New domain purchase shocker...

Phew, what a great week and a bit. Can't believe it's the last night tomorrow. But it is. A few drinks will flow before we bid our farewells and go our separate ways. We sold out the venue, got quite amazing audience reactions and just had a damn good time. More of this, please. Excuse the lack of blogging of late but, well, I've been busy enjoying the experience as much as I could. Typically, just when it might have been slightly useful, my website domain has gone kaput. Until my hosts get things working again, I've relocated to the fabulously vain www.davewindass.me.uk And if anyone's tried emailing me lately, via the website link, it won't have worked, nor will the old hdmp address I used to live at, so excuse me if you think I've become incredibly ignorant (those that know me know I've always been incredibly ignorant). You can always contact me via my otherwise redundant myspace account.

Right, to save me writing an extensive entry about the chorizo I purchased at a fancy European market today, please excuse me until June 5, when I promise to share more of the Sully experience with you. There might even be pictures. If you're interested, that is. Laters. And if you made the play, ta very much.

Reading: Thomas Hauser - Muhammad Ali His Life and Times. Listening: Hot Chip - Warning

Review from Yorkshire Post...










Sully, Hull Truck Theatre, Hull
Nick Ahad

AS material for his first play, Hull journalist Dave Windass has chosen a dead cert.

The story of a beloved Hull legend, told at Hull Truck where audiences are wildly appreciative, Windass could harldy have failed.

Except that he could.

He chose to tell the story of Clive Sullivan, Sully, the black kid from Wales who played rugby league for both Hull FC and Hull KR - and captained Great Britain to the World Cup.

Despite the enormous goodwill to the play, palpable both outside and inside the theatre before the performance begins, had Windass done anything but justice to his memory you feel he would have been hanged. Fortunately for him, he succeeds in doing justice to the man's story.

A play that has wit, energy and an abundance of heart, Sully tells the remarkable story of Clive Sullivan. Now best known to a generation as the name of the road in and out of Hull, an older generation remember him as one of the city's sons of whom they are most proud.

Windass puts two characters, Chelle and Max, on the Clive Sullivan Way, stuck in traffic after a serious crash.

A mysterious figure appears from the mist, holds out his hand and says "Clive".

When Fidel Nanton enters as the eponymous hero of the story, something ripples through the audience. Nanton doesn't look like Sully. Then he opens his mouth and utters that one word - at which point he wins everyone over in an instant.

Nanton's enigmatic, gentle yet powerful Sully is brilliant to watch - as are the performances of Lee Green as Max and Natalie Blades as Chelle - plus myriad other characters. Both act with an enthusiasm that seems to characterise Hull Truck actors - they enjoy themselves on the stage as much as the audience in the seats.

The fault with Sully is that Windass is understandably daunted by his subject and afraid to leave anything out.

It gives a feel of a play filled to bursting, rather than a streamlined beast - the play's ending would have benefited from a good 10 minutes of trimming.

It is also massively parochial and, while outsiders may understand the jokes about the different areas of Hull, they are unlikely to "get" them.

That said, the incredible story of Sully and its themes are universal enough to tug at everyone's heart strings. This play deserves a revival - maybe not outside Hull - but it would be a shame if this week was the last audiences saw of it.

To May 27.

Review from York Evening Press...

Review: Sully, Hull Truck Theatre, Hull, until May 27
by Charles Hutchinson

SULLY deserves the kind of long run that winger Clive Sullivan MBE made so often in his rugby league pomp with Hull FC, city rivals Hull Kingston Rovers and Great Britain.

Hull journalist Dave Windass is still earning his play-writing wings but this week's sell-out run of Sully is evidence of his talent for emotional, humorous writing with the common touch (in the Hull Truck house style, yet distinctive too).

The Robins (Rovers) and Airlie Birds (FC) fans sit side by side, just as they did at Sullivan's memorial service after he died of cancer at 42.

Sorry for blowing the ending, except that the end is the beginning to a play with plenty of twists in the tradition of the flying black Welshman's running style.

Martin Barrass and Gareth Tudor Price's triumphant production opens with the traffic at a halt on Clive Sullivan Way after a crash. Taxi driver and FC fan Max (Lee Green) and his fare, East Hull chav and young mum Chelle (Natalie Blades), are cursing each other and their luck when the ghost of Sully (Fidel Nanton) emerges to reclaim his road.

