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?
Poppy
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
The Perfect Job
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.
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
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.
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, 18 February 2008
Monday
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.
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.
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Maxwell C Wolf
“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.
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.
Tuesday, 2 October 2007
Fish2
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!”
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!”
Friday, 13 April 2007
Ace Mag
On Saturday March 10, the Pacific Life Open at Indian Wells held the usual promise: some lovely tennis, Andy Murray doing really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick trying and sweating and smiling before losing – just – to Nadal, Federer lifting the trophy and losing more liquid in tears than he ever did in sweat during the whole tournament. That was Saturday March 10. On Monday March 12, the Pacific Life Open at Indian Wells had become an unmissable, one of those rare events where anything might happen. What happened on Sunday March 11 was one of those things that a few years back might have vexed Mulder and Scully. On Sunday March 11, this happened: G Canas (Arg) def R Federer (Sui) 7-5, 6-2.
Later that night G Canas (Arg) had a spiritual conversion and is now living in a silent monastery in the foothills of Annapurna. For the rest of us, it was game on. Well, up to a point. Andy Murray did really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick tried and sweated and smiled before losing – just – to Nadal. And Nadal? Nadal found himself in the curious position of being in a final and playing a human being. Duly, he won a tournament for the first time in nine months.
His opponent was Murray’s victor, Novak Djokovic, the 19-year-old Serb and another of the next raft of challengers. The first teenager to reach the final since Agassi in 1990, he was attempting to become the first teen to win it since Boris Becker in 1987. Curiously, Nadal is less than a year older but looks – feels – like he’s a different generation. It didn’t take long.
"When my mother was giving me the milk, I was watching him win Wimbledon" said Novak as Boris presented him with his runners-up trophy. That puts things in a certain context, then.
The real winners were the sponsors of the ad breaks, “Stan James – The Sports Bookmakers” who, courtesy of G Canas (Arg) must have been baking cakes and booking holidays. It was a curious thing, having a bookie sponsor the breaks. The money is still gobsmacking: during the Roddick Ljubicic game, we were told that “this match brings Ivan Ljubicic’s prize money to $6million”. Ivan Ljubicic? No disrespect and he’s a good player and all, but $6million? Back in the day, you’d get bionic limbs for that sort of figure. Inflation, I guess.
Later that night G Canas (Arg) had a spiritual conversion and is now living in a silent monastery in the foothills of Annapurna. For the rest of us, it was game on. Well, up to a point. Andy Murray did really, really well before getting a muscle pull, Andy Roddick tried and sweated and smiled before losing – just – to Nadal. And Nadal? Nadal found himself in the curious position of being in a final and playing a human being. Duly, he won a tournament for the first time in nine months.
His opponent was Murray’s victor, Novak Djokovic, the 19-year-old Serb and another of the next raft of challengers. The first teenager to reach the final since Agassi in 1990, he was attempting to become the first teen to win it since Boris Becker in 1987. Curiously, Nadal is less than a year older but looks – feels – like he’s a different generation. It didn’t take long.
"When my mother was giving me the milk, I was watching him win Wimbledon" said Novak as Boris presented him with his runners-up trophy. That puts things in a certain context, then.
The real winners were the sponsors of the ad breaks, “Stan James – The Sports Bookmakers” who, courtesy of G Canas (Arg) must have been baking cakes and booking holidays. It was a curious thing, having a bookie sponsor the breaks. The money is still gobsmacking: during the Roddick Ljubicic game, we were told that “this match brings Ivan Ljubicic’s prize money to $6million”. Ivan Ljubicic? No disrespect and he’s a good player and all, but $6million? Back in the day, you’d get bionic limbs for that sort of figure. Inflation, I guess.
Saturday, 10 March 2007
Maxwell's Big Chance
CHAPTER ONE:
It all started, naturally, with Maxwell C Wolf. He’d been the first to erode my life of single irresponsibility, the first to dictate that I work for him rather than simply for me, and somehow what started off as a simple bowl of chum had escalated to a Volvo with the contents of a lunchbox everywhere. Man’s best friend. Anyway, a friend came round for a chat . He’s working on a kids TV programme and it features a dog but the dog - Bentley - is a bit of a Joan Crawford, a bit of a prima donna. Won’t come out of his trailer if its too cold. The winalot’s the wrong shape... Method dog nonsense. So the friend told the story and looked at Maxwell and told the story and looked at Maxwell and... “So”, he says, “Can Maxwell act?”
What’s he got to do? He’s got to sit? Chase a ball? Bentley charges £250 a day. Can Maxwell act? Believe me, Maxwell can act. That was a month ago. Now Maxwell C Wolf is halfway through a course of ignatia, a homeopathic remedy designed to counter sadness and loss. He’s happy enough, but there’s something about his behaviour that seems, I don’t know, sad. Maybe it’s projection, but his ears are down, you know.. What happened? The day before shooting was to start Ð and Maxwell’s been up all night, sitting Ð we got a call from the production manager saying that Maxwell couldn’t do the job. Why not?
“He wasn’t in the union”, she said.
What do you mean?
“Sorry, he’s got to be in the union”.
Was Wapping for nothing? It was nonsense. The only concrete grief is insurance. Say the dog plays up and the shoot is held up? Who pays? Realistically, this isn’t a problem. Maxwell has a basic pet insurance and is insured for £100,000. He’s got to be. It’s a third party, fire and theft deal. Basically the union story was a nonsense. Maxwell was stitched up. Nepotism is rife in the media, everyone knows that. A dog-owner eat dog-owner business. Sorry, he’s got to be in the union, said the production manager with a can of chum in her pocket.
Still, let’s not worry about kids programmes. There are toilet rolls out there to sell. Talking to Ann Head was instructive as far as Maxwell’s future was concerned. If a dog has a good temperament, that’s the first and most important thing. If you’re talking to him and he thinks you’re playing, he might want to come to you. If you tell him off, he’ll sit and stay but with his ears down as if he’s done something wrong. A dog who is going to be used in a central role must learn to do at least the three basics before any agent will look at him. A rock solid stay, a fetch and carry and, preferably, a speak on command. If he can’t do those, then his owner is unlikely to be good at training. People say to me aren’t you lucky to find a pretty white cat who’ll put his paw in a can of food, or how did you find a dog who would play the piano?. You have to look at the common denominator. A dog who will speak on command? Or play the piano? We looked at our non-musical mute hound and we looked at sweet lovely Elly and we heard Ann’s words ringing in our ears. It’s the same as with baby modelling. If you’re in it for the money, forget it. That’s the wrong attitude. Now, no disrespect to Maxwell, but this time, we thought we’d do our research. We started with a call to the Norrie Carr Model Agency, a member of the Association of Model Agents, no less. In a cute reversal of roles, we realised that the odds were that we’d end up doing the paying. Even though there’s no signing on fee, to get signed up your child have an assessment £25 signing on fee. £85 for half a page in the models book. Jackie at the Sylvia Young Agency. If a parent thinks of their baby as a commodity, they’re not going to do well in this business. Most people come to us because they’ve got babies and they want something to do. We tend to reject a baby if the parent has the wrong attitude. Obviously more research was needed. We checked around and found the inevitable friend of a friend. A make up artist, Susie made it sound perfect. Well, humane. I used it as a playgroup for my two when they were very small. It's good for little ones to be with other babies. The mums often find it a good opportunity to meet other mums and to talk about their new roles. But I'm going to give up when my girls are old enough to be bothered about whether or not they get the ad. They're two and four now and fine about it. They just see it as a game. They don't often get picked for the ad anyway and I don't think that they see any difference between a shoot and a casting. Both give them their 15 seconds in front of the camera. I have no problem with it. We should have known. But it all seemed so easy. A couple of months ago, a friend came round for a chat. She’s working on an advert and it’s for nappies and they need a new-born baby. They had one but there was SMA powdered milk instead of Cow & Gate in the changing room... So she says, can Elly act? She’s got to lay on her stomach? Elly can act. Believe me. Elly had to lie face down on a sheepskin and, wearing nothing but a skimpy T-shirt, do nothing. Look, the kid’s a prodigy Ð she was sucking her thumb on day one. This was nothing, and at four months she’d have the maturity and the perspective that a new-born just wouldn’t have. So we got to the casting session and there was this room full of Mrs Worthingtons with their tap-dancing, trumpet playing babies and we smiled the smile of the confident. I’d like to thank everyone... Elly, need it be said, was perfect. OK, so she wee’d just as the photographer snapped. It’s natural. No. The reason Elly was rejected was because her bottom was too... It wasn’t fleshy enough. From Twiggy to Jodie Kidd and now they decide that fat is a good thing for a model to be? So what’s the story? We look for very placid babies who are not necessarily the perfect baby to look at. It’s more important that they have the right temperament than the perfect face. They need to look healthy and have a good disposition. We might want to feed the baby when it’s not his feeding time, so the baby has to be flexible enough to do that. We need the baby to be able to go to other people - not just his mum. So the perfect eyes and face shape often has very little to do with it. And what about speaking on command? Or playing the piano? Sorry?. Still. On reflection, it’s good she didn’t get the job. We didn’t want Elly to turn into some Joan Crawford prima donna, some Bentley. And have her bottom staring down from a billboard poster? Modelling’s a nonsense. All that time spent waiting around when she could’ve been praticing her double-handed backhand down the line. There are more parents than babies who get depressed about the failure rate, said Jackie. It’s a natural instinct to be proud of your child and of course you want everybody else to think that your child is gorgeous. If you want a bit of fun, try modelling, but if you’re going to get depressed about it, find something else to do with your baby. If you’ve ever doubted the existance of a righteous God, then ponder this. It’s 10.44pm and Maxwell’s upstairs sleeping and Elly’s watching MTV with her mum. Meanwhile I’ve done my days work and I’m sitting here writing an article about how to get the children to work for you. u all Even though there’s no signing-Elly had to .. Then there was . £85 for half a page. Then there are the professional photographers to pay for Ð You haven’t got a portfolio? And for what? A rate of £30 an hour if successfully selected? was no more encouragingGet away from the agencies, go for the human touch. spect to Maxwell, but this timeand iTThat’s (£112.50 a day) genuine Jackie
It all started, naturally, with Maxwell C Wolf. He’d been the first to erode my life of single irresponsibility, the first to dictate that I work for him rather than simply for me, and somehow what started off as a simple bowl of chum had escalated to a Volvo with the contents of a lunchbox everywhere. Man’s best friend. Anyway, a friend came round for a chat . He’s working on a kids TV programme and it features a dog but the dog - Bentley - is a bit of a Joan Crawford, a bit of a prima donna. Won’t come out of his trailer if its too cold. The winalot’s the wrong shape... Method dog nonsense. So the friend told the story and looked at Maxwell and told the story and looked at Maxwell and... “So”, he says, “Can Maxwell act?”
What’s he got to do? He’s got to sit? Chase a ball? Bentley charges £250 a day. Can Maxwell act? Believe me, Maxwell can act. That was a month ago. Now Maxwell C Wolf is halfway through a course of ignatia, a homeopathic remedy designed to counter sadness and loss. He’s happy enough, but there’s something about his behaviour that seems, I don’t know, sad. Maybe it’s projection, but his ears are down, you know.. What happened? The day before shooting was to start Ð and Maxwell’s been up all night, sitting Ð we got a call from the production manager saying that Maxwell couldn’t do the job. Why not?
“He wasn’t in the union”, she said.
What do you mean?
“Sorry, he’s got to be in the union”.
Was Wapping for nothing? It was nonsense. The only concrete grief is insurance. Say the dog plays up and the shoot is held up? Who pays? Realistically, this isn’t a problem. Maxwell has a basic pet insurance and is insured for £100,000. He’s got to be. It’s a third party, fire and theft deal. Basically the union story was a nonsense. Maxwell was stitched up. Nepotism is rife in the media, everyone knows that. A dog-owner eat dog-owner business. Sorry, he’s got to be in the union, said the production manager with a can of chum in her pocket.
