Big Break…

The truth is, of course, it probably won’t be a big break at all. The last time I planned to stop playing pool, snooker or any other cue sport for any length of time I went stir crazy after four months and was back playing in a money league after six. As much as I sometimes wish otherwise, it would seem potting balls on a baize of any description is something of an addiction, but it’s also one off those meditative, relaxing practises I need to keep my equilibrium.

The masterplan to take a year out at the end of the season is already gathering pace, though, and in my head it’s like I’ve almost made the leap, which is when, of course, I’ve started playing some good stuff and have started to enjoy playing competitively again.

But I need the break. I have a play on next year and it’s important I put everything I can into making it work so that it’s not only artistically and personally satisfying but so that it also leads somewhere in terms of commercial success, whether that’s getting it staged at a bigger theatre or using it as a platform to tout my writing skills and land writing gigs elsewhere.

On my theatre CV I have a huge amount of artistically credible work as a writer, director and producer: Fringe theatre plays on political and feminist issues, a large-scale community play in Docktown, a community musical in Elvis: The Howden Years, a theatre-in-education tour on domestic violence, a play commissioned by a London health authority on care in the community, the latest show about The Forgiveness Project… And I’m proud of that work because it suggests a continuity of commitment to good causes and a socially responsible and responsive theatre practice.

The one thing I’ve never done, though, is to sit back and take a really businesslike approach to my theatre work and think: How I do make this go somewhere else that will directly benefit me?

So the answer I’ve come up with is to put a comedy on that I’m currently writing with an eye on box office success. I also want to direct this or at least co-direct it and I’m going to run it like a business so I want it to make money and I also want it to have a life after that and be taken on elsewhere. To do that I need to ensure I get some theatre producers in the audience. If I want to get other work from it then I need to ensure I also get some commissioning editors and dramaturg folk along.

This whole process is obviously going to take a lot of work so it’s goodbye competitive pool and hello theatre world. I’m back and I’m hoping it will at least be with a bang of some sort…

RIP: Sid Waddell…

Sports commentator extraordinaire Sid Waddell died at the weekend after a long battle with bowel cancer.

To many he was the voice of darts, both on the BBC when the sport was in its pomp during the 1980s and then on Sky TV when the game’s elite players broke away from the British Darts Organisation to form the Professional Darts Corporation and broadcast tournaments on Sky TV. And for that reason he was one of the voices of my youth as any pub sport on TV was heavily watched at home when I was growing up.

Waddell, the son of a Northumbrian miner, went to Cambridge and graduated in Modern History before embarking on a TV career, launching pub sports TV show Indoor League with Fred Truman as host and also carving out a career as a TV writer with children’s shows Jossy’s Giants and Sloggers.

His darts commentary, however, was the work that won him real affection. In an age of contained and softly spoken expert analysis, Waddell’s boyish enthusiasm and clearly partisan enjoyment of darting contests was refreshing.

He freely mixed classical allusions with the sort of banter you’d hear in any working men’s club or pub and we, his fans, loved him for it.

Some of his more memorable quotes included:
‘Jockey Wilson… all the psychology of a claymore.’
‘There hasn't been this much excitement since the Romans fed the Christians to the Lions.’
‘When Alexander of Macedonia was 33 he cried salt tears because there were no more worlds to conquer... Eric Bristow's only 27.’
‘We couldn't have more excitement if Elvis walked in and asked for a chip sandwich.’
‘Bob Anderson came on stage like the Laughing Cavalier… now he looks like Lee Van Clef on a bad night.’
‘Wade is like a man trying to eat candy floss in a Hadrons Collier.’
‘Keith Deller’s not just an underdog… he's an under puppy.’
‘Look at the man go… it’s like trying to stop a water buffalo with a peashooter.’
‘This lad has more checkouts than Tescos.’
‘William Tell could take an apple off your head. Phil Taylor could take out a processed pea.’
‘Jockey Wilson... What an athlete.’
‘He's about as predictable as a wasp on speed.’
‘It's like trying to pin down a kangaroo on a trampoline.’
‘That's the greatest comeback since Lazarus.’
‘It's the nearest thing to public execution this side of Saudi Arabia.’
‘He looks about as happy as a penguin in a microwave.’
‘The pendulum swings back and forth like a metronome.’
‘He's been burning the midnight oil – at both ends.’
‘As they say at the DHSS, we're getting the full benefit here.’
‘I don't know what he's had for breakfast but Taylor knocked the snap, crackle and pop outta Bristow.’
‘Eat your heart out Harold Pinter… we've got drama with a capital ‘D’ in Essex.’
‘If we'd had Phil Taylor at Hastings against the Normans, they'd have gone home.’

And these were just a few of them.

Thanks for the memories, Sid. I have only one word to describe you: ‘Magic darts!’

Olympics: Part III...

Some thoughts on London 2012:
i) Well done the British aristocracy with medals in shooting, rowing and equestrianism. Yes it may be a lazy assumption to make but quite a lot of them sounded a bit posh, didn't they? Come on. They did...

ii) We are brilliant at track cycling. Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton retire with more gold medals and new kids Jason Kenny and Laura Trott, who was very sweet, come in and look like nailed-on favourites for gold in Rio in 2016. We need to study why we have success in this area and transpose that blueprint to other areas because we are stupidly dominant at this.

iii) So many great moments to enjoy: Jade Jones winning an unexpected gold at Taekwondo; Mo Farah winning golds at 10,000m and 5,000m; Nicola Adams winning the first women's boxing gold; Gemma Gibbons winning an emotional silver at judo; Jess Ennis handling the pressure and coming through to win gold; Yorkshire providing a shedload of gold medals for Team GB.

iv) The Spice Girls should never, ever be reunited again. We've got rid of cholera and we don't want to bring that back. The same should apply to the Spice girls.

v) Well done team America for winning the basketball. It's brilliant to see the most well-paid sportsmen in the world doing so well in an Olympics. Basketball should not be an Olympic sport. Same as tennis in my opinion. What next? Golf? Football? Oh, hang on...

vi) Paul McCartney singing Hey Jude. We don't expect Ali to box any more. We shouldn't expect McCartney to still be the singer he was 30 years ago. Just stop. Please...

vii) Seb Coe. To quote Chris Morris: 'I hate Seb Coe.' But him and his team have done good here.

For me, London 2012 has shown that when there is a combination of the money and the political will and that joins with the support of the people, then Britain can still be great and punch well above its weight.

You just wish politicians of any hue who end up running the country would harness this sort of enthusiasm and funding to make a difference in things like dealing with youth unemployment and rebuilding the economy instead of letting the poor get poorer and bringing in legislation to allow their rich mates to get richer.

But there are no medals and international kudos for that. And you know most politicians, particularly the current lot, don't actually give a fuck about that either. So expect it to be business as usual.

Sad but true...

Olympics: Part II...