(You may recognise the strip of tarmac from Hull Truck's previous show, John Godber's Men Of The World, in the ultimate example of an economy drive.)

Sully says he will help them if they help him to re-enact his life story: his childhood in the only black family in Splott, Cardiff; his calcified legs that should have curtailed his career before it started; his World Cup triumph as GB captain and his Challenge Cup successes.

Windass captures Hull rivalries and local colour with a knockabout wit that rises above the locale, while he reconstructs Sullivan's highs and lows with a Hollywood sense of melodrama, swelling music and back projections.

Nanton's performance will move big men to tears of joy and sadness; Blades and Green are winning comic foils. They warrant the granting of three wishes: the speedy return of this wonderfully evocative play; a statue for Hull's favourite adopted son and, just maybe, a screen drama of Sully's remarkable story. As he proved, all things are possible... except a remedy for the congestion in Clive Sullivan Way.

Box office: 01482 323638.

Pride of Hull...

Review from Hull Daily Mail...










PRIDE OF HULL
by Dale Haslam

09:10 - 24 May 2006
As a Mancunian living in Hull, I am always curious when the locals take a swipe at their fair city in one breath before waxing lyrical about how much they love it the next.

So I was surprised to learn a trip to Hull Truck Theatre could give me not only an education about the area's past, but also an in-depth understanding of how proud Hullonians are of their sporting heritage.

Sully tells the story of one of Hull's most famous sons (via the Welsh valleys, of course) - 70s and 80s rugby league legend Clive Sullivan (played by Fidel Nanton).

I wondered how the cast could use such a small stage to recreate an animated tale of heroic rags-to-riches sporting glory played out across acres of green land at the Boulevard and Craven Park, where Sullivan scored an incredible tally of 350 tries.

But co-directors Martin Barrass and Gareth Tudor Price did a superb job. With just three actors, a few props and wonderful improvisation, they turned Dave Windass's tale into a chuckle-a-minute thrill.

West Hull taxi driver Max (Lee Green) and his east Hull passenger Chelle (Natalie Blades) are frustratingly stuck in traffic after an accident on Clive Sullivan Way. In a bizarre twist of fate, they come across the ghost of the great man Sullivan himself.

They reminisce with him about his glory days in the black-and-white hoops of Hull FC and the red-and-white colours of rivals Hull KR.

From humble beginnings in a quaint Welsh village - when Clive and his three siblings were known as the "flying Sullivans" for their breathtaking pace - to a career on the field with the two Hull clubs and off it with the RAF, Sully takes the crowd on a whistle-stop tour of a lifetime of talent and triumph, but ultimately of torment and tragedy.

With comedy tinged with drama and even a dash of audience participation from the more vociferous rugby fans, the show certainly stirred the imaginations - and memories - of those looking on.

And strong performances from all three actors helped make it a real winner.

Performing heroism...

Review from Illuminate...

PERFORMING HEROISM

Hull Truck's trademark sparcity means the set is literally a strip of concrete road and the cast is made up of only three actors, all of which adds to the power and intensity of Dave Windass's new play.

Lee Green and Natalie Blades are excellent and work hard playing dozens of supporting roles, but the night belongs to Fidel Nanton and Clive Sullivan. It must be one thing to play a fictional character, but quite another to take on the part of someone real - a local hero - in his hometown, where his family and friends are still living. Directors Martin Barrass and Gareth Tudor Price don't let us forget how larger-than-life Sully was, projecting video clips and photos onto the back of the stage throughout. Nanton tackles (sorry, couldn't resist it!) the mammoth task with a quiet but commanding stage presence, moving the audience from fits of laughter to floods of tears.

The first half is hilarious, with lots of Hull 'in-jokes' that would probably be lost on an outsider, as the play follows Sully's rise to the peak of his rugby career. But you know what's coming, and there's almost an anticipatory bracing of backs as you sit down for the second half. Writer Dave Windass doesn't shy away from the tragic last stage of Sully's life, and Fidel Nanton is given a final soliloquy that barely leaves a dry eye in the house. Having said that, there are still lighter moments, such as when the audience responded with panto-esque boos and hisses as Sully changed in and out of Hull FC and Hull KR shirts!