Still, let’s not worry about kids programmes. There are toilet rolls out there to sell. Talking to Ann Head was instructive as far as Maxwell’s future was concerned. If a dog has a good temperament, that’s the first and most important thing. If you’re talking to him and he thinks you’re playing, he might want to come to you. If you tell him off, he’ll sit and stay but with his ears down as if he’s done something wrong. A dog who is going to be used in a central role must learn to do at least the three basics before any agent will look at him. A rock solid stay, a fetch and carry and, preferably, a speak on command. If he can’t do those, then his owner is unlikely to be good at training. People say to me aren’t you lucky to find a pretty white cat who’ll put his paw in a can of food, or how did you find a dog who would play the piano?. You have to look at the common denominator. A dog who will speak on command? Or play the piano? We looked at our non-musical mute hound and we looked at sweet lovely Elly and we heard Ann’s words ringing in our ears. It’s the same as with baby modelling. If you’re in it for the money, forget it. That’s the wrong attitude. Now, no disrespect to Maxwell, but this time, we thought we’d do our research. We started with a call to the Norrie Carr Model Agency, a member of the Association of Model Agents, no less. In a cute reversal of roles, we realised that the odds were that we’d end up doing the paying. Even though there’s no signing on fee, to get signed up your child have an assessment £25 signing on fee. £85 for half a page in the models book. Jackie at the Sylvia Young Agency. If a parent thinks of their baby as a commodity, they’re not going to do well in this business. Most people come to us because they’ve got babies and they want something to do. We tend to reject a baby if the parent has the wrong attitude. Obviously more research was needed. We checked around and found the inevitable friend of a friend. A make up artist, Susie made it sound perfect. Well, humane. I used it as a playgroup for my two when they were very small. It's good for little ones to be with other babies. The mums often find it a good opportunity to meet other mums and to talk about their new roles. But I'm going to give up when my girls are old enough to be bothered about whether or not they get the ad. They're two and four now and fine about it. They just see it as a game. They don't often get picked for the ad anyway and I don't think that they see any difference between a shoot and a casting. Both give them their 15 seconds in front of the camera. I have no problem with it. We should have known. But it all seemed so easy. A couple of months ago, a friend came round for a chat. She’s working on an advert and it’s for nappies and they need a new-born baby. They had one but there was SMA powdered milk instead of Cow & Gate in the changing room... So she says, can Elly act? She’s got to lay on her stomach? Elly can act. Believe me. Elly had to lie face down on a sheepskin and, wearing nothing but a skimpy T-shirt, do nothing. Look, the kid’s a prodigy Ð she was sucking her thumb on day one. This was nothing, and at four months she’d have the maturity and the perspective that a new-born just wouldn’t have. So we got to the casting session and there was this room full of Mrs Worthingtons with their tap-dancing, trumpet playing babies and we smiled the smile of the confident. I’d like to thank everyone... Elly, need it be said, was perfect. OK, so she wee’d just as the photographer snapped. It’s natural. No. The reason Elly was rejected was because her bottom was too... It wasn’t fleshy enough. From Twiggy to Jodie Kidd and now they decide that fat is a good thing for a model to be? So what’s the story? We look for very placid babies who are not necessarily the perfect baby to look at. It’s more important that they have the right temperament than the perfect face. They need to look healthy and have a good disposition. We might want to feed the baby when it’s not his feeding time, so the baby has to be flexible enough to do that. We need the baby to be able to go to other people - not just his mum. So the perfect eyes and face shape often has very little to do with it. And what about speaking on command? Or playing the piano? Sorry?. Still. On reflection, it’s good she didn’t get the job. We didn’t want Elly to turn into some Joan Crawford prima donna, some Bentley. And have her bottom staring down from a billboard poster? Modelling’s a nonsense. All that time spent waiting around when she could’ve been praticing her double-handed backhand down the line. There are more parents than babies who get depressed about the failure rate, said Jackie. It’s a natural instinct to be proud of your child and of course you want everybody else to think that your child is gorgeous. If you want a bit of fun, try modelling, but if you’re going to get depressed about it, find something else to do with your baby. If you’ve ever doubted the existance of a righteous God, then ponder this. It’s 10.44pm and Maxwell’s upstairs sleeping and Elly’s watching MTV with her mum. Meanwhile I’ve done my days work and I’m sitting here writing an article about how to get the children to work for you. u all Even though there’s no signing-Elly had to .. Then there was . £85 for half a page. Then there are the professional photographers to pay for Ð You haven’t got a portfolio? And for what? A rate of £30 an hour if successfully selected? was no more encouragingGet away from the agencies, go for the human touch. spect to Maxwell, but this timeand iTThat’s (£112.50 a day) genuine Jackie
Men's Group
A storm is threatening our very lives today; If I don't get some shelter, man, I'm gonna fade away..."
So that was that. Men's group done and dusted. I made every effort not to know what was going to happen and probably that's just as well. It wasn't what I thought, but I don't know what was. If I'd have given it any thought... Forget it. I didn't. I think it helped that I don't have any issues about the masculinity thing. Though having just said that word I also admit that there's not a lot about that word I understand. Maybe that's my gift, maybe it's my curse. I don't know. I'm not a male in the old sense - in my father's sense - but I'm not not a male in that sense either. I provide the cash. I pay the bills. I take care of things. I think in general we follow the old Jewish tradition - you know, the old joke: The man makes all the big decisions - whether we're going to war, what the interest rates are... - while the woman makes all the small decisions - where we live, where the children go to school, what we're going to eat tonight.
There was a lot of chat about 'the masculine' and there was that word that Matt picked up on - besieged. I'm not sure about any of this. Most of the language that was used was language that, in the greater world, would be described as 'feminine'. It was tender and warm and loving. Even the words that don't necessarily have a female connotation, words like strong and brave and noble... why are these given a gender? Aren't these just traps we fall into? Why must we assign words and feelings to gender. Listen, Graham cried and we metaphorically applauded. Yet crying. Isn't that a girlie thing to do? Surely the only way forward is that we leave al that labelling behind and just consider ourselves as people? I don't mean to discredit the notion of a 'men's group' nor do I intend to because most if not all of the exercises we did were either interesting or valuable, but all this did make me question the validity of our exercise. The agenda is set by the agenda of the people involved. Of course.
Having said all that... what a lovely opportunity to spend some time with a group of men, talking about things that were important to us, listening to each other, caring for what each other says. When was the last time anyone had a conversation where the person speaking gave 100% and the person listening gave 100%? It doesn't happen. But here it happened and that was fantastic. Spending time listening and talking and just being in a completely selfish way. This is my time. It's a fantastic luxury.
Also, it wouldn't have worked if it had been cross-gender. I don't know why - and that's something I'm going to have to think about - but I just know that not only was it easier being all-male, but it made it possible to be honest. Talking of honesty, I was frankly amazed at how quickly everyone got with it. There seemed to be no settling in period, no testing the water. Everyone just seemed to jump in. I was surprised and I think that the idea to fill in that initial questionnaire was a masterstroke. It immediately helped focus the mind, helped concentrate thoughts. Would it have made a difference if we'd have known that no one was ever going to see them? No idea. The other smart set up was getting us to put blindfolds on before the Sweat. That whole thing - the blindfolds, the walk outside holding hands... - was the perfect way to both concentrate your mind and take your mind off what was to happen.
A downside? I felt there was a certain pressure to say things when really there was nothing to say. I'd liked to have had a bit more outside stuff, a bit more fresh air and nature. And - and this is something I've not thought through at all - but what might it have been like to have an exercise that was intensely physical. You know, get us all absolutely shattered physically and then... then we talk. That state of being physically spent, I dont know how you'd do it but it's an interesting state. Wrestling?
Another downside. There was too much of an air of solemnity. It was all - understandably - very serious. I felt discouraged from making gags, from being a smartarse . Probably a good thing.
The initial exercises about our fathers... My feelings about my father came as no surprise really. It's a bitch that he died. 20-odd years on, I still can't believe it. But there's nothing to add here. No new thoughts. I know now that it was a relationship that was supposed to be an adult thing, that if have hung around we'd have been mates - proper mates having a laugh and stuff. It was never meant to be an adult/child thing. By all accounts he had that with Stephen.
It's a strange relief to find that everyone's experiences are so similar. The absent (for whatever reason) father was a fantastically strong image and as a father it made me realise the importance of being there, both physically and emotionally. This was a good realisation because I'd been having problems with my decision to give up work and the strains that was putting on the family. Was it a selfish 'sacrifice'?
The actual sweat was a strange one. In the build up, I was so concerned about the physicality of it all that I didn't give much thought to it. But it was amazing and my first instinct was that impulse that Teletubbies tapped in to so brilliantly. Again, again. The heat I didn't find a problem, though there were times when James was throwing water on the 'grandfathers' when I though "OK OK enough bloody water already". (Thought: why are they called grandfathers? Must remember to ask James). It helped that I stuck my hand outside, just that psychological safety net - there is an outside. I can't see anything but there is an outside. It was a curiously thrilling experience and one I'd like to repeat again soon. I know that the next time I won't be so fearful of it all and that will help my flow. I was pleased that I didn't feel the need to take on another persona. No judgements - if that's what other people want to do, fine. But it's not me. There was a time when I'd have felt pressured to follow suit - "Er, hello. Squatting Donkey here...." But I just went with what I felt. And that felt good. It's very easy to say things like "Be honest" and "Be true to yourself" but it's not so easy to do. It's easy to say that "the energy in the Sweat wouldn't let you be anything other than true to yourself, but - while that's true - it's still bloody hard.
The fire after was fantastic. It was curious. I felt wonderfully post-coital, that afterglow. It was like we'd all just had great sex, were spent and were now sitting around doing the cigarette thing.
I came away thinking that everyone there was a good person, a sweet. But I guess that's what happens at places like this. Will any new friendships bloom? Doubt it. Will any of the taking names down and "We must get together" stuff happen? Doubt it. Will even the names get passed around? We'll see. I'd like to be surprised, but what do you think? None of that means anything really, It's just the way the world works. I'll stay friends with Graham because I am friends with Graham and that's cool too. He surprised me. I was incredibly touched by him showing emotional cracks during the gown exercise. It was brave and real and very human.
I need to get in touch with 'The Warrior'. I don't feel those impulses at all. I should, I think, take up a high pressure sport. I listened to Matt talking about surfing and the other water stuff and it was properly inspiring. I'm sure there's benefit to be gained from that, an energy to tap into. Listen, if nothing else I'll get fitter, but there's every chance a new door might open and that would be to everyone's benefit.
For me, one of the most interesting things was the drum beating exercise. Beating out the rage and the anger. One by one, different men came and went, banging the drum in their own ways and letting out deep primal roars and screams. I looked on as they did and, of all the exercises we'd done, it seemed to me the strangest. When it came to my turn... I was going to pass – after all, that was every man's prerogative – but I wanted to just be in that space, I just wanted to hold that drum. To see how it felt. So I went into the centre of the circle, kneeled on the cushion, held the drum. Nothing. I stroked the drum. Nothing. Tapped it with my fingers. Nothing. It was a strange thing but even though I'd been with these men for the best part of two days and I’d been through all sorts of psyche-stripping exercises with them, I felt a huge rush of peer pressure. Bang and scream. That's what everyone else has done. That's what they’re waiting to hear. That's what you’re supposed to do. When I started I was quite self-conscious. It took a while for me to get out of my head but while there's were times when, in truth, I might have held a part of me back I didn't’t ever respond dishonestly. What’s the point? And apart from anything else, everyone else would have seen through it. I’m not sure you can hide in these situations. Anyway – the point is, that I wasn't’t going to bang the bastard drum now. I wasn't’t going to start being dishonest at this stage of the game. So I was holding this drum, trying to locate the rage and the anger within, thinking of what to do when James said to me "How would express passion?" This took me by complete surprise and, frankly, I didn't know what to say. To say that it came from left field is... accurate. I thought we were banging drums, expressing anger, outing rage. What had that got to do with "How would express passion?" In that classic way that you always think of the smart retort after the event – you know, the classic put-down – I now know I should have just shown James that my passion comes from a hug, a kiss, a smile, a warm embrace. Not banging a drum and screaming. Now – and here's a thought – does that make me a unimaginative, passionless lover? I don't know. Anyway, the smart retort escaped me and I just return to my cushion. There was a muted "Ho" from the assembled menfolk. Did they understand? Did they know what I was thinking? Did they think I was hiding back? Interpret it as an emotionally constipated response? I sat there thinking about all this and – by now I knew the score – knew that we would go round in a circle and explain 'how that all felt'. Should I say? Maybe in retrospect I should have had a bit of a rabbit, but at the time I just felt that I didn't care what people thought. I was secure in my response. Really. I feel really comfortable writing that, knowing that it's not a lie or a cover-up. I think that also maybe I felt that if I wasn’t really careful it might come across as sounding smug – I haven't got any rage. I haven't got any anger. I deal with it before it builds to that.