Olympics fact: in volleyball the coach can pull each player off twice.

Make your own gags...

Olympics: Part I...

Me and the Missus are discussing who will light the flame at the 2012 London Olympics.
‘Sir Steve Redgrave...’
‘Too obvious.’
‘Mo Farrah...’
‘Not famous enough outside the UK.’
‘Dame Kelly Holmes...’
‘Don’t think so.’

I start to think outside the box.
‘David Beckham...’
‘Too much of a twat.’
‘Eddy the Eagle Edwards...’
‘Wrong Olympics.’
‘Eric Bristow...’
‘Why?’
‘He could throw a lit dark into the unlit flame and light it up.’
‘No.’
‘Tony Knowles...’
Silence.

I take a different track.
‘Stephen Fry...’
‘No sporting connection.’
‘Sean Bean...’
‘Supporting Sheffield United and starring in When Saturday Comes is not a sporting connection.’
‘Muhammad Ali...’
‘He’s American.’
‘But we’re British. We have a history of stealing from other countries. It’s the British way!’
No response. Again.

‘Charles Dickens...’
‘Charles Dickens is dead.’
‘Sherlock Holmes...’
‘Fictional character and also dead.’
‘No he’s not. There’s a new series on next year.’
No response. A brief look of exasperation.

‘Dick Emery...’
‘Dead.’
‘Charlie Chaplin...’
‘Dead.’
‘Benny Hill...’
‘You’re just naming dead comedians now. Please stop.’

We decided I have no idea about who is lighting the Olympic flame. And no idea about anything else either...

Fighting Fit…

It is Saturday night and I am going out to see a night of MMA fighting. A friend’s nephew is on the bill and it’s essentially a lads’ night out that will end up in a pub or a nightclub of some description.

The plan of the Missus, however, is to spend the evening at home watching DVDs while curled up on the sofa with the cats so we are on a DVD-buying mission. She shows me her first suggestion:
‘What is it?’ I inquire.
‘It’s a horror film about a woman alone in a house who is attacked by a maniac.’
‘I’m sure we’d both see the irony if that actually happened while I was out and you were a woman alone in a house who was attacked by a maniac, but do you think it’s the sort of thing you really want to be watching while I’m out and you are a woman alone in a house?’

The Missus thinks and eventually puts it back. Instead she buys a film with Jason Statham, a man we both quite fancy, and Paul, the Simon Pegg and Nick Frost comedy about an alien. She explains:
‘I know we’ve seen it but that way I can still be reminded of you even if you’re not here.’
‘So I’m an alien?’
‘No. You’re called Paul.’
'Right.'

It was nearly affection then I realised I was sort of taking the same approach.
‘Thinking about it I’m doing a similar thing. I’m going to watch people with bad intentions meet and try to spend time damaging and injuring each other. It will be a reminder of you…’

Apparently that wasn’t funny…

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman passed her black belt grading at hapkido and was presented with her black belt at the weekend.

She's trained ridiculously hard to achieve this and she's also come back from two badly broken bones and two operations to reset them.

That's real determination. It shows real strength of character to come back from something like that.

It's also an example that inspires me to be tougher and I'm more durable and less concerned about minor aches and pains because of the example she has set me.

My Other Woman. I'm better because of her friendship. Even the sarcastic and grouchy bits of her friendship. And the many references to me being 'an idiot' bits of her friendship. My thanks.

More Music News...

It was the annual From Beer To Paternity Towers trek down the road to Guildfest this weekend and here are some thoughts.

i) Jimmy Cliff was on the bill on the main stage and about four from the top while Olly Murs was headlining the main stage. What sort of fucking world are we living in where our values are that out-of-kilter? I felt embarrassed for Jimmy Cliff, who was bloody excellent.

ii) The weather was shit awful and it was a veritable mud bath for most of the day. The only time the sun threatened to shine was when Jimmy Cliff came on stage; the time when the heavens opened and it really pissed it down was when Cher Lloyd came on stage. An unfortunate fluke of weather timing or divine justice wishing to drown any fucker who stayed around to listen to Lloyd. You decide...

iii) I very much liked the Signal Fires. They're an indie band from Woking and they're a bit Joy Division, early U2 and Editors. Apart from Jimmy Cliff, they were the best thing I saw. Bastille were also pretty decent.

iv) Nouvelle Vague are a French band. With jazz influences. They do covers and murdered Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division when I saw them. Other songs in their routine also include Blue Monday by New Order. Note to producers: a good idea on paper and two photogenic female singers does not a ground-breaking band make. Fuck off.

v) Demanding £16 for two pies with mash and gravy is daylight robbery. I don't care how good the pies were. You charged £2 for a portion of mash and £1 for a portion of gravy. You should have been wearing masks and carrying flintlock pistols you robbing fuckers.

vi) The memory of Gary Numan is much better than the reality of seeing him live now. Particularly when he suffered from a few technical hiccups and system malfunctions before and during his set. Are Friends Electric? They weren't today, Gary.

Music News...

I've realised I'm becoming a bit full of vitriol of late. I'm pretty sure this is just a natural reaction to doing all the recent theatre work I've been doing and it's my brain's way of recalibrating itself after being submerged in the topic of forgiveness and compassion for so long. But I sort of recognise that and as long the hatred is only happening in my head and quickly passing then I'm not too worried.

As part of my rebalancing therapy, though, I am letting my need to shop off the tight leash it's been on for most of this year and I have discovered a veritable gold mine of musical gems in Ben’s Collectors' Records, a second-hand music shop just off Guildford High Street. And even better it's pretty much £3 for any CD in there so it's not exactly bankrupting me either...

The shop is mainly vinyl and CD but my 20-minute fortnightly visits to this shop to leaf through the wonderfully disorganised shelves of CDs have really got me back into buying music again. I'd allowed buying music to become something of a treat when really it had always been a quite important part of my life from my teenage years onwards. 

So one recent trip saw me buy Paranoid by Black Sabbath, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John, Scarlet And Other Stories by All About Eve, Rant In E Minor by Bill Hicks, The Singles by XYC and I'm Your Man by Leonard Cohen. And all for under £20.

The shop also has a very large collection of classical music CDs and I've located some real bargains in here too. I may have found my new favourite shop. Hurray!

Spleen Venting: Fashion...

I once went to a party with some fashion people. It was on the same day that British troops had gone into Iraq but the only topic of conversation at this party was fashion. Clothes and fashion; fashion and catwalk shows; designers and fashion; models and fashion... You get the picture.

And even though this major event had received wall-to-wall coverage in the press and the radio and the TV, fashion was all these cunts could talk about. And with their beautiful ways and their beautiful clothes, and their interest in only themselves and their stupid fucking opinions about their beautiful ways and their beautiful clothes, I quickly realised I probably didn't like fashion. Or them. At all.

