Jed's Blog

King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown by jedski

2010-01-05T11:54:00.001-08:00

King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown by jedski

Time to buy some jeans

2010-01-05T11:45:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever felt so out of step. James Blunt was the biggest selling album of the Noughties, Top Gear apparently the best TV show. I don't understand either. Maybe it's something to do with moving to the countryside.

Even in the days when I used to be paid to be out of step, I never felt so distant. Mind, in those days I wasn’t ever out of step. Everyone else was. But now, now I don’t write about that stuff anymore and I’m just another winsome voice in the crowd and it’s all a bit… grumpy.

I should like Clarkson. Someone I used to work with – the lovely Rob Gore-Langton – used to share a flat with Clarkson and apparently he used to cut out my Independent stuff and put it on his fridge. The Independent – I wonder what might have been had I stayed there, had I not left to follow the muse. Maybe that's why I don't like TG. (Not so long ago - OK, quite a long time ago) TG used to stand for Throbbing Gristle. Oh well).

I don't want to come over like some of my students, but it's baffling to me and anyone who tunes in to either should be shot. It's just my opinion and I'm entitled to it and anyone who disagrees... they should also be shot.

In that very last year way, I posted the opening par of this ramble on my Facebook status. And this is what I got back: “The only people who don't like Top Gear are people who don't watch it. It is hilarious and irreverent in these po-faced times.”

Then I was sent me this. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lsY5BaKhuQ&feature=related
Enjoy ... this is a Theroux-style deconstructon of middle america, so much more valid given clarkson's perceived right-wing stance; in truth its just bloody funny. C'mon you pussy-whipped hippies, get off your pilates mat and have a good laugh...

So I watched it. Three middle aged blokes driving through Redneck Central trying to wind up the locals by writing stuff like “Hillary for President” and “Man Love Rules” on the side of their cars.

I’ve watched Top Gear and simply don't get it. It's a one trick pony - the boorish geezer at the end of the bar persona, the don't-give-a-toss-about-the-environment, the anyone who disagrees is a killjoy attitude... it's dull. Compare Top Gear's humour with someone like Russell Brand who is genuinely sparkling and shiny and clever...

Rachel said this: Clarkson would love this... middle aged blokes with nothing better to do than debate his attributes. I quite like his irritating predictability and occasionally I do laugh like a drain.. oh no! I've got drawn in. JB..who cares...

That’s possibly right too. Rachel always was clever.

CHAPTER SIX

2009-12-29T16:05:00.001-08:00

Last night had started in typical Palace style. I was sitting on the fridge in the hall – don’t ask – just sitting there watching the world go by. Fag, glass, watch.

People come, people go, the fridge was a good place to hang out. The Palace equivalent of the water cooler.

A couple of characters came out of one of the rooms. Tonya and James. I love these two guys. They’re always on the look out, always game for it. Really I think the reason I liked them so much was cos I knew that they were a bit like me, part timers, not really part of the game. I don’t know how they ended up here, but they weren’t here for the long haul. Probably just hanging out till college starts or something.

Normally they play the club game, but tonight…. Tonight they looked special.

“How long have you been here?” I said to Tonya. I’d been there about six months and he’d been there longer than me. It’s funny. It sounded like I was asking about a prison sentence or something.

“Nah, I only came about a month or so before you. Sometimes it feels like forever but it feels like home, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. You think you’ll know when enough is enough? When it’s time to stop the madness?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think,” said James, “he means ‘What the fuck are we doing dressed up like this?’”

James had a point. Coming out of your room at The Palace was always a treat. You never quite knew what was going to happen. Tonya and James were sweet lads, an Aussie and a Brit. Both up for it, both nice boys on holiday. But James had a point.

They were trussed up in leather, in I don’t know, the sort of lederhosen you’d get in a sex shop if sex shops sold lederhosen. Maybe a Bavarian sex shop that catered for the S&M crowd. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the only kind of sex shop you got in Bavaria.

Why? What? Did it matter? I asked and they started telling me about how they were going to check out the gay bars cos they’d met some bloke who told them it was an easy way to make some dosh and… and… and…

Sometimes I didn’t know whether we were on Candid Camera or whether it was for real. Maybe it was one of those Japanese game shows where you had to undergo strange acts of sadism. There was that Clive James used to present called Endurance, I think. I used to write about them, thought they were rubbish, laughing at the funny foreigners. Curiously, I went from writing about them to appearing on one of them once. No, but really.

CHAPTER FIVE

2009-12-29T16:03:00.001-08:00

Around me in the cafe, people are sitting reading the papers. And the scene is the same as everywhere else in the world. They are turned to the sports pages, checking to see how their boys have done.

Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.

Last night. About last night. There was an acronym - A.C.E. – we used which made us laugh anyway. We’re going to have an ace night. A night out with acid, cocaine and ecstasy. Ace. Last night was supposed to be ace. But then every night is supposed to be ace. It got blown out of the water when Mark came in with some smack. That added an ‘H’. We should have known then. That made it an ache. But, it’s getting better.

More coffee arrives. People carrying umbrellas walk past. I’m wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow. It is emblazoned with the legend “Chanel - Paris” but no one can see it because it’s inside out. On my legs are a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes are local specialities called Jika Tabi - black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. They are very comfortable and, to your eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what you might call ‘witty’. Last night was still here...

..." "Don't let me stop you." So I wrote "... waiting for another coffee" and put my pen down again. You know where you stand with creativity.

------------------

About last night. I remember the way I used to go out. Say, for example, I was supposed to go out at 10. I’d have a bath at 6, a long bath, wash my hair and spend the next two hours poodling around doing my hair and sorting out which clothes to wear.

Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night? A job? A serious friend? A serious job? I had a suit for each and knew exactly which one would do for each need. The fact that they were all black and baggy and double breasted and made by the same geezer mattered not a jot to anyone but me. I knew and I felt right in each one in a different way. That took me up to about 8ish. Then I’d spend some time on the phone, checking out what the score really was and then I’d spend the next 30 or 40 minutes changing the suit to meet the new requirement. Five minutes before leaving the house, I’d change back to the suit that I always wore. The black baggy one. Dependable and comfortable. Sometimes I’d lay three or four out on my bed, each with a tie and compare and go through different combinations.

Here, things are a bit different. No, maybe that’s misleading. They’re not really different. There isn’t the clothing dilemma, largely because there are no clothes to speak of. How can you deliberate about which suit to wear when you’ve only got one suit? So what do you do? You end up trying to change your inside because you can’t change your outside. Drugs is the new deal. The questions are the old questions. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night, a job, a serious friend? A tab of acid? Maybe a speed cap and half a tab? And a line of coke. A little bit of ketamine. Take half a tab now and half when you get there. And more speed. What the point? The result was always the same - to fuck up your mind. What do you want to do? Become someone else? Altered states. Jump around like a monkey. More or less the same as altered suits. More or less.

A fantastic idea

2009-12-01T04:32:00.000-08:00

It’s a fantastic idea. I’m going to write a book where all the lead characters have the same names as the literary critics of the major papers and magazines. They’ll all be fantastically good looking, rich, charismatic… the beautiful people. Journalists – critics especially – are all ego monsters. All that “I think this” and “I think that.” The idea that they are paid to give their opinions, how could they not be? I’m going to call it “The X Factor: My Story”. It’s a belt-and-braces thing here. You have a look in any bookshop and that’s all there is: books by The X Factor, books about The X Factor, books by The X Factor about The X Factor. Bless it and all, but all you’ve got to do is put his name on the cover and… well, he’s not going to complain is she? Max Clifford might but I figure as long as you don’t put a surname to it… could be any old X Factor.
I’m growing to love my new phone. Very touchy feely, all that fingers across the screen stuff. I can’t actually make any calls on it yet but I think sometimes we ask too much of technology. I’m sitting here on the train, we’re flying through the beautiful countryside and I’m listening to The Bays – my still new favourite band. What could be finer? I had been feeling a little jaded but a bit of The Bays….
Jaded. That’s it. The title of my new book. Jaded. Actually, I’ve been thinking. By the time I’ve finished the book – about 320 years time at the current rate. No, by the time I’ve finished the book and the thing comes out we’re talking about what? 18 months? Easy. No one will have a clue who Jade is, sorry was. It’ll be lost. She, bless her and all, won’t even be a footnote. What I need to do is think of the next Jade – or maybe the Jade of about three Jade’s time. 18 months? That’s about three Jades, no? Six months is possibly a bit generous, but hey, let’s go easy one her.
Hayward’s Heath. Home of the good idea. And I’ve got the good idea. We’ll call the book “Gordon Brown: My Story”. About as much chance as Spurs winning the Champions League.

So here we are

2009-12-01T04:26:00.000-08:00

So here we are, sitting in a People-Like-Us café in Seven Dials. This so easily could have been our world. I’m not quite sure why it isn’t. I’m really happy that it isn’t, but still I’m not quite sure why it isn’t.

Four women, they all look like Gill or maybe Vicky – not as good-looking obviously – sit around having coffee. One is tapping at a laptop. A bloke walks in with a young child. He’s wearing slovenly jeans with stitching that’s probably most posh and a thick knit zip up cardigan. The jeans cost more than my entire get up, but that’s always the way.

I feel a mixture of deep frustration and sweet contentment. It’s a curious mix, each keeps the other in check. I’m comfortable in the café – the coffee is good, the people are nice to look at, one of the women – the one sitting nearest me – is kinda sexy. There’s a tantalising glimpse, a slither of skin showing between her slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan and I have a fleeting fantasy – also a slither – about her. But the slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan get in the way, and my fantasy gives way to a thought-stream about this People-Like-Us uniform.

The comfort of the café and the comfort of my situation here never quite gets carried away with itself because every time it does… the anger about college rises to the surface. It’s a bore. I’ve been trying to invoke the Roy Keane/Thierry Henry framework – it’s happened, that’s the situation, get over it – but it’s hard. I’d leave in a jiff – or at least I think I would. I said last night that the glow I got from Joe doing well far outweighed the anger I feel about being dumped on and it’s largely true. Largely.

I’m also angry about what Gill told me about her evening last night. What sort of strange people are these? How can they disassociate themselves from life so entirely? And Ellie? It’s so hard to remember that she’s still so young. We demand so much from her yet she’s so young, so… unbaked.

CHAPTER FOUR

2009-11-14T09:01:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FOUR

Yeah, the old life. I can't remember exactly how it started, which particular conversation ended with me thinking "Enough". I don't even really remember who the conversation was with. Maybe it was a situation rather than a particular conversation. I don't know. Most likely it was a combination thing. It's strange. You start to think of these things and you think of something that at the time didn't seem death-ray pivotal, but it keeps poking its head into your thoughts. I remember there was this one exchange I had with Catherine ages ago. There were better ones in terms of fire and brimstone. There were funnier ones, sadder ones and ones that were more typical, but this one keeps raising its head. Maybe it’s just because of the stupidity of the whole thing. I don't know.

"Why can't we be more like the Aborigines?"
Ah, yes. The Aborigines. Why weren't we more like the Aborigines? If I was a betting man, I wouldn't have gone for the 66/1 shot that this would be an anthropological question. No, the clever money would be on the 4/1 on favourite. Grief. So, what critical jewel were we going to be treated to now? But that wasn't the real question. The real question was this. How to answer. Dull sarcasm?
"What do you mean? Volunteer to do the work of repressed minorities?"
Dull. A sharp stab with the fabled wit?
"Emigrate to Australia and volunteer to do the work of repressed minorities?"
Dull. A mildly disinterested nod?
"Oh?"
Ease of exit pointed the way to the mildly disinterested nod.
"Oh?"
"The Aborigines didn't have a written language so everything that they knew had to be passed on by word of mouth, by telling each other stories. Everything became a story and if anyone wanted to tell anyone anything or communicate anything they had to talk to each other. They couldn't send each other long, laborious letters full of circumstantial logic and circular truths. They had to talk."

We'd had this talk talk before. I had tried to explain that if we had anything to talk about, we'd talk. That was a stupid tack. It was easy for the row to follow. I had also tried to explain that it wasn't the quantity of your conversation that counted., it was the quality. What I should have done was said that we didn't talk to each other because we couldn't talk to each other because as soon as either of us opened our mouths, the other was gripped by a near murderous impulse. But I didn't say this. What I did was write letters. It had once seemed to be the only way to get a rhythm going, a flow. It was pointless. Rather stupidly, I noticed that I had left a window open.
"I read somewhere that the Aborigines were skilled painters."
I could never resist the dull sarcasm. And that was the end of that.

There were other conversations that came and went, but none of them ever seemed to do anything but confirm that doing what you wanted to do was the right thing to do. There was the work.
"I don't understand you. I mean, of course I understand that you want to travel and explore, but for you to do it now seems really stupid. You're just in the middle here. You've spent quite a bit of time, enough to get yourself known and to have a good reputation, but not long enough to make yourself indispensable. Why don't you reconsider, give it another couple of years. By then, you'll be able to call the shots, you'll be in a position to go away for a while and negotiate terms which will ensure you your job is waiting for you when you return."

Eminently sensible, every word. There was no arguing with the logic. But I didn't want sensible. I wanted out. Now.

"The dudong is fucked. I read only this morning that one was washed up on shore, death by oil. It's only the first one reported, but it can only get worse."
OK, I had a bit of a thing about dudongs. Dudongs and manatees – these beautiful subterranean creatures that, so the stories go, fuelled all those old tales of mermaids. Theirs was a singular beauty, a mother’s beauty, the beauty of age. The only thing was… my thing about dudongs was just another of those things we didn’t share. She considered it one of my strange quirks. I considered it vital.

I kinda knew that invoking the dudong was doomed, but – really, I mean this – it really did make logical sense to me. It was the type of logic that couldn't be argued against, unless you consider "Am I supposed to understand that? You don't want to talk to me? Fine. Don't talk to me." to be an argument.
"Look, I'm just being honest. All I mean is that if you stay too long in one place, you can get caught. If the dudong had kept an eye on the situation and been aware of what was happening, it would have been OK."
"I don't know what a dudong is and I don't suppose it really matters. You're making as much sense as a 4-year-old."
“Well, they say that as we get older we become more childlike.”

Everyone has their tales of glory, their tales of woe. "He's an ordinary geezer, doesn't seem to have any grief". But it's not true. Everyone has their grief. Well, everyone here does anyway. Everybody everywhere does. Family grief. Parental grief. Boy grief. Girl grief. Body grief. Mind grief. Grief grief.

I knew how I'd got there. It was more or less the same story of why I was leaving. I don't mean the cold, I mean the unnecessary agg. It wasn't just the woman thing. There was also the other woman thing. Names are so unnecessary at this stage. They merge into one more often than not anyway. And then there were the times when there wasn't a Kate or a Karen – fictional, of course - to give the grief. Maybe that was more grief.

The road out was ridiculously easy. It was just a regular meal out at a regular place with a regular mate, but it was one of those days. Biorhythms or something.

"I'm pissed off" I said.
"You're pissed off? You should sit in my office for day. Then you'd really know about pissed off."
"Why should I sit in your office? I sit in my office. I know about pissed off."
"And the woman grief?"
"The woman grief you know about. The woman grief's the woman grief which is the woman grief."
"Doesn't help, does it?"
"Is it meant to help?"
"No. I don't suppose it is. I don't know. I just don't know."

“You know something,” I said. “Do you ever get to feel that something’s passed you by?”
“Sure. What was her name last week? Emma. She passed me by, and as quickly as her little legs would carry her.”
“No, I mean it. Do you ever feel that something’s passed you by? That the world has changed and you’re not there.”
“Are you going to get serious on me here?”
“I think so. Listen. Switch on the telly and it’s all Ibiza this and Ibiza that. Go into any record shop and all you see is kiddie music, smug middle-aged music and dance compilations and I’m not a kiddie and the thought of listening to the Eurythmics greatest hits…”
“And?”
“And do you know the difference between underground garage and progressive trance? Have you ever danced all night off your head on E? Have you ever been to The Big Chill and tripped till morning?”
“The Big Chill?”
“Never mind. I read a review in the paper a while back. Burning Man.”
“Look. I know what you’re talking about, but it’s called life. You do things, you get older and then you do other things.

This went for, I don't know, maybe three double espressos. And then...
"So what are we doing here?"
And that was it really.

You always feel that you're alone in your grief, that other people don't know. What do they know? What can they know, with their dinner parties and their Clariss Cliff pottery? But they know. In their own ways, they know. It's quite at shock at first, but then when you hear them say "So what are we doing here" in exactly the same way that you've just said it, the shock goes. All it takes is another few doubles and then you say it. "Let's go." You say it and they say it and neither of you really believe it. If you were that type of person, you'd have done it years ago. If you were that type of person, you wouldn't be needing to say it now. But then the word gets around and then they all laugh and then you think "fuck them."

I remember my old man said that once. "Going's easy. It's staying that's hard." But then again, what did he know? He was the one who said my life was too easy. "The trouble for people like you is that you've got too many choices."

CHAPTER THREE

2009-11-04T16:20:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER THREE

I was exactly the kind of guy who’d be seen at a place like this. It's 4.15pm and it's Sunday. Limbs ache, wishing they were 22 and not 32 and I feel like whatever it is I've been doing, well maybe it's about time I stopped doing it. The grief is that I know that if I feel like this next week, it will be a bonus. A right result, as we might have once said. The coffee I've been waiting for still feels like the first of the day, even though it's the third (or maybe fourth) cup of the day. Or maybe not even the first. Next comes the toast. It was only an idea to eat. Sustenance. As far as ideas go, it wasn't a bad one. Ideas.

“Did you order me a coffee?”
Alison. She looked how I felt. Actually if I looked how I felt I’d be happy.
I stopped writing and looked up. Good. She looked how I felt and though I probably also looked how I felt, it made things seem so much better. Loneliness is a terrible thing.

“This bread… it’s something else” I said to her. “It’s your worst white slice nightmare. It looks like a real loaf of bread but there’s nothing there. It’s air and water. Where’s the flour? Where’s the yeast? Where’s the…”

“The soul. Go on, say it. Where’s the soul. Then, when you say that, you can have a bit of a rabbit about how it’s a reflection of Japanese society. Looks good, contains nothing.”

“And bread is the food of life and… “

“Yeah yeah. Bollocks bollocks bollocks. Did you order me a coffee?”

“Of course I ordered you a coffee. You asked me to order coffee, so I ordered coffee.”
“Good. I guess it’s that empty cup there.”
I smiled and she smiled. A familiar scene.
“If I order myself another one then you can have it. We’ll be quits then.”
“OK. So if you do that, I’ll order you another one and you’ll still owe me. You know I like it that way.” We’d talked ourselves into a corner neither of us knew much about and neither of us cared about and there wasn’t anything to do but drink the coffees. Somehow on a day like this, writing gibberish letters to people who’d know nothing of their contents seemed a suitable task.

Our coffees came and the relief that they brought dried up the conversation. Part of the relief. So we drank our coffee and looked at the toast which seemed no more appealing now than it had done when it was first brought over. Big thick lumps of bread. Sometimes the idea of food is better than the food. Maybe one day I’ll find a restaurant where you can order food and you don’t eat it and you don’t pay for it. You could order wild vegetable dishes or exotic and body distressing local specialities without having to endure the eating or the next day grief. A few coffees later and we’d got no further.

So now the rain was coming down. The rain in Tokyo is different to the rain anywhere else. It creates a mirror everywhere. The cars, all clean and shiny reflect against the shop windows which are all clean and bright and they both throw back the reflection of the garish neon which exists in even the sidest of side streets so that everything reflects on everything else and into everything else. Vetrification they call it in the floor cleaning game. You know those floors made of marble slab tiles that are impossibly shiny and sparkly? That’s vetrification. They lay ordinary marble and take the top layer off it with a major wire wool rotating brush so that it all clean. Like a reptile constantly shedding its skin. Like Tokyo.

One slice, maybe two inches thick and cut into three pieces, like cubes of hot bread or angular doorsteps. I tear into it lethargically - biting is impossible. My mouth is the wrong shape.

Around me in the cafe, people were sitting reading the papers. And the scene was the same as everywhere else in the world. They’re turned to the sports pages, checking to see how their boys have done.

Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.

I’d probably go through the old Apocalypse Now thing if Alison hadn’t beaten me to it.
“Tokyo. Shit” she said.
I was just thinking that. Martin Sheen and helicopter fans. Tokyo. Shit.
“When I was there I couldn’t wait to get out. When I was out, all I could think about was how to get back there,” I said in my best Martin Sheen voice. His own mother wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference if she’d had been sitting in her own bedroom. My mazel, it would probably turn out that she lived somewhere closer than Japan.
“What?”
“Apocal ... nah, doesn’t matter. You just got up?” I said.
“If I’d had got as far down so I needed to get up I wouldn’t have been able to get up at all.”
I only knew what that meant because I felt the same way myself. That old ACE feeling.
“So what’s the story then. Letters day?” she said. “Yeah, it’s important to keep in touch with the old life.”

Chapter Two

2009-11-04T15:51:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TWO

It was clear from the off that they knew Graham. Whoever these people were, and there were a lot of people in this place, whoever they were… they knew Graham. And they were steering clear.

I could see them looking. I could hear them talking. Some just turned away. Others pretended not to have seen anything. Others were more upfront.

“You’re back, are you? Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
There were a few like that. A couple of faces said “What you got? I’m in Room 24.”
Mostly though, people said stuff like “Hi” or “Good to see you” or “You stayin’ long?” and all the time they all meant “Just leave me alone, please. Just leave me alone.”

I didn’t get it really. OK, he was a bit mad, a bit of a loose canon, but people reacted to Graham like he was a serious bad man. Dunno. He was OK with us. He sorted out a room for me and Ben “Listen, I’ll get you a room, be OK if I just leave my bags there for a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah, OK. Sure.”

Looking back, we were so stupid it was almost funny. We knew he was a drug dealer yet “Sure we’ll look after your bags and if the place gets busted, course we’ll take the rap. No problem. Fancy a tea?” It was like we’d turned from hip, smart, media players into Forrest Gump.

I went for a walk. There were two floors. A big kitchen and a lounge area with a few beat up chairs and a telly. The Kirk Douglas film Spartacus was on and maybe there were six people hanging around.

It was like a student nightmare – The Young Ones, maybe – but there was a different vibe, a lack of care. It was a nonchalance borne out of displacement. Mostly if you’re not playing the game, you can measure your personal rebellion against your peers and your culture. I’ve never been in prison but I’d imagine it’s the same sort of thing. You’re all just passing through, you’re here but not here. And here was like some ‘holding tank’, somewhere you were waiting. But the thing here was that everyone was from some other culture so there was no ‘home’ to measure yourself against. And your peers were the same as you and the ‘home’ culture was Japan and that was so weird that you could be some green thing from Mars and you’d still be more normal than them.

He sorted us out a room. A room. It’s a curious word really because if you asked anyone what that place had, the last thing they’d say would be ‘room’. The rooms at the Palace were either three mat or six mat. A mat – a tatami mat – was about one metre wide by two, so a three mat room had room for a mattress and not a lot else. Me and Ben were sharing a three mat room. That was cosy and there’s nothing like cosy for getting to know people well.

Later that first night we were settling down. It was late. Cheap Japanese whisky had been drunk. Cheap god knows from where dope had been smoked and the night was done. And then all hell broke loose.

The noise came from the kitchen. I walked out into the hallway to see what the commotion was about.

“I’d steer clear of that” someone said.
“Oh, I’ve got to have look” I said like a tourist.
“It’s gonna be messy. I’ve been here before when Graham’s been in town and, believe me, it’s gonna be messy.”

Messy was one word. Graham was chasing some blonde bloke round the kitchen holding the biggest knife. I don’t know what he’d done, but I was glad I wasn’t the blonde lad. What can I tell you? It didn’t end well.

I’d love to say that was the last time I saw Graham. But it wasn’t. He came back a few times – different stories – but it had all changed. It didn’t take me long to turn into one of those people I saw on my first day in the Palace, one of those faces that said “Hi. Good to see you” and shuffled along.

