do you want a wee or a poo? Are you sure?" - while at the same time my hand was slipping inside Dolly's black thong and gently rubbing her wet, expectant… yeah well, you know. And Elly and LouLou had no idea what I was doing to Dolly and Dolly had no idea what I was doing with Elly or LouLou.
Harmful or harmless? At this stage of the game, I really don't know. Pleasurable, certainly. I can't tell you how I was turned on by yesterday's game obviously it was a kind of tantric non-ejaculatory orgasm - but I kinda like them, I kinda like the blend of release and discipline. Did she get anything out of it? I don't know. I guess I'll get a feel for that later. But given the chance, I'll get better at this. I'll learn.
Its strange how you can get a feeling for someone just through this most unsatisfactory method of contact. Really, text messaging doesn't work for me because you can't rabbit, you can't allow your thoughts to flow, everything gets abbreviated. The structure of your words the abbreviated and then, to accommodate them, the structure of your thoughts get abbreviated. But it's an exploratory process. Maybe how it works is this. Maybe because your thoughts are so uncluttered it leaves more room for the imagination and maybe that's where the soul lies.
Dolly has now taken on almost completely new persona. She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to.
Blew it. Like a kid with a new toy, I broke it just as I was getting to understand how it worked. It was such a long shot - such a long shot - and I didn't play the percentages. I don't know why I didn't - I usually do - but this time I didn't. It's so funny. If I'd have only given it a minutes thought, if I'd have only taken a step outside my bulging underpants and looked at the reality.
She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to. But that's it. That's what happened. You - you dickhead - got confused between the reality and the fantasy. The reality was that she's a nice Jewish girl who's maybe feeling like she's in a rut and is playing with the idea of breaking out but would never actually do anything about it - and rightly so. Why on earth should she? With so much to lose and so little (actually nothing) to gain, why should she? And you, you've got exactly the same to lose and exactly the same to gain - precisely nothing.
Here's another question. Is the erotic fantasy heightened or diminished by the reality? Diminished is the obvious answer, but is it the true answer? I think so but there's a side of me that is drawn to what she represents. Why? I don't know. It's what I ran from all the time I was near it but... It's too bloody simple to start talking about fucking the past, but maybe it's a control thing. Wanting to get some sense of retrospective control. Listen, just because its tin pot fortune cookie psychology doesn't mean it's not true.
And now? Now I don't know. That was part male stupidity, part stupid dick-thinking, part sabotage. It's interesting that all that chat I had with Gill and Helen the other night about flirting and what men want... what they said is exactly true. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind? What do you think? That you're so bloody attractive, so bloody clever that rules fall in front of you like dominoes? Just a little bit arrogant, no? For someone with as many hang-ups as you, you don't half push it sometimes. And now you're paying the price.
But never mind. Don't be so hard on yourself.
That's the other interesting thing. That you think you're such an individual but you do just the same things as everyone else, fall into the same traps, do the same idiot things as everyone else. Maybe it's all a delusion, maybe it's just an illusion. What is it about this age that makes us open, so open to chance? The chance that we might throw it all away, the chance that everything we've worked for... gone. And for what? A momentary grasp for some strange confirmation that we're not old and not grey and not boring. That we can all still be young and vibrant even though we know we're probably not.
Other Room Services
Chapter Two
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express. Another great call from The Express. It's the Deputy Editor's office:
"Jeremy, it's Charlie from Nicky Brigss' office. I've just been onto Murray at EMI and he couldn't tell me. Do you know when your Kylie review is running?"
Murray is Kylie's PR. He's a sweet. A mate of Chris and Amanda from Blanch House.
"Charlie. You don't know and Murray doesn't know."
"No, do you know when it will be running?"
Ah, he joys of working for The Express. The perfect place for the incognito writer, for someone on the run. No need to bother with safe houses or sticky-on beards. No. Simply get a job with The Express. Not only doesn't anyone read the paper, not only don't the PR people care, but the deputy bastard editor of the paper itself doesn't read it.
Mind you, I can see her point.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express, chuffing its way through the English countryside past a field shared by horses and cows - you see, the struggles of the countryside. You townies, you just don't understand what it's like. Animals of a different hue being forced to share living quarters - and on our way to the International Arena for Night One of a two night knickertastic extravaganza. Big Barry Manilow. Could life get any better?
Tonight we're staying in the exotically named The Big Sleep hotel, a grade up from The Ibis and, crucially, about 200 yards nearer the Cardiff International Arena. I get in, check in. The Big Sleep is supposed to be Britain's first 'designer chain' hotel. Fine. I can do designer. Curiously, the designer style they've opted for at The Big Sleep is minimalist. £58 for a nights big sleep and breakfast. "But we only do a continental breakfast, sir". A great phrase. Continental breakfast. Like a croissant and a box of cornflakes from a Kellogg's Variety selection and a glass of freshly poured orange juice was some strange and exotic beast. Everything else is OK. There's even an adult channel on the telly. No free viewing period, mind, a sure sign that it's about as erotic as some home improvements show. Still, it's only £4 and it comes up on the bill as "other room services". That'll fool them back in the office when I submit the bill for expenses. After last week, I know the routine. Over to the UGC (the cinema - oh, do pay attention) and "Excuse me. What's the next film on?" Hope it's not The Scorpion King even though I still haven't got a clue what it is."The Panic Room - it's good. Got Jodie Foster". Made by the geezer who did Fight Club (good at the time, crap in retrospect) and Seven (great film). Wee, popcorn, in. It was OK. Passed the time. A fairly formulaic 'who's going to live, who's going to die' thriller that started off going nowhere and ended up going nowhere and didn't really go anywhere in between. If we weren't in Cardiff and it wasn't Barry Manilow I was going to see and if we weren't going up to Manchester to see Enrique and his Dancing Iglesias tomorrow night and I was at home putting up some shelves in the shoe cupboard... I could get quite used to this running around going to gigs caper.
So anyway. It's 6.32am and the phone goes. What with the room services and now the phone... so much for The Big Sleep. Gill. "Is the pet insurance up to date?" It seems that Lexa (small white dog) has been sick, badly sick, and Gill's taking her to the vet. "OK". About an hour later, the phone goes again. Gill. In tears. Lexa (ex-small white dog) is dead. Luckily, the girls are having their own Big Sleep over at Helen's and so that one doesn't have to be crossed yet. Lexa's dead. A bullet of mortality shooting through our previously impregnable little unit. Without wanting to sound harsh, if any of them had to go, she'd have got my vote. She'd have got everyone's vote I imagine, but that doesn't mean I wanted her gone. She wasn't very old, but she had a good life. Well, an easy life. I wonder (selfishly) what the long term implications might be. Now that our little unit has been cracked, what else might happen? Now maybe there's a crack in the protective glass. Things could get out. Things could get in. Psychobacteria. Back in London, en route to the North. I don't know why I'm back in London when i could have gone straight from Cardiff to Manchester, but back in London I am. Three hours to kill. Gill phones with word about The Juicy Awards. I'm surprised it got in so quickly. The answer is, as ever, retail. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio for Gill, a pair of trainers for me (the others got muddy in the garden) and a new CD player and cassette deck cos they were all dusty and covered in crap because I didn't take them out of the kitchen when all that work started. OK, so a tube or whatever of Mr Sheen would have been cheaper but really. How much fun? Oh, I know. I'll go into a supermarket and buy some furniture polish. That will make me feel better. That will make me feel powerful again. The other thing with shopping is that it's got to be notes. A credit card just doesn't do it. I've got to do the whole deal - get the wallet out, peel off the notes. Maybe I'll lick a finger as I peel off the notes.
The train to Manchester is full. It seems there's a football match on and the train is full of Manchester United fans and Arsenal fans on their way. (What do you mean? Of course the Manchester United fans were travelling up from London). "We're going to win the league". "No you're not". That was basically the inter-train debate. (We could get a 'train of thought' gag in here but fuck it. Maybe next time).