Now let's be clear: liking fashion is not a crime. It clearly should be. But it's not. Elevating it to an art form and pretending it's something of global significance, however, is. And that's entirely what these vacuous shit-for-opinions arsewipes were doing. Now I don't really mind vacuous arseholes. The world's full of them. But at least some of them realise they are vacuous arseholes and make an effort not be. Sometimes... And that's pretty commendable in my book.

But after giving it some consideration I've realised that pretty much everyone I've ever met who's worked in fashion is a vacuous arsehole who doesn't know it. They think they're interesting and chic when actually they're just fucking dullards and a bit thick.

But thinking like this made me feel slightly ashamed. I'd lost my ability to empathise and I realised I was probably giving them a bad press... so I promised the next time I met one I'd try to be more compassionate and not imagine throwing them in a cage with several starved pitbulls and enjoying the bloody spectacle of:
a) them dying horribly and brutally.
b) them dying horribly and brutally and their fave clothes being ripped to shreds in the process.

So I realised I needed a coping mechanism to conjour some empathy and I figured I'd think of other people who had a bad press and try to remember that they were also somebody's son or somebody's daughter. That way I would find compassion in the most unlikely place and simply replicate that process for the fashion people.

And this week my chance to try my new coping mechanism finally came after I met a couple of new people from the fashion world.

Make no mistake, they were utter shitcakes-for-brains oxygen thieves, but instead of adopting my default position of contempt and hatred I used my coping mechanism.

Sadly the only people I could only think of who'd been the victims of such vitriol in the press were Peter Sutcliffe and Myra Hindley. And I started feeling sorry for Sutcliffe and Hindley to be compared to this pair of wankstains...

I clearly need a new strategy. Gun anyone?

Spleen Venting: Office Politics...

I am working late and waiting for the lift to take me to the top floor to get coffee and chocolate, my diet of choice when I'm knackered and in need of a caffeine/sugar rush to get me through the final hours of a press day.

The lift arrives and I press the button for the top floor. As the lift doors start to close what can only be described as a twattery of marketing types and fashion girlies enter. They then repeatedly start ramming the button to take the lift to the ground floor. Bear in mind I've already pressed the button to go the top floor and it is already lit. This is a sign to all lift users of where the lift intends to go. Even stupid people know this.

The doors then close and the lift begins its ascent to various moans of 'Why's it going up?' or 'I thought you pressed the ground floor button?'

There is debate and astonishment and anger towards the original button-presser. I am annoyed and think bad thoughts, then as I exit the lift I hear it go silent.

I then realise that the phrase 'Brain-dead cunts...' that I thought I'd only uttered in my head had actually escaped from my mouth.

I ponder for a moment. What to do? I may have offended people. And that's bad. But then I figured 'Fuck 'em. They deserve to know the truth. Perhaps if more people had actually told them the truth about themselves and their idiot opinions they'd be better and nicer people. I'm actually doing a form of community service by finally giving them a clearer picture of themselves.'

So I smiled to myself and headed for coffee and chocolate, the friend of the profanity-uttering chief sub on press day. My good deed for the day was done and I'd helped make the world a better place. Hurray for me. Probably...

Theatre Thoughts: Part II...

The show finished so I spent a day clearing out my office and making space for new ideas and projects.

This used to be a ritual at the end of any project many years ago and it's amazing how quickly I reverted to this long-forgotten habit. Of course, this particular show is not over: we have reports to file for our funders; hold a debrief meeting to discuss both the process and what we learnt; and hold another debrief meeting about the production and how we improve it before touring next year.

But I'm fired again and wanting to start work on the comedy play I'm now convinced will finally 'break' me and the more serious project I have lined up for later next year, which may well 'break' me in a different way as the research is quite morbid and involving.

I also have other decisions to make about what I do next year because if I'm committing to new productions then I'm going to have to lose something from my schedule to create the time.

But whatever gives the theatre work has to be sustainable. It's no longer enough to just do good work; it now has to pay or have at least the prospect of paid work as an end result. But having that goal to aim for and making that happen will make the commitment worth it. I'm genuinely excited by the possibilities again. And that's a good thing.

And my guiding thinking on this new road will be a quote by Miyamoto Musashi:
'Do nothing which is of no use.'

Or... if it doesn't serve your purpose or advance your goal then forget it.

It will be interesting to see if I can be that single-minded about this personal plan and bring the focus I bring to helping everyone else to my own work.

Theatre Thoughts: Part I...

Tonight is the final performance of Consider This, the play I've been project managing for the past nine months.

The play is inspired by the work of The Forgiveness Project (TFP), a wonderful charity started by Marina Cantacuzino that collects stories from both victims and perpetrators of crime who talk about how they've moved on from their pasts by forgiving other people, forgiving themselves or being forgiven by others.

The play is essentially the story of a stranger on the run from his past who runs into a fabulous storyteller. Their meeting reveals bits about them both coming to terms with their pasts and intercut into this dialogue are read-out stories from TFP, filmed interviews, original music and songs. It's a real multi-media event.

And, a few bits that need tightening up aside, it works as an engaging and entertaining piece of theatre, too. I'm genuinely proud to have helped make this happen.

The play is my first involvement with a theatre company for a decade and working exclusively on the production, fundraising and press side has been hard work; it's been a bit frustrating sometimes, too, but that's mainly because I'm learning to work with people I'm not used to working with and they're suddenly having to learn to work with somebody they barely know. It's probably been a bit frustrating for them at times, too.

But overall I've found it a hugely positive and empowering experience. The theatre company are good people who do good work and they've welcomed me in, which has been quite touching. It's also reassured me that I can do this again and as much as I can do all the production and logistical and fundraising and budget stuff, I do also want to do the creative stuff again. And not just the writing but the directing, too.

So watch this space... that whole side of my life is up and running again. Only, what's different this time? Well... this time I won't let anyone else dictate the terms of my failure but me.

And the goal will be artistically credible work married to commercial success. And it will happen.

Hair Today...

My attempts to grow my hair long and have actually hair rather than a No.1 buzz cut are foundering.

For a start I have no idea what to do with long hair as it's been a decade and a half of not having any. Quite simply I don't know how to style it, what style looks good or what to use to keep that style going. It's like I missed the memo or wasn't listening in that bit of the male grooming class.

I was so desperate not to be beaten by the long hair issue and head for the nearest barber that earlier in the week I even started looking up hair styles for men with glasses on Google. And it's clear I am no Emo (they have big fringes, apparently) and I'm probably not Johnny Depp so I'm a bit knackered really.

I'm actually turning into a bit of a girl over this issue and I may just think 'Sod it. A skinhead is who I am!' But without the racism, right-wing politics and penchant for violence. Obviously.

On the plus side I did make a work colleague laugh yesterday by suggesting the glamour model and keen equestrian Jordan mutilates horses in her spare time.

So that was good.

Quote Of The Week...