Definitely see it if you're from Hull or a rugby league fan (if you're both, then this could be your perfect night out) and if you're not, it's still more than worth a look.

Clive Sullivan: 1943-1985

Tonight's the night, then. The first night. When we find out if the thing works or not, if audiences are willing to join us on the journey, if it's going to generate laughs, or tears, or both. It's the not knowing that makes you feel anxious and insecure and walk around with everything crossed all day. This will be a long day. A day when thoughts of the subject matter, the late, great Clive Sullivan, constantly fly around my head. They let me write his story. Can you believe that? Heading to town to buy cards and presents for the cast, buy a new t-shirt, maybe have a drink and to generally do anything that will stop me thinking about 8pm, Thursday May 18.

Nice legs shame about the boat race...

Look North arrived to film a piece about Sully. Myself and Martin offered ourselves for interview but, sadly, we were not deemed aesthetically pleasing enough for the BBC. Good looking cast member Fidel (pictured right) had a chat with them in the quiet surroundings of the theatre foyer; the public and staff forbade throughout from entering this very public area as nowt can get in the way of a bit of good PR. Leanne, the Beeb's one-woman video journalist plate spinner, filmed a nice moving (ie emotional, not just moving per se as most of the play involves people moving about an area known in theatrical grammar as 'the stage'. See, I'm learning, eh?) bit of the play. Twice. I ate a sandwich, watched a bit of the play, sorted out some tickets for a few people, wandered into town, started wondering how it will all go down tomorrow night, whether the comedy is remotely funny and what Sully himself would make of it all. John G wished us good luck, which was nice. Earlier, as we ventured out into the day, I'd observed not one but two people wearing those big shoes that some unfortunate people have to wear on one of their feet. As M also pointed out, I didn't think that anyone wore them anymore. You know the things - a normal shoe on one foot, a great big massive Frankenstein boot arrangement on the other, which, for some reason I felt like sharing with the world via my open car window, I decided was called a "clump boot". I realise there's obviously something wrong with the foot within, but this footwear seems to force a limp on the wearer. And, having not seen 'em for years, I was totally shocked that two came along at once. Still, it was a distraction from worrying about the play, so thank heavens for other people's podiatric misfortune.

Pretty vacant...

Technical stuff happening down the theatre, lighting being plotted and sound and image cues being punched in. Sat near the back of the auditorium for a while, watching all this taking place around me and unable to contribute constructively. This is soul destroying time. All the little bits and pieces of dialogue that you had doubts about are magnified, as the actors have to repeatedly trot through stuff while everything is set up, and with it all being totally disjointed, nothing makes sense anymore. I remember heading home last year after going to a tech and just losing complete faith in what I'd written. This time around at least I knew what to expect and what they were doing with images looked impressive. I would have stayed away but I had to go to the venue anyway for a radio/internet interview with a gal from the BBC called, I kid you not, Pretty. It might have been me under the influence of several packets of throat lozenges and Airwaves gum, but I could swear I was asked the same question repeatedly, just phrased slightly differently. I'd read a Q&A with Douglas Coupland earlier today and had his words that the most important aspect of an interview is to avoid coming across like an imbecile running around my head as I gave my imbecilic responses. I'm sure Pretty will edit me well. Grabbed a sandwich, then went back in the theatre for another hour of torture before bailing out, patting GTP on the shoulder and leaving them to it. No doubt they all carried on until a ridiculously late hour, as the technical aspects are an unwieldy bunch of beasts that need taming in a short space of time. I just wish I could have done something to help, but I'm a spare part now. Fidel told me he was still enjoying himself and I noticed he'd added some nice authentic grey patches to his barnet, just like Sully. There are, I was informed, just four seats left for the first night. Made the mistake of going back to Nat West today. And, fuck me, off they went again, telling me how much money they could save me if only I'd let them lend me some more money to increase my debt to them. "I know," I said, "someone told me that yesterday." "Who?" "I don't know. I can't remember." "It's just we could save you some money." "I know, I'm not interested." "Not interested? But we could save you some money. If we..." I walked away.

