Insomniac Nightmares

2010-05-05T15:48:00.000+01:00

Pianos like one, this in particular in so much, like you humble and fuck in to be turn. My radio is kill my birthday.
Mo Mowlam turned Dr Glaser, informing Tony Blair across, from well. Widowing is a groupie. Widowing is a front people. Dr Glaser is murder now. No.

Glediel. Any slept my foot, my language, is gone to heck to any, except my cock. Cocks behind me. My brain is a lot is right side, widen wooden.

Mr Alan Hancock. Wine and genuine love. Broken arrow. At 10.35 I received a phone. Sister Mel good wood Father here at his hero. Monty Python. Wine.

Pigeons, spit on monday.

All birds solving I we, me for me.

Death. Death did round special. Death did know.

rIGT

2009-12-29T20:15:00.004Z

Right.
I don't hand to use.

Do you see?
I think me too. I have right sided hemiplegia plus severe apraxia plus many other things. Plus brain tumour.

2009-12-29T20:01:00.000Z

475:

2008-06-27T21:22:00.005+01:00

474: Coma

2008-06-27T20:30:00.002+01:00

Two Saturdays ago I fell into a coma. Most of Saturday I was either talking cobbblers or throwing up.

Mel found me in the bathroom on the Sunday morning and called an Ambulance.

I slept until Wednesday morning. We were meant to have moved into our new flat on the Monday.

My eyes were pointing in different directions.

I couldn't get up, and didn't in general until i had this operation called a shunt. This is an operation where they drain out all of the excess fluid from your brain to your stomach. I can still feel all the tubes in my body.

My right side was completely dead, and I still need a crutch to get me from here to there.

* *

Still... The chap in the bed next to me, seemed to be enjoying the entertainments of a passing aids rapist. Or that's how it sounded. She'd climb on him for a few heaves, then she'd piss all over him and be escorted away from him.

The same happened the following morning. Just before his wife turned up.

He was still wearing his oxygen mask.

473: How to make yourself a diabetic

2008-06-07T02:20:00.004+01:00

HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF A DIABETIC:

1.) Get your doctors to encourage you to eat lots of chocolate and shitty starchy stuff at 7 in the morning.

2.) Take more pills until you can't work any more.

3.) Move house.

4.) Move doctors.

5.) Explain it to them all.

6.) Explain it to all the new lot.

7.) What were you taking again?

8.) Perhaps best take them all pills at once - can't make much more difference surely?

9.) Take up smoking heroin.

10.) Have a kip.

472: Cab Back From Barcelona

2008-06-07T01:14:00.004+01:00

WHAT A CUNT.

Sadly, apart from Claire, wearing wrestling masks, knocking up on King Carlos's door (to the behest of a woman in full army gear) "It was just such a good knocker!), being in an odd interview with her for local telly, and just her general dancing, and Kate and her OCD (understandable) hatred of Emmo sticking her earrings through her nose, and Tanya and Nic's ease with all that shit, it seemed to be an easy week.

So why then, as soon as we get back to Heathrow are we confronted by this cunt in dark glasses. I know there's some stupid rule about how far he can take us, but he starts us off with "D'you get a mini-cab here then?"
"No, we got a plane. Can you take us to Uxbridge?"

It was so wet, you couldn't see out of the windows and he was boasting about the time he had to back in. If I knew it was so important, I'd have directed him to this strange road he'd have to use to get to Hammersmith Broadway called the mother-fucking Uxbridge Road.

"So you're Dad's a cabby is he?"
"Yes."
"How long's he been in the business?"
"A lot longer than you. His nickname's the Rabbi And he doesn't wear dark glasses on a bright day. What's you're nickname?"
"I ain't tellin' ya."
"That's hypocrisy for ya."
"Well I could lose my sight at any time you see?"
"And when was this diagnosed?"
"Two days ago."
I could have told him was a lying bullshitter, but I hoped he might crash into Uxbridge.
"Why are you driving a cab then?"

"You don't know turn-offs from here do ya?"
"I fucking did. You're on Croxley Green now, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I don't know this area so well."
"So all those signs for the Uxbridge Road, you ignored them?"
"I've got 7 minutes to get back in the queue."
"I was gonna tip you just to take us down the Uxbridge Road."

Mel and I went for a Nandos. Best fucking meal we'd had all week.

471: Losing my Continents in Barcelona

2008-06-07T00:24:00.008+01:00

I'm guessing it was the first night of the festival. I asked this security guy where I could pee. He pointed me across the ground.

By the time I got there, there was piss running out of both sides of shorts. People got out of my way. I felt ashamed and didn't tell anyone.

The second night, I just wanted to see the harbour, so I crawled up and stood in someone else's shit.

The third night, I was trying to run away from Vampire Weekend, fell over and fucked up my knee. Still hung out with the other chaps with knee gaping with blood.

I asked Mel if something was up with my mouth. She said yes, it was very white, especially under the tongue.

I put this down to our joint decision to avoid Red Bull and stick to Gin and Slim line. I should remind you at this point, that I've been binge-eating through the steroids. In fact there was night when Mel where had had a shower over 40 minutes and still had to drag me out of their local Spar.

I think I just bought a messy Magnum and another chocolate bar. The Gin of course, was far stronger than whatever they topped it up with. So I fell asleep in front of the telly covered in chocolate stains.

"You don't look well..."

* *

I spent the next night in a hospital by the harbour. The others came down to wish Mel well, and I discharged myself at 3.a.m. because I didn't want to be sat in the middle of the corridor for the rest of the night when I had a nice place I'd paid for round the corner.

They charged me over a grand, and I can only hope I get it back on insurance - which I'm doubtful about.

Back to the hospital the next day, by which time friends were starting to leave.

"It's diabetes, but if you're going back in two days, there's little we can do."

Which is fair enough. The doctors who spoke their English over there were incredibly kind.

The long and short of it is, if you have jeans to spare...

470: Beer Tickets and Nic's Pics

2008-06-06T23:50:00.005+01:00

By the end of May, it looked like it was just going to be me and Mrs Monks over to Barcelona for the festival. There ended up being 9 of us over there.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=41635&id=661926473

My chum, Mr. Gay, had warned me about having to queue for beer tokens at Bennacassim, nearby. Now unless, someone's been shot over money for the bar, there's no reason to do this other than to make a giant profit.

Chris was caught short of a few tickets and had a go at this Spanish girl, before some of National Guard or whatever tried to kick him out. Luckily they didn't.

Too many highlights to mention, though I was amused by Chris claiming to be cheerleader for Devo.

Other than the obvious; Devo, Sonics and Shellac, I do have to recommend Edan and Dagha to anyone out there who just likes a good old wacky turntablist show complete with acoustics with noses pinched, and old-fashioned face-offs. Caribou, Boris (I'd love to see them play with Guitar Wolf), Dr. Octagon / Kool Keith - who tried to ring me up instead of Frank to say, "I ain't from Bristol, man" (thanks Claire - point proven), Holy Fuck, Kinski and The Tindersticks did it for me.

469: Nosebleed

2008-06-06T21:46:00.002+01:00

There were about 9 of us over there in the end (is that right? Mel and me, Nic, Kate, Tanya, Smartee, Frank, Claire and Emmo), which surprised me, because even in April, everyone was feeling too strapped for cash. Fuck me, there were a lot previous relationships among our lot, but all seemed to be, from my short-spectacled eyes at least, a lot that was ignored, got over, or repressed.

Before everyone came over, Mel and I did the Gaudi bus tour - which was impressive. We bypassed a two-hour queue for a lift to the top to get round the back and go straight up with some elderly looking Nips. I'm not sure they knew they had to make their own back down the many, many, many steps to get back down.

It was amazing, in ways I don't have the vocabulary to describe... and you'd be bored by it.

The funniest bit was at Park Guell. We stopped off for snacks and Mel bought some snacks that just couldn't be swallowed.
"How can you eat these Mel? They're imposs
ible to swallow."
"Yeah, you can," then she started to choke.

This was followed by a nosebleed.
I ran to get some tissues.
Blood was running everywhere.
"Don't you want to get to the loo to sort that out Mel?"
"I'm embarrassed."

15 minutes later and we were watching some wankers shoot a video under the Guell.

Oh, and we drove through Barcelona FC, which was pretty cool.

468: Shitting In Barcelona

2008-06-06T20:51:00.002+01:00

"Mel, I really do need a shit, and very quickly."
There was a sudden lack of bars around to run into, apart from this incredibly poncy one.
"Here's my wallet - order what you want, I've got to run."

"Um Serveis?"
"Id," he said, or something like that.
Before I could run in, I'd already dropped two brown mountains on his floor.
I ran in. I was wearing Mel's jeans.
The backs of my legs, the whole trousers, my trainers, had been utterly assaulted. I cleared up what I could.
I heard the bar man shout, "Ohh, no!!!"

When I eventually emerged, he was still mopping up.
"Mate, I'm incontinent. I'll give you forty euros for your trouble."
"Just go."

"Come on Mel, we'd better move on."
"We've only just got here."
"We need to leave."

Back at the hotel, they must have seen or smelt the shit coming from me.
We must have killed that lift.

Mel was forgiving despite our lack of clothes, and kindly ran out to buy me shorts, a T-shirt and some converse. I offered her some money to buy some jeans in recompense.

I phoned reception,"Hablo Ingles?"
"A little..."
"I've had a bit of an accident and would like someone to remove a bag from my room, I'm in 4183"
"No problem."

Half an hour passed, in which I showered and shoved the jeans and trainers into a bag.

I called down again.
"Hi, I've got a bag of shit up here, which I'd like someone to take please."
"I'll be right up."

He saw the bag of shit.
"I can not get rid of this until at least tomorrow morning."
"No, no, no. I want you to destroy it."
"Destroy?"
"Yes please. Burn it, get rid of it. Here's 10 Euro."
He gratefully took the money and left.

I lit up a fag, and sat in my last pair of boxer shorts.

467: Back to Frithville

2008-05-21T01:05:00.002+01:00

I'd never been to Foxton's before. As we walked in to their office, there was a mix of Perrier waters, and lots of other shit hanging around under their desks.

A young posh lady named Holly was meant to pick us up from Turnham Green station at 9.30, but when we called she just directed us to the office. She offered us one lovely place in Acton, but it was all fixed up way to nice for Mel and I. It had a nice little balcony overlooking a playground. The others were over-priced and shit.

Anyway, the main point she made was the landlords had the right to kick us out whenever they pleased - so that was a minus.

We did like the place, but decided to doorstop Winkworth on the way back to the Bush, she offered us a place on Loftus Road (yeah, come on Milwall or Cardiff - chuck a brick through my window) and a place on Wood Lane opposite the new shopping centre.

"There's not much noise through here, are these double-glazed."
"That's because they're not building today."
"I guess I don't fancy staring at shopping centre every day."
"No you wouldn't," said, Jeanelle the very honest estate agent, "In fact the landlords can't really get rid of it..."
She said this just as the landlord family walked in.
"We should go."

"I can never get this fucking car to work. It's the same with all the Winkworth cars, they've got these new chips to stop you managing to start the cars."
"Did you say you're taking us to Frithville next?"
"Yep."
"I saw it on your web site. I used to live there - with Winkworth. ...And to be completely honest, we had a tiny bust up when we left, but that shits always gonna happen."

Frithville was perfect, and I wasn't the first to say so. Mel instantly loved it. Great size kitchen, big living room area...
"She grinned at me as if to say, 'This is the one!'"

I could see she also liked the stray guitars and pot tins, but to be honest, it is a gorgeous flat.

"What did you see this morning?"
"Foxtons, but their rates and ideas were a little over-the-odds. And I've have a three-minute walk to work from here."
"Did you know Foxtons are being sued right now?"
"I didn't."
"They're giving away too many privileges to their landlords."
"Interesting."
"Whereas here you'll paying the same rent until the end of the 12 months, and you have an 8 month break clause to just leg it."
"Well, this is the thing, I've been rumoured to get a contract up until March, but I won't know until next week."
"And what about you, Mel?"
"Well I've got savings, but quit last week because of being between properties."

"You both like it?"
"Fuck, yeah."

We got back to the office. This lady was on the phone about Frithville.
"Leave it," said Jeanelle, "You two can put an offer in now, but we close pretty soon, and you can just give us a ring on Monday."
"What are the landlords like?"
"They're professionals. We might have trouble getting that second bed out of there to make your study but there's room in there to put the table in... They're open 9-5 every week."
"So we could meet with them when we move in and go through bills we wouldn't have to be following up from the last lot?"
"Exactly."
"You've worked other places haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I almost trust you."

* * *

We went away and did the Maths. They were a damn site cheaper than Foxtons. Mel realises now that she can't just piss her money away - and I found out today that the BBC are taking me on until next March(!). Mel needs a decent job though, or else I'll be subbing her, which was a struggle living with Martin.

...And yes, there's still that odd question of one of us pulling someone else and bringing them back. But fuck it, they got by in the '60s.

The main thing is that we can look after each other without the guilt of my folks being about.

* * *

Fucking hell though. Busy old week.

We put the bid in on Monday. We celebrated over a pint. But to cut the week short, I've been doing more work at home on the house for the many people coming over - and not doing too much work.

Bit worried about my landlord from Frithville saying, Clayton Who? Don't think he ever knew me - lived in France.

But days like today started much like today, getting to bed at a very late time after helping out and trying to work through the evening. Which I will do again tonight. After this, I'm back to reading and writing on these ideas. I have a boss who is really positive and glad for me to be working in walking distance to work (my current commute is 90 minutes each way in turn).

Tonight Mel is out with her previous landlady, and I'll be amazed if she sleeps. She's got 2 suitcases with her, has to be at Citizen's advice in Uxbridge before 12 when it shuts (and it's only open once a week), and I need to be at the doctor's in Uxbridge around the same time. Then she goes to Natwest to get some sort of confirmation she can pay the rent. Then I've offered her lunch at Nando's, then she's off to try to make it up with her Mum in Amersham.

I was meant to be at a Culture Show party at Hospital tonight, listening to Jim Moir and Nihal, but more importantly catching up with old colleagues. (and maybe a brief apology to Lauren Laverne - another story I've probably told - no biggy)

Anyway, fuck that. I have to get Mel's shit back to mine - send her off to Amersham, then carry on with work.

Thursday - I've got to show my boss this shit, mainly 3 proposals - one of which I haven't even had a book for yet. Still nice drinks in the evening with old colleagues.

...Oh and yes, this is when the relatives start arriving.

I think I should go into work this day and find somewhere quiet.

Saturday - Chris Rock at the millennium monkey place. Staying at Mr. Gay's.

Sunday - the Pensioner's Party - Mum, 60, Dad 65. Gonna be a lotta work. We've got around 100 folk coming down.

Monday - pack for Barcelona.

Can't even remember when we get back, but we have to pitch for these ideas when I get back, and I really want to fucking make them.

16th - move into Frithville - though I can't move in until the 20th.

Which is when Wilson comes down - and I can't get him on the motherfucking phone.

Best get back to reading about Willie Donaldson, Malcolm Hardee and Graham Chapman....

466: So Here Is The Question...

2008-05-16T01:51:00.002+01:00

Tomorrow (or technically today), myself and Mel are looking at flats with Foxtons. I'm also booking appointments with Winkworth, who, in fairness, treated myself and Martin fairly well after a few scraps.

I stupidly forgot to put an advert around the BBC looking for somewhere, as well as various friends and Facebollocks, which I might do now. I can sort that out before we make a decision.

Now of course, this begs many questions:

1.) Why would I move out of my parents home?

- I can't work from there.
- I can't sit and read books at work for what I'm meant to be doing.
- I'm forever tip-toeing around my folks.
- I have no room for a desk.

2.) Why live with Mel when you're not even a couple?

PLUS SIDE:
- She has treated me really well - in and out of hospital and with or without job.

- She has a tiny bit of money to afford herself time to get a decent job.

- She is incredibly affectionate. We also both know what each other are going through. That said, Mel wants to do more care work and hopefully get involved in mental health work.

- We've thought of getting a two-bedroom place or somewhere I could use as a study space, which I sorely need. Music and stuff would come secondary.

- Mel would take care of me. As I would of her.

MINUS SIDE:
- And this is a personal fear - I've always lived with people who can sort things out for me. That includes everything from broadband connections (try getting one for less than 6 months), as well as more important things like Council tax, and all the light-saving/changing buggers. I can't see Mel lending much of a hand. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm an idiot.

- What if one of us pulls? Less likely for me because I have the body of stripey overweight slug, but more likely for her because, well, she ain't a bad looking girl. Would I tell her to kip on the sofa while I listen to her fuck? One of us might even fall in love (mind you that would give one of us more time in bed).

3.) Why you don't both live on your own?

- I can't afford it by myself. I spent last year falling into terrible debt while I couldn't find a job.

- Mel has never lived by herself, and neither have I. I think she'd rather move into a house-share than deal with sole responsibility.

4.) Why Shepherd's Bush or West London?

- I want to walk to work, as I have done for most of this decade. Shepherd's Bush is my real home.

- As for Mel, she wants to live wherever I live, which is possibly stupid, as it is fucking expensive. That said, if she lived round here her expenses wouldn't be much better.

5.) What are the estate agents offering?
- There's two sides to this - new shopping mall vs. credit crunch. The average amount for a two bedroom is £11,00 a month, which is still cheap compared to what myself and Martin were paying a few years ago.

So what should I do?

465: Charity Shops

2008-05-12T02:40:00.006+01:00

Got to bed about 6a.m., Friday morning, knowing that I had an appointment at 9a.m. in Victoria with Capita Occupational Health - the chaps who should be getting me back to work at the BBC.

"Hi, look, my name's Clayton, I had some really bad insomnia last night - it's already nearly nine, I'm only just at my station and I think I'll have to cancel my appointment..."
"Right... I'm afraid I haven't switched my computer on yet. Can I take your number and call you back?"

Bloody hell. I need to get back to work to avoid skipping around my parents all day, and I'm bodging it up already...

Got a call back as I was going through Finchley Road (getting on for 9.30 now, rail-time fans).

"That's fine. He'll see you at 11.15."
"Oh. Oh good."

So by 10a.m., I was in Westminster with time to kill. All the cafes were filled with builders in yellow shirts and hard hats.

I passed a Coroner's Court surrounded by media vegetations with their cameras at the ready. Poor buggers. I've waited with a crew in a press pit before for a thing with Tom Cruise, and that was one of the most boring evenings of my life. Who died?

It must have been on Horseferry Road that I passed a Charity Shop that was called Charity Shop. The front said, "Beware - Wet Paint," and didn't look too accessible.

Problem was, I hadn't showered and was wearing a smelly blue shirt, which made my belly stick out.

I ambled around a bit more thinking, "Oh bugger it, I'll walk to Victoria and waste a fortune on some crap baggy shirt," before thinking, "No. I won't. That place looked open... I'll be fucked if I'm going to spend the next hour in River Island."

Went back to Charity Shop, stepping over tins of paint. You know those old cliches about swinging cats? ...Well, yeah. Tiny place. Old gruff boy who'd lost all his hair and an elderly Irish woman, just in to talk to the gruff chap about her local Parishioner.

"You alright boy?"

I couldn't get to the shirt rack very easily, but luckily there wasn't much on there anyway.

"So, have you sold much dis week?"
"Not a bloody book."

"I'll have this one mate."
I knew it was baggy enough.
"Two quid?"
Two quid? I'd have paid forty for this at a chain store, and a good twenty at Traid of all Charity stores.
"Done, mate."

"Nice one son."
"I've just got to find some cafe to put it on in now."
"Shove it on in 'ere mate. There's a changing room out there if you can get yourself in it. It's filled with rubbish..."

* *

I hope I'm being incredibly naive here, but how does a place like that make any money at all in that part of town? The day before, in Uxbridge, British Heart Foundation charged me £4.50 for a shitty belt, and I even gave them one of mine in return.

Slight Digression:

The previous day, I'd had a similar morning. GP's at nine for sick notes then a trip to B.H.S. (sorry British Heart Foundation - not the place where you buy a Laura Ahsley dress then drink some tea in the cafe). I needed a belt because I do have a smallish waste, overhung by a new belly that Buster Bloodvessel would have once welcomed to his hotel at Fatty Towers.

Anyway, this bloke in his mid-20s saw an ad' on the door of B.H.S. asking for staff. Now, I don't know your opinion but your average assistant does not get paid.
"Is the manager around? I just saw your advert?"
"Yeah, she's out the back. MAUREEN!?"

Maureen appeared.
"I just saw your advert, and would like to know if I could apply."
"Have you got a CV?"
"Not right now, no."
"Have you done any retail?"
"Yeah, well, I've been a postman for five years, but before that I used to work in pubs and do a bit of catering."
"Well it can get pretty heavy here. Sometimes you'll finish your day and just want to go home and lie in bed."

The age difference was clear.

* *

"So Mr. Smith. You've been in hospital again recently?"
"Yes. It was a different kind of trip this time though."
"So I understand. I'm going to try a questions with you this time, Mr. Smith."
"Please do."
"If I were to say, um, BUS, CUP, TELEPHONE... Can you remember those?"
"Bus, cup, telephone. No problem."
"Good. Now how is your mental arithematic?"
"Try me. I'll try to be quick."
"72 minus 7?"
"75?"
"Not quite."
"65?"

Admittedly, I was rushing but he jotted down every mistake I made in the Maths test. I wanted to offer him a red pen to give me a minus-D, "Must Try Harder."

This was a worry though. I've never been good at Maths, but basic subtractions were really messing me up.

He then made me walk, heel to toe, which didn't work so well either - one broken shoulder and one broken ankle wouldn't have helped.