'Kindness is in our power, even when fondness is not.'
Samuel Johnson

Great Sights Of Our Time: Part 1...

I was up and about early on Saturday morning to walk into Guildford to drop some publicity off for the play I'm producing.

I was walking over a railway bridge and over the bridge came a bloke who weighed at least 20 stone riding a mobility scooter while smoking a fag.

I still don't know where to start on deconstructing that particular picture.

Bob Marley...

The missus is a huge reggae fan so one of the things to do on our week-off hit-list was to catch up with Kevin MacDonald's film profile of Bob Marley.

This was a pretty in-depth affair and followed Marley's life in chronological order, from his childhood in Nine Mile in Jamaica to his rise as international superstar. Talking heads included son Ziggy, wife Rita, Bunny Wailer, record producer Lee 'Scratch’ Perry,  Island Records supremo Chris Blackwell and girlfriend Cindy Breakspeare.

It's a hugely informative and very entertaining documentary, featuring plenty of footage of Marley on stage and off it, and it captures an eventful life fully lived then cut tragically short by cancer.

The fact he had nearly a dozen kids by several different women while still married to Rita has also made me change my favourite Bob Marley joke. This once went:
Q. How does Bob Marley like his doughnuts?
A. With jammin'.

But it now goes:
Q. How does Bob Marley like his doughnuts?
A. While fucking lots of different women.

Fortunately the film is better than my gags. And it's also made me go through the Marley musical back catalogue, which remains a thing of beauty.

Kapow!

Today I enjoyed a day out with the Boy at Kapow! Comic Convention.

I was a major comics geek through my pre-teens to mid-teens and then again in my late twenties to mid-thirties. And this was a love that was passed on to and encouraged in the Boy. Consequently some of our regular bonding sessions (insert rude but slightly sick incest gag in here) involved trips to London to tour the comic shops.

So the fact the two of us were going here after a few years away from this sort of shenanigans was part deja vu and part I-may-be-getting-back-into-this-again. I've always fancied a go at comic writing and I certainly know enough about the medium to give it a good go.

We had a fab day and the Boy guided me around, which was quite cool.

I also saw two very good panel discussions/QandA affairs. The first was with some of the head honchos from Marvel who talked about their own experiences of getting into the comics industry. The main advice was: make your own opportunities because talent and persistence equals success.

The second was with Warren Ellis, one of my favourite writers of the past two decades. He sounded quite disillusioned with the whole comics industry, citing the fact it seems pretty much in thrall to the movie industry. One story he told about this concerned a mini series I bought about Nick Fury.

The series essentially pitted old spy and Cold War warhouse Fury against the new bright young things running Shield who viewed him as something of an anachronism, a relic of a past era when wars were fought with guns and not hi-tech spyware and surgical strikes. Then a banana republic in South-East Asia erupts and Fury is needed. The series was very good and had a lot to say about global politics and was refreshingly politically incorrect in its world view. It was a very good comic book that was well written and beautifully drawn.

But Warren Ellis said this series essentially got one established and very good comics editor the sack because it affected a deal about a Nick Fury movie linked to George Clooney. A case of the movie tail now wagging the comics dog if ever there was one.

Two artists I saw who also really impressed me doing sketches for fans were Craig Wilson and Becky Cloonan. Both were really nice with people and made time for everyone who came to their tables. I'll certainly buy their work and give it a chance in the future on the back of seeing them in action.

A very good day with the Boy. And I even bought a few more things to read. Which is good if I'm going to write one this year...

Misterman...

I went to the National Theatre with the Missus to see Misterman this week. And it was stunning.

It's a one-man play written by Irish writer Enda Walsh and it stars Cillian Murphy of 28 Days Later fame as fierce evangelist Thomas Magill and various other characters. The play follows Magill over the course of several days as he goes about the business of saving the souls of folk in his home town of Innishfree.

What starts off as funny and quaint gradually descends into horror and tragedy as Magill realises everybody is way past redemption and his grip on the fine lines between fantasy and reality becomes rapidly blurred; think an extended episode of Father Ted written by a Samuel Beckett possessed by the Marquis de Sade and Stephen King and you're sort of there.

The writing felt like it could have been a bit tighter in places but overall the script was pretty brilliant and Walsh more than made up for this by directing and staging the show in one of the most inventive ways I've seen in a long time.

The star of the show, however, was Murphy. I am under no illusion that the Missus would have me dumped and divorced faster than shit goes through a goose if he ever turned up in our bedroom, so I realised in another world I could be watching a potential love rival. But even I was won over. To quote one of my friends who saw the show: 'So that's what real acting is!'

As a writer it's good to see productions that raise the bar. It makes you want to up your own game. And this was one such production.

Epiphany: Part II...

So... A talk to two or three trusted friends, a meeting in a pub with a director friend, a quick three-year business plan scribbled on the back of sheet of script notes and a potential new Fringe theatre company for London is all there. I've even worked out how I can fund it.

All I need to do now is take the chance and make it happen. When you have the will and the belief it's as easy as that...

Epiphany: Part I...

I am not the religious type. I did try it when I was about 13 or 14 but it wasn't really for me.

Then when I got older and started reading up on religion and getting interested in sociology and history my views on religion somewhat hardened as the body count from religious wars started to stack up. And although some religious tolerance has remained, that hardening of view about religion being largely about control and oppression remains my default position.

But I have recently had something of an epiphany. And there were no churches involved. Or any religion of any kind. There was an issue of faith, though...

I'm been back involved with a theatre company for about six months now and I'm project managing their latest - and most ambitious - show. They're a good bunch of people who do credible work and the fact they've invited a relative stranger in and given him such a responsible role either shows they have faith in me and my background. Or they were desperate. Fortunately, I think it was the former rather than the latter.

And much as I'm enjoying doing the work and working with the company on what promises to be a very worthwhile project, it did open my eyes to the fact that I can still do all of this. I had rather stupidly let one bad experience a decade ago stop me creating and devising and directing... and more importantly working with like-minded people.

And the more I thought through this the more I realised I could do this all again for my own work employing actors I now and working with writers I liked. That was the moment of epiphany.

I'm obviously committed to this and another project for the time being. But there is a seed of an idea there... and given enough time it may just start to grow again.

Happy Birthday...

I am 43 on Saturday and the Missus is asking what I want on my birthday.
'I'd like a new Mac.'
'OK.'
'I'd like to have a lazy morning in bed, too...'
'OK.'
'I'd also like to go and and play pool in the afternoon because I've got a match on Sunday...'
'OK.'
'Then I'd really like to have a nice curry with cheesecake for afters at home, then curl up on the sofa with you and watch a bad movie...'
'OK.'
'And if you could be nice to me for a sustained period of time that would also be good.'

There is a pause.
'You always have to push your luck, don't you?'

Guess that's a no to that request, then.

Wax On, Wax Off...

