The Return

Well, I’m back.
I never envisaged getting married would take over my life to such an extent. Terribly naïve I think. It was all worth it though, and I’m very happy, but boy did it put the kybosh on other areas of life.

So much has happened since my last blog. Funny how stuff keeps happening. As Douglas Coupland described it, ‘historical overdosing - to live in a period of time when too much seems to happen. Major symptoms include addiction to newspapers, magazines, and TV news broadcasts.’

We’ve had the Olympics, which was a mixture of amazing sport and vomit-inducing bouts of flag-waving, bemusing opening and closing ceremony and awful music, in a summer that’s been like living continually inside a particularly angry cloud.

But I must talk weddings, last time I promise. No rain that weekend, only glorious sunshine. We put a huge amount of work into it, and had masses of help from lots of people, some obvious, some less so, and it was a truly wonderful weekend that brought together people from all over the world. At one point one of my best men took me to one side and said ‘Look. You did this. It looks effortless because you put in so much effort.’

Worth every second, every penny, and every sleepless night.

The day after we got married the wife and I headed to The Millers at The Anchor, Porlock Weir for a night. A gift from one of my best men. It’s a hotel that was unknown to us before we arrived.

What a place.

Designed on the principals of ‘maximilism’, the entire hotel is a cluttered, marvellous, distracting, ramshackle delight. Filled with everything from superb antiques and stuffed animal heads to huge alabaster busts, paintings, ornaments and knick-knacks, photos from across the ages, including family pictures of the Millers themselves, tapestries, velvet curtains, chandeliers, and exquisite sculptures at every turn, there’s always something new to explore. There are even vases, pots and bowls all round the hotel filled with sweets. Perfect for me.

From the honesty bar with Martin Miller’s very own brand of gin, to the endless bookshelves, cluttered with all types of tome, all free to read or take away, to the wonderful lounge area that has to be sat in to be believed, the entire place exudes an old world charm that’s completely beguiling.

Upstairs they have their very own cinema - a dark, lounge room filled with a jumble of old sofas where they show films twice a week. Our room was four-postered, wood-panelled and full of faded glamour, with a gorgeous writing desk nestled in the bay window. We lay on the bed and drank the champagne that was waiting for us (another generous gift from a friend) and opened our cards and presents and looked at photos and glowed in the aftermath.

The views of the tiny 15th century harbour, with all manner of little yachts and working boats resting on their keels before being lifted by the incoming tide, and the sea and headlands beyond, are fantastic.

We didn’t eat there that evening, a mistake I feel, instead dining in the pub next door where we were served perfunctory pub food without smile. The next morning though, we had a splendid breakfast in the hotel’s wonderful dining room, Fruit, toast, porridge, juice, coffee and a very tasty full English. After that, a stroll along the seafront and then back to the room to enjoy our last hours in The Millers. A pleasurable drive back to Bristol followed, via Exmoor, for sun, fresh air, cream teas and a stroll around the most idyllic cricket ground I’ve ever come across (Bridgetown CC, accessible over a tiny wooden bridge across the River Exe) brought to an end a weekend filled with wonderful memories. And we still had the mountains of Mallorca to come!

To everyone who came, for all your generosity of time, and gifts, and for being part of it all - thank you, thank you thank you. I shall re-engage my cynicism for next time…

Reading: Loads since my last blog. Stand outs include - The Devil All The time by Donald Ray Pollock, The Rise and Fall of John Gotti by Jerry Capeci and Gene Mustain, and Five Boys by Mick Jackson.
Listening to: Beach Boys: That's Why God Made The Radio. Ben Kweller: On My Way. Smashing Pumpkins: Oceania.
Watching: Season 5 of Breaking Bad. The finest TV since Sopranos and The Wire

Wedding (un)fairs

I’ve just returned from a wedding fair that was held in the venue where myself and my betrothed will be wed come July. And I’m exhausted. Maybe it was naïve of me to imagine anything different, but proposing (and the rather wonderful acceptance of said proposal) opened a door into a world I had no understanding of, and no inclination to discover.

