On the move...

I've finally gawn and done it. This blog has moved to...

http://davewindass.singlespan.com/

Please update your links and blogrolls and feedreaders and all that gubbins. See you on the other side. And thanks, blogger, for being there when webcrimson went out of business.

Alfresco...

First blog post in a while and the first alfresco blog post of 2010 - I'm bashing this out as I sit in the garden, accompanied by the beautiful sounds of birdsong, main road traffic and next door-but-one battering the hell out of pieces of wood and asking his wife for further instructions about 'the lily pots'. I'm killing time, as is the wont of this blog, before heading off to a learning institute to interview a prospective student. Quite how such power ends up in my hands is beyond me. I've been a bit busy of late, redrafting big play - which should see light of day by 'the autumn season' - tinkering with Humber Mouth 2010 piece Thinspiration and getting overly concerned about my contribution to Hull's Larkin25 celebrations. So, although I've just re-arrived, I better bugger off. Once I leave this garden I won't be returning home until 9.30pm tonight at the earliest due to work commitments. The very thought of that makes me feel exhausted.

My therapy...

It is so much easier tweeting 140 characters several times a day than writing a blog entry. But that's no excuse for all the writing-related quotes I've posted of late. No excuse is necessary. They're all helping me. And, after all, this blog is for me, not for you. This is my therapy.

So, I'm in a pub, with several hacks. And, once again, I find myself defending the biggest conversation going on in the world right now; twitter. It amazes me that professional communicators don't get it. "Why do you have to tell us everything you're doing?" Well, for starters, I don't. I do much, much more than I ever tell the virtual world. "I don't want to know when you...(lists lots of things I've tweeted recently)." "Erm, you've been reading my tweets then?" Come on, y'all, join the conversation.

In other news, my mother pronounces the word poet 'poyt'. Which is a very strange thing to hear indeed.

Find out about the must-have twitter tools for business

Reveal yourself...

Dear blog, I might have a bit of time to update you now. I promise to not leave you to rot like those other bloggers that come and, once they've had a bit of press coverage, go. How dare they, the ephemeral buggers? Besides, I've just sorted out the blogroll, so I owe you a couple of entries to make that hour worth the effort.

Having written something sizeable, I'm back on the reading. Yukio Mishima's Forbidden Colours has been hanging about on the shelf screaming 'read me' for a few months. So, no longer able to ignore its white Penguin Classics spine, I took the plunge this morning. Two chapters in and I'm having a surprising amount of fun with Mr seppuku and look forward to slurping on all 429 of its pages. I've also already found a quote to throw in for discussion at writing workshops:

"The process in which a writer is compelled to counterfeit his true feelings is exactly the opposite of that in which the man of society is compelled to counterfeit his. The artist disguises in order to reveal; the man of society disguises in order to conceal."

Yukio Mishima, Forbidden Colours (1951)

In the toilet...

Rich Lusmore, who writes two fine blogs - A Game in Four Quarters and Let's Go Round Again - and used to contribute weekly sports reports to a newspaper I reputedly sub-edited, paid me (which I don't think we ever did him) a lovely compliment the other day. He reckons I inspired him. Which does make me question his sanity somewhat but, well, what a lovely thing to say. Rich, having read here of my plans to fill in the blanks in my reading, is re-visiting his entire music collection. Which is what Let's Go Round Again is all about. It's a great idea and I wish I'd thought of it. One to watch, I think - good luck in your kerazey mission Mr L!

In other news, we went in Hull's city centre Tesco today (the store where our neighbour Mary claims that prices are artificially high in comparison to other Tesco outlets, despite never having been in the place and, from what we can gather, doing all of her shopping at Waitrose).

Following the Christmas reshuffle, one aisle is now home to the entire Value line. Which is all well and good and very sensible, I suppose, but makes said range of el cheapo and ultra-affordable products and their white space-laden packaging look even more anemic and unappealing than when surrounded by more expensive brand-name counterparts. At least I know where to go for my favourite 14p can of beans.

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

Awards count for nothing...

Given that I'm now an award-winning blogger I feel an even greater need to provide you, dear reader (hi mum!) with constantly updated snippets of my life. Which I am happy to do. Today, however, all I did was play with Brio trains and Thomas the Tank Engine with little Finn. My knees hurt a little bit from all the floor-based activity but, otherwise, there's nothing else to report. I do apologise - we must get out more.

Gong for Killing Time...