We sat back down.

"How are they looking after you at the BBC?"
"They've been brilliant. The Culture Show trained up it's staff to learn how to deal with me if I fitted, and now they're doing the same in Arts Development."
"So you feel looked after?"
"I feel spoiled."

"What if they wanted to send you out to shoot something?"
"I'd have someone with me, and if you're worried about my broken arm, I'd use a mono-pod."
"I see."
"Look, I got here today. I've been going out to gigs and seeing friends - what's the difference between that and my meeting contributors?"
"True enough. Well I'll try to type something up today, and see if we can get you back into work on Tuesday."
"Can you not get me back in there today?"
"Sadly not."

"Hey ho. I'll guess I might see you another time."
"No you won't. I'm moving on. They're making me redundant and I've had a better offer. In fact I'm off today."
"Well that's yet another doctor I'll be meeting once and once only. No new deal to me. You doing anything fun with your Gardening Leave?"
"Sorting the loft out..."
"Well, have fun with it. Just please get me back into work."

* *

After the appointment, I hopped on the tube to Marylebone. I still had work to do. This was the only place where I could get hold of a book I needed. They found the book in their reference library - a book from 1975 about football during the Industrial Revolution. Interesting stuff.

"Hey Mary. Just ringing to check in... The book's good, as was the Austerity Olympics, but I guess we'll talk about that on Monday."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I think we're building up some good ideas here, but we do need to know how to develop these things which I can't help much with until they let me back into the the BBC."
"Well,you'll have no time to type things up."
"I will. I'm meant to be at a friend's play in Chesham tonight, but I'm sure she won't mind. I'm also meant to be at two barbecues and a party on Saturday, but I'd rather get this typed up while I have some space on the computer."
"That doesn't sound terribly sociable."
"If I spend a day shopping for crap but work in the evening, what's the difference?"

* *

I rang Mel, just to see what she was up to.
"I'm round your house."
"What have you been up to?"
"Sleeping. Watching telly..."
"Shall I bring a bit of salmon and mussells back with me?"

I took back some bottles of red wine, believing it was her Father's birthday that day. We drank the wine. His birthday isn't until the 13th. I don't think Mel knew what day it was.

She was duly called away by her mates, leaving me to carry on at the computer. I was trying to compile CDs at the same time, and by 7 in the morning, I'd still achieved nothing, and wished I just came out to prove how drunk I was.

464: WIGGER

2008-05-11T00:24:00.002+01:00

Down the Trinity in Harrow, last Wednesday. It is still the only local pub I can relax in, despite a new odd mix down there. Lovely sunny day.

All the usuals have stuck around over the years. There's the tiny bald man with specs, the city boys, the black bouncer type, the Guardian readers, and the occassional 16 year old asking to play upstairs with his band.

...But Kate Nash has something to answer for. Ever since she told some paper she'd go there for her birthdays, a string of lookalikes have emerged. There were three like her down the place. One even had a little tiara on her forehead.

Bob the landlord has been there for years.

I was with Mel. I popped out for a smoke, and stood opposite these two old blokes drinking Bulmers, and some white student in shorts, sucking down a MacDonald's coke.

"Eh, bro' 'ev you got a lighter 'cos I need a good nighter.."
"Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah, I'm just bitchin' like Shakespeare, whatever you wanna, make, er, sphere..."
"You want a lighter?"
"Yeah, mun'..."

The Bulmers drinkers muttered to each other, "What you two bitches, ravin' bout, scouts?"
"We were talking about Shakespeare..."

I went back inside.

* *

"There's this bloke out there who thinks he's a poet. He's just some stoned twat."

* *

The next fag-break, we managed to get the seats where the Bulmers men had been drinking (new lack of space rules outside preventing us from standing).

He was still there.
"You still got dat light, man?"
"There's a shop over the road, mate. Buy yourself one."

He stared at the floor reciting some rap with words about masturbation and chasing women.

Bob came out to clean the table.
"I thought you were with them Bulmer's drinkers. Are you gonna buy a fucking drink?"
The student stared at the floor.
"Ah, that other chair's free now," said Bob.
"So's that one," I said, pointing at the student.

Bob went back inside.

Then the student said to us, "Have you heard about them houses in South Harrow?"
"Why are you talking like a fucking Wigger?"
He sat quietly, trying to stare me out. The funny thing being he was too stoned to stare me out. His eyes were glazed and not quite in focus.

Mel and I carried on talking. He grumbled in bad rhyme and went into the pub. I jumped up and moved his chair away from us.

Student went in and got himself a pint of water.

He then came back out, picked up the chair and tried to rejoin us.

Next, he poured the water all over the floor, pulled a bottle of wine out from his bag and filled his pint glass with it.

I'd had enough.

"Bob, I hate to be a snitch but this kids just poured your water everywhere and filled his glass with wine."
"You're kidding me?"
"Wish I was. I'd normally tolerate it, but he's a first class prick."

Bob picked up the student's glass and chucked it across the road.
"You piss-taking cunt, just piss off."

Relief.

* *

I had a gig to get to in Camden with Smartee and Gayboy. Sebadoh, doing an old album for Don't Look Back - one I wouldn't quite call a classic. Smartee says the same of Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation, which I love but couldn't tickets for.
"They did a set of other stuff afterwards as well..."
"Hate that album."
"Oh shut up, you fucking misery, I've been told by folk it was the best gig they've played over here."
Anyway, the Sebadoh gig was good, very tight. And I was impressed by Jennifer Gentle, one of the support acts too.

Eric Gaffney, who did alot of stuff on the album, hung around to mug for photos afterwards.

* *

I got home and Dad came back around the same time.

"Did you hear about the explosions in South Harrow?"
"No?"
"Mum was saying it shook the house here."
"What?"
"It was heard as far away as Croxley."

My mind turned to the stoner from earlier.
"Why had he mentioned South Harrow?"

* *

As it turned out, it seemed to have been a bunch of girls trying to bully someone and pouring some kind of gas through her window. She was badly burnt and another chap died.

* *

I still think the wigger knew something though...

463: Relaxed?

2008-05-05T03:44:00.002+01:00

Oh well... Around half-four in the morning, and back on the steroids and the binge-eating...

My week off work has consisted largely of:

- trying to evacuate all the crap out of the rooms upstairs. I thought by now that it would be mostly sorted - but it gets messier by the day, and I'm not sure where I'll sleep tonight. I'm going to the tip tomorrow, but I still don' know what I want to keep. Relatives coming down at the end of the month for a party, so I know I have to sort this stuff out.

- Mel saying she'd be moving out last Saturday, but today was probably the first day i didn't see her. That said, I'd been so shaky since leaving hospital, I've been really grateful to have her around - alcoholic beast that she is. She's like a platonic girlfriend / sister to me.

- Friends just dropping over - invited or not - which has been nice. When do people go to work?

- People asking me about the Primavera Festival and where to stay, like I've got a clue. I sent out an open invitation on Facebook and people said they were too broke. Now they'll be something like 7 of us over there. I can tell them nothing. That said, I've listening to some of the music I wasn't previously aware of - I do really like Caribou, Holy Fuck, A Place to Bury Strangers, and Menomona.

- Still having fits leaving train stations. Saturday was a brave one, being right at the back of the Royal Festival Hall to see Tindersticks. Great gig, with the orchestra and all that, but nearly fell over every time I got up. Vertigo and fear, I guess. We were going to eat and drink afterwards, but I felt too frail, so I followed my friend around Sainsbury's while she bought her mangoes and salmon for breakfast. Then slipped off and stuffed myself on a dreadful MacDonalds Big and Tasty (which was neither), and killed my heart on the way home.

* *

I'm going back to work on Tuesday. I have an early morning appointment at the doctor's, so I may as well go in.

I'll deal with that as best as I can. It's Sebadoh at Koko on Wednesday, my mate Martin's Dad's party on the weekend, then Chris Rock at the millennium asylum on the 24th (how the fuck am I going to escape the crowds after that?), very heavy family-do on the 25th in which they'll take over our house, then off to Barcelona - so everything is like another dare to see how well I really am.

I wouldn't mind but I woke up the other morning with white around my mouth, as though I'd been foaming again in my sleep.

462: Have You Opened Your Bowels Today?

2008-04-28T16:54:00.004+01:00

BBC - End of last Tuesday, it looks like my comedy-arts idea stands a chance of being putting up in front of the commissioning editors. It would be a look into the life of the unsung heroes that have helped comedy without much praise through the years; William Donaldson, Graham Chapman and Malcolm Hardee - all of whom would have a brilliant cast list to celebrate their work.

I was quite excited by this, and one of our archive researchers had been put onto the job of tracking down the footage. I knew a few people I'd come across over the years, but couldn't get her email address right, so I decided to stroll over for a sit-down with her.

Two problems:

1.) My brain went wonky.

2.) I lost the ability to walk. At first, I held onto a rail while my legs slowed. Then I just stood grabbing at the rails wondering what the hell was going on. I'd never had a turn like this before.

Fortunately, one of my bosses, Mary, was walking passed at the time and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I couldn't move.
"Clayton, what happened."
"...Hard to say, right now, really..."
"Oh my God. Let me get you a cab to take you home. Where do you live?"
"Ickenham."
"Where's your hospital? Fulham Palace Road."
"Ah. That's a better idea."

By the time the ambulance had trundled it's way through rush hour traffic from Fulham Palace Road, sat me down to interview me...

"...So, what 'appened, love?"

...and taken me to the hospital, Mel and my folks were already hanging around outside casualty. My Mum, in her buggy, puffing away on a Mayfair.

As I was pulled out of the back of the ambulance in my wheelchair, I waved a polite hello as they dragged me into Casualty.

* *

This was all around 6p.m.
By 9p.m. - our plan was still to get a Chinese on the way home.
Mum, being a diabetic, needed to eat.
"What do you want Clay...?"
"I'm not that hungry. Can I just have a bit of a Snickers bar?"
"Nothing else?"
"Not really. Okay, we'll go out and crisps and sandwiches anyway."
"Sure."

I don't remember most of the night, as my brain was away with the fairies.

Around half-past midnight, a doctor showed up. He looked like a 16-year old work experience boy and may well have been.
"So what seems to have happened today?"

He told me they'd take me up to my ward and tomorrow morning I'd have a C.T. Scan. I still don't know what these things mean. I've kept myself away from the grimmer side of the internet - for better or worse.

"I'll see you tomorrow, eh, Smith?"
"Great, thanks Mel."
"You won't see me," said Dad, "I've got the big St. George's meal."
"Of course."
"And you won't see me, either," said Mum, "Because I won't know what to do after the A40."
"Don't worry - if they chuck me out I'll get a cab."
"Do you want me to pay for it?"
"No, Dad. But Mel, when you do come in, can you get me a pen and paper, just to scribble on while I'm up here?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Don't forget, please. I can anything else here..."
"No problem."

* *

Ward 6th South, was pretty tranquil at two in the morning. The only noise came from the poor chap next to me who had lung cancer, and made a rotten old noise. Luckily it was in a quite a calming rhythm, so it helped me nod off fairly easily.

* *

Breakfast was at 8, on the Wednesday. That was a luxury indeed. Breakfast, the usual offering of Cornflakes, tea, orange juice, and a piece of toast cooked on one side.

I was on a ward of four people. A good size.

Apart from James' McBrady's wheezing, there wasn't too much happening... Just another bloke called James opposite me - his throat was very black and grey, and a fella in who kept emerging and disappearing from a coma. His name was Colin.

Before they could even drug me, I was whisked down by a middle-eastern man who spoke little English for my C.T. Scan.

The scan was over in minutes. They shoved things into my arm, and the funny taste fell into my mouth.

When I got back up to the ward, Mr. James Henderson was having a misunderstanding with a Caribbean nurse.
"You saying you want bath?"
"Just had one."
"Okay, I will get one of the nurses to help me take you."
She came back a Malaysian nurse.
"You've juss had a bath Mr. Henderson? You juss bin?"
"I know..."
"How can he want bath, when he just had bath?"
I had to pipe in, "He was just telling you he'd had his bath."

I know these people work long 13 hour shifts for bugger-all money, but can't they throw a few elocution lessons into their training?

A Greek, effeminate chap came round to read out the lunch menu.
"Chicken or salmon?"
"Salmon please."
"Yoghurt?"
"Okay."
"Juice?"
"Great."

I found out later, that he had a menu the size of my arm, but to cater for everyone on the ward I could understand that it really wasn't worth his time.

* *

Mel called me.

"I'm just outside, do you want to have a fag?"
"...Um, yeah, alright. Let me get my shoes on..."

I slipped out the front, into the cold, still in yesterday's clothes.

"I've made up a big bag for you," she said, "I'll show you."
It was indeed, a big bag.
"Can we just a ciggie for now?
"Sure, how you feeling being out here."
"Not too bad."
As we went back into reception though, I had to hold her by the arm, then stop for a sit down.

We made it up to my ward after stopping in the lift at every available stop.

Mel came up with the bag, announcing everything as she pulled it out.
"I got you a Guardian..."
"Thank you."
"Matt's Zombie book, another book on "How to Speak Spanish," a change of T-shirt, some shorts and underwear, some clementines and another Snickers, your iPoD, and my PSP with the Simpson's Game and Silent Hill: The Origins."
"No pen and paper?"

My ears were saying to me, "Clayton - you are being an absolute cunt. She's packed all of these things for you, you're not even a couple and you are being the most selfish tit in the world."

I gave her a big hug.

...Then all the potatoes from my dinner...

* *

One of the women called Sarah Ellis, from Dr. Gulliver's Ward, came down, finding Mel on my bed sleeping, and me just staring into space. She looked slightly disgusted, possibly by the mess we'd left everywhere.
"So what happened yesterday?"
I told her as briefly as possible.
"Can you get up for me?"
"Of course."
She was eyeing up a big rancid purple thing that had emerged on my "Index toe(?)," as well as all the toenails I'd had trouble cutting since I broke my arm. They did look disgusting, and my T-shirt (still from the day before) was covered in Clementine juice.

She wasn't too classy herself, but of a different health. The sort who's still young to the industry, but thinks that work is all about studying hard, finding the right man, and not really trusting anyone. Like I was in hospital for a holiday.

"Can you walk to the end of the ward for me?"
"Sure."
I did so, in my unhealthily bare feet.
"Hmm. You seem fine. I think we might just up your steroids."
"Back to being Mr. Fatman then. Am I likely to see a neurologist?"
"Possibly..."
"Okay, just possibly."
"We might be able to get you out of here by the end of the day."

They didn't.

* *

On Thursday, James McBrady had his TV on fairly loud.
His sons had come round too. Two big fat skin-headed blokes.
"You okay, Dad."
McBrady wheezed, "Yeah, not bad lads. How's Geoff."
"Got six years, he'll be on Crimewatch tonight."

Mel and myself switched the TV off in the day room and tried to learn Spanish.

Dr. Ellis made her way in, with - "Thank buggery - Dr. Gulliver."
Now before I started seeing Gulliver's replacement, he was the light of my life. He was sarcastic, made a mockery of me, and was all down-right what I wanted in a doctor.

"How are you Sir?"
"All the better for seeing you."
"So what happened on Tuesday?"

Dr. Gulliver is a man whom at the end of 60's, has seen every kind of patient bump off in a whole collection of ways. In his spirit, he is a Christian man who does not believe in the power of terminal diagnosis.

"I have to admit, Doctor, I did ask the other doctor how long I might live for, and he said, 'ten to fifteen months at best.'
"So you waited until I went away, then asked someone else for your life-expectancy?"
"Not quite like that..."
"Well I won't say I'm not jealous..."
"I just thought it was about time I asked someone."
"That Arab gentleman was it?"
"Yes."
"Well my advice to you is that you have little to be afraid of. You could last 3 months, you could last 10 years. It is all down to you."

Mel gleamed.

"I haven't mentioned that because of his prognosis I spent a grand on insurance for holiday."
"Where are you going?"
"Bit of a festival in Barcelona."
"Well that's more like it. When are you due to see me next?"
"May 6th I think."
"Ah, I'll be in Mauritius that day, inspecting another hospital. Now listen carefully Clayton, 'None of your problems are psychosomatic. They are real and you will need to deal with them. If you want me to send a letter to your work, I will say, 'You are going through Chemo, you are at risk.' It is all down to you and how you want to live your life.'"

* *

Mel and I got into the lift, slightly elated, and ready for a puff.

We got in to the lift with the wife of Colin.
"Your bloke's sounding good today, coming back to life?"
"Yeah, he's not doing bad. But that James bloke has had the TV on loud all day."
"I'll have a word with the nurses..."
"Could you?"
"No problem."

The rest of the day he kept the sound down anyway. Until Crimewatch came on.

* *

On Friday morning, I had another turn. Same thing again. I was coming back from the day room and I couldn't walk any more. I held on to the side of my ward and tried to calm down. A nurse took me back to bed, along with Colin's wife. I felt guilty because I hadn't mentioned Crimewatch, but McBrady had been pretty quiet.

Later the neurologists came round.

"So what other side effects have you had?"
"I can't drink any more."
"How do you mean?"
"I have a touch of beer and it effects me almost immediately."
"That sounds very quick."
"It is. It's a bit like that stuff they give you in C.T. scans that will hit your mouth almost immediately.
"I see. So you've had more fits since you've been in here?"
I don't know why but I always get fits of sounding like Alex from Clockwork Orange when I'm hospital.
"Yes, doctor. They've upped my dose of drugs, but I don't think even they know what for."
"No, they probably don't, young man. You mention your legs dragging, but I only ever hear of one. I'm afraid, I'm bereft of explanation."
"It probably is only one. Can I go now Sir?"
"It's perfectly up to you."
"I'd like to Sir."
"Then go."

So that was it...

I had two more fits over the weekend, and another one when I went into the BBC today. All the same kind.

I tried to resign and they wouldn't let me.

They told me to come back when the drugs had kicked in. Even if that was in September.

461: Travel Insurance

2008-04-19T21:26:00.002+01:00

Went to book my flight a week or two ago.

They ran through a list of do's and don'ts:

"Have you ever been prescribed with a terminal illness?"
"Yes, but not for 15 months."
"Oh..."
"That a problem?"
"Well, I need to speak to a member of team..."

Back to the light orchestral music...

"Can I give you a number to call?"
"Sure."
He read out the number.

Admittedly it took me a few days to call the number, but I did.

No escape.

* * *

Rang a Charity line today.

They gave me a quote: £1,636.79.

You'll complain at me, fuck it, I paid for it.

It being a Saturday, I tried to ring BA back to reinstall Mel's insurance which I stupidly let them take off.

Couldn't get through.

This was airmiles which is why I'm not too bothered, but I've got a fear that I'll hear someone say, "You should have booked the insurance with us when you first booked."
"I did."
"Yes, but it's too late to reinstate it now."

460: Nosebleeds

2008-04-19T20:42:00.003+01:00

I was sitting at desk down the National Archives looking for transcripts for some Victorian stuff.

Sitting at my desk, scrolling through their records, I noticed a drop of blood fall on to the keyboard.

Oh dear.

All I had to stop it was a manky tissue in my pocket.

I shoved it up my nose, and asked to the two elderly ladies next to me, if they knew where the nearest toilet was.

"Oh it's just downstairs..."

I jumped up with this snot rag (covered in tobacco) up my nose and ran across the office.

On the same floor was a disabled loo, but for some reason I ignored it and ran to the ground floor. All I saw downstairs was a cafe and the place where I left my coat and bag.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

I found the loo, leaving a trail behind me, as well as all over my shirt.

Blood pissed everywhere. All over the toilet seat. Once the blood finished dribbling I tried to wipe the blood off the toilet seat.

It looked like a big dirty shit had been smeared everywhere.

* * *

I didn't worry too much about that. I had another one the same day, but as a kid I had them all the time.

What is worrying though, is that since I've been off the steroids I've gone from being an over-eating insomniac motherfucker to a person who has trouble drinking alcohol and likes to be in bed by at least 11pm.

Twice I've been out this week and had to bail. One time, a friend had come down, and I don't think I said "Hello" to her for more than half an hour. (Which is a long time to hear someone say 'hello' - sha-boom). The place was too noisy anyway, but I did feel bad.

* * *

Mel was on the computer today, and heard me tell someone it was a glioma that i had. She immediately googled it, and the results were shit. The average life-expectancy after diagnosis is 17 months.

She cried.

I tried not to.

459: Iffy

2008-04-16T17:42:00.001+01:00

Heavy night’s drinking last Saturday.

Felt shit. Went home, while all the others, went to some eighties night called Feeling Gloomy.

I don’t think I got up until mid-day when I managed to eat a bowl of Special K, and return to bed.

Then I got up to offer to cook dinner. It included steaks that were meant to be cooked from frozen. They smelt bloody awful.

We all ate the meal.

A few hours later, Dad started to complain of constipation.

Then I began to throw up everywhere.

As the hours went on, it sounded like a puking competition going on between my Mum and I (think she won though).

* *
The next night I came home from work to find a cook from frozen curry waiting for me. I put it in the microwave. The smell of food defrosting returned.

I ran away and threw up.

458: Radiographers and Gogol Bordello

2008-04-07T00:19:00.004+01:00

I've been waiting for my MRI results since early February. Ringing every day to find out. I'd always get through to assistants who'd say that Dr. Glazer would only let me know after 6 to 8 weeks. One even told me that my results were stable and he couldn't say more than that.

I wrote a list of questions for him - the most important being, "Can I leave the country?" (Primavera is fast approaching), "Will my hair grow back?" and something I hadn't asked any of the doctors, "What is my life expectancy?"