One final thing. I was incredibly touched that James gave me that picture of "The King". I've no idea whether it was a deliberate act, whether there any thought involved - and if there was, what that thought might have been. I've no idea whether James thought I was the oldest there or the most deserving or the what. Maybe I was the nearest. Maybe they thought I was the most needy. You know, I didn't know then and I don't care now. If it wasn't a deliberate act then I'm going to tick the box that says Nothing Happens By Accident and say that it 'was meant'. There. That's even better for this bastard ego.
So that was that. Men's group done and dusted. I made every effort not to know what was going to happen and probably that's just as well. It wasn't what I thought, but I don't know what was. If I'd have given it any thought... Forget it. I didn't. I think it helped that I don't have any issues about the masculinity thing. Though having just said that word I also admit that there's not a lot about that word I understand. Maybe that's my gift, maybe it's my curse. I don't know. I'm not a male in the old sense - in my father's sense - but I'm not not a male in that sense either. I provide the cash. I pay the bills. I take care of things. I think in general we follow the old Jewish tradition - you know, the old joke: The man makes all the big decisions - whether we're going to war, what the interest rates are... - while the woman makes all the small decisions - where we live, where the children go to school, what we're going to eat tonight.
There was a lot of chat about 'the masculine' and there was that word that Matt picked up on - besieged. I'm not sure about any of this. Most of the language that was used was language that, in the greater world, would be described as 'feminine'. It was tender and warm and loving. Even the words that don't necessarily have a female connotation, words like strong and brave and noble... why are these given a gender? Aren't these just traps we fall into? Why must we assign words and feelings to gender. Listen, Graham cried and we metaphorically applauded. Yet crying. Isn't that a girlie thing to do? Surely the only way forward is that we leave al that labelling behind and just consider ourselves as people? I don't mean to discredit the notion of a 'men's group' nor do I intend to because most if not all of the exercises we did were either interesting or valuable, but all this did make me question the validity of our exercise. The agenda is set by the agenda of the people involved. Of course.
Having said all that... what a lovely opportunity to spend some time with a group of men, talking about things that were important to us, listening to each other, caring for what each other says. When was the last time anyone had a conversation where the person speaking gave 100% and the person listening gave 100%? It doesn't happen. But here it happened and that was fantastic. Spending time listening and talking and just being in a completely selfish way. This is my time. It's a fantastic luxury.
Also, it wouldn't have worked if it had been cross-gender. I don't know why - and that's something I'm going to have to think about - but I just know that not only was it easier being all-male, but it made it possible to be honest. Talking of honesty, I was frankly amazed at how quickly everyone got with it. There seemed to be no settling in period, no testing the water. Everyone just seemed to jump in. I was surprised and I think that the idea to fill in that initial questionnaire was a masterstroke. It immediately helped focus the mind, helped concentrate thoughts. Would it have made a difference if we'd have known that no one was ever going to see them? No idea. The other smart set up was getting us to put blindfolds on before the Sweat. That whole thing - the blindfolds, the walk outside holding hands... - was the perfect way to both concentrate your mind and take your mind off what was to happen.
A downside? I felt there was a certain pressure to say things when really there was nothing to say. I'd liked to have had a bit more outside stuff, a bit more fresh air and nature. And - and this is something I've not thought through at all - but what might it have been like to have an exercise that was intensely physical. You know, get us all absolutely shattered physically and then... then we talk. That state of being physically spent, I dont know how you'd do it but it's an interesting state. Wrestling?
Another downside. There was too much of an air of solemnity. It was all - understandably - very serious. I felt discouraged from making gags, from being a smartarse . Probably a good thing.
The initial exercises about our fathers... My feelings about my father came as no surprise really. It's a bitch that he died. 20-odd years on, I still can't believe it. But there's nothing to add here. No new thoughts. I know now that it was a relationship that was supposed to be an adult thing, that if have hung around we'd have been mates - proper mates having a laugh and stuff. It was never meant to be an adult/child thing. By all accounts he had that with Stephen.
It's a strange relief to find that everyone's experiences are so similar. The absent (for whatever reason) father was a fantastically strong image and as a father it made me realise the importance of being there, both physically and emotionally. This was a good realisation because I'd been having problems with my decision to give up work and the strains that was putting on the family. Was it a selfish 'sacrifice'?
The actual sweat was a strange one. In the build up, I was so concerned about the physicality of it all that I didn't give much thought to it. But it was amazing and my first instinct was that impulse that Teletubbies tapped in to so brilliantly. Again, again. The heat I didn't find a problem, though there were times when James was throwing water on the 'grandfathers' when I though "OK OK enough bloody water already". (Thought: why are they called grandfathers? Must remember to ask James). It helped that I stuck my hand outside, just that psychological safety net - there is an outside. I can't see anything but there is an outside. It was a curiously thrilling experience and one I'd like to repeat again soon. I know that the next time I won't be so fearful of it all and that will help my flow. I was pleased that I didn't feel the need to take on another persona. No judgements - if that's what other people want to do, fine. But it's not me. There was a time when I'd have felt pressured to follow suit - "Er, hello. Squatting Donkey here...." But I just went with what I felt. And that felt good. It's very easy to say things like "Be honest" and "Be true to yourself" but it's not so easy to do. It's easy to say that "the energy in the Sweat wouldn't let you be anything other than true to yourself, but - while that's true - it's still bloody hard.
The fire after was fantastic. It was curious. I felt wonderfully post-coital, that afterglow. It was like we'd all just had great sex, were spent and were now sitting around doing the cigarette thing.
I came away thinking that everyone there was a good person, a sweet. But I guess that's what happens at places like this. Will any new friendships bloom? Doubt it. Will any of the taking names down and "We must get together" stuff happen? Doubt it. Will even the names get passed around? We'll see. I'd like to be surprised, but what do you think? None of that means anything really, It's just the way the world works. I'll stay friends with Graham because I am friends with Graham and that's cool too. He surprised me. I was incredibly touched by him showing emotional cracks during the gown exercise. It was brave and real and very human.
I need to get in touch with 'The Warrior'. I don't feel those impulses at all. I should, I think, take up a high pressure sport. I listened to Matt talking about surfing and the other water stuff and it was properly inspiring. I'm sure there's benefit to be gained from that, an energy to tap into. Listen, if nothing else I'll get fitter, but there's every chance a new door might open and that would be to everyone's benefit.
For me, one of the most interesting things was the drum beating exercise. Beating out the rage and the anger. One by one, different men came and went, banging the drum in their own ways and letting out deep primal roars and screams. I looked on as they did and, of all the exercises we'd done, it seemed to me the strangest. When it came to my turn... I was going to pass – after all, that was every man's prerogative – but I wanted to just be in that space, I just wanted to hold that drum. To see how it felt. So I went into the centre of the circle, kneeled on the cushion, held the drum. Nothing. I stroked the drum. Nothing. Tapped it with my fingers. Nothing. It was a strange thing but even though I'd been with these men for the best part of two days and I’d been through all sorts of psyche-stripping exercises with them, I felt a huge rush of peer pressure. Bang and scream. That's what everyone else has done. That's what they’re waiting to hear. That's what you’re supposed to do. When I started I was quite self-conscious. It took a while for me to get out of my head but while there's were times when, in truth, I might have held a part of me back I didn't’t ever respond dishonestly. What’s the point? And apart from anything else, everyone else would have seen through it. I’m not sure you can hide in these situations. Anyway – the point is, that I wasn't’t going to bang the bastard drum now. I wasn't’t going to start being dishonest at this stage of the game. So I was holding this drum, trying to locate the rage and the anger within, thinking of what to do when James said to me "How would express passion?" This took me by complete surprise and, frankly, I didn't know what to say. To say that it came from left field is... accurate. I thought we were banging drums, expressing anger, outing rage. What had that got to do with "How would express passion?" In that classic way that you always think of the smart retort after the event – you know, the classic put-down – I now know I should have just shown James that my passion comes from a hug, a kiss, a smile, a warm embrace. Not banging a drum and screaming. Now – and here's a thought – does that make me a unimaginative, passionless lover? I don't know. Anyway, the smart retort escaped me and I just return to my cushion. There was a muted "Ho" from the assembled menfolk. Did they understand? Did they know what I was thinking? Did they think I was hiding back? Interpret it as an emotionally constipated response? I sat there thinking about all this and – by now I knew the score – knew that we would go round in a circle and explain 'how that all felt'. Should I say? Maybe in retrospect I should have had a bit of a rabbit, but at the time I just felt that I didn't care what people thought. I was secure in my response. Really. I feel really comfortable writing that, knowing that it's not a lie or a cover-up. I think that also maybe I felt that if I wasn’t really careful it might come across as sounding smug – I haven't got any rage. I haven't got any anger. I deal with it before it builds to that.
One final thing. I was incredibly touched that James gave me that picture of "The King". I've no idea whether it was a deliberate act, whether there any thought involved - and if there was, what that thought might have been. I've no idea whether James thought I was the oldest there or the most deserving or the what. Maybe I was the nearest. Maybe they thought I was the most needy. You know, I didn't know then and I don't care now. If it wasn't a deliberate act then I'm going to tick the box that says Nothing Happens By Accident and say that it 'was meant'. There. That's even better for this bastard ego.
Parkway
I don't mean to bang on about this - and don't worry. I'll soon get back on track and get back to the important things. Talking of which, it's 10.55. The woman on the loudspeakers just announced that we're half an hour from Bristol.
"Our time of arrival will be just after 11.30" she said. Suit your self. Made me laugh. Got to get your humour where you can these days.
We've just reached Tiverton Parkway. What is it with this part of the country and Parkways? There's Bristol Parkway. Now there's Tiverton Parkway. There's no Brighton Parkway. What is it? Is Parkway a derivation of some old Wessex word meaning station? You see? A mind like a razor, a bloody razor. Mid-life crisis, mid-life schmisis. What do these people know?
This is beautiful. There's a vast expanse of water, river estuary or something, down by Exmouth and there all these wading birds flocking around, having a bit of a nibble, a bit of a swim. In the middle, well not right in the middle, but a fair way out, there's a sandbank. Not big, it's just gently jutting out of the water and there's a bloke standing there, fishing. The sun is reflecting off the water and glistens. How perfect. Newton Abbott. Maybe we'll come and live in Newton Abbott. We could write The Juicy Guide To Newton Abbott (sounds like my kind of job) and after lunch when that was finished, we could stand on a sandbank and catch fish. Maybe build a barbecue on the sandbank. Cook the fish. Invite a few sandbills over. Maybe an oyster-catcher if they're around. What's the monthly mortgage repayments on sandbank? Can't be much, can it? Still, it's a bit of a relief not having to write about Busta Rhymes and pretend I know what the story is and talk about the interesting use of samples. The interesting use of samples? I hate the whole sample culture. It's such bollocks. Write your own bastard song instead of stealing snatches of other people's music. If I did that, if I tried to, say, write a book by using 'samples' of other peoples books, I'd get hammered. Sampling? Bloody plagiarism. Bitter? Not at all. No, it's a challenge, this mid-life crisis. And anyway, I was reading that thin children are this season's must-have accessory.
