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.

Bullseye...

So, the new regime is - or was supposed to be - thus: the day starts with a blog entry, the way it should. Blogging 'warms me up' for the writing day ahead. Or at least that was the theory - first day of the new regime failed because I decided to fill in the Sunday (blog) gap then couldn't think of anything to write for today (still can't - hence this travesty!), so I settled into the old ways, which is the new heading to the fridge. That is; twitter. I tweeted. I read some tweets. I was unproductive. Which was silly, because I resolved that 2010 was to be the most productive year ever. I did, steadily, get into the groove. Transcribed an interview that will be the basis of some web copy that needs delivering soon, got some design stuff out the way, sorted out some commitments to a writing network I'm involved with, did lots of housekeeping. Clearing the decks, really, because I have lots to do, you guessed it, tomorrow. See you on twitter bright and early?

What I could have done, of course, was blogged about the darts. It was a fine final, last night, there was much drama and, had I not been slightly distracted at the peak of the drama by the unfurling watchable shitness of Celebrity Big Brother, I would certainly have been on the edge of my seat. It was Phil 'the Power' Taylor versus Simon 'the Wizard' Whitlock. Simon is not a real wizard but the Power does have 'the Power' tattooed down his arm, so we must assume he is the Power. I wonder about these nicknames. They don't seem to evolve; rather, they're just given to these people when they purchase their first set of darts or, in Whitlock's case, when he grew his first beard. Darts is a lovely security blanket of a 'sport'. It feels like home, it feels nostalgic, it feels, as those generally unfit men huff and puff and sweat and snarl like shoddy pantomime dames, as if all is well with the world. Rather than wage an ideological war against Islam or constantly annoy the Chinese, I wonder if the west should merely distribute dart boards around the globe? Seriously, I think darts could save humanity. The Power won, if you're interested. The PDC contest over for a few weeks, the darts world now turns its attention to the BDO which is much the same but without the money, the excitement and the entertainment. You do get Martin Adams, Ted 'the Hankey' Count (those words are in the wrong order - syntax ed.) and lots of really lardy blokes in the BDO, mind, and such an air of kitchen sink social realism that it's a wonder whippets and pigeons don't frequent the Lakeside while a dirty, grime-laden Arthur Seaton looks on as he downs a pint of summat dark brown after a seven day week down at t'factory.

Reading: Aldous Huxley - Island

Happy new year...

I don't go back very often but thought I better glance backwards to see what I wrote at this time last year. I note that I was ill then, too. I'm almost over this thing that's threatened to knock me out completely, which is just as well, as I've got lots to do as of next Monday.

Typically, then, and I can say that with some authority now I know I said and did the same last year, there'll be no lists or resolutions or predictions from me, nor much patting myself on the back for a year well done. 2009 was a relatively quiet one. A play co-written and performed that made people laugh and truly deserved a longer run, a full-length play written, delivered and looking like it might surface at some point in 2011, a short film directed and screened in a proper cinema, another short film shot and awaiting post production, what felt like a strengthening of the ties that we've enjoyed with Humber Mouth, a very short piece rearing its comedic head in a rehearsal room at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, the end of my PR hell, a return to standing in front of students (supposedly imparting some kind of wisdom), another year as Writer in Residence at Hull College that has involved neither writing nor residency (and, the board will be pleased to note, no payment for said position!), some essential support that was, in part, courtesy of the oft-looming sceptre of Joe Orton, ideas knocked back and forth and back again, some heading onwards and upwards and others buried forever, and lots of M and Finn - without both of whom none of my silly shenanigans would be possible nor worthwhile.

As I contemplate the next 12 months I'm sure I'm not the only one that feels that the toughest days are ahead of us - the double and triple dips are on their wicked way; economically Britain's about as f*cked as a country can be and there's absolutely no way that we can work our way out of this one as our industry amounts, relatively speaking, to nothing more than a big fat nothing. I also note that the nice new enemies of the west have come into clear focus in the last few days - Iran and Nigeria. Deary me, when will this silliness end? Sad to say there is even more selfishness around than there was a year ago and nobody is apparently learning anything from the hard lessons we're all experiencing.

