Rejection...

I achieved a personal record for my latest play being rejected today.

It was rejected by one theatre company within a seven-day period – and that included time for the script to travel there and time for the rejection letter to travel back. It also included a weekend...

Today I've also had a quite damning report back from another theatre company I sent the play to.

I should be depressed. My confidence should be knocked. I should be humbled.

But I'm not. Fuck 'em. Their opinions are wrong and I remain right in my view that it's a strong and well-written play.

And the Missus thinks I don't take criticism well...

Alpha Male...

I had a discussion with the Missus last week and made a comment suggesting she'd landed on her feet to snag an alpha male like me for a husband.

Her reaction was to snort with derision and point out that the alphabet was not long enough to classify the type of male I actually was. But I chose to ignore her words and rise above it as that's what an alpha male would do.

So tonight we are watching a BBC1 TV show called John Barrowman: The Making of Me. In this Barrowman, a gay man so far out of the closet he would never find his way back from Narnia, did some research into what it was that made him gay. Was it genetic, was it environment, was it upbringing, etc?

It was a pretty good programme and Barrowman remains an eminently likeable TV personality, but at one point some science bodkin told him that an easy way to find out if you are more masculine than feminine is to find out whether your ring finger is longer than your index finger. If this is the case it suggests that there was a high level of testosterone in the womb when you were forming and so are very male. If it's the other way round, however, it suggests there was not as much testosterone so you will be more feminine.

The Missus tried this test first and her ring fingers were longer than her index fingers. I toyed with the idea of pointing out that this may explain her continual aggression and violence but thought it would not be politic to mention this. The Boy then tried this and he is also of a fervently masculine bent.

Finally I tried it and it's apparently astounding that I'm not wearing dresses. But I've always secretly thought I was a gay man trapped with the body and desires of a raging heterosexual. And so apparently has the Missus...

Fight Quest VI...

I went to a hapkido grading yesterday to see several friends be put through their paces and it was all pretty fab. I did, however, feel pretty left out as I couldn't be an opponent for anyone as I was still nursing an injury...

So when I got home I went in the back garden and trained on my own for about an hour to see how my injury was doing and it's sort of pretty good, so good in fact that I ventured to the boxing gym today to have a bit of a workout.

I'd been there about half an hour when a very pleasant chap asked me if I wanted to spar a few rounds and I declined, citing injury recovery as my reason. Then a few minutes later my boxing coach came over and encouraged me to give it a go with the words: 'You may be recovering from injury but this is your chance to hit a Tory MP...'

So I was soon gloved up doing some light sparring and it was good fun. He was about the same level as me as a boxer and he was also a very nice fella.

So it looks like I'm nearly back to full fitness and, even better, I can now say I've been gently banged around the ring by a Tory MP and I loved it.

Make your own gags...

Movie Madness…

Myself and the Boy ventured to the big Movie and Comic Book Convention at Earls Court this weekend.

We pride ourselves on being movie and comic fans but with the geek taken out, although if truth be told I am at the forefront of my own campaign to reclaim the word ‘geek’ and use it as a term of empowerment in the same way the gay community now uses the word ‘queer’.

There was quite healthy turnout for this event and myself and the Boy were fascinated to see that lots of people had dressed up for it. So we’re wandering around and we turn one corner and there’s a man dressed in a home-made Transformers costume, we turn another corner and there’s a very sweet lesbian couple walking round hand-in-hand (but one of them is dressed as a Jedi knight with light sabre hanging from her belt).

There was also a young girl dressed as Red Sonja who was getting quite a lot of attention, mainly because she was showing quite a lot of flesh and you get the impression not many attendees got the chance to get up that close to a near-naked woman. Add in a few dozen folk in Star Trek costumes, many bods dressed as comic characters and various people in horror and other sci-fi movie garb and you get the idea.

It was the sort of place where Tron Man would be king. In fact the only place where Tron Man would be king…

The Boy sported his Green Lantern t-shirt and I felt particularly under-dressed as I hadn’t even worn the obligatory comic character t-shirt showing allegiance to the tribe of geek. Then walking around one corner the Boy suddenly says something to me that sounds like ‘There’s no way he’ll fit into an X-man…’

So I look around trying to spot the X-man in question without success.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘There!’ says the Boy pointing in front of us.
‘I can’t see any X-men…’
‘X-wing. I said he’d never fit in an X-wing.’

I look ahead and see a very portly chap dressed like an X-wing fighter pilot from Star Wars. And he was right. He never would fit into an X-wing. The Boy, however, remained still stunned I misunderstood him.
‘I said X-wing not X-man. I mean, how is anyone going to fit into an X-man?’
I pause.
‘He could try to shag him…’

The Boy looks at me in disgust.
‘You’re so wrong in the head…’

Apparently a portly man dressed as an X-wing pilot trying to anally rape another man dressed in an X-men costume is beyond the pale. Modern youth, eh?