I have hair for the first time in about 16 years.

My normal routine is to go to the barber's whenever it gets about an inch long and get it shaved back to a No.1. But I haven't done this for a while and now it's quite long. For me.

The only problem is I don't know what to do with it or how to style it. I simply don't have the know-how. To rectify this, however, I bought some hair wax and decided to give it a go one morning. It didn't go well.

The Missus entered the bedroom to catch me with white, gloopy stuff all over my hands and my hair going off in several directions at once. I got a pitying look, the sort of look reserved for a child whose mother has just caught him using his new paints on the wall because he didn't know the wallpaper wasn't a canvas. Then I got a sigh as she gestured for me to hand the hair wax over while she set about rectifying the mess I'd made.

The Missus may have married an idiot...

Money, Money, Money...

In a previous life I was a theatre writer, producer and director for a wide range of fringe, youth and large-scale community arts groups.

That particular chapter ended when one theatre company I was involved in disintegrated amid acrimony and some sadness. But I'm now back involved with a Guildford-based theatre company and I'm project-managing their latest production.

We started applying for grants at the end of last year and I've been heavily involved in this process and so far we've won a £10k award from the Arts Council and about £7k from three other funding bodies.

It's nice to realise I still know what I'm doing... but it's also sad to think of the decade I stopped doing it. On the plus side I was building a contented family life with the Missus and the Boy so it was very fruitful in other ways.

It's good to be back amid the thick of a production, though. If I enjoy the experience I may well stick around and do another one...

Grapple...

I'm working on rewrites for Melt but now also up and running with a new play about Catch Wrestling.

It's called Grapple and is going to be about how the birth of MMA is linked to a wrestling gym called The Snake Pit in Lancashire. It's also a bromance. Of sorts.

It's also loosely based on fact. Sort of...

Here's the opening scene.

****************************************************************

SCENE 1: INTERIOR. EZRA’S ROOM. RETIREMENT HOME.
Ezra sits in his arm chair. He is sixtysomething and solid. He wears thick glasses. His clothes suggest a wardrobe that hasn’t been updated since the early 1990s but out of necessity rather than choice. A walking frame is by the side of the chair. He uses this whenever he gets up and has to move around the room. His accent is also a strange hybrid of Lancashire and American. Ezra sits and stares at Chuck. Chuck is in his late twenties and he is lean. His clothes are fashionable and expensive. He wears jeans, a jacket and a t-shirt. He is nervous. He is American.

EZRA
Cuppa before we start?

CHUCK
A cuppa?

EZRA
Tea. Cuppa tea.

CHUCK
I don’t drink tea. Do you have coffee?

EZRA
Yes…

CHUCK
Well I’ll…

EZRA
…but it tastes like something a horse pisses out. And that would be a sick horse, too, a sick horse with a very severe bladder infection.

CHUCK
A very severe bladder infection?

EZRA
They buy the coffee in bulk to save money. But it’s cheap stuff… really cheap stuff… so it saves money but no sod drinks it. And because no sod drinks it they never have to restock it. So it saves them even more money. The buggers who run this place have probably bought… What’s an expensive car?

CHUCK
A Porsche…

EZRA
Yes. One of them… they’ve probably bought Porsches on the money they save from never having to restock coffee here.

CHUCK
Tea will be just fine.

EZRA
Smart move. (Shouting) Rose! You about?

ROSE
(Off-stage) Use the buzzer, Ezra. It’s what it’s there for.

EZRA
(Shouting) The buzzer’s over the other side of the room. I might collapse trying to reach it!

Enter Rose. She is an orderly. She is 40 and wears a nylon uniform that is part cleaner and part care professional.

EZRA
Love of my life…

ROSE
You bloody well wish…

EZRA
If I was 20 years younger…

Rose
You’d still be far too old. And I’m not getting passionate with a man whose hip may collapse at any moment.

EZRA
Lightning can’t strike twice.

ROSE
Knowing my bloody luck, it can. What do you want?

EZRA
Two cups of your finest tea, my love.

ROSE
(Turning to Chuck) We do coffee, too…

CHUCK
Tea’s just fine. Thank-you…

ROSE
We have posh coffee. We’ve got one them café-ti-ere things.

EZRA
I’ve been here 10 years and you’ve not once offered me posh coffee.

ROSE
It’s for guests only.

EZRA
Aren’t I a guest?

ROSE
You’re a resident.

EZRA
Well that means I’m a just guest who’s just decided to stay longer…

ROSE
You’re a resident.

EZRA
More like a bloody prisoner at times…

ROSE
And as to the best of my knowledge you’ve never had a guest so you wouldn’t know the protocol.

EZRA
They should shove their protocol up their bloody ar…

ROSE
Oh shut up you silly old bugger. (To Chuck) Do you want biscuits?

Chuck looks at Ezra. Ezra makes a face to suggest the biscuits will probably be worse than the coffee.

CHUCK
Posh coffee will be just fine, thank-you.

ROSE
Lovely…

Rose exits.

CHUCK
She seems nice…

EZRA
Best bloody thing in here. Only reason I stay…

CHUCK
Really?

EZRA
Among other things…

CHUCK
I don’t mean to be rude… but does anybody here know who you are?

EZRA
That’s who I used to be, son. This is who I am now.

CHUCK
But somebody must have some sort of idea?

EZRA
No bugger’s interested, son. If I was a young lass getting her bits out on telly then I’d have a fighting chance of getting somewhere. But nobody cares about who I used to be.

CHUCK
Who you still are…

EZRA
Your letter was very sweet, son, and it’s lovely to meet you, and I’m flattered that you’ve traveled so far to see me, even though I told you to spend the air fare on your young lass… but I’m afraid those days are long gone…

CHUCK
What if they’re not?

EZRA
Look at me. And I mean look at me properly… I’ve got arthritis in both knees, I need a walking frame to move from here to the piss house, and even when I get there there’s no guarantee the journey’ll have been worth the effort. I’m not sure how I can help you…

CHUCK
You’re still OK upstairs, though?

EZRA
The noddle pot? Still works fine, Buck…

CHUCK
Chuck.

EZRA
It works fine most of the time…

CHUCK
Well at least listen to what I have to say.

EZRA
I’ll certainly do that, son. I owe you that much seeing as how you’ve traveled so far.

Enter Rose with a tea tray with two cups on it.

ROSE
Sadly there’s no tea and no posh coffee so I’ve made you both normal coffee.

Ezra sighs. Chucks takes his. Rose looks at him expectantly seeking approval. Chuck and takes a drink. He looks like he’s about to gag but holds it together and swallows the coffee as Rose looks on.

CHUCK
(Hiding his gag reflex) Thanks…

Rose smiles and exits.

EZRA
Is your noddle pot working, son? Did you not listen to what I said about the coffee?

CHUCK
I was being polite.