Workshops on the largest council estate in Europe preceded by a very messy sandwich in our favourite lunchtime diner. Avoided the theatre today as there's nothing for me to do really and, more importantly, I feel I'm highly contagious. Got a phone call as we walked around town in the rain asking me if I could do a radio interview tomorrow and another call when I was stood in the peace and quiet of a library from Ros Sullivan, Clive's widow, leading to a bit of a Dom Joly moment. I also found myself calling her "mate" when I first spoke, thinking it was someone else completely. Ros told me that ten of Sully's relatives are coming over from Wales for the last night of the play. Eek, this biographical drama is such scary territory.
Going to work at 6pm tends to throw the day out somewhat and by the time I was due to set off I was feeling anxious. I had, by then, also overdosed on cough linctus and Beecham's lemon drinks, and my usual prescribed medication, so, on top of a stinking cold, running nose and sore throat, that all added to the mess.
Woman in Nat West again telling me how much money they could save me if only I'd let them lend me some more money to increase my debt to them. I was cold, wet and hungry. "I know," I mumbled, thinking about the fact that on three occasions the bank has failed to keep telephone appointments that I have asked for to review my account and that the last time I told them not to ask me about loans ever again. "But we could save you money." "I know." It bores me that they even feel the need to go through the same routine every time anyone approaches the counter. It's the kind of thing that will, eventually, drive me to internet banking, even though I'd rather physically go into a bank and conduct my business. I was very close to a Michael Douglas Falling Down moment.

Listening: Howling Bells - Liberation

Blands have more fun

Extra time in the FA Cup, then, thus rendering a radio appearance a low-key affair. Even mother, my official archivist, was watching Liverpool triumph on penalties. Still, there was at least one listener aside from me (and I was watching the tv with the other ear), as some lucky soul won a pair of tickets to the play. Best avoid the cast during the early part of next week as have gone down with a stinking cold. Not that I can do anything now other than just sit there and watch, and I'll be doing plenty of that come opening night.
There's been a disappointing lack of Michelle Dewberry hysteria around here since the bland, blonde expressionless ex-checkout girl superwoman wannabe won The Apprentice the other night. There's no sign of a civic tickertape reception as yet, no announcement that she'll present the HDM's Business Awards wearing nothing more than bra and pants, no image of Michelle appearing on the city council's plethora of PR hoardings that cover every development opportunity in the city. So, on the back of my recent experience of writing biographical drama, I have taken it upon myself to contact Cameron Mackintosh with a view to writing a West End blockbuster musical about Michelle's rise from the rough 'n' tough streets of Hull to the heady heights of a job disposing of companies' unwanted computer equipment. The lyrics have all but been written by Michelle already. "I've lost people close to me, but I did not let it destroy me. Instead, I used it to propel me and give me strength and determination..." she said in the final showdown, thus making Alain Boublil look like an amateur. Now, imagine that set to a bit of plinky, plonky piano, backed by a chorus of child labour and Hull's other success story, Liam Mower, of Billy Elliot fame, jumping about all over the stage to the rhythm of Sir Alan Sugar's asthmatic breathing and surely we'll be looking at a longer run than The Mousetrap.

Betcha by golly, wow!

Up at the crack of 10am to do a phoner with the local BBC radio station. Nice chat, even given that my throat was closing up and felt as if it had something sharp lodged in it. I guess that's eating a Big Mac late at night for you. And the good thing is that as it was pre-recorded piece I can listen to myself later and then curl up into a ball of embarassment. Just who is that stuttering, stammering fool telling everyone that the tickets are selling like the proverbial hot cakes? Will anyone else be listening? Or will the FA Cup have gone into extra-time and everyone be hanging on the result of that?
We were contemplating heading to the races today but the view from this room looks wet and grey and the going a bit soft. The last time this party of five went racing in the rain we very stupidly took shelter from a thunder and lighting storm by huddling under a metal tower, so perhaps some alternative indoor entertainment would be a safer bet.

