Tag Archives: writing

Antenna Studios, Crystal Palace, London 17/01/16

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Shot on the coldest night of the year to a robust audience, mollified somewhat with free booze and a significant hard cash bribe for the applause. Performing my own work marks a significant departure from the original concept, but as a little of the thespian runs in the blood, I thought I’d give it a go. And although both cameras were riddled with interior dust and on the blink, there’s a satisfying lo-res charm to the edited result which those social media instafilters can’t replicate.

Idle Eye 177 : The Lunatic Fringe

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I remember looking into a mirror in my early teens and becoming deeply distressed by the reflected combover, struggling to conceal an anaemic pate that lay beneath. Why, oh why wasn’t I blessed with a testosterone-laden rug such as Oliver Reed’s? Or an exotic, lustrous mane like the one Peter O’Toole sported so memorably in Laurence of Arabia? Ladies seemed to enjoy that shit back then, and I was convinced that once they had gotten past the brutal truth – that I had only just started sprouting hair elsewhere – the likes of Farrah & Co would have leapt at the chance of running their fingers through a pubescent schoolboy’s formative locks, despite not yet being able to take them out to a licensed restaurant and manfully settling the bill.

I’ll be straight with you: things haven’t improved much since. My twenties and thirties saw only an uphill battle with the tyranny of the tresses, so when Jon Bon Jovi and Nick Cave appeared (with their effortless, follicular fuck you’s), I was getting through an entire can of Boot’s Unperfumed (pink for maximum hold, as opposed to the lightweight blue) every day, and considered myself single-handedly responsible for the ozone hole that could be seen from spaceships. But still I persevered, despite resembling a deep-fried greaser plugged into the mains. When the 90s penchant for a brutal No.2. shave cut became a thing, I consoled myself with the fact that all fashion is cyclical, and that I would almost certainly be de rigueur come 2005. By which time I was presented with an entirely unforeseen challenge.

A couple of grey babies had appeared. Initially quite subtly, nestled in amongst the more robust strands, but with a deft go on a comb and a handful of wet-look gel, no one was any the wiser. Being that 2-3 months older than my peers, I have always been held up as a poster boy to the perils of ageing, so I badly needed a few tricks up my sleeve. Grecian 2000 was briefly considered, until I cottoned on to the fact that it is exclusively a product for the tragically deluded. And anyway, why couldn’t I shore up to what nature had in store for me? It is what it is, as they supposedly say, and the ladies I so badly wanted would have instinctively recognised this and loved me for it. I laboured under this fallacy for a few more years until it became ridiculous: by 2015, it looked as if I’d had a deliberate rinse.

Please don’t get me started on all that Silver Fox nonsense. Flattering though it may be to be seen as a kind of Blake Carrington figure (google him, children), the stark truth is that my body is telling me to wind down and take a back seat: my days as a dynamic provider are totally shot. That’s why I look like someone’s dad now. And fortunately for you, not yours…

Idle Eye 176 : The Feast of Stephen

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It’s Boxing Day (or the Feast of Stephen in parlance of yore). For reasons completely beyond me, I once again find myself in Sainsbury’s and it’s packed. Because it’s not like there’s been enough food and drink doing the rounds over the last week or so, has there? Anyone with half a cell knows that those gargantuan, seasonal sherry cask snack buckets are cynically filled with enough compressed air to have us queueing outside the sliding doors at opening time the minute the Big Day is over. And of course we’ll throw in a few bottles of your astonishingly half-priced Prosecco. You bastards.

In much the same way that our Dickensian antecedents enjoyed a sneaky day out to the asylums to work off the figgy pudding and feel better about themselves, there is a certain schadenfreude to be had from inspecting the baskets of others. I mean, hello? Do you actually need a ‘four cheese feast maxi-pizza’ when you’ve only just got back from A&E? And excuse me, you’re only kidding yourselves with them reduced Absolut festive tubes (branded shot glass included) for your dismal commutes on Monday. I despair, I really do.