What’s he doing now? No idea. Really, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. Odds on he’s dead now. I heard some story from Pauly about Manilla and you don’t fuck about in Manilla. Still, bless him. He brought me here.

Anyway that was all a long time ago. Now it’s today and today’s a grey miserable day. One of those days when even the rain can’t be bothered…
“Aren’t we supposed to be falling today?”
“Nah, stuff it. I’m going to stay in the cloud today. Watch a bit of telly.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. No one ever thanks us for falling anyway. Fancy a beer?”

One of those days

2009-11-03T03:47:00.000-08:00

It's one of those 'kill someone' days. I do remain convinced it would improve things. The main question is not whether I'd do it, but how I'd do it. I would run them over, but can't. The car is out of MOT. I would hit them with my hoover, but can't. It's already broken. I would smother them with the health insurance, but can't. It's expired. I might hit them over the head with Lily's gravestone, but can't. It hasn't been ordered yet. The obvious answer was - curiously - given to me by the kids. I could kill by hitting my victim with the Nintendo Wii. Of course the small print detail is that we haven't got a Wii but - and this is where the kids were really inspirational - we could get one. Actually they said we must get one, but that's just semantics. You know something. There's probably a Wii game I could use, like Wii Fit but more Wii Hit.
It's probably John & Edward's fault.

GAIJIN STRATEGIES CHAPTER ONE

2009-10-15T14:18:00.001-07:00

GAIJIN STRATEGIES

CHAPTER ONE

“Fuck it. We’ll go to Yokohama”.

What could we do? We were in Shanghai and had to get out. It was nice enough, fascinating in a cultural exchange kind of way, but I’d exchanged all the culture I wanted to. Time was running out, money was getting tight and we had to get out.

“I thought you said there was a boat going to Hong Kong?” said Ben.
“I thought there was a boat going to Hong Kong”, I said.
“You checked?”
“No, I didn’t check, but I thought there was a boat. I was told there was a boat. What do you want? I was wrong. I thought there was a boat and there isn’t.”
“You thought there was a boat? How did you think there was a boat?”
“Someone told me. They must have cancelled it.”
“According to that bloke in the office there, they cancelled it three years ago.”
“They didn’t cancel it. They just moved it.”
“To Yokohama.”
“Yeah, to Yokohama. It used to go to Hong Kong. Now it goes to Yokohama. That’s where the boat goes now.”
“Oh well. Fuck it. Yokohama.”
“Yeah. Fuck it. Yokohama.”

And that was that. That’s how I ended up in Tokyo. I was going to go to Hong Kong, but the boat changed its mind. One thing I’ve learnt in this game is to keep an open mind. Go with the flow, you know what I mean? When I was younger I used to say that life was like an apple. You’ve got to eat it now. If you keep it, save it, it goes mouldy. And then it’s gone. I said that to someone once. Thought I was being, you know, philosophical. He said “I think life is more like an orange. You've got to peel it before you get to the good bit.” Twat.

------------------

That boat trip was the start of it all. Me and Ben – drifting on the sea heading off to something or other. Me, I’ve gone off travelling because I’m writing a book. Well, starting to write a book. I’ve got a great idea and I just wanted to get away from it all because life was getting too organised and formulaic, but we can get on to all that later.

Anyway, I’ve got an idea for a story. Listen, I thought it was a great idea for a story. Still do. It’s based on a true story, but then again, aren’t they all? It doesn’t matter. It’s a great story. A man, a student, decides to pay his way through college by being a sperm donor. So he gives his sperm and gives his sperm. It’s all good. This bloke – we’ll call him Will – is studying to be a doctor. He’s tall and blond, strong and athletic. The sort of bloke who your mother would want you to marry. This guy offers his sperm and it goes to the top of the sperm charts. He’s the perfect physical speciment.

But he’s got a secret, a secret even he doesn’t know. He (and here we’ve got to work on this a bit) has got a madness, a psychopathic madness – a congenital psychopathic madness.

Anyway, many years – well, maybe 10 years – down the line, Susan is having trouble with her daughter Molly. Molly is very bright, but she’s got an evil streak, a mean side to her that’s a little bit disturbed. And Susan doesn’t know what to do. She can’t ask her partner because she doesn’t have a partner. She never has had. A few lost loves, the usual catalogue of losers and chancers, nearlys and almosts. When Susan was 31, she met the man of her life, the Big Love. But – and we don’t need to go into the detail here – he was a twat, a lying, cheating, no-good dirty low-down hound dog. He wrecked her life and she swore – she absolutely swore – never to fall for a man again. She’d have a baby.
Anyway, back to the main story. Susan tries all sorts of things and, in the end, she goes to a parent-child therapy class because – obviously, she thinks that it’s all her fault. While she’s there, she meets another woman, like her the mother of a 10 year old girl. They start talking.

Can you guess where this one’s going? OK, let’s spell it out a bit more.

This other woman, her story is remarkably similar to Susan. She’s a lesbian but, that apart, it’s the same. Lost love, disappointment, betrayal. Refuge sought in a baby. Her baby is basically a good kid, but has got an evil streak. The same evil streak as Molly.

Now you know what’s going to happen. They start talking, they realise they both got pregnant after going to sperm donor centre in Eastbourne. Now then – this is the next question: how many other babies were born between 1980 and 1985?

So OK. That’s the pitch. It’s like a cross between The Boys From Brazil and maybe The Midwitch Cuckoos.

How many are there? Does something happen to them to ‘kick-start’ the inner madness that propels them? Shall we turn them into an army?

So anyway, I was sitting on the deck of this boat, it’s the middle of the night, dark and empty, just me and the night and the sea, and I’m thinking about the story – when the calm is disturbed by this couple. A big English bloke and his Israeli girlfriend. They were going at it big time, tearing into each other.

But then they saw us and found what they were looking for: an audience. We started talking, just passing the time. When I say, we started talking what I mean is he started talking. I started listening. Most of the time I didn’t know whether to interrupt or applaud, like I was at a show or something.

Always, there are two ways of looking at things. I could say that we met this bloke from south London on the boat who was off his tits and he read us this poem he’d written as a response to Paradise Lost. I can’t remember exactly now. He was the Devil or he was Milton and… Or I can tell you the more interesting version.

I didn’t know it at the time, but he was The One. I only met him for a brief time and I doubt that he even knew my name, but Graham was that person, and who changed my life. Graham Gaskin – and you can look his name up because this is all true – was there just at the right time and the right place to completely throw my life off course.

We’ve all got one, the person who changes everything. I’m writing this book about all that at the moment called The Nazi & The Jew about a young middle class Jewish man who, through a series of strange, some might say unfortunate, circumstances, finds himself in jail. At first he’s told that it’s all going to be OK, that it’s a single cell and he’ll be out soon enough. He’s scared by at least he’s by himself and then…. Late at night the door opens and in walks in a prisoner officer. The screw explains that the prison’s over-crowded and that Aaron, the Jewish bloke, is going to have to share. In walks in Razor, all shaved head and tattoos, a Nazi who’s one of the top figures in Combat 18, the psycho military wing of the British fascists, gangland figure and general Nazi nutter and Aaron’s worst nightmare. The cell door bangs shut and there they are, alone together.

What happens to them, how they get on, that’s the story. It’s part Kiss Of The Spiderwoman, part humanist tale and it will be a huge hit, a big seller made into a feature with Tom Cruise, but that’s for later. The important thing here is the bit about meeting a person who changes your life. That strange conjunction of place and time and people.

Anyway, we’re standing on the deck of this boat going to Yokohama and it’s the middle of the night. A beautiful night. And there’s this bloke giving us this rant about Milton and Paradise Lost. He could have been 25 or 35. Big build, longish hair, nondescript clothes. Jeans, t-shirt, that kind of thing. He was good-looking, but rough. Like he’d been away too long. And God knows where he’d been away to. Wherever it was, it hadn’t been in the Style supplement and it hadn’t been featured on the ad breaks in How To Look Good Naked. I’d gone away looking for something different and this, this was something different.

“Tokyo, huh. Fuckin place Tokyo. A zoo. Full of hooligans and fuckin Japs. You got a story going on there or what?”

Meeting this bloke, I was part thrilled, part terrified. Part of me was thinking “How cool. I go away, looking for an adventure and in the first half hour I meet my very own Dean Moriarty, some wild spirited free thing with energy to burn and a soul on fire”. The other part of me – the middle class, middle aged bloke who drives a Volvo and knows his National Insurance number off by heart – is frankly terrified and wants this bloody idiot to just go away. He was at best boorish and at worst dangerous. No, he was definitely dangerous.

“No, no story. No story and no idea” I said. And explained. “I was supposed to be going to Hong Kong. I had a job on a newspaper there, the South Morning Post, I think it’s called, but then the boat to Hong Kong stopped two years ago and the only boat now went to Yokohama and…” Even as I said it, it sounded rubbish. God knows what it sounded like to him, but it was the story.

“And you?” Graham said to Ben.

“And me” said Ben. “I’m just along for the ride.” You don’t trust this, do you, I thought to myself. Probably not a bad call.

“Sounds to me” said Graham “you’re gonna some dosh. Tokyo’s no place to be skint”. Then came the good bit.

“You wanna make a bit of cash? Easy money.”

Me, I was already suspicious. Ben was more interested. “Go on” he said.

Graham smiled at Ronit and then at us. He made a big dramatic looking around gesture – like he needed to. It was the middle of the night and we were on the deck of a boat. It wasn’t Piccadilly Circus.

He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of shoes which were about three sizes too big – and smiled. The significance was lost on me. I just thought it was odd.

“You’re a shoe salesman?”

“Something like that” said Graham and reached down into his bag again. After doing the dramatic looking around bit again – there’s nothing like milking the moment and Graham, a performer at heart, knew how to do that – he produced an inner sole which was about an inch thick and covered in thick cling film. Me and Ben might have been at the start of the story and about as worldly as a new born seal cub, but I knew what Graham was holding. Dope. Compressed dope. Moroccan.

He put the inner sole inside the shoe. “All you’ve got to do is walk. You ain’t got a problem walking, have you?”

No one said anything. I didn’t say anything. Ben didn’t say anything. The Israeli girl – Ronit – she didn’t say anything either.

“Look” said Graham, “I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve got three shoes and” – and he pointed down at his feet – “only two feet”.

No one said anything.

“I mean I’ve got three fucking soles. I can put two in my shoes, but I need someone else to go through with the other one. Just wear the shoes, walk through and I’ll give you a grand. Easy. Listen” he looked directly at me. “It’ll sort you out on Tokyo, get you started. Otherwise you’re gonna be in right shit, believe me”.

I remember looking at Graham and seeing all these Japanese war films in my head, sadistic guards beating people up – “Ve hav vays of making you tok!” OK, that’s a German war film, but you know what I mean. Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence. Melly Chlistmas Mr Rawrence.

He’s going to walk through customs at Yokohama with these clowns shoes that are way too big and sell this lot in Tokyo. A lunatic.

I declined. Polite, of course, but firm. “Sorry, mate. I just haven’t got the nerve for that sort of thing”. Ben was tempted, I could see Ben was tempted. I could see all sorts of things. Like… Ben fancied Ronit and was showing off and I was thinking that on the list of bad ideas, flirting with Graham’s woman was off the scale.

Ben declined. Thank fuck for that.

“Look. OK, you ain’t done anything like this before but it’s OK. The Japs don’t do anything. All you’ve gotta be is polite and smile, that’s all. It’s what they do and it’s what they want us to do. You can call them anything, do anything but as long as you’re polite, it’s OK. You’ve got to remember, they think we’re some kind of dirty sub species anyway. They don’t expect anything proper.”

Nothing.

“Nah, no sweat” said Graham, “I’ll sort it”. Did he say that a bit too easily? There was an alarm going off in my head somewhere but I didn’t hear it. This bloke – who I’d already decided was trouble – had taken us into his confidence, shown us his inner sole – inner soul? Oh never mind – and made himself really vulnerable. And he’d let it go with “Nah, no sweat. I’ll sort it”. I wasn’t so much fresh off the boat. I was still on the boat.

I didn’t think any more of it at the time, though later on someone – Brad the Canadian, I think – told me that Graham’s usual trick was to hide the dope in some poor unsuspecting bastard’s back pack, let them take it through customs – and then steal the bag from them on the other side when they’d got through. Didn’t do anything like that with us. Don’t know why. Maybe he liked us. God knows.

We sat up the rest of the night, the four of us, smoking a bit while Graham told us stories about how he’d paid for the trip by blackmailing an MP he’d had a fling with. “I’m gonna write it all down and make it into a TV film. Those bastards won’t forget about me”. All I remember thinking was “Why are you telling us this?” Whatever. Back then I was so naïve about this lark I’d have believed anything. The last thing I suspected was that it was all true – but sometimes the last place you suspect is the first place you should look.

Customs was a joy. Graham insisted on walking through with us, talking to us and laughing all the way. The Japanese were pretty much like he said – they looked at us like we were slightly dirty, like they just hoped we’d go away. Curiously, it was kinda how I felt about Graham. But they humoured us and let us in.

We got through. I was terrified. He didn’t seem to give a toss. But we got through. Looking back, I don’t know why I was terrified – that business of dropping the dope in someone else’s backpack hadn’t occurred to me at all – that kind of thinking was completely off my radar. Maybe it was some kinda instinct thing. We got through.

Tokyo. We were in Tokyo. I can’t even begin to tell you how exciting that was. Tokyo. That was amazing. A month ago I was in London and now I was in Tokyo. Well, I was on a train going to Tokyo. Just me. And Ben. And Graham. And Ronit.

It was a strange journey, didn’t take long and to be honest I can’t remember much about it. I remember Graham rolling one his trouser legs up and revealing an inner sole gaffer taped to his leg. I remember that. I also remember him asking us where we were going to stay.

“I dunno” said Ben. “Some hotel in town. We’ll ask around, maybe go to tourist info or something, and find something for a few days and…”

“Like fuck you will. You’re coming with us. You ever heard of the Palace?”

“The palace?”

“The Maharajah Palace. That’s where we’re going.”

We’re going to Tokyo and we’re going to stay in The Maharajah Palace. You’ve gotta laugh. There’s a kind of inconsistency there that appealed. If I’d have thought of Tokyo and play some sort of word association game, I’d have come up with words like hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again. I’m not sure the words maharajah and palace would have come up in the top 100.

OK. Let’s turn it round the other way. If the words Maharajah Palace don’t make you think of hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again Tokyo, what did they make you think of? Opulence. Grandeur. Exotic baubles, rubies and emeralds and gold, great swathes of elaborately embroidered cloth, shimmering with their gaudiness. Probably not rusty corrugated metal and ramshackle wood. Probably not some pre-fab held up by its own indecision as to which bit should collapse first. If I’d have seen the place – regardless of where it was – I don’t think I’d have been helped. If I’d have seen the place I might have come up with Large Garden Shed. Or Decrepit Old Shack. Or Complete Fucking Dump. Maharajah Palace. It was probably funny once.

The Palace was a zoo. Well, not even a zoo. In a zoo, the animals have some kind of morality. In the Palace… that very concept was kinda dubious.

If you were the romantic type, you might say it was a rogue’s gallery. If you were a realist, you might want to move to somewhere a bit more hi-tech and shiny. Me, I thought it was charming.

It had the air of a hideaway, a place where people were… well, not exactly on the run. That’s a bit too pulp fiction, a bit too romantic, but it was definitely somewhere that felt outside the boundaries, somewhere the normal rules didn’t apply. There were probably other rules that applied.

A few years later, I was hanging out with a Norwegian girl there. I remember talking to her and a bloke called Mark, who the house doctor at the time. Elke was a sweetie, a poppet, but she was very clean living and fresh. It wasn’t so much that she was naïve, it was just that she hadn’t really considered the options before.

“How many people here take drugs?” she said to Mark.
Mark thought a bit. And then he looked at her. He didn’t really need to say anything but she knew.
“Everyone?”
Still he didn’t say anything.
“Everyone except me?”
Mark gave her some rabbit about how she was beautiful and pure and different and that’s what made her special, but she was lost in thought.

Like I say, she hadn’t really considered her options. It didn’t take her long to re-adjust, but that’s another story.

Jayne Warburton

2009-10-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

WHERE HAVE I BEEN? WHERE AM I NOW?

Jayne Warburton was short and slim. She had thick brown hair cut short and slim. She was very bright and we used to talk about all sorts of things. Well, we did until I told her that I fancied the pants off her and after that we used to sit around in embarrassed silence. I remember one night when I decided to overcome my shyness and that the best way to do that was to neck a bag of speed. Not much changed. Jane sat around in embarrassed silence. I chewed the inside of my mouth off, climbed the walls and tapped my leg in furious but still embarrassed silence.

We still hung out together, but it was never the same. Eventually we drifted apart, me to Catherine, her to Liz. Liz was also short and slim with thick brown hair cut short and slim and my mate Mick fancied the pants off her. That also went well.

I’m not sure I can remember a lot more about college. Philip Morris, who had a motorbike and used to come round to our house all the time. Roy, the Welsh punk who, according to Friends Reunited now lives in Perth, Australia. Sarah, Paul Tomlin, Peter Monteith, the Afflecks Palace, that club, what was it called? Gas Panic? Or was that the one in Tokyo? Doesn’t really matter.

I studied – and I use that word with my tongue so far in my cheek it’s licking my ear – Politics and Sociology, but I couldn’t tell you anything about it now. I couldn’t tell you anything that I did, anything I wrote, anything I read. I couldn’t even tell you the names of my lecturers. (Mick told me a few weeks ago that one of our lecturers was called Phil Mole. “Phil Mole! Are you really telling me you can’t remember him?” he said as the words Phil and Mole hit my ears for, I swear, the first time ever).

I could tell you about Catherine and Jayne and Liz and Mick and seeing Joy Division and New Order’s first gig and meeting Tony Wilson, but I’m not sure that’s what you’re looking for. I could tell you about my formal education – eight O levels, three A levels and a degree. I went to Polytechnic. I left Sixth Form College with my A levels and went up to Manchester and went to Manchester Polytechnic. I quite liked the word. Polytechnic. It sounded modern and meaningless, shiny and completely lacking in any substance, but more than that I liked the way it wasn’t a university. If it had any meaning it was in defining what it wasn’t rather than what it was: it wasn’t a university. That’s what a polytechnic was, not a university. In a sense it fitted in with my story at the time - the playful inverted snob – but I genuinely liked the way it meant that I wasn’t like those people, those people who talked about “going to university” as if it was something special. I didn’t go to Manchester because of anything special. I went to Manchester because I wanted to see The Fall and Joy Division and I didn’t want to go to work. I went to Manchester because they offered me a place. I went to Manchester because I could. Life had its revenge later as it does. In the early 1990s, Manchester Polytechnic became a university, but by then I didn’t care.

A life spent in educational institutions until the age of 23 – but what did I learn there? In truth, when I look back I think I learned nothing. OK, that’s not true. I learned loads, but all of it was about life. I can’t remember a single academic thing. Not one essay I wrote, not one theory I spewed in and out.

That’s where I have been. Would I do anything different now? Of course, but that’s not the point. It’s all learning. Whether you like it or not, it’s all learning. From the moment you lift your head from the pillow to the moment you lay your head down you are learning. Everything you do in life is about learning. I’m not sure you can do anything without learning from it, whether consciously or unconsciously. Whether you take it on or not, that’s a different thing. And that’s what takes us to the where I am now. I’m Phil Mole.

When I started teaching at Brighton University, that experience in Manchester was invaluable. It was probably – no, definitely – more useful to me than it would have been if I’d have been able to remember what it was Weber said to Durkheim or whatever Derrida’s theories really meant. All that’s useful but what Manchester really told me was that – and this really quite upsetting – my mother was right. You get out what you put in. It’s about passion, about excitement, about enthusiasm – and that’s for both sides of the equation, the people who are teaching and the people who are learning. It’s up to the teacher to make his class swing. That I got nothing out of my class is just as much Phil Mole’s fault as mine. I was absent most of the time, but he should have made his class the hottest ticket in town.

Am I Phil Mole? Is my class the hottest ticket? Maybe. Probably not, but I think knowing it should be is the first step. Learning - education is important. Of course it is. Just like the shark moving forward, you never stop learning. And we all know what happened to the shark that stopped moving forward. Our job is to make that learning as exciting as meeting Jayne Warburton in the bar.

A very long entry - but it seemed to fit

2009-10-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

EVALUATE YOUR TEACHING

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans” – John Lennon.

It’s a curious thing. During the period between thinking about this piece and writing it, I saw a film that struck a chord. An unusually staged, wordy film, one of the characters was a teacher – an American political science professor (played by Robert Redford, all warm liberalism, blue denim shirt and brown cord jacket) – who was wrestling with both his role as a teacher and his own sense of purpose. It was all about the choices we make, the impact our decisions have on others, the line we draw in the sand.

Without regurgitating the script, the teacher had arranged to meet a talented but lazy student at 7.30am in his office to talk about why the student had drifted away. How he persuaded a lazy student to come in at 7.30am… is a different question. Anyway.

They sat and talked about life and what it’s for, about the role of the individual in society, about contribution and symbiosis. He didn’t so much haul him over the coals as talk to him about life and responsibility, accountability and maturity. Being a grown up in a society that wasn’t. They talked, they cried, they drank product-placement coffee, they agreed and disagreed and agreed again. Like I say, all warm liberalism, blue denim shirt and cord jacket.

The teacher was a mentor, a brother, a parent, a friend. He was the student’s inspiration, his conscience. It was, of course, a hugely idealised picture – it’s Hollywood, what do you want? - but it did set me thinking. What am I doing? Should I be like that?

Moving swiftly away from the idea of what my students might say if I suggested meeting at 7.30am - and moving even faster away from the idea of getting a cord jacket and blue denim shirt – what was there to learn? Maybe it was time to evaluate my teaching.

"Evaluation is not at heart about collecting evidence to justify oneself, nor about measuring the relative worth of courses and teachers. It is about coming to understand teaching in order to improve student learning."
(Ramsden 1992)

A year ago, the idea of writing a piece entitled “Evaluate Your Teaching” would have been ridiculous. A letter sent to the wrong address. I was a writer, a freelance writer. I’d done a bit of guest lecturing, but that was different. That’s performance. You go in, give a bit show, tell a few war stories and waltz off clutching a cheque. I was, to use a word that has suddenly entered my world, a practitioner. But that was then.

Now I’m a full time lecturer. Not only that, I’m also a student – and that truly is an irony - doing a course called something like How To Become A Proper Teacher and I’m writing an essay about what it’s like to be a teacher. How can I evaluate my teaching if I’m not a teacher? What do you mean I’m a teacher? When did that happen? How did that happen?

A Period Of Self-Reflection

And you may ask yourself “Well...How did I get here?”

I never really intended for this to happen. I didn’t wake up one morning and say to myself “Jed, it’s time to give something back. It’s time to become a teacher”. What happened was this: I woke up one morning and the phone rang. And then I became a teacher. A part-time teacher – a “point five” – for three months.

There was no training, no explanation, no nothing. Just “You start at 10am. They’re second years, you’ll be fine”. It was all true. We did start at 10am, they were second years and I was fine.

I always tell my students “It’s OK. Go ahead and think about career plans and structures and have a goal in mind, but the reality is that you’ll go where the wind blows you, that opportunities will come from the most unexpected sources’. And they all look at me.

Well, my wind blew me to Eastbourne. And – a year later - I’m a full-time permanent member of staff with a pension and a purple car sticker.

I can laugh to myself at all this and stroke my beard and play “I’m a professor” and all that, but to the students this is real. And if it’s real to them, then it’s real to me and it’s time to evaluate my teaching.

The first question is this: Am I a lecturer or a teacher? Give up. No idea. Is there a difference? No idea. Am I a lecturer? God no. The idea that I’m one of those people who stand in front of a lectern in a hall, talking with the aid of maybe Powerpoint presentations of, at least, an overhead projector… Not a chance. Do I teach? Well, I hope so, but I’m not sure that’s the biggest part of it.

