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...