You might have thought that as a guest at innumerable weddings, and having witnessed first hand and up close and personal, the stresses and strains of friends who’ve been through it, I would have some sort of handle on what actually occurs.

No. No I didn’t.

Venue, food, drink, accommodation, invites and who to invite (and who not to), music, registrars, insurance, flowers, cake, decorations, table plans, place settings etc are not the individual things I thought they were. Every one of them opens a door into a seemingly never-ending labyrinth whereby every specific issue unfolds endlessly like the evil product of a sadistic origamist.

Who knew that choosing the flowers for the flower girls and the bridal bouquet had such a catastrophic knock-on effect on the flowers for the tables, foyer, cake, buttonholes – and by extension the colour of the seat cover ribbons, the napkins, the suit I’ve yet to buy begrudgingly from Moss Bros. (Don’t get me started on the shoes, what’s wrong with the ones I have?), all in all it’s a nightmare.

But.

Despite the expense, the worry, the hellish logistics, and the endless discussions on exactly what type of fruit we need to compliment the cheese board, I can’t help feeling that it will all be worth it. Every confirmation of attendance from friends near (Bristol, Warwickshire, London) and further afield (Australia, Texas, South Korea, Rome) brings a tinge of joy. Another tiny piece slots into place and as momentum builds and the juggernaut gathers pace I know it will be fine, my friends and family, and my wife-to-be will see to that.

And so, even though the glass may feel half empty right now, in the depths of wedding paperwork at the end of another dog-eared winter’s day, come the day I’m strangely confident that the glass will be completely full. Until I drain it in a toast to my new wife and stare out a sea of faces that we’ve brought together to smile and laugh and celebrate, and for a few hours cast off the worries and woes of this strange world we call home.

Just read: A Sunday at the pool in Kigali by Gil Courtmanche
Reading: A time of gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Listening to: Cuckooland by Robert Wyatt

Trying. Very Trying.

This time of year tends to be a quiet one for a writer and freelancer.
The big boys are winding down for the consumer-fest of Christmas and all their projects have been written and are well underway, the small guys jettison every freelancer wherever possible to help bridge the lean month or so, and so we writers retreat back into our novels and screenplays, circling producers in the Radio Times, going through the inbox sending a little nudge emails to every contact in the hope of stirring up some work, or interest, and generally take stock of the progress (or lack of it) over the past year.

And you know the main thing I’ve realised over the past 12 months?
That the old adage of 90% perspiration and 10% inspiration holds more true now than ever before.

A writer’s life is one of networking, contacting, emailing, calling, smartphones - constant, neverending effort. Even when not writing my brain is chastising me for not writing.

Watch a film – mind giving your grief, go out shopping – same, go to the gym, ok just for a while but then back to it!

It’s like being on a Roman Galley, no respite, the mental whipping continues over and over screaming ‘Why are you not writing’. The novel, the screenplay, the short story, all of them on the shoulder, malevolent and chippy, pick pick picking at you and your lack of effort.

It is with you always, and that’s not healthy, but then if I finish this project it will go away wont it? No it wont, because the next project is already barging it’s way rudely to the front of my mind like a navvy at a bar on payday.

(All the time you’re writing of course you are chastising yourself for not replying to the 77 agencies that have replied to YOUR initial inquiring email)
I went to a networking event on Tuesday night in a beautiful bar in Bristol with Bristol Media, all very lovely; fizz, good chats about writing, work, intelligent people with passion chattering away into the night. And you know what I felt? Guilt. All the talk about writing when I could be at home writing. Arrrgh!

It’s a bloody nightmare.

And this is where the perspiration quote really sticks. The perspiration should surely be produced through the act of writing, not through the act of trying to get people interested in your writing, and finding work and hassling people who don’t want to be hassled.