This wasn't Dr. Glazer by the way, he's on holiday, no doubt being bought out by Glaxo-Smith-Klyne-Welcome to prescribe more Seroxat to poor sods.

He was a nice enough Indian chap, with a cute middle-aged woman called Eileen as his assistant. She seemed to know more than he did.

"You can leave the country. I'm going to take you off the Steroids."
"Oh God, thank you. Maybe I can lose some weight now."
"We are going to put you back on the Chemo tablets though."
"Fine."

"Will my hair grow back?"
"No."
"Really? Okay, that's life."

Question number 3:
"What is my life expectancy?"
"Between 12 and 15 months."
My Dad was with me as he always likes to be. But once again, he was about to pass out. This time with good reason. Mum was due in hospital the same week, and he's become a full-time carer for her. She's got hip problems, knee problems, as well as diabetes, epilepsy and more other problems than I can count. She is currently sitting (well, not now it's 1.am and she's gone to bed) on a pull-out sofa to avoid Bingo, still go for a fag and watch endless telly).

Anyway, Dad left, looking queasy.
"In that 12 to 15 months, how will I know if I'm coming down with anything?"
"You'll feel queasy. You'll feel unable to do anything."
"I'm booking a holiday in late May for a festival."
"I'm sure you'll be fine."
"I've found that I'm having trouble reading, at work. Is that a side-effect?"
"It can be. You can develop symptons of dyslexia."
"15 months? I'd better finish my 6-month contract and get out there."
"If not sooner. I mean this is something that we tell 78-year-olds."
"Right then. But I'm young and healthy?"
"Yes, but you never know..."

"Is there any effect from drinking?"
"You'll be more prone to fits."

* * *

Ah, fuck it, i thought. The next night, I went down to Brixton with Mel. We must have drunk about 3 or 4 pints. Then we sank another 5 in the venue and went home to finish two bottles of wine.

I woke up the next day at 12.30 with lots of worried messages from my boss Mary. I was honest with her, "You know I told you about what the doctor said? Yesterday, I got stuck in and got myself horrifically drunk. I'm sorry i caused you so much worry."
"Well you did."
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"I'm just glad you're okay."
"I am. Although I haven't a hangover since I was a teenager."

That hangover has lasted every day since. And I've been not drinking for many days.

Okay well, tonight I started drinking at 11.pm.

The headache's gone away slightly.

457: Thee Arse Development

2008-04-06T23:50:00.003+01:00

Don't get me wrong - I like the arts.

Our wrap party for the Culture do-dah was at Shoreditch House. Rumour had it that Madonna and Sarkozy and Bruni were upstairs. I did (accidently) go up there but all i saw was a swimming pool and lots of tits in suits. I did see Al Murray though, which made me happy - couldn't give a fuck about all the rest (that said - Bruni in her day - crikey). We played bowling with our own presenters, Lauren Laverne being the only one you'd have heard of.

Now I'm in Arts Development working with a wonderfully posh lady called Mary. I think she's brilliant, but there is this one twat who is annoying me.
Before I started the job, he'd been assigned to this thing about Victorian Trials to tie in with a Paxman series on BBC One. He'd been given this treatment by someone else, and told me he was glad I was taking it over. I told him it was no problem, I'd find the transcripts and an extra story and he seemed happy.

Then he started dropping hints about how he'd write it up. So when he came round last Friday, I asked him in front of the Head of Arts and Mary, why he was being territorial about writing this up. I don't think his pomposity has got in the way of him realising that i am replacing Mary's old companion, who is now representing people who don't like to talk in public.

We're meant to have a meeting tomorrow in which I'll say, "Look, I'm not going to do the fucking legwork for you to turn it into a lovely proposal - I've pitched things like Lad's Army, and then lesser known work like Diet Junkies - which you worked on -One Day of War, and Vic Reeves' Rogues Gallery - and either you put the legwork in or you just leave me alone and fuck off (I might tone down the last bit - maybe cunt off)."

When he was working on Diet Junkies, he made a list of what he had to that evening, "Go to gym, pick up girlfriend, take her to cinema, come back home, make meal..." or some such bullshit. This was left lying on the top of the photocopier. Sandy Smith, whom I think now runs Panorama, wrote at the bottom "And Get a Life."

Oh, I'm so looking forward to tomorrow.

456: Dancer from South Ruislip

2008-04-06T22:49:00.004+01:00

I was getting the train up to see QPR play Preston, and these black chaps got on with his mate at South Ruislip. They both looked reasonably tough. They both fiddled with their mobile phones.

Then one of them started dancing in his seat with these really camp moves. He wasn't just any dancer either - he knew his shit.

His mate was oblivious.

* * *

Preston were two up all through the match until the last four minutes when we got two in (I'm saying we, about a band I didn't even know the front line for). Preston were a fuck sight better than the "Hoops." I hate that nickname. In fact they couldn't receive a ball without heading it to the other side or chasing it off the pitch.

Ha, ha - that's my only bit of football analysis...

455: Heading South

2008-03-30T04:50:00.002+01:00

Coming home was depressing.

There was a really highly strung bitch shouting at her son, "No Toby, put my bag there or it'll be buried."

Toby and Mother could well have been checking out a University. He was stroppy. She seemed like a pain in the arse. She was tutting and acting like an uptight tit as she waltzed down the aisle.

A mother and daughter got on around some other station. She put on her headphones and ignored her Mum who stared ahead until they got off two stops down the line. The daughter had amazing tits - and that's coming from a bloke who's lost his sex drive since being in radiotherapy.

I sat giggling through a copy of Viz. Across from me on the other side sat an Anglo-German mother and son. The kid had a pretty thick Germanic accent. He was reading a German kids book.
I sat reading Modern Parents - hoping she'd see it.
"Mummy, can I have a biscuit?"
"Only if you promise to be good."
What the fuck? I've just seen you scoff your way through three bags of crisps you idle bitch.

My phone had been dying all weekend, which I was quite pleased about. I did however, pick up a message from my boss-as-of-Monday for Arts development (from which I'm sure to be sacked).
"Hi Clayton, I know you're probably on leave right now, but there is something I want you to do for tomorrow."
I like the woman, but I knew an older boss wanted to nab me to reinvent See Hear with her. And to be honest, although I've never seen the show, looking through the back catalogue, every programme seems to be like, "We went to the Special Olympics and met some deaf folk..."
Well, I had no credit to ring her back on, and I was in a quiet carriage - strangely not very quiet places those, but anyway...

I got to King's Cross, and the miserable nature of London hit me immediately. Charity fuckers, London Lite and London Paper stress-fucks littering the pavement, prossies, tramps, commuters and fuckers from the NHS telling me to give up smoking - I blew smoke in one of their faces, took my cap off, showed them my biopsy scar and said, "It's too fucking late, mate."

No one could get into King's Cross, they'd shut off part of the Underground. So I walked on to Euston. I got some money out and found that my favourite pub was full of city tossers escaping the rain.

I carried on to Euston Square. Got the train to Baker Street - didn't have any change to go and have a piss. Bought a copy of Time Out - stood on the tube all the way home.

Came out of the station, smoked another fag, and gazed around me trying to work out why I'm living like a teenager at the age of 29.

As I got back, Mum was full of tales of her health frustrations and Mel had botulism caused by her Mother's cooking.

She now has earache.

This city has become too much for me.

454: Communication Breakdown

2008-03-30T03:49:00.003+01:00

For people like myself who used to watch Rab. C. Nesbitt with 888 on for subtitles, the Glaswegian accent can take a while to get your head around.

I didn't expect it to be so bad the other way round as the Scots have to put up with media shot at them from London. Not so...

Going into a chippy, I spotted a battered sausage and asked for it.
"What sausage?"
"Battered..."
"You want a sausage?"
"Please. Just one."
"He put two battered sausages into a bag."
"Just one."
"One pound ninety please."
"Right..."

Maybe I have an odd accent and hadn't realised.

I love the breakfasts up there though - square sausages, potato scones, and the best black pudding.

Something that disturbed me though, was the amount of Subways (as in the food place) up there. You think we're inundated down here - take a trip to Glasgow. Every fucking block's got one - I'm not joking. There's Gregg's everywhere too - in fact you see queues there running down the high street. I do wonder if the Scots think that Subway is healthy.

At one point Nicola said, "I was eating a Scottish salad the other day..."
Liam, a born and bred Glaswegian interjected, "You mean, chips?"

* * *

I'd bumped into some of the Culture Show lot on my way down to Pacific Quay on Bank Holiday Friday. The intention was to surprise Nicola. I didn't expect anyone to be in.
Sure enough though, smoking outside were Jack and Peter who I did the Liverpool shoot for.

"Whit the fuck are you doing here?"
"I'm just visiting a mate up here, and thought I'd come down and say 'hello'"
"Well come in, man. Let's give you a tour."
The building looks like fuck-all from outside, but inside, the stairs and everything about the building are arranged to get people mixing with each other.

Liam came down the stairs, "Hey Clayton. What you doing here?"
"I was gonna surprise my mate Nic. This place is great though."
"Aye, it's good. Jack, I'm gonna get some food. There's no one serving here today. I was gonna go to Subway, but you don't like their stuff."
"No, I'll be fine."

I met some more Glaswegian Culture Show people and they all seemed so fucking friendly.

I was at our wrap party in London the next Thursday at Shoreditch House and someone asked me if I'd enjoyed Glasgow.
"So how was Glasgow?"
"Do you know what? I fucking love it up there and I've wanted to move there for years, but do you know the best thing about the crew up there? They talk to each other."
"We talk to each other..."
"No we fucking don't. Everyone's got their favourite two mates or so, and they deal with everyone else as they need to. Up there, if someone's on a shoot, they'll advise each other on ideas and they don't sit at their fucking desk planning their shoot or dicking around on Facebook."

Yeah sure it was supposedly great that Madonna, Sarkozy and Bruni were upstairs (I was more excited to see Al Murray coming out of the lifts and giving each other a knowing smile from years back - he couldn't remember who I was but it was good to see a familiar face). But to be honest, I couldn't give a fuck.

I'd love to go back on that show, and hopefully make more than 3 films next time.

453: Claire's Garden

2008-03-30T00:52:00.006Z

Up on the East coast of Scotland, there is a little place called Muchalls. A place used for Mel Gibson's Hamlet - where apparently Ophelia snuffed it.

My mate Claire, whom I used to live with in the Bush has a mother who lives up there in a converted mill - filled with artwork. Aside from the house being gorgeous, they have probably the best back garden I have ever seen. 8 acres of land, including a field of Bison, a load of cliffs, rivers, peacocks, geese, and a cave. Oh and a deer that leapt up a hill as if it were on a race track.

Explaining how we all knew each other over a meal with Claire's Mum was odd - I hadn't thought about disconnected way we all knew each other.
"I lived with Claire, and met Nic on a researcher course, then I met Kate through Nic and she went out with a friend of mine - then Nic moved up here and became friends with Claire as she didn't know many people, and now Liam (Claire's boyfriend) is my Scottish counterpart on The Culture Show."

I had to warn Claire that since I broke my shoulder last year, my sense of balance has been a little shitty. As I said this I slipped straight backwards on to my backside. After that I decided to walk between two people. Though Claire had not warned me that I would be climbing up a cliff to get to a cave - even if there was a rope tied to an unsteady rock.

We built a fire on the beach, despite blowing winds and a hail storm. The trick was to
a nest of rocks around the fire and set fire to it that way. I was damn glad we'd bought Nicola's whiskey because despite there being 5 of us on that beach = the human shield around the fire in the hail that was turning back into snow was not enough to stay warm.

The next day, Claire laid an Easter egg hunt, which if you can see Nic's photos below, I was really crap at. I ended up with my hand stuck down a tube that chaps are meant to grow trees in. My Easter treat was down there, and my hand got right-royally stuck.

Nic then hung up a "little chick"-shaped pinata for Claire to bash down.

Anyway, it was such a relaxing weekend and Claire's Mum treated us brilliantly - I even had an electric blanket to sleep on.

On the way back, Kate decided it would take too long for her to go through Edinburgh to drop us for a train back to Glasgow, so we were dumped in Perth. Claire picked us up an hour later.

They persuaded me to stay up for an extra two days - in which I saw Liam's band, with him on bass, and fellow Culture Show director Jack Cocker on guitar. There was another director from the show there.

...And okay, this isn't the most fascinating thing I've ever written - mainly because I had such a good time that I've got nothing that amusing to say.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=33143&id=661926473

452: Dog on my Foot

2008-03-29T22:54:00.005Z

"Pepper! Pepper! Come and sit down!"

The grey dog-thing sits on my foot. I hope he's not coming to Glasgow - that bladder of his could cause problems.

This chap had one of those accents that I didn't believe existed outside the world of character comedy. It was a bit like Michael Portillo doing a bad impression of Michael Portillo.

His (much younger) girlfriend was more, well, normal. Her accent sounded like she was from Leeds. Perhaps he went for girls he could belittle and would look good on his arm.

"I got you a little present."
Stuck into Soduko and not looking up.
"You need a number 9 in there, hon," She said, opening a little carrier bag.
"Yes, I know."
"Here you go!"
"Henry VIII?"
"Well you know how we were talking about being Catholic, and I thought this was something you get stuck into."
Without any hint of emotion, "Marvelous."

The girl shrugged and read the book herself.

By Durham, my foot was starting to go dead, so I gave the dog a gentle kick. It yelped. No one heard. I couldn't get out easily, as some old dear was sat next to me. I asked her if she minded letting me out to stretch my legs. She swung her legs round and stared at me as if to say, "I'm not having that dog on my foot."

* * *

"We're passing over the Tyne and Wear now. I used to row up here."
"In your Regatta days?"
"Exactly."

Later we passed a tiny stream.
"THAT'S THE TWEED," said Mr. Man, in capital letters, "It doesn't look as pretty as it did when I used to row it."

10 minutes later we were in Berwick. Before you ge into the station there is a big beautiful called, um...

"Isn't that the Tweed?"
Mr. Ex-RAF-Regatta-motherfucker stared at me and cleared his throat.

"...yes."

451: More Eavesdropping

2008-03-15T03:56:00.001Z

"So we were meant to go to this funeral. 10.30, Breakspeare Crem'."
"Right?"
"So we get there and we don't recognise a soul."
"Popular girl?"
"No, wrong fucking girl. The coffin was turned in to the theme from Eastenders."
"Good tune."
"We couldn't help but laugh."
"So you got the wrong day?"
"Exactly. And none of the pubs were open..."

450: The Canadians

2008-03-15T03:21:00.004Z

Nice people.

Fucking boring.

About twenty years ago, my Dad picked up two fellas who were escaping a hotel. They'd reported a complaint about noise in the next room where some lads were celebrating a football win. The hotel staff did nothing and they were threatened with knives. Dad picked them up in his cab while they were on the run but found nowhere to put them up. I remember going to the toilet and some complete stranger saying, "Hi." I was shit scared. Now, because Dad had put them up at hours, they are friends of the family.

The Bowers went to places they'd seen in English dramas. And I don't mean important places. I mean places they'd seen in shit dramas like Lovejoy - for which they'd ordered 6 series.

Maybe I'm just out of touch.

A couple of years ago, the same couple had expressed an interest in going to Stonehenge. My mate Wilson was down at the same time.

He said, "If you do go to that bunch of fucking rocks. I'll kill yer."

449: Classical Spectacular

2008-03-15T02:46:00.002Z

I've seen the Royal Philharmonic before. They did a Russian tribute night at the same veunue, The Royal Albert Hall - and it was brilliant. Because I'd bought cheap seats at the top, we could see the fake rockets fire by our faces, and it looked at times like the back of the place would burn everything down, like a fine ending to a Muppet Show. Dad and I like Statler and Waldorf.
"So what did you think?"
"I thought it was hot."
Or something like that.

This one was musically even better. We had box seats with 6 other chaps and chap-esses. They had some well-known choir, some well-known Welsh guards and a coupla Opera singers. It was all well-known shit they were playing, March of The Boleros or whatever, but the light show was too much. It was like watching a brilliant band playing at a rave.

What made things worse was that throughout the first half there was a Jewish chap in front of us who couldn't stay still. He was like a child on Ritalin. He'd look up at the lights, swing with the music in a half-arsed way and lean over the balcony, among other things. All I wanted to do was watch the conductor, and he ruined it. I meant to have a word with him, but by the second half he'd changed position to piss off someone else.

The conductor thought he was a bit of a joker. He did that old joke, "We've got someone here tonight, who's 111. Oh sorry, it's just that she's ill."
Then he did music-based jokes.
"I went to a pet shop the other day and said, 'I'd like to buy a parrot please.'
The pet shop owner said to me, 'Well this one costs £500.'
'Why's that?'
'He knows every word to La Boheme.'
'Wow that's impressive, what about the next one.'
'Every word of Wagner. Costs £1,000.'
'And the third?'
'£3,000.'
'Why's that?'
'I don't know, but he always refers to the Maestro.'"

Laugh?

I nearly jumped over the balcony and killed him.

I won't mention the cunts waving their flags to Pomp and Circumstance.

448: Liverpool

2008-03-15T00:39:00.002Z

Madness play Baggy Trousers to get me up at 5.30...

...Well they meant to...

I put the alarm on Snooze for 9 minutes time...

Madness doing Baggy Trousers do the alarm again at 5.39...

I put the alarm on again for 9 minutes time...

The next time, I decide I've been too keen, so set the alarm for 6.30.

Mel comes to get me up as she's ready for work. I tell her I'll be fine, and she should go ahead of me.

I hit the station in a bad way at 7.20, having had just a regimental and no shave.

With a camera kit weighing down my good shoulder, I get to Euston in good time. Apart from, that is, that I've somehow lost the call sheet on the tube. This call sheet had my ticket number for Virgin scribbled on the back of it.

So I queued up at the "Tickets for Today" stand - time was rapidly ticking away. When I got to the front the lady directed me to the stand outside where I could get my ticket number. She could have just asked him for it, as she was stood the same office - but no.

Luckily there was no queue, but all this chap could do was give me my booking number and make me queue for a fast ticket machine.

I eventually got my tickets after the machine had failed to recognise my card a few times.

Tick. Tock.

Just enough time to run to Burger King, for some food.
"What do you have ready?"
"Just the Cumberland Sausage Meal."
"I'll just have the Cumberland Sausage - no meal."
"Sure."
"Don't worry about the bag."
She put it in a fucking bag and couldn't count the exact change I'd given her.

I legged it.

I had nothing to read on the journey to Liverpool. I had some Beatles to listen to though, and I found a table seat. The Beatles - hypocrite motherfuckers - they made their name at The Cavern and spent the rest of their lives in London and America - while Liverpool goes on preaching their name.

Some bloke sat with his laptop opposite me, but we didn't disturb each other - which makes a change. I scoffed the burger and fell asleep.

To wake me up, the driver told us that after Rugby (the place), they'd be limited to travelling no faster than 40mph. This would apparently make us 35 minutes late.

Damn you, wind.

* * *

On getting to Liverpool, I met up with the Glasgow crew in a shopping centre called the Met Centre. I hadn't been up there since I was about 6 years old. All I remember about the place is going to some Beatles museum and being really scared by an exhibit which just showed the legs of John Lennon (not the real ones - that would have been cool), but I think it was one of his last conversations on the phone before he died. Then we went to a local cafe, and I think it was then that I saw black people for the first time, and in my own stupid head, because I hadn't seen black people before, I thought they were baddies. What an idiot. As I know now, it's only people from Australia that are baddies. That's a joke too. It's only people that live in Australia that are baddies. The rest just want to keep you up and drink.

The crew had been staying at the Hard Day's Night Hotel.
So what was that like?
"Fine. They've got lovely pictures of The Beatles all over the place, but when you turn on the telly, it plays Hard Day's Night at you. That's really annoying..."

* *

I was only up there to get some shots for the menu for next week. The theme was Guerilla Dancing. So today we had some pensioners pretending to shop, then they'd start waltzing, and later in the day we'd have a quick-step couple in jive gear dancing in a square under a CCTV image on a big screen looking down on them. Then on the next day it would be two gangs having a dance-off, and on Friday, a group of street-sweepers doing their thing.

Anyway, I was just there for the day, and offered my help on the camera I'd bought with me. The only problem came at the end of the day.
"Excuse me, I don't think that's your microphone."
"It is. It has a DV Solutions sticker on it - I'm not messing with them again."
"Are you sure?"
"Incredibly sure. I'm not leaving anything behind this time."

Sure enough, I left behind a close mic sound kit, and got a text today saying I had their gun mic.

I told them that DV Solutions had scanned it in as theirs and could I have my close mic kit back please?

I've still heard nothing back.

Still, I do like Liverpool.

"What's goin' on mate?"
"It's like a dance-off for the Culture Show."
"Sounds shit."
"Yup - it could well be."

446: Stag Day

2008-03-06T20:28:00.004Z

The cab drops us off at the Ramada King's Lynn - a place so classy that the toilets have already been pissed in for you.

Our budget for dinner had been £6 each, but we hadn't a clue where else to go - a group of six people who weren't local and would have to get up early the next day. So we checked out the restaurant menu. It was astonishing. £15.95 for a tiny bit of lamb with a mixed bag of Tesco's own mixed vegetables.

Damn their eyes.

There was a wedding in the hotel, and the bride looked about 16 and had a big tattoo on her arm. The music was inviting too, from MacDonalds, MacDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut to We Are Family (no doubt literally).

Why was I Norfolk anyway?

It was 10.00 in the morning when we turned up at a pub called The Stag.
The researcher knocked on the kitchen door round the back.
"Hello. How are you? Where shall we set up?"
The chef stared at the six people emptying camera gear from the vans.
"I'm sorry mate, what do you mean?"

