A kind of living...

"A thing that fascinated me was the way a talent might peak, then just disappear. I had heard writers say that it came upon them like a loss of nerve: they feel they're done for and that there's no point in it any more; they are out of step with the world and there is nothing to relight their creative fire. The owner (or custodian) of the talent is the first to know when it falters. Nowhere must that be truer than in a game like football where talent is directly linked to a physical fitness which can be held at a peak for only a few years. Thank God writing wasn't dependent in that way. A writer's talent ought to ripen, mature for as long as he/she is capable of getting the words down, or possesses the mind to sort them out for someone else to transcribe. Especially interesting that I should be called upon to formulate and examine all this when I was full of doubt about myself.

"No two writers can live together free from tension - one has learned to ride one's own disappointments; it is not easy to add someone else's to that precarious balance - but we know how to laugh."

Stan Barstow - In My Own Good Time

15 hours...

Woke up. Tweeted. Sulked. Showered. Sulked. Made phone calls. Sulked. Sat in sun. Went for walk. Sulked. Bought bacon sandwich. Ate bacon sandwich. Sat in sun. Kicked ball to Finn. Filled in World Cup wallchart. Sulked. Went to Finn's tea party. Went to bank. Went to college reunion (of sorts). Raised a toast to all who sailed in her. Sulked. Picked up mother. Went to see production of Cooking With Elvis. Laughed. Applauded. Met some people. Smiled. Took mother home. Sulked. Blogged.

Funny and angry, touching and grim...

Nice budget. Made me think we could do with another Boys From the Blackstuff. Then, perhaps, a bit of real action. While we're waiting for that...

Angie: It's not funny, it's not friggin' funny. I've had enough of that - if you don't laugh, you'll cry - I've heard it for years - this stupid soddin' city's full of it - well why don't you cry - why don't you scream - why don't you fight back, you bastard. Fight back. They'd knockin' the shite an' stuffin' out of you, Chrissie Todd, and if you have had enough, I have.

... Tell it to the kids, Chrissie, tell it to the cupboards and the fridge. See how full y'words can make them. And when you've done that, make breakfast - and if y'do, y'll have found a job - because y'll be a soddin' magician.

Alan Bleasdale - Boys From the Blackstuff

Inspiration for journalism students...

"Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits - a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy piss-ridden little hole nailed off by the building inspector, but just deep enough for a wino to curl up from the sidewalk and masturbate like a chimp in a zoo-cage."

Hunter S. Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

How to be a satirist...

"What we need is a comedy coalition to monitor our so-called "new politics". I'm optimistic. I still believe in the power of British satire to make us laugh while making the world a better place. The new government knows what it must do. Satirists need targets and there are already signs that the coalition recognises that it has a duty to provide them.

"At a time of rising unemployment it must ensure that there are job opportunities galore for novice satirists ... Another golden age beckons: for the sake of our children – and our children's children – let's make it happen!"

David Frost's Q&A on how to be a satirist in The Guardian

Mind you, take Frost's words of advice on writing satire with a pinch of salt - Peter Cook used to describe him as The Bubonic Plagiarist.

The Benn Diaries...

Dipping in and out of The Benn Diaries (the single volume edition). It's short and snappy episodic nature makes it a fine toilet read, although that's a) probably too much information for you and b) a good setup for a joke by someone unsympathetic to the politics of the left. This edition - which is signed, although there's probably no way of checking the authenticity of that, and cost a mere £1.99 from Oxfam - covers 1940-1990. I found myself quickly turning to 1984, the year of the miners' strike. Sunday 20 May - "...the fact is that the Labour leadership has totally failed to support the working class when in struggle". Hmm.

Life is 140 characters...

Life is 140 characters

I used to enjoy telling the world
What I was up to
Using 140 characters

But I woke up one morning
And realised that writing
For 140 characters

Is a lot harder
Than writing monologues.

MOSI...