I teach the students in the same way that I teach my kids: I tell them about life, about what I’ve learned about life.

A lot of the time I try to be a mixture between Robert Redford (with a few superficial but not, to me, insignificant differences) and a best mate. I was the first lecturer at my School to have a Facebook account, I’m the only lecturer to get invited to their parties. I’m the one who plays Scrabulous online with them.

What I Want

I went to college in Manchester. There were many reasons why I went there. I left Sixth Form College with my A levels and went up to Manchester and went to Manchester Polytechnic. I quite liked the word. Polytechnic. It sounded modern and meaningless, shiny and lacking in any substance. If it had any meaning it was in defining what it wasn’t rather than what it was: it wasn’t a university. That’s what a polytechnic was, not a university. In a sense it fitted in with my story at the time - the playful inverted snob – and I liked the way it meant that I wasn’t like those people, those people who talked about “going to university” as if it was something special.

I didn’t go to Manchester because of anything special. I went to Manchester because I wanted to see The Fall and Joy Division and I didn’t want to go to work. I went to Manchester because they offered me a place. I went to Manchester because I could. Life had its revenge later as it does when, in the early 1990s, Manchester Polytechnic became a university. By then I didn’t care.

I’m not sure I can remember much about college. Philip Morris, who had a motorbike and used to come round to our house all the time. Mick, Roy, the Welsh punk who, according to Friends Reunited now lives in Perth, Australia. Sarah, Paul Tomlin, Peter Monteith, Gas Panic, the Afflecks Palace.

I was, very probably, the worst student in the world. I could get a place on the new ITV show Celebrity Worst Student In The World if there was such a show. Or I was a celebrity. I never went to class, never did what I was supposed to do.

I studied – and I use that word with my tongue so far in my cheek it’s licking my ear – Politics and Sociology, but I couldn’t tell you anything about it now. I couldn’t tell you anything that I did, anything I wrote, anything I read. I couldn’t even tell you the names of my lecturers.

I’m still in touch with Mick, so I called him up. We spoke. I explained my situation and he told me about one of our lecturers called Phil Mole.

“Phil Mole! Are you really telling me you can’t remember him?” he said as the words Phil and Mole hit my ears for, I swear, the first time ever.
“Phil Mole. He…. Had a beard.”

In a sense, I want to be Phil Mole, but I want to be more than that. Phil was good enough to enthuse the second worst student in class. I want to be Phil Mole plus one.

Can I Do It?

It’s all very well wanting to be that Hollywood archetype, the inspiring teacher, but outside of The Dead Poets Society, can it happen?

As part of this course, we are supposed to do a “peer observation” where our teaching is observed and we observe someone else’s teaching. Naturally, we observed each other. The Wisconsin Peer Review website talks about peer review and how it can be done. However… as chance would have it one of the other ‘students’ on this course is not only a fellow Sport Journalism lecturer at Chelsea, but also an old mate.

“Jed’s personal touch was apparent from the outset, the rapport he has with the students admirable and palpable. He creates a relaxed atmosphere conducive to learning and working.

At the start of the session he set the students a task – previewing a football match for a tabloid newspaper and supplying the headline and photo, via Quark Express. The idea of the preview actually came from a student, which demonstrated Jed’s willingness to respond to the class’s desires and hence make the work more suitable. This type of exercise brings them a taste of life in a busy newsroom. The fact that they had only 45 minutes to complete the task gave it an added element of verisimilitude.

Jed’s explanation of what was required was clear and precise. He used large screens at either end of the newsroom (which was packed) to demonstrate what was wanted, resisted overburdening the class with theory, asked if there were any questions, then left the students to their own devices. This in turn meant that he could go round to each student in turn to find out how they were getting on, clarify any issues and give pertinent tips. In turn, the students were not in the least disruptive, and simply got on with their work.

Overall, I felt that this was an ideal approach to the subject. It struck a balance between instruction, practical application, flexibility and professional relevance.”

That was, I felt, a fair appraisal. It was also what I would have wanted to hear. I’m sure that, for the most part, my lectures aren’t a chore. I’m sure that, of all their lectures, mine aren’t the ones they dread.

Hounsell (2003), Gibbs and Habeshaw (1988) and University of Kent (2004) outline a range of ideas for getting feedback from students. My feedback has come from rather more unorthodox routes, but I feel that they are just as valid – if not more so.

When my initial part time contract ended, I had to re-apply for the permanent position. I applied, got short-listed and had an interview. It was then that I found out that the students had signed a petition asking that I be given the job.

The M&E (Module and Evaluation) forms that the students fill in at the end of the year were positive, too. These forms – written anonymously, supposedly unseen by lecturers – are the nearest thing the students have to a right of reply. I skirted the rules and had a look and, generally, the students were very positive.

Further evidence that the students like my classes came last week. A senior lecturer appeared in my course leaders office, face like thunder. In his hand he had a piece of paper with a list of names of students who had repeatedly been missing his classes. “What’s happened to these students?” he demanded to know. “Have they left?”

I was a little embarrassed – and OK, a little smug – to explain that they were all in the newsroom writing a paper for me as we spoke.

But Is It Any Good?

So OK, great. We get on and they like me. It might even mean that maybe – just maybe – I might get to be their Phil Mole. But does that mean my lectures are any good? Does all that mean though that my lectures are the ones that are the most use? That’s a different question.

The communication part of the job is, for me, easy Chatting and getting on with people. The subject matter also makes it easy. I teach News Writing, Advanced Sports Journalism and Multi Media Journalism. These are the practical modules, the ones where students get to do the things that they signed up to do back when they were school kids. We watch football matches and write match reports – not hard work, whichever way you bend it

We talk, we chat, we play. To use the student word of the moment, we banter. We make fun of each other, we tease each other. I make fun of their shoes, they make fun of mine. I don’t know if what I do is any good.

I never formally trained to be a teacher. I never even gave it any thought. It was all
“Here are the keys to the car. Off you go”.
“Lovely, thanks. What are those pedals for?”
Whoooosshhhh. Crrrrrraaaaassssshhhhhh.
“Oh, I see. That’s what happens when you do that.”

I made it up as I went along. I had – I have – the advantage of teaching something that I’ve spent the best part of 20 years doing, so I know the subject. What I don’t know – or what I’m not sure about – is how to teach.

Going back to the Redford film, it showed the bright but lazy student in the first year when he was simply a bright student. We saw Redford giving a lecture about drug addicts and talking about clinics where junkies could be given methodone to help them with their addiction. This was held up as the action of a responsible, caring society. All the students nodded in agreement. All except the bright student who said “That’s ridiculous. You might as well have state-sponsored drunkard’s lanes on the highways!” Apart from the fact that it’s a fantastically stupid thing to say and if this was an example of the bright student’s brightness then God help the stupid students…

Anyway. It was what followed that struck me. There was a vigorous, discussion where students were engaged with each other and the subject. People were getting angry, throwing opinions around, caring, being erudite, informed, passionate.

Would anything like that happen in one of my classes? Hang about a minute – I’ll go and ask that pig flying past the window.

The Other Stuff

I heard someone – a quite senior lecturer – say the other day “This job would be easy if it wasn’t for the students”. It was possibly meant as a joke, but then again… possibly not. I feel completely the opposite. It’s the other stuff - the stuff that happens around the students – that weighs heavy.

Marking weighs me down .I’m not experienced enough to do it quickly – to drive through the shortcuts – and so it takes a ridiculously long time. So I don’t get enough done. And the more I don’t get enough done… the further behind I fall. The students see this and, while we get round it because we’re mates an have a laugh, it’s not as good as it should be. Again, it cuts both ways. I know at I put a lot more into my work than others, but because I haven’t been doing this very long and I’m still writing my lecture notes as I’m going along and… and… and… it takes me a long time.

The consequence is that I don’t give things enough time – because there isn’t enough time. I don’t give individuals enough time. I don’t give this course enough time.

While a lot of that is down to time management and recognising how long things take – something that only experience tells us - there’s a more fundamental truth going on, too. I’m a journalism lecturer and, a lot of the time, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know what I’m marking. OK, there are a group of students who, frankly, I wouldn’t trust to write a shopping list. “Is that really how you spell carrot?” But mostly, it’s OK. What they do is OK.

I’ve always been of the opinion that writing is an expressive form and that the right to say “This is good but that’s bad” is a dubious right at best. Clearly, the way that I write is best but to question – or worse, mark down – Student A because he or she doesn’t write or phrase things like I might is plain daft.

There’s a clear chasm between “that’s good” and “that’s no good”, but outside that? It’s a tough call. So I make up the difference by trying to inspire them. For example, there has recently been a Radio 4 series about newspapers, where they’ve been and where they’re going. I taped the shows, talked to the students about them and made the tapes available. Understanding the context, the history, the famous names… it’s all part of the job but at the same time, it’s not something that anyone else does.

It also bothers me that I’ve never been taught to be a teacher. Before I started this job… we’re going back a few years. I know how to write a feature, but do I know why I do what I do? Mostly I just do it. One of the modules I teach – multi-media – I’m only marginally more enlightened than the students. And even that’s not always true.

What helps me is that I have a credibility in their eyes in that I’ve been where they want to go, I’ve done what they want to do, I’ve been a successful sports journalist.

Conclusion - Where Do We Go From Here?

When I came to prepare for this essay, I gathered a number of evaluative documents regarding my course, for example Module Reports, an External Examiner’s Report and an Academic Health Report for both my area (Sport and Leisure Cultures) and the Chelsea School.

Hounsell (2003) points to four forms of feedback – self-generated, from students, from colleagues and incidental, which refers to other factors such as attendance. I feel I’ve dealt with all these forms, albeit in a discursive way, and feel that my teaching is improving as a result.

It’s a curious thing, but the process of this PgCLTHE course has also helped enormously. I got to know other lecturers from other schools and others disciplines and it was a fantastic relief to find out that, by and large, we were all concerned about the same things. Same things, different names.

While I’m still a long way from the Robert Redford character in that film – the inspiring mentor, the wise elder statesman, the cross between a teacher and a parent and a mate and a lover – I feel that I’m getting there.

DAY ONE

2009-10-05T00:52:00.000-07:00

Day One. The teaching starts. We've just had a weekend in Wales with The Bionic Woman, the rabble are about to lurch into view, and at home the cracks are getting bigger. Between now and Christmas, that'll be interesting. Might go and hang out with Cow and Bully next door.

2009-09-30T02:21:00.000-07:00

A trip to London town with Ellie and Hannah and Kim to see Wicked! – Ellie’s 14th birthday present. Last year was a bit of a washout for the girl – the big 13th which had been talked about f’rages and which we’d all looked forward to f’reven more ages was kinda hijacked by my mother. Not really her fault, mind. And given the choice I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t have chosen August 18, 2008, to die. I’m fairly sure that given the choice, she’d have popped off – “sat at the top of a big slide and just,,, slide away” as she once put it – a couple of years before that. But she wasn’t given the choice and whoever it was who did have the choice, whoever it was who did the choosing, they chose two days before Belle’s birthday. And Jews being Jews and not wanting to hang around with these things, the funeral was two days later on August 20. Ellie’s actual birthday. That went down well. Actually, given that most 13-year olds are egos on legs, I thought she dealt with it remarkably well. Suddenly she was shifted from thinking about me and what I want and how much they’re going to spend on me and me and me and me… suddenly she had to think about someone else.

So we’ve had all the lines, all the gags. It was a wicked idea. They’ll have a wicked time. And they will. Right now they’ll be high on Haribo and having the time of their lives. And rightly so.

A Blog entry. Blimey. The last Blog entry was FA Cup Final day and I remember responding to Adam Clark’s mail about being in the press box at Wembley. I remember thinking that it should be kinda confronting – at least a little bit of the “What am I doing? Where did it all go wrong?” stuff should have been floating around. I remember even writing the Blog as a two-parter, to try to encourage myself to follow it up. But that didn’t work. Well, it didn’t then – so I’m going to follow it up now.

So. Yes, I would have liked to have been in the Press Box at Wembley on FA Cup Final day. But – and this is the key thing – not because it was FA Cup Final day. Because it was The Big Thing that was happening that day. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been The Biggest Party. Or The Horse Of The Year Show. Or anything at all. It goes back to that childish desire to be at the best party in town. The thing is that all the stuff that goes to support you being in the Press Box, all the work you have to do, all that fills my head with dread.

You see, unless you’re the bloke giving out the medals you’ve got to make a pact with The Devil. You only get to go to Wembley if you’re prepared to go to Derby on Tuesday or Bolton on Saturday. And not just once, you’ve got to do that all year. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Being a football columnist, someone who stays at home and pontificates about the state of the game. That I’ll do. The get your hands dirty, day-to-day stuff? Not on your nelly.

There’s another reason, a more heartfelt reason. The reason I was watching the game at all was that I was killing the hours until it was time to go to pick LouLou up from whatever party she was at. And that’s what I want to spend my life doing. Being a football writer? Well that would just get in the way of all the good stuff in life.

What I’d really like is a job where they paid me to stand up in front of Young Impressionable Minds and tell them what I think. But where on earth would you find a job like that?

Living The Dream

2009-06-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

On Saturday afternoon this happened. I was at home by myself. Gill was off on some thing somewhere (I daresay she’s written a blog about it), and I was at home by myself (and now I’m writing a blog about it. Maybe one day Gill and I will cease to exist and simply be blog-entities.) Anyway, I’d just taken the girls to the Lodge to go to the swimming pool and I was at home marking. And then this happened. I logged on to Facebook because I was supposed to be marking and therefore it was essential I log on to Facebook. And then this happened. An alert (or whatever it is they’re called) popped up.
Person X is in the Wembley press box, living the dream
Now then Person X (and I’m keeping Adam’s name secret because it’s polite) is an ex-student, a very good one. I once gave him 90% for something which everyone else thought was mad but I thought “Actually, no. It’s good, really good. So I’m going to reward it.”
Anyway, when Person X left college he got a job with Everton even though he was from Devon and was therefore a mad Liverpool fan and by all accounts was doing rather well. To be honest, I hope he doesn’t do too well and get settled because I think he’s got it in him to become a journalist. I want him to get a job on a paper because I think he could do some proper writing.
Anyway, the other thing I didn’t say was that Saturday was the FA Cup final and Everton was in it. Against Chelsea. That’s no pleasure. In the FA Cup final against Leyton Orient, that’s a pleasure. Against Chelsea, if you’re Everton that’s called making up the numbers.
Anyway, so Person X is in the press box at Wembley Stadium at the FA Cup final, living the dream. And this is less than a year after he left college. That’s living the dream and then some.
So I go this Facebook alert and I wrote back:
“I’m sitting here marking SJ300 and you’re in the press box at Wembley. Ever got the feeling that something’s wrong but you can’t quite your finger on what?”
Default sarcasm, but it did make me pause for thought. Was I a bit jealous? Would I want to be at Wembley in the press box living the dream instead of in my study marking SJ300s?

It’s a fantastic idea

2009-04-16T14:05:00.001-07:00

I’m going to write a book where all the lead characters have the same names as the literary critics of the major papers and magazines. They’ll all be fantastically good looking, rich, charismatic… the beautiful people. Journalists – critics especially – are all ego monsters. All that “I think this” and “I think that.” The idea that they are paid to give their opinions, how could they not be? I’m going to call it “Jade: My Story”. It’s a belt-and-braces thing here. You have a look in any bookshop and that’s all there is: books by Jade, books about Jade, books by Jade about Jade. Bless her and all, but all you’ve got to do is put her name on the cover and… well, she’s not going to complain is she? Max Clifford might but I figure as long as you don’t put a surname to it… could be any old Jade.
I’m growing to love my new phone. Very touchy feely, all that fingers across the screen stuff. I can’t actually make any calls on it yet but I think sometimes we ask too much of technology. I’m sitting here on the train, we’re flying through the beautiful countryside and I’m listening to The Bays – my still new favourite band. What could be finer? I had been feeling a little jaded but a bit of The Bays….
Jaded. That’s it. The title of my new book. Jaded. Actually, I’ve been thinking. By the time I’ve finished the book – about 20 years time at the current rate. No, by the time I’ve finished the book and the thing comes out we’re talking about what? 18 months? Easy. No one will have a clue who Jade is, sorry was. It’ll be lost. She, bless her and all, won’t even be a footnote. What I need to do is think of the next Jade – or maybe the Jade of about three Jade’s time. 18 months? That’s about three Jades, no? six months is possibly a bit generous, but hey, let’s go easy one her.
Hayward’s Heath. Home of the good idea. And I’ve got the good idea. We’ll call the book “Gordon Brown: My Story”. About as much chance as Spurs winning the Champions League.

Modern Life

2009-04-06T01:25:00.001-07:00

Blimey. It's not even 11am and already I'm done in. I've got three blogs, a Facebook account to maintain and now I've got 11 people following me on Twitter. And they're all waiting for me to do something interesting. But I haven't got time to do anything cos I'm too busy telling people what I'm doing.
Life used to be so much simpler. Should I have a Curly Wurly or some Spangles? That used to be life's biggest dilemma. Last night I tried to watch some telly. By the time I finished checking out what was on it was time to go to bed.
In the time it’s taken me to write that I’ve got another three followers. That’s eight. It’s hard not to feel a bit Life of Brian. What do they want, these people?
Now Martino has told me that there’s this thing called 12 Seconds where you post up 12 seconds of video footage of yourself twice a day. Why 12 seconds? Because anything more than that it boring. Already 140 characters – including spaces – is boring.

Chapter 4

2009-03-31T15:12:00.001-07:00

I was exactly the kind of guy who’d be seen at a place like this. It's 4.15pm and it's Sunday. Outside the rain is drizzling like it wants to rain but can't be bothered. Limbs ache, wishing they were 22 and not 32 and I feel like whatever it is I've been doing, well maybe it's about time I stopped doing it. The grief is that I know that if I feel like this next week, it will be a bonus. A right result, as we might have once said. The coffee I've been waiting for still feels like the first of the day, even though it's the third (or maybe fourth) cup of the day. Or maybe not even the first. Next comes the toast. It was only an idea to eat. Sustenance. As far as ideas go, it wasn't a bad one. Ideas.

“Did you order me a coffee?”
Alison. She looked how I felt. Actually if I looked how I felt I’d be happy.
I stopped writing and looked up. Good. She looked how I felt and though I probably also looked how I felt, it made things seem so much better. Loneliness is a terrible thing.

“This bread… it’s something else” I said to her. “It’s your worst white slice nightmare. It looks like a real loaf of bread but there’s nothing there. It’s air and water. Where’s the flour? Where’s the yeast? Where’s the…”

“The soul. Go on, say it. Where’s the soul. Then, when you say that, you can have a bit of a rabbit about how it’s a reflection of Japanese society. Looks good, contains nothing.”

“And bread is the food of life and… “

“Yeah yeah. Bollocks bollocks bollocks. Did you order me a coffee?”

“Of course I ordered you a coffee. You asked me to order coffee, so I ordered coffee.”
“Good. I guess it’s that empty cup there.”
I smiled and she smiled. A familiar scene.
“If I order myself another one then you can have it. We’ll be quits then.”
“OK. So if you do that, I’ll order you another one and you’ll still owe me. You know I like it that way.” We’d talked ourselves into a corner neither of us knew much about and neither of us cared about and there wasn’t anything to do but drink the coffees. Somehow on a day like this, writing gibberish letters to people who’d know nothing of their contents seemed a suitable task.

Our coffees came and the relief that they brought dried up the conversation. Part of the relief. So we drank our coffee and looked at the toast which seemed no more appealing now than it had done when it was first brought over. Big thick lumps of bread. Sometimes the idea of food is better than the food. Maybe one day I’ll find a restaurant where you can order food and you don’t eat it and you don’t pay for it. You could order wild vegetable dishes or exotic and body distressing local specialities without having to endure the eating or the next day grief. A few coffees later and we’d got no further.

So now the rain was coming down. The rain in Tokyo is different to the rain anywhere else. It creates a mirror everywhere. The cars, all clean and shiny reflect against the shop windows which are all clean and bright and they both throw back the reflection of the garish neon which exists in even the sidest of side streets so that everything reflects on everything else and into everything else. Vetrification they call it in the floor cleaning game. You know those floors made of marble slab tiles that are impossibly shiny and sparkly? That’s vetrification. They lay ordinary marble and take the top layer off it with a major wire wool rotating brush so that it all clean. Like a reptile constantly shedding its skin. Like Tokyo.

I’d probably go through the old Apocalypse Now thing if Alison hadn’t beaten me to it.
“Tokyo. Shit” she said.
I was just thinking that. Martin Sheen and helicopter fans. Tokyo. Shit.
“When I was there I couldn’t wait to get out. When I was out, all I could think about was how to get back there,” I said in my best Martin Sheen voice. His own mother wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference if she’d had been sitting in her own bedroom. My mazel, it would probably turn out that she lived somewhere closer than Japan.
“What?”
“Apocal ... nah, doesn’t matter. You just got up?” I said.
“If I’d had got as far down so I needed to get up I wouldn’t have been able to get up at all.”
I only knew what that meant because I felt the same way myself. That old ACE feeling.
“So what’s the story then. Letters day?” she said. “Yeah, it’s important to keep in touch with the old life.”

--------------

One slice, maybe two inches thick and cut into three pieces, like cubes of hot bread or angular doorsteps. I tear into it lethargically - biting is impossible. My mouth is the wrong shape.

Around me in the cafe, people are sitting reading the papers. And the scene is the same as everywhere else in the world. They are turned to the sports pages, checking to see how their boys have done.

Everyone has their tales of glory, their tales of woe. “He’s an ordinary geezer, doesn’t seem to have any grief”. But it’s not true. Everyone has their grief. Well, everyone here does anyway. Everybody everywhere does. Family grief. Parental grief. Boy grief. Girl grief. Body grief. Mind grief. Grief grief.

Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.

Last night. About last night. There was an acronym - A.C.E. – we used which made us laugh anyway. We’re going to have an ace night. A night out in the company of acid, cocaine and ecstasy. A.C.E. Last night was supposed to be ace. But then every night is supposed to be ace. It got blown out of the water when Mark came in with some smack. That added an ‘H’ - and all we were left with was an ache. But, it’s getting better.

--------------------------------------------

More coffee arrives. People carrying umbrellas walk past. I’m wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow. It is emblazoned with the legend “Chanel - Paris” but no one can see it because it’s inside out. On my legs are a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes are local specialities called Jika Tabi - black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. They are very comfortable and to your eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what you might call ‘witty’. Last night was still here...

..." "Don't let me stop you." So I wrote "... waiting for another coffee" and put my pen down again. You know where you stand with creativity.

------------------

About last night. I remember the way I used to go out. Say, for example, I was supposed to go out at 10. I’d have a bath at 6, a long bath, wash my hair and spend the next two hours poodling around doing my hair and sorting out which clothes to wear. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night? A job? A serious friend? A serious job? I had a suit for each and knew exactly which one would do for each need. The fact that they were all black and baggy and double breasted and made by the same geezer mattered not a jot to anyone but me. I knew and I felt right in each one in a different way. That took me up to about 8ish. Then I’d spend some time on the phone, checking out what the score really was and then I’d spend the next 30 or 40 minutes changing the suit to meet the new requirement. Five minutes before leaving the house, I’d change back to the suit that I always wore. The black baggy one. Dependable and comfortable. Sometimes I’d lay three or four out on my bed, each with a tie and compare and go through different combinations.

Here, things are a bit different. No, maybe that’s misleading. They’re not really different. There isn’t the clothing dilemma, largely because there are no clothes to speak of. How can you deliberate about which suit to wear when you’ve only got one suit? So what do you do? You end up trying to change your inside because you can’t change your outside. Drugs is the new deal. The questions are the old questions. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night, a job, a serious friend? A tab of acid? Maybe a speed cap and half a tab? And a line of coke. A little bit of ketamine. Take half a tab now and half when you get there. And more speed. What the point? The result was always the same - to fuck up your mind. What do you want to do? Become someone else? Altered states. Jump around like a monkey. More or less the same as altered suits. More or less.