At last, recognition for my blogging efforts. Still not sure if it's for the right reasons but this 'ere blog was named Blog of the Year today in the Hull Daily Mail, in Angus Young's Off The Record column. Council reporter Angus's column goes 'inside the corridors of power' so I'm naturally flattered to be mentioned within his well-written inches. I'm there alongside East Riding Council, who picked up The Don Quixote Award for its ongoing battles against wind farms, John Prescott - who received his honour for being Most Promising TV Newcomer - and the mighty Adam Pearson, whose accolade for returning to the chairmanship of Hull City AFC was The Gladys Knight Come Back and Finish What You Started Award. So I think I'm pleased - thank you Angus!

Alternative view...

I am writing this in someone else's house and I am looking out of their window at a view that is not my own. Actually, when I write at home there isn't a view at as I face a wall these days and natural light, what there is of it, is right down the other end of the room. So it's nice to work under natural light, rather than those Compact Fluorescent bulbs of shitness that the powers that be have us working beneath in the futuristic times that we live in, and actually have a view to look at. Their dininig room table is also at a nicer height than the table that I work at. If it wasn't for all the noise, why, I'd've found the perfect working environment. Pinged off some stuff to the theatre, spoke to someone about potential workshops, checked my various email accounts repeatedly. This is work. Or, perhaps, this is work?

I will be clearing my blog roll out at some point soon. Quite a few bloggers have fallen of late, no doubt due to that 140 character social media tool that Stephen Fry used to like but now doesn't because someone told him he was boring. Yes, blogging is so, well, last year. I shall keep it up. I like it. And it will last longer than newspapers, you mark my words. I will attempt to use the blog again as a warm-up exercise before the working day begins, a la Herring. Those Tories are big on blogging these days. I might rid the roll of everbody but Tories, although their writing style is a bit, well, S Fry. I jest, of course, because Tories are c**ts and I hate them. But I do have a strange, perverted fascination in their utterances which, generally, are complete lies presented as fact. Politics, eh? At least I popped myself on the electoral register today. The extreme left will get my vote if I can find them.

Don't stop me now...

Not sure what to blog about. In fact, having a blogging crisis of confidence. I've probably said too much already. Might start reviewing things. Domestic appliances. LED TVs and games consoles maybe. Or books. Films. Music. Can you send me some? Don't suppose somebody could leave a comment at some point, could they? Even if it's me...

Denial of service attack...

Finally waded through a load of treacle that's been threatening to drown me. Which feels rather nice, although the end result was more of an "at last" letdown rather than any feeling of accomplishment. Hack work, y'know, it ain't very satisfying. It also sucks the blogging life out of me, despite my best intentions of clambering back on the daily post treadmill.

Found this website today. It's fantastic: http://istwitterdown.com/

Meaty return to blogging...

I neglect this blog so much these days. Poor. I hate bloggers that do that. But the blog is not dead, long live the blog. If I can generate in the region of x5 140 character tweets a day I should be able to cobble together something for this.


Last night I was asked what I did with my day after I'd tweeted, facebooked, read my favourite rss feeds, made a little cruddy film for the internet etc because, the askee said, that seems to take up an awful lot of my day. I write, of course. I should be on with some rather peculiar stuff about education right now. Instead, as you can read, I'm on here. I'm warming up the finger ends and the brain because I've got to drum up 5,000 words based on a forest full of dry documents between now and the end of the day. Nasty. But I suppose the answer that I should have provided the askee with was that I don't do nearly enough. Of anything. Especially sleep. Oh, and I have been redrafting big play - have promised to furnish the theatre with the next instalment by Monday.


We met to discuss filmmaking last night. Two more shorts on the way before the end of the year. I followed the meeting - in one of Hull's nicer public houses and a pleasant enough distance away from Chris Moyles who was up the road last night at some karaoke event - with a walk across the road to get myself something to eat, which I had neglected to do earlier in the day. My extremely limited budget restricted my choice and, in a pretty paltry effort to demonstrate that I can spend as little as possible when the need arises, I ordered a medium doner kebab. For me, this is akin to heading to a bar and asking for a Babycham. I have never ordered anything of a medium size in my life. Imagine my surprise, then, when I got it home and unpacked it to find that medium, at the belies-its-location-completely christened Victoria Bay = large, if not extra large, and doner meat was spilling out all over the place. It (pictured right) was so big that I couldn't even finish the thing off. Which, for me, is a miracle. So, well done Victoria Bay and my £3.80.


There, I'm a blogger again.

No vegetarians were harmed, or eaten, during the writing of this blog entry.

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).