Great time at MOSI with Finn today. The place is an unbelievable feast of fun for zero £££. The little 'un panicked a little when I made him do 'Underground Manchester'. Must be a family trait - I was a little angsty myself when we ventured into the Gas Gallery. The smell of gas around ye olde gas lamps was to be expected, I suppose, but I did fear an explosion. Anyway, we survived and the little tinker enjoyed himself and said "WOW!" several times.

The time that we kill...

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I am still alive. Although you could be forgiven for not believing me - maybe I scheduled this blog before I popped my cloggs in a caffeine and curry-fuelled suicidal success. But no, I am still here, writing this as I type or typing this as I write, if you prefer. Not much to say. Not much to report. Just been writing. With intermittent tweets to maintain my insanity. I'm procrastinating now. Which I don't have time for because I have about eight hours split across today to finish something. Yet, knowing that doesn't allow me to even start the work. Example. I've just been busy with an orange highlighter, highlighting highlights indiscriminately. As if that's writing. So. Once more and all that...

...
...
...
...
...oh

...forgot to say...

...always worth remembering...

...that...

...the time that we kill...

...keeps us alive*



*one for the Rise Against fans there

What's on your banner?..

"[Elizabeth] Bishop explains: 'Henry James once said that he who would aspire to be a writer must inscribe on his banner the one word: Loneliness ... You might have 'susceptibility' on your banner, and yet never get down a decent sentence. The bitter lesson is that you might undergo all the suffering prescribed for the writing apprenticeship, and still never take creative flight..."

Tessa Hadley in Author, Author, The Guardian

Why does the toad work...

Out filming at Vista festival in Hull today, attempting to get people to wax lyrical about Hull's adopted son Philip Larkin. We did ok but still probably need another 50 more interviews. Finest response today was from a young woman who asked, "Is he the guy that abandoned slavery?" Other interviewees gave intelligent, thoughtful responses; one interpreted the poem Cut Grass via the medium of dance. Lots of people, as expected, only knew Larkin as the man wot wrote "that thing about your parents ruining your life" or "innee summat to do wiv turds?". During one interview a somewhat desperate father pushed his very young children into the shot, mistaking us for a film crew doing something important.

Mr cab driver...

Spent a bit of time talking about poets today and it reminded me that, a couple of weeks ago, I was in a cab with, shock horror but probably a result of the city ambassadors courses they go on, a rather literary taxi driver. The driver asked me what I did for a living. I slid down the chair and mumbled something about words, typing, writing. "You should be proud," said drive. "Writing? Writing? I like me books. I like me theatre," he practically screamed, clearly delighted that I hadn't asked him if he'd had a busy night. Then, for at least two minutes, he gave me his King Lear. "That were King Lear," he very kindly pointed out as the meter ticked towards four quid. "What I really like is me Blake." For a brief moment, I thought he was going to give me some Blakey from On The Buses. But no such luck. It appears that taxi drivers have a complex relationship with Enlightenment philosophy. William Blake's To the Muses sprang forth from his lips. He told me his rendition was word perfect and the result of lots of practice at home. "You start telling everyone you're a writer," he insisted, as he pulled over and I handed over the necessary, tipping him the change for his fine performance so I didn't have to hang about and suffer a burst of The Chimney Sweeper. I'm sure the tourists will enjoy it.

Pink-tinted spectacle...

Lovely splash of colour down what used to be one of Hull's busiest shopping streets for the next ten weeks. Recent redevelopment has re-routed a lot of the footfall down Whitefriargate - one-time flashpoint of the English Civil War - and caused a lot of retail outlets to shut up shop but former graf writer turned legit commercial artist Pinky has worked his magic on some of the empty shopfronts. The man himself calls it his "HUGE public art installation" and "Pinkfriargate". I think each and every one is a work of stunning beauty. Well done Hull City Council and, gulp, Hull Forward, for commissioning this particular piece of Pinkyvision, which aims to celebrate Hull's role at "the heart of the Clipper 09-10 Round The World Yacht Race".