Comedy and column inches out of misery...

Wrote some comedy sketches. Myself and M had promised to write some for someone we know for performance by some young people. I was cold, tired, had the remnants of Swine Flu gnawing away at me, was bereft of ideas, couldn't think of any funny lines. Naturally, they turned out great.

I was in a pub the other day and, laid on a table, with nothing and nobody else in sight, was a newspaper. I realised, too late, when I'd taken it back to my table, that it was a copy of the Daily Mail. It was the edition, I'd find out much later in the day, containing Jan Moir's nasty assault on the memory of Stephen Gately. I picked up the paper and went and sat down with it. Ten minutes passed by and I'd read the back pages when a man tapped me on the shoulder. "Did you take that paper? The one from that table over there?" We looked. The table was still empty, with no obvious sign that anyone was or had been sitting there. I explained that I thought the paper in question had been abandoned. "It's my paper. Why did you take it?" I explained again and made some quip about the horror of the Daily Mail and the poor state of its page layout. "I'll have it back now." I'd already given it back to him before he'd said this. He was a rather odious man. A typical Daily Mail reader (I felt tainted having been near the paper for those ten minutes) - that paper was in his every movement and utterance. He shuffled off but didn't sit down and read but went over to another couple sitting across the way to tell them what had happened. "He," said the man, in fully earshot of me, "just took the paper. Can you believe it?" If I'd realised it was a copy of the Daily Mail I wouldn't actually have bothered touching it. And if only he'd known (although he reads the DM every day, so probably did know) what he'd relished fighting to have back in his possession - Jan Moir's nasty ramblings. Yuk.

A league of its own...

Down the pub with The Interiors frontman, who's just written a screenplay called Pygmies On Stilts. The title bears no relation to the script's contents. I pointed out that we were sat in the seats where a man with an uncanny resemblance to Steven Spielberg usually parks his ass. The Interiors frontman shrugged. Then the Spielbergalike turned up. There was no scene. He just sat somewhere else. We talked about the fortunes of Hull City and Hull FC. I had avoided the opportunity to attend the latter's game last night free of charge, feeling that a ticketgiveaway had devalued, even more, if that were even possible, a game that was already totally meaningless. 5,000 freeloaders made the effort and I doubt that my lack of presence made any difference. We chatted about the script. We shared two pitchers of lager. We discussed the paucity of ambition of other people. We went our separate ways. Home, I ate two slices of cold pizza and watched the Big Brother post-eviction show, with absolutely no idea who anyone was talking about. Is that better or worse than 80 minutes of underperforming Super League teams going head-to-head?

Scenes from a Beverley public house...

"Do you want Nachos with that?"
"Nachos?"
"Yes."
"Are they like crisps?"

Concrete block...

The new home for Hull Truck has well and truly made its mark on the skyline now. I've been promised a site tour soon which will be pretty useful given that I'm writing some new pieces with the intention of them being performed in what is, right now, just a hefty slab of concrete in my mind. A quick glance at a contract reminded me that I need to get my finger out soon. Unfortunately, this nonsense that I'm involved with during the day to ensure that I can at least make some token inroads into the outstanding bills is getting in the way of any creative thinking right now.

To town for some lunch. We were a party of six and the order at this simple tavern selling simple Sunday fayre seemed very simple to deliver to simple old me. Somehow, they (the tavern) managed to mess things up. The waitress seemed to pin the blame on me for incorrectly ordering food that I didn't want, despite me holding in my hands a piece of paper (ie an itemised bill) that suggested that I knew exactly what I was doing. I started to tell her where she'd gone wrong when she walked off, citing "this food I'm holding in my hands is getting cold while you make up your mind what you want. I'll take it back to the kitchen" as an excuse for her about turn. Which stopped me in my tracks before I could let a tirade of Larry Davidisms spring forth. Shame. It would have been fun. We got our revenge by stealing lots of sachets of sauce.

Listening: Crystal Castles - Crystal Castles; The Kooks - Konk.

Lounging about...

Hull is a small city. So it came as no surprise, as we read funky little pocket-sized listings-led Tenfoot City Magazine, edited by the gent that used to write sleeve notes for The Housemartins, no less, that we should stumble across a feature for the very pub that we were sat drinking in, and that, in the feature, there should be a picture of a couple - Darren and Gemma we were informed in print - that sat a mere couple of tables away. The feature - an advertorial-ish piece - confirmed that "we come here all the time...we love it here!" What was a surprise, given their adoration of this stylish venue, was the way they spilled loads of beer all over the floor. Honestly, a little bit of fame and people go kerazey. I tried to capture Darren's non-chalant attempt to create the impression that nothing was happening as he let the contents of a pint glass drip off his table but I think you had, like me, to be staring at them indiscreetly to really get the full gist. Next week: Jackie and Derek leave the crumbs from their Chicken & Bacon Wrap in the corner of their mouths.