I should explain at this point, that myself and another director were filling in for someone who had been admitted to a hospital (in Glasgow) the previous day with a split cornea.

The other director had also spent the day getting down from Glasgow, and no doubt didn't think to ask if it was definite that we had permission.

"The landlord's down the Cash and Carry right now, but I can let you in."
"We'd be really grateful. He knows we're coming..."

The chef let us in, "I'm afraid I can only offer you chips and a couple of sandwiches."
"It's fine thanks, we've all had breakfast."
We took over the tiny pub, moving stuff, re-arranging furniture, switching off the fruit machine, turning off their chilling machines, and making a general nuisance of ourselves the way crews do.

The landlord's wife entered, looking stunned.
"It's fine. Our director sorted it with the landlord."
She stared at the pub we'd taken over, "Well at least we shouldn't have too many customers today. Weather's gonna be bad later."
"Seems lovely out there right now."

We do our first piece to camera outside in the lovely sunshine. The presenter goes on a bit too long, but it should be okay.

As we go back inside, the landlord is back. He looks both easy going and confused.
"Hey, how are you doing? I believe our director came down a couple of weeks ago to speak to you."
"No."
"A fella called Robin?"
"No."
What had happened? Did Robin come down and ask a temporary member of staff who said it should be fine? Was he talking to barfly who said, "Come down and film any time you like my lad?"

Did we have the right pub? We must have done - it was the same address and very close to our book-readers location.

They gave us lots of nice chips and sandwiches as promised, and I paid them an extra £25 for imposing on them. They were easy-going about it all, as people often are once you escape a city.

Our author turned up and did a brief interview with the presenter, while the other director hit the book group location. As soon as they started, a cat decided to fuck around with a bit of plastic, and the fireplace crackled loudly.

The crew took me up to the River Studios - a lovely little theatre, with a reception room next door, where our book group were gathering. They were a well-to-do but pleasantly eccentric bunch who had no idea that they would have an author spying on them.

Unfortunately, as I got there, I was told by the other director that it was too late for my plans to film their journey and the crew were heavily involved in setting up for the eavesdropping.

I tried to ring the presenter, the author and our researcher back at the pub.

No signal.

I couldn't make myself seen by the book group, and had to hang around outside begging someone from the crew to give me a lift back to the pub. After half an hour, one relented and took me back there.

"No time to film the journey, I'm afraid. We've got to get up there."
By now there was sleet everywhere. The landlord's wife was right. And if I'd have filmed the car it would have looked wildly different to our opening piece to camera.

The author drove an old Morris Minor, he'd had since he was 19. He's now 54.

We snuck round the back of the venue and into the theatre space. Put the headphones on the author and presenter, and found that they were already discussing the book.

The author was Louis (Captain Monkey's Mandarin)de Bernieres, and the group were more interested in talking about that book. One that Louis himself described "Taking more than 50 pages before you want to read it."

The book group were too nice about the new book, and we'd been too rushed to put the heart-device on Louis.

The other director even had to wind up the book group saying, "Look can you say anything bad about the book please?"

Book Group Lady: It says here that the girl was born in 1960.
Louis: (listening) No it doesn't.

Tim, the presenter eventually came out and introduced Louis. They were all stunned and amused, as we'd hoped - thank God they didn't watch the show and seen that we'd done this before.

Louis was incredibly friendly with all of them, but did say, "So when was she born in 1960?"
"It's right here."
He picked up the book, read the passage and said, "I'm going to have to contact the publishers about this."

All in all, not a perfect shoot, but we got what we roughly needed.

The crew and the other director headed off, while the researcher, the presenter and I waited for a cab back to King's Lynn to get back to King's Cross. We waited for what seemed like 40 minutes with the owners of the Theatre. They were a nice couple but conversation was awkward. They're putting on a Pinter double bill so we talked about him and his illness. I kept popping outside to check for the cab while having sneaky cigarettes.

Eventually a cab turned up.
"I din't know where the fuckin' place was. I popped next door where they trainin' dogs. They didn't have a fuckin' clue what I was talkin' bout."
"And that took nearly an hour?"
"Well, no. The thing is, if you book through the BBC, they fax you the request, well not me but the cab company, so by the time I've got that a bit of time's past."
"Like the ten minutes it was meant to take. Oh well, never mind. Your accent doesn't sound entirely Norfolk."
"Funny you should say that - I've lived all over - up the estuary, Suffolk, Downham Market... ...I used to be a scaffolder, and all kinds of labour jobs, but kept getting made redundant."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Nah, I was a bit of Herbert. Now I'm self-employed, I can do what the fuck I want."
"What did you do?" asked the researcher.
"I couldn't really tell you. I did used to eat glass though."
"Didn't that hurt?"
"No idea mate, I was fucked."
"No blood on the tongue?"
"Must have done."

We went for a curry. Tim, the presenter bought a copy of the Radio Times to forsee his piece on Polaks.

We made the train, and all was well.

445: Hamell on Trial

2008-02-29T20:51:00.004Z

I was sat next to a couple in the Soho Arts Theatre. A stewardess asked the couple if they would mind shuffling up because it was a full house.

"I've paid for a ticket and I want to see it from the middle."
She gave up and moved back upstairs. Now this wasn't a place where you're relying on the people in front of you not having big hair. You can see everywhere and Hammell moves around a lot on stage.

I didn't say anything other than bitch very loudly about them.

I should have said something, but I think the girlfriend got the message. In fact, I say I said nothing but they got their due.

"Did you hear those selfish cunts not moving up. Is he trying to impress his daughter or something?"

And so on...

444: Busking

2008-02-17T02:28:00.005Z

Filmed a band called Hot 8 busking the other day. They're from New Orleans and are used to doing the Mardi Gras thing, as opposed to standing in a breezy cold square in faux-trendy Hoxton. Admittedly we were too far from many Nathan Barley-types and having a brass band parading up to the square got people's attention.

They played amazingly and scored a lovely £28.20 in their 15 minutes of playing - though it took another 15 minutes for the trumpeter to count the English money. To their credit, they played the 15 minutes dead-on, with their own song, a cover of Sexual Healing and When The Saints, all timed perfectly by a band-leader who plays the Tuba. The first two songs were at my request, in the previous few minutes and the leader realised they had time left over. As opposed to previous busking pieces (namely Moby who advertised it on his website or other bands who played again for "re-takes") there was no pre-publicity and they don't even have a video.

The only problem was with language.
"Are you looking forward to busking?"
"Ha-ha, yeah. What?"
"Busking..."
"I don't know what is."
"Playing in the street... What would you call it?"
"Oh, I see. Er, hustling?"

I asked some dumb questions too, "Do you feel like you're following in the footsteps of Louis Armstrong?"
"Man, we are Louis Armstrong... We love Louis..."
It wasn't leading anywhere.

The best of sync I got was while they were counting up their money.
"If you put good pounds in, I can go to college! If you put fivers and twenties in, I don't have to go to college!"

The band who lost about 4 members to gang shootings and have lived through Hurricane Katrina and soldiered on, and are on a label who have run for years with no video support.

I'm hoping to right that wrong for them, but it's all down to the Beebbeebceeb.

www.tru-thoughts.co.uk

443: Work in Jeopardy

2008-02-17T00:31:00.004Z

You'll be glad to know that not all of my mistakes are made while drunk.

I was out at a stand-up gig at the old Comic Strip Revue bar where as well as the current circuit names (Miranda Hart, Pappy's, Ed Byrne, etc), French and Saunders were trying some new stuff out before their tour.

Place was packed. Only room to stand was right at the back. I was losing patience, as some bloke and a woman brushed past me. The bloke was slightly more than a bloke - someone who works at the BBC on the same floor as me and has a lot of power - Yentob. He pushed past a little rudely so without thinking, I flipped him the bird at him behind his back.
I heard those dreaded words from the woman, "Someone just stuck their finger up at you."
My friend Alex, leaned in and said, "Are you going to do that stuff all night?"
"Um, probably not, no. My contract's finishing next month."

I'm also a bit easy to spot at work with my half-head of hair. So that's one point taken off the future work list. I would like a job from this man.

People at work have been generally kind to me, whether because they're making all the staff redundant or sympathy for the tumour, or genuine concern. That said, I am really grateful, whatever the reason.

I've been taken aside by people in the Arts department who do count, and given advice. So I started to try to pay my dues back. We are no longer an arts department, we are part of Vision, which includes absolutely everything from Top Gear to The Story of Maths. Karen's been really committed to getting people to attend things. Usually I've found that I can't turn up.

I went to two meetings on Friday. The first was on Safeguarding Trust.
"So, here's a clip from a phone-in competition with Liz Kershaw on BBC6. She couldn't make the recording so they pre-recorded the show. The people phoning in are members of the production team. How do we feel about that?"

Later in the day there was a presentation by a lady who presented us with a collection of clips of from programmes sold around the world. All of them were dreadful, but the poor girl asked to present them seemed to have little idea why. My favourites were When Women Rule The World (bunch of tarts dumped on an island to make men work for them), Battleships (the game but with real people in dinghies - no one dies), Ace of Cakes (metal dude gets his own, admittedly good cake shop), and best of all something called something like Silent Library. This was a Japanese show where people have to make each other scream in a library. This involved eating rolls of Wasabi, having hot spoons placed on their bellies and having their nose hairs removed.
The woman said of a programme called Iron Chef, which was a cookery show dressed up as a sports programme, "This show raised the audience on the channel by 77%, from the previous show."
I asked what the previous show had been.
She didn't know.
It was a funny show. A kind of American celebrity cook-off, with a Japanese theme and points raised on different sections by the judges. They even had a sport-style reporter to liaise with the host.
The best bit was when the host said, "And now for your secret ingredient... Onions!"

We got this email saying that we should go to a meeting to submit ideas for BBC4. I emailed back saying, "I'd love to."
Then I got a lot of emails from other people saying, "Glad to hear it!" and stuff like that.
I'd hit Reply All - which means I'd sent it to a hell of lot of people. Many, many of which I know.

It doesn't really affect me work-wise, but I realise I've got an MRI scan at the time of the meeting.

I might look a bit sarcastic.

Hey ho.

* * *

This is all pretty light-hearted stuff. The truth though is that when it comes to March or April, I'm going to have to compete with everyone who is being laid off from the BBC.

442: The Cems Shems

2008-02-01T00:53:00.000Z

There'll be a piece on Oscar nominee Julian of the Schnabels on Saturday sometime after 7. He's dun a film from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

What should be better will be another thing with Karl Pilkington asking if art is funny. I believe Noel Fielding is in there somewhere too.

441: Waking up in a new hospital

2008-01-29T22:09:00.000Z

"Okay mate, where do you think you are?"
"Hammersmith?"
"No."
"Charing Cross?"
"Try again..."
"I have no idea."

I was at the one on Euston Road. UCH?
...Still can't remember. I know it was the place my friend is training at.

"Do you recall last night yet?"
"I was singing karaoke with some friends from a work-pub-pop quiz, then I was here, then Dad turned up to say hello, then I saw you, right now."

"Do you remember how much you drank last night?"
"Yeah I do. Three pints of cider and two glasses of white wine."
"That's quite a lot."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Hmm.

* *

As soon as they let me go, I took a walk to the Albany pub round the corner. It was only 10.30 but the chap let me in. He seemed slightly glad to see me.

"How are you feeling mate?"
"A bit scratched up. I have the face of a fighting monkey-boy. They've told me to take a day off work. What happened?"
"Well you slipped out the door there with a glass of wine in your hand. Then something happened, I think someone opened the door into you. Next thing we know you've got glass in your face and we're trying to pick it out while we wait for the ambulance."

The accident or whatever you want to call it had really messed up my knees. My elbows and shoulders really hurt.

* *

As per breakfast in hospital, I was tucking into some Cornflakes at 6.30 this morning. Wide awake, I couldn't call anyone. Apparently last night I rang home and told Mum that I'd be ready to be picked up from Charing Cross in half an hour. So Dad cancelled his cab job and turned up at Charing Cross.

Somehow he made it. I was slurring my words but generally I just felt dazed.

* *

The quiz had been, um, fun... free booze and competing with all these fuckers from London Lite, The Sun, The Guardian, and whatever. The Carling lot just drank Carling which was vaguely amusing.

We went from 2nd to 2nd to last very quickly.

I know nothing of modern music.

Can't say that bothers me much.

* *

I called my production manager. I wasn't quite sure what to tell her...

"I won't lie to you. I can only guess. But my brain isn't great today."

What?

"Hello, I was on a bender with some Culture Show people last night and smashed a glass of wine in my face."
Well, no point in lying, I suppose.

As it turned out, none of the Culture Show lot were still there today - shooting links, and I was enjoying myself too much. Not enough reason to fuck my face.

* *

The consultant saw me and decided I should go back there to be checked up. I protested and said, "Look please, I'm dividing time between three hospitals, a doctor's and work consultancy as it is."
She was a German lady, "But isn't zis place easier for you?"
"NO. Charing Cross is perfect."
"Very vell. Und zer is nuthing I cun prescribe to you?"
"Please don't."

* *

Anyway, the Albany had all my shit, and I put a punt in for running a comedy quiz for them (it's the only thing I know about).

* *

Call from Mum while Dad's on his way.
"Hospital phoned. They've got your BBC pass."
"How long is Dad going to be?"
"Half an hour?"

I stray upstairs. No one has a clue about the pass. That's cool, I can get another one. No keys either, but fuck it.

* *

Dad's waiting downstairs. I've just bought a paper, a coffee and a White Magnum.

Of course I could have had the Magnum there and then but was a little pre-occupied by the previous nights activity.

Of course an hour later the Magnum had melted and the coffee still hadn't gone cold.

440: Henry Rollins

2008-01-27T02:17:00.000Z

I booked tickets for Sebadoh and Gogol Bordello and I'd just finished writing a post about 6 this morning, when Mel came in from work. She'd been on a bender.
"Are you meant to down Port?"
"No."
"We were having it with Red Bull."

I was putting the telly on for her, when my wrist hit whatever I'd been writing and deleted what I'd written. I can't even remember what it was about.

We saw the end of 8 Mile,. I don't know if you've seen it, but it's Rocky with Eminem rapping instead of boxing. The end scene though is fucking wicked. It's all about Face-off's so in the first contest he's getting all this honky shit and he comes back with, well I don't know I was drunk, but he wins that round. Then the next bunch of stuff is brilliant - he's been beaten up, his girlfriend's fucked someone else, his Mum's a white-trash whore and so on - anyway, he says all this shit, puts himself down and then disses his opponent for going to a public school, having a proper real name, and very posh parents. Whoah!

Mel went to bed, and I stayed up at the computer, and was woken up at half eight by Dad making a cup of tea. I tried to pretend I was all bright and breezy.
"Have you been drinking whiskey all night? You're slurring your words."
"Yes."

I desperately needed a shower and made it to the hospital with 5 minutes to spare. The pharmacy closed at one.

The Rollins gig was a completely unplanned thing. I was in Hammersmith picking up my pills for the day and Mel was with me, planning to see No Country For Old Men and saw his name on the wall of the Apollo.

I'm sure Chris Rock was amazing, but I don't have a spare £200, compared to the £16 I paid for Rollins. I also get claustrophobia. Chris was standing room only in some places, and Rollins upstairs was "I know we've sat you all together at the front, but why not take a few rows back and not battle with people's hair?"

We picked up the tickets and headed out for an all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet to help me with my weight problem.

Rollins hit the stage at 20.30 and didn't leave it until 23.15. Which was way too much for some people's bladders while he stood in one stance the whole night.

Non-stop blah, blah, blah about his whole year from singing with The Ruts, to appearing in a lame film to various travels over Christmas to Iran, Syria and Pakistan (at the time of Bhutto's killing), to getting back from Beirut to San Francisco to see Grinderman and getting asked up on stage to sing Diana with Nick Cave and Jello Biafra.

It was exhausting and probably the funniest show I've ever seen (I've no doubt said that before, but I feel like I mean it).

He did refer to MacDonald's a couple of times, which seemed hypocritical given his love for Diet Coke. But that's a minor point, and it did make Mel and I decide what to eat on the way home.

* *

Getting home, Dad was already back from work, because he'd won a bit of money on the lottery. For this reason, he is paying for Mum's Bingo chums to go to the Dinner and Dance at Heston tomorrow night.

339: Dirty Boy, On Your Rug...

2008-01-26T03:14:00.000Z

And so this morning for the second time running, I wake up in the armchair at 8 a.m.
wondering how the hell I managed not to get to bed again. This was no problem with radiotherapy, as the kind-hearted chaps there seemed to accept any silly excuse because they at least pretend to be compassionate. But when you only have two days with an editor who needs signing in to the building - one has to throw one's toothbrush into one's bag and leg it.

It turned out to be an easy edit, and our presenter, Mr. Kermode, is one of the nicest chaps I've ever met, despite the fact he travels up from Southampton at the early hours of the morning to spleen his knowledge to us and several radio shows all day long before returning to his wife and kids. He calls himself, "Just a Turn," and appears to have nothing in the way of an ego. I've been in telly for about 8 years now and have never received a "Well done" text at the end of a Friday night.

* *

By the time I got back, Mum was back from Bingo. She'd won a £150. Which is the equivalent of a week and a half of her at playing the game. I had a ciggy with her outside the back door. She doesn't completely leave the back door now as she has a bad hip and prefers to lean against the door-way, which if you're smoking Richmond or Mayfair, will stink the house out anyway.

"So Doris wasn't happy," Doris is my Mum's best friend at Bingo, who still insists on sleeping in the same bed as her 41 year old daughter, Sandra.
"No, I'll bet."
"She said, 'Well that's alright, you can pay for our Dinner and Dance night at the Irish Club.' I said, 'I pick you up every night and take you to and from Bingo!'"
I've heard these stories too many times now.

"You've given her a lot of charity already Mum. Remember when you came to Whipp's Cross while Alan was dying, and Sandra told everyone she'd had a lovely drive through Epping Forest, like it was the Cotswolds or something? You've put them up, you've dished them endless money down the Social Club. You've seen people buy things for Doris for Christmas which she's rudely thrown back in their face - things that were knitted for her! I know they're your friends, but frankly, they're rude."
"Well she was going, 'We can't afford to go to Bingo tomorrow unless me and Sandra share our books.' I told them to stay at home."
"Good for you, Mum."
"Not really. She's got someone else to pay for her."

* *

So anyway, at the time of writing, it's 04.30 in the morning, and I have to be at the hospital before 1 tomorrow to pick up pills. But as always, I become mentally awake about 12.30 and don't want to go to bed.

I've also got loads of shit to pay off from Christmas - most notably Mother's fruit blender. A novelty which will last five minutes and end up in the garage with everything from Bread-making machines, a popcorn maker, and so on right back to the first Schweppes machine.

While I was staying at a friend's place in Leeds, the woman who had lived there before kept her old complaints to various companies - all done for a laugh. One complained that her bottle of Shweppes did not make the Shwwww... sound on opening, as advertised.

"She was a secret lemonade drinker."

338: Video Killed the Radio Star

2008-01-23T23:48:00.000Z

Radiotherapy all done last Monday, so a jolly big hooray Grandma for that!

Mel's working for my friend Amy at a conference centre.

I'm editing what should hopefully be a very nice film tomorrow. I've spent a around a ton of money on the archive because I want to keep it all for myself.

I still can't sleep.

I have enough stretch-marks around my belly to make me look like a cross between Buster Bloodvessel and that Stryker cat from He-Man.

I want to move to New York.

337: Bhutto

2008-01-05T05:15:00.000Z

News is on in the bar called The Eagle down Ladbroke Grove.

"They're sending our police over to fucking India!"
"Is it India?"
"Like we ain't got our own fucking problems. We need police here! I ain't no fucking Nig-Nog!"

A friend of mine went over to Pakistan for a wedding in the summer, just as the place was declared a National State of Emergency or something like that. She fell in love while she was out there, and seemed as happy as happy as Larry (I only know one Larry, who is an oversized agoraphobic - but he seems happy on the face of it at least - likes his Manga porn anyway).

She told me that she'll take redundancy from the BBC in March and move over there. In fact, she decided to go for Christmas too. And then Bhutto got killed. Her timing's odd. I might put a word in with Scotland Yard in case she's hoping they'll just keep her there.

I'm only jealous.

336: New Year Stories

2008-01-05T04:00:00.000Z

Stood outside a pub yesterday, smoking, as is my wont - this girl carrying her kid around bumps into a mate.
"Allo you, 'ow you doin'?"
"'Bloody 'ell, 'ow was your New Year?"
"Just stayed in with family innit? This is Erica. We put the clocks forward so she thought it was midnight at 10p.m. - got her to bed early didn't it."
The girl nods.
"Issit? I was stuck in a car for four hours."
"You what?!"
"Embankment. It was chocca. All the fireworks and shit."
"In a cab?"
"For four hours? Nah, just mates and that, but we were trying to get to a rave in Bromley. By the time we got there it was closing."
"Straight up?"
"Seriously. Then a fight broke out. Glass everywhere. I tell you what, I ain't raving again."

* *

The thing I loved most about our New Year was being sat in this little Irish pub where the kids were 13 year olds on Alcopops and the oldies were on real ale and catheters. A local band were playing, but they only seemed to know four songs - You Really Got Me seemed to be a favourite. On one side of us sat some angry Scots, and on the other was a bloke falling asleep in front of a Python film on the big screen. I wanted to stay, but we had some queueing to do out front.

I went to put my coat in the cloakroom and this glammed up bitch shouted at me, "Didn't you see the sign saying we're closed?!"
"Um, no, I didn't."
There was a tiny sign on the door, saying, "We're shut."