Personally, artistically and creatively there are exciting times ahead. Feel on the cusp of something good and, without wanting to tempt fate or second guess what might come our way, some commercial success afoot too. But you never can tell and, having learned to take nothing for granted, I'll gladly take whatever comes my way.

In 2010, please be selfless, love your fellow planet-dwellers, give more than you take, share what you know, what you learn and what you earn. And, whatever you do, don't vote Conservative or BNP in the general election.

I'll mainly be spending the next year writing. It might not change the world but, then again, it might, so I better not stop just yet. I plan to tackle the new year head on, wrestle it to the ground, make it mine, ruffle a few feathers along the way, be an iconoclast, look for the truth, make a difference. You?

Last year, I quoted Baz Luhrman circa Sunscreen. Given the huge cracks appearing in society, it would seem a bit flippant to suggest that we all just do a little dance tonight. Regular stalkers will be aware that I've just read Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London. So, as the clock shifts towards midnight and Jools Holland settles down at his piano before introducing Paul Weller (or Sam Brown, or similar), why not reflect on this:

"The educated man prefers to keep things as they are. Possibly he does not
like his fellow rich very much, but he supposes that even the vulgarest of them
are less inimical to his pleasures, more his kind of people, than the poor, and
that he better stand by them. It is this fear of a supposedly dangerous mob that
makes nearly all intelligent people conservative in their opinions.

Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there
is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor, as though they were two different races. But in reality there is no such difference. The mass of the rich and poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit...

The educated man...does not see that since there is no difference between
the mass of rich and poor, there is no question of setting the mob loose.
The mob is in fact loose now, and - in the shape of rich men - is using its
power to set up enormous treadmills of boredom...a plongeur is a slave,
and a wasted slave, doing stupid and largely unnecessary work. He is kept at
work, ultimately, because of a vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he
had leisure. And educated people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the
process, because they know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of
him."

George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London (1933)

I dunno, maybe you'd prefer to do a little dance.

A happy new year to everyone I love - M, Finn, Danielle, Scott, Sam, me dear old mum - and my friends and relatives far and near and, well, you, whoever the f*ck you are.

All the best. Make 2010 count. x

Meeting...

Happy Birthday M! Today, you are the same age as Jesus Christ. Was. When he. Well, you know. The end bit. Enjoy!

I had a meeting re some work, re working efficiently, because that's the game we're in, the working efficiently game. The meeting was delayed for 45 minutes because two other meetings had to take place. You couldn't make it up. Or you could, but you'd be making really boring shit up.

Whippied into a frenzy...

I mostly work remotely these days. It's great, because it means that I am closer to the kettle and the fridge and don't have to shave or wear clothes. It's a brave new world and one that isn't necessarily aesthetically pleasing. Occasionally, of course, I have to attend a meeting. Like today. I wasn't happy because we could have done the meeting, which was little more than a coffee and some inane chat, via telephone. So, to appease me, halfway through the meeting they bought me an ice cream from a passing ice cream man who slowed down near the office block, tooting his ice cream man's tune. The ice cream in question was a whippy 99, in case you're wondering. Poor ice cream men, I don't suppose they'll ever get the chance to work remotely. But I suppose they could go unshaven and naked if they fancied (best not to hang about outside the school gates if you do opt for that approach Mr Whippy). Going to the meeting meant that I lost two hours when I could have been writing the work that the meeting was about. Which is why I mostly work remotely these days.

Poor Hull City. They were well and truly Defoed last night against Tottingham Hotspurns. I didn't go - I listened to the game on the local BBC radio station whilst watching a live stream that was delayed by around five seconds. That's how I like my football. I'm sure everything will be alright when they get the Greek in and Jozy Altidore arrives. Oh. Dear.

And finally, and courtesy of M who pointed me towards it first, how lovely that Father Ted scribe Graham Linehan uses his celebrity power and huge twitter following for good rather than evil, driving #welovethenhs and other big conversations around the globe. He writes, brilliantly, about twitter and The Conversation that has resulted here.

Who said TFI Friday?..