Actually, I’ve come here for a new bathing sponge; my existing one has corroded to the point where it self-abrades on contact with human flesh, and unattractively dries down to a burnt sienna/raw sewage patina. I did briefly consider a trip to Oxford Street to take advantage of the pre-January sales and snap myself up a once-in-a-lifetime bargain. However, the crippling expense of getting there on public transport considerably outweighed any projected savings and besides, I prefer to spend my hard-earned cash locally. Also, the fact that said sponge has no discount whatsoever and comes in a pre-wetted bag with a decorative font saying something about luxury on it, somehow makes it all rather sexy:

Let them eat pizza as I wash away my cares. Ka-ching!!!

I’ll let you into a secret: whilst I was on a consumer high, flashing my cash as if I was Pouffe Daddy or something, I went onto that eBay and spent a bit more. My electric toothbrush, now a veteran of the game, has been losing power of late, and it occurred to me that I could raise the thumb (like for one of those ugly turkeys, spared the knife by benevolent opportunists) if I simply replaced the non-replaceable lithium Li-Ion battery. It will require some rudimentary soldering skills and a willing army of Facebook friends, but I know it’s possible. Ionic Industries (‘helping you fight built in obsolescence’) have now mailed a £10.50 landfill alternative to my home address and by Jiminy, do I feel like a million dollars! And that, in a nutshell, is my Christmas message:

Be kind to others but make sure your arse is covered. Because you’re bloody worth it.

See you in 2016 x

Idle Eye 175 : The Hawker

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Been off for a while now. And whilst I’d love to tell you I’ve been lording it up in the Seychelles or chatting to itinerant builders about a snooker room in my recently excavated basement, the absolute truth is considerably less exciting: I’ve been on the road, and not in a Jack Kerouac stylee – as you might expect from a dynamic new author with a sexy book out and a lust for life that would give Iggy a run for his money. No, I’ve been taking the train to far-flung portals of London with a Pay As You Go Oyster card, seeking out small independent bookshops that might be prepared to take a punt on a dynamic new author with a sexy book out etc… And guess what? There’s almost none.

Perhaps it’s the way I do it. I tend to rock up at these places (still smarting from the stealth tax TfL exact on those who don’t use their wretched system every day), a little sheepish and clutching a cardboard box with the printer’s sticker visible at the front. It contains about eight books, a roll of parcel tape, a clipboard, a biro and some flyers from the launch. As I enter the premises, I realise I have but a few seconds to weigh up the level of resistance I will encounter from staff members well versed in the dismissal of self-published authors who don’t yet know the ropes:

Me:  Good afternoon!

SM:  Hi there, what can I do for you?

Me:  Is…er…Julian around?

SM:  You’ve just missed him. He’s out on lunch. I’d give it a couple of hours.

Me:  Not a problem. Perhaps you could help, though. I’ve just made my first book (SM begins to glaze over) and I wondered if it’s the kind of thing you guys would be interested in stocking?

SM:  Er…yeah yeah, cool! Could you leave a copy with us until Julian gets back?

Me:  Of course!

SM:  (rapidly flicking through)  Cool! I’ll get him to take a look as soon as he’s in.

Me:  Thanks. I really appreciate it.

SM:  I’d give it at least a couple of hours.

At this point, I trawl the nearby tragimarts for an entry level cheese sandwich. You know, one of those sad sack, wafer-thin triangles with a green label that retails at about £1.79. Because you do not have to be Nostradamus to figure out what’s around the corner, and any source of nourishment for the struggle should adequately reflect this. Next, I traverse the neighbourhood until I cannot bear it any longer and/or my feet are begging for mercy:

Me:  Hello again! Is Julian back, by any chance?

SM:  (pulling up book from behind desk) Yeah yeah, he was in about 20 minutes ago. Sorry, not really the kind of thing we’re after. Good luck with it, though. Looks great.

