Cash machine...

The sign on the ATM tells you to report any suspicious activity. There was a man inside this cash machine today when I turned up with my bank card!

Sunday evening feeling #22...

Arcade Fire - No Cars Go
Between the click of the light and the start of the dream

twits...

If twitter were working right now I'd be tweeting about how annoying it is not to be able to tweet on twitter. What's going on there? Not been able to login for three days.

Nothing compares...

Good Sinead O Connor comment in The Observer Magazine: "I didn't hit it off with Prince. I met him after I'd recorded Nothing Compares To U and he said he didn't appreciate how I used bad language in my interviews. I told him to go fuck himself..."

Sunday evening feeling #21...

The Kinks - Celluloid Heroes
Everybody's a dreamer and everybody's a star
And everybody's in show biz, it doesn't matter who you are.

Holly failed to notice that I said hello to her the other day. I refuse to say it to her again for fear of being bombarded with requests...

It's been a while since I went to one of those oddly British 'family gathering' style Sunday events like the one I enjoyed today. And when I say enjoyed, I mean it. It was fun and M's family are a nice bunch of people, very chatty and good at making a shy boy like me feel at home. I did feel like something of an observer for a big chunk of it. But, then, that's what I'm like wherever I am. Watch out for the new Mike Leigh-Secrets and Lies-style play, Afternoon at Anne's, which will reveal all.

What's a boy supposed to do on Mothering Sunday? Take round a box of choccies, or a bunch of flowers? Perhaps take her out for a meal? Lavish her with treats? Or take her to a game of rugby league? Yes, that's right, I opted for the latter. Such is the open-minded joi de vivre of my old mum that she loved every minute of the rather lopsided 46-4 victory that Hull FC enjoyed over the London Broncos. She enjoyed the hospitality on offer in the executive area of the KC Stadium. She marvelled at the amount of women in attendance. And was thrilled to discover that stadia in the 21st century contain elevators. Next year am thinking of taking her to Xscape, the indoor adrenalin sports centre in Castleford. Am certain she'll be up for that.

Nice juxtaposition...

HDM made me laugh this morning and I applaud the newspaper's production staff for having a bit of fun. An underline reading "Boxer's girlfriend to raise money for dog charity" was accompanied by a picture of said girlfriend with a boxer dog. Bestiality? No! Why, that's just one of the dogs that may benefit. Her actual boxer boyfriend is not a dog at all but the boxer Joe Calzaghe.

Sunday evening feeling #20....

B J Thomas - Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head
But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me
Won't defeat me
Won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me

Illegal...

I had to take eldest son to a nightclub so that he could retrieve the coat he left in there the other night. He is, in the eyes of the law, underage. As he went to knock on the door, he reminded himself "must behave as if I'm 18, must behave as if I'm 18."

It's a sick world...

Scene Hull branch of LloydsTSB. It is mid-morning and Killing Time walks in at exactly the wrong time.

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: Why don't they have more staff on?

TRACKSUITED CRONE: Don't you watch the news? They're in trouble.

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: I'd heard the Chairman's in trouble.

TRACKSUITED CRONE : Yes. That's it.

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: And did you hear about that foreigner?

TRACKSUITED CRONE : The immigrant one?

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: The immigrant one, yes. He wants a house.

TRACKSUITED CRONE : He wants two houses.

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: Two houses, that's the one. Wants two houses for him and his family. And he's an immigrant. And he's on benefits.

TRACKSUITED CRONE: It's a sick world.

WRINKLY OLD WOMAN: It is a sick world.

Fragmented post...

Just when I feared that I was entering the realm of the 'worthy' pretentious writers' club, I stumbled into and subsequently mined a rich vein of comedy* about bacon, sausage and egg sandwiches. My, the joys of writing. You can see how it all works out in 2010.

Several years ago I was obsessed with giving actors big long lists to perform. Because when I listen to people as an 'observer of humanity'** that is, in all honesty, all I hear; big long lists. When M and myself met with a couple of performers to discuss our forthcoming co-production they said, "please, no lists. Please." Which is a bit like a red rag to a bull. Or a Red Bull to a __________ (insert your own gag here).