CHAPTER THREE

“How long have you been here?” I said to Tonya. I’d been there about six months and he’d been there longer than me. It’s funny. It sounded like I was asking about a prison sentence or something.

“Nah, I only came about a month or so before you. Sometimes it feels like forever but it feels like home, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. You think you’ll know when enough is enough? When it’s time to stop the madness?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think,” said James, “he means ‘What the fuck are we doing dressed up like this?’”

James had a point. Coming out of your room at The Palace was always a treat. You never quite knew what was going to happen. Tonya and James were sweet lads, an Aussie and a Brit. Both up for it, both nice boys on holiday. But James had a point.

They were trussed up in leather, in I don’t know, the sort of lederhosen you’d get in a sex shop if sex shops sold lederhosen. Maybe a Bavarian sex shop that catered for the S&M crowd. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the only kind of sex shop you got in Bavaria.

Sometimes I didn’t know whether we were on Candid Camera or whether it was for real. Maybe it was one of those Japanese game shows where you had to undergo strange acts of sadism. There was that Clive James used to present called Endurance, I think. I used to write about them, thought they were rubbish, laughing at the funny foreigners. Curiously, I went from writing about them to appearing on one of them once. No, but really.

A brief interlude

2009-03-31T14:52:00.001-07:00

And talking of Bauhaus, any of yous guys heard of The Horrors? They used to be photos waiting to happen, skinny boys who’d once seen a picture of The Cramps and figured (not unreasonably) that that was the way to go. Bryan Gregory. What was that about? And the idea that Mark E Smith and Kid Congo Powers were best mates still makes me smile. Anyway, The Horrors looked like kids let loose in their mum’s dressing up box and made music to suit. Silly music. Music that they thought they should be making. All noise, no soul. Anyway, they disappeared. No one knew, they just did. But they’ve just made a new album and there’s a single free to download and it’s mighty fine. Like they’ve stopped listening to US garage punk and started listening to Neu. A lot of Neu. I used to love Neu. They were part of that Seventies Krautrock thing, but they always seemed to be a really low rent version. None of your Stockhausen influences, none of that let’s all live in a commune and have a spiritual awakening or, at least, some muesli and a shag. No, it was all ‘hit a groove and kick in’. And this Horrors song has clearly borrowed that. There’s the chugga chugga motorik thing going on and it goes on and on and... You know what? Why don’t I just listen to Neu?

Chapter 2

2009-03-31T14:01:00.000-07:00

We’re going to Tokyo and we’re going to stay in The Maharajah Palace. You’ve gotta laugh. There’s a kind of inconsistency there that appealed. If I’d have thought of Tokyo and play some sort of word association game, I’d have come up with words like hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again. I’m not sure the words maharajah and palace would have come up in the top 100.

OK. Let’s turn it round the other way. If the words Maharajah Palace don’t make you think of hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again Tokyo, what did they make you think of? Opulence. Grandeur. Exotic baubles, rubies and emeralds and gold, great swathes of elaborately embroidered cloth, shimmering with their gaudiness. Probably not rusty corrugated metal and ramshackle wood. Probably not some pre-fab held up by its own indecision as to which bit should collapse first. If I’d have seen the place – regardless of where it was – I don’t think I’d have been helped. If I’d have seen the place I might have come up with Large Garden Shed. Or Decrepit Old Shack. Or Complete Fucking Dump. Maharajah Palace. It was probably funny once.

The Palace was a zoo. Well, not even a zoo. In a zoo, the animals have some kind of morality. In the Palace… that very concept was kinda dubious.

If you were the romantic type, you might say it was a rogue’s gallery. If you were a realist, you might want to move to somewhere a bit more hi-tech and shiny. Me, I thought it was charming.

It had the air of a hideaway, a place where people were… well, not exactly on the run. That’s a bit too pulp fiction, a bit too romantic, but it was definitely somewhere that felt outside the boundaries, somewhere the normal rules didn’t apply. There were probably other rules that applied.

A few years later, I was hanging out with a Norwegian girl there. I remember talking to her and a bloke called Mark, who the house doctor at the time. Elke was a sweetie, a poppet, but she was very clean living and fresh. It wasn’t so much that she was naïve, it was just that she hadn’t really considered the options before.

“How many people here don’t take drugs?” she said to Mark.
Mark thought a bit. “You must have had something… sometime… haven’t you?”

Like I say, she hadn’t really considered her options. It didn’t take her long to re-adjust, but that’s another story.

----------------------------

It was clear from the off that they knew Graham. Whoever these people were, and there were a lot of people in this place, whoever they were they knew Graham. And they were steering clear.

I could see them looking. I could hear them talking. Some just turned away. Others pretended not to have seen anything. Others were more upfront.

“You’re fuckin’ back, are you? Didn’t think we’d see you again.”
There were a few like that. A couple of faces said “What you got? I’m in Room 24.”
Mostly though, people said stuff like “Hi” or “Good to see you” or “You stayin’ long?” and all the time they all meant “Just leave me alone, please. Just leave me alone.”

I didn’t get it really. OK, he was a bit mad, a loose canon, but people reacted to Graham like he was a paid-up psychopath, a serious bad man. Dunno. He was OK with us. He sorted out a room for me and Ben “Listen, I’ll get you a room, be OK if I just leave my bags there for a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah, OK. Sure.”

Looking back, we were so stupid it was almost funny. We knew he was a drug dealer yet “Sure we’ll look after your bags and if the place gets busted, course we’ll take the rap. No problem. Fancy a tea?” It was like we’d turned from hip, smart, media players into Forrest Gump. Or Chancey Gardener.

I went for a walk. There were two floors. A big kitchen and a lounge area with a few beat up chairs and a telly. The Kirk Douglas film Spartacus was on and maybe there were six people hanging around.

I’d love to say that was the last time I saw Graham. But it wasn’t. He came back a few times – different stories – but it’s all changed. What’s he doing now? No idea. Really, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. Odds on he’s dead now. I heard some story from Pauly about Manilla and you don’t fuck about in Manilla. Still, bless him. He brought me here.

Anyway that was all a long time ago. Now it’s today and today’s a grey miserable day. One of those days when even the rain can’t be bothered…
“Aren’t we supposed to be falling today?”
“Nah, stuff it. I’m going to stay in the cloud today. Watch a bit of telly.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. No one ever thanks us for falling anyway. Fancy a beer?”

GAIJIN STRATEGIES - Chapter One

2009-03-31T13:58:00.000-07:00

“Fuck it. We’ll go to Yokohama”.

What could we do? We were in Shanghai and had to get out. It was nice enough, fascinating in a cultural exchange kind of way, but I’d exchanged all the culture I wanted to. Time was running out, money was getting tight and we had to get out.

“I thought you said there was a boat going to Hong Kong?” said Ben.
“I thought there was a boat going to Hong Kong”, I said.
“You checked?”
“No, I didn’t check, but I thought there was a boat. I was told there was a boat. What do you want? I was wrong. I thought there was a boat and there isn’t.”
“You thought there was a boat? How did you think there was a boat?”
“Someone told me. They must have cancelled it.”
“According to that bloke in the office there, they cancelled it three years ago.”
“They didn’t cancel it. They just moved it.”
“To Yokohama.”
“Yeah, to Yokohama. It used to go to Hong Kong. Now it goes to Yokohama. That’s where the boat goes now.”
“Oh well. Fuck it. Yokohama.”
“Yeah. Fuck it. Yokohama.”

And that was that. That’s how I ended up in Tokyo. I was going to go to Hong Kong, but the boat changed its mind. One thing I’ve learnt in this game is to keep an open mind. Go with the flow, you know what I mean? When I was younger I used to say that life was like an apple. You’ve got to eat it now. If you keep it, save it, it goes mouldy. And then it’s gone. I said that to someone once. Thought I was being, you know, philosophical. He said “I think life is more like an orange. You've got to peel it before you get to the good bit.” Twat.

------------------

That boat trip was the start of it all. Me and Ben – drifting on the sea heading off to something or other. Me, I’ve gone off travelling because I’m writing a book. Well, starting to write a book. I’ve got a great idea and I just wanted to get away from it all because life was getting too organised and formulaic, but we can get on to all that later.

Anyway, I’ve got an idea for a story. Listen, I thought it was a great idea for a story. Still do. It’s based on a true story, but then again, aren’t they all? It doesn’t matter. It’s a great story. A man, a student, decides to pay his way through college by being a sperm donor. So he gives his sperm and gives his sperm. It’s all good. This bloke – we’ll call him Will – is studying to be a doctor. He’s tall and blond, strong and athletic. The sort of bloke who your mother would want you to marry. This guy offers his sperm and it goes to the top of the sperm charts. He’s the perfect physical speciment.

But he’s got a secret, a secret even he doesn’t know. He (and here we’ve got to work on this a bit) has got a madness, a psychopathic madness – a congenital psychopathic madness.

Anyway, many years – well, maybe 10 years – down the line, Susan is having trouble with her daughter Molly. Molly is very bright, but she’s got an evil streak, a mean side to her that’s a little bit disturbed. And Susan doesn’t know what to do. She can’t ask her partner because she doesn’t have a partner. She never has had. A few lost loves, the usual catalogue of losers and chancers, nearlys and almosts. When Susan was 31, she met the man of her life, the Big Love. But – and we don’t need to go into the detail here – he was a twat, a lying, cheating, no-good dirty low-down hound dog. He wrecked her life and she swore – she absolutely swore – never to fall for a man again. She’d have a baby.
Anyway, back to the main story. Susan tries all sorts of things and, in the end, she goes to a parent-child therapy class because – obviously, she thinks that it’s all her fault. While she’s there, she meets another woman, like her the mother of a 10 year old girl. They start talking.

Can you guess where this one’s going? OK, let’s spell it out a bit more.

This other woman, her story is remarkably similar to Susan. She’s a lesbian but, that apart, it’s the same. Lost love, disappointment, betrayal. Refuge sought in a baby. Her baby is basically a good kid, but has got the same evil streak as Molly.

Now you know what’s going to happen. They start talking, they realise they both got pregnant after going to sperm donor centre in Eastbourne. Now then – this is the next question: how many other babies were born between 1980 and 1985?

So OK. That’s the pitch. It’s like a cross between The Boys From Brazil and maybe The Midwitch Cuckoos.

How many are there? Does something happen to them to ‘kick-start’ the inner madness that propels them? Shall we turn them into an army?

So anyway, I was sitting on the deck of this boat, it’s the middle of the night, dark and empty, just me and the night and the sea, and I’m thinking about the story – when the calm is disturbed by this couple. A big English bloke and his Israeli girlfriend. They were going at it big time, tearing into each other.

But then they saw us and found what they were looking for: an audience. We started talking, just passing the time. When I say, we started talking what I mean is he started talking. I started listening. Most of the time I didn’t know whether to interrupt or applaud, like I was at a show or something.

Always, there are two ways of looking at things. I could say that we met this bloke from south London on the boat who was off his tits and he read us this poem he’d written as a response to Paradise Lost. I can’t remember exactly now. He was the Devil or he was Milton and… Or I can tell you the more interesting version.

I didn’t know it at the time, but he was The One. I only met him for a brief time and I doubt that he even knew my name, but Graham was that person, and who changed my life. Graham Gaskin – and you can look his name up because this is all true – was there just at the right time and the right place to completely throw my life off course.

We’ve all got one, the person who changes everything. I’m writing this book about all that at the moment called The Nazi & The Jew about a young middle class Jewish man who, through a series of strange, some might say unfortunate, circumstances, finds himself in jail. At first he’s told that it’s all going to be OK, that it’s a single cell and he’ll be out soon enough. He’s scared by at least he’s by himself and then…. Late at night the door opens and in walks in a prisoner officer. The screw explains that the prison’s over-crowded and that Aaron, the Jewish bloke, is going to have to share. In walks in Razor, all shaved head and tattoos, a Nazi who’s one of the top figures in Combat 18, the psycho military wing of the British fascists, gangland figure and general Nazi nutter and Aaron’s worst nightmare. The cell door bangs shut and there they are, alone together.

What happens to them, how they get on, that’s the story. It’s part Kiss Of The Spiderwoman, part humanist tale, but – like I say – it’s about that person that changes your life.

Anyway, we’re standing on the deck of this boat going to Yokohama and it’s the middle of the night. A beautiful night. And there’s this bloke giving us this rant about Milton and Paradise Lost. He could have been 25 or 35. Big build, longish hair, nondescript clothes. Jeans, t-shirt, that kind of thing. He was good-looking, but rough. Like he’d been away too long. And God knows where he’d been away to. I’d gone away looking for something different and this, this was something different.

“Tokyo, huh. Fuckin place Tokyo. A zoo. Full of hooligans and fuckin Japs. You got a story going on there or what?”

Meeting this bloke, I was part thrilled, part terrified. Part of me was thinking “How cool. I go away, looking for an adventure and in the first half hour I meet my very own Dean Moriarty, some wild spirited free thing with energy to burn and a soul on fire”. The other part of me – the middle class, middle aged bloke who drives a Volvo and knows his National Insurance number off by heart – is frankly terrified and wants this bloody idiot to just go away. He was at best boorish and at worst dangerous. No, he was definitely dangerous.

“No, no story. No story and no idea” I said. And explained. “I was supposed to be going to Hong Kong. I had a job on a newspaper there, the South Morning Post, I think it’s called, but then the boat to Hong Kong stopped two years ago and the only boat now went to Yokohama and…” Even as I said it, it sounded rubbish. God knows what it sounded like to him, but it was the story.

“And you?” said Graham to Ben.

“And me” said Ben. “I’m just along for the ride.” You don’t trust this, do you, I thought to myself. Probably not a bad judgement.

“Sounds to me” said Graham “you’re gonna some dosh. Tokyo’s no place to be skint”. Then came the good bit.

“You wanna make a bit of cash? Easy money.”

Me, I was already suspicious. Ben was more interested. “Go on” he said.

Graham smiled at Ronit and then at us. He made a big dramatic looking around gesture – like he needed to. It was the middle of the night and we were on the deck of a boat. It wasn’t Piccadilly Circus.

He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of shoes which were about three sizes too big – and smiled. The significance was lost on me. I just thought it was odd.

“You’re a shoe salesman?”

“Something like that” said Graham and reached down into his bag again. After doing the dramatic looking around bit again – there’s nothing like milking the moment and Graham, a performer at heart, knew how to do that – he produced an inner sole which was about an inch thick and covered in thick cling film. Me and Ben might have been at the start of the story and about as worldly as a new born seal cub, but I knew what Graham was holding. Dope. Compressed dope. Moroccan.

He put the inner sole inside the shoe. “All you’ve got to do is walk. You ain’t got a problem walking, have you?”

No one said anything. I didn’t say anything. Ben didn’t say anything. The Israeli girl – Ronit – she didn’t say anything either.

“Look” said Graham, “I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve got three shoes and” – and he pointed down at his feet – “only two feet”.

No one said anything.

“I mean I’ve got three fucking soles. I can put two in my shoes, but I need someone else to go through with the other one. Just wear the shoes, walk through and I’ll give you a grand. Easy. Listen” he looked directly at me. “It’ll sort you out on Tokyo, get you started. Otherwise you’re gonna be in right shit, believe me”.

I remember looking at Graham and seeing all these Japanese war films in my head, sadistic guards beating people up – “Ve hav vays of making you tok!” OK, that’s a German war film, but you know what I mean. Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence. Melly Chlistmas Mr Rawrence.

He’s going to walk through customs at Yokohama with these clowns shoes that are way too big and sell this lot in Tokyo. A lunatic.

I declined. Polite, of course, but firm. “Sorry, mate. I just haven’t got the nerve for that sort of thing”. Ben was tempted, I could see Ben was tempted. I could see all sorts of things. Like… Ben fancied Ronit and was showing off and I was thinking that on the list of bad ideas, flirting with Graham’s woman was off the scale.

Ben declined. Thank fuck for that.

“Look. OK, you ain’t done anything like this before but it’s OK. The Japs don’t do anything. All you’ve gotta be is polite and smile, that’s all. It’s what they do and it’s what they want us to do. You can call them anything, do anything but as long as you’re polite, it’s OK. You’ve got to remember, they think we’re some kind of dirty sub species anyway. They don’t expect anything proper.”

Nothing.

“Nah, no sweat” said Graham, maybe a bit too readily. “I’ll sort it”.

I didn’t think any more of it at the time, though later on someone – Brad the Canadian, I think – told me that Graham’s usual trick was to hide the dope in some poor unsuspecting bastard’s back pack, let them take it through customs – and then steal the bag from them on the other side when they’d got through. Didn’t do anything like that with us. Don’t know why. Maybe he liked us. God knows.

We sat up the rest of the night, the four of us, smoking a bit while Graham told us stories about how he’d paid for the trip by blackmailing an MP he’d had a fling with. “I’m gonna write it all down and make it into a TV film. Those bastards won’t forget about me”. All I remember thinking was “Why are you telling us this?” Whatever. Back then I was so naïve about this lark I’d have believed anything. The last thing I suspected was that it was all true – but sometimes the last place you suspect is the first place you should look.

Customs was a joy. Graham insisted on walking through with us, talking to us and laughing all the way. The Japanese were pretty much like he said – they looked at us like we were slightly dirty, like we they just hoped we’d got away. But they humoured us and let us in. Curiously, it was kinda how I felt about Graham.

We got through. I was terrified. He didn’t seem to give a toss. But we got through. Looking back, I don’t know why I was terrified – that business of dropping the dope in someone else’s backpack hadn’t occurred to me at all – that kind of thinking was completely off my radar. Maybe it was some kinda instinct thing. We got through.

Tokyo. We were in Tokyo. I can’t even begin to tell you how exciting that was. Tokyo. That was amazing. A month ago I was in London and now I was in Tokyo. Well, I was on a train going to Tokyo. Just me. And Ben. And Graham. And Ronit.

It was a strange journey, didn’t take long and to be honest I can’t remember much about it. I remember Graham rolling one his trouser legs up and revealing an inner sole gaffer taped to his leg. I remember that. I also remember him asking us where we were going to stay.

“I dunno” said Ben. “Some hotel in town. We’ll ask around, maybe tourist info or something, and find something for a few days and…”

“Like fuck you will. You’re coming with us. You ever heard of the Palace?”

“The palace?”

“The Maharajah Palace. That’s where we’re going.”

The First Law Of Averages

2008-11-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE

So... This morning I got up – it’s traditional – went to the park to take Maxwell Wolf out for a walk. Another beautiful day in paradise. 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).

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 Wife 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.

So anyway. I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present last year. What can you do?) The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? I don’t know. I think so. OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. 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 other selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate life. You'd have thought The Lord would have foreseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You know, you start off with 24 hours 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 the 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 grown up 24 hours. Who would it hurt if we were given, say, an additional three hours a day with each extra child? OK, there’d be a bit of re-structuring to do, but I’d be a fantastic parent, do all sorts of things with the kids. I’d go to that evening life drawing class in Bond Street. I would be that person. I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. If I ever get the time.

I bought myself a bass guitar. It’ll be an interesting experiment to see how much dust can build up on an inanimate object if it’s never moved.

That was a week ago. A week ago and a different lifetime. A week ago I decided to stop all that. I decided to get a life. I got my bicycle down (from the large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall. Come on, keep up) and after dousing it in extra virgin olive oil – Jane Wife caught me in mid-douse and… what can I tell you? She’s a very understanding woman – I signed up.

On Monday I do T’ai Chi at Planet Janet. On Tuesday I do a creative writing workshop at Evolution. On Wednesday I go to a life drawing class in Bond Street. On Thursday I do my Landmark session in London. On Friday I go to yoga at Jo’s.

I’m getting my body into shape, I’m sorting out my creativity, and I get to doing something I’ve never done before while looking at naked women. No, no. It’s OK. Thanks to my Landmark I can say things like that with integrity and authenticity. My chakras are balanced. I can feel it. Talk about inside smile. I’m so happy, so calm, so… so full of centred creativity I’ve barely got time to swallow the St John’s Wort.

Maxwell Wolf has gone round the family taking odds on how long I’ll stick with each one.
“Hmm, Pilates?” he said with that ‘I found out where you hide the pig’s ears’ smile.
“Ashtanga yoga?”
This is Maxwell my faithful puppy, my support structure, Maxwell Wolf who I rescued from the gutter of life when he still had some discarded Christmas paper stuck to him.

So then this happened. I got an e-mail from an agent. Now I’ve had e-mails from agents before but they’ve all been “House prices in Kemp Town are going up…” which is nice but unless they’re going down everywhere else, what difference? Anyway, this was different. This was from a literary agent. I’ll say that again. Literary agent. Sounds good, no?

Really. It’s a long story but this agent – this literary agent - asked to see some words...
“Have you got any fiction?” he said. “I’m looking for new writers”.
“Course” I said, but really it was like Alex Ferguson asking me if I’ve ever played up front cos Rooney’s injured. “Course”. Fiction? Fiction’s my middle name.
So today I’ve been sitting here trying to make sense of piles of notes, all called things like “Chapter One”.

Yesterday I took Maxwell to the vet to have his anal glands done. That’ll teach him.

Jewgolos

2008-10-26T04:57:00.000-07:00

So anyway. I was talking to Jane the other day and she came up with this idea. (I’d love to take credit for this cos it’s genius, but not even I’d do that. And besides, she might read this nonsense). She said “John, what are you doing with this banging your head against a wall? Why not do something you’re good at?” Well, to cut a long story short she came up with this new concept: Jewgolos. A Jewgolo is a bit like a gigolo, but essentially Jewish in nature. Listen.

Basically, where your regular gigolo maybe takes you for a drink and then upstairs for the jiggy stuff, your Jewgolo will take you out to eat and moan. Like I say, it’s genius. Everyone thinks they like the jiggy thing but you do it once, it’s enough. What people really like doing is eating and moaning. You never get bored with that.

This is the thing. The older you get, your ideas change. When you’re younger and your head’s full of unrealistic ideas you think the moaning that comes when you’re doing all that jiggy stuff is the good moaning. OK if you’re 18 or something but be honest. If you’re a grown-up by the time you get into bed all you want to do is have a sleep. “You carry on with all that. No, no, it’s fine. I’m just going to close my eyes.” No. The good moaning is actually just moaning. Sitting down, having something to eat and moaning.

Once you start eating and moaning you can keep going for hours. You can eat as much as you want and you don’t feel bad about yourself because your body’s started migrating. And you can get home in time for EastEnders on BBC3. You know I’m right. Trust me. Jewgolos.

I’d been thinking about doing something new anyway. Things haven’t been… I don’t know. I won’t bore you with it– you don’t want to know – but I’d erased everything on my computer and life was, as my Landmark chums might say, full of possibilities. E-mails, address book, files… gone. My calendar had been wiped which meant that now I had a load of spare time, but it’s a question of perspective. Jane said that at my age I can do with all the spare time I can get. That’s the sort of thinking that made me want to marry her. The literary agent, the one who was going to whisk me off into a bright new future, hasn’t replied to any of my e-mails and now I’ve lost his address anyway. His loss. What’s an agent anyway? Write your own book if you’re so clever.

A new career. It’s easy. I’ll put up ads in all the usual places – Evolution, Janet, the back pages of this mag. I’ll tell them it’s an ancient Native American tradition, that always works. The alfalfa sprouts believe anything if you say it’s Native American.
“You’ve got a back ache? OK. I’ll put a candle in your ear and then set light to it”.
“What?”
“No, no. It’s an ancient Native American tradition.”
“Oh, OK then”.
Maybe we could maybe do a deluxe service where we complain about the size of the portions.

CHAPTER 9 - Charity Begins At Home

2008-10-26T04:53:00.001-07:00

CHAPTER 9 - Charity Begins At Home

9.30 and I’m upstairs, in the attic. Feeling sweaty, but smug and self-righteous. I’ve done 50 sit ups on one of those “abs buster” machines, I’ve lifted up those weights I bought in 1987 and I’ve had a wheat-free breakfast and a tablespoon of psyillican husks. I must be at least half a stone lighter already. Minimum.