I should have been born many years ago and lived in a garret retained by a wealthy merchant as their playwright. That would have been nice.

I lie in bed at night and I dream of the six figure publishing deal that will mean that when I see that 41 cm of fresh snow has fallen on Val Thorens overnight I can book it. Not think ‘I must delete that frigging app, it only brings pain and misery!’
But then that little part of my brain wakes again, maybe if I got out of bed now, and went and wrote through the dark quiet of the night I might get that deal, get that success, get the steep and deep powder that I crave.
Oh well, all we can do is try, and keep on trying.

Reading: I, Partridge by Coogan, Ianucci et al

Listening to: Backspacer by Pearl Jam – although I have just listened to Desolation row 6 times on repeat.

Desperate measures

The shock of Gary Speed’s death is the perfect example of how depression works. Outwardly a man with everything; success, talent, love, support, friends and family, money and acclaim. No clues. No fear for his safety. Pure disbelief.

Of course his is one of many suicides over the weekend but his high profile in the British media casts more light that usual upon this death, and the manner of it.
And once again makes people who have never suffered, or felt any urge that the world, and the people in it, would be better off without them, screw their brows in consternation.


It is one of those things that cannot be described to those free of depression.
The weight, the feeling of utter contempt for oneself, the sureness that you are ruining the lives of those around you. Your total USELESSNESS. The belief that your mental state is adversely affecting the very people you want to protect from your depression.

The cycle is truly vicious.

I have tried to deal with my particular form of the illness in my own way, but the more you understand it the more you realise that these are patterns that are replicated in so many other lives.

The need to close off from everyone and everything. Draw the curtains, ignore the phone, the post, the knock at the door. Withdrawal. Then comes the paralysis of action. A complete exhaustion that renders the sufferer unable to function properly, even for the simplest task. Anyway, the suffering of depression has its many forms, I wont list them here, it is pointless, only those who know, know.

Instead let’s look at one of the key issues raised by Gary Speed’s death. That no-one knew. Everything he had achieved, everything he had in life he did with the real man hidden from view. This is the experience of so many sufferers. We must not, can not, open up to other people, it is the pure evil nature of depression that when in the midst of it you will not tell people to avoid worrying them. And once it has past, be it a day, three, a week, a month, your brain comes out fighting and you hope and HAVE to believe that it will not return. Or at the very least revisit a long, long time it the future, when maybe you have learnt to deal with it better. Yes, next time you’ll see it coming and hide it even better than the last time.

Of course we understand the absurdity of being depressed in a time and place where we have more than any human beings have ever had; living longer, more affluent, safer, healthier, there should be nothing to worry about right?

Right. Yet another reason for the guilt and silence. We have no right to be depressed. We are spoiled brats moaning about how awful life is when we should be living the dream of consumerism and enjoying the vac-packed green beans flown directly from Kenya for our stir fry. The ridiculousness and irony of the illness is more than apparent.

So many geniuses and brilliant people are, or were depressive – many are sadly no longer with us because they could not go on with the pain they carried around.. You don’t need me to google them for you, but the list is long and sad and sobering.
My own life has been affected by the suicide of my Dad’s father when my Dad was 15. The ripples still float out and reach people he never even knew would exist.

Recently we have had insight into crushing depression from Stephen Fry amongst others. But the stigma remains.

So the next time a friend doesn’t return your text message, or ignores your calls, or you want to tell them ‘everyone gets down sometimes’, or ‘pull yourself together’ or ‘just get on with it’ maybe they need a little less judgement and a touch more understanding.

And maybe we can help create an environment where both men and women can articulate their desperation without fear. Maybe the desperate silence can be avoided if more ears are open. And maybe less families will have to go through the numbing, sickening loss and grief that Gary Speed’s family are experiencing right now.
Love, respect and peace to you all.

Real books V Kindle

I had a look at a Kindle for the first time yesterday and as much as I tried to have an open mind (I didn’t) I wasn’t surprised to find I hated it.