‘Looks great.’ Well, at least that’s something. Maybe next time I’ll concentrate on the words…

Book Update No.15

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It’s nearly over. The little seed that germinated on January 7th will be made flesh on 20th November, and what better way to celebrate than to throw a party. And what a party it promises to be! The godlike Flame Proof Moth (aka Tim Siddall, a contributing artist) will provide some of his hilarious, bone dry tunes; Richard Amp and Donald Ross Skinner their ambient wizardry. I’ll be reading out a few posts with the help of a few special guests, books will be available to buy (c’mon, it’s nearly Christmas!) and some of the book artwork (originals and prints) are up for grabs, kindly provided by the artists. The DnA Factory will also have their 25th anniversary exhibition running alongside all of the above, more than worth the journey in its own right. And all set in one of the most beautiful members clubs I’ve yet come across, just a stone’s throw from London’s iconic Tower Bridge.

If you’d like to come along, please make contact at the RSVP address/number on the invite. Obviously we want it to be well attended, but the club will need names and numbers so we can plan ahead and make it a comfortable night for everyone. If you don’t/can’t make it, I’m deeply sorry but you can always say you were there, like the 5000+ people who claimed they saw the Sex Pistols at the 100 Club in ’76. Lying is one of the most creative things you can do when you get past forty. Unless you’re me, when it becomes a default setting.

Finally, a mahoosive thank you to all those who helped make this happen; you know who you are. A less mahoosive one to those who actively didn’t; you also know who you are and yes, you will be judged; in this world or the next. I don’t make the rules.

Idle Eye 174 : The Tic

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I’ve developed a tic. Nothing at all to do with nits, lice or any other parasitic insect erroneously selecting my decomposing cadaver to lay their eggs in (if only!), but that of the more irritating, involuntary variety. As with the other ailments I seem to have accumulated this year, I’ve spent a bit of quality time getting to know and learning to live with it, but I’ll be straight with you: this one’s a hard baby to like, let alone love. Because the tic, unlike Samantha (who you may remember from a couple of months ago), thrives off everything I don’t:

  • Stress? Bring it on! 
  • Anxiety? Eat it for lunch!
  • Exhaustion? Fill my boots!
  • Heartbreak? Mine’s a pint!
  • Increasing awareness of the pointlessness of existence? Yum yum!

Anyway, I was in the supermarket earlier, loading up with few enough bottles of Pinot to avoid suspicion but a sufficient amount to get me through the evening, when I realised I couldn’t get the bloody things into my bag. I was shaking like Mr Stevens, and to make matters worse, quite visibly to the queue behind. At which point, as an unwitting performance artist, I had to make a decision: do I let them think I’m a chronic alcoholic, or do I go the route of a hapless somebody life has chosen to frown upon? The latter seemed disingenuous, the former too candid. So I went the extra mile: looking straight into the eyes of the lady closest to me and channelling my late father, I smiled winningly after having completed the task, and made an almost imperceptible bow. Combined with a slight wink. The look she returned was a cocktail of pity, incomprehension and disgust.

When I got back indoors, I wikied the DTs. Just for the sheer hell of it. Not that I can possibly have them, because they only kick in when you stop drinking. But oh my stars, it made for uncomfortable reading: nightmares, agitation, global confusion, sweating, fast heart rate, the list goes on – it’s enough to keep you on the wagon for good. Fortunately, the tic I have has nothing to do with the above, despite the similarity of symptoms. I’m under a lot of pressure right now, and I could do without the snide remarks, thank you.

Tomorrow, I’m up at 5.50am to take four trains to a town which sucks the marrow from my very soul. If I stayed at home, I’d be privy to the dulcet tones of builders improving the flat beneath me, or witness to the owner dry shampooing a dalmatian next to the bins. Is it any wonder I’ve got the shakes? Or that I occasionally take to the bottle in order to blot out such horrors? Judge me not, for the cause is greater than the effect.  And if you think that depression, paranoia and anger are part and parcel of the same, you can all fuck off. The lot of you. Seriously, take a hike…

Idle Eye 173 : The Small Matter of Life and Death

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When you’re in the eye of an emergency, it’s extraordinary what the human brain chooses to act on. All the things you’d think might count when shoring up to a potential life/death situation actually don’t. Something else takes over, and you just have to run with it: the questions can come later. In my fantasy assault, I assumed I’d get a brief but vivid flashback of my pitiful existence, exalting the very few who thought my time on Earth worthwhile. But last Saturday night, sat on the top deck of a replacement bus, reading a book and minding my own business, I was threatened by a murder of youths at knifepoint. The consequent rush of fear and adrenalin threw up something entirely unexpected:

I thought of one person. Not family, not a partner or child (I have neither), not even a favoured friend. But someone I needed to conjure up when there was a strong possibility my days could end before a minute was through. I thought about her own family; I thought about the children she would have that I’d never meet; I imagined a scenario wherein I could communicate, as in The Lovely Bones, benevolent guidance from the beyond that would keep her on track. All of this in what must have been approximately five seconds.