We got in around 11.30, so Matt, knowing what bar work is like knew they'd close the bar so that the staff could celebrate. Wise and very right, he quickly got in two pints and tequila for us all.

We all sang Auld Lang's, followed by what must be the first year of a rush
outside to have a fag while texting friends.

The club was great fun - despite a 'too cool for school' audience. There were Cabaret Acts (I loved the girl with a Tom Jones head tumour), and good bands. For the headliners, a something like 12-strong act called Urban Voodoo (do check them out)we joined some greasy moshers. I was weary to get involved at first but then thought, damn it, I can get stuck in with the best of them - so I got involved. I am still limping from a giant crash to the knee that took my full body weight and has messed up my walking all the moreso.

...Oh and I bumped into this bloke we knew through friends, that we used to go to festivals with. He's name's Lawrence and he works in the world of Formula 1. He didn't recognise me at all, but then the last time I'd have seen him, I was thinner with black hair (and on crutches), whereas now I look like a giant bald balloon with a goatee. I probably just scared him.

* *

After the gig, Mel and I got a bus down to Soho, for no real reason. Wow, what a state that place is at 6 a.m. on New Year's morning. Piles of empty bottles were everywhere and there was enough piss and puke across the street to fill every episode of Dirty Sanchez. It was a real mix of homeless beggers and others just begging for a drink somewhere. I'd never seen Bar Italia on Greek Street so packed. And beggers asking for money to stay somewhere tonight? It's 6 in the bloody morning?

Some thuggish bastard let us into a place on Old Compton Street where we could eat. Very posh it was too, but I just wanted to stay warm and Mel wanted to sleep. We had coffees and I ordered a shit pasta and a really good Italian Sausage for us both.

Mel went to the loo and realised she was the only girl in the Ladies. The others were all trannies.

Food took ages, so much more smoking went on. I witnessed the thuggish bastard outside beat the living shit out of a drunk. I kept having to jump out of the way. He did it well. He didn't punch him but still somehow took him down and gave him a beating. This minicab driver, who'd previously been happy ogling anything in a short skirt suddenly became an expert on the law.
"Listen mate, lay into him and that's two days in Jail!"
The fight still went on, Afroman vs. Slovakian skinhead.
Afroman gave up after minicab man had repeated the jail threat enough times.
On re-entering, the thug was boasting about his restraint techniques.

* *

Outside a club next to the Trocadero, what looked like the entire London constabulary were hanging around about to pounce on whoever might emerge.

More beggers. I think I gave a quid to some bastard who didn't even have his Big Issue badge around his neck, and we were followed everywhere by homeless zombies and people who spied that we had booze in our pockets.

Man, were we glad to get home.

३३५: Fatigue

2008-01-03T00:54:00.000Z

The insomnia is really catching up with me now. I don't think I've had more than 5 hours sleep since I started the radiotherapy.

Christmas has been jolly nice - seeing lots of old chums, gigs and films and pubs and that.

The only low point has been going to hospital on mornings like Boxing Day...

I'm going to try to sleep now.

334: Housebound

2007-12-23T23:04:00.000Z

Down The Green Man, with Miranda. A team of chaps dressed as Santa march into the pub.
"This must be the circle line pub crawl."
"Apparently," says Miranda, "They have a certain amount of time to drink in each pub before they move on."
"What time do they start? It's nine in the evening and they all look sobre."
"Maybe they aren't on the crawl."
"So, it's the weekend and they're dressed like that anyway?"
"Shall we get something to shove down our necks?"

On the way we popped into the Dover Castle on Weymouth Mews, which I would never have known about without friends who worked at Broadcasting House.
Miranda was on the phone to her Mum.
"Yeah, Clayton's taking me round all the old man's pubs. There's a nice fire, but I think I'm the only girl in here."
She was right. I've been coming here for about 5 years. I used to like it when people from The Chap magazine would have their little beanos here, smoking pipes and dressed as Edwardian idiots. Especially the younger ones whose moustaches looked more like a bad dirty sanchez.

La Galette on Paddington Street was one of my favourite restaurants in London. This girl I used to work with co-owned it with her husband who studied how to make Galette's while he was in Breton and took with him a couple of chefs, the best charcuterie plate in the world, fantastic Galette fillings and the most amazing cider. On top of that, they employed an artist who would spend his time watching old cop shows like Kojak and blow up the aerial shots of the city into fantastic paintings.

Now it has gone now. It has been replaced by a Greek restaurant. I had to drag Miranda in just to see what they'd done to the place.

"Did this use to be a Galette restaurant?"
"Uh, no sir, was pancake place."

Bastards. But despite Miranda banging her head on all the level lighting.

* * *

Up to Charlotte Street Hotel, having swallowed down a 40p roll from the local Italian place.

It's the new Julian Schnabel film, The Diving Bell & The Butterfly is beautiful. As you may know, it's based on the book by that bloke who had a stroke called locked-in syndrome and could only dictate his novel based on blinking one letter at a time. He died ten days after the book was published.

Now, it would be easy to say that he used to edit Elle magazine, fucked any girl he wanted, travelled where he wanted and neglected his wife, it would be easy to say had a good life anyway.

But as I'm meant to be interviewing Julian soon, I'd disagree.

As good as the film was, there were only about 20 people in the screening, and I was at a disadvantage. Everyone was sat strategically low so that they could see the subtitles. I'd deliberately sat at the back so that I could escape easily if I had another coughing fit. I spent the entire film shuffling along the back row, between running out to blow my nose and hack up phlegm.

Good fish and chips on the way home too.
"You want salt and vinegar."
"Lots of vinegar!"
"Not that much fucking vinegar!"

Back to Euston Square station as the night before. I'm learning the timetable now. I've been getting used to their times over the past few weeks with all my trips to the area. I think I'm learning where I like to hang out now. Such a relaxing area - so easy to get back from (I think for now)...

* * *

Everyone at work the next day was very hungover. It had been the big BBC-yeah-we're-all-being-made-redundant-so-let's-waste-loads-of-license-payers-money-party. It was down in Battersea Park, and I wouldn't go to it if you paid me to. This was for 2,500 members of staff. Only a £120,000 for free travel free booze, free food, trapeze artists, fairground rides and a DJ saying things like, "This one's for everyone getting down in Multi Platform!"

* * *

Mel has come to meet me after work. We head to a favourite pub of ours in Hammersmith, The Laurie Arms , where I bought Mel a nice looking Thai Curry, and ate my own shit which looked like it had been thrown up onto the plate. Hot disgusting shit.

As is our wont, we spent most of the evening out the back in the chilly smoking area. What had been annoying that evening was that a mate had called me asking if I wanted to see the Pogues. I told them I'd love to but I was meant to have a serious conversation with a friend who'd be seeing the Pogues the next night but we had serious things to discuss about his life. He then blew me out, and I couldn't be bothered any more.

The smoking area turned into a nice gathering for us all. Our favourite character was this drunk bald kiwi fella in a suit who'd been playing pool in there all day.

My favourite story of his was about his trips to the Hop Poles in Hammersmith (an incredibly shitty pub - and I like shitty pubs on the whole), to find out how one might become a 'Toastmaster.'

Apparently these Toastmaster evenings are designed to help shy people to talk about something in public. So a subject is chosen each week, and these chaps have to ad-lib or write something. Now apparently this kiwi chap's friend had a mobile he couldn't switch off and interrupted the proceedings by playing By The Rivers Of Babylon over and over again to them. They leave.
"So then I turn up, the fucking next week - 'cos I am pretty interested, and they're just a sad sack of shits anyway, and I'm a bit late. This guy decides he doesn't like me coming in late and asks me if I'm gonna cause trouble. I just tell him to calm the fuck down as I wanna watch. Now apparently I've said this too loudly, so before you know it, the fuckers have a vote. Shall we chuck me out or not? Apart from my vote, it was unanimous!"

Mel's brought a suitcase with her of stuff from her sister's to keep at mine - at least until she finds the miracle of a working life.

The people in the smoking area think we're joking when we say we split up years ago. I'm half-inclined to invite them back on the tube with us to see how between the drinks, we are not getting along too well. I think they only understand as we leave.
"Come on, homeless..."
Mel drags her suitcase.

* * *

Once again, the flippancy of old is not sounding humorous and everyone from lunch-buddies to my parents, and of Mel of course, are taking me seriously. I have to stop trying to be flip, say everything in the nature intended and be a more moderate character. I can understand Mel and I both being too sensitive for each other, but I shouldn't be annoying my folks and friends. I never intended to but I clearly am.

* * *

I meet up with the International House, from Askew Road. For those who don't know, I met this S. African girl and her American friend on a train back from Edinburgh two years ago. One of them had nicked my seat. The yank was a wanker who drowned coca colas all the way back. They were both staying in Shepherd's Bush. How's that for luck? You go home all that way and turn out to be neighbours?

Anyhew. I ended up staying friends with the household, and there are quite a few of them. A lot of stuff unfolded from knowing that house for two years, and last Thursday was the first time I'd seen some of them since my birthday over a year ago.

Mel invited herself out too, which was where the evening went wrong. She'd been offered a chance of a job by one of the girls, and then possibly grilled for too long on what she'd like to with her life. She said she'd like to be a writer. And why not? She's only hanging on to her Dad's computer to give a laptop away. Apparently she prefers to write by hand anyway. And this where the cynic in me comes in. What are you writing right now, young person in your late 20s?
My friend (with no prompting from me - I was staring at the floor feeling very depressed), asked her what she was planning to write.
Mel answered that she would like to write a book with her sister.
"What about something on your own?"
Shrug.

"Come on monkey. Time for the kebab walk of shame."
I bought two large doners in Naan bread while Mel ran for a piss in someone's garden.

"Did you feel annoyed by everyone there or was it okay?"
She was drunk and I shouldn't have put the choice in her head.
"I've got to pick up my Dad's ashes tomorrow. Do you know how hard that will be for me?"
"Very."

Long silence.

Mel slows down her paces. I say something that was no doubt belittling (and Mel do colour this in when you see it). I certainly told her that she was reacting like a fucking 5 year old.

Not sensitive, but I was falling apart at this point. Mel decided to storm off in the direction of Acton.

I let her go.

Then I gave it the time it takes to get to the station and thought I can't let her freeze to death because we've had a row. I decided to fake how soon the next train would arrive. It was about half eleven and the next train would not turn up until 1.

I just made it up to get Mel on the tube.

She came back. We made an agreement to avoid each other until Christmas. I've been a bastard to everyone and she hates me. Then somehow we got over it all and mixed a little whiskey with the tramazepam.

* * *

Oh by the way, I do still work and have radiotherapy between all of this. I asked the epilepsy chap - who has changed my drugs again - about the difference between a tumour and a cancer. His answer was vague to me. I've been late every day for therapy so far, which is a combination of the bad running of the piccadilly line and the fact I can't sleep too well.

* * *

Friday I met with Nicola, near Great Portland Street Station funnily enough. I didn't want to go near Oxford Street. I do that every bloody year against my will (or Hobbycraft as well for Mum-gifts).

We ended up trying to get into several pubs. The first we managed had to close because the water company had switched them off. Mel had wanted something cheap from Fopp for my Dad, so I bought her a Spike Jones Double-CD for three quid.

Nic and I wanted to see a film, but we knew Matt Gay was also on his way, so we waited for him outside a busy pub near Bloomsbury.

Then Mel decided that rather than bring her Dad's ashes to her sisters, she would grace us with his presence. We took him to Ultimate Hamburger (the only place to get a seat), and I bought Mel's food for her (I know, I know...).

"Where shall we go now?"
"How about that Swedish pub Clayton?" asked Mel.
"That's in Edgware Road?"
"The one on the river?"
"That's six miles south of us."

Eventually we found a pub where Alan could sit in the middle of the table in his big box of ashes.

After all departed, it was just Matt and I in a pub down Eversholt Street, next to Euston Station. For all my judgement of time, I got the last train wrong and we spent way too long in this late night boozer, eating their free ham sandwiches. Matt who has had a few drink-related scares was getting emotional.
"You have to give up with me, Clayton."
"You must be fucking joking. You've got a girlfriend, I have alcohol. I'll quit that when they tell me to. I'm incredibly lonely and don't have much else."

We parted our ways.

As I got to the station I realised I'd misjudged the time. I got a bus to Oxford Circus, ate some shitty junk food - rang my folks to let them know I was fine and hopped on an N607. I rang a few friends around Shepherd's Bush, knowing I'd have to be in hospital again the next day but it was getting on for three already and I had no medication on me.

I must have still been pissed because I hopped off at the Hayes ByPass. Here I waited for nearly an hour for another bus. By the time another bus had dropped me near me another walking point it was getting on for 4.

Somehow I remembered a local car number, and within a brisk 30 minutes I was picked up. I'd killed the time eating doughnuts from a local garage.

* * *

In bed, an hour later, a pain gripped me through my knees. It lasted until 7.47, when it was time to get up and back to hospital. I couldn't stand to shower - not in a lazy way - I couldn't really stand up that well. My legs were almost frozen in position.

Sure enough, I was late getting home again, and I had two parties to go to. I spoke to Bish, who was having his in his new abode in St. Albans.
"People bothering to turn up to yours tonight?"
"Yeah should be about 25 of us."
"Well I look forward to it," I said hobbling down the road.

By the time I got home, I was aching everywhere.

"Um, Bish, it's me again. There was something I wanted to tell you face to face, but at the prospect of hanging around at Wycombe, and then walking from St. Albans to yours and staying over, I don't think I can. I've been diagnosed with cancer, and I can't really walk too well today. I had a bit of cold night last night and it's taken it's toll on me."
Bish sounded shocked and even offered to pick me up.
"No way mate. You remember your house-warming when I fell over so easily and even tumbled down the stairs for no reason? Turns out the second tumble was a little more serious than inebriation, though obviously that helped..."
I hadn't heard Bish sound so serious on the phone before.

* * *

Amy Thompson came over the same night, and she has an incredibly good offer of employment for Mel. I hope Mel takes it. But you / or at least I can't really talk her into anything right now.

I do hope we get through Christmas nicely.

333: A few links

2007-12-16T04:05:00.000Z

This one from Ratboy in Dutchland or wherever the fuck he's moved to. His mate posts on here, and to be honest, apart from last night's comedy gig, which I coughed through (luckily managing to piss off the theatre-type-snooty-motherfuckers sat around us) was brilliant (I think there weren't many of us laughing though - and I was mistaken for the Indian chap who makes the show (by a comic we know who was apparently on shrooms (which would be likely knowing him))this isn't funny - it's just incredibly pleasant. So fuck your Liz Vicious and your Suicide Girls. Okay, so I've only been there once, but out of my travels last year from Manhatten to Berlin to being banned from a place in Edinburgh, I know where I've fallen in love with. But don't worry Rat - there's no job for me over there and the hospital wouldn't let me...

http://copenhagengirlsonbikes.blogspot.com/

One about taking band names literally on B3TA. Now I know I'm stupid and too drunk right now, but there are many of these I just don't get. So help me out with the tricky ones...
http://www.b3ta.com/challenge/literal_band_names/

And an old favourite that I didn't realise was still going from the blogs of Disappointment.
http://www.disappointment.com/

I was going to put a link up for some very lame cancer joke sites, but that might be a little... ah fuck it...
http://www.learningplaceonline.com/illness/humor/jokes-intro.htm

Hmm... I used to do a testicular cancer joke on stage about finding a lump on the side of my testicle.

Turns out I have two testicles.

(I know, I know - it was my only standard joke - what a prick...)

332: Food Diary

2007-12-15T15:54:00.000Z

This is as far back as memory takes me for now. Please bare in mind that the following does also include lots of packs of pork scratchings, many slices of bread and the odd bottle or pint of cider and other such lubrications...

07/12/07

Subway on way to Liv's birthday do. Before we went to the Bowling Alley, I sat outside a pub on Sandwich Street, watching people come in and out of the fish and chip shop.

After the bowling, and much complaining about the state in which Liv was given her shoes back, I popped into cheapo shop on Great Portland Street and scoffed one spring roll, one Samosa, a bag of Bombay Mix and a Snickers Duo.

08/12/07
Breakfast in Cafe: Black pudding, bacon, egg, sausage, bubble, hash browns, toast, and coffee.

Up in King's Langley to play some music with chaps. Ate enough Gammon to kill a Jew, a bag of chips and a whole pack of those cheesey rolls. Funny thing was that the four of us all in a house in King's Langley, by coincidence had all our exes at a house in Amersham.

Drifted off then stayed up through the night, drinking whiskey and smoking - getting through the day's paper.

09/12/07

Many bacon sandwiches, and pretty much a whole loaf of bread. More whiskey. Probably some more shit. Not a bad weekend, but I can't play music any more and am felt like I'd lost my sense my humour.

Getting home it was steak, potatoes, and corn on the cob, then fuck knows what I binged on that night.

10/12/07

I haven't a clue what I ate on this day.

11/12/07

Cereal in morning.

Got into work and had two sausages, some plum tomatoes and a bagel. Salmon in hollandaise and roast potatoes for lunch. Ponce-filled fruit mix.

Met Mel after hospital. Two bags of crisps in pubs.

I do wander if Mel appreciates having all her drinks bought for her, and the fact I've offered her money to open a new bank account. She should, of course, declare herself bankrupt and write off her outstanding debt.

Went shopping to replace all the shit we'd been eating at the house. So on train back ate 2 doughnuts and a bag of Discos.
"I haven't had a doughnut in years. They're so fucking sweet."
"Are they?" asks Mel.
"What's sweeter than a doughnut? They're made of jam, dough and sugar?"
"Chocolate?"
"It would have to be a pretty sweet chocolate. Certainly not a dark one."
"Oh, I don't know. They're not that sweet. Bloody hell..."

I know she's grieving, but she's been getting arsey which makes me even less content. We are two wrongs not making a right.

We get to Rayner's Lane. There is a poster of a dog in a wheelchair, who is boasting that he can get anywhere. Now I don't know what you think, but I believe that TFL are fond of neither dogs nor lifts for the disabled.
"See that poster, Mel. If you were in a wheelchair and you got off the train here, what would you do?"
Mel looks indifferent and pissed off - possibly nothing to do with me, or maybe everything to do with me, or both and more (most likely).
"How many lifts are there on the tube?"
"I don't fucking know."

I give up.

Mum had cooked a bacon roast, with lovely garnish. While it was heating we found the fat that had been cut from it (all as one, in the um, bin - safely on baco-foil, mind).

More crisps, Pretzels and shit - Mel is not a good influence on me though, it has to be said...

12/12/07

Vague again. I think this was the night I watched The Departed, which stank worse than horse shit. I mean who the fuck directed this film, someone who thinks they're Martin Scorcese? Jack Nicholson's all very funny doing his panto-Jack-shit, playing with dead man's hands and spouting supposedly shocking racist things but the film's a joke. It starts with Jacko being mean to everyone but a cute kid. Jacko loves the kid's Gran so throws money and sweets at the kid. The kid stays loyal and joins the police, knowing he'll protect Jack (right, that's the premise for the film is it?).
The adult version of the kid is played by Matt Damon (join in Team America fans!), up against his alter ego, Leonardo DeCaprio - who looks the same! So for most of the film, you're taking a couple of seconds to work out whom is whom (oh it's the miserable one - it must be DeCaprio), while they both end up shagging the same bird while working for the cops as well as Jack. And I don't give a fuck if this is a spoiler because I don't want you to waste two and half hours of your life if you ain't seen it - the whole film ends up in a kind of pussy version of the payoff from Reservoir Dogs, but instead of a Mexican stand off, you get everyone shooting eating each other when they're not looking. And then, just to make you want to fucking vomit, the film ends with a rat in the window of the apartment, because the whole film has been about finding the "Rat" - as in rat, as in rat as in.... Grrrr....

THIS FILM WON HIM LOTS OF AWARDS. THIS FILM WAS A REMAKE OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS WHICH AIN'T BAD BUT IT WASN'T MADE BY THE DIRECTOR OF TAXI DRIVER, GOODFELLAS OR MEAN STREETS (or my personal favourites King Of Comedy, After Hours and Bringing Out The Dead). But it doesn't bother me... Where was I?

I controlled myself by only having something light every couple of hours.

13/12/07

Two bowls of cereal before leaving the house.

Pasty on bus into work.

Mushroom Stroganoff over lunch with Sergeant and Birkinwhore.

Potato wedges at 4 and an expensive fruit drink.

Off for work Christmas drinks. Shitty place, nice people. Think I shouted for long time at a colleague, but that's what one does at office parties.

Some sort of McDonalds nonsense on way home - too drunk to remember what. A kebab, I'd happily eat sobre, but McDonalds is like fucking salted cardboard.

No idea what I ate when I got home, but it must have been something as I stayed up watching recorded episodes of The Street, Mighty Boosh, Flight Of The Conchords and whatever else I hadn't seen that week. I remember it being 4 when I hit the couch.

14/12/07

Woke up on couch at half 7. Dad came down to make sure I was up. I told him all was well, and I'd easily be at the hospital for 9.

I left at 9. For breakfast, a bag of hula hoops and a big bar of chocolate.

Post-treatment I stopped in the Whole Hog, and ate their Whole Hog sandwich which is a big bit of ham with an egg on it. There was a also a Farmer's Market on in Hammersmith so I ate some East Asian food - can't remember what bloody country it was even. It was meatballs, couscous, some interesting veg, and chilli sauce. I had that on the bus into work.

I think I was good then until five when I had a Brie baguette. Then it was off to the comedy gig, and I managed not eat until I got home when I had Stilton sandwich, a rich tea biscuit, a slice of bread and a bag of Doritos.