EZRA
By poisoning yourself?

CHUCK
I didn’t want to offend Rose.

EZRA
You berk…

CHUCK
Berk?

EZRA
It’s rhyming slang. From London. It means Berkshire hunt… which rhymes with cu… Never mind. Go on… tell me what you want with a battered old man called Ezra…

Blackout. As Ezra utters his name and the lights black out there is shouting coming from off-stage saying the name ‘Ezra’. This builds to a chorus of people shouting the name to set the next scene. Cut to…

A Load Of Old Balls: Part II...

The trip to Yarmouth to play at the National Inter-county Eightball Pool Championships was pretty poor.

As a team we didn't really perform very well until the last match and I didn't have too much in the way of clear-cut chances in my games. Throw in a bit of bad luck and it wasn't great individually either.

The great thing about going to an elite competition, though, is it allows you to see how you compare against the best of your peers. As a team we just came up a bit short and individually I also just came up a bit short. I wasn't the only one, though.

But I had a good season last year and played some decent stuff along the way to help get us to Yarmouth, and I've also started this season pretty well this year and I'm putting the hours in on the practice table again.

Every year I think it will be my last season as a lot of my pool-playing peers have now retired. But I'm really enjoying playing again and my form's starting to return so there may be life in the old dog yet.

It's 15 years and counting doing this. I could make it 16 at this rate...

A Load Of Balls: Part I...

It's March so it's time to head to the National Inter-county Eightball Pool Championships at Great Yarmouth.

I've been going to pool events here for more than 20 years, whether it be county, interleague or three-man team competitions, and the novelty of staying in a cold caravan park with over-priced beer where the only respite is to head into Great Yarmouth to sample the 'delights' of its seafront nightlife wore off many years ago.

The golden rule used to be 'What happens in Yarmouth stays in Yarmouth'. Not that anything did ever happen for me. It's never been what I was or what I wanted. So I tended to just get drunk. But even that's changed these days. Far too old to do that now. I can't bear the hangovers any more...

So me and the Missus are curled up on the sofa the night before I go and we're discussing what delights the weekend will bring and the Missus offers her wisdom:
'Just don't bring any sexually transmitted diseases back.'
'I won't. But if I do pull I'll pretend it's you while I'm fucking them.'
'It's fine,' counters the Missus. 'I often pretend you're other people when I'm fucking you.'

I married well...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is in the middle of grading for her black belt at hapkido.

The way the grading works is that you do a physical test (techniques, forms, sparring, board breaking)... then if you pass that you have to sit a written after three months of continual assessment and do some more techniques... then if you pass that you've got another three months of continual assessment ahead. It's a grueling but very rewarding process.

I went through it from 2010-2011 so I've spent some time with the Other Woman as her practice punch bag and rag doll to be tossed around. And yesterday she gave me a present she'd made (along with her mum and her aunty) to say thanks.

So now I have my very own knitted ninja (pictured). How cool is that? I didn't think I could love my Other Woman any more than I do but she's found a way to make that happen.

She may very well be a genius.

Quote Of The Day...

'Television is a medium because anything well done is rare.'
Fred Allen

Although I must confess I did enjoy Sherlock. That was very well done.

Melt: The Readthrough...

My first play reading in 10 years has been and gone.

The dialogue rattled along and worked, the gags worked – and in some cases should have been filthier – and the new structure hung together pretty well and was an improvement on the first three drafts.

There were obviously some problems that I noticed, even if nobody else did: the central character still needs to be more at the heart of the play and his fall from grace needs to be more accelerated and from a much greater height; there are some parts where the plot mechanics need to be clearer; some gags repeat too often; and some of it is overwritten and needs another edit. The very talented cast also gave me a few ideas with what they did on-stage and during rehearsals.

But overall my first reading in 10 years was a pretty successful affair and has really galvanised me going into the rewrites.

I was also really touched that a lot of the people I love were there to support me: the Missus, the Other Woman, the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women, several of my pool-playing pals, my martial arts teacher and her wife, etc.

And they all laughed at the show's best two gags. One involved a game about a porn film title, 'Glad-he-ate-her', and the other involved a joke about dwarves and statistics. You had to be there.

And, if you were, thank-you. If the quality of a life can be judged on the quality of the people around you then I'm doing pretty well.

Valentine’s Day Is Over...

It's Valentine's Day at From Beer To Paternity Towers and me and the Missus are sat watching The Biggest Loser on ITV1.

For those who have not had the pleasure of viewing this particular show, it's essentially a diet competition for fat folk with one person eliminated each week and the eventual winner getting £25k.

The competitive element of each episode ends with a weigh-off to find out who's lost the most weight, and is intercut with back-stories about the contestants. Each show then ends with the folk about to eliminated pleading their case to stay in the show. This involves lots of large people crying (or blubbers blubbing) amid various plugs for The Biggest Loser Club, which is a Weight Watchers type of affair allied to the programme. And presumably ITV.

Anyway, me and the Missus essentially watch this show so we can support those taking part. That's a lie. Actually it's so we can sneer at fat people whose emotions and vulnerable senses of self-worth are laid bare for the telly-viewing public.

On last night's show the remaining contestants all had a makeover then got the chance to see loved ones for a short period of time. There were many tears. It was either moving TV or a pile of exploitative rubbish edited to make it look much more emotional that it actually was.
'It's only being seven weeks since they last saw their relatives,' said the Missus. 'It's not like they've been in Guantanamo!'
'That would make a much better show,' I offer.
'Yes. I'd certainly watch it,' agrees the Missus.

Later on the biggest chap in the show makes his entrance after his makeover. He's lost a shitload of weight but he still checks in at about 25 stone.
'If you ever get that big I'm leaving you,' says the Missus as she marvels at the biggest loser on The Biggest Loser.
'Well you've got that big and I've stayed with you,' I say without thinking.

Pain follows rapidly. Comments like that are, apparently, an SRO (Spare Room Offence).

England Expects...

My pool protege secured a place at the trials for the England Junior Team at the end of last season by finishing as one of the highest-ranked junior players in the South-East of England. And a few weeks ago he attended the trials – and got through and won a place on the England Junior Team.

I was made up for him, not only because he's worked hard at his game and really made the effort to move up to the next level, but because at 15 he's not even 50 per cent of the junior player he will become – and he's already in the England Junior Team.

I've also enjoyed working with him and practising with him once a month because the things we've worked on are things I do automatically but going through them again has made me analyse how I go about things and it's made me make improvements in things like concentration and being methodical. After all, I can hardly instil solid basics into somebody else if I'm struggling to do them myself.

It's also made me think about what I could do as far as being involved with the county pool scene could offer when my playing days come to an end. And at the moment that could be when the 2012 season finishes as there are other things I want to do and commit time to. But I've said that before...

Who knows? If I can help one junior player with potential become an international then maybe I can help a few more? It's food for thought.