You know what it’s like. It’s the summer. You get out your favourite summer suit, put it on and… So you say to yourself “I’m going to get fit. I’m going to take this in hand and do something about it.” Then you go to a lovely, shiny health club, hand over roughly the same amount of money that would otherwise buy you a small chateau and make the small but familiar joke: “Hah. I’ve only just joined and I’ve already lost a hundred pounds”. As gags, it’s up there with the vasectomy nurse who told me “You’ll just feel a small prick”, but hey.

Anyway. So I’m in the squash league. I used to play squash but that was back in the days when racquets were made of wood, not the titanium or schmitanium or whatever it is these things are made of now. Missed out graphite entirely. Now these things are so powerful they’ve had to introduce a new ball, also made of schmitanium to withstand the battering.

My first game, I bounded on to the court, head to toe in my virgin kit, which comes courtesy of my favourite designer, Primark. Total cost: £3.50.

The bloke I was playing looked OK. My kind of age, my kind of follicle count. We started hitting.
“I haven’t played for ages,” I said to him.
“Neither have I,” he said. “I haven’t stepped on this court since I broke my leg”.
“Blimey. Was that long ago? Are you OK?”
“Fine now. Amazing how these things heal”.
So we’re hitting and I’m thinking. (and cue the sound of a penny slowly dropping).
“You broke your leg on this court?”
“Yeah, I just twisted round and, for some reason my leg got stuck”.

“It’s just there. You can still see it”.
And he pointed to a faded blotch on the floor. And it was just there. And you could still see it.
“There was blood everywhere. The bone snapped and went up through…”
“Blimey” I said, secretly thinking: Fantastic. He’s a raspberry. I’ll be home in time for EastEnders. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine now, but it forced me to give up competitive squash”.

Forced me to give up competitive squash. As a psych-out, it was high art. One minute I was playing a hobbling cripple with a broken leg, the next I was up against the Roy Keane of squash. A competition standard player who’d risk life and limb for the glory of getting the ball back. Whose blood still marked the court. I looked at him. He looked kinda muscular. And his hair wasn’t thin, it was cropped. Curious how these things look different in a different light.

“Do you want to start?” he said.
“Might as well” I said. “EastEnders starts soon”.

Other Room Services

2008-10-17T11:24:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 9: Other Room Services

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 to 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 what 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 you and I think law would suit you. There'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 remember 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 inelligible. 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 to watch 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? Issues schmissues.

September iPack

2008-09-09T09:39:00.001-07:00

THE BLACK ALBUM

It was always going to be Paint It Black. There was never really a question, though there was a strange collision – collusion? – of the elements.
There was my mood.
There was my colour of choice.
There was the colour of the sky.
There was the summer.
There was my favourite music.
There was my mood.
There was a colour my bank manager had never seen.

Then there was the name of the first CD I’d bought for a good while – Black Sheep. I’ve always been a fan of Cope, from his early gorgeous pop to latterly his mad infatuations with stone circles – I went to Callanish last year, one of the maddest weekends – to his love of Krautrock – which ever since I heard Tago Mago in maybe 74 I’ve always loved – to his determination to do things his own way – which I’ve always aspired to though mostly lacked the balls to follow through with. He’s become interested in William Blake recently and the new CD is enriched by a Blake-ism: “Create your own system of become enslaved by another Man’s”.
Seems reasonable to me. (That’s actually also a Fall lyric, from Before The Moon Falls, Dragnet, 1979).

I always keep an eye on his Head Heritage website and when I read that he had a new album…
So I bought it. Of course, it’s largely bollocks – a double CD, natch - but that’s what happens when you release stuff yourself on your own label and there’s no one around, except maybe your kids, who’s gonna say “Actually, that’s bollocks”. But there are a few good things, especially the title All the blowing-themselves-up motherfuckers (will realise the minute they die that they were suckers)

So…

The Black Sheep's Song - Julian Cope
The Black Sheep’s Song is a lovely idea. “To rally every black sheep is my goal” it says on the album sleeve – and there are a fair few black sheep on this CD.

Am I Black Enough for You - Schoolly D
A proper bad man. Top tune though. I remember the NME tried to champion him in the early days – till they realised he was proper bad. Play this loud and it resonates big time.

Reverend Black Grape - Black Grape
Black Grape always get lost in the pipe smoke of the Mondays, but they made some great tunes. Back in the day I tried to commission Sean Ryder to write a piece called It’s Great When You’re Straight for The Observer. Don’t bother trying to find it on the web.

Black Heart - Keith Hudson
There’s a story about Keith Hudson. When Richard Branson was launching his Front Line series – what was that? 1976? – he went over to Jamaica to hang out with all these dudes that he’d signed up from the comfort of those Tubular Bells royalties. So Branson was playing the black man, giving it a load of I’n’I nonsense and they all played along with him cos he was paying them. Then he met Keith Hudson who’d had a huge success with a tune called Civilisation. Except Hudson was a proper job gangster who took one look at Branson, pulled a gun and gave him a count to get out.
These days Branson sponsors Andy Murray and Hudson is dead.
Good tune though, from a top album called Pick A Dub.

Black Erotica - Ursula Rucker
Mmmm. This one’s interesting. She’s an odd one, is our Ursula. Obsessed you might say. The only recording artist who washes their hands before and after.

Black Dog - Led Zeppelin
What else could follow that?

Black Monk Theme - The Fall
You probably haven’t heard of The Fall, but you’re gonna have to trust me on this one. This is a cover of a song called “I Hate You” by The Monks, a Nuggets-era bunch of tripped out psycho hippies. But it’s got the best lyrics ever and is the perfect riposte to Ursula Rucker.
You can look them up, but it’s funner (an old Ellie word) to listen and smile as you catch Smith bark
“Seep seep seep to sleep,
The drill scaffold starts
Power drill dog bark renovate stone blast
I'm coming
Because you make me hate you baby”

Black Coffee In Bed - Squeeze
Possibly the finest pop song ever written called Black Coffee In Bed. Actually you might argue those last five words are superfluous. Impossibly well crafted, it’s the form at it’s finest.

Black Tie White Noise (3rd Floor US Radio Mix) - David Bowie
Bowie’s most under-rated album. Every Bowie album past Scary Monsters has been
A) hailed as a return to form by pop hacks who know that if they don’t write that they won’t have an earthly of an interview and they’re all desperate for an interview because they, like the rest of the world, are huge Bowie fans and would sell their granny for a chance to break bread with the man.
B) Utter bollocks.
There have been the odd single and the odd flourish, but mainly it’s been a disappointment. I think it’s cos he started eating, but that’s another story.
Black Tie White Noise is the nearest he’s come.

Black Crow - Joni Mitchell
Something for Chris. A lovely tune from Hejira, Joni’s Golden Period.

Black Corridor – Hawkwind
More words of wisdom from Robert Calvert. It’s odd that the longer he goes on, the more he sounds like a Dalek.

Black Snake Moan - Blind Lemon Jefferson
Seemed reasonable to have some blues on a Stones-inspired CD.

Blacks/Radio - The Psychedelic Furs
Something for Tim. Actually I probably scagged this from one of Tim’s CD. Back in the pre first album time, they were actually quite good. When they were happy to be primitive. The voice is still grief.

Blacka Shade Of Dub - Scientist

Black Man Time - I Roy

Black Harmony Killer - Jah Stitch

Black Diamonds - Roland Kirk
A while back Johnski and I had a bit of an e-flurry about Rip, Rig & Panic, a bunch of honking, squonking post Pop Group ne’er do wells. They took their name from a Roland Kirk album and – guess what – this track comes from that album.

All the blowing-themselves-up motherfuckers (will realise the minute they die that they were suckers) - Julian Cope
He’s probably got a point, you gotta admit.

Paint it Black - Metallica
I found a few mad versions of the tune – Rammstein were good, as was an unnamed German techno version, U2 was straight bollocks – but this I liked. Cos it’s so horrible.

My summer

2008-09-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

This is how my summer has been

A few weeks ago, I decided to sell my car. I liked the car, I liked enough that – and I only thought about this later – when Ellie once idly asked me what was the best car I ever had, I thought a bit and said “This one”. Still, a few weeks ago I decided to sell the car. It was a big 2.6 litre beast, lovely to drive but very expensive to run. In the time I had it, just over a year, the cost of filling it up had gone up over £25. The eco jihad? No, it just cost a lot.
I bought the car for £2,200 so I decided to sell it for the same. If it didn’t go… well, at least I tried.
On August 20 – an auspicious date as you’ll find out – I received an e-mail from Ebay saying that the car had sold. For £2,200. I sent the buyer a mail. A nice bloke called Chris who, curiously, worked for an internet TV station for chartered accountants. He was from New Zealand. That was a Wednesday. We arranged for him to come to Lewes station on Friday – they were doing a special on tax evasion on Thursday – and all was good.
On Thursday I got in the car, pressed the button that operated the driver’s window. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. It was broke. I took the car to the garage.
“Ah yes, you see it’s the motor. The whole thing will have to be replaced.”
“Blimey. Are you sure?”
“And of course the exhaust system.”
“Of course.”
£300. Plus VAT. It couldn’t have broken down a day later? It had worked perfectly all the time I had the car and that Thursday it broke.
That was how my summer has been.

This is how my summer has been

College finished. I got it done. Out of the way. I talked with Gill about the work I had to do over the summer. The projects. The ideas. The summer was full of potential, full of possibilities.
We had some friends round for Sunday lunch. It was, strangely for this summer, a lovely day. We were sitting on our deck with Fred and Sue – I’ll tell you about them later – and, as usual they were having a conversation at us when, kinda innocently, a wasp started bussing around my head.
Not even thinking about it, I waved it away, just like I’ve done a thousand times before. This time though was different. This time, as I waved, the wasp waved. We waved at each other. With each other. And, like old school rappers, we gave each other a high five. Well, I gave the wasp a high five. The wasp gave me a sting. On my hand. My right hand. The right hand which is the only hand I type with.
That wasn’t the bad thing. The bad thing was this. I had an allergic reaction to the sting. My hand blew up in an almost Elephant Man style. People looked at my hand like it was some Victorian curio. My rings got stuck. Not only did it hurt – and it did - I couldn’t move my hand or my fingers. For two weeks.
I’d never been stung before.

This is how my summer has been

Gill and I have been married, give or take, 13 years and five months. To someone who’s been married, say, 20 years that might not be much, but to someone who’s been married maybe just two years, it’s a lifetime.
People say to us “How do you keep yoiur marriage alive?” and we tell them of our devices. We even appeared in The Very Fine Daily Mail – a double page feature complete with photo shoot – talking about how we keep our marriage alive, how we keep the romance in our world.
Not long after we first got together, before we were married and before we even spoke of children, I packed a couple of bags, put Gill and Maxwell in the car, blindfolded the two of them – he was a terrible sneak – and took them off for a mystery weekend in The Isle Of Wight.
Since then, we’ve taken each other all over the world on mystery trips, the game being to see how far you can get the other person before they find out where they’re going. (Headphones and blindfolds are useful but you can’t stop idiot passengers reading The Time Out Guide Book To Rome or some idiot hostess declaring “Welcome to Nice”.)
Anyway, it’s been a bit of a summer and that’s brought on its own stresses so it was only a question of time before one of us declared “We’re going away next weekend, I’m not telling you where”. Gill arranged it. I was probably talking to mortgage advisors or legal solicitors or banks or bail bond bounty hunters.
We packed up the car – two adults, three children, three dogs, all our clothes and dog baskets, tenths, sleeping bags, duvets, pillows… With Gill you never know. I guessed we weren’t going to Prague but all the baggage really might have been a distraction.
Now then. My sister moved to Bournemouth in 1979, my mother moved in 1984 and I’ve been going down there every few weeks/ months since then. I’ve always been intrigued by a sign just by the New Forest which says “No Right Turn Till Rufus Stone”. What or who is Rufus Stone? What happens there? What might happen if you turned right before Rufus Stone? There are more questions than answers.
Anyway, so we’re driving along on the way to our mystery location, heading towards Bournemouth. Through the New Forest. Towards the sign. I’m driving. Gill’s saying “Left” or “Right”.
Gill says “Turn right at Rufus Stone”.
The weekend could only be fantastic. It could only be a treat. What happened was t his.
We pitched up at a camp site. Great. I’ve never been camping in a camp site.
Thye camp site is called Sandy Balls. Great. How many cheap gags to make the kids laugh can you get out of Sandy Balls?
It’s full of kids and dogs. Perfect.
What happened was this.
We made camp at around 5pm. We had a walk. I got hit by my mystery stomach condition. I was taken to Salisbury Hospital. I stayed there until Sunday afternoon when, car packed, Gill, the kids and the dogs came to pick me up and take me home.
On the way home, the girls said to me “Mummy was drinking wine outside the tent by herself”.

I’ve got to go to hospital on Sept 19th to have a cameradownthethroatoscopy.
“Is it going to hurt?” I said, like a true 50-year-old man.
“No, we’ll give you something that’ll send you away with the fairies.”
Grab that silver lining, I thought. Normally it costs me about £50 to go play with those guys.

This is how my summer has been

The mortgage went up £500 a month.
We decided we couldn't stay in the house.
We swung a deal.
We stayed in the house.
The deal went flat.
We couldn’t stay in the house.

That’s as much as I’m going to say about that.
But this is the thing. Then I sorted us out a deal to stay in the house. It’s not cheap, but we can manage it.
We’re staying in the house.

There have been a lot of ups and downs. Conversations around the table. Trips to London. E-mails with people who were probably wearing suits, the type you wear with your shirt tucked in and your stomach hanging out.

It's been difficult but we're staying in the house.

This is how my summer has been

My mother died.
That’s as much as I’m going to say about that one.
She’d been ill for a long time and many times I wished – for all our sakes – that she slip away.
She used to say to me “I wish I was on the top of a big slide and I could just slide…”
She’d started to call me Liam. Quite why this woman – born in Whitechapel of Polish immigrant stock and Jewish through and through should conjure up the name Liam… Who can say. I asked her once. She looked at me like I was an idiot. That’s when I thought she was going to live forever.
But she died. And you know what? It hurts more than the wasp sting and is more disorientating than the house business.
My mother died. On August 18.
On August 20 - Ellie's birthday, a day she'd been looking for f'ages - my mother had her funeral.
August 20. Ellie's birthday. Gill's parents' wedding anniversary. My mother's funeral. All of life.

This is how my summer has been

As I was driving from Laughton to Bournemouth after being told about my mother, I realised the curious ramification of her passing.
We wouldn’t be able to stay in the house. The detail is too sordid to go into here, but that’s the story.
We’re not staying in the house.

This is how my summer has been

I was going to turn 50 this summer. I knew it was coming – it’s not like you don’t get notification – so I decided to embrace it. I’d do what I do. I’d have a party. I was going to have a big party. I was going to be 50 – it wasn’t going to be me, you know what I mean?
We were going to have a theme party – 1973. It was my 50th, Ellie’s 13th and LouLou’s 10th. 73. (Quite how LouLou has got to 10… that’s another story).
People were coming from far and wide. They were going to camp. It would be a mini festival – just like our wedding renewal party – minus the guitar stomping.
We weren’t going to have a summer holiday – our money was going on the house, remember – and the weather had been appalling and our attempts at mystery romantic weekends had ended up in hospital, but we were going to have a big party.
The week before The Big Party… my mother died. I cancelled the party. It’s not that it didn’t seem right, it’s just that I couldn’t do it. I’d bought a massive version of the game Twister but I couldn’t do it.
Maybe we’ll do it later.

Cars and Pars

2008-08-14T08:41:00.000-07:00

In some cultures, the kids go off into the forest with their elders, maybe kill a deer and come back a man. Me and my old man went to Truppy’s garage round the back of Stamford Hill and came back with a dark green Morris 1100. In terms of blood sweat and tears, it’s a toss up between the two.

As a car, the Morris made a shopping trolley look like a sophisticated piece of machinery. But it doesn’t matter. My mate Pomeranc got a car at the same time, a Ford Anglia that went round corners by itself. Going straight down the road was trickier, but it doesn’t matter.

We bought that together, me and my old man. It was dark green, the three door – well, two doors and a boot – and, how shall we say? I wasn’t going to get caught speeding in this thing. (Later, I sorted that out. I had a mate who knew a bit about cars and he got hold of a pair of Weber carbs. “No, it’ll be alright”. I was working at Mister Byrite, sorted him out. Fitted with its new go-faster carbs, RoboMorris went from nought to 30 like the wind. From 30 to 31 you could wait all week. Still.)

It was somewhere west of knackered. I didn’t care. You don’t, do you? Going to get my first car with my old man, it was like my proper barmitzvah. Becoming a man? This is what I’m talking about.

Anyway, we got this thing home and I parked outside the house. We got out of the car, closed the doors and – and this is where the film goes into show-motion – slowly but ever so surely the car started sliding backwards down the hill. Me and my old man made to try and stop it but couldn’t catch it. We needed something solid, something like… that lamp post. The next day we went to a breakers yard and got a new boot. OK, so it was white, but actually I kinda liked it. It was a story, our story.

OK, it was a short story. Two cars later and I got what I wanted. I’d gone through the Morris 1100 and the Triumph Herald and hadn’t quite got to the glory that was the inherited Triumph 2000 and had somehow managed to get hold of a red Mini 1275GT with a big fat sports exhaust. Proper.

Thanks to a job at the bookies – well, you can always go back and re-take your exams can’t you, but if you want a few bob RIGHT NOW you’ve got to do it RIGHT NOW, right? – I’d just had a Stage 3 cylinder head fitted to my Mini 1275. I remember… I came racing down the hill to our house and revved the car up outside the front door like, well, like a boy with a new toy. My old man laughed, which was cheap cos he laughed at everything.

Remember the time back when I was maybe 12 or 13 and I’d bought these fantastic platform boots, all metallic blue and silver stripes from Shelleys and matched them with a pair of high-waisted five-button Oxfords that covered the boots perfectly. I came downstairs and tried to sneak out of the house but, listen, it’s difficult to move like James Coburn when you’re wearing four inch metallic platform boots and trousers that do up around your tits. He looked at me and asked what must now sound a perfectly reasonable question: “What’s the point of wearing boots like that if you’re not going to let people see them?”
It’s like last year – and last year I’m over 40, right – and me and my wife are off to see Fatboy Slim play on Brighton Beach. Gill’s dad’s babysitting. He asks us where we’re going.
“Where are you going?”
So we tell him and, just like a proper dad, all he did was ask what must now sound a perfectly reasonable question: “So you’re going to watch him play other people’s records?”
My eldest is nine now. If I even open my mouth, it’s “Whatever…” and a quick Naomi Campbell out of the room.

I learned everything from that laugh. It was the same laugh I heard whenever the relatives came round in their shiny new Mercedes. There was something undeniably funny about these post-war Jewish immigrants swanning around in shiny new Mercedes – Yiddles claiming it back – but my old man just laughed.
“What do I need a new car for?” he’d say, pointing out at the E-reg Triumph 2000 and I was with him on that one. The Triumph was a dream of a car. Built like a tank, leather everywhere and walnut where there wasn’t leather.

It was solid, that car. The sort of car that, you knew if you had a crash the other car would look like a concertina and this? Barely a scratch on the bumper. Solid and honest. Could have been custom built for the old man.

It’s a curious thing. When I think back to my old man and the time we spent together, almost inevitably wheels play a part. They had to really: I was a boy and he was a driver. That’s what he did for a living, drove. Actually he was a cooper, a barrel-maker, but by the time I was there the bottom had fallen out of the wooden barrel market.

During the holidays I’d go down to the yard – Novick’s Cooperage in Rhodeswell Road, Bow, and smell the air, rich with damp sawdust. There’s still nothing quite like the smell of damp sawdust. The big lorry would be in the yard, ready to load with barrels, ready to take somewhere. There were stories, really good stories, but I never really got to grips with it all. I knew a bit of post-War stuff with gangsters went on – there were shortages, things need to get moved around and who knew what was inside a barrel?

But now it was all kosher. Mostly kosher. I remember one evening going off with him – and going off in the evening was an odd one in itself – down to the yard. The lorry was full, loaded to the gills, and we drove it down through the night, down to the car park opposite Twickenham rugby ground. This was off-the-scale odd. There was another lorry in the car park and we took the barrels off our lorry and loaded them on this other lorry. Tied it all up, did the tarpaulin thing, got back in our lorry and drove home.

I’m sure it was a cracking story and maybe if I was a different bloke I’d add some colour involving shadowy blokes and brown paper bags, but the truth is I was just a young kid, thrilled to be out with my old man, and excited because somewhere inside I knew this was bad stuff. And thrilled that he’d taken me with him to do this bad thing.

Mostly though I’d go off with him and it would be routine delivery stuff. We’d load the lorry up and take some barrels to another yard, or maybe go to another yard, pick some barrels up and bring them home. Routine. Routines and small memories that bring a smile to the heart. Breaking down in the McVitie’s factory off the Hendon Way and spending the night smelling this biscuit smell…

The car and the lorry seemed to be the place where me and my old man met. The house was my mother’s territory, the car his. I can feel it the same now with my kids. I have my best chats with them when we’re alone in the car. And you’d have to be very unkind to point out that they’re captive, belted in and door locks controlled by me.

The warm memories are all tied up in that lorry, like the barrels in the tarpaulin. Warm memories and one really crap memory. It’s funny how crap things stick in your head, things that make you cringe. We were driving down to Bournemouth to visit my sister’s prospective in-laws. It was late, Friday night after work, and my old man was, I thought, driving too slowly. So, like a stupid young know-the-price of-everything-but-the-value-of-nothing twat, I started taking the piss. Telling him that he was too old, that I could do better. What a twat. He didn’t say anything, let alone laugh the laugh. He just pulled over, got out and let me drive the rest of the way. I got us there, and yes faster than him, but still. What a twat.

The last thing he did involved a car. I’ve never thought about this before and maybe there’s a connection. The old Triumph 2000 finally bit the dust. After all the years of laughing at the aspirational relatives with their Mercs and their Saabs he finally decided to replace the old girl.

I’d smashed it up going down Camden Road too fast. It had a kickdown like a mule and I had some mates in the car and… you know. I slammed the brakes on and just about stopped her but she slid into the car in front. Killed it I think. The old Triumph had barely a scratch on the bumper. I was terrified of going home. It wasn’t that I thought he’d kill me, it was worse than that. It was… the disappointment. Sorry dad. I will sort it out one day. I don’t know why but he decided to give the Triumph to me. Maybe he thought it would make a man of me.

I’ve no idea why, it’s not a question I ever had time to ask, but he bought a shit-for-brains Fiat. Idiot tin bullshit car. Idiot tin light blue bastard bullshit car. He died before it ever arrived. It sat in the garage, unused and unloved. Every so often my mother would look at it and cry. One day when she was out I sold it. No one ever asked.

In the name of the child

2008-08-14T03:53:00.000-07:00

I'm writing the introduction to a new book, and looked back at the last one I wrote - and got kinda nostalgic. It was done pre-Blog so there's no record of it here. Or at least there wasn't...

Before you start reading this book or this introduction or anything, do this for a minute. Close your eyes. Imagine your children. Imagine them growing up. Imagine them getting a star at school for tidying their desk and them being thrilled about it. Imagine their friend having a birthday party and them coming home with a party bag. Imagine them losing a tooth, the bright red gappy smile and their excitement because they know that this means that the tooth fairy will come. Imagine them growing up. Now imagine all that happening somewhere else. And you’re not there. You know it’s all happening but you’re not there. You can’t see them and they can’t see you. They’ve just fallen over and banged their head. You’re not there. They’re crying. You’re not there. They’ve just come home from school and they’re really upset because they’ve just had an argument with their best friend. You’re not there. It’s bath-time. You’re not there. Story-time. You’re not there. Bedtime. You’re not there. You know it’s all happening but you’re not there. It’s not nice, is it?