Pussy News...

The Missus thinks I am a lunatic because I talk to our remaining cat Buffy, whose mother passed away last year.

The Boy also thinks this a tad odd and he will often come downstairs when the Missus is out and ask me who I was talking to. When I reply 'I was just talking to Buffy...' he looks at me as though I'm not not quite right in the head and wanders off muttering insults under his breath...

But the Missus has now decided she wants a new kitten in the house and has herself started having full-blown conversations with Buffy about how she'll feel about us getting a new kitten (which she has already christened Spike). The Boy is also making casual inquiries about the views of the cat on our impending kitten arrival.

But even worse the Missus is behaving in quite an affectionate way as she tries to convince me that this new addition to From Beer To Paternity Towers will be a good idea. Now I'm not used to marital affection as I've never had it and, to be quite honest, I find it slightly disturbing.

But I am also secretly enjoying the power that being the kitten deal-breaker gives me. I think I could get a new cue out of this if I play my cards right...

Fight Quest V...

A common complaint among most men is: 'My wife doesn't understand me...' But there is a much worse condition than that and it is the following: 'My wife understands me perfectly. In fact she understands me so perfectly that her understanding is almost telepathic.'

For example, when I was trying to find late Victorian pornography last year as part of research for a play I could happily explain this to my wife and she didn't bat an eyelid because she understood. Similarly when I found the grave of a famous Victorian prostitute last year I went visiting and my wife understood.

I fear, however, I now may have crossed a line and that line is watching Nuts TV.

For those who have yet to sample the delights of Nuts TV it's essentially pub sports, fighting and really badly produced soft porn masquerading as 'adult' entertainment shows. Like the magazine it is based on it's tawdry rubbish aimed at knuckleheads but last night I became one of those knuckleheads as flicking through the TV channels I spotted it had a show on cage fighting.

So I decided to watch this as, despite injury, I am still a wannabe UFC fighter and I thought it would be good research.

The show featured two cage fights from what looked like a leisure centre in Barking or Grimsby and it reminded me how little toe-to-toe battling is involved in cage fighting as the first fight ended up on the ground and stayed there for most of its two rounds, while the second ended in a knockout in about 10 seconds.

It was also hardly glamorous stuff and this is the sort of arena wannabe fighter have to start off in if they want to get anywhere. Frankly it's along way from the UFC...

So I may have to learn Brazilian ju-jitsu or some other ground-fighting art if my bid to be a proper fighter is ever to be realised. Or I could just be like the guy who got knocked out and be a journeyman punchbag.

Or I could just ensure I'm back in working order and stick to the hapkido and boxing training I do without the risk of serious injury by knocking this perhaps foolhardy idea on the head...

Injury News...

My shoulder is still not better so I bought a book on martial arts injuries so I can help heal the damaged area more quickly.

When it arrived I read it in about two days and it was pretty comprehensive, featuring advice on strapping, icing and physiotherapy. Unfortunately I put it on the floor of my office to take downstairs while I was on the internet and forgot it was there...

The Missus then shouted me downstairs so I came out of my office, tripped up over the book and fell and hurt my arm some more.

The book is obviously not that good at injury prevention and care...

Album...

I suddenly have a desire to load pictures on my Facebook page,
some panicked and pathetic bid
to leave
a footprint of something,
somewhere.

So I go home and uproot my office to see what’s where
and I find a photo of my father,
sat in his chair,
reaching for the telly
remote.

It was taken in 1989 and the simmering civil war
between him and my mother
had not yet broken out,
even though signs of hostilities were ever
present.

I find another shot of him lining up for Goole Town FC in 1964,
fresh-faced and smiling,
possessing the kind of surety that only
small-town celebrity can
bestow.

Dead now some 14 years he had many sayings,
some were utter rubbish but some
conferred a wisdom. Of sorts.
‘You can’t educate pork’ was my particular
favourite

but ‘Life’s no rehearsal’ was the one he favoured most.
Dead now some 14 years and me not there yet,
I’m slowly getting
where he was coming from
with that.

Meat...

Here's the opening scene of a play I'm just finishing rewrites on. It's called Meat and it's about sexual commodification and disease in 1880s London.

SCENE 1: INTERIOR. HOUSE OF ASSIGNATION. KENSINGTON.
Grams: Jerusalem.
Lights up. A spartan but clean bedroom in a Victorian house of assignation. Simms, a dwarf in his mid-thirties, stands up. Mrs Fenton, a fortysomething woman of polite breeding and refinement, stands too. She removes a veil. She is nervous.

SIMMS
I trust my carriage was to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
Your man was both punctual and courteous, Mr Simms. Is this to be the place for our ‘lesson’?

SIMMS
It is. It may lack in grandeur but the woman who owns the house is a long-time acquaintance and keeps it clean. More importantly the house is quiet and unassuming.