It's a lovely part of the country, down here. If only it wasn't so far. Plymouth. When I used to pay attention to the football results and all those place names came upon the teleprinter, these places and names I'd never heard of and certainly had no idea where they were or anything,I never figured Plymouth to be the sort of place I'd say was nice. Plymouth? What is it? The River Ply? I don't know. Suddenly Plymouth's turned into Coronation Street, all back to backs and terraced roofs. Liskard is the next stop. Maybe that'll be better. Liskard? Is that real? How come there isn't a Liskard Athletic languishing at the bottom of the Third Division? Because I never heard Len Martin say "Leyton Orient 2,Liskard Athletic 0" does that mean its not a legitimate place?
There's a sweet - sweetish - irony going off to lecture on the joys of journalism the week after I got the sac... cutbacked. Once you get past the obvious gag, I can't quite work out whether it's a good thing. After all, there's the old "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" line. And I guess that most of the students - well, the sussed ones - will assume that I haven't got a job anyway. I'm teaching therefore I haven't got a job. Fuck it. They're only students. It's a 4.30 class. Odds on, I'll be the only one to turn up.
Day Two of the mid-life crisis and it's going well. I've come up with a few ideas but nothing's stuck: Cranial osteopath was too last century. Counsellor? Too last week.
Here's an idea. I could try and do the journalism thing again but under a pseudonym - how fucking bastard post-modern funny would that be, huh? But... it's too much potential grief. If my new persona (young female, of course) wasn't a roaring success, well that would be double confirmation of the same thing. The writing's just the writing and... But what if she was a roaring success? What if... Well, what would that say about the previous incarnation? No, that's too much to think about.
It happens. Now then, you might not know this but I'm not what you could justifiably call a religious man. Well, being Jewish, i don't suppose I have to be. Chosen, innit. Maybe last time out I was indeed a particularly religious man, maybe a priest or something. Some mad shamanic geezer with a big hat and flowing robes and mad eyes and a strangely devoted young female acolytes hanging on my every word who broke away from the orthodoxy of his church and founded a new radical branch - a new religion! Strangling chickens and hurling fresh blood over my congregation, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was good because, like I say, I came back chosen. Or should that be Chosen?
Like I say, I'm not a religious man when you lose your job and you find that the last two records you've got to write about are the new albums by the Appleton sisters and Mel C, well you've got to wonder whether it isn't Our Lord saying to you "Jedski, it is time to knock it on the head. And while you're there here's a couple of records to make sure you don't look back on it with any fondness".
I think I'm going to give the Appleton sisters album 5 stars. Call it a triumph. How dull would it be if I got all bitter and laid into it, tried to score cheap gags. No, much better to be magnanimous. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.
"Our time of arrival will be just after 11.30" she said. Suit your self. Made me laugh. Got to get your humour where you can these days.
We've just reached Tiverton Parkway. What is it with this part of the country and Parkways? There's Bristol Parkway. Now there's Tiverton Parkway. There's no Brighton Parkway. What is it? Is Parkway a derivation of some old Wessex word meaning station? You see? A mind like a razor, a bloody razor. Mid-life crisis, mid-life schmisis. What do these people know?
This is beautiful. There's a vast expanse of water, river estuary or something, down by Exmouth and there all these wading birds flocking around, having a bit of a nibble, a bit of a swim. In the middle, well not right in the middle, but a fair way out, there's a sandbank. Not big, it's just gently jutting out of the water and there's a bloke standing there, fishing. The sun is reflecting off the water and glistens. How perfect. Newton Abbott. Maybe we'll come and live in Newton Abbott. We could write The Juicy Guide To Newton Abbott (sounds like my kind of job) and after lunch when that was finished, we could stand on a sandbank and catch fish. Maybe build a barbecue on the sandbank. Cook the fish. Invite a few sandbills over. Maybe an oyster-catcher if they're around. What's the monthly mortgage repayments on sandbank? Can't be much, can it? Still, it's a bit of a relief not having to write about Busta Rhymes and pretend I know what the story is and talk about the interesting use of samples. The interesting use of samples? I hate the whole sample culture. It's such bollocks. Write your own bastard song instead of stealing snatches of other people's music. If I did that, if I tried to, say, write a book by using 'samples' of other peoples books, I'd get hammered. Sampling? Bloody plagiarism. Bitter? Not at all. No, it's a challenge, this mid-life crisis. And anyway, I was reading that thin children are this season's must-have accessory.
It's a lovely part of the country, down here. If only it wasn't so far. Plymouth. When I used to pay attention to the football results and all those place names came upon the teleprinter, these places and names I'd never heard of and certainly had no idea where they were or anything,I never figured Plymouth to be the sort of place I'd say was nice. Plymouth? What is it? The River Ply? I don't know. Suddenly Plymouth's turned into Coronation Street, all back to backs and terraced roofs. Liskard is the next stop. Maybe that'll be better. Liskard? Is that real? How come there isn't a Liskard Athletic languishing at the bottom of the Third Division? Because I never heard Len Martin say "Leyton Orient 2,Liskard Athletic 0" does that mean its not a legitimate place?
There's a sweet - sweetish - irony going off to lecture on the joys of journalism the week after I got the sac... cutbacked. Once you get past the obvious gag, I can't quite work out whether it's a good thing. After all, there's the old "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" line. And I guess that most of the students - well, the sussed ones - will assume that I haven't got a job anyway. I'm teaching therefore I haven't got a job. Fuck it. They're only students. It's a 4.30 class. Odds on, I'll be the only one to turn up.
Day Two of the mid-life crisis and it's going well. I've come up with a few ideas but nothing's stuck: Cranial osteopath was too last century. Counsellor? Too last week.
Here's an idea. I could try and do the journalism thing again but under a pseudonym - how fucking bastard post-modern funny would that be, huh? But... it's too much potential grief. If my new persona (young female, of course) wasn't a roaring success, well that would be double confirmation of the same thing. The writing's just the writing and... But what if she was a roaring success? What if... Well, what would that say about the previous incarnation? No, that's too much to think about.
It happens. Now then, you might not know this but I'm not what you could justifiably call a religious man. Well, being Jewish, i don't suppose I have to be. Chosen, innit. Maybe last time out I was indeed a particularly religious man, maybe a priest or something. Some mad shamanic geezer with a big hat and flowing robes and mad eyes and a strangely devoted young female acolytes hanging on my every word who broke away from the orthodoxy of his church and founded a new radical branch - a new religion! Strangling chickens and hurling fresh blood over my congregation, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was good because, like I say, I came back chosen. Or should that be Chosen?
Like I say, I'm not a religious man when you lose your job and you find that the last two records you've got to write about are the new albums by the Appleton sisters and Mel C, well you've got to wonder whether it isn't Our Lord saying to you "Jedski, it is time to knock it on the head. And while you're there here's a couple of records to make sure you don't look back on it with any fondness".
I think I'm going to give the Appleton sisters album 5 stars. Call it a triumph. How dull would it be if I got all bitter and laid into it, tried to score cheap gags. No, much better to be magnanimous. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.
Other Room Services
CHAPTER 9: Other Room Services (with apologies to
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time tio that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's wghat his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at yoou and I think law would suit yoiu. Tghere's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remembre whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly uninelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes towatch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Schmissues.
Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time tio that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's wghat his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at yoou and I think law would suit yoiu. Tghere's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remembre whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly uninelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes towatch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Schmissues.
Mind The Gap
CHAPTER 7: Mind The Gap
I had a brainwave. I'd sell the tickets, make a few bob and go. Fuck the gig. I'm bored with the idea of the gig. I've had enough of the gig. It's 3 in the afternoon and I've had enough of the gig. I'll make a few bob and it's 100% profit. Can't say fairer than that. No one will mind. No one will mind because no one will know. Who's going to know? It's a standing gig. No seats. I'll sell the tickets and even if the PR people are there, they'll never know. It's not like at some Arena when they put all the hacks in the same row and what are yoou going to do then? There's Tom from the Mail and Dick from the Guardian and Harry from The Times and... a couple of Norwegian students sitting where Johnny Express should be. The Astoria's easy. Also, this is one of those one-off, pre-tour showcase gigs. One of those 'I've got a new album coming out and I'm going to do this little gig before I set off on the Stadium tour - for the fans.' The fans. There'll be hundreds of them milling about outside hoping to get lucky, hoping that some kind-hearted journalist will give them their "plus one" ticket out oif the goodness of their little journalistic soul. Don't laugh: I've done that. I've given tickets away. I once gave a Strokes ticket away when the touts were desperate, when they were gagging for it. There was this lovestruck couple, moping. They really wanted to get in and I had two tickets. Again, it was standing. Easy. What to do? Sell a ticket to the tout? Or give the ticket to the couple? It was raining. Cold. This couple were huddled together, hoping in that unrealistic way that is hope. I decided to be good. I'd give the ticket to the couple. Listen, it was cold and raining. But - and this is the but - but just as I handed over the ticket, I knew I'd made a mistake. They uncurled and both put out a hand. They both wanted it. They were going to squabble over it. I hadn't thought this through but this was going to cause grief. My act of kindness was going to cause this couple to fight, maybe split up. "But I thought you loved me". "If you really loved me, you'd give me the ticket". "And if you loved me you'd give me the ticket." (Actually what happened was this: I gave my ticket to the woman, obviously, because while I'm as new as a potato, I am at heart a man and a man never stops trying to impress women doesn't matter who they are. She took the ticket. They looked at each other, then went over to the tout. They sold the ticket and went out for a meal on the proceeds.) I wasn't going to do that again. This time I was going to tick the box marked "profit". Get a cab to Victoria. Maybe buy something. But somehow life never quite works out how you expect. I get to the Astoria. There are thousands of people milling outside, all walking around with intent. All looking pissed off. Slowly - no, quickly - it dawns on me that they're not punters at all. They're touts. And they've all got tickets to sell. And they're not interested in buying any others. So I hailed a cab to Victoria. Got the train home. Me and my two tickets. You can say what you like, but this would never happen at a Will Young gig.
Last night was the night of the Juicy Awards, my splendid wife's exotic creation, and it went, I think, better than anyone had a right to expect. Well, maybe it went as well as Gilly expected, but to me, this exceeded all expectations. Big and glitzy and star-studded - Norman was there. What can I tell you? I kvelled like a mother whose daughter was marrying a doctor. Ostrich feathers flew. There were a couple of dissenting voices but, you know, fuck it. I was going to bang on about haters (it's irony, silly) but I thought about it and thought I risked sounding like a Middle Aged Jewish version of the So Solid Crew. The Reasonably Solid Crew. The So Solidish Crew. Anyway. It was a fantastic night. A rare treat. It's a curious thing to see someone have an idea, to see them struggle to recognise it, to see them work at making it real, to see it happen. My wife the visionary! I played my part with gusto. Well,I was going to play my part with gusto, but gusto couldn't make it so I did it myself. I decided to model myself on Denis Thatcher. And, be fair, I think I did OK. It was a part I'd been waitintgfor all my life. Hanging around in the background, rabbiting and drinking vodka and tonic. (Yes, I know Denis was a G&T man, but the vodka was a personal touch). Did anyone ever think that, behind closed doors, Denis was really the power - the brains behind the operation - and not the emasculated old soak he appeared? Didn't think so cos no one made that mistake last night either. Butme and Denis, we know. We know the truth.