When I agreed to help Dave with this book I didn’t really know what to expect. I didn’t know Dave, I didn’t know his situation. I’d heard about Fathers4Justice in the way that you hear about things on the news that have got nothing to do with you: it was interesting, but didn’t make much of an impact on me because, well, because it wasn’t happening to me. I thought these blokes who dressed up as superheroes were quite funny and quite smart and thought that, as a peaceful protest it was just about perfect: it made people notice, it made people smile and no one got hurt. I also wondered what on earth it must feel like to be deprived of your kids. As the father of two young girls, I tried to think what on earth it must be like but I couldn’t really get near it. Then something else would come on the news and I’d think about that.

When I was approached to help Dave with this book there might have been a small part of me that thought “Hmmm, no smoke without fire”. I can’t deny that. I’ve got friends who’ve split up and none of them have ended up hanging off a crane in fancy dress. They argue, they bitch, they get angry, they cry. What they don’t do is dress up like Spiderman or Batman.

You can’t help but think something like “that’s not what happens to normal people. Life doesn’t work like that.” And so I agreed to take on the book. If I’m completely truthful, I thought, in a detached kind of way, it would be interesting. After all, what Dave had gone through and what he was still going through was completely alien to me. Our situations couldn’t be more different. I’ve been happily married for over 10 years. My wife and I both work from home and we share the household and parental stuff down the middle. I’ve got two lovely girls who I take to school every other day and who I pick up from school every other day. I take them to their friends’ houses, pick them up, moan about being nothing but a taxi driver… the whole parent thing. The very idea that I couldn’t see them whenever I wanted was so alien that I couldn’t even conceive of what it must be like. Every time I tried to imagine, I’d hear the kids screaming or fighting or wanting something.

So we started working on the book together, getting to know each other, checking each other out. Apart from growing to like him as a person, my respect for him has grown immeasurably. The pressures that Dave found himself under would have crushed most people. The emotional trauma, the drain would have made most people either behave irrationally or, more probably, badly. Dave has done neither. (Some people might think that dressing up as Spiderman and risking his life off a crane is irrational: I don’t. I think it’s desperate and sad and shocking, but it’s not irrational. It’s what someone does when they’ve run out of choices, when there’s nowhere else to go.

This is Dave’s story. Every story in life has more than one side and, no doubt, you could tell this story more than one way. But this is Dave’s story. It’s his story told in his words and maybe it’s true that my sympathies are with Dave. We’re both men and both know what that feels like. We’re both fathers and both know what that feels like. But it was more than that. It’s more than Dave’s story. It’s Lauren’s story because whenever adults argue, it’s the kids who pick up the tab. The parents hammer away at each other, but it’s the kid who gets the bruise. And that – to use one of my kid’s favourite phrases – is just so badly unfair. Lauren gets the bruise because she’s not allowed to see her dad. Her dad gets the bruise because he’s not allowed to see his daughter. Dave’s story is also the story of a personal journey. I know from personal experience that having a child is like turbo-charging the journey from youth to adulthood, from kid to grown-up. When you have a child, everything changes. It’s a new life – for them and for you. You become a different person. The things that used to be important aren’t so important anymore. The things you used to be concerned about… None of it means anything anymore. What’s important is this baby you’ve created. New parents – all new parents - go from being selfish to being selfless, from irresponsible to responsible. We all go through this. To have the catalyst for this change – your child – taken away so quickly… I can’t even think how horrible that must be. When I agreed to help Dave with this book I didn’t really know what to expect. What I know now is this – and it’s quite simple: He’s a decent, human being who just wants to be with his child. Just like me. And very probably just like you.

Maxwell would be so proud

2008-07-06T15:08:00.000-07:00

Are the funniest little things. Molly and Moby - it's a curious thing but they warm my soul like little else. And Poppy has come good in the best, most heart warming way. (And while we're on Poppy. Apologies to Ireland. Young DJP has put me right - there is a RSPCA network in Ireland. So there).

Waking up in the morning (it's an old habit) and coming downstairs. Open the back and Poppy goes out onto the back deck and just waits. Then I go to the office and let the pups out. A quick kiss and bit of my toes and they fly out through the kitchen and out the back door to where Poppy is waiting. They attack. She smiles and sits there, letting them crawl all over her before... she rolls over and start suckling. It's the most lovely way to start the day.

What a whirl

2008-07-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Blimey. That’s been a few weeks, months even. All the college stuff – the assessments, the marking, the exam boards. Then there’s been the house stuff – a stress that’s somewhere west of stress, something that’s still going on. Every day, another thought, another idea. Then there’s been curveballs like crashing the car – that was a real joy. I kinda figure that one session with Dr Janni and her rubber tube was a small price to pay. (Don’t know if I should write about Dr Janni here. Do people really want to know the truth about an ayervedic enema? I don’t know. It’s not like I’m going to post a picture…)

The college stuff, it’s all an emotional curve to love and learn from. It’s such a strange feeling. These people. What are they? Friends? Students in a long line of more students? Or (as my friend is so fond of saying) merely food? For me I’ve got to say that it’s largely the former – friends. I can’t really look at it any other way and I hope that if I ever stop seeing them as friends, that’ll be the day I find a new job.

It’s interesting how some of the students give you a real thrill, a warm glow. Some you just want to kick in the nose but we’ll let that go. Let’s stay with the family motto and look at the good. The gang that I saw last night are, generally, the reason for doing the job. Good people, bright and optimistc. The spirit of positivism. I like talking to Greg, he reminds me of the good bits of me (albeit the me of a few years older than him). Chancing the chance, smiling through it in the knowledge that a smile and a positive outlook is enough to get through. Genuinely it warms the soul when he tells of blagging an interview with Alex Turner. I used to do that. It’s funny.

I’m kinda through that whole “they’re going to find me out” business and happy in my role. Listen, if Lee can write to me and thank me for all I taught him, life is good.
Now it’s the summer and time to crack on. What to do first? This play I’m supposed to write? Or plough on with the book? I do know that Gaigin Strategies is going to be the one, but when shall I do it?

Back to School

2008-03-29T11:32:00.000-07:00

So now we’re just coming up to the end of the Easter break and, it’s a curious thing, but I’m kinda looking forward to going back. College ended in an odd way. I’m not going to go into in here because, well this is because. Sometime when writing this Blog thing it’s easy to forget that it’s out there in the stratosphere and really it’s sometimes it’s probably best not to put out there because – and here’s the odd thing – people might read it. Yesterday I was speaking to My Mate Steve (OK - we were e-mailing each other: no one actually speaks anymore) and he said “Loving your blog” and it caught me cold. He read it? Why?? And when? I don’t know. When do people get time to do things like read Blogs? It’s not like there’s not enough in life to be getting on with.
Anyway, I was thinking. The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. It’s like 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 other selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate life. You'd have thought The Lord would have foreseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You start off with 24 hours for yourself, but then you're expected to take on board a wife, kids, a job, the dogs, the cats, the kids' friends, the friends’ kids, a mortgage, the garden, a new kitchen – all in that same 24 hours. Who would it hurt if we were given, say, an additional three hours a day with each extra child? OK, so there’d be a bit of re-structuring to do, but I’d be a fantastic parent, do all sorts of things with the kids. I’d go to that evening life drawing class in Bond Street. I would be that person. I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. If I ever get the time.  
Anyway, it made me think again about what I write here - the consequence of which is that I’m not going to write anything about college because it might assume a level of over-familiarity that is inappropriate.
But it was a funny old last week. I put on a “disco” – a funny old word, but tell me a better one – for the students. Took in the Laughton Lodge PA, did as much as I could do. Organised a kind of Stick It On evening. Was the impetus for the whole thing. And for what? Frankly by the time it came to it, I’d rather have stayed at home and watched paint dry, but a commitment is a commitment. Hey, they’re only kids.   
So anyway. I’ve got this idea. I’m going to create a journalist character called Frank Lee and Frank’s going to be an argumentative, polemic kind of guy. I’ll do a column and I’m going to call it Frank Lee Speaking. You can go mad sitting in a room all day by yourself.

Poppy's Story

2008-03-28T04:31:00.000-07:00

Maybe this is her story. She lived in a happy family somewhere in Ireland, a happy family dog who lived with a mummy, a daddy and maybe a couple of kids. She’d sit by the fire as the kids played and watched Tracey Beaker and she was happy. Then, one day, she went out for a run and got distracted by something. What? I don’t know. But something caught her eye and she was off. She ran and ran and somehow – why? I don’t know – she got lost. She panicked and started running but the more she ran, the more she got lost and then she just ran. Blindly, she just ran. The kids at home were crying. Their parents were out looking. It got dark. No one knew where any of the others were but they were all running, all looking, all losing their way. Then… she ran across a road. It was a quiet country road, no lights, just dark. As she ran across the road, a car came round the corner. Bang! It hit her, caught the back of her and hit her back leg. It flipped her round and she fell on the side of the road, felt dizzy and… passed out.
The next day she was found, battered, beaten and bruised – and very nearly finished – by a local dog walker. She was miles from where she’d started and the walker didn’t recognise her. But he was a kindly soul and took her in. He picked her up gently and put her in his Land Rover. And took her to the police station.
The police didn’t know what to do with her. This being Ireland there was no RSPCA, no animal rescue organisation – they don’t go for that sort of thing there. There’s only local people who do nice things. So the police got in touch with this local person who did nice things and, to cut a long story short, he came to the police station, collected her and took her to a contact he had at the RSPCA in Brighton – a long way from home.
So that’s where she ended up – the RSPCA in Brighton. She came round and found she couldn’t move her back leg. She looked around, hoping to see her kids, her mummy and daddy and instead saw only a cage. And she was in it. What had happened?
“Her operation is tomorrow” she heard a woman called Jenny say.
What was that all about?

The iPack - Desert Island Discs

2008-03-05T05:59:00.001-08:00

DESERT ISLAND DISCS

I always wanted to do Desert Island Discs. Don't know if they often ask slack bastard lecturers on it though - and I dare say there'd be a queue if they did.
This is the strict 'ten songs in the key of life' format. There are a few crossovers with the "Wake" selection, but so what>

XJ

Nathan Jones - The Supremes

The first record I ever bought. Immigration – West Indian immigration unlike immigrants like us who weren’t immigrants at all what are you suggesting? – was still something that had yet to hit. Sure, there were black people around but black popular culture was still relatively underground. Now, it is the universal language of pop, has been for years, but back then, it was still small scale.
There was a shop on Stamford Hill Broadway, a record shop called Rhythm and Blues, it was like something out of Absolute Beginners. In between the local Woolworths and (naturally) the salt beef bar, Rhythm and Blues was really from somewhere else. I can’t remember what made me first go in there but I remember what it was like: full of smoke, full of black geezers in hats – pork pie hats. God knows where they came from. Never saw them outside the shop. Anyway, you opened the door and, really, it was like walking into another world and the music, the music was intoxicating. It was probably ska – no idea back then - but it sounded fantastic. I started going in there Saturday mornings, never talking to anyone, just lurking around.
Eventually I bought a record – this one. It’s a great tune, still thrills and I kinda like the fact that this is the first record I bought.
The first record I bought for someone else was “The Pushbike Song” by The Mixtures. It was for Jane Fisher. I gave her the record and then asked her out.

Virginia Plain - Roxy Music

I once interviewed Gary Kemp of Spandaus and we were talking about formative influences. We came to the conclusion that if you were our age – and we were basically the same age – you were either formed by seeing Roxy Music do Virginia Plain on Top Of The Pops or seeing David Bowie do Starman on the same show. He chose Bowie, I chose Roxy. Maybe I knew I was never going wherever Bowie was at, but Roxy… that looked interesting. Better song, too
The idea that the death of Top Of The Pops was the death of popular culture as a meeting point is something I’ve banged on about before. Top Of The Pops was, for kids now, a curious phenomenon. The only place where a pop culture could make a splash, the only place the only time. It’s inconceivable now. There are so many outlets – so many places where you can access new stuff it seems strange that there was once one place – and one time a week – where that might happen. Back in the day, someone like Ferry could take a concept and build it and build up to that moment when it would work: that Top Of The Pops performance. He knew – Bowie knew – that if he did it right then, all the kids would be talking about it in the playground the next day. One performance – three minutes on the telly – that’s all you’d need. There’s nothing like that now.

It’s a funny thing, looking back like that. I wonder whether kids will ever have that sense of wonderment again. Looking at the telly and thinking “What the…?”

King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown - Augustus Pablo

Perfect. (see "Wake" write up for the words)

Fools Gold - The Stone Roses

The record that made me realise I’d lost touch with something. I was standing in the kitchen with Oaksie in the flat we’d bought in Harlesden, just chatting. He’d probably just come back from the bookies or something. We were just hanging out and this came on the telly and, again, it was like out of nowhere. I knew nothing of Madchester, Spike Island or anything. Knew nothing (outside of what the newspapers had told me) about acid house or rave culture. And suddenly I felt very, very old. I had a good job at The Independent, a good stereo, car, a self-cleaning oven, the whole deal. I could have stayed. If I’d have stayed I’d probably be quite successful in newspaperland. Jim, Tris, Giles did… why not? But I don’t know. I heard this song and somehow just knew that there were still adventures to be had. And so I gave my notice in and turned upside down. That it sounds so modern and exactly the same as Can (Soon Over Babaluma era) just makes me smile in that “I knew I was right” way.

Adagio - Samuel Barber

We got married to this. Anything else you need to know?

Into My Arms - Nick Cave

I think if I wrote this… I’d have to kill myself. How could I ever do anything better? Everything would be an anticlimax. It is completely lovely, completely meltingly beautiful.
“I don't believe in an interventionist God,
But I know, darling, that you do,
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him,
Not to intervene when it came to you,
Not to touch a hair on your head,
To leave you as you are,
And if He felt He had to direct you,
Then direct you into my arms”

Dry The Rain - The Beta Band

Again, a lovely perfect song. It’s not a surprise that the bloke who wrote this went mad afterwards. It’s got that air of fragility, of fractured, shuffling almost-ness. And it reminds me of course of Gill and the early days.

Lost In Music - Sister Sledge

The Laughton era. I’d always fancied doing a bit of the DJ thing and Laughton Lodge gave me the opportunity to do that. For some strange reason when I appeared here the word got around that I was a wires and sound man. I mean, sounds I like but having a few CDs is a long way from being a sound engineer. But that’s what I became. I bought the equipment, controlled the sound desk at shows, kinda owned that area. One of the happy by-products was that I also became the DJ. They’d never really had anyone here before willing to take on this role and I didn’t have to be asked twice. Of course, it was more Michael Jackson than John Digweed but what do you expect from a bunch of large-lobed middle class middle aged types?
The music that did prove irresistible for everyone was Chic (in all its forms). Whatever Rodgers and Edwards did, it was curiously magical and just has that knack of making people happy. And it’s lovely to see.

Shhh/Peaceful - Miles Davis

If there was a fire and I had just enough time to grab one record, it would be In A Silent Way (the six CD Complete Sessions, of course, because why not?) My favourite Miles group doing what they do in the most sublime way. No one dominates, no one bullies anyone else. It’s not ground breaking in that “Blimey, that’s fantastic. Is it finished yet?” way. McLaughlin’s playing is sublime.

6 – Labradford

A song about love and intimacy, something to drift off to that’s warm and soulful and full of heart. Lie in the dark and listen to this: it could go on forever and it still wouldn’t seem too long. I know nothing of Labradford except that they're Canadian and they curate something called The Festival Of Drifting - which seems about right.

A book? I don’t know. There are so many books I haven’t read that I want to read… it seems churlish to choose.
Maybe The Complete Works of Philip Roth (and if such a thing doesn’t exist… well, it should).

The iPack - Songs For My Wake

2008-03-01T09:42:00.000-08:00

The iPack is, as you know, a Boy's Own Thing. A group of us - there were six but now there are four - and each month one of us bequeaths a title. We all go then go off a interpret a CD that, to us, reflects that title. And, if we like, we write a little explanation. And then maybe post them on our Blogs. So...

SONGS FOR MY WAKE – SAPPHIRE BULLETS OF PURE LOVE

Songs For My Wake – a trip through a life tragically cut short by that freak accident involving a cheese grater, a Roman Candle and a small black and white cat called Bonnie.

VIRGINIA PLAIN - ROXY MUSIC
I once interviewed Gary Kemp of Spandaus and we were talking about formative influences. We came to the conclusion that if you were our age – and we were basically the same age – you were either formed by seeing Roxy Music do Virginia Plain on Top Of The Pops or seeing David Bowie do Starman on the same show. He chose Bowie, I chose Roxy. Maybe I knew I was never going wherever Bowie was at, but Roxy… that looked interesting. Better song, too
The idea that the death of Top Of The Pops was the death of popular culture as a meeting point is something I’ve banged on about before. Top Of The Pops was, for kids now, a curious phenomenon. The only place where a pop culture could make a splash, the only place the only time. It’s inconceivable now. There are so many outlets – so many places where you can access new stuff it seems strange that there was once one place – and one time a week – where that might happen. Back in the day, someone like Ferry could take a concept and build it and build up to that moment when it would work: that Top Of The Pops performance. He knew – Bowie knew – that if he did it right then, all the kids would be talking about it in the playground the next day. One performance – three minutes on the telly – that’s all you’d need. There’s nothing like that now.
It’s a funny thing, looking back like that. I wonder whether kids will ever have that sense of wonderment again. Looking at the telly and thinking “What the…?”

KING TUBBY MEETS ROCKERS UPTOWN - AUGUSTUS PABLO
So there was a bloke at school called something like Anthony Skolopozinsky. Something like that. Everyone called him Scollop. He was OK, a bit of an oddball, but OK. I can’t remember how or why, but I went to his flat. A dull council block in Hackney. His room though… boxes and boxes of reggae 12”s. I wish I could remember the story of how this 13-year-old Jewish boy from a dull council block in Hackney turned from a bit of an oddball to Jah Scollop but… I spent the day there being educated. And went back. I think that was the first time I heard this tune. Immediately I recognised it for what it was: the finest tune ever recorded. Don’t ask why or nothing. It just is.

FREEDOM IS FRIGHTENING – STOMU YAMASH’TA -
This boy called Geoffrey Myers joined school. He was a bit different. I can’t remember exactly why, but he was odd. Got thrown out of school not long after he arrived. I can’t remember exactly why. He was blonde – and there weren’t many blonde kids at school (it’s not a popular Jew thing) so… maybe that was it. Anyway. I hooked up with Geoffrey Myers and he took me to the Roundhouse. I’d never been before. I remember walking in and it was like a wonderland. There was this long-haired bloke who’d proclaimed himself Jesus and put on sandwich boards telling us all that we were saved. Strange characters. Weird scenes inside the goldmine as someone else once said. We went upstairs and sat down with the hard core hippies, smoked their dope, felt sick. I remember seeing all sort of bands during this period – Curved Air, Alex Harvey, the mind-blowing Hawkwind, but the thing that stands out was Stomu Yamash’ta’s Red Buddha Theatre. A theatrical troupe prancing around in a traditional manner and behind them this mad percussion-based band. It’s art, innit.

SAPPHIRE BULLETS OF PURE LOVE - MAHAVISHNU ORCHESTRA
There was a period in the early to mid Seventies where it all went a bit prog. Look, I’m a middle class white boy: it happens. I saw Yes doing Topographic Oceans, Genesis doing Lamb Lies Down On Broadway and all manner of nonsense. The straw snapped when I was taken to see ELP at Wembley and saw nothing except one of the drummer’s arms. Enough. So I holed up and took refuge in what was called jazz fusion. Weather Report, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, Miles. I had a particular soft spot for John McLaughlin and his Mahavishnus. Live, it was head-spinning. Mad and very funny. A famous music writer once wrote “Why judge a guitar solo by the speed with which it is played? You wouldn’t judge a novel by the speed with which it is written”. I couldn’t disagree more. The Mahavishnus. Practically perfect in every way.

MOONSHAKE - CAN
So the mid-Seventies. There was the art pop stuff, but that had gone off when Eno left Roxy (Sorry Martino – but it’s true). There was the Roundhouse hippie thing and the Scollop inspired reggae. And there was what was called KrautRock. Can were mesmeric (see A Song For Europe compilation) throwing rhythmic shapes around like aural graffiti, hitting a groove and rocking it, trance-style. One of these compilations I’ll sneak on something from Soon Over Babaluma. Can even had a hit single.

MASCULINE GENDER - RANKING TREVOR
Much of the Seventies was characterised by sitting in my room and listening to John Peel. As Tom Jones once said, it’s not unusual. You heard all manner of strange stuff there – Ivor Cutler, Sir Henry at Rawlinson End, and bags of reggae. Ranking Trevor was mid to late Seventies and has always stuck in my head. Maybe the name stood out – Trevor never seemed much of a name for a Rasta dude, but it’s a fantastic tune.

WHAT IN THEWORLD – DAVID BOWIE
Listening to John Peel and getting stoned. “Jeremy. You look dopey” as my mother once said.

ONE CHORD WONDERS - THE ADVERTS
Punk was very funny, and after all that really quite serious mid-Seventies stuff (both musical and life) an astonishing breath of fresh air. I kinda knew it was going to come – I’d seen Patti Smith and The Stranglers at The Roundhouse, but not sadly The Ramones – but still. The thing with punk is that I was close, but not that close. The same time Johnny was doing his audition at Sex… There was a second hand clothes shop on The Kings Road called Eat Your Heart Out which sold very fine old zoot suits a few doors away from Sex, just round the bend. I used to hang out in this shop, happily ignored by everyone in there – they were far cooler than a boy like me – blissfully unaware that about 10 yards away there was a social revolution being hatched. Frankly, I was more interested in whether the jacket had six buttons or four. Similarly the punk band I latched onto was The Adverts - I went to see them Saturday nights at The Nashville – possibly the least cool of all the early punk bands. One question: did the Clash have Gaye Advert?

REPITITION - THE FALL
Was there ever a band like The Fall? No. Never was, never will be. This was the song that convinced me of their greatness. The B-side of their first single. Frankly startling. The Fall were the reason (along with Joy Division and the side-fact that it was the only college in the western hemisphere to offer me a place) that I went to Manchester Poly. How many Fall gigs did I see there? What can I tell you? I got a third. I once dragged Sarah and Catherine to a Fall gig at Manchester University. I don’t think either spoke to me for weeks. Obviously they were so grateful they didn’t know quite what to say. It reminds me of the time I finally got to take out Perry Burns. I was maybe 15. I’d been dancing round her maypole for ages and she finally relented. In time honoured teen boy fashion, I decided to take her to the cinema. (Listen, we’ve all seen the popcorn scene in Diner). Anyway I thought I’d show her how sophisticated I was and took her to see Last Tango In Paris… That went down well. (Which is more than you can say for her…)

DO THE DU - A CERTAIN RATIO
Manchester was supposed to be all about Joy Division and in a way it was. I saw them there more than a few times and, seeing Ian Curtis on stage, it wasn’t a total surprise that he topped himself. But really our band was ACR. They were locals and we got to know them a fair bit. Mick better than me. He played football in the same team as them. They had this club, The Beach Club, which was a house in a street. The lounge was the stage, a bedroom upstairs the bar. We saw U2 at the Beach on their first UK tour, helped them load their gear at the end of the night. ACR were properly one of us. Never did understand why they didn’t hit big.

NEVER UNDERSTAND - THE JESUS AND MARY CHAIN
This kinda summed up my feelings about Eighties music. It largely passed me by. It looked good and everything was seemingly in the right place, but there was no… middle. No soul. All that faux jazz, it left me cold. JAMC were the perfect antidote to all that perfect smooth-edged pop where production values were more important than heart. They had better tunes too, though nobody ever cared about that.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT - JOHN COLTRANE
All through this journey, rhythm took precedent over melody. The grooves of Can. The heartbeat of dub. Looking back, I wish I had been more of a disco head – it sounds more fun than anything else. But I wasn’t. I can’t remember a single Eighties band I cared about. The Smiths I only ever cared for after the event. There was the odd rap tune I locked into, but I didn’t dig the posturing. Reggae moved into syrupy lovers and shouty dancehall. So I took refuge in jazz. Jazz had all the ingredients that the Eighties lacked. I was going to pick Eric Dolphy’s Out To Lunch, undeniably the last great acoustic jazz album, but in the end plumped for this. You can’t argue with it. And at a wake… it’d be perfect.