Reading: Charles Bukowski - The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (and other stories)

Back to rehearsals. A few more cuts and nips and tucks. We listened to some tunes dropped in by Johnny Pat of Johnny Pat and the Aces fame - Hull's 1960s attempt to bag a slice of the jingley jangley Beatles scene. They were very amusing musical nuggets for all the right reasons and well worth waiting for. Also spoke to my boyhood hero - Sammy Lloyd, Hull FC goal kicker and permed barnet Kevin Keegan-alike extraordinaire - who we call a tart in the play. Twice. We thought it only right that we tell him what we're up to. He took the script excerpts I read down the telephone in remarkably good humour and wished us well. Watched a run through of the full play. Felt in a heightened emotional state all day and slid out the venue quietly after the run, leaving the experts to it. There's nothing much I can do at all now re the play, in a practical sense, other than wait for the first night. So in many ways today felt like the end of something, even though the most exciting bit is yet to come.

This link might not remain live for very long, but there's an interview with...erm...me, talking about the play, here

Clean living

The kids are coming tomorrow for two weeks. So, naturally, we spent a few hours tidying the house from top to bottom. In doing so, and creating a clean space with nary a piece of fluff in sight, we expect them to treat the house with respect. Naturally, we reserve the right to make a right old mess when we get bored of living like this.

Too much time on my hands?

In the season opener, Dave shocks M, his mother and his children by taking a job as a sandwich salesman in a Gregg's bakery. He is foiled in his efforts to sell 100 Mexican Chickens on wholegrain by his "high maintenance" cat Penny, who insists on blocking the doorway to perform drum 'n' bass versions of popular West End songs. And in (yet) another case of art imitating life, Dave and Martin Barrass contemplate making a new play about a writer who can't find work because he's a writer writing a play about writing a play about a writer who can't find work.

Another brick in the wall...

All this concrete being poured and all these cranes swinging about are really getting me excited. The main city centre road is closed in one direction for the next few months, thus signaling even more concrete on its way. Come 2007, the skyline will have been transformed into a big slab of concrete, with windows, housing a really fancy Poundzone, or some other posh flagship store. Several men in flourescent jackets have been employed to tell people where they're allowed to walk, just in case they can't see for themselves that clambering over barriers into moving traffic is a bad idea. Several traders are now hidden behind 6ft high fencing, and I predict that by the weekend the HDM will have a story from some wittering hi-fi shop owner complaining about the lack of business. Spent the morning in rehearsals. Delivered a few new lines for Act II and then they ran through it. After the heady first half it felt like theatre to slash the wrists to, such is the turn of events. Won't be back in now until Friday.

Piles

Spent the morning in rehearsals. The piling rigs and heavy plant are getting perilously close to the theatre now. I fully expect it all to come crashing through the roof just seconds before the curtain goes up on Sully, a play that would otherwise have been the theatrical highlight of the year, if only its writer, cast and team of directors hadn't got stuck under all the rubble. There've been times when we've been in the theatre and the place has felt too close to collapse for comfort, the lighting rig shaking as if it belonged at an AC/DC gig. There's not much I can do now when I attend rehearsals, so I just sit there and get impressed by everyone around me. I watched a nicely trimmed down Act I run through, had a quick chat, arranged some tickets so I can go along and watch the real thing and then we headed off up the coast to Bridlington. I was served a Whippy ice cream by a well-dressed boy who can't have been a day over 12. He attempted to charge us £4.70 for a 99 and a single scoop ice cream. This is the north of England, I wanted to tell the little lad, we don't much like your fancy Cockerney prices. I persuaded him to give us £2 back in return for not alerting Social Services. Best overheard comment of the day came from the mouth of an 80-year-old, who was complaining that "the town looks a bit dated to me". She may have stank of urine herself, and be mere days from death, but I couldn't help but agree. Noticed that Ken Dodd is playing the 3Bs in June, someone I've always wanted to see but never not round to. Given that Doddy's approaching the end I better get myself back to Brid for one of those before it's too late (I saw Keith Richards in the days before he Jet Skiid out of a tree, you know, so I usually time these things correctly).

Off to a flier...

A whistlestop tour of Hull's rugby league-themed taverns (of which there are many) to put up posters and leave fliers. Do other writers do this? I dunno. I'm just keen to help promote the play wot I wrote. A rather nice response wherever we went, as everyone in the city appears to have been to school with either Sully or his kids. One pub wanted all of the posters I had with me, but I had to restrict them to just 3. I don't want these valuable items turning up on eBay. Another wouldn't let me leave until I had answered a range of questions about the play, the cast and this week's feature on Sky Sports' show Boots n All (Wednesday, 8pm, I believe). We took a break from Blu Tack duties at Dukes, where we kidded ourselves we were being healthy by ordering salad and olives stuffed with tomatoes (given their relative size, why not the other way round?). That, on its own, would've been fine...but I couldn't resist some lager.