Quote Of The Day...

'A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.'
Greek Proverb.

The Ballad Of Ted Hankey…

British Darts Organisation anti-hero Ted ‘The Count’ Hankey, who models his stage persona on Count Dracula and wears a cape during his stage walk-on, recently left the BDO to join a rival darts organisation after losing in the semi-finals of the BDO World Championship to an unseeded qualifier from Holland. His twitter feed several weeks before the event read as follows: "@tedhankey ‘16 pints down pub. wanks out the question’.” Perfect material for a would-be poet...

Pounding the treble bed,
Though not often enough,
Then missing the doubles
Cos this new kid’s too good.

He’s young and he’s Dutch
And he’s throwing on song,
And hitting ton eighties
Like they’re out of fashion, gone.

So I’m wiping my brow
As the sweat’s pouring down,
Then he hits another double
And I respond with a frown.

Once upon a time
It’d be a snarl or a scowl,
And I’d look like thunder
A beast crying a howl.

But I’m calmer these days,
The pantomime villain part gone
And I only wear the cape
Because the habit is strong.

But lobbing bats to the fans,
I don’t do that no more
Since they started lobbing them back
Or leaving them on the floor.

In another few legs
I know I’m well beat:
A world title gone,
A semi-final defeat.

The crowd they applaud
As I say goodbye a last time
And I head back to my room
A big decision in mind:

To throw my arrows elsewhere
I’m going to join the select,
With better opponents to play,
Bigger paychecks to collect.

My mum and the wife,
Who follow me and support,
Know just what I’m doing
The decision I will report.

But before that time comes
I’ll head down to the pub
And sit on my own
And reflect on the rub

Of the oche gods who look down
As I sink pint number one
About the decisions I’ve made
Based on scoring a ton.

Then on pint number five
I realise I’ll be missing me tea
So I text the wife and the mum
Tell them to eat without me.

After pint number ten
I may be a bit pissed
And walking back to the hotel
Is now well off the list.

On pint number fifteen
I get amorous thoughts
But one final pint in
I know it’ll all come to nought.

So I settle for the choice
Of a little tug on the meat.
I won’t wake the missus
As I quietly beat.

But hiding under my cape
The climax just won’t arrive.
It’s like during the match
My big finish denied.

Homeward Bound...

I had the unenviable task of returning to Yorkshire for a family funeral yesterday.

I've yet to go to a good funeral but there were smiles among the grief at this one. At times it was funny and tender and moving. My older brother and his girlfriend were also utterly astonishing during what was obviously an awful day for them.

On the way to their house, however, I chanced upon one of my cousins who told me a funny story about his dad... then dropped the bombshell that our family name was actually fabricated and taken from a dead sailor as our grandfather was illegitimate and wouldn't use (or wasn't allowed to use) his real family name.

Not that it really matters. All family names are made up at some point and if mine ws good enough for my grandfather and my father then it's good enough for me.

And I quite like the idea that I'm descended from bastard stock.

Rejection...

The Boy sent his first comic script off to 2000AD several months ago. I read it and it was pretty good and the two things he's written subsequently are even better. He'll make a funny and inventive writer if he keeps working and makes the breaks happen.

But, sadly, his first script got rejected last week so he now has his first official rejection letter. I felt for him because I've been there so many times (three in the last week if I was actually counting) but I was also delighted to see him take it on the chin and decide to be stoical about it and just keep going.

Perseverance is an important quality at anything. It was a moment of bonding.

Go get 'em, buddy...

Thoughts For The New Year...

Here are some thoughts from the beginning of 2012...

i) Snow Patrol are quite good: I initially eschewed them when several friends were raving about them but I have now given them a go and like them. I plan to be more open-minded about other people's musical opinions in 2012. Unless they're idiots...

ii) The only good Tory is a dead one: This was my first real political opinion, which I formed about the age of 11, and the view has somewhat softened in the past decades as the greedy, in-the-pockets-of-multinationals Blair Government proved they could be as bad the Thatcher and Major lot. I also met a few Tories that I liked and, even though I could never agree with their politics, I did respect they were at least coming from a point of political conviction based on making the country a better one for everyone. Sadly the new lot of posh Tory idiots like Cameron and Osborne may yet have me reaching for a rifle. They really are morally bankrupt in the way they kow-tow to big business and financially rape those in the most need. Why people like them ever got into politic is totally beyond me. Posh scumbags, the lot of 'em.

iii) Work smarter and work harder: 2011 was a pretty good year but with new projects on the horizon in 2012 I'm going to need to be even more organised and focused than normal. That means I'm going to need clarity and decisiveness and the best way I know how to achieve this is through meditation so I'm going to make a real effort to attend at least one ki meditation class every week in 2012. It will help keep me balanced and it's something I am going to need.

iv) Ignore cunts: self-explanatory.

New Year, New Ideas...

It's been an OK year on the writing front with a shortlisted entry in a sitcom writing competition, far-off rumblings and talk of TV work, and a new stage play at about third draft.

In reality I haven't written enough, though, and 2012 at least already promises new ideas with my wrestling play under way, a new idea for a sitcom and my first attempt to write a comic all in the offing.

There may well be the usual amount of rejection in store but there may also be some new hope. The new theatre company I'm production managing a show for holds much promise and they've also reminded me of one very important thing: I never used to rely on other people to stage work as I used to do that myself and, after exercising those muscles again late in the year, I still can.

It was a moment of epiphany and I'm already putting together a new project with this in mind. My new theatre friends may have reawakened a monster. But it will nice to see him back...

Fat: Part IV...

It is the Friday before Xmas and me and the Missus are having a lazy morning in bed when the phone goes.

I answer and it's Little Brother, although as he was topping the 18 stone mark at one point this year the word 'Little' doesn't really apply these days. So we are chatting about our respective diets and he's telling me how him and two friends have a £1000 bet to see who can lose the most weight and I tell him how me and the Missus are doing.
'I've lost about a stone and a half so far,' says Little Brother.
'I've done more than a stone and so has the Missus,' I reply.
'My target weight is 15 stone,' says Little Brother.
'Yeah. The Missus is nearly there at the moment,' I reply.

I feel a sharp dig in the ribs and am all too familiar with the icy stare that will greet me when I turn around. It was a joke but, apparently, girls don't have a sense of humour about weight issues.

Then I realise me and Little Brother are chatting about exercise and diets and losing weight like something from Loose Women. We'll be talking interior design next. God help us...

Play Reading...

I have my first play reading in more than 10 years. There's a proper story, different characters and even jokes. Some of them are quite rude and a few of them are even funny.

It's on at Guildford's Electric Theatre on 28 February 2012, starting at 7.45pm. Everybody is welcome. If I like you I'll buy you beer.

Recycled Jokes No.2...

I told you Kim Jong was Il(l)...

Fat: Part III...