PURE (ENERGY) – GTO
Then I found myself in Tokyo. That’s a story for another CD but consider this. We walked into the Maharajah Palace, and were immediately dubbed ‘The Two Fat Yuppies’. That went down well. I walked into the lounge, a louche parlour where bodies were sprawled all over the place. I asked a young hunk, a Canadian called Bradley, what the story that night was. “We’ll go to Gold and take some acid”. I’d never had any acid. Then again, I’d never been to Gold before. Or Tokyo come to that. So I went. I walked in, and took some acid that Bradley gave me. The whole place was full of dry ice and this was playing. Hearing it now, it sounds kinda mild, but at the time… it took my heart. And the next three years.

MOVIN ON UP - PRIMAL SCREAM
Now Kevin was a boy. He lived at one end of the corridor upstairs, I lived at the other end. You walked down the hallways and heard endless variations of the same techno tune and you bounced along till you got in your room and put on your own variation of that same tune. Kevin had a knack of getting hold of CDs as opposed to DJ mix tapes. He had his own method of shopping. And one day came back with this. The whole house listened.

TAIYO – PRANA
Return to the Source. It was the soundtrack to the early-mid Nineties. Side one was up, side two was drifty. Side two was Elly’s sleeptime music. Like Pavlov’s Dog, it sent her where she needed to go. My mate Tsyoshi was Prana and the mover behind Return. Years lost. Happily.

ADAGIO FOR STRINGS - SAMUEL BARBER
We got married to this.

DEAD MELODIES – BECK
Six years as a music critic. How lovely. Every day Postman Pat would appear with a bang of jiffys, and every day my throbbing pile of CDs to sell grew and grew. We got a good few family holidays every year out of those CDs. The curious thing was just how many CDs were released, seeing the way it all worked. How long a new band got, how they were marketed, the numbers that made it viable. Every so often there was someone who did it their way – that made it worthwhile. A letter was published in the Express saying how this person had never heard of Jah Wobble and thanks to the music page, they now had. Maybe that would have been more pleasing had I not been Letters page editor as well as Music critic.

GOOD SONG – BLUR
The best band of the Nineties, the band that defined an era, Blur were as sharp as a tack and slippery as a slick. Beck, Blur and the Scream made that music critic job worthwhile.

DOOM'S NIGHT - AZZIDO DA BASS
So then it was Sorted – the mudma years. It was kinda invigorating working for a youth title with a load of up for it Twentysomethings. Tiring but invigorating.

The Great British Novel

2008-02-27T08:16:00.001-08:00

I’ve got this great idea for a story. Well, OK. It was given to me – well, the bones of it anyway – but that doesn’t matter. It’s a great story. A man, a student, decides to pay his way through college by being a sperm donor. So he gives his sperm and gives his sperm. It’s all good. This bloke – we’ll call him Will – is studying to be a doctor. He’s tall and blond, strong and athletic. The sort of bloke who your mother would want you to marry. This guy offers his sperm and it goes to the top of the sperm charts. He’s the perfect physical speciment.
But he’s got a secret, a secret even he doesn’t know. He’s (and here we’ve got to work on it a bit) got a madness, a psychopathic madness – a congenital psychopathic madness.
Anyway, many years – well, maybe 10 – down the line, Susan is having trouble with her daughter Molly. Molly is very bright but she’s got an evil streak, a mean side to her that’s a little bit disturbed. And Susan doesn’t know what to do. She can’t ask her partner because she doesn’t have a partner. She never has had. A few lost loves, the usual catalogue of losers and chancers, nearlys and almosts. When Susan was 31, she met the man of her life, the Big Love. But – and we don’t need to go into the detail here – he was a twat, a lying, cheating, no-good dirty low-down hound dog. He wrecked her life and she swore – she absolutely swore – never to fall for a man again. She’d have a baby.
Anyway, back to the main story. Susan tries all sorts of things and, in the end, she goes to a parent-child therapy class because – obviously, she thinks that it’s all her fault. While she’s there, she meets another woman, like her the mother of a 10 year old girl. They start talking.
Can you guess where this one’s going? OK, let’s spell it out a bit more.
This other woman, her story is remarkably similar to Susans. She’s a lesbian but, that apart, it’s the same. Lost love, disappointment, betrayal. Refuge sought in a baby.

Now you know what’s going to happen. They start talking, realise that they both got pregnant after going to sperm donor centre in Gradham. Now then – you and I know the next question: how many other babies were born between 1980 and 1985?

So OK. That’s the pitch. It’s like a cross between The Boys From Brazil and maybe The Midwitch Cuckoos.

How many are there? Does something happen to them to ‘kick-start’ the inner madness that propels them? Shall we turn them into an army?

The Perfect Job

2008-02-27T08:15:00.000-08:00

Today though I’ve been in beautiful downtown Newport. Not even Newport in south Wales where, for sure, there’d be plenty of other room services on offer. No, this was Newport in Essex, a town guaranteed to garner the response “There’s a Newport in Essex?” The NCTJ has its headquarters in Newport, Essex. What does it tell us about the NCTJ that it has its HQ in Newport, Essex? Maybe this: that it operates in the modern world, that it doesn’t have to be in thrall to the London tyranny of see and be seen, that it is confident and independent, that it is so sure of its position it doesn’t have to spend squilions on a flash address to impress. Maybe that’s what it says. To be honest, being a shallow kinda guy, I’d have preferred it if they’d had an office in Soho and I could have sat and been really interested for maybe five hours and then had a bit of a mooch. As it was I went to Newport in Essex and was really interested for maybe five hours and also spent six hours on various trains. “Change at Tottenham Hale”. What the blimmin is that all about?

Don’t know why, but I’ve been listening to the first Siouxsie & The Banshees album. Fantastically nihilistic - “I’m sorry that I hit you but my string snapped, I’m sorry I disturbed your cat nap. But whilst finishing the chores I asked myself ‘What for?’ then something snapped I had a relapse…” - which always ticks a certain box, “Should I throw something at the neighbours, expose myself to strangers…” If I could guarantee they wouldn’t laugh, it might be something to consider.

My job. It’s a curious thing. Sometimes I think it’s great. Give something back, encourage the next generation, after all those cynical journo years of take, take, take.

You didn’t buy any of that? No, probably not. OK, how’s this. A full time job where you get Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday morning and Friday morning off. A full time job where – when you go in – you talk about who is the best drummer in the world, where you pretend to be interested in sport…
“Are you going to the Cup final?” they say to me.
What am I going to say? That actually what I really want to do is the gardening? What’s wrong with that? Do the gardening in the afternoon and listen to it on the radio and then – if it sounded OK – watch the highlights at night. What’s wrong with that? I’d do that, given the choice.

I don’t know. It’s like some great celestial gag. After all those years of hating bloody journalists and what they did and where they worked… I get the perfect job that allows me the time to write a book, that allows me the time and space – and money – not to have to try and be a journalist and what is that dream job? Training bloody journalists. Frankly, it’s the sort of thing I’d do if I were God. Jed Almighty, that sort of thing.

It’s all too much

2008-02-27T08:12:00.000-08:00

It’s all too much. It’s two weeks since Maxwell went away and he still hasn’t come back. Every morning I wake – it’s a habit, I know – and every morning I look out at the area I euphemistically call Primrose Hill (we used to live in Primrose Hill) and every morning I think about Maxwell and think about the good life he had and the journey from Battersea and the rich tapestry and what it’s like and… and… and it’s all for nothing. Bloody dog’s not there.

It’s been a year for deaths and I hope this is the end. It started with Fluffy. Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ve not got a great deal of experience with rabbits and I don’t know that much, but one thing I do know is this: Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ll tell you a story about Fluffy that will show you just how great a bunny Fluffy was.

This is the story. The story is this. When we got Fluffy we decided that he was “a house rabbit”. No one asked Fluffy, no one told us; we just decided. We’d got Fluffy for LouLou for Christmas 2005, six weeks old, this little bundle of grey fluff. A lop-eared lionhead. We came up smart arse adult names like Starsky or Stew or, I don’t know, but LouLou had that clarity of childhood. LouLou took one look at him and called him ‘Fluffy’. It was, of course, perfect. Anyway, Fluffy lived in LouLou’s room – or more precisely under her bed. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement for everyone. Fluff hid under the bed, made a mess, poo’d everywhere. Ate all the wires and nearly killed me when I inadvertently touched an exposed end. He quickly became a nuisance, something that we never saw but had to clear up after.

We decided that Fluffy the house rabbit had to spread his wings. We decided to put him in the garden during the day and bring him in at night. I was, I’ll readily admit, concerned. The seagulls were huge and predatory, aggressive and not to be messed with. Fluffy was small, furry, not hugely streetwise and might easily have been seen not a Fluffy the Bunny, but as Sunday lunch. (Well, makes a change from bin liners). But we figured that there were sufficient bushes and places to hide… let him take his chances.

Later that first day, I remember looking out of the window and seeing Sammy The Seagull standing about a foot away from Fluffy. About another foot away, maybe in between them, was Fluffy’s food bowl. Fluffy and Sammy were looking straight at each other. Fluffy was standing on his back legs, his little arms raised high, like a smaller, fluffier version of a cartoon boxing kangaroo. Three months old and feisty beyond his years. In front of him, Sammy was looking frankly perplexed. Sammy was prepared to take on most things – seagulls are arch-survivors and not much phases them – but this was something else.
The next time looked out of the window, I saw Fluffy and Sammy standing either side of Fluffy’s food bowl, both of them taking it in turns to have a bite like a polite old couple. Sammy, not a bird to take fools gladly, had also recognised that Fluffy was a great bunny.

We had Nelson come to stay for a week and that was a blessing. Another old, deaf dog getting in the way and wanting to go out and come in and go out and come in and not eat his food but scoff down the cat food. It was amazing how many of Maxwell’s traits Nels had – the little skip before setting off for a walk – but in the end… he went back home and that was that.

Tomorrow we’re off to the RSPCA. Got to really.

Monday

2008-02-18T14:48:00.000-08:00

I think my brain is falling out. I keep making arrangements with people and then.... getting text messages to say "Where were you? I was in your office..." I don't know.
I blame Maxwell. Blimmin dog. Sitting there, taking up so much space in my head, I'm not sure what to do with him. Nelson's over there, sleeping. Tiger's upstairs, sleeping. Rosie is sitting on the railings, looking down the atrium. Princey probably has his head in a vase somewhere and Maxwell's everywhere.
I went trawling the rescue sites before because, well, I think we should get a dog. I like having dogs around and we've got a fantastic place here for dogs. Don't know how long we'll be here but for now? How many people can offer 25 acres? I don't know. People keep saying to me (us) that it's "too soon to get another one". What a very odd thing to say. Too soon to get another one. What's it mean. Another one? Another Maxwell? How could there be another Maxwell? Maxwell was blimmin Maxwell and if we get another dog, he or she will be them.
So anyway, I came across this: "Wendy is a young cross breed who arrived in an appalling state. She is thought to be under a year old and has had a poor start to her young life. Happily, she is now on the mend and is beginning to show some character."
Wendy. It was like stepping back in time 14 years. I don't think I could do that. It would just be too spooky. But she does look like he looked at that age.

Maxwell C Wolf

2008-02-16T15:35:00.000-08:00

“Either he grew to be like you or vice versa. I'm not sure which.” There were many messages we received after the news about Maxwell leaked out, but that was the one I liked the best. Maybe because I think it was true.
Maxwell C Wolf died at 2.50pm on Tuesday February 12. I can’t really say that it was a shock because it wasn’t. I can’t really say that it was unexpected because it wasn’t that either. But it was. It’s so difficult. I don’t even know where to begin.
I think it was Woody Allen who said “Only taxes and death are inevitable” but then Gill got a tax rebate for £1,800 and that makes you think. Then, about a week later, I got a tax rebate. £1,400. And that’s when you start to think “Well, maybe”.
Maxwell was a cross breed, but had about 80% German Shepherd knocking around I there – though not, he says pointedly, the sticky up ears – and for him to be alive and kicking at 14 was, in itself, a cheat. The canine equivalent of the taxman giving me and Gill over three grand.
His back legs had largely gone. We were thinking of getting a carpet to cover up the stone tiles because it took him so long to stand up. He was like Bambi on ice, he tried and tried and dragged his legs behind him until they were in position and then… he could go. He’d still drag himself to meet us at the drive as we arrived – though sometimes we had to slow down so as to allow him time to get to us. Sometimes it took him just too long to get to us but we all kinda waited and played the game. It was an important ritual.
I was worried about the coming summer. I had – have – a sneaky feeling that it’s going to be a hot one and I knew that that would be so uncomfortable for the old man. The whole thing was… a concern.
I knew Maxwell was going to die. I’d been building myself up for it. I knew it was going to happen. I’d known for years. I used to talk to him about it. Late at night when everyone else had gone to bed and he’d be lying at the bottom of he stairs I used to lie down next to him and stroke his head and talk to him, sometimes about him dying. We both knew it was going to happen and yet… I am so fucking angry. Why couldn’t he have hung around a bit longer? What difference would it make? Like Topol said, would it spoil some vast eternal plan?
I can’t be sad. Maxwell had the best life he could have had. From Battersea Dogs Home – and God knows where before that – to the vast acreage of Laughton Lodge via West Hampstead, Primrose Hill, Hampstead Heath and Brighton. Whatever way you look at it, it’s not a bad journey. They’re not just nice, comfortable places, they’re happy places. Places Maxwell made happy.

Fish2

2007-10-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

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!”

Ace Mag

2007-04-13T04:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Maxwell's Big Chance

2007-03-10T14:37:00.001-08:00

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

Men's Group

2007-03-10T14:36:00.001-08:00

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.

Parkway

2007-03-10T14:32:00.001-08:00

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.

Other Room Services

2007-03-10T14:30:00.003-08:00

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.

Mind The Gap

2007-03-10T14:30:00.001-08:00

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.

Farringdon

2007-03-10T14:29:00.002-08:00

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.

Glasgow

2007-03-10T14:29:00.001-08:00

"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.

Reading

2007-03-10T14:28:00.003-08:00

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.

Black Rod

2007-03-10T14:28:00.001-08:00

"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.

Dolly

2007-03-10T14:27:00.001-08:00

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.

Other Room Services

2007-03-10T14:25:00.002-08:00

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.

Reading

2007-03-10T14:25:00.001-08:00

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.

Nancy

2007-03-10T14:24:00.001-08:00

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.

Cardiff

2007-03-10T14:23:00.002-08:00

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?)

Gatwick

2007-03-10T14:23:00.001-08:00

"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

2007-03-10T14:19:00.003-08:00

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.

Old post

2007-03-10T14:19:00.001-08:00

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.

Another old post

2007-03-10T14:18:00.001-08:00

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…

And that was that

2007-03-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

This is, as my friend Steve said, Monk Month. I don’t usually take much notice of Steve – he’s a bit of a drama queen, you know, everything is an event – but he’s right. For the past month it’s been excitement all the way, life in the fastest of all lanes, and now? Time to relax. It’s the same for everyone. All those parties, all that drink and excess. Mince pies, eh? “No, no, just the one box of Quality Street!” Christmas, eh? What a laugh!

Actually, Christmas for a freelance is like Valentine’s Day for the single person. You’re on your Jack Jones while everyone else is out getting down and dirty with Dawn from stationary or whatever, hanging out round the photocopier. I remember it well enough from when I used to work for Lord Newspaper back in the old days. Everyone moans about the office party and that, but kinda enjoy it too. No one invites the freeloading freelancers along. Ideally there’d be party for all the freelancers but that could never work. Who’d organise it? More to the point, who’d pay for the drink?

Me, I got invited to one Christmas office party. One. Even then I couldn’t drink cos I was on antibiotics because of that bastard tooth. So I sat there and watched people do the ‘get merry’ thing. And then I went home.
In truth it was just as well I only went to one party, cos it was only when I left that I found out why they’d invited me.
“John, I wanted to have a word. We’re thinking of new directions in the new year…”
Well, merry Christmas and a happy new year.

Still, that was last year and this is a whole new year. A clean slate. A new start. And I’ve got plans. I’m not entirely sure I should be even talking about all this – there’s a Swedish saying that, loosely translated, says: Don’t shout “Hi” till you’re over the bridge.

I was pondering this when I heard Jane’s voice.
“Come on John. Are you ever going to come out of that shower?”
“Yes, what?” I couldn’t really hear her over the sound of the water. I turned it off and suddenly felt very, very cold. “What was that you said?”
“I said ‘Come on’,” said Jane. “You’ll be late for the train if you don’t get a move on. Lord Newspaper will be expecting you.”
I turned round.
“I thought I left the job,” I said to her. “I thought that I was a writer, that I fed baby seagulls, that we had hamsters, that I was… a writer with toothache.”
“I don’t know about any of that John. It must have been a dream. It must have all been a dream”.

January - always a lovely month

2007-03-06T07:05:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 4 –

It was all going well until the director stood up. “Stop a minute. John, you’ve got blood dripping out of the side of your mouth”.

I’d wanted to make an impression. There’s no point doing these things if you’re not going to make an impression, but frankly this wasn’t what I’d figured on. Still, “Stop a minute. John, you’ve got blood dripping out of the side of your mouth”? They weren’t going to forget me.

I’d been asked to go on one of those “The 100 Greatest…” TV shows about old Christmas presents that you can’t remember. You know, in the past I’ve always said that if I was ever asked I was going to say “No” to stuff like that because, well, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But then they did ask and… I talked to Jane and what can I tell you? Christmas is coming. Nothing was happening. I’ve got this proposal with my agent, a novel where everything that happens you see from the vantage point of a flea, but so far I haven’t had a bite. Nothing.

So anyway. I went to London to record this show, The 100 Greatest Bird Tables or whatever it was, and was staying with a friend. There I was, practicing my spontaneous responses when, without warning, my mouth exploded. I’ll spare you the details, but it was grief. It hurt like a bastard and, worse, one side of my face looked like Louis Armstrong in mid-solo.

Great. A good performance and I could become a regular on “The 100 Greatest…” series. But here I was, stuck in London, mouth howling like an air raid shelter, no dentist. Have you ever tried to get a dentist? It’s a fantastic system. You hand over the deeds to your house, they give you some antibiotics. It’s fine. No, really. You lie there and say “Ah” and sweat and by time the dentist says “OK, you can rinse out now” you could have had a small conservatory built.

I got an appointment OK.

“We’ve got a cancellation. Can you come in at 2.30?” the receptionist said.

“That’s the oldest… Do you say that to everyone?” I said.

“Sorry?” she said. “Can you make that?”

“Relax, you won’t feel a thing”. What am I going to say? My mouth is wedged open, there’s a suction thing gurgling away, cotton wool padding my cheeks and a light blinding my eyes. He took it out. A tooth the size of a gravestone. In one hour, I’m due at the studio and unless I want to do my piece in character as Don Corleone… it’s over.

It’s a grim thing, having a tooth taken out. It’s not something that happens every day. A bloke rips a part of your body out. What are you going to do? Go to The Body Shop and get a new bit? A bit of your body was there… and now it’s not.

He holds it up for me too look at, this bleeding symbol of my decay. It looked how I felt. He asked me if I was OK. Bastard.

Fully intending to make my excuses – it’d be rude just to not turn up and I couldn’t phone cos I couldn’t speak - I made my way down to the studio.

“Nah, nah. It’ll be alright. Looks fine,” said the director. “We’ll change the lighting a bit first”

Great. Now being lit like I’m Herman Munster. Fine. Don’t care. Do it. I am, if nothing else, a professional.

I got out of the club and into the daylight. I figured it would be OK. You emerge from a nightclub in the middle of the afternoon, people expect a bit of blood dripping out of the side of your mouth. The phone went. Jane. I answered it.

“How’s everything?”

“

“The hamster’s escaped. Are you coming home?”

More Charity

2007-03-06T07:04:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 4 – An Intense Experience

“Look. The blue pole goes through the blue loops, the red pole goes through the red loops. Just look at the picture, it’s really straightforward.”

It’s like those phrases you got at school, like “maths can be fun”. Camping. I’m still not sure how it happened, how we ended up in this field cramped inside this family-sized tent, having fun. And it is fun. It is fun. It is fun. (How many times you think I’ll have to say that before it becomes true. There are a few things I’d consider less fun than camping and I’m reasonably sure that if you gave me till, say, next month I’d be able to think of them. Given the choice, I think I’d rather spend a week in Asda. Well, why not? It’s dry, there’s a café there, a toilet… what more?

“All our friends are going camping, c’mon on, it’ll be fun,” they said.
Oh, I don’t think so. Listen, let me get this done and then we’ll go to Greece or something”.

Sometimes I get this mental image. I say some words and, as they’re leaving my mouth, they turn round and give me a kind of a look, a shrug that says “I don’t know why you bothered saying me. No one’s listening.” And they float off and do something more interesting.

Mostly it’s the kids. It’s a curious thing, but when I was younger I really didn’t notice them. I got on with my life, it got on with me and I really didn’t notice anyone under about 4ft tall. Looking back now, it seems barely credible but it’s true. They must have been there, must have been there somewhere. I don’t know. Maybe it helped that during most of my teens and Twenties I was largely nocturnal, fearful that if I strayed into daylight I might find myself with a Volvo V70 estate with airbags on the SIPS and seats in the boot.

Now they’re everywhere. Everywhere. Mostly where they are is standing next to me, yabbering away in my ear like a couple of mosquitos. I’ve got a book to finish – well, OK, a book to start – and a freelance piece to write. Top Ten Places To Take A Last Minute Holiday. Really, is there anything worse than sitting at home looking out of the window when the sun’s shining writing about places to take a holiday? Just as I was thinking “is there anything worse than…” I heard one of the mozzies.

“Camping” it said. “Let’s go camping.”
Camping? What is it with camping? Have we been living in Kemp Town too long? (OK, it’s a crap gag but it’s about as good as you’re going to get).
“All our friends are going camping, c’mon on.”
“No telly” I said, in hope more than anything real. “No DVDs, nothing”.
“We can take your laptop”.
“The battery will run out”.
“You can charge it in the car”.
“It might rain. We’ll get wet and cold and there’ll be nothing to do”.
“Whatever”.

As I turned around and saw my words shrugging off into the distance, I knew what I had to do.
“Number 10. And if you feel like having a holiday closer to home, why not try camping?”

October

2007-03-06T07:03:00.002-08:00

INSIGHT OCTOBER

This is what I do. I sit down, switch the computer on. Create a new file. Save it as “Chapter One”. Always save it first. What if the Mac crashes and I lose everything? That is the nightmare scenario. No. Save it first and then you know you’re OK. Start putzing around

It’s all there but today it’s maybe a bit slower than normal. Yeah, slower.

But sometimes the smallest things drive you mad. Like the other day when I was driving around looking for somewhere to park. (I wasn’t actually going anywhere. I was just looking for somewhere to park – it’s a hobby) and I passed a garage which had the words “No Parking” written on one of the doors. What’s the point of that then? A garage where you can’t park. Some signs seemed designed to make to look twice. Like those temporary walls in front of building sites that say “Anti-climbing paint”. Is it just me or does it make you want to climb it? It looks dry. Anti-climb paint you’d think was greasy or something. But this looks dry. Maybe when you start to climb it this Charlton Heston voice comes out of nowhere… “No”.

Got hammered. Big time problem. We had people down for the weekend and normally you've got maybe four or five bottles of wine hanging around. We've got a shed full of overs from the barn do and so... You don't stop. And then some blithering idiot mentions a word like "cognac" and... That was Saturday night.

Later on Saturday night, the hamsters escaped. Oy. There are two pussycats sitting there who I'm starting to think we should have called Salt and Pepper. Up until this point they'd been pets, you know, cushions with legs. They’re very sweet, but – practically speaking - their main purpose is to let me practice my Mrs Slocombe gags.