I had a brainwave. I'd sell the tickets, make a few bob and go. Fuck the gig. I'm bored with the idea of the gig. I've had enough of the gig. It's 3 in the afternoon and I've had enough of the gig. I'll make a few bob and it's 100% profit. Can't say fairer than that. No one will mind. No one will mind because no one will know. Who's going to know? It's a standing gig. No seats. I'll sell the tickets and even if the PR people are there, they'll never know. It's not like at some Arena when they put all the hacks in the same row and what are yoou going to do then? There's Tom from the Mail and Dick from the Guardian and Harry from The Times and... a couple of Norwegian students sitting where Johnny Express should be. The Astoria's easy. Also, this is one of those one-off, pre-tour showcase gigs. One of those 'I've got a new album coming out and I'm going to do this little gig before I set off on the Stadium tour - for the fans.' The fans. There'll be hundreds of them milling about outside hoping to get lucky, hoping that some kind-hearted journalist will give them their "plus one" ticket out oif the goodness of their little journalistic soul. Don't laugh: I've done that. I've given tickets away. I once gave a Strokes ticket away when the touts were desperate, when they were gagging for it. There was this lovestruck couple, moping. They really wanted to get in and I had two tickets. Again, it was standing. Easy. What to do? Sell a ticket to the tout? Or give the ticket to the couple? It was raining. Cold. This couple were huddled together, hoping in that unrealistic way that is hope. I decided to be good. I'd give the ticket to the couple. Listen, it was cold and raining. But - and this is the but - but just as I handed over the ticket, I knew I'd made a mistake. They uncurled and both put out a hand. They both wanted it. They were going to squabble over it. I hadn't thought this through but this was going to cause grief. My act of kindness was going to cause this couple to fight, maybe split up. "But I thought you loved me". "If you really loved me, you'd give me the ticket". "And if you loved me you'd give me the ticket." (Actually what happened was this: I gave my ticket to the woman, obviously, because while I'm as new as a potato, I am at heart a man and a man never stops trying to impress women doesn't matter who they are. She took the ticket. They looked at each other, then went over to the tout. They sold the ticket and went out for a meal on the proceeds.) I wasn't going to do that again. This time I was going to tick the box marked "profit". Get a cab to Victoria. Maybe buy something. But somehow life never quite works out how you expect. I get to the Astoria. There are thousands of people milling outside, all walking around with intent. All looking pissed off. Slowly - no, quickly - it dawns on me that they're not punters at all. They're touts. And they've all got tickets to sell. And they're not interested in buying any others. So I hailed a cab to Victoria. Got the train home. Me and my two tickets. You can say what you like, but this would never happen at a Will Young gig.
Last night was the night of the Juicy Awards, my splendid wife's exotic creation, and it went, I think, better than anyone had a right to expect. Well, maybe it went as well as Gilly expected, but to me, this exceeded all expectations. Big and glitzy and star-studded - Norman was there. What can I tell you? I kvelled like a mother whose daughter was marrying a doctor. Ostrich feathers flew. There were a couple of dissenting voices but, you know, fuck it. I was going to bang on about haters (it's irony, silly) but I thought about it and thought I risked sounding like a Middle Aged Jewish version of the So Solid Crew. The Reasonably Solid Crew. The So Solidish Crew. Anyway. It was a fantastic night. A rare treat. It's a curious thing to see someone have an idea, to see them struggle to recognise it, to see them work at making it real, to see it happen. My wife the visionary! I played my part with gusto. Well,I was going to play my part with gusto, but gusto couldn't make it so I did it myself. I decided to model myself on Denis Thatcher. And, be fair, I think I did OK. It was a part I'd been waitintgfor all my life. Hanging around in the background, rabbiting and drinking vodka and tonic. (Yes, I know Denis was a G&T man, but the vodka was a personal touch). Did anyone ever think that, behind closed doors, Denis was really the power - the brains behind the operation - and not the emasculated old soak he appeared? Didn't think so cos no one made that mistake last night either. Butme and Denis, we know. We know the truth.
Farringdon
CHAPTER 7 - Flooding At Farringdon
As the boy ran into the train station, hre glanced up at the large round clock that hung down inthe middle of the concourse just above the coffee stall. Late. It was all too late. Despair filledhis soul, but little did he realise that only 20 minutes later he'd be hurtling past a sign for Three Bridges. Redemption comes in the most unlikely of forms, but this time the source of his relief was entirely predictable. As he started to sing "Life. That's the name of the game and I wanna play that game with you" to himself, he heard the station announcer do what station announcers had been doing since time began. "We're sorry to announce that due to... " He didn't need to hear any more. Would you Adam and... " the boy said, a comical reference to the fact that the reason for his trip to London was to listen to the new album by Eve, a very important R&B singer he'd never heard of but who Spurs were apparently interested in signing.
As the train thundered along, he wondered what Eve might sound like. He guessed that maybe there'd be about 16 tracks, that it might be about 73 minutes long, that the first song would be called 'Introduction', would be about a minute and a half long and... Life is full of mysteries. Still the train flew along, oblivious to the disasters at Farringdon. Burgess Hill... Haywards Heath... Three Bridges... He considered the next stop, Three Bridges. It was a place that was pivotal to the railway system. All trains went through there so it obviously existed, but he'd never met anyone who came from Three Bridges. He'd never met anyone who knew anyone who came from Three Bridges. There was nothing about it he knew of - and he'd asked. No one ever said "There's this nice country pub, yeah, just by Three Bridges". Then there was the name. Three Bridges. This too was a mystery. Two Bridges, the boy thought, I can get my head around that. One Bridge in, one bridge out. One this way, one that way. That makes a kind of sense. But Three Bridges? Where does the third bridge go? What purpose does it solve? Who built it and why? Will they ever build a fourth bridge? Maybe it was a wartime relic, a code for some long-forgotten defence system.
The train stopped. A man got on who's too fat for the seat. He's sitting there, looking fantastically tall in the way that vrey fat people look tall when they sit down and taking up nearly two seats. Fancy being that fat. How does it happen? Didn't he get to a stage a while back where a seat wasn't good enough and think "Uh-oh. Think I'd better be losing me some weight here". I don't know. It could be that he's halfway through a seriously life-changing diet, he's just lost six stone and what looks like an expression of fat to me is, to him, a major triumph. Maybe it's his first time on a train and it's all come as a terrible shock to him.
Next to me is a young mother with two young kids. They're maybe four or five. She keeps leaning over to attend to them and, as she leans, her jeans - those skinny hipster types with the waistband cut off - slip down to reveal the smallest glimpse of the top of her bottom. Builder's crack, I think it used to be called but she looks nothing like a builder and crack? I don't like the word crack. When she was little, LouLou used to call her bottom her "topham". This is, I think, a much more suitable word. Anyway, she keeps leaning over and it's difficult not to... just a little flicker of the eyes. Does she know she's doing it? Does she know I'm doing it? Silly to even ask.
As the boy ran into the train station, hre glanced up at the large round clock that hung down inthe middle of the concourse just above the coffee stall. Late. It was all too late. Despair filledhis soul, but little did he realise that only 20 minutes later he'd be hurtling past a sign for Three Bridges. Redemption comes in the most unlikely of forms, but this time the source of his relief was entirely predictable. As he started to sing "Life. That's the name of the game and I wanna play that game with you" to himself, he heard the station announcer do what station announcers had been doing since time began. "We're sorry to announce that due to... " He didn't need to hear any more. Would you Adam and... " the boy said, a comical reference to the fact that the reason for his trip to London was to listen to the new album by Eve, a very important R&B singer he'd never heard of but who Spurs were apparently interested in signing.
As the train thundered along, he wondered what Eve might sound like. He guessed that maybe there'd be about 16 tracks, that it might be about 73 minutes long, that the first song would be called 'Introduction', would be about a minute and a half long and... Life is full of mysteries. Still the train flew along, oblivious to the disasters at Farringdon. Burgess Hill... Haywards Heath... Three Bridges... He considered the next stop, Three Bridges. It was a place that was pivotal to the railway system. All trains went through there so it obviously existed, but he'd never met anyone who came from Three Bridges. He'd never met anyone who knew anyone who came from Three Bridges. There was nothing about it he knew of - and he'd asked. No one ever said "There's this nice country pub, yeah, just by Three Bridges". Then there was the name. Three Bridges. This too was a mystery. Two Bridges, the boy thought, I can get my head around that. One Bridge in, one bridge out. One this way, one that way. That makes a kind of sense. But Three Bridges? Where does the third bridge go? What purpose does it solve? Who built it and why? Will they ever build a fourth bridge? Maybe it was a wartime relic, a code for some long-forgotten defence system.
The train stopped. A man got on who's too fat for the seat. He's sitting there, looking fantastically tall in the way that vrey fat people look tall when they sit down and taking up nearly two seats. Fancy being that fat. How does it happen? Didn't he get to a stage a while back where a seat wasn't good enough and think "Uh-oh. Think I'd better be losing me some weight here". I don't know. It could be that he's halfway through a seriously life-changing diet, he's just lost six stone and what looks like an expression of fat to me is, to him, a major triumph. Maybe it's his first time on a train and it's all come as a terrible shock to him.
Next to me is a young mother with two young kids. They're maybe four or five. She keeps leaning over to attend to them and, as she leans, her jeans - those skinny hipster types with the waistband cut off - slip down to reveal the smallest glimpse of the top of her bottom. Builder's crack, I think it used to be called but she looks nothing like a builder and crack? I don't like the word crack. When she was little, LouLou used to call her bottom her "topham". This is, I think, a much more suitable word. Anyway, she keeps leaning over and it's difficult not to... just a little flicker of the eyes. Does she know she's doing it? Does she know I'm doing it? Silly to even ask.
Glasgow
"Welcome to flight F09 from Stanstead Airport to Glasgow Prestwick International Airport..." It was that "International Airport" bit that bothered me. You'd never get Heathrow calling itself Heathrow International Airport. We know what it is. But Prestwick? Bless. I am a proper airport, really. It wasn't much choice, going by plane. If I'd have wanted to go by train I'd have spent 16 hours in that carriage (that's of course, delays notwithstanding) and £244. By plane? An hour each way and £53 all in, including taxes. Of course, there's always the "geting to and from the airport" question to consider and I guess that evens things out, time and cost wise.
Glasgow. I haven't been to Glasgow for a while. Not since seeing Roxy Music there last year and OK, so it's not Yokohama or Seoul on some all-expenses paid jolly but it's international air travel to and from a proper airport and if I'm really nice and if the Gods are smiling, Lord Express might even pay me.
It's a curious thing with these budget air flights. You still get that visceral thrill of going to an airport, of getting on a plane... Is that a generational thing? Will there soon be a Saturday night TV show called something like I Love Going On Planes? That feeling of exotic wonder, of 'we could go anywhere, do anything', does it still happen?
Was there ever a place called Thousand Island? A place known for its unique salad dressing? Or was the salad dressing named Thousand Island to indicate the myriad influences that had gone into it? 'An exotic blend of a thousand different tastes'. That sort of thing.
Glasgow. I haven't been to Glasgow for a while. Not since seeing Roxy Music there last year and OK, so it's not Yokohama or Seoul on some all-expenses paid jolly but it's international air travel to and from a proper airport and if I'm really nice and if the Gods are smiling, Lord Express might even pay me.
It's a curious thing with these budget air flights. You still get that visceral thrill of going to an airport, of getting on a plane... Is that a generational thing? Will there soon be a Saturday night TV show called something like I Love Going On Planes? That feeling of exotic wonder, of 'we could go anywhere, do anything', does it still happen?
Was there ever a place called Thousand Island? A place known for its unique salad dressing? Or was the salad dressing named Thousand Island to indicate the myriad influences that had gone into it? 'An exotic blend of a thousand different tastes'. That sort of thing.
Reading
Chapter 4 - One For Sorrow, Two For Joy
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question and sometimes I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. (We’ve also taken a Saab estate with leather this and wooden that which is much more exciting but is, as you might say, off message). This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying it by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. You know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern Mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, there wasn’t a proper time mentioned. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today and yesterday was a Tuesday and today is a Wednesday. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem... What can I tell you? I got a ticket.
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question and sometimes I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. (We’ve also taken a Saab estate with leather this and wooden that which is much more exciting but is, as you might say, off message). This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying it by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. You know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern Mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, there wasn’t a proper time mentioned. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today and yesterday was a Tuesday and today is a Wednesday. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem... What can I tell you? I got a ticket.
Black Rod
"We're off on the Road To Sheffield... " I'm sure there was a Bob Hope film called that, but I can't place it right now. The best part of 5 hours on the train with nothing to do except look at the cows in the fields and ponder the mysteries of life. Here's a curious thing.