Le Meridien was a bit more upmarket - at £200 a night it should be. (Manchester was full of Arsenal and Man U fans up for the match, remember). Still Kenco bastard coffee in the room but there are nice little touches like a dressing gown (one) and little Japanese style slippers (curiously two pairs - why two?) and the shortbread biscuits (also two) nestling next to the sachets of coffee. A sense of duty forces me to check out the telly (£7.95 - Room Services) and - now here's the bonus of a £200 a night hotel - there's a freeview period. So I look and it's another home improvements show. The Brits really have no idea. Off. I'd have a bath but then there'd be the question of which pair of slippers to wear and I'm not sure I want more decisions at this stage of the game. Enrique was fab. All glistening muscles and white vest. Didn't sing a word all night but held the microphone beautifully. Actually I don't care about that whole 'singing live' thing. Who cares? The testosterone's real and that's what people go for. Arsenal won the match and I can't work out what's worse. When they won and they were dull and boring or when they win with panache and style. I think I prefer hating them now. There's more the sense of a curmudgeon about it. Old Man Steptoe would have done that.
5.30am. On the way out. Stop to pay the bill. The internet connection and something from the mini-bar and "Room services - £7.95". So much for the free viewing period.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express. Another great call from The Express. It's the Deputy Editor's office:
"Jeremy, it's Charlie from Nicky Brigss' office. I've just been onto Murray at EMI and he couldn't tell me. Do you know when your Kylie review is running?"
Murray is Kylie's PR. He's a sweet. A mate of Chris and Amanda from Blanch House.
"Charlie. You don't know and Murray doesn't know."
"No, do you know when it will be running?"
Ah, he joys of working for The Express. The perfect place for the incognito writer, for someone on the run. No need to bother with safe houses or sticky-on beards. No. Simply get a job with The Express. Not only doesn't anyone read the paper, not only don't the PR people care, but the deputy bastard editor of the paper itself doesn't read it.
Mind you, I can see her point.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express, chuffing its way through the English countryside past a field shared by horses and cows - you see, the struggles of the countryside. You townies, you just don't understand what it's like. Animals of a different hue being forced to share living quarters - and on our way to the International Arena for Night One of a two night knickertastic extravaganza. Big Barry Manilow. Could life get any better?
Tonight we're staying in the exotically named The Big Sleep hotel, a grade up from The Ibis and, crucially, about 200 yards nearer the Cardiff International Arena. I get in, check in. The Big Sleep is supposed to be Britain's first 'designer chain' hotel. Fine. I can do designer. Curiously, the designer style they've opted for at The Big Sleep is minimalist. £58 for a nights big sleep and breakfast. "But we only do a continental breakfast, sir". A great phrase. Continental breakfast. Like a croissant and a box of cornflakes from a Kellogg's Variety selection and a glass of freshly poured orange juice was some strange and exotic beast. Everything else is OK. There's even an adult channel on the telly. No free viewing period, mind, a sure sign that it's about as erotic as some home improvements show. Still, it's only £4 and it comes up on the bill as "other room services". That'll fool them back in the office when I submit the bill for expenses. After last week, I know the routine. Over to the UGC (the cinema - oh, do pay attention) and "Excuse me. What's the next film on?" Hope it's not The Scorpion King even though I still haven't got a clue what it is."The Panic Room - it's good. Got Jodie Foster". Made by the geezer who did Fight Club (good at the time, crap in retrospect) and Seven (great film). Wee, popcorn, in. It was OK. Passed the time. A fairly formulaic 'who's going to live, who's going to die' thriller that started off going nowhere and ended up going nowhere and didn't really go anywhere in between. If we weren't in Cardiff and it wasn't Barry Manilow I was going to see and if we weren't going up to Manchester to see Enrique and his Dancing Iglesias tomorrow night and I was at home putting up some shelves in the shoe cupboard... I could get quite used to this running around going to gigs caper.
So anyway. It's 6.32am and the phone goes. What with the room services and now the phone... so much for The Big Sleep. Gill. "Is the pet insurance up to date?" It seems that Lexa (small white dog) has been sick, badly sick, and Gill's taking her to the vet. "OK". About an hour later, the phone goes again. Gill. In tears. Lexa (ex-small white dog) is dead. Luckily, the girls are having their own Big Sleep over at Helen's and so that one doesn't have to be crossed yet. Lexa's dead. A bullet of mortality shooting through our previously impregnable little unit. Without wanting to sound harsh, if any of them had to go, she'd have got my vote. She'd have got everyone's vote I imagine, but that doesn't mean I wanted her gone. She wasn't very old, but she had a good life. Well, an easy life. I wonder (selfishly) what the long term implications might be. Now that our little unit has been cracked, what else might happen? Now maybe there's a crack in the protective glass. Things could get out. Things could get in. Psychobacteria. Back in London, en route to the North. I don't know why I'm back in London when i could have gone straight from Cardiff to Manchester, but back in London I am. Three hours to kill. Gill phones with word about The Juicy Awards. I'm surprised it got in so quickly. The answer is, as ever, retail. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio for Gill, a pair of trainers for me (the others got muddy in the garden) and a new CD player and cassette deck cos they were all dusty and covered in crap because I didn't take them out of the kitchen when all that work started. OK, so a tube or whatever of Mr Sheen would have been cheaper but really. How much fun? Oh, I know. I'll go into a supermarket and buy some furniture polish. That will make me feel better. That will make me feel powerful again. The other thing with shopping is that it's got to be notes. A credit card just doesn't do it. I've got to do the whole deal - get the wallet out, peel off the notes. Maybe I'll lick a finger as I peel off the notes.
The train to Manchester is full. It seems there's a football match on and the train is full of Manchester United fans and Arsenal fans on their way. (What do you mean? Of course the Manchester United fans were travelling up from London). "We're going to win the league". "No you're not". That was basically the inter-train debate. (We could get a 'train of thought' gag in here but fuck it. Maybe next time).
Le Meridien was a bit more upmarket - at £200 a night it should be. (Manchester was full of Arsenal and Man U fans up for the match, remember). Still Kenco bastard coffee in the room but there are nice little touches like a dressing gown (one) and little Japanese style slippers (curiously two pairs - why two?) and the shortbread biscuits (also two) nestling next to the sachets of coffee. A sense of duty forces me to check out the telly (£7.95 - Room Services) and - now here's the bonus of a £200 a night hotel - there's a freeview period. So I look and it's another home improvements show. The Brits really have no idea. Off. I'd have a bath but then there'd be the question of which pair of slippers to wear and I'm not sure I want more decisions at this stage of the game. Enrique was fab. All glistening muscles and white vest. Didn't sing a word all night but held the microphone beautifully. Actually I don't care about that whole 'singing live' thing. Who cares? The testosterone's real and that's what people go for. Arsenal won the match and I can't work out what's worse. When they won and they were dull and boring or when they win with panache and style. I think I prefer hating them now. There's more the sense of a curmudgeon about it. Old Man Steptoe would have done that.
5.30am. On the way out. Stop to pay the bill. The internet connection and something from the mini-bar and "Room services - £7.95". So much for the free viewing period.
Reading
Chapter 4 -
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question but I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. Yoiu know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, no tme. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. It's strange the way the mind works, no? I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem. What's the betting I see Tim De Lisle there? Maybe he came last night? Maybe I could... no.
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question but I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. Yoiu know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, no tme. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. It's strange the way the mind works, no? I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem. What's the betting I see Tim De Lisle there? Maybe he came last night? Maybe I could... no.
Nancy
Chapter - For The Love Of Nancy
I feel bewitched by Nancy. Everywhere I look, there she is. Nancy. She's on the front page of the Mail. She's got a double page spread in The Sun. Nancy. I feel bewitched. Feverishly I check the other papers. Nancy Nancy Nancy. She's everywhere and nowhere. Nancy. An enigma. She says nothing. She does nothing. But still she's there. The front page of the Daily Mail. There's a huge banner headline, across the width of thyme page just under the logo and more prominent than the lead story that says "Nancy: So what's she trying to tell Sven now?" and a huge picture, the length of the page, of this woman in a green-gold ballgown. Nancy. I don't suppose it's any madder than any thing else in the papers but it does make you think "Did I turn right when everyone else turned left?" The Mail is one of the biggest selling newspapers in the land. The editors must have a fair idea of what it is that their people want and I wouldn't back my judgement against theirs. Obviously putting this Nancy on the front page is a smart thing to do. Obviously people care about Nancy. But why? Why on earth should anyone care about this woman who, as far as I know, has never uttered a word about anything to anyone. Leaving aside the question of just how it is that the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team has reached that rarified level of fame where only a first name will do... No - how did that happen? She's the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team - an unsuccessful manager of an unsuccessful England football team at that.