Now they're looking predatory, like they're waiting for a David Attenborough voiceover. Meanwhile, the inside of my head has volunteered to be a basketball court... "

Charity

2007-03-06T07:03:00.001-08:00

INSIGHT September

There’s a scratching noise behind me. I look down and there’s Maxwell Wolf, asleep by my feet. He’s getting older is Maxwell. Still man’s best friend, but older. A friend told me yesterday that seagulls can’t, how you might say, break wind. He said that if you ever wanted to really aggravate a seagull – like, why would you want to? – all you’ve got to do is feed it an Alka Seltzer wrapped up in a bit of bread. I don’t know why I thought of that, except to say that Maxwell has no seagull in him. He’s quite… expressive.

The scratching continues. I look behind me and it’s Tracy. She’s scurrying around, picking up this, putting down that, generally being busy.

Maxwell raises his weary head, looks round and sighs. I’m getting to know this look of Maxwell’s by now. Back in the day it was just me and him, one man and his dog. Each of us thinking that the other one was the one man. He was quite pleased when Jane Wife came along and made it three, but then as each successive new thing arrived, he became more and more resigned to his post. A child. Some fish. Another dog. Another child. A cat. The cat’s kittens. Next door’s cats. A seagull. Each time a new thing arrived, the sigh got longer and more audible, the air of resignation heavier. A couple of weeks ago Tracy arrived and Maxwell didn’t even stir.

Tracy is the newest member of the family. Judy Doe’s birthday present. (Life was so much easier when she just wanted Motorbiking Barbie or whatever. Tracy was, admittedly , cheaper. But the running costs…). She was very sweet when we got her, a baby. Cute and small and brown, she scurried around hamsterishly. We bought her a pink Perspex cage that had three levels and a wheel. We built her a ‘run’, took her out in her ball and gave her peanuts. We even bought her a hamster ‘toilet’. As hamsters go, Tracy had landed on her feet. Paws.

A week after she came, it was time to clean out her cage. Judy went to put Trace in her ball and… it wasn’t so much a scream as one of those silent exclamations where the mouth opens and nothing comes out. We looked at her and… eventually….
“There are things in there, moving”.
“What do you mean, ‘things’?”
“Come here. I don’t know what it is, but there are small things in Tracy’s cage. They’re pink, like worms.”
I looked at Jane and Jane looked at me. Small things? Pink? Worms? Joy. She’s been here a week and already she’s introduced some rodent infestation. We went over to the cage, looked in, and… Tracy, who was only a baby when we got her last week, had had babies. Tiny little things, like small, pink worms.

Maxwell came over and had a look in the cage. He turned away and sighed in a way a seagull can only dream about.
Jane looked at me. “I thought she was a baby… How do hamsters… Do you think she was pregnant when we got her?”

I looked at Jane. What was there to say? Nothing that would win me any prizes.

More Charity

2007-03-06T07:02:00.003-08:00

Charity

2007-03-06T07:02:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER 8 – Charity Begins At Home

So Jane decided that we should go to Edinburgh. I don’t mind. I like Edinburgh – it’s got a castle and a shops and stuff – and going there is a good cause, but then she said she wanted to do a charity run.

“To Edinburgh?” I said.

That went down well. Now I’ve got to bend over twice as hard. Make poverty history. Clear the debt. Me, I’m all in favour. But I can’t really think about it at the moment.

My brain’s a turmoil. I was enjoying doing this so much. It seems like I’ve only been doing it a few weeks, and while I feel a tremendous sense of loyalty to Lord Insight – he’s been a great support and I’ll always remember that business with the… well, never mind about that, but there’s a freedom of contract issue. I’ve got to think about the future. I’ve got a wife and kids and you never know what’s going to happen. I could get injured. Anything.

The thing is, I’ve been approached by Chelsea. Seems Jose Mourinho thinks that his midfield could do with some laconic sarcasm and I can see that. He’s got two tricky wingers, the perfect holding player, a ’box-to-box‚ dynamo’, but once the ball’s in the box there’s no one to supply that all-important sarcastic one-liner.

“Call that a cross? I’ve seen better crosses in a desecrated church”.

He thinks it would take some of the pressure off Didier Drogba, who’s been having some problems adjusting to the English language.

It could be true. You don’t know. Football’s a funny old game and if Brighton can avoid relegation, anything’s possible.

Talking of the seagulls - and it’s seamless links like that that Lord Insight pays top dollar for - regular reader(s) of this column might remember last month I wrote about a seagull nesting on our roof. Curiously for a column - and this is possibly in contravention of the rules of the Columnists Union - it was true. It started off as a kinda cute story, a bit of a distraction, but it’s turned out to be a right old stress.

A couple of weeks ago, I looked out of the window, saw the parents and there, in the nest, was a small fluffy spotty head sticking up. Fine. All good. Then… nothing. For nearly two weeks I didn’t see anything. No small fluffy spotty head, nothing. I couldn't quite see into the nest, couldn't quite see what was going on, but you’d think that he’d have had a look around. It might well be that the baby was having a bit of a rest. Pecking out of a shell must be an exhausting business. But I was worried. Maybe - and I hadn't considered this - the baby has been bought by Chelsea. I did read something about that in the tabs and, thinking about it, it is true that Mourinho's team don't have a baby seagull in their line-up.

Anyway, this morning there he was. He looks awkward, like a kiwi – go and look it up on the web. All bottom and no wings. Waddling around on our roof while the parents look on, thinking that this is the best looking, cutest thing on any roof in the whole of Brighton.

“I know everyone probably says that, Henry” says the mother. “But just look at him. “I think he’s got my beak. And maybe your ears.”

“That’s very funny. My ears. That’s very funny. I wonder” says Henry. “Do you think maybe we should get him signed up for an ad agency?”

The Gulls

2007-03-06T07:01:00.002-08:00

CHAPTER 4 – The Story So Far

I love the gulls. I love the way they look in the night sky. I love the way they don’t care. I love the noise they make. I love the way they just do what they want. What I like most about the gulls is they don’t care what we think. They don’t do that cute “Oooh tickle my tummy” cuddly animal thing. They don’t care. They don’t care about anything except gulls.

“I’m going to sit here and do nothing. I’m going to shout and make as much noise as I want. There’s a bin liner. I’m going to rip that bag open. See what’s in it. Make a mess. Look, a car coming out of the carwash. Good. I needed a poo. I can do anything I like and no one can stop me.”
I love the gulls. They’re masters of the universe.

A couple of years ago I was talking to the bloke next door. Generally, he’s a top man, a good neighbour. Goes on holiday a lot. Anyway, he had one of those “pleased with myself” looks. I asked him what he was looking pleased about.

“We had a seagull nest on the roof. Bloody things, but I’ve got them. I got this piece of wood, about a metre square, and banged a load of nails through it. Then I went up and carefully put it under the seagull nest. You can’t have bloody seagulls nesting on the roof. The noise, the mess…”

So anyway, I went up to my attic and had a look out at the neighbour’s house. And smiled. There on his roof – and this is a true story, I swear – was this piece of wood with nails sticking through it. And next to it was a carefully constructed seagull nest, complete with gull.

Anyway, the reason I’m talking about this is, to paraphrase Mrs Thatcher, we’ve just become a godfather.

I work in the attic of our house. So one day I’m sitting there, writing, well, thinking, planning what I’m going to write, and I hear a bit of squawking. OK, so hearing a gull squawk isn’t exactly “Hold the front page” stuff but this was, I don’t know, a different kind of squawking. Reluctantly I dragged myself away from my keyboard and looked out of the window.

And there she was. Sitting on a perfectly made pile of twigs and leaves like a queen on a throne. The proudest look on her face. Kvelling like only a mother can kvell. Just above her, on the chimney stack, was the old man. Chest puffed out, and on the lookout. Keeping it safe. Trying to look important and ready for action. He saw me and we looked at each other. I held his gaze and we nodded. An understanding. (Listen, I know we’re deep in men’s group stuff – Iron John stuff - here, but bear with me). I’ve been through this. I know what he’s thinking and I know what she’s thinking.
He’s thinking “I’m going to be a dad. I can do anything. I’m going to rip some bin liners open. I can do anything I like.”
She’s thinking “God knows how that happened with that idiot who spends his life with his head in a rubbish bag. Still, if he gets me some food I’ll be nice to him.”

I went downstairs and got some bread. Immediately Jane was onto me.
“I thought you were going wheat free? Really, what is the point of… You’re giving it to a seagull?”
It was OK. She understood.

He’s almost tame now, the old man. Comes to the window and sits. Picks up my bits of food and checks his sudoko grids. Mostly though he sits there on the chimney stack making seagull noises and trying to look useful.

A couple of weeks ago, I looked out of the window, saw the parents and there, in the nest, was a small fluffy spotty head sticking up. Fine. All good. Then… nothing. For nearly two weeks I didn’t see anything. No small fluffy spotty head, nothing. I couldn't quite see into the nest, couldn't quite see what was going on, but you’d think that he’d have had a look around. It might well be that the baby was having a bit of a rest. Pecking out of a shell must be an exhausting business. But I was worried. Maybe - and I hadn't considered this - the baby has been bought by Chelsea. I did read something about that in the tabs and, thinking about it, it is true that Mourinho's team don't have a baby seagull in their line-up.

Anyway, this morning there he was. He looks awkward, like a kiwi – go and look it up on the web. All bottom and no wings. Waddling around on our roof while the parents look on, thinking that this is the best looking, cutest thing on any roof in the whole of Brighton.

“I know everyone probably says that, Henry” says the mother. “But just look at him. “I think he’s got my beak. And maybe your ears.”

“That’s very funny. My ears. That’s very funny. I wonder” says Henry. “Do you think maybe we should get him signed up for an ad agency?”

We’ve moved on from bread - apparently she’s on some no carbs diet. And I’m throwing out all different stuff now. I know what gulls eat because I know what they leave behind when they rip open the bin liners and basically, you know, they don’t leave anything behind. Jane said – and very funny, this – “Maybe you should make some tiny black bin liners for the baby to practice on”.

She’s still not moved. Every so often she gives the old man a hard time and he does that useless bloke shrug we all do. I look at them. They look at me. It’s going to be a good summer.

This

2007-03-06T07:01:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER 6 - Charity Begins At Home

So anyway. I was talking to Jane the other day and she came up with this idea. (I’d love to take credit for this cos it’s genius, but not even I’d do that. And besides, she might read this nonsense). She said “John, what are you doing with this banging your head against a wall? Why not do something you’re good at?” Well, to cut a long story short she came up with this new concept: Jewgolos. A Jewgolo is a bit like a gigolo, but essentially Jewish in nature. Listen.

Basically, where your regular gigolo maybe takes you for a drink and then upstairs for the jiggy stuff, your Jewgolo will take you out to eat and moan. Like I say, it’s genius. Everyone thinks they like the jiggy thing but you do it once, it’s enough. What people really like doing is eating and moaning. You never get bored with that.

This is the thing. The older you get, your ideas change. When you’re younger and your head’s full of unrealistic ideas you think the moaning that comes when you’re doing all that jiggy stuff is the good moaning. OK if you’re 18 or something but be honest. If you’re a grown-up by the time you get into bed all you want to do is have a sleep. “You carry on with all that. No, no, it’s fine. I’m just going to close my eyes.” No. The good moaning is actually just moaning. Sitting down, having something to eat and moaning.

Once you start eating and moaning you can keep going for hours. You can eat as much as you want and you don’t feel bad about yourself because your body’s started migrating. And you can get home in time for EastEnders on BBC3. You know I’m right. Trust me. Jewgolos.

I’d been thinking about doing something new anyway. Things haven’t been… I don’t know. I won’t bore you with it– you don’t want to know – but I’d erased everything on my computer and life was, as my Landmark chums might say, full of possibilities. E-mails, address book, files… gone. My calendar had been wiped which meant that now I had a load of spare time, but it’s a question of perspective. Jane said that at my age I can do with all the spare time I can get. That’s the sort of thinking that made me want to marry her. The literary agent, the one who was going to whisk me off into a bright new future, hasn’t replied to any of my e-mails and now I’ve lost his address anyway. His loss. What’s an agent anyway? Write your own book if you’re so clever.

A new career. It’s easy. I’ll put up ads in all the usual places – Evolution, Janet, the back pages of this mag. I’ll tell them it’s an ancient Native American tradition, that always works. The alfalfa sprouts believe anything if you say it’s Native American.
“You’ve got a back ache? OK. I’ll put a candle in your ear and then set light to it”.
“What?”
“No, no. It’s an ancient Native American tradition.”
“Oh, OK then”.
Maybe we could maybe do a deluxe service where we complain about the size of the portions. How (whatever that means).

And then there's this

2007-03-06T07:00:00.002-08:00

CHAPTER ONE – The First Law Of Averages

So... This morning I got up – it’s traditional – went to the park to take Maxwell Wolf out for a walk. Another beautiful day in paradise. 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).

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 Wife 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.

So anyway. I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present last year. What can you do?) The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? I don’t know. I think so. OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. 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 other selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate life. You'd have thought The Lord would have foreseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You know, you start off with 24 hours 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 the 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 grown up 24 hours. Who would it hurt if we were given, say, an additional three hours a day with each extra child? OK, there’d be a bit of re-structuring to do, but I’d be a fantastic parent, do all sorts of things with the kids. I’d go to that evening life drawing class in Bond Street. I would be that person. I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. If I ever get the time.

I bought myself a bass guitar. It’ll be an interesting experiment to see how much dust can build up on an inanimate object if it’s never moved.

That was a week ago. A week ago and a different lifetime. A week ago I decided to stop all that. I decided to get a life. I got my bicycle down (from the large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall. Come on, keep up) and after dousing it in extra virgin olive oil – Jane Wife caught me in mid-douse and… what can I tell you? She’s a very understanding woman – I signed up.

On Monday I do T’ai Chi at Planet Janet. On Tuesday I do a creative writing workshop at Evolution. On Wednesday I go to a life drawing class in Bond Street. On Thursday I do my Landmark session in London. On Friday I go to yoga at Jo’s.

I’m getting my body into shape, I’m sorting out my creativity, and I get to doing something I’ve never done before while looking at naked women. No, no. It’s OK. Thanks to my Landmark I can say things like that with integrity and authenticity. My chakras are balanced. I can feel it. Talk about inside smile. I’m so happy, so calm, so… so full of centred creativity I’ve barely got time to swallow the St John’s Wort.

Maxwell Wolf has gone round the family taking odds on how long I’ll stick with each one.
“Hmm, Pilates?” he said with that ‘I found out where you hide the pig’s ears’ smile.
“Ashtanga yoga?”
This is Maxwell my faithful puppy, my support structure, Maxwell Wolf who I rescued from the gutter of life when he still had some discarded Christmas paper stuck to him.

So then this happened. I got an e-mail from an agent. Now I’ve had e-mails from agents before but they’ve all been “House prices in Kemp Town are going up…” which is nice but unless they’re going down everywhere else, what difference? Anyway, this was different. This was from a literary agent. I’ll say that again. Literary agent. Sounds good, no?

Really. It’s a long story but this agent – this literary agent - asked to see some words...
“Have you got any fiction?” he said. “I’m looking for new writers”.
“Course” I said, but really it was like Alex Ferguson asking me if I’ve ever played up front cos Rooney’s injured. “Course”. Fiction? Fiction’s my middle name.
So today I’ve been sitting here trying to make sense of piles of notes, all called things like “Chapter One”.

Yesterday I took Maxwell to the vet to have his anal glands done. That’ll teach him.

This

2007-03-06T07:00:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER 5 - Charity Begins At Home
God, I hate hangovers. You’d think at my age I’d know better but do you ever learn? Last night I went to this do and bumped into Pete Doherty and he’s just moaning – and boy does he know how to moan. He wouldn’t leave me alone. “John, John, Listen. Come here. I’ve got this idea”. I knew he was only bugging me cos Kate was staying at ours for a few days, but you know. I took Pete down to Havana where I used to go in the old days and then Richey turned up and said he’d give us a lift. Pete was cool. Between me and you, Kate needs a good meal. Anyway, there was a party going down and the 3am girls were there even thought it was only about 10pm and then Meg…
You know that expression “Get a life”? Get a life. What does it mean? Get a life. How can I get a life when I spend all my time getting a life? It’s Fortune Cookie bullshit, I know. The sort of idiot smart arse-isms people say to avoid saying anything. I’m going to write a book about procrastination, but can’t get round to it. I’ve got a life getting a life. Things like that.

And this

2007-03-06T06:59:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FOUR - Charity Begins At Home

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? 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.

Or this

2007-03-06T06:57:00.002-08:00

CHAPTER THREE - Charity Begins At Home

So this morning I got up. The first day of the rest of my life. Another beautiful day in paradise. I’m inspired. Energised. Listen, I went to see this Barefoot Doctor bloke at the Komedia and I’m on it. Nice enough and all, but talk about the art of getting away with it. Still, it gave me an idea. I can do that. Be Brighton’s own barefoot.

“Now I want you to try this. It’s something I picked up from an old Peruvian and it comes from the ancient art of Winginit. Put your hands on your stomach and let them be there. Soon you’ll begin to feel your stomach.”

What to do first? I’ve got ideas coming out of me like… listen, my ideas have got ideas. My favourite started out as a feature, but now it’s an industry. It’s a food thing, a diet book. I’m going to call it The Syllable Diet and, basically, it’s like this. Anything that’s got three or more syllables is out. Apple (one syllable), egg (one), pea (one)… Cannelloni (four) is out. See? Maybe we’ll have a picture of Kate (one) Moss (one) on the cover. What do you mean apple’s got two? OK then, pear. Anyway, doesn’t matter. I’ve got another one.

The Bikhram Diet – where, basically, you eat your food while it’s still in the oven. It’s great. You could sell it as “this year’s hot new diet”. Confidence breeds confidence in this freelance game.

Anyway, I was thinking. The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. It’s like 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 other selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate life. You'd have thought The Lord would have foreseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You start off with 24 hours for yourself, but then you're expected to take on board a wife, kids, a job, the dogs, the cats, the kids' friends, the friends’ kids, a mortgage, the garden, a new kitchen – all in that same 24 hours. Who would it hurt if we were given, say, an additional three hours a day with each extra child? OK, so there’d be a bit of re-structuring to do, but I’d be a fantastic parent, do all sorts of things with the kids. I’d go to that evening life drawing class in Bond Street. I would be that person. I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. If I ever get the time.

“While you’re reading this I want you to breathe in and then breathe out. This is an ancient technique proven to be good for you. Breathing in and then out will increase the likelihood of living longer. I’ve been doing it all my life and look at me, how I’m still living.”

So anyway. I’ve got this idea. I’m going to create a journalist character called Frank Lee and Frank’s going to be an argumentative, polemic kind of guy. I’ll do a column and I’m going to call it Frank Lee Speaking. You can go mad sitting in a room all day by yourself.

And this

2007-03-06T06:57:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER TWO - Charity Begins At Home

Ah, the freelance life. No 9 to 5 for me. No sitting on the 8.57 with my Puccinos double espresso and Guardian jobs page. No sitting there thinking “Where exactly is Three Bridges?” Has anyone ever been there? Hayward’s Heath, yeah. Burgess Hilll, yes. But Three Bridges? Are there Three Bridges? Did it used to be called Two Bridges? Listen, I’ve done the train bit. I know what you people think about. Train, schmain. Enough

You know that line “Careful what you wish for, it might come true”? Welcome to the freelance life. You know all those romantic notions of the open field, the endless horizon, the big sky… Well here’s another one. The bottomless pit. I don’t want to sound negative, but I’m beginning to empathise with the polar bear in a zoo. Pacing up and down, shaking his head around. “Where’s that snow? I put it down here somewhere…”

Anyway, cut a long story short, I've just taken an office. Had to really. I felt like I was living in an episode of Celebrity Big Brother. Stuck in the house, nothing to do, nowhere to go. (Let’s not even start to make up gags like “And no one’s heard of me either” or “and I’m doing it cos I’ve got no career”. It’s just not funny.) Every so often I get called down to have a chat with Big Brother and she asks me what I’ve been up to today. “Yeah, a bit of work, you know. Getting a few things together, pushing a few ideas around”.

An office. It seemed a proper thing to do. Grown up. “I’m off to work now, darling” will mean a little bit more than “I’m in the attic. Give us a shout of you want something”. To be honest, part of the appeal was that it’s in Jew Street. Where else is a lonely Jew going to go? That’s what I love about Brighton. It’s so accepting, they gave us our own street. OK, so it’s about three yards long. Still. Maybe I’ll find a lost tribe there or something.

Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no plants that absolutely need watering now or else they’re going to die - and write a book, something 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 could have a TV spin-off: The 100 Best UK Garden Birds – and cut-away to D-list celeb reading out a scripted gag about tits. 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. We could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern Mafia. Can only be minutes before Pixar are on the phone. It's not expensive, this office.

I’ll go and get a coffee, maybe a bagel and I’ll sit down and write, undisturbed. What was the line from that film? I’m gonna play this keyboard like Charlie Parker played the sax. It’s going to fly. But first I’ll get a coffee. And maybe a bagel.

It’s curious how you can get distracted. How a quick trip to the shops becomes, well, a longer trip to the shops. How there are some things you really need. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio, a pair of trainers (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.

Three hours later… Charlie Parker? A bloody junkie who died when he was 31 or something. And I bet he didn’t have to go and pick the kids up after school.

And now we're going to start putting stuff up. Stuff like this....

2007-03-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE – Charity Begins At Home

So I was sitting at home, thinking. Glossy magazines are full of these "Things You Should Do Before You're 40" type articles and, you know, it's always the usual… Driving a Porsche into a brothel, hanging out in a jeans shop in Churchill Square, going across the Sahara on a bike… things like that. Sahara, Schmahara, most of them I've done but there’s one thing they say I should have done that I haven't: the mid-life crisis. And I should. It's such a classic experience, such a classic thing to do that I really should try and fit it in. I'm at that mid-life stage and these things require planning and precision. Now’s the time to change ends at half time. Sit down and have an orange. Look back and where I’d been. Consider tactics for the way forward. Maybe I should start thinking about it.

I looked at Maxwell Wolf. He looked at me. What is it with dogs? There’s all that unconditional love that everyone goes on about, but there’s also that look. You know, the look that says “What’s so difficult? You get a ball, get someone to throw it… It’s not complicated.” Sometimes I think he’s a real soul brother. Other times he’s a heartless bastard.

Anyway. Now this is the curious thing. Just as I had this idea, Lord Newspaper phoned me up and… and this is the spookiest thing. He told me that he'd had the same idea himself. The very same idea.

"Fancy that", I said when he told me. "You're going to jack in your job, your livelihood, just to experience this thing called mid-life crisis. Just like me! Talk about two hearts beating as one", I said. "We can go down that spiral together, crawl the bookies and take up art, start drinking and become a novelist, create bespoke furniture out of driftwood for fashionistas... We can do this together. I'll get the wood, you get the nails!”

"Ah", said Lord Newspaper. "That's not exactly what I meant. What I meant was that maybe you should experience this on your own. I think you should stop doing this job of yours and see how you get on."

The penny dropped. "What will it be?" I said laughing at the synchronicity of it all. "A double-page feature? No, better. Maybe a three-part series, an expose on mid-life crises today. How having a mid-life crisis can bring on a mid-life crisis! We could open the spread with a double page picture of me sitting on the beach, looking out to sea dreamily."
“Not quite what I meant” he said.

“You’re right. I need to do this properly” I said. “I'm a proper bloody journalist, old school. The school of hard knocks. Trained at The University Of Life, that's me. A method journalist, the Lee Strasberg of the pen.”

And I am the perfect man for the job. You've got to give Lord Newspaper credit for that. We’ve not been together that long, but he knows his man. If there's anyone who can legitimately experience not working, I am that man. Like Dumbo in that Disney film “Dumbo”, this is a part that was written for me.

"Listen", said Lord Newspaper. "That's not exactly what I meant either. Times are hard in the newspaper game and we're having to make a few cutbacks and..."

Fuck it. I was going to leave anyway.

Day One - Take two

2007-03-06T06:52:00.000-08:00

So now we're going to try the blog thing again.