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...