I felt exactly the same as the first time I used a CD. Before CD’s (and the even more detached itunes) we used to know the names of tracks, and the order of them and we had a solid connection to the art itself, an LP or single was a beautiful, colourful, tactile delight, before you even discovered the music that was going to shape your life.

The lovely little messages etched into the smooth vinyl, the hiss and crackle, the turning over half way through, the placing of the needle on the groove, I loved it all.

So forgive me if I cannot get excited about staring at a piss-poor electronic screen, a soul-less window that further distances me from the mind and hand of the author.

‘But they’re really good, you can have hundreds of books at once’.

I don’t want hundreds of books at once, I want to have a relationship, organic and growing, with the book in my hands, the book that has been crafted and sweated over, a direct connection from the creative brain through the hand to the page and into my brain.

I want to finish it and caress its cover and kiss it, as I have done with many books that have delighted me and lifted my spirit.
Most recently Lean On Pete by the wonderful Willy Vlautin. (I had to go into the spare room and have a little cry).

I could never feel the same about reading the new Douglas Coupland or James Frey direct from a grey screen, or discovering the joys of Carey or McKewan or Bukowski (as I have recently) via a toy.

I’m sure I’m wrong, I often am when it comes to things that I perceive to be pointless that take over the world. U2 (thought they would be gone by the end of ’83), Madonna (I predicted Cyndi Lauper would have more longevity) the internet (‘what’s the point of that? It’ll never catch on’. Me, circa 1998.)

Nothing can compare to finding a tatty copy of The Ravens, the Count of Monte Christo or Papillon whilst back-packing in some small backstreet second-hand book exchange in Bangkok or Hanoi, and adding to its well thumbed life.
Taping it up with gaffer tape and then passing it on for someone else to have a mind altering experience.

Or in some cases bringing it home and having it proudly on your bookshelf as a memento of another time (my copy of Sideshow I bought at the entrance to the killing fields in Cambodia still give me a frisson of revulsion and fascination whenever I glance its cover on the bookcase at the top of our stairs.)

Books play a huge part in our lives, both myself and the future Mrs. L (although I’ve been informed she wont be taking my surname. Very wise) love to discover new authors and new series and buy them one after the other until another new bookcase is required. Will we really feel the same just having a list of tracks on a box?
I’m certain I never will.

In much the same way DJs, dance music and mixing saved vinyl I’m hoping that the huge number of comics and graphic novels that are produced monthly and yearly will protect printed media.

I for one will not be buying a Kindle and I hope for the sake of protecting the poetic soul in all of us neither will you.

Just read: Lean On Pete by Willy Vlautin.
Now reading: The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim by Jonathan Coe
Listening to: God hates a coward by Tomahawk.

Drunk is poetry

As human beings continue their never ending search for self destruction I thought a light-hearted missive might be in order.

I was reading something or other not long back (Wodehouse I think) when a drunken character was described as ‘in his cups’.
A delightful expression I thought and it got me thinking.

What other expressions for drunkenness are a credit to the English language?
In my time I’ve heard, or used, wankered, twatted, pissed, muntered, bladdered, battered, hammered, arseholed, plastered, caned and of course the ubiquitous fucked; the list goes on.



But what of those expressions that show the true diversity of this jewel of languages? That illustrate the endless possibilities of English to articulate one state of being in countless ways.

‘In his cups’ I particularly like, and is possibly of Roman or biblical origin.
‘Shedded’ is one I’ve heard and apparently is short for ‘my shed has collapsed and taken most of the fence with it’. Possibly not the easiest way to verbalise your drunkenness.

The Aussies have given us ‘paralytic’ since the early 20th century, and ‘shot full of holes’, which they lifted from the Kiwis in world War One, and good on them for it.