At exactly the same time, more practical stuff was doing the rounds. My blood, viscous and cadmium red against the cobalt blue seats, would surely take a while to shift? I saw the exasperated staff at the depot, kept back on my account, at once grateful for the hours yet bitterly resenting their time away from home. I considered the poor unfortunate who had decided to end his/her days on the bleak strip of track between Waterloo and Clapham Junction, forcing me into my own predicament. I even wondered if we might meet (seeing as our time of departure would have been similar) on the great staircase leading to the afterlife. And I wondered which fucker would judge my piss-stained jeans in the celestial cloakroom.

It was over in a blink. One of the eight talked the brandisher out of it and they shot off into the night, no doubt giving the incident barely a second’s thought. But for me, it was the first time my fragile state of being had been put in serious jeopardy, and it has left dark matter I could do without. After they’d gone, I realised I was wearing an absurd Hawaiian shirt I’d bought earlier for my brother’s 50th birthday party. And that really got to me. Because that’s how I would have been found, clad in pantomime costume as inappropriate to the moment as Joni Mitchell’s The Last Time I saw Richard set to Hard House Techno. Listen up if you have to.

At no point at all did I process the concept of survival. Make of that what you will.

Idle Eye 172 : The Blind Leading the Blind

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I’ve never considered myself to be one of those consumer warriors. You know, the types that scour their cornflakes in the morning for evidence of weevils, and then send in a lengthy complaint to customer services, stating how their lives have been irreparably scarred by the ensuing trauma. However, it has come to light that a certain established blinds manufacturer (begins with V and ends with elux) is flatly denying a noted issue with their grey plastic runners which perish and fray the cords over time. Clearly a design flaw, IMHO. As I have three of the things, and the replacement kits (£35.66 each) comprise of 98% bits which still work perfectly well, I thought I might have a word.

Trouble is, I’m not very good at it. If I was my mother, I’d go all Penelope Keith down the phone and wait for them to cave in. But I’m not. So when they wheel out the stock argument that the problem is I’m using them too much, I simply agree and cough up. Of course I’m using them too much! I love my blinds to the point where I just can’t help myself. Up and down they go, up and down. Like a whore’s drawers. If you’re a night owl, you may have seen me from the street, overusing my blinds right through until dawn, particularly at weekends. In fact, I’m baffled my fingers haven’t worn down to the quick in direct proportion.

Now concerned that this compulsive blind usage could be a known ailment – perhaps somewhere on the spectrum of Aspergers or OCD – I trawl the net for medical clues and sure enough, I discover that NHS direct has a designated page, helpfully broken down into manageable sections. Bizarrely, excessive masturbation is down as one of the root causes, not something I’d be keen on admitting to in court if it ever came to it. Or to the nice Scottish lady so keen on taking my order for the three replacement kits. So it looks as if I’m stuck with it for the time being. I can only pray it doesn’t get any worse.

As with any form of addiction, there are drawbacks; however, I’m generally fine when in proximity to objects I can open and close. Sash windows are OK, as are those sliding metal grilles they have on coaches to store luggage behind. But get me out into the open and I’m crawling the walls (if there are any), desperately seeking something, anything, to block out the light and then let it back in again. I have suggested via email to V***x that they should consider a field kit for those in a similar predicament but, as is the way with these things, I haven’t yet heard back.

Apparently, the replacements will show up on 26th October. By which time I’ll either be in the Priory or lying spent in a pool of my own excess. There should be a law.