I'm trying to drink more water to pace myself, but fuck it - today I've had a big breakfast and I'm about to eat half a joint of roast lamb with my folks before I go out for a meal in town.

I's be gon get fat fer Crizmuz.

331: Radio Times #2

2007-12-12T02:49:00.000Z

Do you know, when I read the Radio Times, I think I enjoy the magazine rather than watching the programmes? I prefer the idea of what the programmes might offer. I like the crap interviews and Andrew Collins and Stuart Maconie. I'll read previews of things I won't watch, and prefer to imagine what they might be like. This year's Christmas Day listings have moved on a touch. Rather than repeating old Christmas Specials, all the Channels have gathered together to show us compilations of our favourite Christmas moments.

A case in point was the other week when UK Gold offered us a chance to watch our favourite moments of Morecambe & Wise. The voice-over said, "Why not find out which sketch you voted for?"

"If I voted for it, wouldn't I already know?!"

It's good as ever to know that Channel 4 are repeating The Snowman as they have done every year. For some reason, I like that. I can't stand it, but I'm glad it's there.

Christmas Day though, has some hilarious choices. Sure, we all know there'll be Dr. Who with Kylie and some load of cock going on in Eastenders - it's the other channels that offer the best delights - it's like TV Go Home but true:

Deal or No Deal Christmas Star
A woman with breast cancer plays for £250,000.

- Now come on! Would they let her not win on a show that goes out on Christmas Day? Which means, is this thing rigged all the time? Or would the dealer just say, "Ah, fuck it, have the lot Merry Christmas! Or would they all decide it would be much funnier to boot her around the studio?

BBC2 & BBC4: Andrea Bocelli & Darcey Bussell
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a snob, and I like the fact that the BBC wants to offer an educational alternative to it's other crap, but Andrea Bocelli? He's the Cliff Richard of Opera and Darcey Bussell can suck my cock with her swanning around like a sickly goose who needs putting down before she dies of influenza. I used to like battling with my folks that I wanted to stayed tuned to Aida, knowing I'd never win because there'd be a Vicar of Dibley special on the other side - and of course I wasn't that bothered anyway - in fact, if my Dad had suggested it, I'd have demanded to watch the Vicar of Dibley.

On Virgin at 7:
World's Most Amazing Videos
A man drives a tank through San Diego.

Sky Three:
The Dog Whisperer
Actor Scott Lynch shares his penchant for dogs.

And despite all the predictable Chrimbo re-runs of African Queen and Gone With The Wind, Five have got the best one for their prime time showing:

Man-Eating Python
A repeat apparently. I might tape it though, it's up against Harry Hill's TV Burp.

The schedules, to be fair, aren't the worst really, but seems as though after midnight, the people picking what's on our fair terrestrial just give up. This is why BBC1 can offer us Speed (sadly the film), BBC2 - Cat People (wtf? apparently there's also a sequel to be shown - new to me, but now I've looked at the listing, it has bestiality in it. Ah shit, that would be cats wouldn't it? Not into them.) ITV has Chaplin, which is an intriguing choice - fair enough - and Quincy after - so I think they win. C4 has a load of cool sounding sport shows. 5 has very little but Everybody Hates Chris - so, er... I was wrong... It's just the BBC that sucks.

I'm afraid that I do live in a house where TV tells us what to do. It will go on as soon as everyone gets up and go off when I nod off. In my time in Shepherd's Bush and Hammersmith, TV hasn't been a priority - DVDs kind of have though, I can't deny. I do wander how many couples this year will be sat around watching recently released series of 24 and Prison Break - if not on Christmas Day, then as soon as they're away from the family. Or worse - sat in the other room from the family! Imagine Mum lighting the pudding and bringing in their share while they tell her to shut up because Sutherland is about to deck a Muslim.

There are so many channels now that our Christmas celebration of our lord God Television could divide us all. Sure we'll all join for the meal, but afterwards we all have our interests, from computers and DVDs to games consoles.

Only fucking scrabble can save us.

330: Radio Times

2007-12-12T01:20:00.000Z

Radiotherapy,
Radiotherapy,
Radiotherapy,
That's what they wanna give me!

Dad drove us to the hospital.
"Dad, you know when came up last week, I gave you a complaint form about the free parking? Did you fill that in?"
"No."
"Why not? It's free parking?"
"Well, they aren't doing it any more."
"But you were told you could have it?"
"Oh well, never mind."
"That's a little pathetic Dad."
"Well, I'm a little pathetic."
"Don't say that. ...You know I've applied for Disability Allowance."
"Really?"
"Well if cancer ain't enough, what is?"
"Good, good. You know you can get a carer's allowance. I know you get one for looking after Mum, but you can get one for me as well."
"Don't really need to."
"It's money, Dad! Surely you need money, no matter how big or small. You finance the damn family, and you could retire whenever you wanted."
"Well, we'll see," That's my Dad's lingo for, "I'm not listening, for an odd reason you haven't worked out yet."

* * *

This is a horrible thing to say, but I see now how much my Mum almost has a death wish by doing - haha - well everything I'm doing right now; smoking and eating too much. Her health is worse (pot / kettle), but when I ask her about how she'll clean up, there is no answer. She is no longer the age to be dicing with death, but her friends down Bingo are quite happy to encourage her to share the pork scratchings and keep gambling through the week.

Dad on the other hand, is the man in control, but he has high blood pressure, and I worry about him stressing himself to death.

As someone with Steptoe and Son constantly in the back of his head, I do worry about how things would turn out. I do have all the pretentious aspirations of the ageing Harold, who cannot leave his life with his guardian - but which one would it be?

I'd either bore my Father to death with all my misconceived dreams or be threatening to shape my Mum up and give her a bed bath ("Gerrorf!").

Fuck.

* * *

It was back at the radiographers to be given more drugs than I thought I would be on. If I were to carry them around I'd need a backpack. I got one of those things where you can put your drugs in little trays for each day, and there still wasn't enough room. I asked the nurse to write down what I should take and when and even she got confused.

Then the radio bit. I was asked to go and sit half way down a tiny corridor. A male nurse walked by me and asked how I was.
"Not bad, I suppose. How are you?"
"Fine thanks."
"Good."

I sat for a while, and then they asked me in.
The same person asked me how I was.
"Same as when you asked me just now thanks."
He stared at me.

Then the mask was fitted on to me.
This was made a few weeks ago before the steroids got me binge-eating, so no room had been allowed for my glorious-more-Chins-than-a-Chinese-phone-book.

The mask was tight, and really hurt the top of my nose. I put up with it, and tried to have a little snoozy while they blasted my head with deadly beams.

Afterwards, I told the nurse that I had no idea what time I was meant to be in for the rest of the week.
"Like yourself, I have a job to go to, you see, and not knowing day-to-day, how much time I am meant to take off is a little disconcerting."
"You're in at Five tomorrow."
"Five? Is there anyone I can talk to about keeping regular appointments?"
Apparently not.

When I got back to the office, Eddie, my boss, pulled me aside to see how I was getting on.
"So far, so good. But I am really worried about having to sit out my contract gaining sympathy and doing nothing. It's nice that I'm helping to put the compilation show together but that isn't why I've wanted so desperately to work on this programme. I've made one film, and I'm not very proud of it. My colleagues in the same amount of time since September have made around three or four. I feel shackled. You said you'd help me before, and now is the time, because I can do so much over Christmas. It's the most boring time of the year, so I desperately need a project."

He had heard this before of course, but you can never be too blatant with a series producer.

"I'll sort it this afternoon," he offered.

For the rest of the day, it appeared that I had nothing to do. I'd pitched so many ideas to the research team, and felt spent. I'd eaten and smoked all I could and so there was nothing for it by five o'clock, but to pick up the bag of 30 CDs I'd ordered from the library, take them home and burn them (to the laptop that is).

As I got back, Mel was home watching The Weakest Link.

While burning my stuff, we played Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble.

I stayed up late, and ate everything in the house.

229: More Fitting

2007-12-04T21:31:00.000Z

Came home Friday. Mum and Dad had been ill for the previous two nights after eating some bad prawns at a meal with the cubs.

She was still in bed and called me up. I'd been out the night before, stayed up until 5 when I got back, and she wanted to apologise for me asking if I'd just got back. I told her not to be silly, I'd just fancied drinking more and couldn't stand the noise of all the throwing up upstairs.

She spoke some more but I found myself pacing around her room. I knew I was going to go again, and sure enough I did.

When I woke up some bloke was stood next to my Mum looking down at me. They were debating calling an ambulance. Apparently the man was the son of the chap next door.

I told them I was fine, went downstairs and sank a bottle of wine with a curry.

2007-12-04T03:18:00.000Z

228: And so on and so forth...

2007-12-04T02:08:00.000Z

What kind of a limey goes on for all these pages without a genuine illness? I had cancer of the throat in my ear for sixteen damn years...

In that time, my husband, Antonio, laid fifteen tadpoles on my chest. All of which turned out to be stillborn.

I was glad. I've had 15 children. Some of them weren't even mine. All of them have been horrible gipsy shits. Petuli ate my shoes. Tizio was a queer. Carmen was always fighting bulls. Margherita addicted to bad pizza. Fausto was into Satan (never should have called him that). Salvo into foot cream, and well, you get the idea...

Clayton rang me when he knew he was in trouble. I told him to shut the fuck up. If his friends didn't care, why should I?

We haven't been in touch in a while. Apparently I scared his friends, so I left. Then while Smith was begging for work struggling for money with his arm in a sling, I was serving in an Italian bakery in Hammersmith.

I liked it. They read shit off the menu in their bad accents and I served them the same old shit we gave anyone else with a slightly different topping. 50p a dressing. Up to £14.50. Not like I saw that money - but I still hate the English more than my wage slip.

Of course I got sacked after a couple of weeks. I wasn't dressing right. I wasn't tucking my blouse into my pussy. I wasn't shoving my tits out. I wasn't 30 years younger. I wasn't crying in the corner of the kitchen.

...Well okay - I was.

227: The Gays

2007-12-04T00:33:00.000Z

So I'm back with my Christian editor swearing at what we're editing.
"I mean this bloke is acting like such a dick for Christ's sake," I think it might have been Mark Ronson, "I mean, um, for someone's sake. Ah, fuck it. If I swear it isn't anything against you. It's just language. I believe in swearing, and the more it's used the less offensive it becomes."
"Do you really think that?"
"Yes I do. Of course I don't want to hear it on daytime TV. I'm not that fond of it on night time TV because I don't think we need it, but fuck it, it acts as a breather between real words."
"So what about people who say that those who swear have nothing original to say?"
"Did you know that The Thick Of It send their scripts to someone who is very original at swearing?"
"No I didn't."
"Well it isn't anything to do with religion. Words are words, and words are disposable."

There was a long pause. Nothing got edited.

"What would you say, if I told you that my 7 year old is interested in films like Lord Of The Rings, The Thin Red Line and The Matrix?"
"I would say that they are all very different films."
"Yes. Well I've found out that he's now seen the whole Lord Of The Rings trilogy."
"Well that's too late then. I wouldn't put him through The Thin Red Line, that is a heavy film. The Matrix is no problem though. Interesting idea with much in terms of acrobatics."
"But many of my friends are trying to keep their keep their children away from these films and not buy them guns but they'll still try to shoot them with blocks of wood."
"That's what kids have done since Saturday morning pictures! They'll play Boy Silver, cowboys and indians, cops and robbers! Let them!"
"I know, I know..."
"I'd be careful about The Thin Red Line. Mind you, it would put him off war. When I was a kid we'd watch Vivien in the Young Ones have his head chopped off. Didn't do me any harm. We'd all seen shit like Robocop and Terminator at a young age. I loved Salem's Lot so much that I bought a fake hand. I freaked out my cousin, who'd seen it the night before, by putting it on top of a pool cue and tapping her bedroom window. She freaked out and tried to beat me up!"

"I don't know. You try to be a liberal parent but it can become difficult."
"Forget words like 'liberal,' you raise your children your way. My Mum was ex-Salvation Army but had little luck."
"Really?"
"Well kind of, yeah. They chucked her out after they found out she was going out with a Rugby player."
"Salvation Army?"
"Used to sing Onward Christian Soldiers in her sleep. We taped it once to prove it to her."
"But you didn't have a religious uprbringing?"
"Oh yes I did. I went to a Christian Primary school. We sang hymns every day. Church Parade at Cubs, Christingle at my Auntie Magaret's Church. She used to try to get me to Sunday School. Then at the age of about 8, I was at a Christmas Carol Service with school and looked around me and thought, 'this is bollocks. I don't believe in this.' And I never looked back since."
"You turned your back on Christianity?"
"Yes and many other faiths."
"And you've never believed in anything since?"
Of course I had. Unfortunately, tales of how Mushrooms changed my mind on faith forever weren't going to change this chap's mind.
"Well we could talk for a few months about me and faith."

"You know it was funny. Because I was born in Africa, I had funny experiences moving back to England. I remember cycling past some boys and how they picked on us. Then as a teenager I wrote 'Christ Rules Ok' on my bag. I wasn't left alone for the two years I was there. They were all telling me about parties they'd been to and girls they'd got off with. It was the same at University. They were all spending their money on partying while I was making my grant last nicely."
"Losers."
"Exactly."

"I would be careful though Phil. I used to be in a band. His parents were Charismatic Christians. Between all of our rehearsals, whenever I went to the loo I
used to see their house rules. 'Not being ready in time for school is punishable by spanking. Any litter in the car will mean that you don't get any pocket money.' These weren't light rules. They used to have a go at me for bad language at gigs, but it would be fine for them to speak in tongues at something they called 'The Toronto Blessing.' He became an alcoholic who ended up on the skag. And I do have one or two other examples."
"Well I know what you mean. One of my friends reacted against her parents. She had a Lesbian wedding in Amsterdam."
"What?"
"To defy her parents."
"So she became a lesbian to annoy her parents?"
"She was at that experimental age. You know, about 24 or something."
"Is she still married?"
"I don't know."
"That doesn't sound like a phase thing. That sounds like you're writing off a whole part of the world. I don't quite understand you."
"I'm not writing off anyone. Forget I said it."
"Hard to do."
"Shall we get back to editing."
"Ummm..." I thought about pursuing this, but I have to keep working with him for another day or two. Once we've finished, I'll pin him down.
"Yes. I think we should."

226: Whoops

2007-12-03T21:12:00.000Z

Dad got me in his cab and we drove down to the hospital for my first day of radiotherapy.

(Dad played me some stuff he'd recorded from BBC7 - Take It From Here and Ray's A Laugh. The Ted Ray thing had dated badly, despite an appearance by Peter Sellers, but The Glums in Take It From Here, were really funny.)

Got to the hospital.

Had a quick cig before I went in as Dad found somewhere to park.

"Hello. I'm in radio at 12.20 but apparently I have to take a pill first."
"Okay Mr. Smith, can you just sit down?"
"Oh while I'm here, last time I was down we were offered free parking. Where can we apply for that?"
"They've stopped doing that now."
"What? This was only two weeks ago."
"I know, it's shocking. Please submit this customer complaint form."

I picked up a copy of National Geographic. There was an article in there about spending the New Year in Copenhagen. Martin's invited me over, but somehow I fear that nausea and chemo tablets may prevent me.

After about half an hour, a male nurse turned up.
"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes."
"Can you follow me please?"

I sat down with him in a room. As he spoke, he made big expressions with his face. He was trying to avoid stuttering.

"We(eee)ll. Thaank yoo forr coming along todayy."
"Not a problem."
"I'm afraid though, thaat yoo're a weeek early."
"What?"
"You're meant to be heeere on the 10th."
Fuck.
He was right.
"I am, aren't I?"
"I meeann I'll check upstairs, but these things noormally take twoo weeeks to prepare."
"Um, sure."
"Whaat we caan do while you're here iis check your bloood and taalk to yoo mooore aboouuut the treetment."
"Yup. Thank you."
Fuck fuck fuck. What is wrong with my brain? Apart from the cancer and that.

I sat back down in the waiting room. Dad looked up.
"What's wrong?"
"They got the date wrong?"
I couldn't lie.
"I got the date wrong."
"Right."
"Hmm. Yeah. But all is not wasted. They're going to tell me more about the treatment and take my blood."

They took my blood, gave me a pamphlet and said goodbye.
I do love the nurse who does my blood though. She has to make chit chat with every patient but couldn't care less.
"So how was your week?"
"Probably the same as yours."
"Okay, you'll feel a sharp scratch now."
"Ta."

Back at work, everyone wanted to know how it went and how I was.
"They got the date wrong."
"What?!"
"I got the date wrong."

225: Son of a Preacher Man and Fill-ums

2007-12-03T01:33:00.000Z

I spent the first two days of last week editing with a lovely Aussie bloke.

He lives in Midhurst with his Aussie wife. They have a small production company. He's travelled everywhere. He has a fancy i-phone. Why does he want to pay for one? How can he afford to pay for one? A month on that would see me through two weeks in Amsterdam and a lot of dope. And if I was the type - a prostitute or two - in fact, now I'll be infertile - sod it - what would they care? - hmm no, still not me. That said, I am amazed how many people I know have had encounters with masseurs and prostitutes.
I remember one old mate telling me how he got sucked off in Amserdam for a pack of fags then later they all gathered on some hooker where they took turns to fist her until she cried.
Another friend gets tossed off by an oriental lady after his massage. But most of them just go in and shag and that's it.
While in Amsterdam, I was stalled by a very attractive redhead with green eyes. How could I shag her though, being just another on her history of shags? No way. I'd want to sit down and try to save her like De Niro in Taxi Driver.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Craig, the Aussie. He was boasting about all these corporate gigs he'd done. Fuck that. I like to be struggling for work without the multi-billion shit for big companies. I'd take a shitty loan over a well paid gig any day. Definitely. Hmm... No yeah, I fucking would.

Our other antipodean post-production co-ordinator came into the room.
"Hey guys, slight change of plan. Craig, you're gonna have to work on the Russell Brand thing up until next Tuesday."
"Why?"
"Because you'll be more fun for him than the guy editing next door."
"The Christian?" I interjected.
"Uh, yes Clayton, that's right."
"I've got a whole piece on comedy to cut. Can we not get anyone with a broad sense of humour?"
"He's already hired. You never know Clay, it may work out."

I dropped the comedy piece. It wasn't funny anyway. And I had no other character to encourage me. Every time I went for a shit I'd get back to find this new chap had added a trombone or an amusing face from Rowan Atkinson.

Now in fairness, this man is the son of two missionaries, but his work has made him direct and edit in every room of the hotel of the cunting world. I don't care about his beliefs because his ecological footprint by far exceeds mine. For all his new breakfast schemes and his podcasts about exciting the brain in the morning he has way too much going on in his head to start to preach to me. He was talking about the insular nature of people living in London today. I told him I have little money to travel anywhere else. The man has such little sense of humour that originally funny pieces turn sour upon our lack of will and his fucking reasoning. I tell him that I ain't no harsh bastard, I have a good heart but believe that jokes are disposable, but he looks back at me like some jumped-up fuck with the runs.

This chap has an seven and an eleven year old. The older one is on grade 6 piano. He took them both to see The Magic Flute tonight. Now I'll admit I saw The Mikado in the 80s but that was because I wanted to see Eric Idle in it.
"He's not into Opera like us Gilbert and Sullivan fans!"

Sad maybe? Yeah, I guess so - but it was MY FUCKING CHOICE. Even if I was 8 years old, and I know what I've had preferred to have seen between the Magic Flute and Back to the Future at that age. In fact I have a great memory of my Mum sneaking us into the now defunct Rayners Lane cinema to watch Caravan Of Courage (an Ewok spin-off) for my sake, to hide afterwards in the same room to watch My Little Pony or Care Bears movie, for the little girl she used to look after. Good old Mum. Can't remember a thing about that second one though. We must have had sandwiches.

* A brief indulgence for that cinema - which still had the pit for the organ player to emerge; The Fox and the Hound, Back to the Future, Short Circuit, Herbie Goes Bananas, Return to Oz, and a re-release of Annie - pretty queer history at that cinema I guess*

In fact, while I'm on the subject, I can remember where I saw most films of my childhood:

The Black Cauldron (one of Tim Burton's earliest): Queensway.
Basil The Great Mouse Detective: West Brom
When The Wind Blows (The old one in Harrow that is now a place to get fit)
Back to the Future II (as above)

...

Of course in later years it all changed and they shut down the Rayners Lane place. In Uxbridge I saw the likes of Ghost as my mate told the people on the door we were one year before the age to get in (but still managed to get off!). The one in Harrow gave us much meaningless shit including Malcom X, Heat, The Chase, Shindler's List (complete with my mate's nazi salutes), some TV spin-off about the sun, Shallow Grave, Wayne's World (in the queue for which, a pigeon shat on me) and From Dusk Til Dawn - for which we only paid a quid as the place was falling to the ground.

On the other side of Harrow was a cinema that gained less attention. It was there that we saw Nightmare Before Christmas and a Very Merry Muppet Christmas Carol. This place was run by Lurch from the Addams Family (or the Munsters - can't remember).
Either way - the hunchback chap did well.

Need I say?

The place is now a Bollywood experience.

I suppose I should be glad that it is still a cinema - even if not run by Mr. Lurchos.

* * *

As for Mr. Christian...

Tomorrow will tell after the radiotherapy I guess. Cycling, do-gooding motherfucker.

224: Buddhism and Pooing

2007-12-03T00:47:00.000Z

Sunday night, after the Crass gig, I still wasn't sleeping well.