We've just passed Kettering. Just as I was pondering the death of ambition, we've just passed Kettering.... What the fuck use is Kettering? Where's Kettering on the Monopoly board? It's the sort of thing to turn a man religious. You know, that old gag where you ask God for proof of his existence and say 'Just give me a sign' and it starts to thunder and there's lightening and you stand there saying 'Just give me a sign' . Exactly. As I type the words 'the death of ambition we go through Kettering. No disrespect, like.
Anyway. So I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present). The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was full of inquisitive concern. I'd be aware. On top of things. Full of resource. Now? Now, no. I think it was the Black Rod story that did it for me. Not that I know anything about it. Not that I read about it or talked to anyone about it. And maybe that's the point. Once upon a time, I'd have read and talked. Made funny comments and witty gags. Feigned world-weary cynicism while buying in to the whole thing. Now it's gone. I don't want anything to do with it. I don't care who Black Rod is. I don't want to know who Black Rod is. I don't want anything to do with Black Rod. I know, instinctively, that Black Rod and all who sail in him is a lot of old bollocks. That it means nothing. I know that there are pages and pages of newspaper written about him/it, that there are yards of column inches about him/it - maybe indeed by him, that there have been God knows how many minutes of radio chat where some John Humphrys character does that public school bully routine that passes for a political interview thing with him. The Today programme. More boorish bollocks where adult conversation is reduced to three minute segments of shouty macho rabbit. (Maybe it's all a gag. i don't know). I'm not entirely sure whether it gave up on me or I gave up on it. Whether I lost interest in the world or the world lost interest in me, I don’t know. There are questions, but you know, I just don’t care. And, it's a curious thing, but it’s all quite liberating. Here I am, aged 22, and I find myself uninterested - genuinely - in the outside. (This is difficult, not least because I've chosen to make the diminishing return that I still laughingly call my living in newspapers). I can't look at a newspaper without thinking it bollocks. I can't listen to the news without knowing that it's just lies - and lies that are irrelevant to my life. I can't read a columnist without... No, forget it. I just can't read a columnist. Is it age? Is it middle class complacency? The thoughts of an inwardly-obsessed parent? Which kind of brings us back to Kettering – except that Kettering is back there and we’re coming up to Derby.
So what do we do? What do we do in the space where Real People have their Black Rod? Escape into a fantasy world maybe. Live a life that's got one foot in the real - the school run and all who sail in her - and an Alice In Wonderland life in the head. A secret life. Actually, that's not so strange. I had a curious story recently where I... No, maybe we'll save that for another trip. But the point is that if l'il ole me can have one of those, well, anything is possible.
Rod schmod. So now I'm of to Sheffield to see a Rod of a different hue. Rod Stewart. A hotel for £34 and in. No cinema. I fell for Rod back in 197whatever it was - 2? I'd just bought Maggie May from Rhythm and Blues on Stamford Hill, a strange little shop that had been placed - dropped - in this predominantly middle-class Jewish ghetto. Sitting in between Losner's dress hire shop and the E&A salt beef bar, it was a record shop unlike any record shop I knew. It sold soul, Stax, R&B and ska but mainly anything with a rock steady beat and you'd walk in there off the street, opening the door trepidaciously and there'd be smoke (nothing dodgy I think, just smoke) and this incessant "boom tchig-a, boom tchig-a" of the beat and these black geezers in trilbys hanging around. I was used to Hassids in Homburgs, the streets were full of them, but this was new. It's funny the things that stay with you, but I remember sneaking into this strange place, standing around uncomfortably before scuttling off. Anyway, I bought Maggie May there and got home and played it - was it still the red Dansette or the white Fidelity Unit 4? - and that was OK. I knew it obviously. But played the flipside and that was me. I was hooked. "If I waited long enough for you. I'd find a way to believe that it's true. Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried. But I've got to find a reason to believe."Sheffield. Odds on, there's someone on this address list who was born in Sheffield, who fell in love in Sheffield, who had their first snog in Sheffield but blimey. With respect. Sheffield? Still. It could have been worse. Ronan Keating was also playing in Sheffield.
We've just passed Kettering. Just as I was pondering the death of ambition, we've just passed Kettering.... What the fuck use is Kettering? Where's Kettering on the Monopoly board? It's the sort of thing to turn a man religious. You know, that old gag where you ask God for proof of his existence and say 'Just give me a sign' and it starts to thunder and there's lightening and you stand there saying 'Just give me a sign' . Exactly. As I type the words 'the death of ambition we go through Kettering. No disrespect, like.
Anyway. So I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present). The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was full of inquisitive concern. I'd be aware. On top of things. Full of resource. Now? Now, no. I think it was the Black Rod story that did it for me. Not that I know anything about it. Not that I read about it or talked to anyone about it. And maybe that's the point. Once upon a time, I'd have read and talked. Made funny comments and witty gags. Feigned world-weary cynicism while buying in to the whole thing. Now it's gone. I don't want anything to do with it. I don't care who Black Rod is. I don't want to know who Black Rod is. I don't want anything to do with Black Rod. I know, instinctively, that Black Rod and all who sail in him is a lot of old bollocks. That it means nothing. I know that there are pages and pages of newspaper written about him/it, that there are yards of column inches about him/it - maybe indeed by him, that there have been God knows how many minutes of radio chat where some John Humphrys character does that public school bully routine that passes for a political interview thing with him. The Today programme. More boorish bollocks where adult conversation is reduced to three minute segments of shouty macho rabbit. (Maybe it's all a gag. i don't know). I'm not entirely sure whether it gave up on me or I gave up on it. Whether I lost interest in the world or the world lost interest in me, I don’t know. There are questions, but you know, I just don’t care. And, it's a curious thing, but it’s all quite liberating. Here I am, aged 22, and I find myself uninterested - genuinely - in the outside. (This is difficult, not least because I've chosen to make the diminishing return that I still laughingly call my living in newspapers). I can't look at a newspaper without thinking it bollocks. I can't listen to the news without knowing that it's just lies - and lies that are irrelevant to my life. I can't read a columnist without... No, forget it. I just can't read a columnist. Is it age? Is it middle class complacency? The thoughts of an inwardly-obsessed parent? Which kind of brings us back to Kettering – except that Kettering is back there and we’re coming up to Derby.
So what do we do? What do we do in the space where Real People have their Black Rod? Escape into a fantasy world maybe. Live a life that's got one foot in the real - the school run and all who sail in her - and an Alice In Wonderland life in the head. A secret life. Actually, that's not so strange. I had a curious story recently where I... No, maybe we'll save that for another trip. But the point is that if l'il ole me can have one of those, well, anything is possible.
Rod schmod. So now I'm of to Sheffield to see a Rod of a different hue. Rod Stewart. A hotel for £34 and in. No cinema. I fell for Rod back in 197whatever it was - 2? I'd just bought Maggie May from Rhythm and Blues on Stamford Hill, a strange little shop that had been placed - dropped - in this predominantly middle-class Jewish ghetto. Sitting in between Losner's dress hire shop and the E&A salt beef bar, it was a record shop unlike any record shop I knew. It sold soul, Stax, R&B and ska but mainly anything with a rock steady beat and you'd walk in there off the street, opening the door trepidaciously and there'd be smoke (nothing dodgy I think, just smoke) and this incessant "boom tchig-a, boom tchig-a" of the beat and these black geezers in trilbys hanging around. I was used to Hassids in Homburgs, the streets were full of them, but this was new. It's funny the things that stay with you, but I remember sneaking into this strange place, standing around uncomfortably before scuttling off. Anyway, I bought Maggie May there and got home and played it - was it still the red Dansette or the white Fidelity Unit 4? - and that was OK. I knew it obviously. But played the flipside and that was me. I was hooked. "If I waited long enough for you. I'd find a way to believe that it's true. Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried. But I've got to find a reason to believe."Sheffield. Odds on, there's someone on this address list who was born in Sheffield, who fell in love in Sheffield, who had their first snog in Sheffield but blimey. With respect. Sheffield? Still. It could have been worse. Ronan Keating was also playing in Sheffield.
Dolly
Chapter 3
Everyone's got this secret life that goes on inside their heads, but what happens when it gets out? You take my little Dolly. A right old Looking For Mr Goodbar - but who'd have thought, who'd have guessed?
I found it fantastically sexual - find it or found it? - even if it was really quite strange. But that perversity was part of the thrill. There I was, taking the kids to Queen's Park playground, helping LouLou to have a wee - "Do you want a wee or a poo? Are you sure?" - while at the same time my hand was slipping inside Dolly's black thong and gently rubbing her wet, expectant… yeah well, you know. And Elly and LouLou had no idea what I was doing to Dolly and Dolly had no idea what I was doing with Elly or LouLou.
Harmful or harmless? At this stage of the game, I really don't know. Pleasurable, certainly. I can't tell you how I was turned on by yesterday's game obviously it was a kind of tantric non-ejaculatory orgasm - but I kinda like them, I kinda like the blend of release and discipline. Did she get anything out of it? I don't know. I guess I'll get a feel for that later. But given the chance, I'll get better at this. I'll learn.
Its strange how you can get a feeling for someone just through this most unsatisfactory method of contact. Really, text messaging doesn't work for me because you can't rabbit, you can't allow your thoughts to flow, everything gets abbreviated. The structure of your words the abbreviated and then, to accommodate them, the structure of your thoughts get abbreviated. But it's an exploratory process. Maybe how it works is this. Maybe because your thoughts are so uncluttered it leaves more room for the imagination and maybe that's where the soul lies.
Dolly has now taken on almost completely new persona. She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to.
Blew it. Like a kid with a new toy, I broke it just as I was getting to understand how it worked. It was such a long shot - such a long shot - and I didn't play the percentages. I don't know why I didn't - I usually do - but this time I didn't. It's so funny. If I'd have only given it a minutes thought, if I'd have only taken a step outside my bulging underpants and looked at the reality.
She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to. But that's it. That's what happened. You - you dickhead - got confused between the reality and the fantasy. The reality was that she's a nice Jewish girl who's maybe feeling like she's in a rut and is playing with the idea of breaking out but would never actually do anything about it - and rightly so. Why on earth should she? With so much to lose and so little (actually nothing) to gain, why should she? And you, you've got exactly the same to lose and exactly the same to gain - precisely nothing.
Here's another question. Is the erotic fantasy heightened or diminished by the reality? Diminished is the obvious answer, but is it the true answer? I think so but there's a side of me that is drawn to what she represents. Why? I don't know. It's what I ran from all the time I was near it but... It's too bloody simple to start talking about fucking the past, but maybe it's a control thing. Wanting to get some sense of retrospective control. Listen, just because its tin pot fortune cookie psychology doesn't mean it's not true.
And now? Now I don't know. That was part male stupidity, part stupid dick-thinking, part sabotage. It's interesting that all that chat I had with Gill and Helen the other night about flirting and what men want... what they said is exactly true. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind? What do you think? That you're so bloody attractive, so bloody clever that rules fall in front of you like dominoes? Just a little bit arrogant, no? For someone with as many hang-ups as you, you don't half push it sometimes. And now you're paying the price.
But never mind. Don't be so hard on yourself.
That's the other interesting thing. That you think you're such an individual but you do just the same things as everyone else, fall into the same traps, do the same idiot things as everyone else. Maybe it's all a delusion, maybe it's just an illusion. What is it about this age that makes us open, so open to chance? The chance that we might throw it all away, the chance that everything we've worked for... gone. And for what? A momentary grasp for some strange confirmation that we're not old and not grey and not boring. That we can all still be young and vibrant even though we know we're probably not.
Everyone's got this secret life that goes on inside their heads, but what happens when it gets out? You take my little Dolly. A right old Looking For Mr Goodbar - but who'd have thought, who'd have guessed?
I found it fantastically sexual - find it or found it? - even if it was really quite strange. But that perversity was part of the thrill. There I was, taking the kids to Queen's Park playground, helping LouLou to have a wee - "Do you want a wee or a poo? Are you sure?" - while at the same time my hand was slipping inside Dolly's black thong and gently rubbing her wet, expectant… yeah well, you know. And Elly and LouLou had no idea what I was doing to Dolly and Dolly had no idea what I was doing with Elly or LouLou.