*It may not be funny to an audience. But I like it.
** If you are reviewing my work and are stuck for something nice to say about me, why not use those three words? All yours, free of charge.

Sunday evening feeling #19...

The Cure - Lullaby
And I feel like I'm being eaten
By a thousand million shivering furry holes
And I know that in the morning I will wake up
In the shivering cold

And the spiderman is always hungry...

A tale of two Richards...

So, as we walked around Hull's Avenues I decided to take a few photos of the stencil graffiti that's cropping up on dustbins and street signs. The one to the left is on a roundabout on Westbourne Avenue. When I first looked I wasn't 100 per cent sure who it was supposed to be depicting and was half convinced it was Stalin. Until, that is, M pointed out it was Richard Briers. Yes, of The Good Life and Ever Decreasing Circles fame. We were several houses further down the Avenue before it clicked. "Did you mean Richard Pryor?" This is the kind of faux intellectual aesthetic chat you have to adopt on the Avenues. But it is Richard Pryor. Isn't it?

Smiley culture...

I was invited, and went, to a meeting to discuss Hull's cultural life the other week. This involved shaking hands with people ('artists') I've never met before, eating biscuits and writing things on post-its. It depends how you define culture, of course, but shaking hands with people ('artists') you've never met before, eating biscuits and writing things on post-its could well be a new cultural pursuit for me. Although next time I hope they choose a venue with a toilet.

Liz...

The Queen came to Hull today. As is the norm for such state visits, the city was spruced up in readiness for mad Lizzy. She arrived in Hull on the Royal Train and the station masters had gone crazy with the red, white and blue bunting. All access chambers and manholes also underwent the mandatory sealing that accompanies the monarch's every move. I didn't go and see her. It would have been hard not to spit.

Killing less time than I used to...

I will be around a little bit more now. I am in the midst of seriously redrafting big play. So I will need a distraction and will be slipping back into my tried and tested procrastination techniques. I could be rewriting the opening now, which involves a flag and a scaffold rig, but am I? No, I am here, blogging. Just like old times. I apologise for not being around on a regular basis over the last few months, save for my Sunday Night Feeling efforts. I have been caught up in the most peculiar world of marketing, design and public relations. Stroking people's egos has taken up far too much of the time I would otherwise spend stroking my own ego. In addition to redrafting big play, I am also gearing up, along with my Single Span friends, to make a short film about Ted Lewis, the chap that wrote Jack's Return Home, upon which Get Carter was based. The screenplay is by Nick Triplow and Lozman and I will be directing. Life has become one strange round of meetings at which we discuss trains, guns and multi-storey car parks and our never-ending list of outstanding actions. I should also be revisiting the shot list but, well, here I am. The good thing about the short film is that we have received funding from our heroes at Humber Mouth to make it. It will be screened at the festival as part of a bigger 'event' of our own making. Which adds a bit of pressure. But that is a good thing because, without it, I would be on here, blogging. The bad thing about the short film is that we're scheduled to shoot on the same weekend that I could have been pitching some ideas to WarpX and Rollem. I found out the other day, amongst the spam, that I am one of the lucky bleeders to be selected for Page One, an intense three-day ideas 'hothouse'. But I can't do it because I am making a film. I am happy to be making the film. But Kay Mellor may like my ideas for drama. But that will have to wait. I am also, along with M, avoiding co-writing another, slightly smaller, play, also for Humber Mouth. Us and Humber Mouth go way back, which is nice. We've both been festival critics. And without it, I probably wouldn't be here now avoiding writing plays (the hardly seen by anyone but friends and family early writing workouts Store Me Whether, Off Their Trolleys and Worst Seat in the House are all a part of my Mouth experience). I'm proud to be a part of the festival again. And the play should rear its head in Hull Truck's shiny, new and currently unopened studio space, which is something else to be proud of. I suppose I should go and crack on with some of this stuff. Or at least pretend to (next stop: the fridge).

Sunday evening feeling #18...

Portishead - Roads
Ohh, can't anybody see
We've got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say