Idle Eye 171 : The Road

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Every time it rains, snails across the land emerge from wherever it is they hang out when it’s dry and make a nighttime dash across our footpaths towards the road. Whatever’s there that lures them so is anyone’s guess, but they will not be deterred. To be honest, I’ve never quite understood the compulsion: if I carried a fragile apartment on my back and was impossibly slimy (don’t start…), I’d probably weigh up my chances before sliding off unto the breach. For that star-crossed mission will invariably culminate in mass slaughter on a scale unseen since WW1, something the molluscan powers that be seem to have turned a very blind eye to:

Col. Snail:  Thanks for coming in. Turns out not a lot of us are making it over to the road. Catastrophic percentages. Completely unacceptable.

Maj. Snail:  I’m sorry, sir, but we’re doing our best.

Col. Snail:   Not good enough. It’s been chucking it down for days, how hard can it be? Now get back outside and show some bloody gumption!

Maj. Snail:  But sir, it’s rush hour. Everyone’s coming home from work. We don’t stand a chance!

Col. Snail:  I’m not interested in your chances. I just need you to get to the road. Am I making myself clear?

Maj. Snail:  Forgive me for asking, but none of us are entirely sure what the objective is.

Col. Snail:  Have you gone completely mad? The objective is the road! What exactly is it about the road that you don’t understand?

Maj. Snail:  Er…why we have go there?

Col. Snail:  Because there are rules, Major. And your job is to obey them and not waste my time with counterproductive remarks.

Maj. Snail:  Couldn’t we go in the day? At least then there’s a ghost of a chance we’ll be seen.

Col. Snail:  Don’t be ridiculous! We have always operated under the cover of darkness and I see no reason to alter that now. Any further questions?

Maj. Snail:  Yes, sir. What are we supposed to do when we reach it?

Col. Snail:  About-turn. And then come back.

Maj. Snail:  Come back?

Col. Snail:  Yes, come back! We need the intelligence, Major. We need the intelligence.

Maj. Snail:  On?

Col. Snail:  ON THE ROAD!!! Whatever is the matter with you? Right, assemble the men. You leave in twenty minutes.

Maj. Snail: Yes, sir. One last thing, sir.

Col. Snail:  What is it, Major?

Maj. Snail:  What if it isn’t there?

Col. Snail:  What if what isn’t there?

Maj. Snail:  The road, sir.

Col. Snail:  Of course it’s there! Where else do you think I’m sending you? Brigadoon?

Maj. Snail:  No, sir. Of course not, sir.

Col. Snail:  Now get out of my sight!

Maj. Snail:  Yes, sir.

When met with indefatigable logic such as this, is it any wonder the pavement pizza count is so high? And ask yourselves: have you ever seen a snail on the road? Seriously, ever? Thought not.

Book Update No.14

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Artwork is in, got the ISBN, layout’s looking pretty swanky, paper type’s chosen and Amateur of Life and Death is now in the hands of the eagle-eyed Elinor who will hack out the unremitting repetition and cut it all down to about thirty words. And then I must be brave and send my first child off to the printers.

It’s a strange old feeling when you know you have to let go, but like my mother on my first day at school I’ll probably don a huge pair of Foster Grants and weep discreetly behind them. And then I’ll worry so. Will it be bullied by weightier tomes? Should I send little pots of jam for it to share with its chums? A couple of spare blankets now that autumn’s upon us? And how will I fill those endless, friendless evenings from now on? No one tells you this stuff.

I’m also a bit scared about the bill. I know we raised the hardback funds but now I’m getting all fussy about paper thickness and bleed. And, to be honest, I forgot about the VAT which is a pisser. But come what may, there will be a book in November and I do hope you will all buy a copy. Make that a few – Christmas is coming and I don’t want it to be just the goose that gets fat.

There will also be a launch on Friday 20th November at 6.30pm at the very same venue I mentioned in Update 13. It will be busy and entry will be by RSVP invites only, but if you’d like to come and listen to me butcher my own work as you drink the good drink, or enjoy some of the art from the book as you take in a bit of live moosik, get in touch. Usual channels. I’ll sign a few books if you want, and if you pay a bit more I won’t. Every little helps…