Never mind. We've just passed a place that sells "garage doors as individual as you are". It takes a while to get that one into my head. "Garage doors as individual as you are". as an idea. it's a bit HR Puff'n'stuff What do you suppose it looks like, this garage door that's as individual as you are? Mine would, I hope, look interesting if a bit frayed round the edges. Black, yes, black with an ornate silver handle and would open about an hour or so after it was supposed to.
It's like your first pill. That feeling of how could anything be this good? That idea that, this is it. I'm never going to stop doing this, that would be stupid. When you can feel this good why would you choose not to be? Come here, no come here, really I've got to tell you something nah, nah it's really important and... You know?
I've just noticed that this is a 'Quiet Coach' - no laptops, it says. No one says anything to me about my laptop so I figure I'm just going to carry on typing. Well, I don't know - in fairness they might have said something and the chances are I wouldn't have heard anything. Well, not with The Streets' Original Pirate Material playing at force nine through my Jog Proof with G-Protection CD Walkman. No idea what G-Protection is, but it is definitely Jog Proof. But then again, most things in my life are jog proof. 'No personal stereos' it says just under the bit where it says 'No laptops'. And I'm sitting here with a personal stereo playing while tapping into my laptop. There are now quite a few people looking at me. Maybe the G on the Jog Proof CD Walkman stands for 'gaze'. Or 'glare'. "Customer demand has led us to introduce this quiet coach" it says next to a line of symbols like you get on a dry clean only jacket. No this, no that. Why is it that, at the age of 44 - which, by most reckonings, has to be after we've swapped ends at half-time - I'm gripped by a desire to light up a fag? 'No smoking in this vehicle'. Obviously. I hadn't thought about it before - to be honest if anything I'd thought I was doing quite well in my latest effort at kicking the habit, a habit which by common consensus is harder to kick than just about any drug you care to name. I hadn't had a fag since the last time it was dark which, come to think of it, it was again now.
I feel bewitched by Nancy. Everywhere I look, there she is. Nancy. She's on the front page of the Mail. She's got a double page spread in The Sun. Nancy. I feel bewitched. Feverishly I check the other papers. Nancy Nancy Nancy. She's everywhere and nowhere. Nancy. An enigma. She says nothing. She does nothing. But still she's there. The front page of the Daily Mail. There's a huge banner headline, across the width of thyme page just under the logo and more prominent than the lead story that says "Nancy: So what's she trying to tell Sven now?" and a huge picture, the length of the page, of this woman in a green-gold ballgown. Nancy. I don't suppose it's any madder than any thing else in the papers but it does make you think "Did I turn right when everyone else turned left?" The Mail is one of the biggest selling newspapers in the land. The editors must have a fair idea of what it is that their people want and I wouldn't back my judgement against theirs. Obviously putting this Nancy on the front page is a smart thing to do. Obviously people care about Nancy. But why? Why on earth should anyone care about this woman who, as far as I know, has never uttered a word about anything to anyone. Leaving aside the question of just how it is that the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team has reached that rarified level of fame where only a first name will do... No - how did that happen? She's the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team - an unsuccessful manager of an unsuccessful England football team at that.
Never mind. We've just passed a place that sells "garage doors as individual as you are". It takes a while to get that one into my head. "Garage doors as individual as you are". as an idea. it's a bit HR Puff'n'stuff What do you suppose it looks like, this garage door that's as individual as you are? Mine would, I hope, look interesting if a bit frayed round the edges. Black, yes, black with an ornate silver handle and would open about an hour or so after it was supposed to.
It's like your first pill. That feeling of how could anything be this good? That idea that, this is it. I'm never going to stop doing this, that would be stupid. When you can feel this good why would you choose not to be? Come here, no come here, really I've got to tell you something nah, nah it's really important and... You know?
I've just noticed that this is a 'Quiet Coach' - no laptops, it says. No one says anything to me about my laptop so I figure I'm just going to carry on typing. Well, I don't know - in fairness they might have said something and the chances are I wouldn't have heard anything. Well, not with The Streets' Original Pirate Material playing at force nine through my Jog Proof with G-Protection CD Walkman. No idea what G-Protection is, but it is definitely Jog Proof. But then again, most things in my life are jog proof. 'No personal stereos' it says just under the bit where it says 'No laptops'. And I'm sitting here with a personal stereo playing while tapping into my laptop. There are now quite a few people looking at me. Maybe the G on the Jog Proof CD Walkman stands for 'gaze'. Or 'glare'. "Customer demand has led us to introduce this quiet coach" it says next to a line of symbols like you get on a dry clean only jacket. No this, no that. Why is it that, at the age of 44 - which, by most reckonings, has to be after we've swapped ends at half-time - I'm gripped by a desire to light up a fag? 'No smoking in this vehicle'. Obviously. I hadn't thought about it before - to be honest if anything I'd thought I was doing quite well in my latest effort at kicking the habit, a habit which by common consensus is harder to kick than just about any drug you care to name. I hadn't had a fag since the last time it was dark which, come to think of it, it was again now.
Cardiff
Chapter One
So here we are, sitting on the train flying back to the warmth and safety of Brighton. Wales, we've been in Wales, the land of Sir Fynwy. It's the 5.55am from Cardiff and the sun is coming up over the green and pleasant land and I'm listening to the new Moby album (does work ever stop?) and I'll be back at maybe 10am. It's Tuesday morning, the morning after the night before and the night before was... Kylie at the Cardiff International Arena. And you thought you had all the fun.
Check into hotel (Ibis, all Kenco coffee and no porn channel). Three hours to kill. Opposite the hotel is a cinema. The rare luxury of going to the cinema on my own, a treat that was a staple of my youth but one of those things (like... just about every selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate The Baggage. You'd have thought that The Lord would have forseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You know, you start off with 24 hours just for yourself but then you're expected to take on board a wife, kids, a job, the dogs, the cats, the kids' friends, a mortgage, the garden, a new kitchen, knocking out the back wall and sorting out a conservatory, the "what are we going to do about Elly's school?" question... The Baggage in that same 24 hours. And it's worse, because when you were younger you had more energy (or at least more drugs that gave you more energy) so your youthful 24 hours lasted longer than your mature 2 hours. Would it have hurt The Grand Scheme if we were given, say, an additional 5 hours a day with each extra child? I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. Anyway. So I went to the cinema by myself.
"What's the next film to start?" I said to the assistant, kinda hoping it wasn't The Scorpion King or ET Special Edition.
"About A Boy" he said. "It starts in three minutes".
That'll do, I thought. I remember Allan Hunter gave it a good review. Didn't actually read the review, but... Allan's a top man. Knows the game. Wee, popcorn, in. Opening credits. Great Badly Drawn Boy song. What can I tell you? If I could remember the last film I walked out of, I'd say it was the first film I'd walked out of since whatever it's called. OK, so I figure I walked out near the end (Hugh Grant joins the boy onstage at a school concert... don't ask) and I did want to get something to eat before it was time to see The Singing Bottom, but a walk out is a walk out. It counts. What a pile of trite, see-through, mendacious, moralistic bollocks. In the old days I'd have called it fascist, but we don't do that now. You can't be happy without a job, a wife and kids. If you don't have these things you're worthless, vacuous, a "nothing". What offensive Thatcherite/Blairite (same nonsense) piffle. It was strange seeing Toni Collette in what was essentially a one-off BBC comedy-drama, but that was about it. The last film I walked out of (and I know you want to know this) was The English Patient.