MRS FENTON
Five pounds is the agreed fee?

SIMMS
That is correct.

MRS FENTON
And I assume complete discretion is promised?

SIMMS
It is guaranteed. I also offer a refund to all ‘pupils’ if the ‘lesson’ is not carried out to their full satisfaction.

MRS FENTON
Good… May I inquire as to your ‘health’?

SIMMS
My ‘health’?

MRS FENTON
Yes. Your… (She gestures to Simms’ groin area) ‘health’.

SIMMS
(Understanding) My apologies. My ‘health’ is excellent. I only provide ‘lessons’ to ladies of status and virtue so I have never had ‘health’ issues of any description, be it ‘burning’, ‘French disease’ or any other similar malady. I have documentation confirming this from a reputable surgeon who specialises in such matters should you wish to see it.

MRS FENTON
No, no. That will not be necessary… But if you don’t mind me saying, Mr Simms… I mean, your advertisement in the newspaper did not mention… The description was… You do not strike me as…

SIMMS
Particularly tall?

MRS FENTON
Yes…

SIMMS
And you are concerned that my lack of vertical inches may equate with a lack of ‘manliness’ elsewhere?

MRS FENTON
I would never…

SIMMS
If I were at liberty to divulge my current client list, and if they were disposed to reveal what ‘entertainments’ they enjoyed while their husbands were away, you would have references from several leading lights of London society. And those ladies would affirm I have the inches of a man many times my height and the ‘manliness’ of 20 men of a Herculean build.

MRS FENTON
I see…

SIMMS
In fact if you will allow me to briefly lock the door I will allow a full examination of the aforementioned inches of Toby…

MRS FENTON
‘Toby?’

SIMMS
I find it helpful to give my attribute a name then should clients tire of over-vigorous exertions they can ask me to ‘Quell Toby’ while they rest, rather than employ the type of language used by dollymops or women of less gentle refinement.

MRS FENTON
A considerate approach, Mr Simms.

SIMMS
I was always schooled that good manners cost nothing.

MRS FENTON
I suppose it is only right and proper that I inspect the ‘chattels’ before committing to buy.

SIMMS
I am sure my lady would not send her maidservants to purchase the latest fashions without first checking their fit and this transaction is no different. Goods and services for money.

MRS FENTON
Yes. Quite right… Please proceed.

Simms goes to the door and locks it. He draws the curtains, turns down the lamp light and stands with his back to the audience. Simms unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down. His shirt flaps down. His back is still to the audience.

SIMMS
If I may take your hand?

She nervously offers her hand. He takes her hand and places it between his legs. We see her face.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) My…

SIMMS
If I may take your other hand?

He takes her other hand and places it further between his legs.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) Oh my…

SIMMS
My current girth in its flaccid state is three inches and its length six. Once aroused it is four and one half inches in girth and 10 inches in length. It can supply a vigorous pumping motion for one hour before any decline and it has performed for twice that time on occasions. The lady concerned, however, was French nobility and in my experience women of that nation and class are insatiable. With such females sapping their energies it is little wonder their menfolk are rarely victorious in warfare.

Silence.

SIMMS
You may remove your hands at any point.

MRS FENTON
(Remembering herself) Yes. Of course…

She collects herself. Simms pulls up and buttons his trousers, turns up the light on the lamp, undraws the curtains and unlocks the door. He returns to stand in front of her.

SIMMS
I trust everything is to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
I am sure it will be.

SIMMS
Good. I shall expect you next Tuesday at 2pm for three hours. My coachman will meet you at 1pm at the same place as today. After that he will arrange new points of collection and embarkation on a weekly basis. I look forward to our ‘lesson’.

Simms bows. Blackout. Cut to…

Utah Phillips: An Obituary...

Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in the US folk music scene, died on 23 May 2008.

I was a late convert to Utah Phillips and only got on the Phillips bandwagon when he recorded The Past Didn't Go Anywhere, the first of two albums with Ani Di Franco where she took his words and stories and mixed in her own background music. This album, along their second collaboration, Fellow Workers, were fantastic pieces of work in which Utah told stories about the various influential folk musicians and political activists he'd met while travelling the length and breath of the US.

These America-wide journeys of discovery mined a rich historical seam of neglected and sometimes repressed history featuring union organisers and workers battling for decent conditions and wages against much more powerful and often brutally armed opposition.

He was in part a folk historian whose key concern was that the rich history of union activism and working-class struggle should be kept alive in the present. His favourite idea was that of the 'long memory', an idea that insisted modern working people were part of a long, proud and still active history where rights and privileges had been fought for and should still be fought for.

Struggle for better working conditions and human rights, as Phillips often reminded anyone at his gigs, is not just historical memory but a living heritage we should all be involved in, whether it's signing petitions or taking a more active role.

As Phillips said: 'The path of least resistance is what makes the river run crooked.'

A wonderful man. Rest in peace.