I am ill and it is shit. I have spent the last five days sweating in bed. And not in a good way. I was alone.

On the plus side my eating pattern has not been regular if at all so I may have crept ahead in the diet challenge.

This is war. I will win at fucking any cost.

Pedantic...

The Missus has many fine qualities but patience and empathy are not two things she's blessed with. Fortunately, she more than makes up for the absence of these things with a pedantic streak that is a mile wide and twice as long.

This streak, however, has come back to bite her on the arse (not literally) in recent years because the Boy has also inherited it and when the two of them discuss anything she'll invariably say something slightly inaccurate and he'll jump on it like a hungry wolfpack devouring an injured deer.

Last weekend we visited my Guide Son and his parents and stayed over or the weekend. My Guide Son is essentially my God Son but his parents are card-carrying atheists so using the name of a deity they don't believe in seems redundant, hence Guide Son.

He's an utterly wonderful four-year-old and he now has a little sister, and with me and the Missus staying over at his parent's flat there was a bit of bed juggling so we ended up in their bedroom.

At 4.30am the Guide son climbs into bed with us and once he realised it was us rather than his parents he decided to stick around and curl up and go to sleep. This involved telling us about his nightmare and regaling us with tales from school then giving us a rendition of the Muppet Show theme tune. This went:
'It's time to play the music,
It's time to light the lights,
It's time to get things started,
On the Puppet Show tonight...'

At this point the pedant in the Missus woke up and corrected a four-year-old at 5am in the morning.
'It's "the Muppet Show tonight..."' she advised.

We're exhausted, it's 5am and we need sleep and she still can't turn the pedantry tap off.

A few days later, however, I was telling the Guide Son's father, who is also Young Brother of the Missus, this story and he laughed.
'I used to make the exact same mistake when singing the song,' he said. 'And she used to correct me, too.'
'At 5am?' I asked.
'Probably...'

I have not the words...

Charity Begins...

The Missus has cooked tea and we are preparing to sit down and watch Have I Got New For You.

I come into the living room after tidying up.
'Where's Have I Got News For You?'
'Not on.'
'Why not?'
'It's fucking Children In cunting Need.'

I share her ire.

Excited!

I have a rehearsed reading of my new play and it's my first public readthrough in more than 10 years.

The play is called Melt and the readthrough is at the Electric Theatre in Guildford on 28 February 2012 so I am now gutting and rewriting the play ready for its public debut.

And I've also started work on a new play about a catch wrestler and I'm also project managing a production in June...

It's all quite exciting.

Back In The Old Routine...

In a previous life I was a youth theatre worker and director, a community theatre writer and director, and a Fringe theatre writer and director.

And I did quite a lot of work with various companies and various groups. Some of it was very good and some of it was not so good, but it was a major part of my life for 15 years until an acrimonious split from one company made me ask why I was doing this... and I decided the effort wasn't worth the hassle any more.

Some six years after this split I started writing again and as from last week I'm back involved with a new theatre project in my new home town of Guildford. I met the company director a few months ago and we talked... and last week we had our first official meeting and it wasn't as scary as I thought it was going to be. In fact if anything I found it difficult to keep my mouth shut as old reflexes kicked in and ideas about turning words on a page into a moving, breathing thing on an empty stage kicked in.

The play we're working on is a new piece called Consider This and, if I had to nutshell it, it's a theatrical exploration of the power of forgiveness inspired by stories taken from The Forgiveness Project, a company which collects stories about victims of violence and their loved ones and suggests a better way to deal with hate and ideas of revenge.

That may sound a bit serious and dry and arty but the work of The Forgiveness Project is stunning in its scope and the piece our merry band of drama, music folk and film folk are working on will be lively and fun as well as thought-provoking.

I'll be haranguing friends into coming to see this play when it's on in June 2012. You have been warned...

Fat: Part II...

I have lost 12lbs in four weeks and I am comfortably back under 14 stone, which is about my fighting weight. If I fought.

This should be a reason to celebrate but currently it's torture as the office I share with several colleagues is never short of cakes or biscuits or sweets. And today I have a major craving for chocolate.

In fact I have such a craving for chocolate that I could quite easily walk down the road to M&S, pull out my credit card, buy an entire shelf of the stuff, return to the office and systematically trough my way through it. Then repeat until sick.

This is what it must be like to be a girl: craving nice things but under constant pressure to not eat in case it ruins all your previous efforts to be healthy and stay slim. I will never mock the Other Woman and her constant need for confectionery again. I'll just pick on her because she’s short and sassy instead.

In conclusion, diets are rubbish and I am probably having mood swings. You have been warned.

And I may want to cry for no apparent reason, too.

How Media Works...

My journalistic career as it is sometimes laughingly called has had many low points but I'm pleased to say that at least it will never plumb the barrel-scrapingly awful depths of an email I got earlier today.

Apart from the fact that what it suggests is an awful idea, it should also give non-media folk an idea of how the desperate quest for celebrity works and what depths some folk will sink to in order to keep their talent-free zone faces in the limelight.

The email reads as follows:

'Never underestimate the power of sisterhood' says Lauren and Nicola Goodger from hit ITV reality TV series - The Only Way is Essex.

TOWIE's most famous sisters, Lauren and Nicola Goodger are to recreate the looks of some of the worlds most iconic sisters in an exclusive media shoot.

Successful sisters go back generations; think Joan and Jackie Collins in the 80s, Kylie and Dani Minogue in the 90s and what would the noughties be without Kate and Pippa Middleton?

Regardless of the decade, the support and solidarity of sisterhood is what has helped make these women successful, which is why ‘The Only Way Is Essex’s’ sisters Lauren and Nicola Goodger are looking to recreate the looks of some the worlds most iconic sisters in an exclusive photo shoot.

'Team Goodger' are rapidly proving a force to be reckoned with here in the UK and this iconic photo shoot is set to put these two sisters on the map as the sisters who will be 'doing it for themselves' in next decade.

We're looking for one media outlet who would like to commission this exclusive photo shoot and interview.

I fear for humanity. It's fin de siecle time and these are the vinegar strokes.

Recycled Jokes No.1...

A former Libyan dictator was assassinated yesterday. He refused to take the advice of one of his guards, who shouted 'Gaddafi. Duck.'

Rejection!

I sent a radio comedy script out to an independent production company a while ago.

Sending it out was a bit of long shot but the script was smart and funny and I thought it had a fighting chance.

I got the rejection letter yesterday. It was quite complimentary about the script and its comedy but closed with the line: 'we don't feel it’s sophisticated enough for Radio 4.'

I sort of agreed and I also thought tht line would make a great t-shirt as it sums me up: 'not sophisticated enough for Radio 4'.

Then I thought I could add: 'with it's small audience of arty, tree-hugging, middle-class know-it-alls'.

Then I realised that is probably me as well.

In conclusion I actually can't write for myself...