Chapter 2: The Small Joys Of Life
9.10am. We 're approaching Gatwick. "We'd like to apologise for the late running of this train. This was due to a previous points failure."
Bitch. That means instead of a 15 minute gap between this train pulling into Gatwick and the Brighton train pulling out there's now only a five minute gap. Not enough time to run upstairs to Cafe Costa or whatever faceless coffee shack is sitting smugly there with its long tall skinny lattes ands I could really fancy a nice cup of coffee. 5.20am alarm call and all. Anyway, life isn't so bad. The God Of Small Pleasures has made the Brighton train before the Brighton train I was supposed to get late - a previous points failure probably - so what happens is this. I get off my train on Platform 3 and gently stroll over to platform 5 where my Brighton train is sitting, waiting. The joy. OK, so I don't get a coffee yet but still. I get home 30 minutes earlier than I was going to (30 minutes? You didn't think my original Brighton train was on time, did you?)
So here we are, sitting on the train flying back to the warmth and safety of Brighton. Wales, we've been in Wales, the land of Sir Fynwy. It's the 5.55am from Cardiff and the sun is coming up over the green and pleasant land and I'm listening to the new Moby album (does work ever stop?) and I'll be back at maybe 10am. It's Tuesday morning, the morning after the night before and the night before was... Kylie at the Cardiff International Arena. And you thought you had all the fun.
Check into hotel (Ibis, all Kenco coffee and no porn channel). Three hours to kill. Opposite the hotel is a cinema. The rare luxury of going to the cinema on my own, a treat that was a staple of my youth but one of those things (like... just about every selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate The Baggage. You'd have thought that The Lord would have forseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You know, you start off with 24 hours just for yourself but then you're expected to take on board a wife, kids, a job, the dogs, the cats, the kids' friends, a mortgage, the garden, a new kitchen, knocking out the back wall and sorting out a conservatory, the "what are we going to do about Elly's school?" question... The Baggage in that same 24 hours. And it's worse, because when you were younger you had more energy (or at least more drugs that gave you more energy) so your youthful 24 hours lasted longer than your mature 2 hours. Would it have hurt The Grand Scheme if we were given, say, an additional 5 hours a day with each extra child? I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. Anyway. So I went to the cinema by myself.
"What's the next film to start?" I said to the assistant, kinda hoping it wasn't The Scorpion King or ET Special Edition.
"About A Boy" he said. "It starts in three minutes".
That'll do, I thought. I remember Allan Hunter gave it a good review. Didn't actually read the review, but... Allan's a top man. Knows the game. Wee, popcorn, in. Opening credits. Great Badly Drawn Boy song. What can I tell you? If I could remember the last film I walked out of, I'd say it was the first film I'd walked out of since whatever it's called. OK, so I figure I walked out near the end (Hugh Grant joins the boy onstage at a school concert... don't ask) and I did want to get something to eat before it was time to see The Singing Bottom, but a walk out is a walk out. It counts. What a pile of trite, see-through, mendacious, moralistic bollocks. In the old days I'd have called it fascist, but we don't do that now. You can't be happy without a job, a wife and kids. If you don't have these things you're worthless, vacuous, a "nothing". What offensive Thatcherite/Blairite (same nonsense) piffle. It was strange seeing Toni Collette in what was essentially a one-off BBC comedy-drama, but that was about it. The last film I walked out of (and I know you want to know this) was The English Patient.
Chapter 2: The Small Joys Of Life
9.10am. We 're approaching Gatwick. "We'd like to apologise for the late running of this train. This was due to a previous points failure."
Bitch. That means instead of a 15 minute gap between this train pulling into Gatwick and the Brighton train pulling out there's now only a five minute gap. Not enough time to run upstairs to Cafe Costa or whatever faceless coffee shack is sitting smugly there with its long tall skinny lattes ands I could really fancy a nice cup of coffee. 5.20am alarm call and all. Anyway, life isn't so bad. The God Of Small Pleasures has made the Brighton train before the Brighton train I was supposed to get late - a previous points failure probably - so what happens is this. I get off my train on Platform 3 and gently stroll over to platform 5 where my Brighton train is sitting, waiting. The joy. OK, so I don't get a coffee yet but still. I get home 30 minutes earlier than I was going to (30 minutes? You didn't think my original Brighton train was on time, did you?)
Gatwick
"Gatwick Airport the next station stop". I didn’t even notice that we’d passed Hayward’s Heath. Lost in the peaceful haze of The Sun, finding out about the world we live in, finding out what’s important. It’s raining again today and I’m going up to London Town to find out if there is still a role for me at The Very Fine Express Newspaper. So many people I know there have gone - so few remain - I kind of feel like a kid who’s staying on at school even though all his mates have left. Ah, the joys of not actually having a job. Can’t get paranoid about being sacked. Can’t get paranoid about not being allowed to escape through the fast track redundancy package' that was on offer. What I’ve got to be afeared of is far greater: I’m on my way to London Town to discuss my future (oh really) with the lovely Heather (who, through a string of circumstances I can’t even begin to go into here - largely because I don’t know them has found herself Emperor Of All Areas - and that’s something I can’t even begin to think about. Emperor Of All Areas? I don’t know. Anyway, so I thought I’d do some work on the train, I thought I’d listen to a few CDs. Take my CD Walkman, my laptop, a few CDs and a copy of Q to find out what I think about the CDs I’m listening to. So anyway, I made a pile of discs to take up - new albums by REM, Depeche Mode, Missy Elliott, Cowboy Junkies, plus the Gorillaz LP I can’t stop listening to - and sorted myself out. I got to about Hayward’s Heath and decided to get to work. Time is money, you know. Listen to those records. So I opened my bag and there was... Nothing. No, there was the CD Walkman, the laptop and the copy of Q but the CDs? Nothing. Where the pile of CDs should have been there was one lonely disc. And what CD was it? Anoraknophobia by Marillion. It was the new Marillion LP. Have you ever heard Marillion? I can’t begin to tell you. I’ve looked in my bag and looked in my bag andS Nothing. I’m 5 minutes into the second track now called Quartz. I can’t wait for track 8. That one’s called If My Heart Were A Ball It Would Roll Uphill. Luckily there are some spare batteries in my bag so even if my batteries run out I won’t miss any of Anoraknophobia by Marillion. What can the nymphish Heather O’Connor possibly say to me that can compare with this? We’re into the 8th minute of Quartz now and it’s a guitar solo. You think Gill did this? Guitar’s just faded and Quartz is finished. 9.05. Last week I went to New York for a couple of days which was, as they say, nice. Work - of course - an interview with Armand Van Helden. Does anyone ever listen to Marillion? I can’t begin to tell you about this record. I’m four minutes into If My Heart Were A Ball It Would Roll Uphill (OK, I cheated) andS do you think there are serious beer-drinking polytechnic students somewhere out there who - hang on, we’ve just had a clever time change and he’s talking not speaking "Have you ever seen a shadow cast against your bedroom wall?" Well, funny you should ask thatS New York was fun though. Went drinking, clubbing, shopping, went back to the hotel to drink and wash (OK. Watch the pay-for-view porn channel a bit.) Met up with Gilly’s brother and family who live there (obviously live there. "Met up with Gilly’s brother and family who live in Basildon" doesn’t make much sense) and they took me to lunch in Central Park which was beautiful. Lovely weather, blossom blooming andS blimey. Thank God for that. It’s finished. I listened to the first two tracks and the last track. It’s OK to review the album from that? Course. It’s two tracks more than most bands get. So now we’re at Hayward’s Heath, but this time we’re heading back to the sanctuary of the south coast. So what happened? Well, in brief, we slayed the dragon. Killed the beast. We won and a victory is a victory, as they used to say in Poland when things got them down. What to say? Let’s just say that my babies can eat again. Not that they ever stopped eating. Started school last week, my little girl. Bless her, we thought she’d be all shy and standing at the back and knackered and sleep all afternoon andS Some chance. The fortune cookie in Saltdean reckons she’s going to be a pop star and who would be surprised. "She’s really enjoying it" they said at the school last week. Today apparently it was more to the point. Goes in like a whirlwind. "She’s very loud at school" they said. Well, why should she? There’s loads going on in her 2 and a half year old little life and it’s very exciting. What are you going to do? Keep it a secret? Burgess Hill. Two more stations to go. Time to relay some news. If I don’t relay some newsS who cares? So. News Item Number One: We went on holiday to Spain and very fine it was too. Perfect really. Gill - bless - organised it as a surprise and I didn’t even try to find out. Didn’t know till we got to the boarding gate. We ended up between Malaga and Marbella in a little hamlet called Mijas populated only by sweet people who had strange Engerlish accents and dodgy connections. Fine by me. You always need to know where to change money when you’re abroad. The weather was, as they say, lovely. News Item Number Two: I had my willy snipped. Yep. For the second time in my life, they took a knife to me. You’d have thought after that first timeS Still, that’s it for me. Two kids and that’s your lot. Could I tell you stories but I’m not sure you really want to know exactly how black my bits went afterwards. So anyway, there I was, lying on this hospital operating slab and there’s a sheet over my torso and a sheet over my legs and a man with a knife standing next to me. There’s a nurse standing by and another nurse standing on the other side holding my hand. I’m looking at them and they’re all schlepping my very frightened bits about (such attention! Three people at one time - it’s something that all us boys think about but this wasn’t quite how I’d imagined it) Anyway, the nurse holding my hand said "Now you’re just going to feel a little prick..." Me - nervous and cold - said "Me and you both". She said nothing. Probably makes the same idiot joke a dozen times a day. Two stitches either side and maximum pain. Really, the nurse said afterwards "You know childbirth?" said the nurse. "That’s nothing compared to this. Make sure your wife makes you plenty of strong vodkas for at least three days". Bless em. News Item Number Three: We’re here now. That’s a shame. News Item Number Three was a real cracker. Never mind.
Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR -
I can tell you now. I was under contract not to say anything, but it’s all sorted now. I had been down to be one of the runners and riders in the next series of Celebrity Big Brother - well I had been until fate intervened. No really. As you probably know the producers sort out different categories they'd like to fill – what they call generic types - and then go about finding the people to fill the archetype. I was down to be "Bloke around 40, ethnic background, no hair, bad teeth, once promising career on the wane". Talk about method acting, it was a role I was born to play.
Bastards. I was this close - really - to getting the gig when they said they'd changed their mind and were going to give it to the bloke in East Enders who’s got the market stall next to Alfie. Apparently they said it was because he'd been on EastEnders it gave him a 'higher recognition factor'. Well, I said, I've visited the set of Albert Square and… he bloke who’s got the market stall next to Alfie? Blimey. "I've been on Kilroy too" I said but they weren't listening. Bastards. Think of the opportunities that've been snatched from my grasp. The appearances on This Morning, maybe even I could have got back that old Agony Ant column I used to do where I used to write about problems from the animals point of view. (As a column it didn't last long).
So anyway. Here we are. Standing on Platform 4 at the train station, ready to take part in Celebrity Train Journey, a light-hearted game in which a number of people you've never heard of - moi excepted - spend an afternoon and an unspecified portion of the evening trying to get through a train journey from Brighton to Birmingham. This was an idea they'd come up with, something they'd put together for the people who hadn't quite made it to the final of Celebrity Big Brother.
"It's like going in to the UEFA Cup when you don't quite make it in The Champions League" they said.
There's a woman opposite me who looks a dead ringer for The Queen. No, really. An absolute dead ringer. I saw her in the paper this morning shaking hands with David Beckham and... and this woman opposite is a dead ringer. It seems unlikely I know, but do you think she's put herself into this Celebrity Train Journey malarkey as a way of getting back on the public's side after all that butler stuff? Hah. We've just stopped at Oxford and a woman - not The Queen - has just got off the train. Another competitior falls by the wayside.
We've just passed Banbury and this bloke who looks just like Neil Morrissey has just got in and is sitting next to The Queen. They're talking. He's been on the train no time and they're talking. Do you think there's something going on? Is there maybe a Lookalikes Convention in Birmingham tonight?
Just as I was leaving the production office, I overheard the phone go. I was Caprice blowing out. I thought about it for a minute but... no. If it had been Les Dennis maybe I would have had a go, would have said something. But Caprice? Let's be honest. I don't suppose there was one of her boxes I could have ticked.
Which one of us will get off the train first? Which one of us will manage to stay on until Birmingham and win tonight's star prize - a night with Moby at the NEC? Ah yes, Moby. I wonder whether there was a Celebrity Big Brother archetype for Diminutive Christian vegan technohead? I could go for that next time. So, OK. The diminutive bit would be a bit hard to pull off and the Christian bit is historically iffy and vegan...
Now then. This might have been said before, but it's grim up north. I don't now why but whenever I take these train journeys up to somewhere in the north - t'north - it always seems to get darker and greyer the further I get from Brighton and the nearer I get to my destination. It seems like someone is turning the lights out, slowly. I don't know, It could be that this is just because I always travel in the late afternoon/early evening and that's what it does, get dark, but I don't know. Not convinced.
I've just been listening to Nick Cave's O'Malley's Bar and it's tempting, this idea of standing up and, one-by-one, taking out these people, just shooting them. Heroically taking their lives and putting the energy back in the pot. Sometimes I wish I'd been born an aristocrat. I think I'd have been a fantastic aristiocrat. All inate superiority and contempt for the masses. I'm like that anyway and I am one of the masses. How much more contemptuous could I be? One other thing, if I was an aristo, the first things to would get it would be bloody foxes. Dish out death and contempt in one go. One thing I wouldn't do is sit on the train like The Queenie over there. I don't care what they say about my family, nothing would get me out of that gilt-embossed carriage. Yeah, I'd like to see them try and pull that off: Celebrity Gilt-Embossed Carriage Journey.
The train is sitting outside Birmingham. Not doing anything much, just sitting. Fair enough, I suppose. This is a Brighton to Birmingham train that started at Gatwick Airport. (The announcer at Brighton Station had said, straight, "The 13.18 service to Manchester Picaddilly will be starting from Gatwick Airport. We apologise for any inconvenience".) No reason. Don't know why. Just fancied starting at Gatwick. Still, we're moving again. The good news is that I'm last man standing. It looks like - and where's Davina when you need her? - that I'm going to be the one to go and see Moby in Birmingham at the NEC. But first, and this is where the real-lie bonus comes in, it's to The Malmaison Hotel. No schmutter with this Reality TV lark.
I can tell you now. I was under contract not to say anything, but it’s all sorted now. I had been down to be one of the runners and riders in the next series of Celebrity Big Brother - well I had been until fate intervened. No really. As you probably know the producers sort out different categories they'd like to fill – what they call generic types - and then go about finding the people to fill the archetype. I was down to be "Bloke around 40, ethnic background, no hair, bad teeth, once promising career on the wane". Talk about method acting, it was a role I was born to play.
Bastards. I was this close - really - to getting the gig when they said they'd changed their mind and were going to give it to the bloke in East Enders who’s got the market stall next to Alfie. Apparently they said it was because he'd been on EastEnders it gave him a 'higher recognition factor'. Well, I said, I've visited the set of Albert Square and… he bloke who’s got the market stall next to Alfie? Blimey. "I've been on Kilroy too" I said but they weren't listening. Bastards. Think of the opportunities that've been snatched from my grasp. The appearances on This Morning, maybe even I could have got back that old Agony Ant column I used to do where I used to write about problems from the animals point of view. (As a column it didn't last long).
So anyway. Here we are. Standing on Platform 4 at the train station, ready to take part in Celebrity Train Journey, a light-hearted game in which a number of people you've never heard of - moi excepted - spend an afternoon and an unspecified portion of the evening trying to get through a train journey from Brighton to Birmingham. This was an idea they'd come up with, something they'd put together for the people who hadn't quite made it to the final of Celebrity Big Brother.
"It's like going in to the UEFA Cup when you don't quite make it in The Champions League" they said.