‘Smashed’ sounds like it’s a modern invention to me, but comes from an old American saying ‘smashed as a brandy peg’. Smash being a type of brandy apparently.
‘Pickled’ is wonderful, as is ‘piddled’. ‘Pie-eyed’, is a peculiarly American term that reached our shores in the late 1800’s.

It’s amazing how each word or expression brings to mind a very specific level of drunkenness. A man who was ‘tipsy’ or ‘squiffy’ or ‘sozzelled’ wouldn’t hit his wife would he? But someone who is ‘tanked up’ might.

They are also, like much slang, time capsules that appear and disappear in short time periods. ‘Swipey’ for example is recorded from 1844 but had pretty much died out by 1900, ‘rat-arsed’ is a wonderful newer invention, first heard from teenagers in the ‘80’s.

In the late 1700’s you might have ‘swallowed a hare’ or if in port ‘swallowed a sailor’. Something that might get you an odd look in Brighton in the 21st century.
The 1920’s had a string of lovely descriptions that really put you right there amongst the flappers; ‘ossified’ ‘spifflicated’, ‘canned’, ‘corked’, ‘scrooched’, ‘jazzed’, ‘zozzled’, ‘owled’, ‘embalmed’, ‘lit’, ‘potted’, or ‘fried to the hat’.
All of which applied presumably to that wonderful chronicler of the jazz age F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The amount are incredible, the diversity staggering, it’s a book topic not a blog entry so I’ll leave you to seek out you own and bask in the glow of our wonderful language.

And forgive me if this blog entry is a little disjointed, I was at a friend’s stag do last weekend and was ‘crapulent’ to the point of being as ‘stewed as a fresh boiled owl’.

Just read: Ham On Rye by Charles Bukowski
Listening to: Official sountrack to the motion picture Kick Ass.

Riots? same as it ever was.

I find myself somewhat conflicted over the current spate of rioting that’s breaking out like unsightly zits all over this country. My natural left-leaning nature is being sorely tested by a sneaky little right wing side of me that is inflamed by certain aspects of modern society.
Whilst rioting itself is nothing new, in London or anywhere else, and will always be part and parcel of life in Britain (my favourites are the Luddite riots of the early 19th century. They smashed machines up, these current ones were organised on Blackberries. Go figure)
I can’t help feeling that what these youths need is a bloody good hiding. To quote Pink Floyd ‘a short, sharp shock’.
But how can I have such a violent lurch to the right? Am I, indeed, becoming more conservative as I get older?
The 20-something me would have delighted in the chaos and anarchy, but then what did he know?
Nothing, he was an idiot.
And that’s the main issue here, young people are stupid. I’m not talking about the remarkable kids that appear week after week on University Challenge, who are au fait with the laws of motion, the pelvic bone of the Amazonian tree frog and the periodic table, they are a different breed and we’ll need them later. They’ll probably be the ones in 30 or 40 years sitting on committees trying to work out what should be done about the rioters in New London smashing up hover car showrooms.
No, the problem we have is that to be young means to know better than everyone else, when actually you know the square root of fuck all.
And how the youth enjoy their ignorance, it’s a badge of honour to know nothing, but they still demand respect for doing so. See, I can feel a rant coming on. And that’s no good. Regardless of the feelings they evoke we need to look at the issues that have caused these riots.
Could it be that creating not only a society, but a entire civilisation, on consumer greed, envy, 24 hour advertising, bad credit and a scrabbling need to possess ‘things’ and ‘stuff’ to fill the empty voids in our lives that used to be filled by blindly following God and King and Country, might have been a bad model?
But that’s the dream we’ve been sold and as long as uneducated disenfranchised young people, whose own parents were the same, keep being told what they ‘deserve’ without being given any means of achieving it we’ll continue to reap what we sow.
How are your cuts to public services looking now Prime Minister?

Reading: The Wine-Dark Sea by the incomparable Patrick O'Brian
Listening to: Mozart's Flute Concerto No. 1 in G Major, amongst others