Harmful or harmless? At this stage of the game, I really don't know. Pleasurable, certainly. I can't tell you how I was turned on by yesterday's game obviously it was a kind of tantric non-ejaculatory orgasm - but I kinda like them, I kinda like the blend of release and discipline. Did she get anything out of it? I don't know. I guess I'll get a feel for that later. But given the chance, I'll get better at this. I'll learn.
Its strange how you can get a feeling for someone just through this most unsatisfactory method of contact. Really, text messaging doesn't work for me because you can't rabbit, you can't allow your thoughts to flow, everything gets abbreviated. The structure of your words the abbreviated and then, to accommodate them, the structure of your thoughts get abbreviated. But it's an exploratory process. Maybe how it works is this. Maybe because your thoughts are so uncluttered it leaves more room for the imagination and maybe that's where the soul lies.
Dolly has now taken on almost completely new persona. She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to.
Blew it. Like a kid with a new toy, I broke it just as I was getting to understand how it worked. It was such a long shot - such a long shot - and I didn't play the percentages. I don't know why I didn't - I usually do - but this time I didn't. It's so funny. If I'd have only given it a minutes thought, if I'd have only taken a step outside my bulging underpants and looked at the reality.
She's almost completely detached from the person I originally wrote to. But that's it. That's what happened. You - you dickhead - got confused between the reality and the fantasy. The reality was that she's a nice Jewish girl who's maybe feeling like she's in a rut and is playing with the idea of breaking out but would never actually do anything about it - and rightly so. Why on earth should she? With so much to lose and so little (actually nothing) to gain, why should she? And you, you've got exactly the same to lose and exactly the same to gain - precisely nothing.
Here's another question. Is the erotic fantasy heightened or diminished by the reality? Diminished is the obvious answer, but is it the true answer? I think so but there's a side of me that is drawn to what she represents. Why? I don't know. It's what I ran from all the time I was near it but... It's too bloody simple to start talking about fucking the past, but maybe it's a control thing. Wanting to get some sense of retrospective control. Listen, just because its tin pot fortune cookie psychology doesn't mean it's not true.
And now? Now I don't know. That was part male stupidity, part stupid dick-thinking, part sabotage. It's interesting that all that chat I had with Gill and Helen the other night about flirting and what men want... what they said is exactly true. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind? What do you think? That you're so bloody attractive, so bloody clever that rules fall in front of you like dominoes? Just a little bit arrogant, no? For someone with as many hang-ups as you, you don't half push it sometimes. And now you're paying the price.
But never mind. Don't be so hard on yourself.
That's the other interesting thing. That you think you're such an individual but you do just the same things as everyone else, fall into the same traps, do the same idiot things as everyone else. Maybe it's all a delusion, maybe it's just an illusion. What is it about this age that makes us open, so open to chance? The chance that we might throw it all away, the chance that everything we've worked for... gone. And for what? A momentary grasp for some strange confirmation that we're not old and not grey and not boring. That we can all still be young and vibrant even though we know we're probably not.
Other Room Services
Chapter Two
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express. Another great call from The Express. It's the Deputy Editor's office:
"Jeremy, it's Charlie from Nicky Brigss' office. I've just been onto Murray at EMI and he couldn't tell me. Do you know when your Kylie review is running?"
Murray is Kylie's PR. He's a sweet. A mate of Chris and Amanda from Blanch House.
"Charlie. You don't know and Murray doesn't know."
"No, do you know when it will be running?"
Ah, he joys of working for The Express. The perfect place for the incognito writer, for someone on the run. No need to bother with safe houses or sticky-on beards. No. Simply get a job with The Express. Not only doesn't anyone read the paper, not only don't the PR people care, but the deputy bastard editor of the paper itself doesn't read it.
Mind you, I can see her point.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express, chuffing its way through the English countryside past a field shared by horses and cows - you see, the struggles of the countryside. You townies, you just don't understand what it's like. Animals of a different hue being forced to share living quarters - and on our way to the International Arena for Night One of a two night knickertastic extravaganza. Big Barry Manilow. Could life get any better?
Tonight we're staying in the exotically named The Big Sleep hotel, a grade up from The Ibis and, crucially, about 200 yards nearer the Cardiff International Arena. I get in, check in. The Big Sleep is supposed to be Britain's first 'designer chain' hotel. Fine. I can do designer. Curiously, the designer style they've opted for at The Big Sleep is minimalist. £58 for a nights big sleep and breakfast. "But we only do a continental breakfast, sir". A great phrase. Continental breakfast. Like a croissant and a box of cornflakes from a Kellogg's Variety selection and a glass of freshly poured orange juice was some strange and exotic beast. Everything else is OK. There's even an adult channel on the telly. No free viewing period, mind, a sure sign that it's about as erotic as some home improvements show. Still, it's only £4 and it comes up on the bill as "other room services". That'll fool them back in the office when I submit the bill for expenses. After last week, I know the routine. Over to the UGC (the cinema - oh, do pay attention) and "Excuse me. What's the next film on?" Hope it's not The Scorpion King even though I still haven't got a clue what it is."The Panic Room - it's good. Got Jodie Foster". Made by the geezer who did Fight Club (good at the time, crap in retrospect) and Seven (great film). Wee, popcorn, in. It was OK. Passed the time. A fairly formulaic 'who's going to live, who's going to die' thriller that started off going nowhere and ended up going nowhere and didn't really go anywhere in between. If we weren't in Cardiff and it wasn't Barry Manilow I was going to see and if we weren't going up to Manchester to see Enrique and his Dancing Iglesias tomorrow night and I was at home putting up some shelves in the shoe cupboard... I could get quite used to this running around going to gigs caper.
So anyway. It's 6.32am and the phone goes. What with the room services and now the phone... so much for The Big Sleep. Gill. "Is the pet insurance up to date?" It seems that Lexa (small white dog) has been sick, badly sick, and Gill's taking her to the vet. "OK". About an hour later, the phone goes again. Gill. In tears. Lexa (ex-small white dog) is dead. Luckily, the girls are having their own Big Sleep over at Helen's and so that one doesn't have to be crossed yet. Lexa's dead. A bullet of mortality shooting through our previously impregnable little unit. Without wanting to sound harsh, if any of them had to go, she'd have got my vote. She'd have got everyone's vote I imagine, but that doesn't mean I wanted her gone. She wasn't very old, but she had a good life. Well, an easy life. I wonder (selfishly) what the long term implications might be. Now that our little unit has been cracked, what else might happen? Now maybe there's a crack in the protective glass. Things could get out. Things could get in. Psychobacteria. Back in London, en route to the North. I don't know why I'm back in London when i could have gone straight from Cardiff to Manchester, but back in London I am. Three hours to kill. Gill phones with word about The Juicy Awards. I'm surprised it got in so quickly. The answer is, as ever, retail. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio for Gill, a pair of trainers for me (the others got muddy in the garden) and a new CD player and cassette deck cos they were all dusty and covered in crap because I didn't take them out of the kitchen when all that work started. OK, so a tube or whatever of Mr Sheen would have been cheaper but really. How much fun? Oh, I know. I'll go into a supermarket and buy some furniture polish. That will make me feel better. That will make me feel powerful again. The other thing with shopping is that it's got to be notes. A credit card just doesn't do it. I've got to do the whole deal - get the wallet out, peel off the notes. Maybe I'll lick a finger as I peel off the notes.
The train to Manchester is full. It seems there's a football match on and the train is full of Manchester United fans and Arsenal fans on their way. (What do you mean? Of course the Manchester United fans were travelling up from London). "We're going to win the league". "No you're not". That was basically the inter-train debate. (We could get a 'train of thought' gag in here but fuck it. Maybe next time).
Le Meridien was a bit more upmarket - at £200 a night it should be. (Manchester was full of Arsenal and Man U fans up for the match, remember). Still Kenco bastard coffee in the room but there are nice little touches like a dressing gown (one) and little Japanese style slippers (curiously two pairs - why two?) and the shortbread biscuits (also two) nestling next to the sachets of coffee. A sense of duty forces me to check out the telly (£7.95 - Room Services) and - now here's the bonus of a £200 a night hotel - there's a freeview period. So I look and it's another home improvements show. The Brits really have no idea. Off. I'd have a bath but then there'd be the question of which pair of slippers to wear and I'm not sure I want more decisions at this stage of the game. Enrique was fab. All glistening muscles and white vest. Didn't sing a word all night but held the microphone beautifully. Actually I don't care about that whole 'singing live' thing. Who cares? The testosterone's real and that's what people go for. Arsenal won the match and I can't work out what's worse. When they won and they were dull and boring or when they win with panache and style. I think I prefer hating them now. There's more the sense of a curmudgeon about it. Old Man Steptoe would have done that.
5.30am. On the way out. Stop to pay the bill. The internet connection and something from the mini-bar and "Room services - £7.95". So much for the free viewing period.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express. Another great call from The Express. It's the Deputy Editor's office:
"Jeremy, it's Charlie from Nicky Brigss' office. I've just been onto Murray at EMI and he couldn't tell me. Do you know when your Kylie review is running?"
Murray is Kylie's PR. He's a sweet. A mate of Chris and Amanda from Blanch House.
"Charlie. You don't know and Murray doesn't know."
"No, do you know when it will be running?"
Ah, he joys of working for The Express. The perfect place for the incognito writer, for someone on the run. No need to bother with safe houses or sticky-on beards. No. Simply get a job with The Express. Not only doesn't anyone read the paper, not only don't the PR people care, but the deputy bastard editor of the paper itself doesn't read it.
Mind you, I can see her point.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express, chuffing its way through the English countryside past a field shared by horses and cows - you see, the struggles of the countryside. You townies, you just don't understand what it's like. Animals of a different hue being forced to share living quarters - and on our way to the International Arena for Night One of a two night knickertastic extravaganza. Big Barry Manilow. Could life get any better?
Tonight we're staying in the exotically named The Big Sleep hotel, a grade up from The Ibis and, crucially, about 200 yards nearer the Cardiff International Arena. I get in, check in. The Big Sleep is supposed to be Britain's first 'designer chain' hotel. Fine. I can do designer. Curiously, the designer style they've opted for at The Big Sleep is minimalist. £58 for a nights big sleep and breakfast. "But we only do a continental breakfast, sir". A great phrase. Continental breakfast. Like a croissant and a box of cornflakes from a Kellogg's Variety selection and a glass of freshly poured orange juice was some strange and exotic beast. Everything else is OK. There's even an adult channel on the telly. No free viewing period, mind, a sure sign that it's about as erotic as some home improvements show. Still, it's only £4 and it comes up on the bill as "other room services". That'll fool them back in the office when I submit the bill for expenses. After last week, I know the routine. Over to the UGC (the cinema - oh, do pay attention) and "Excuse me. What's the next film on?" Hope it's not The Scorpion King even though I still haven't got a clue what it is."The Panic Room - it's good. Got Jodie Foster". Made by the geezer who did Fight Club (good at the time, crap in retrospect) and Seven (great film). Wee, popcorn, in. It was OK. Passed the time. A fairly formulaic 'who's going to live, who's going to die' thriller that started off going nowhere and ended up going nowhere and didn't really go anywhere in between. If we weren't in Cardiff and it wasn't Barry Manilow I was going to see and if we weren't going up to Manchester to see Enrique and his Dancing Iglesias tomorrow night and I was at home putting up some shelves in the shoe cupboard... I could get quite used to this running around going to gigs caper.