There's a woman opposite me who looks a dead ringer for The Queen. No, really. An absolute dead ringer. I saw her in the paper this morning shaking hands with David Beckham and... and this woman opposite is a dead ringer. It seems unlikely I know, but do you think she's put herself into this Celebrity Train Journey malarkey as a way of getting back on the public's side after all that butler stuff? Hah. We've just stopped at Oxford and a woman - not The Queen - has just got off the train. Another competitior falls by the wayside.
We've just passed Banbury and this bloke who looks just like Neil Morrissey has just got in and is sitting next to The Queen. They're talking. He's been on the train no time and they're talking. Do you think there's something going on? Is there maybe a Lookalikes Convention in Birmingham tonight?
Just as I was leaving the production office, I overheard the phone go. I was Caprice blowing out. I thought about it for a minute but... no. If it had been Les Dennis maybe I would have had a go, would have said something. But Caprice? Let's be honest. I don't suppose there was one of her boxes I could have ticked.
Which one of us will get off the train first? Which one of us will manage to stay on until Birmingham and win tonight's star prize - a night with Moby at the NEC? Ah yes, Moby. I wonder whether there was a Celebrity Big Brother archetype for Diminutive Christian vegan technohead? I could go for that next time. So, OK. The diminutive bit would be a bit hard to pull off and the Christian bit is historically iffy and vegan...
Now then. This might have been said before, but it's grim up north. I don't now why but whenever I take these train journeys up to somewhere in the north - t'north - it always seems to get darker and greyer the further I get from Brighton and the nearer I get to my destination. It seems like someone is turning the lights out, slowly. I don't know, It could be that this is just because I always travel in the late afternoon/early evening and that's what it does, get dark, but I don't know. Not convinced.
I've just been listening to Nick Cave's O'Malley's Bar and it's tempting, this idea of standing up and, one-by-one, taking out these people, just shooting them. Heroically taking their lives and putting the energy back in the pot. Sometimes I wish I'd been born an aristocrat. I think I'd have been a fantastic aristiocrat. All inate superiority and contempt for the masses. I'm like that anyway and I am one of the masses. How much more contemptuous could I be? One other thing, if I was an aristo, the first things to would get it would be bloody foxes. Dish out death and contempt in one go. One thing I wouldn't do is sit on the train like The Queenie over there. I don't care what they say about my family, nothing would get me out of that gilt-embossed carriage. Yeah, I'd like to see them try and pull that off: Celebrity Gilt-Embossed Carriage Journey.
The train is sitting outside Birmingham. Not doing anything much, just sitting. Fair enough, I suppose. This is a Brighton to Birmingham train that started at Gatwick Airport. (The announcer at Brighton Station had said, straight, "The 13.18 service to Manchester Picaddilly will be starting from Gatwick Airport. We apologise for any inconvenience".) No reason. Don't know why. Just fancied starting at Gatwick. Still, we're moving again. The good news is that I'm last man standing. It looks like - and where's Davina when you need her? - that I'm going to be the one to go and see Moby in Birmingham at the NEC. But first, and this is where the real-lie bonus comes in, it's to The Malmaison Hotel. No schmutter with this Reality TV lark.
Old post
CHAPTER TWELVE – The First Law Of Averages
So... This morning I got up – it’s a traditional thing I do – went to the park to take Maxwell Wolf out for a walk. Another beautiful day but a day fraught with danger. What to do? My brain’s a turmoil. I’ve finished the decking so that’s that. I’ve finished the garden lighting so that’s that too. I’ve tidied up and taken all the rubbish to the dump. Done. Re-turfed the lawn. Done. Built a rockery. Done. Solved the problem of where to store the bikes. Done. (Large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall – off the ground, protected from the weather). I’ve done more to the garden, played with more power tools than any middle-aged, middle-class Jewish father of two has any right to do. But now? What to do? (I’ve just heard that Barclays bank is cutting 800 jobs. Another potential avenue of pleasure slams in my face). So I’m in the park.
There’s Alexis. I love Alexis but... Incidentally, Alexis got drunk on Saturday night at The Grand Unveiling and was last seen hopping around the garden doing his impressions of how the great reggae singers of the 70s danced. “Dr Alimantado running on the spot! Burning Spear Lion Of Judah!!” Made me laugh. Alexis talked this morning. I wandered around, making lists in my head (1: Phone the mortgage advisor, 2: Go through the mail, 3: Check out the pond, 4: Phone up the accountant, 5: Press ‘Send/Receive’ on my e-mail. Harder to do than you might think. It’s become an increasing confrontational action. There’s either rubbish virus crap “Here’s that document you requested” type stuff has replaced all the “Enlarge your penis/consolidate your debts” stuff or things from either of the two round robin group lists I’m on. Take all that away and it’s down to the odd mail from Gill and she’s downstairs and only writes cos she can’t be bothered to shout. Hardly the stuff this super-highway technology was built for. Kinda like in the old days when the squliions spent on the space programme was justified by the fact that without it we wouldn’t have had the non-stick pan... Alexis just said something. I’m not hugely good at communicating in the morning. Maxwell neither. He beat up Dolly when she did the sniff thing. (Actually, I’m with him there. Late at night, fine. Mid-afternoon better. But first thing in the morning I can’t be doing with all that bottom-sniffing stuff. Maybe that’s why me and Maxwell get on so well). Pre-coffee, pre all sorts of things. I just like to get on with it. A chat with Maxwell Wolf is about the best I do.
Alexis moved off and I rolled on. Found a lump of wood that looked fairly useful. A sometime future sculpture. I grabbed it – wood’s heavier than you think – threw it over my shoulder in a new I’ve-got-a-pneumatic-drill style and walked. Sat down. Had a bit of a think about D-day and the death of Ronald Reagan. Well... I tried to have a think about D-day and the death of Ronald Reagan. Distraction tactics. (And – let’s be at least honest – it makes me look a little less shallow and self-obsessed. Pathetic really. It’s a bit like taking out gym membership. You’re never going to do it, so why bother. You can’t even be arsed to do 50 sit ups in your bedroom, so what’s the point.) Decided to check out Gil Scott-Heron again. “Well the first thing I want to say is mandate my ass”. Now that was a tune. Funny on Saturday night. Got involved in a iPod thing with Ian. Threw on Scott-Heron’’s Is That Jazz? And we ended up singing it together. “Brother Ron gets it on with a bassline so strong the sounds seem to glow in the dark”. Rubbish really. “21% voted for Skippy...”
“Morning”. It’s Steve. Steve I like but it’s more chat. Maxwell beat up Bailey. Steve told me about his day. He’s a film editor who’s thrown it in to become a window cleaner. Now that I like. “ I can get £400 or £500 a week without trying too hard. Do you need more than that?” Well, frankly yes but then again “If it all goes tits, I’ll cut a film”. Must remember to add to the list “Stand on a ladder and see how it feels”.
Home. The kids are still at home. Inset day. Lovely. I’ve also got an inset day. Might have one tomorrow too.
So... This morning I got up – it’s a traditional thing I do – went to the park to take Maxwell Wolf out for a walk. Another beautiful day but a day fraught with danger. What to do? My brain’s a turmoil. I’ve finished the decking so that’s that. I’ve finished the garden lighting so that’s that too. I’ve tidied up and taken all the rubbish to the dump. Done. Re-turfed the lawn. Done. Built a rockery. Done. Solved the problem of where to store the bikes. Done. (Large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall – off the ground, protected from the weather). I’ve done more to the garden, played with more power tools than any middle-aged, middle-class Jewish father of two has any right to do. But now? What to do? (I’ve just heard that Barclays bank is cutting 800 jobs. Another potential avenue of pleasure slams in my face). So I’m in the park.