Some of you know I look after a chap with cerebal palsy at weekends. His name is Nicky. I emailed his Mum to let him know what had happened. How should I tell Nicky?

As Monday morning went on, my stomach was getting unbearable. I'd been drinking heavily since Friday. Even though Matt managed to sleep, I kept myself going, but failed to get drunk.

The doctor had given me some drugs to sort my stomach out with the steriods.
On the Monday I completely destroyed a BBC toilet. Blocked it right up. I kept going back to that one. If I was going to destroy a loo, it might as well be the same one. Then if they couldn't unblock it they could just blow the fucker up.

Monday night I came home, and thought it best to go to sleep on the sofa.

When I woke up, I'd shat myself.

* * *

Nicky's Mum's solution was that I tell him face to face. Fair enough. But then I started getting calls from other Buddhists. I told them all in the politest way I could that I was a reader of the Gohonzon but did not believe in chanting and other poeple chanting for me. Could they please not tell other poeple about this? Nick's Mum even sent me some literature and I sent her a firm but frank email telling her that my belief in myself had never been stronger and I have a good spirit regardless of faith.

After a week of shitting - and still managing to go out with people. Saturday turned out to be incredibly expensive after seeing Rescue Dawn, going for another curry and buying everyone a round. I met Nicky today to take him Christmas shopping. He seemed shocked by the news.
"I'll have to tell my parents."
"They know. I was asking them how to tell you."

We were diverted anyway, there was shopping to be done. I spent seven fucking quid on sweets for us both.

I don't even like sweets much.

I bought my Mum a juicer. Then I paid £20 for a cab home as no tube's were running and I didn't want to lug juicers round buses.

When I got back, Dad was decorating the house with all Mum's Christmas shite.

The £60 juicer would last Mum week at least. Then it would sit in the garage at some point next year next to bread and popcorn makers and every other stupid invention. A juicer of course is not as stupid an invention, but I think it might turn out to be in this house.

What the fuck am I going to do for a living when all this therapy kicks off?

223: CRASS

2007-12-03T00:39:00.000Z

Wilson came down from Leeds the night after I found out about all cancer jazz. He was already smashed and I'd bunked off work early to see him. I couldn't concentrate at work anyway.

I told him about it.
"So yer a dead man fuckin' walking?"
"Yup. I'll be alright though."

I slept about 4 hours the whole weekend.

Saturday night we went for a curry with Mel. The initial idea was to go to an all-you-can-eat chinky, but there wasn't anywhere. So we went to the most pretentious place we could find - by pure accident. Oh well. Glasses were smashed. I got the bill (£77, but I did eat everyone elses food), and Matt and Mel got the cab home.

By the Crass gig on Sunday, Matt was well away. He danced down the front to the support acts, then slipped out for a fag.

They didn't let him back in. They were good too.

222: Cancer

2007-11-23T00:22:00.000Z

When we were 14 we did a little demo at a local youth place called Fountain's Mill.
We did a song called Cancer, written by our then guitarist, Ashley.
It went,

Cancer, it's always there.
Little child, say your prayers,
When death comes knocking,
At your door,
Turn around,
Don't ask for more.

It came like a shadow, out of the dark,
You turn around,
And it will embark...

The um, producer, shouted, "Clayton! Did you go to the shit school of song-writing?"
"I didn't write it!"

It came like a shadow out of the dark,
You felt the bite and it will embark...

"Vaguely better..."

* * *

That's a big word to throw at someone isn't it? The C-word?

Millions hear it though.

The radiotherapy chap and his doctor assistant were wickedly funny. She was a lovely east asian lady, and he was a very jaded looking chap in his mid-fifties (Dr. Gulliver). He kept asking her for help with his notes, but you know when the more scatty someone is, the more you kind of trust them, I felt that.

"Who's coming in with you?"
"That's my Dad, he likes to be at these things."
"Right, hello, welcome Dad, have yourselves a seat."
I was worried for him, seeing how he'd broken down at the funeral the day before. He isn't one to talk about emotions though.
"So what do you for a living, um, Clayton is it?"
"I'm a TV director."
"Right. And what do you direct?"
"Just stuff for TV."
"That being?"
"Oh I see. Well at the moment, just small things for a magazine show."
"Which is?"
"The Culture Show."
"What's that then?"
"It's an arts programme on BBC2."
"Involving?"
"Opera, comedy, I don't know. Lots of stuff about films."
"Right. And you're living at home?"
"I am right now yes."
"Now what page shall I write this on?"
The lady came over and found him a page.

"So what's happened to you?"
"Er, well back in February I had a fit in my sleep and broke my shoulder. Apparently this happened twice."
"So you went to the doctor?"
"I did, the first morning I noticed the shoulder had gone."
"Good. Then what happened?"
"I can't remember exactly. I got referred to lots of people. They put me on Lamotrogine."
My Dad cut in, "He's had aural problems, muscular disfunction, problems with speech, bedwetting..."
It went on.
I wanted to say, "Hey Dad, shut the fuck up please, I'll tell my own story."
"Insomnia..."
"I've always had insomnia."

"I see," said Gulliver, "So you had a biopsy?"
"Yes, I had one in June, and one a couple of weeks ago. I did have a daytime fit a week before that but I hadn't taken my pills."

"Well, Clayton, if I can call you that Sir? I can suggest all sorts of treatment, but I daresay if you get on the internet you'll find all sorts of alternatives about gamma rays and devices you can find elsewhere. Now if you read about something you find preferable to my treatment I'll pay for you to go anywhere in the world. BUT - I think despite the best that's available, at the sore expense of what we can offer as treatment you'll find this is a good hospital."
"Look, Dr. Glazier (his real name), I've avoided the internet. I don't care what people are advising. I'm in your trust. I'll do anything you say."

He stared at me, I knew he had some objection to me being some young wanky arts producer.
"I will say this. You have a very serious tumour. In fact it is a cancer..."

* AND AT HEARING THAT I FELT A COUPLE OF BREATHS LEAVE MY BODY QUITE QUICKLY. DAD WENT PALE. WHY SHOULD THE WORDS TUMOUR AND CANCER BE ANY DIFFERENT?*

"...And I know Mr. O' Neil would have taken more out of your brain if he could have. Unfortunately, the tumour is part of your frontal lobe. Are you right-handed?"
"Yes."
"There we go then! Well what I propose we do, I can give you literature on this to help you make up your own mind, is that we put you on a course of radiotherapy every day starting in...," He turned to the other doctor, "A week or so?"
"Hopefully sooner," she said.
"Alright, good."
"This will be every day over the next six weeks."
"Do I have to stay here?"
"Not at all. Do you live here?"
"I work in Shepherd's Bush but I don't live here. Coming here is best for me."
"Good. So we'll see you here every day. We'll have to take blood tests every week..."
Dad was about to pass out.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm about to pass out."
I showed Dad out. He always does this. He turns up to meetings with doctors then can't hold it together. Not that I blame him. I do imagine he thinks I'll come home and make up lies, as he was probably right to think when I thought I didn't have a tumour.
Dad left.

"Is your Dad in the arts?" asked the Dr.
"No, he drives a Hackney Cab."
"Sure, sure."
"Are you trying to stigmatise my job?"
"I do like your trendy haircut, I've got one myself."
"My haircut is to do with the scar not showing, although I did use to shave it to save money."

"So, let me tell you now, I know you won't respond to this well because you are a film chap - we're going to have to put a mask on you."
He was waiting for a reaction but I just stared at him.
"We put the mask on you as you go into the scanner."
"Fine."
"...And the blood tests?"
"Please, anything you need to do."
"And you will get stupid over the years."
"Years? I'm stupid as it is."
"Now don't worry. I deal with Doctors and politicians and they still seem to be surviving."
Not the best consolation I've ever had.

"Now if I were talking to you ten years ago, I'd have said your chances were bad."
"Right."
"But I think hopefully after 10 years, we can have set you right."
This did not absorb.
"Your chances are slim."
...

"Now my friend here will take you outside and take your height and weigh you."

....

She couldn't reach.

.....

"Hey Dad, how are you feeling?"
"I was just talking to this volunteer here who can get you a massage."
"Wicked."
"She can help us get free parking too."
"That is good. I have to go to the pharmacy for more pills."
"Is everything alright?"
"I'll explain as we get there."

.......

I told Dad to go home. He must have called my Mum while I was waiting at the pharmacy. I repeated everything in the nicest way I could.

I read my paper, picked up the pills and headed back to work, sent a quick message to bosses about the therapy and carried on working. Fuck it - my work life is all that I enjoy. That isn't a sad thing. I really love what I do.

The minute my boss picked up the message, he took me aside. Everyone - and I mean every executive (I'm not affected as I work by the contract) - has had to re-apply for their job. We talked through that and he was just glad to still be doing what he was doing anyway.

I told him how much I appreciated the fact that I was being kept on until March but if there was one favour the team could do for me, that would be to not keep me on as some dumb wince in the office.

I loved making the 3 minute wonders I made for Channel 4, and if the show knew what was good for it, it would stop encouraging me to make the same old shit for them. I told him that the reason I was employed on this programme was because he had seen those films which were made for less than the amount of money I'd exhausted my labour. If they were going to keep me anyway, then better they let me make these sorts of films than kow-tow to the nature of the show.

I'm on.

I know that the therapy will make me ill. And Christ knows it wasn't easy to tell it all to Mel, but by fuck-it - now is now. Now means going back to writing or stand-up (or writing songs).

Now means making films that have a fucking purpose more than copying everyone else.

Now means whether I live 10 months or until I'm 90.

NOW MEANS FUCKING NOW.

221: Weather for Ducks (and all that shit)

2007-11-20T00:15:00.000Z

Just as you think the rain can't get heavier, it does.

Missing friends DJ-ing, a fancy dress party and a really good gig really didn't matter this weekend - actually it was only the gig that was on my mind, because it was Ramones tribute band and I thought it might cheer Mel up.
I spent it at Alan's flat with his brother Ken, his wife, and Mel, who is slowly realising she is now homeless and has rooms full of things with no place for storage. If only we could have kept that flat as a tribute to him, complete with all his readings and rantings - and of course, his version of the Book of David.

Ken is a really lovely bloke, though I think in terms of organising how the flat would sort out and all the practicalities, I'm not sure he could deal with it all. He looks like a thinner Alan, with a scar on his nose. The great thing about Alan, as he recalled well, was how his brother was not entirely content to be just another local kid - son of a bus driver, and would wind up his Dad by playing Wagner while the football was on. Apparently he aquired a posh accent at a school that did not ask that of him, and once whilst attempting to play "Holy holy night," found his violin thrown by his father over the side of the flat balcony.

Mel is inconsolable. All I can do to help her is be there for her, and be careful about what I say.

* *
My Dad called on my way to work to say I had an appointment with Dr. Gulliver, or some shit like that on Thursday - meaning I won't see my mate while he's up working from Bristol.

The steroids I'm on have taken over my appetite. I'm binge-eating in a way I never thought possible. I disgust myself.

I had one of those dreamy days at work today where I was thinking of the funeral and getting nothing done. I ate a sausage and bacon baguette, a jacket potato with cheese, a stack of wedges, a big thick yoghurt and two loads of expensive juices, before going home to pig out on a steak and some chillied peas. Then I had a bag of poppadums, a satsuma, and a bag of pork scratchings. One of my lighter days for food over the last week.

The Friday night after hospital, I can't remember or tell you what I was eating in the early hours of the morning. All that was going through my head was how the consultants had told me that they really didn't know what they were doing. I knew my mate Smartee was coming round the next day, hopefully to play music, and I just wanted to hug him. Didn't though. We went up the guitar shop, and he played a slide guitar really well and then we attempted to get drunk.

Alan was admitted that night, so I rushed up to see Mel at Whip's Cross.

When people came round following Alan's passing on the Monday, some people were attempting to hug me and I didn't like it. I told Smart this. He said he felt the same with people wanted to hug me every five minutes. I apprecciated this, though we still didn't hug.

* *

No doubt partly down to the weather, everyone was miserable at work today. We had an incredibly bitchy meeting about last week's Culture Show. My job at the moment is to help edit the best of the year show. This is not exciting.

I went for juice with a girl from work that I'm very fond of. She's recently got back from an exciting wedding-break in Pakistan, and undeterred by Musharraff and the state of emergency wants to make herself redundant, take the money and move over. She wants to travel while she's there too. She'll probably only get 7 grand, but when I think of Mel and the debt she's in, and how Alan's money will do nothing to help her... well...

I haven't been paid in over a month myself, thanks to some fuck-up in accountancy which no one can account for. Back to the bottom of the overdraft again.

* *

After wading back to the house, I ate myself so full that I couldn't get into any of the preparation for a funeral-type-stuff I should have been concentrating on. When I eventually did I found my jackets all have holes in, my shoes have fallen apart, and my trousers are frayed at the ends. I felt like Berlington Bertie. Mum stitched up the trousers, but like Mr. Berlington, I'll have to rise at 10.30 and buy another pair of shoss - as Alan called them.

We need to be at the funeral directors to deliver Mum's flowers by 1.30pm, and then I guess it will be pub time until the service.

Mel wants me to speak at the funeral, but I have little to say. I'm just glad Mel will have friends there. Ken's speech will make the best of it all, and we can only hope that he is civilised in the presence of Alan's money-minded ex wife. Or can we? Not for me to say I suppose, as much as I fucking want to.

I'm going to get myself slaughtered tomorrow.

Now to eat some bread...

...And those Hob-Nobs.

220: Biopsy the Second

2007-11-09T18:30:00.000Z

Monday
I turn up at the North Ward 10 for mid-day.
"I'm afraid we're over-booked. Could you go to South Ward 10 please?"

South Ward 10 is identical to the other ward, complete with buggered up telly.
With nothing happening until tomorrow, there is little more to do than go out for the odd smoke with a chap next to me who is have a trapped nerve released tomorrow.

For other company I have a newspaper and an incredibly dull book by Andrew Collins (Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now) .

As it's November 5th, the fireworks go off all over London. Me and a couple of pensioners stare around us. The view over London however is far more impressive than the fireworks.

I talk with an old dear about Hillingdon Hospital. She wasn't impressed. I tell her about the rats and the kestrels I saw there, and how my Mum was offered into a bed full of piss and had her waste-paper bin shat in.

The night drags - it's always the first night when no one visits. They all prefer to see you post-op'.

Tuesday
Operation day - woohoo!

I'm slung into a pair of orthapedic stockings and a pair of knickers that are made up of, well, nothing. They're just some kind of mesh. Apparently this is so that there'll be easy access for - a catheter. A mother-fucking catheter. No one warned me about that.

A doctor sits me down and tells me not to expect an easy operation. Previously I would have smiled at this and thought, "Well i got through it last time," but the catheter did not bode well.

Apparently in this operation the hook is going to be formed like a cross around the back of my head. I'd seen a Muslim bloke with his head like this last time, and he did not talk much. His wife was incredibly upset.

I was meant to go up at noon. I went up at 3pm. This was due to a lack of porters. One of the doctors told me they'd been waiting for ages. I told them I'd have happily pushed my own bed up there.

I'm already running out of holes in my arm from all the blood tests I've had already, but the anaesthetist finds a new one and knocks me straight out.

Waking up around 7.30pm, I'm back up in the post-op area. As time gets on for 8.30, they've been told that there is no bed space for me downstairs. The woman who runs post-op has a good swear down the blower. They will find us fucking beds, because their staff were meant to home an hour and a half ago.

Eventually, I'm a ward on the 11th floor. Opposite me is a Mediterranean girl who has had some sort of deadly accident and can't remember anything, two other guys are out for the count and haven't woken up by the time I leave for another ward the next morning.

I manage to sleep, despite a bandaged head, an broken shoulder i haven't been exercising, and a catheter. The extraction of the catheter was less then pleasant - as was the peeing afterwards.

Wednesday
New ward, new fun. A boy who has had a bad lumberpuncher and is constantly crying. He'd been visiting from Australia a couple of months ago when he came down with some form of hepatitis or something. He is in agony. This ward, like the others, is mixed, and he has nothing more to shield his agony than a flimsy screen of the kind that the likes of Lilly Von Schtupp get undressed behind.

A couple have also come in, they seem very sprightly chaps in their late 30s. The man is about to have a quick operation - should be an 'in-and-out' job. They were from Surrey and originally did the job privately at Barts in St. Albans. It didn't go well so now here they were at Charing Cross, under the boss of the fella from Barts. This one didn't go too well either.

I had a succession of visitors - which was nice, but once they'd all gone, I had only the moaning of the boy opposite me for company.

Just as I was getting off to sleep around 3am I was wheeled downstairs to Ward 10 North.

The kids from the medical college are all out on the rampage, no doubt getting themselves in the mood for making it impossible for patients to sleep on ward. The nurses are doing just as well, smashing doors about. Some Scottish bloke next to me keeps complaining, but then does nothing to help matters by repeatedly farting.

Thursday
The doctor comes to see me.
"How are you feeling? I see they've taken the bandage off."
"I feel alright. I've been told by other people that it was a successful operation, though i don't know what that means."
"Well last time your tumour was a Grade 2."
"Okay."
"This time it was Grade 2 to 4. 4 is about the worst. Now we couldn't take all of it out, so we just got rid of the dodgiest parts of 4."
"So it could come back again?"
"Yes."

Mikki and Mel turn up with Mikki's baby. He is a very happy little man.

The hospital let me out around 17.30pm - which has greatly vexed my Mum who wanted to be at bingo. I told her i would have happily got a cab home.
"No it's fine," she says repeatedly, with tears in her eyes.

Mum, Dad and i go for a curry.

Friday
I open the back door in the morning to find a dead pigeon out the back greeting me with a twisted smile. I shut the door quickly. I couldn't leave it to Dad to get rid of it. I'd have to do it, but I didn't know how. I told Mum not to go for a smoke out the back. She opened the back door and shat herself. To her credit, we worked together. I held the bin bag while she lifted the shovel and spooned the pigeon into it. What a couple of scared buggers we were. When Dad got back he said, "It was only a pigeon." He doesn't know how much I hate them or how many I've seen die.

I only left the house once today, to get some fags.

As I'm queuing in the shop, this grinning asian assistant points at my head.
"You have injury?"
"That's right, mate."
"What is it?"
"Biopsy. I've got a brain tumour."
He carries on grinning. He either doesn't know much English or fantastically doesn't give a fuck. I'm hoping it's the latter.

219: Super Hairy Fannies

2007-11-09T18:28:00.000Z

Dan Dixon couldn't make it to see the Super Hairy Fanimals because he was needed to film down in Brighton. So he left the tickets under a bin in Shepherd's Bush for me.

Mel and I went to the gig and ignored it.

218: Had a Proper Daytime Fit The Other Monday

2007-11-09T15:47:00.000Z

Was buying my cold sore oyster cream in Tesco, and on the way out this chap asked me to contribute to some kids charity. I already had a couple of pence in my hand but contemplated giving him more.

As I contemplated I started to walk round in a circle.
The bloke asked, "What are doing?"
I couldn't answer him, and before I knew it I was out on the floor.

As I woke up, I seemed to think I was at some sort of Culture Show related event.
All I saw before me were aisles, and three of my seniors stood over me.

An ambulance was called and I was ferried off with our series executive, Eddie to the local hospital. He stayed with me for about three hours and only went when I promised him I'd be fine, and that my Dad was on his way.

Through the next week I was given the status of a researcher and saw a series of doctors.

They don't want me to go out shooting too soon - though they are training up their staff to come out with me on shoots.

217: Gypsy

2007-11-04T20:54:00.000Z

My name is Michael and I am a gypsy.

Well, I'd like to be.

There's a few living near me.

I popped down to ask if I could join in.

A boy threw a brick at my head.

216: Wars and Cold Sores

2007-10-27T00:32:00.000+01:00

I'm just finishing editing this piece with Mr. Gardner about wars in films and so on, when we ask him into the edit suite to finish a voice-over. This is on the day that the whole thing also gets dubbed and graded.

I suggest he watches it through first to see what he thinks. I already know two things: he's fine with his camera man being named (which I was never sure about), and we'd already filmed a scene in which he described what it was like to watch Collateral and how it felt to hear the sound of a 9mm gun, and get used to the sound of it to get over being shot.

We'd even worked out a piece where he would say "Pause, repeat and play," in which I would let Mr. Cruise play out his shooting, then pause the piece, let him roll back and repeat it, then let it play again as he shot the fellas once more.

His camera man's name was cut at mr. Gardner's request - fair enough - I knew he wouldn't like it once he'd seen it - but cutting the "Pause repeat and play" bit vexed me. He knew it was in there, we'd rehearsed him saying it for sound. This part was about his recovery and not the poor other man. ...And the rest of the film was about war.

So anyway, I certainly can't blame him for being sensitive. Not at all, I've never had 11 bullets riddle their way through me and a colleague dead. No, no. I suppose, in my sad selfish way, I wish I'd known earlier. Now the first part of the film has Tom Cruise appear and not shoot anyone, then come back later and not shoot anyone, just to cover the cuts we'd had to make by us editing out his line.

He is right though. And I'm guessing he had to see it to realise.

It is me being pathetic and just worrying about the 1.8 million people that apparently watch it - but then most of them are pensioners. It is full of goldfishing though (Frank talking over actors talking) thanks to us having to re-edit while the execs were eager to get me out of the building to 'work normal hours.'
This being a result of them taking on someone who has turned out to be disfunctional in the old brain-place.

The dub was Thursday night. It didn't start until about 8.30 in the evening. The bloke dubbing for me, had a cold that was so thick that it hit you as soon as you walked in. He coughed and sneezed his way through the session, and sure enough this morning I had cold sores all the way across my lips that I could have infected a leper if I'd kissed it (by the leper dying that is - bad analogy).