Meat is murder...

Phew, that wedding was great fun. And staying overnight in the reception venue made the day a totally relaxed affair (well, for us, I'm sure the bride and groom had a few moments of tension) full of drinking, eating and dancing just enough to damage my knees. The Morrissey t-shirt I picked up the other night prompted a few conversations, while the DJ played the Pistols, Manics, Clash and lots of other decent tunes and gushed about how he was having the time of his life as he usually has to play Village People and the Birdie Song at such functions. The food was a totally vegetarian menu, as both the bride and groom are dedicated veggies, and was excellent fodder. But, as we checked out, it prompted the receptionist to quiz us about our eating habits to see if we were "one of them". M gave the answer that one of us is, one of us ain't. "I couldn't eat vegetarian," she said, "I'd need to have something with it," as if vegetarian options don't actually contain anything edible. "I suppose you'll be craving a piece of steak now?" she said to me as we walked away in response to this foodist offensive behaviour.

Listening: Dirty Pretty Things - Waterloo to Anywhere.

Read all about it...

Nice bit of coverage in the paper.
We made the cover of the listings magazine, Fidel was deemed good looking enough to occupy a full-page inside and we also got in the news pages. What a marvellous publication the Hull Daily Mail is. I also discovered that the other half of a Q&A I did a couple of weeks ago has turned up on the Illuminate website. So, those that wish to laugh at me can read those responses here. Little time to bask in the glory of this media attention, though, as we have to head to a big Catholic wedding in Hull and a subsequent shindig at a nice little hotel in a village just outside of Beverley, where we shall stay overnight. The bash threatens to be enjoyable, with an indie DJ, full vegetarian menu and a magician all lined up to thrill and entertain us.

Field of dreams...

The fun never ends around these parts. After last night's Moz-related action we had to be up bright and early to get to the Boulevard for a photoshoot. To the right is the cast of Sully, along with Martin B the co-director and, throttling him, ex-Hull FC player Terry Devonshire and, raising a fist, former Hull KR star Steve Hubbard (dad of Josh Paddington, trivia addicts). A nice chap sent by my former employer was there taking pics. We had to squeeze through a barrier to get in the place as we'd turned up at the wrong entrance . I spent a good few years at this particular field of dreams but, despite still being used as a community venue, the old place is in a right mess. The 'best stand' has fallen victim to a fire and most of its rear is charred and scorched. Hull FC's club song Old Faithful has a line about "When the Boulevard's white with clover". Sad to say it's yellow with dandelions right now. Anyway, us theatre types took great pleasure in executing passes in Terry Dev's direction. Terry reminded me that I owed him 50p for a cup of tea he made me couple of week's ago and then wandered back through the long grass, not to be seen again until opening night.
Yesterday, before seeing Mozza but after the Sky Sports interview (which was puncuated by a piling rig that's busy hammering away on a building site outside the theatre) I had lunch in Ask with Ros Sullivan and Nick from the Yorkshire Post, an interview situation over spicy pizza, pasta and salad. Nick, quite naturally for a journalist, kept asking questions but, whenever we started supplying responses bordering on the genius, the waitress came over to interrupt us. I still tipped.
Tonight, we're back at the KC to watch Hull FC take on Bradford Bulls and, possibly, drink a cup of Bovril at half-time.

Listening: Rolling Stones - Aftermath

Heaven knows I'm miserable now...

Just back from an evening in the company of Morrissey. He was everything I expected him to be - ie depressing and a tad Vegas. A couple of Smiths songs, a nice bouncy opening 20 minutes, a decent Irish Blood, English Heart encore. But far too many burly heterosexual men over-idolising their hero and talking about the gig in 1987 at the Ally Pally and other such creepy-crawly shite. Saying that, it was a ruddy good night out. "Who put the grim into Grimsby?" asked the Mozzfather, before taking over the sports hall venue. For me, it was all downhill from there. But the baying crowd seemed to disagree. In other news, I offered my resignation to my daytime employer today, signalling the end of a road lined with newspapers for me.

Press to play...