There’s Alexis. I love Alexis but... Incidentally, Alexis got drunk on Saturday night at The Grand Unveiling and was last seen hopping around the garden doing his impressions of how the great reggae singers of the 70s danced. “Dr Alimantado running on the spot! Burning Spear Lion Of Judah!!” Made me laugh. Alexis talked this morning. I wandered around, making lists in my head (1: Phone the mortgage advisor, 2: Go through the mail, 3: Check out the pond, 4: Phone up the accountant, 5: Press ‘Send/Receive’ on my e-mail. Harder to do than you might think. It’s become an increasing confrontational action. There’s either rubbish virus crap “Here’s that document you requested” type stuff has replaced all the “Enlarge your penis/consolidate your debts” stuff or things from either of the two round robin group lists I’m on. Take all that away and it’s down to the odd mail from Gill and she’s downstairs and only writes cos she can’t be bothered to shout. Hardly the stuff this super-highway technology was built for. Kinda like in the old days when the squliions spent on the space programme was justified by the fact that without it we wouldn’t have had the non-stick pan... Alexis just said something. I’m not hugely good at communicating in the morning. Maxwell neither. He beat up Dolly when she did the sniff thing. (Actually, I’m with him there. Late at night, fine. Mid-afternoon better. But first thing in the morning I can’t be doing with all that bottom-sniffing stuff. Maybe that’s why me and Maxwell get on so well). Pre-coffee, pre all sorts of things. I just like to get on with it. A chat with Maxwell Wolf is about the best I do.
Alexis moved off and I rolled on. Found a lump of wood that looked fairly useful. A sometime future sculpture. I grabbed it – wood’s heavier than you think – threw it over my shoulder in a new I’ve-got-a-pneumatic-drill style and walked. Sat down. Had a bit of a think about D-day and the death of Ronald Reagan. Well... I tried to have a think about D-day and the death of Ronald Reagan. Distraction tactics. (And – let’s be at least honest – it makes me look a little less shallow and self-obsessed. Pathetic really. It’s a bit like taking out gym membership. You’re never going to do it, so why bother. You can’t even be arsed to do 50 sit ups in your bedroom, so what’s the point.) Decided to check out Gil Scott-Heron again. “Well the first thing I want to say is mandate my ass”. Now that was a tune. Funny on Saturday night. Got involved in a iPod thing with Ian. Threw on Scott-Heron’’s Is That Jazz? And we ended up singing it together. “Brother Ron gets it on with a bassline so strong the sounds seem to glow in the dark”. Rubbish really. “21% voted for Skippy...”
“Morning”. It’s Steve. Steve I like but it’s more chat. Maxwell beat up Bailey. Steve told me about his day. He’s a film editor who’s thrown it in to become a window cleaner. Now that I like. “ I can get £400 or £500 a week without trying too hard. Do you need more than that?” Well, frankly yes but then again “If it all goes tits, I’ll cut a film”. Must remember to add to the list “Stand on a ladder and see how it feels”.
Home. The kids are still at home. Inset day. Lovely. I’ve also got an inset day. Might have one tomorrow too.
Another old post
CHAPTER FOUR – We’re Off To See The Wizard…
The next station is Gatwick Airport. And so we head off north on the long trek to Mortlake, our task to persuade the powers to give us enough money so that we can live in the poshest house in Christendom. Maybe that was why I didn’t sleep so well last night. Maybe that was why LouLou wet the bed and had a restless night. Maybe that was why. But maybe it was because there were huge winds again. The night before the storms had been so feisty that Big Nick & Juliet’s roof got damaged. Mr Princey was very worried and decided to spend the rest of the night (and following day) in bed.
Yesterday was a fine old day at college. It’s all a bit serious there now. Disturbingly Rob now has a hatt exactly the same as mine. Exactly. Black, wide brim with a brown leather band. That’s nice and I’m pleased about that. We were seen as ‘aligned’ before. Now we’re seen as twins. Or boyfriend and girlfriend. Sweetly, he still determinedly calls me “Jeremy”. So we had this meeting yesterday and there’s about six people there and everyone is referring to the new boy as Jed while Rob talks about someone else entirely. Once he let it slip, referred to Jed. I burst out laughing. No one knew what at. He means well but is a decidedly odd fish. Still, hands up who isn’t.
Fittingly, there are two big stories in the papers today. The first tells of how David Beckham has signed a new deal to play for the Los Angeles football team, to be the big star in a team that means nothing who play in a league which barely exists. Football in America is a sport that has, since the end of World War 2, been on the cusp of breaking. For this, Beckham is too earn £128million for a five year deal. That, the papers reliably tell us, is £25.6m a year which is £2.1m a month which is £500,000 a week which is £70,000 a day which is £3,000 an hour which is £50 a minute which is 80p a second. Which is nice. It’s a curious thing, but I’ve always been told I was clever by the same people who’ve always said Beckham was dumb.
The other big news story is this. Interest rates are going up and the middle classes with all their property speculations are feeling the squeeze. The new rate is 5.25%. we have now reached Gatwick Airport. It’s tempting, I can tell you. I’ve got my passport with me, the girls are being looked after, everything is taken account of. Well, almost. I had not wet cat food left this morning and Mr Prince was none too happy. Being a single parent, there’s so much to think about.
And that was that. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I said we wanted to borrow £695,000. “Yeah, OK, let’s see who’s going to give you the best deal.” While he was tapping away, he said “I’ve just quadrupled my mortgage”. It’s probably just a bit of patter, but it made us laugh. He was a funny bloke though, all rabbit and flying figures. Actually, talking to him was the first time I’ve taken Mike seriously. I’ve always thought he was nice bloke and all, but more mouth than trousers. Like when Des said he’d got an off shore account. I thought “Oooh, I know that one”. But this bloke seemed proper.
It’s just as well this wasn’t around when I was younger. I would have got into so much grief – but then again, we could be living in Laughton Manor. The biggest problem occurred when the computer couldn’t find Laughton Lodge through the postcode search. Still, the old “Don’t shout Hi till you’re over the bridge” scenario lurks in my head, but it’s looking OK. I still think it’s a good move – and I still think that it’s a good financial move. We’ll have to be a bit clever in the next couple of years though, a bit disciplined. No bad thing, really.
Potentially we’re in a good position now, vis-à-vis the house. It was interesting how little difference it would make if we sold Brighton, and as John said, regardless of the actual truth, it looks good to potential lenders if you can say you’ve got properties in London and Brighton- which we have. Anyway, it’s your problem really. As you keep saying, the chances are that I’ll die before you – so what do I care? Right now, I’m going to live in comfort – so there.
I missed you when I spoke to you today. I don’t really like speaking on the phone in public places, but I miss being with you. It’s dumb really. When we’re off doing interesting things, things that we’d talk about, things that we’d laugh about… we’re apart. When we’re doing the everyday mundane things, we’re together. I guess it’s the nature of things. Someone always has to be holding the fort, but it does seem a bit odd. Still, when the children have left home, huh? You’ve got to tell me more about what you’re doing. The World Bank? What’s that about? What is the World Bank? Do they have branches? Can they give you a mortgage? How cool if you had a credit card which said “World Bank” on it instead of Barclays. And Botswana? What?? The World Bank – which still sounds like something out of Captain Scarlet – has it’s head office in Botswana? Shouldn’t it be in Wall Street or something? Or am I being very last century?
It makes me quite envious, to be honest. I’ve got to think about what I’m going to cook for Pot Luck. But I guess what I’ve got lined up is, in the biggest sense, what people want. This is my schedule: Elly’s gone to Sophie’s after school and I’ve got to pick her up at 7. Then back to Laughton to cook. Tomorrow morning, she’s off to Mae’s house but can’t stay at Mae’s – don’t know why – so then Mae and Belle are coming back here to have a sleepover and then Mae goes back home on Sunday.
It is, on the one hand, so ordinary, but on the other hand it’s what life is all about and I love it. (And I haven’t even started on the main group meeting on Saturday. The e-mail went out “Any items for the agenda”. I suggested we could put you down and talk about you cos you weren’t there).
Oh no. The man opposite me on the train, and he’s a dead ringer for Jeff (and Heidi) who in turn is a dead ringer for Val Doonican, his phone just went. It played ‘Tubular Bells’.
Anyway, I’d love to go to Bostwana but I also love the day-to-day. It’s the balance, I guess. Now we’re back at Gatwick Airport. There. That didn’t take long. It seems like only half a dozen paragraphs we were there. Bubble was very sweet this morning, very cuddly. She’s so much more contained than Belle. She’s very little and squidgy but takes it all in her stride. With Belle it’s like this. Yesterday I had to go out in the evening…
Me: “Girls, come here. I’ve got to go out tomorrow night. Who do you want to have dinner with?”