So anyway. It's 6.32am and the phone goes. What with the room services and now the phone... so much for The Big Sleep. Gill. "Is the pet insurance up to date?" It seems that Lexa (small white dog) has been sick, badly sick, and Gill's taking her to the vet. "OK". About an hour later, the phone goes again. Gill. In tears. Lexa (ex-small white dog) is dead. Luckily, the girls are having their own Big Sleep over at Helen's and so that one doesn't have to be crossed yet. Lexa's dead. A bullet of mortality shooting through our previously impregnable little unit. Without wanting to sound harsh, if any of them had to go, she'd have got my vote. She'd have got everyone's vote I imagine, but that doesn't mean I wanted her gone. She wasn't very old, but she had a good life. Well, an easy life. I wonder (selfishly) what the long term implications might be. Now that our little unit has been cracked, what else might happen? Now maybe there's a crack in the protective glass. Things could get out. Things could get in. Psychobacteria. Back in London, en route to the North. I don't know why I'm back in London when i could have gone straight from Cardiff to Manchester, but back in London I am. Three hours to kill. Gill phones with word about The Juicy Awards. I'm surprised it got in so quickly. The answer is, as ever, retail. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio for Gill, a pair of trainers for me (the others got muddy in the garden) and a new CD player and cassette deck cos they were all dusty and covered in crap because I didn't take them out of the kitchen when all that work started. OK, so a tube or whatever of Mr Sheen would have been cheaper but really. How much fun? Oh, I know. I'll go into a supermarket and buy some furniture polish. That will make me feel better. That will make me feel powerful again. The other thing with shopping is that it's got to be notes. A credit card just doesn't do it. I've got to do the whole deal - get the wallet out, peel off the notes. Maybe I'll lick a finger as I peel off the notes.
The train to Manchester is full. It seems there's a football match on and the train is full of Manchester United fans and Arsenal fans on their way. (What do you mean? Of course the Manchester United fans were travelling up from London). "We're going to win the league". "No you're not". That was basically the inter-train debate. (We could get a 'train of thought' gag in here but fuck it. Maybe next time).
Le Meridien was a bit more upmarket - at £200 a night it should be. (Manchester was full of Arsenal and Man U fans up for the match, remember). Still Kenco bastard coffee in the room but there are nice little touches like a dressing gown (one) and little Japanese style slippers (curiously two pairs - why two?) and the shortbread biscuits (also two) nestling next to the sachets of coffee. A sense of duty forces me to check out the telly (£7.95 - Room Services) and - now here's the bonus of a £200 a night hotel - there's a freeview period. So I look and it's another home improvements show. The Brits really have no idea. Off. I'd have a bath but then there'd be the question of which pair of slippers to wear and I'm not sure I want more decisions at this stage of the game. Enrique was fab. All glistening muscles and white vest. Didn't sing a word all night but held the microphone beautifully. Actually I don't care about that whole 'singing live' thing. Who cares? The testosterone's real and that's what people go for. Arsenal won the match and I can't work out what's worse. When they won and they were dull and boring or when they win with panache and style. I think I prefer hating them now. There's more the sense of a curmudgeon about it. Old Man Steptoe would have done that.
5.30am. On the way out. Stop to pay the bill. The internet connection and something from the mini-bar and "Room services - £7.95". So much for the free viewing period.
Reading
Chapter 4 -
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question but I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. Yoiu know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, no tme. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. It's strange the way the mind works, no? I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem. What's the betting I see Tim De Lisle there? Maybe he came last night? Maybe I could... no.
So here we are in Reading en route for Birmingham. I'm not sure about this. I always thought Birmingham was up and Reading was west. Why we're going to Birmingham via Reading, I'm not entirely sure because, let's be honest, there are more important things to worry about. Like why I'm going to Birmingham. It's one of those things that make you wonder about that thing you worryingly call your career. It's one of those things that make you look back and question all those little crossroads you've encountered. "Should I become a Hollywood screenwriter or maybe a highly paid columnist who writes 800 words a week for some tax exile lump?" It's a fair question but I just wonder whether "No, thanks for asking but I'll continue to write about music for The Express" was the right answer. The doubt about the wisdom of this stance really sets in now. We've just reached somewhere called Didcot Parkway. I'm not sure I'd ever want to live somewhere called Didcot. It's a bit too Postman Pat. "Hello, Mrs Goggins. I'm off to Didcot Parkway. Can I get you anything?"
Birmingham. I don't know. I've just taken an office. This is of no interest to you but I'm just saying by way of, I don't know, a legal notification. Yoiu know the way people used to mail themselves a copy of a script or idea to prove when that it was theirs and that they'd thought of it first, so this is like that. This is modern mail. Anyway, I've rented this office and I'm going to sit there - no phone lines, no e-mail, no cocktail cabinet - and write a novel that's a not so much a work of fiction as a commentary on the modern world. An allegory. I'm going to look at - and this is inspired - the relationship between magpies and house sparrows. It's going to look at the rise of the magpie set against the decline of the sparrow. You remember the way that magpies were rare and exotic when we were kids and sparrows were everywhere? Well, the roles have reversed now, and - and this is fantastic - we can talk about nostalgia, maybe have a scene where the protagonists talk about how sparrows were better in their day. We can talk about the superficiality of contemporary society and ponder whether sparrows would have been more successful if they'd had that bluey-greeny-purpley bit. Could we have magpies, crows and seagulls cast as a modern mafia. What do you reckon? It's not expensive, this office.
Almost got away with it. It must have been some subliminal impulse to escape. To not do it. But it was too much. I checked the ticket to see what time it started and, naturally, it didn't say. It said something like "Doors open at 6pm" like we'd all be rushing there extra early, for fear of missing even a minute of the treat. So no, no tme. But it had a date. July 2. Now then. I'm an educated man. I know about these things. July 2 is a Tuesday and today can't be July 2 because today is a Wednesday. The gig was yesterday and I'm here today. For a music critic - a man who reviews concerts for a living - this potentially is a problem. It's strange the way the mind works, no? I could, I guess, get creative and no one - well, neither person who reads my music page - would know or care. But my mazel, something would happen at the gig and, of course, I wouldn't know about it because despite the 500 word review in the Mighty Express (4 stars, a fine show where he reaffirmed his position as blah blah) I was actually at home watching EastEnders on BBC Choice. If only I had genes like Colin Jackson I could hurdle this problem. What's the betting I see Tim De Lisle there? Maybe he came last night? Maybe I could... no.
Nancy
Chapter - For The Love Of Nancy
I feel bewitched by Nancy. Everywhere I look, there she is. Nancy. She's on the front page of the Mail. She's got a double page spread in The Sun. Nancy. I feel bewitched. Feverishly I check the other papers. Nancy Nancy Nancy. She's everywhere and nowhere. Nancy. An enigma. She says nothing. She does nothing. But still she's there. The front page of the Daily Mail. There's a huge banner headline, across the width of thyme page just under the logo and more prominent than the lead story that says "Nancy: So what's she trying to tell Sven now?" and a huge picture, the length of the page, of this woman in a green-gold ballgown. Nancy. I don't suppose it's any madder than any thing else in the papers but it does make you think "Did I turn right when everyone else turned left?" The Mail is one of the biggest selling newspapers in the land. The editors must have a fair idea of what it is that their people want and I wouldn't back my judgement against theirs. Obviously putting this Nancy on the front page is a smart thing to do. Obviously people care about Nancy. But why? Why on earth should anyone care about this woman who, as far as I know, has never uttered a word about anything to anyone. Leaving aside the question of just how it is that the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team has reached that rarified level of fame where only a first name will do... No - how did that happen? She's the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team - an unsuccessful manager of an unsuccessful England football team at that.
Never mind. We've just passed a place that sells "garage doors as individual as you are". It takes a while to get that one into my head. "Garage doors as individual as you are". as an idea. it's a bit HR Puff'n'stuff What do you suppose it looks like, this garage door that's as individual as you are? Mine would, I hope, look interesting if a bit frayed round the edges. Black, yes, black with an ornate silver handle and would open about an hour or so after it was supposed to.
It's like your first pill. That feeling of how could anything be this good? That idea that, this is it. I'm never going to stop doing this, that would be stupid. When you can feel this good why would you choose not to be? Come here, no come here, really I've got to tell you something nah, nah it's really important and... You know?
I've just noticed that this is a 'Quiet Coach' - no laptops, it says. No one says anything to me about my laptop so I figure I'm just going to carry on typing. Well, I don't know - in fairness they might have said something and the chances are I wouldn't have heard anything. Well, not with The Streets' Original Pirate Material playing at force nine through my Jog Proof with G-Protection CD Walkman. No idea what G-Protection is, but it is definitely Jog Proof. But then again, most things in my life are jog proof. 'No personal stereos' it says just under the bit where it says 'No laptops'. And I'm sitting here with a personal stereo playing while tapping into my laptop. There are now quite a few people looking at me. Maybe the G on the Jog Proof CD Walkman stands for 'gaze'. Or 'glare'. "Customer demand has led us to introduce this quiet coach" it says next to a line of symbols like you get on a dry clean only jacket. No this, no that. Why is it that, at the age of 44 - which, by most reckonings, has to be after we've swapped ends at half-time - I'm gripped by a desire to light up a fag? 'No smoking in this vehicle'. Obviously. I hadn't thought about it before - to be honest if anything I'd thought I was doing quite well in my latest effort at kicking the habit, a habit which by common consensus is harder to kick than just about any drug you care to name. I hadn't had a fag since the last time it was dark which, come to think of it, it was again now.
I feel bewitched by Nancy. Everywhere I look, there she is. Nancy. She's on the front page of the Mail. She's got a double page spread in The Sun. Nancy. I feel bewitched. Feverishly I check the other papers. Nancy Nancy Nancy. She's everywhere and nowhere. Nancy. An enigma. She says nothing. She does nothing. But still she's there. The front page of the Daily Mail. There's a huge banner headline, across the width of thyme page just under the logo and more prominent than the lead story that says "Nancy: So what's she trying to tell Sven now?" and a huge picture, the length of the page, of this woman in a green-gold ballgown. Nancy. I don't suppose it's any madder than any thing else in the papers but it does make you think "Did I turn right when everyone else turned left?" The Mail is one of the biggest selling newspapers in the land. The editors must have a fair idea of what it is that their people want and I wouldn't back my judgement against theirs. Obviously putting this Nancy on the front page is a smart thing to do. Obviously people care about Nancy. But why? Why on earth should anyone care about this woman who, as far as I know, has never uttered a word about anything to anyone. Leaving aside the question of just how it is that the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team has reached that rarified level of fame where only a first name will do... No - how did that happen? She's the girlfriend of the manager of the England football team - an unsuccessful manager of an unsuccessful England football team at that.
Never mind. We've just passed a place that sells "garage doors as individual as you are". It takes a while to get that one into my head. "Garage doors as individual as you are". as an idea. it's a bit HR Puff'n'stuff What do you suppose it looks like, this garage door that's as individual as you are? Mine would, I hope, look interesting if a bit frayed round the edges. Black, yes, black with an ornate silver handle and would open about an hour or so after it was supposed to.
It's like your first pill. That feeling of how could anything be this good? That idea that, this is it. I'm never going to stop doing this, that would be stupid. When you can feel this good why would you choose not to be? Come here, no come here, really I've got to tell you something nah, nah it's really important and... You know?
I've just noticed that this is a 'Quiet Coach' - no laptops, it says. No one says anything to me about my laptop so I figure I'm just going to carry on typing. Well, I don't know - in fairness they might have said something and the chances are I wouldn't have heard anything. Well, not with The Streets' Original Pirate Material playing at force nine through my Jog Proof with G-Protection CD Walkman. No idea what G-Protection is, but it is definitely Jog Proof. But then again, most things in my life are jog proof. 'No personal stereos' it says just under the bit where it says 'No laptops'. And I'm sitting here with a personal stereo playing while tapping into my laptop. There are now quite a few people looking at me. Maybe the G on the Jog Proof CD Walkman stands for 'gaze'. Or 'glare'. "Customer demand has led us to introduce this quiet coach" it says next to a line of symbols like you get on a dry clean only jacket. No this, no that. Why is it that, at the age of 44 - which, by most reckonings, has to be after we've swapped ends at half-time - I'm gripped by a desire to light up a fag? 'No smoking in this vehicle'. Obviously. I hadn't thought about it before - to be honest if anything I'd thought I was doing quite well in my latest effort at kicking the habit, a habit which by common consensus is harder to kick than just about any drug you care to name. I hadn't had a fag since the last time it was dark which, come to think of it, it was again now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