Interview today with the York Evening Press. Charles phoned me while I was shopping in The Range, a ridiculously over-stocked shop that sells everything from pig's ears to Jack Vettriano prints. I missed the call as I was busy buying a cutting mat and an A3 display book - in this game of Top Trumps craft related goods beat publicising a play. When I did finally talk to him it was a nice old chat but, given that we've known each other as theatre critics for a few years, a strange experience. I'd prepared for the interview by eating an 'Ultimate Breakfast' at British Home Stores, drinking Cappuccino in Starbucks and conducting surveillance on a security guard who sits at the entrance of low-budget emporium Primark. I noticed that he was zooming in on female customers' breasts, the odd carrier bag and generally having fun with his state-of-the-art CCTV system. Anyway, I managed to snap him in a rare moment of slacking, and keen observers of the picture on the left will notice that he's sending a text on his mobile. I reckon the message might be something about catching some lowlife scum attempting to dash off with £2 worth of polo shirts. I also bought a new suit today (a beige linen affair, not from Primark I'd like to stress) along with a pink shirt and a brown tie. A combo that might make me look a little bit like a Licorice Allsort. Anyway, retail therapy rocks. Tonight, we headed to Pave for a few shandys in the glorious Hull sunshine, a nice idea that was only ruined by the fact that the beer garden had been transformed into a creche for the very annoying children of adults with no parenting skills. Then it was home, to rewrite page 10 of the script, as I had left a character on stage with nowt to do. Keen not to miss The Apprentice, I just added the direction she stands upstage, juggling fire. Tomorrow we are being interviewed by Sky Sports and, over lunch with Ros Sullivan, the mighty might of my favourite regional newspaper, the Yorkshire Post.

Roddy Doyle and Joyce compared...

To the theatre to deliver some rewrites - condensed a couple of scenes to get things moving faster. The new opening worked well, but I headed off after a couple of hours as I had to be at a meeting to get the lowdown on some creative writing workshops I'm running, which start next week. Due to the pre-solved 'investigation' I've got a bit of time on my hands so, after the meeting, I put up two shelves in a fit of over-enthusiastic DIY, then stocked the shelves with books. It's a sort of overspill section from the shelves we have in the living room, so Animal Farm nestles next to Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories, Sarah Waters' Affinity is just a thumb-flick away from a pair of Albert Camus novels, while works by Terry Pratchett and Frank Skinner sit at the end of one shelf like a guilty secret. While doing all this I noticed that James Joyce's Ulysses is the same thickness as Roddy Doyle's Barrytown trilogy, although I don't envisage being able to use that piece of knowledge anywhere other than here. Anyway, I've been suspended from what I now consider to be my former daytime job due to the unhealthy interest I was showing in my own play (hence the pre-solved 'investigation'), so there'll no doubt be more DIY in the coming weeks. I'm also planning to catch up on a massive collection of Asian DVDs I've never had the chance to watch. A writer's life, eh?

Reading: Kenzaburo Oe - A Quiet Life

Oval balls and baps...

What better way to prepare for a play about rugby league than attend a game? So four of us headed to see Hull FC take on the less than mighty Wigan Warriors, a somewhat lop-sided affair that was over and done by the half-time hooter. Post-game I was interviewed about the play on Radio Humberside, although I had to make a last-minute dash up three floors via a spiral staircase and then run up several flights of terracing to join the show's host. Anyway, I think I did ok and, despite the audible breathlessness, managed to sound coherent, and trotted out cliches such as, "it's a great honour to be given the task of writing this story" (which, I should add, it is). Martin B, the co-director, was over at Craven Park enjoying a Hull KR victory over Halifax, and we were both on-air at the same time, engaged in an east v west Hull conflict like in the good old days, when rugby players were, on the whole, fat, slightly more accessible to the fans and there was none of the fancy seating you get at the KC. On the walk back to the car down Anlaby Road I found myself laughing out loud at the name of a cafe christened Jayne's Baps. I have never met Jayne but people talk of little else around these parts other than sinking their teeth into her baps. We rounded a very good day off by eating a ridiculous amount of Indian food and playing Trivial Pursuit at M's mums. Sadly, my board game skills failed to match the winning ways of the Airlie Birds.

Listening: Manic Street Preachers - Gold Against The Soul