Bubble: “I want to go to Sassy’s house”
Belle: “I don’t mind”.
Me: “Rachel said she’d take care of you. What do you think of that?”
Girls: “OK”
(At this moment, Rachel walks in)
Rachel: “Do you still want me to feed the girls tomorrow night?”
Me: “Lovely, thanks. You OK with that girls?”
Girls: “OK”
That all sounds well and good, no? The question is this. How many times did Elly phone me the next day to check if Rachel was feeding them? A) None cos she trusted, B) once, just to check, C) 3,234 times, each time imploring “Daddy, are you sure? Can you phone Rachel again?”
Bubble thought it was “fine”.
14.27. I’ll be back soon. Lewes car park and then I’m going to stop on the way home to get some cat food. And I’m going to go to Tesco. Yes, Tesco. Lalalalalalalalalalala. And what can you do about it? Nothing. Ha. Anyway, my eco friend Tony shops at Tescos (His explanation? “Well…..”) Then I’m going to go for a walk with my puppy. And I’m going to have a look on the map and see where Botswana is. I might even tap “music festivals Botswana” into Google and see if anything comes up…
The next station is Gatwick Airport. And so we head off north on the long trek to Mortlake, our task to persuade the powers to give us enough money so that we can live in the poshest house in Christendom. Maybe that was why I didn’t sleep so well last night. Maybe that was why LouLou wet the bed and had a restless night. Maybe that was why. But maybe it was because there were huge winds again. The night before the storms had been so feisty that Big Nick & Juliet’s roof got damaged. Mr Princey was very worried and decided to spend the rest of the night (and following day) in bed.
Yesterday was a fine old day at college. It’s all a bit serious there now. Disturbingly Rob now has a hatt exactly the same as mine. Exactly. Black, wide brim with a brown leather band. That’s nice and I’m pleased about that. We were seen as ‘aligned’ before. Now we’re seen as twins. Or boyfriend and girlfriend. Sweetly, he still determinedly calls me “Jeremy”. So we had this meeting yesterday and there’s about six people there and everyone is referring to the new boy as Jed while Rob talks about someone else entirely. Once he let it slip, referred to Jed. I burst out laughing. No one knew what at. He means well but is a decidedly odd fish. Still, hands up who isn’t.
Fittingly, there are two big stories in the papers today. The first tells of how David Beckham has signed a new deal to play for the Los Angeles football team, to be the big star in a team that means nothing who play in a league which barely exists. Football in America is a sport that has, since the end of World War 2, been on the cusp of breaking. For this, Beckham is too earn £128million for a five year deal. That, the papers reliably tell us, is £25.6m a year which is £2.1m a month which is £500,000 a week which is £70,000 a day which is £3,000 an hour which is £50 a minute which is 80p a second. Which is nice. It’s a curious thing, but I’ve always been told I was clever by the same people who’ve always said Beckham was dumb.
The other big news story is this. Interest rates are going up and the middle classes with all their property speculations are feeling the squeeze. The new rate is 5.25%. we have now reached Gatwick Airport. It’s tempting, I can tell you. I’ve got my passport with me, the girls are being looked after, everything is taken account of. Well, almost. I had not wet cat food left this morning and Mr Prince was none too happy. Being a single parent, there’s so much to think about.
And that was that. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I said we wanted to borrow £695,000. “Yeah, OK, let’s see who’s going to give you the best deal.” While he was tapping away, he said “I’ve just quadrupled my mortgage”. It’s probably just a bit of patter, but it made us laugh. He was a funny bloke though, all rabbit and flying figures. Actually, talking to him was the first time I’ve taken Mike seriously. I’ve always thought he was nice bloke and all, but more mouth than trousers. Like when Des said he’d got an off shore account. I thought “Oooh, I know that one”. But this bloke seemed proper.
It’s just as well this wasn’t around when I was younger. I would have got into so much grief – but then again, we could be living in Laughton Manor. The biggest problem occurred when the computer couldn’t find Laughton Lodge through the postcode search. Still, the old “Don’t shout Hi till you’re over the bridge” scenario lurks in my head, but it’s looking OK. I still think it’s a good move – and I still think that it’s a good financial move. We’ll have to be a bit clever in the next couple of years though, a bit disciplined. No bad thing, really.
Potentially we’re in a good position now, vis-à-vis the house. It was interesting how little difference it would make if we sold Brighton, and as John said, regardless of the actual truth, it looks good to potential lenders if you can say you’ve got properties in London and Brighton- which we have. Anyway, it’s your problem really. As you keep saying, the chances are that I’ll die before you – so what do I care? Right now, I’m going to live in comfort – so there.
I missed you when I spoke to you today. I don’t really like speaking on the phone in public places, but I miss being with you. It’s dumb really. When we’re off doing interesting things, things that we’d talk about, things that we’d laugh about… we’re apart. When we’re doing the everyday mundane things, we’re together. I guess it’s the nature of things. Someone always has to be holding the fort, but it does seem a bit odd. Still, when the children have left home, huh? You’ve got to tell me more about what you’re doing. The World Bank? What’s that about? What is the World Bank? Do they have branches? Can they give you a mortgage? How cool if you had a credit card which said “World Bank” on it instead of Barclays. And Botswana? What?? The World Bank – which still sounds like something out of Captain Scarlet – has it’s head office in Botswana? Shouldn’t it be in Wall Street or something? Or am I being very last century?
It makes me quite envious, to be honest. I’ve got to think about what I’m going to cook for Pot Luck. But I guess what I’ve got lined up is, in the biggest sense, what people want. This is my schedule: Elly’s gone to Sophie’s after school and I’ve got to pick her up at 7. Then back to Laughton to cook. Tomorrow morning, she’s off to Mae’s house but can’t stay at Mae’s – don’t know why – so then Mae and Belle are coming back here to have a sleepover and then Mae goes back home on Sunday.
It is, on the one hand, so ordinary, but on the other hand it’s what life is all about and I love it. (And I haven’t even started on the main group meeting on Saturday. The e-mail went out “Any items for the agenda”. I suggested we could put you down and talk about you cos you weren’t there).
Oh no. The man opposite me on the train, and he’s a dead ringer for Jeff (and Heidi) who in turn is a dead ringer for Val Doonican, his phone just went. It played ‘Tubular Bells’.
Anyway, I’d love to go to Bostwana but I also love the day-to-day. It’s the balance, I guess. Now we’re back at Gatwick Airport. There. That didn’t take long. It seems like only half a dozen paragraphs we were there. Bubble was very sweet this morning, very cuddly. She’s so much more contained than Belle. She’s very little and squidgy but takes it all in her stride. With Belle it’s like this. Yesterday I had to go out in the evening…
Me: “Girls, come here. I’ve got to go out tomorrow night. Who do you want to have dinner with?”
Bubble: “I want to go to Sassy’s house”
Belle: “I don’t mind”.
Me: “Rachel said she’d take care of you. What do you think of that?”
Girls: “OK”
(At this moment, Rachel walks in)
Rachel: “Do you still want me to feed the girls tomorrow night?”
Me: “Lovely, thanks. You OK with that girls?”
Girls: “OK”
That all sounds well and good, no? The question is this. How many times did Elly phone me the next day to check if Rachel was feeding them? A) None cos she trusted, B) once, just to check, C) 3,234 times, each time imploring “Daddy, are you sure? Can you phone Rachel again?”
Bubble thought it was “fine”.
14.27. I’ll be back soon. Lewes car park and then I’m going to stop on the way home to get some cat food. And I’m going to go to Tesco. Yes, Tesco. Lalalalalalalalalalala. And what can you do about it? Nothing. Ha. Anyway, my eco friend Tony shops at Tescos (His explanation? “Well…..”) Then I’m going to go for a walk with my puppy. And I’m going to have a look on the map and see where Botswana is. I might even tap “music festivals Botswana” into Google and see if anything comes up…
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