Well. It's Friday. And that means...work. Did the 5k yesterday and now there's another 1.5k before redrafting various bits and pieces of 12k I've done previously. The joy. I remember when Fridays were all about winding down, knocking off at lunch, heading to the pub, getting pissed and staying out until some time on Sunday. That was in the days when I used to have a pay packet containing cash thrust into my hand mind. Today, I look forward to little more than sorting out and sending an invoice in the hope that some bank transfer will occur within the next 28 days. As motivational strategies go, it sucks. Especially given the sun's out and there's a chair outside with my name on it. Oh, yes, I'll probably watch Hull City win the Asia cup or whatever that faux pre-season tournament's called at some point today. Playwriting weekend looms. Around ten pages until The End. Which, as I've said previously, means it's the beginning all over again.

I'm hearing voices...

Into town with M to do some vox pops for a rather ridiculous project I'm involved with. It's been a while since I've done such haphazard information gathering. But, as ever, the people that want to talk tend to be the ones you'd least want to have a conversation with: the tracksuited pale of skin, the drunk, the drug addled, and a group of parkourists (free runners)! Then there's some that just won't stop once they've started - in today's case a security guard, a solicitor and a lad that got frog marched out of a shop for "trying to hand my CV in". Better than work, I suppose.

Black Monday...

Strange days in the freelance workplace - redundancies and moves aplenty amongst the staff that surround me although there's plenty to do. The black air has brought some hitherto absent comradeship and camaraderie to the fore, although there's plenty of suspicion in the air too. Feels so like the early 1980s right now that I keep wanting to blame Thatcher...

Wet stuff...

Meeting re plays, which was all very positive and, dare I say it, rather inspiring. More deadlines set, buffet provided, a few laughs, plenty of ideas bandied around. Then to Leeds, to pick up Danielle, who finished her first semester at university today. The roads were a tad tortuous. Mad Friday, of course, with a lot of people hanging up their work boots for a couple of weeks, so there was a lot of traffic about. And a lot of spray as a result of the heavy rain. Then, when I got back to Hull, a few beers to wash away a hectic week working in someone else's office. I am used to winding down for Christmas but unfortunately, the pace has picked up to a level that I would describe as "f*ck this, I really am losing the will to live". The asterisks, by the way, are for you, little Charlie Hornshaw. I finish work for a few days at noon on Tuesday. It can't come soon enough.

Pleased to meet you...

I had to attend a meeting this week but, as I had an existing appointment on the same day that overlapped, I'd already warned people that I'd have to leave early. On the way to the meeting, I got stuck in traffic, so I also turned up late. So late, that I spent all of the meeting trying to get to grips with what the meeting was about. "I'm sorry to interrupt," I said at my time of departure, "But I'm going to have to leave now. Apologies for arriving late, leaving early and contributing absolutely nothing." "So what's new?" someone chipped in.

Listening: Oasis - Dig Out Your Soul, Seasick Steve - I Started Out With Nothin'

Return journey...

Back after several days and lots of tedium in Northumberland - Morpeth to be precise. Lots of work, nothing that's really bloggable. The only consolation of working away from home is the welcome waiting when you return. And in just four days, Finn's legs seem to have gotten a whole lot stronger.

Words don't come easy...

During the hours of daylight and in an effort to clear the backlog of bills, I sit churning out mostly uncreative words in an office in the shadow of the mighty gothic splendour of Beverley Minster. It's writing of a sort, I suppose. Today, in an office across the landing, a word was invented and then found its way to me via the miracle of email - economicable. In context, it went something along the lines of: "they want 500 of these brochures printed but want us to look at various options if printing additional copies would be more economicable". Nice. Earlier, I was proof reading someone else's stuff and was puzzled for a brief moment by "quite simply, in Lemans terms..." until I realised that the terms in question should have been "layman's". Yes, that's the level of fun I'm having these days.

Watch how you pronounce Suffolk...

Just back from four days in west Suffolk. Stayed in Mildenhall. I wouldn't recommend any of the pubs there. Other than that, nothing to report, nothing that I can blog about. This is getting like the secret service. Came back to big broad smiles from Finn, who has grown lots of additional hair in a short space of time.

This is the view out of the office window. Terrible, eh?

Tags: Beverley, Beverley Minster, work, office