I came into work the next day with these hideous lips.

Everyone was packing up because it was our last day in the office. We're all moving from White City to the Media Centre. I'm hoping they move the corporate lot in to check out the rats.
While they were packing our stuff over to the media centre, I thought it best to go home and nurse my crappy lips.

I packed my bags and headed home. I forgot my phone charger, but sod it.

Getting back, my folks were eating fruit.
"We're having fruit now, because Dad's putting on weight."
Without thinking I said, "Better than all those pork scratchings you have in the evening eh Mum?"
"I've lost weight."

I went to bed at 13.30 in the afternoon.

215: Well the Truth is...

2007-10-08T23:36:00.000+01:00

I've been fitting.

Fitting in a bad way.

Two weeks ago, I was sent down to a place by the Tate Modern to interview this chap called Willard Wigan who makes this really cool shit that you could only see under a microscope. Nutty stuff - like the last supper of Jesus in the eye of a needle, or Homer strangling Bart on a pinhead. His stuff came about at the age of 5 when he thought it be cool to make clothes for ants.

These days he can slow his heartbeat down so he doesn't mess anything up. The bloke's nearly 50 now, and I took his manager out to the nearest coffee bar, because we couldn't get the man himself out.

Upon leaving, I swung for the door and missed it. Then I went in to the exhibition and found myself inable to talk to Willard. Not through nerves or anything, just the inability to talk.

Then getting on the train back my arm developed its own way of talking, which was to shake like crazy. I tried to control but... well... did nuffin'.

By the time I got back to the office, my arm was out of control.

I managed to ring up the hospital and tell them what was up. The lady on the phone gave me my neurologists email address but nothing else.

With my arm shaking I managed to type an email with a heading which was "My Arm Won't Stop Shaking..."
It took me half an hour to write a three line email.

Work gave me a lift home.

I've still heard nothing.

I hate them.

214: Need New Head

2007-10-08T23:23:00.000+01:00

Old time wonderful home economist is hassling friends at work now, so that's a weight off my mind.

Brain is a bit mumble fumble - hence me not writing much lately. And it's been nice to have a job again.

I'm working with Frank Gardner, who got shot a fair old shod by Al Qaeda in 2004. His cameraman died. So in an obvious sensitive way we're reviewing films about the War on Terror. He's a very admirable gent, but this film is not where my brain belongs, which is in the world of nonsense and fun with make-believe. But then I've done alright with Simpson and Omaar in the past. In fact they were both nice about the scripts I made up for them.

My head is slow though.

New head please.

Head please now.

213: Smiler

2007-09-18T20:21:00.000+01:00

As well as my hearing going weird, which has been happening ever since my fits in February, I've developed another odd brain side effect.

I keep wanting to smile. I beam a grin, and then a nerve in the back of my leg goes funny.

This proved to be a big problem the other day when a girl at work was telling me about the recent death of her father. What she was telling me was really sad, but all I could do was try to turn my head away.

I don't think she noticed.

212: Dear...

2007-09-12T21:35:00.000+01:00

Mr. and Mrs. McCann,

I am so sorry to have to keep reading about the loss of your child. Every day, day in, day out, I read more of the pressures you are going through. Press you have rightly paid for, and are now tragically suffering from.

I really do hope that the evidence the Portuguese are finding against you is not true. Mainly because I wanted to put money on it when this fuss first came out. I wanted to tell people, but knew I would be mocked. Please don't confess because the odds at Ladbrokes are sadly turning against you.

Your friends have defensively stood your ground - far louder than the friends and relatives of other people who go missing or get killed - if only the media cared about some black kid getting killed in Harlesden - it's not quite the blue eyed girl in Portugal. No one is to blame you for seeking publicity - because the publicists love it. And are loving it more by the day.

No one would wish losing a child on anyone, so well done not to take money from your "Where is Maddy" fund.

Good luck xxx

211: Never Meet Your Heroes

2007-09-07T21:53:00.000+01:00

Had to interview Armando Iannucci Friday morning.

And on a fucking PD170 - so it will look rubbish.

It was typical of me. I was so desperate to build a rapport, I started name-dropping people I know whom he works with.
"So how's Sean doing?"
"Sean's fine. He's researching a film for me right now."
"Cos, that was weird wasn't it? He was working for you as an assistant, and said, 'Here are some jokes you might like,' and you took him on."
"That's right."
"I mean, I replaced your man, Jack Cheshire on 7 Days."
"Oh right, yeah, with David Tyler. He was directing me last night on Charm Offensive."
"Of course. How did it go?"
"It was fine. But then afterwards we went for drinks and I didn't get home until one."
"That must have been a pain. Because you get the tube in from Aylesbury."

SILENCE.

My exec says, "Don't say things like that."
"No, erm, sorry Armando."
"Have you been following me?"

Not that bad really, of course. I'm just envious of friends who work with him.

* * *

Over the years though, I have made a genuine prick of myself with people I have admired. I mean Thursday I was on the Dragons Den set and couldn't care less about being surrounded by rich chaps. The only thing I could think of saying to them was, "Your format's been very successful."

At one point I was stood next to Duncan Something-Tyne and the series editor was telling us about how for 19 days they have to wear the same clobber.
"Yeah he has to wear this every day, poor thing. Same white shirt. I told him, you can get these things in Primark, like dead cheap."
"It's cream," says Duncan.

* * *

My worst memory of encountering a famous chap was Stewart Lee. In 2002 I interviewed him about All Tomorrow's Parties. It all seemed to go well. Stewart showed me the security cameras they'd used in Simon Munnery's League Against Tedium sword and we seemed to get on well.

In 2005 he was doing a show in Shepherd's Bush and I had drunk too much before he went on stage. He rambled on, and I'd heard much of it before, but I hadn't heard the part of his set where he asked the punters to name something that was not made of wool or electrical.

I drifted off into my own world.
Then I saw Stewart point at me and say, 'You.'
I did hear my friend beside me say, "Crumpet."
So I said, "Toaster."
Stew made a big fuss over this, as I'm sure he often does in his set.
"Why am I slogging my guts out every night when you lot can't answer a simple question..."
All of it was true. Why indeed? There was no doubting that the bloke is funny.

After the show, he was stood next to me at the bar.
"Did you see Giant Sand when they were over?"
"Yes I did. They were fantastic. Were you there?"
"No. Devendra Banhart and Coco Rosie were playing at the Empire that night. It was a tough decision though."
"Hang on, I've met you before, haven't I?"
"Yes. A couple of years ago."
"You asked me loads of questions about drugs."
"No. I didn't. It was more about fanzines and gigs."
"No you did. You asked me what I got up to."

At this point I was thinking, "I doubt it, because I'm a restless motherfucker too. I couldn't give a fuck what you got up to."

"No you definitely did."
I walked away.

But then...

I got drunk.

In the morning I woke up feeling fine, with some funny memory about emailing Stewart a load of abuse on the Interweb.

Wasn't a dream though.

I read back the three pretentious emails I'd sent him. I buried my head in my hands and sent him an extra email to tell him that I hadn't been well lately (which I hadn't).

I didn't hear anything back. Then I made some Three Minute Blunder films for Channel 4 and was invited by one of the stars, Jarred Christmas, to come down to his comedy club. I didn't know that Stewart was on, and don't get me wrong, the bloke is funny. That's what you call an 'understatement.'

So I was stood at the bar, getting drinks for other people, and just as I walked away, Stewart tried to call me back. I was too much of a wimp to 'hear him.'

* * *

Whether you are a big fan of someone small or a small fan of someone big, these confusions will dominate us. I'm fairly proud of Gibby Haynes from Butthole Surfers responding to a violent crowd by hitting me twice in a row - in the chest half a mile back.

* * *

I've rowed with David Baddiel. I've made verbal stupidities at the expense of Lauren Laverne.

I loved heckling Sebadoh, and am not so proud about shouting, "Die now!" at Elliot Smith - though I still insist he was a stupid bastard.

Oh fuck 'em.

210: Strike

2007-09-02T19:53:00.000+01:00

So the three day tube strike starts at 18.00 tomorrow and won't reconvene until the same time on Thursday.

For me this means:

I don't know how I'll get back from my brain scan tomorrow.

I have a gig in Kilburn to go to on Tuesday.

Thursday involves a shoot at the BBC from 12 - 14.00 and then another one at Pinewood, due to start at 18.00.

Thank you Bob Crow and all your penny-pinching motherfuckers. I hope Ken sells TFL to other companies, then you won't have to send people round Car Parks to pick the most desperate looking Polish to work on the tube.

Speaking of which, some people thought that thing I wrote about the body in Win's garden was a made up story. It ain't.

They did say they'd interview my Dad soon, but I suppose like all deaths when there's no one breathing down their neck for a result - they just don't care.

209: Di

2007-08-30T19:40:00.000+01:00

10 years, eh?

Man alive, I remember the day of her burial. Having suffered a whole week of people whining on the telly, and the TV shouting that the papers chased them all to their deaths, I decided to get out of London.

Kiwi was staying at a mental house in St. Albans and in the evening there was a punk gig in High Wycombe - the poster for which was someone pissing on Di's grave.

First of all though, I couldn't get any fucking petrol. Everywhere was shut! It was as if we'd all been told to stop living because Her Di-ness had necked it. I've got nothing against Di - I just didn't know her.

On half a tank, I'm suddenly lost somewhere in Hertfordshire. I was meant to get there in an hour and instead it's taken 3 and a half hours. I'm listening to Alf Garnett to stay cheerful.

Heading over a motorway I got stuck opposite another bunch of cars. Pure Gridlock. There were people standing around everywhere.

Oh fuck.

Her motherfucking coffin's going to go straight under us. This was like a revenge for us all making up jokes on the Sunday she died while everyone else was mocking heartbreak.

I wound down my window to play Alf's version of God Save The Queen.

They all stared at me.

I still don't regret it.

208: Under The Willow Tree

2007-08-14T20:59:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago my Dad got a phone call from the police.

"Is that Mr. Smith?"
"Yes it is."
"You were the nephew of a Mrs. Fidgen?"
"Yes."
"We are just ringing to let you know that we have found a skull in her old back garden. Apparently some foxes had disturbed it."

A day or two later, they tell us they have found a whole skeleton which is being taken for a post mortem at local hospital.

Now between my Aunt dying and the latest family moving in, the house had been rented, or some say, squatted in by Polish labourers. However, the skeleton they found was too old to even tell what sex the person was.

The willow tree they found the body under was planted in the early 50s when Win and her husband first moved in.

A little stranger, was my Mum being told by a psychic at Bingo that her Bingo pen was telling her of the name Winifred and she saw a willow tree. That said, Mum does come out with a story or two sometimes.

Had Win killed someone?
I doubt it.
Was it the gardener?
Who knows.
The lodger?
Maybe.
The Polish?
Sounds more obvious because it is very easy to slag off people who are foreign and we don't know them. The body seems too old though.

207: Pleasurewood Hills

2007-08-05T23:03:00.000+01:00

Myself, Frank, and our old housemate Chris's family took a drive up to Pleasurewood Hills. The deal was that Mrs. Chris (Emma) had to go on the scariest ride there - a fairly new one called Wipeout.

"It doesn't look like its moving much."
"Well, we'll ask them on the door if it's running and if it isn't we'll go somewhere else."

The chap on reception tells us that "As far as I'm aware, Wipeout is running," despite the fact that next to reception is a sign saying 'Wipeout will be open at 11a.m.' and it is now 12.

We pay our money (£15!) and walk in.

We walk straight to the ride where a group of uniformed people are having a coffee, "When's it gonna be up?"
"No idea mate."

Oh well, it's a big park and there's much else to do in the meantime. We start with a slightly more meagre ride. The young man running it is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He lets a group of people off then stares into space.
"Er, excuse me?!"
He idly turns round and discovers that he hasn't let some people out of the train yet.
"Oh," he says.

Once off the ride, little Willie has decided he doesn't like rollercoasters and is in a bit of a bad mood.

Those of you who have been to Alton Towers might recall the ride that gently floats over the beautiful gardens there. This place has one where you can float at a crawling pace over a pond to a bar - outside which stands a grinning Frank shouting, "I found it!"

My favourite ride promised to show us the characters of fantasy stories made from things someone had found in shops in what I'm guessing would be the eighties. My favourite was Snow White and the Three Dwarves.

On another ride, the bloke pressing the button for it looked like he was ready to cry blood. I'm not surprised either, an irritating recording of an accordian went round and round and round... The ride itself featured words barely audible as you arrived and left on your little boat, and once inside the wreck you get to see pirates seeming to do exercises with old crates of stuff. At the very end of the ride, the music runs out and a robot bear is seen snapping at you, with only one eye working.

According to Emma, the stories on that ride were meant to relate to real local legends. The bear was said to have attacked the doors of a local church, which has never been able to get rid of the bear marks.

Emma also says the place used to be themed on the Wild West, and so I started to wonder if the rednecks on the rides with us were in fact real. One bloke even had 'Beckham' tatooed on his chest. The Sopranos were there on wheels in the form of over-weight women on disability scooters, chain-smoking 'til their tits fell off.

The kids working there were even better. Emma ordered three bags of chips and the girl serving her ordered some other bloke to do it for her. He stared blankly at nothing.
"Oh, I'll fucking do it then!"

In the bar they were even better.
Frank asked for two bottles of Stella, so this child went to the fridge to find us the Stella.
"No Frank, look they've got it on draught."
A different bloke served the booze.
Frank paid.
The kid at the fridge then turned round and said to Frank,
"We've got no Stella."

I did look at how you can get a job at the place on their website, and they direct you to the Job Centres in Great Yarmouth. Minumum wage - yay!

To be fair, there were two really good bits in the park, one was a quite scary ride - but I could have found it at a fair. And the other was the Go-Carts which we had to pay an extra three fucking squid for.

In the toilet, a young boy was shouting to his mate, "Do you wanna see the magician?"
"No."
"Good, me neither."

Chris went on the train with his son. When he came off he said he'd been told that the Wipeout ride was out of service the day before, and has been deemed unfit for public transport because a train from another ride was being used.

After a grand day out we all smiled breezily and went to get our money back.

And Will seemed to have enjoyed himself which made it worth it.

I'd like to say I'd been on some of the worst rides of my life in there, but that's not true. I've crashed a ghost train, seen a stuffed squirrel with a horn nailed into its head in a House of Oddities, and been on one ride where all that happened was you got squirted at by a Chav with a water pistol.

I hope Pleasurewood pulls its socks up - but in a way, if you've got a sick sense of humour it's a good day out.

And you can get your money back at the end of it.

217: Redman's Tale # 2

2007-08-02T01:19:00.000+01:00

Mrs Hunt coughed, strove to find her handkerchief and stuck her covered fingers up her nose.
"All I'm aware of is, is that my son married this dreadful lady of no-fixed-employment, and both of them have fallen out of touch with me. I know that I let a lot of money to my son, but now according to some loan sharks, I don't have any money at all."
"No fixed employment?"
"Well, she tended bars for a year or few. Nothing I would call a real job."
"So you think they're both swindling you?"
"Not both of them, no. One or the other. I can't contact my own son. The rumour-mill tells me they are not still together."

This seemed mundane but odd. Why would she want to employ me to track down missing money? We all live in the world of mobile phones. People leave their track marks across the internet. It didn't seem like a special case.

"The most important loss for me however, was that of my late husband. I used to have a diamond of his, locked upstairs. It was in a room that few people knew of. Now he could have told her of it's whereabouts. To be honest though, I don't trust him either. He made his way into his business on our family name as opposed to his elementary history. He is a slut barrister."
"My favourite kind."
My hands still in my coat pockets, I suspected a very boring, easy case.
"James always said that what was in his collection was for my eyes only, and I would not have noticed were it for a supposed dealer calling me with an interest in the worth of the item. I told him I had no interest in selling. Then I hung up. When my people tried to ring him back, he had disguised his number."
"And you had no idea the item had disappeared?"
"I merely have my suppositions."
"...And your supposition was that your son, sorry, what is his name?"
"Herbet."
"That Herbet or... sorry what was her name?"
"Jennifer."
"Either Herbet or Jennifer had already made an offer on the item?"
"I haven't a clue."
"What makes you suspect that it wasn't the lady of the house? Your lady at the door?"
"Certainly,anyone in this house could have taken it. The key to the room is in my bag, and no doubt my bag is available to anyone. My lady knows more than most people though, and I trust her. There are other people associated with this house - the gardener and a cleaner. They really do know me too well. They've all been here for years."
"No signs of a burglar?"
"None."
"Perhaps I should see the room dear?"
She swallowed hard, which was interesting, perhaps not that interesting - hard to tell.

I stared at her. She stared back. Her eyes pierced through me and made feel guilty for things I hadn't done - of which there were few.

206: A Redman Tale

2007-08-02T00:00:00.001+01:00

This semi-detached was a small one on Dresden Terrace. It was a mock tudor affair with wooden window beams to match the tiring facade of something that was not middle England. Along the road, the place stuck out like a body in a fire. The place name read, "Old Thatch," in a dreadful-mock-dreadful-stylee.

Upon ringing the door bell I was met with the sound of a Big Ben imitation, mocking the hourly news.

All I knew about this house was that Mrs. Moira Hunt had wanted a chap who would not defame her credibility and could carry out an investigation without a gun. I also knew that she was the widow of an elderly philanthropist named James Hunt, who was much famed for his "Charity Work" in the local papers.

An elderly but not unattractive woman answered the door - after a ring or five.
"Mr. Redman," I said upon her opening, "Here by appointment to see Mrs. Hunt."
"You're not quite the chap I imagined," she said.
"What might you want? A good looking young man?"
She smiled.

Although I'm only ten years her junior, I couldn't help but wonder at her face and attire. Had she had surgery? Her face did not look quite right. However, I don't read the same magazines as some of these women and perhaps I am behind the times I live in. She wore a silver old dress. Her arms were exposed and almost youthful. Yet her face gave away the tired look of a woman who had seen and heard almost everything.

She opened the door to let me in.
"I suppose you want to know how I found you?" she asked, her ear-rings big enough for me to do a hoopla in.
"Not at all," I answered, "I'm guessing that you'd like me to guess. Perhaps it could be a few local MPs or a little rent work I've done. To be honest, I'd prefer not to know."

She looked me up and down and smiled.
"You're not what I was expecting."
"I don't expect to be expected," I told her.
"I hear you have a fondness for young men," she supposed of me.
"If it breaths, it grieves. I have a fondness for the living and moving, perhaps."

She led me into the living room, which was bare beyond belief.
Her voice was assertive, if a little impatient.
"Mr. Redman, please take a seat."
I found one and took it.
"I've never had to deal with Dicks, Mr. Redman. I don't want to but I'm supposing a private eye is the only option for me right now. I have indeed sought your references and I won't tell you who. What do you charge sir?"
"To do what may I ask, Mrs. Hunt? Usually I would charge £100 a day plus expenses."
"That seems a little much?"
She sat down on a very dull little sofa.
"Does it really? I'm quite the dedicated chap and I only take on one job at a time. I often get in trouble, but usually it is nothing that my experience in the air force and time with the police is yet to trouble me for."
"And I suppose you expect a retainer?"
"Two hundred quid would retain me, dear thing."
"That is some amount," she said, pouring herself a gin, and offering me none.
"Mr. Redman, I am woman of strong mind. However, despite the references I have of you, you do little to scare me away. In fact, if you were to be scared by me, I would deem you worthless."
I stuck my hands in my waistcoat pockets and nodded.

"Well Mr. Redman, this is my position. As you can see, I have sold most of my goods, but there is someone who has stolen something from me. I know that they are a member of my family - by marriage. I want what they have back."
"So you know what was taken and by whom?"
"Not completely. No..."

205: Wembley

2007-07-30T00:15:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting on the train next to an old dear, her daughter and daughter's husband. We pass Wembley Stadium.

"I don't understand how people climb up there."
"What are you talking about Mum?"
"How they climb up that arch."
"No one climbs up there."
"I think she's thinking of the London Eye. Wembley's a football stadium."
"Oh right. Yes, the Eye. Have you been up there?"
"Yes it was good. You should give it a try."
"Oh no, I'm not sure I'd like it."
"You have to be quick to get on it though," says the bloke.
His wife stares at him.
He then sniggers and says, "No you should have a go. It doesn't go upside down that much."

"No definitely not for me."

204: Busy Day

2007-07-26T16:15:00.000+01:00

I got up at 8a.m. ready to spend the day waiting to be approached for a job.

I've applied to all the local job agencies, sent my CV to a few companies, and the folks are off for a day at Sandown.

There's a few adverts from production base - all good ones apart from they'll go on way into my appointment on The Culture Show.

Someone's added me to Facebook, so that's exciting.

Maybe I should try to write something.

Can't think of a thing.

About 3pm, its time for a double bill of MASH which i watch over a curry.

At 4pm someone has sent me a message on Facebook. I reply.

I remember that I was meant to apporach someone about some work for the Royal Television Society. I email her and hear nothing back.

I listen to Hancock's Half Hour and stare out of the window.

It was quite good so I listen to The Goon Show.

Very good indeed.

Hmmm....

Nearly time to defrost a steak.

203: Dead Pigeons

2007-07-17T00:27:00.001+01:00

Walking up Wood Lane the other day to see Devo there was a pigeon deciding not to be bothered that a big fucking car was heading for it.

Now usually the buggers fly out of the way at the last minute. This one didn't and went straight under the wheel.

It was fucking nasty, but better to ignore it than do anything.

I can't face it. I remember walking up High Wycombe High Street, and what I thought was a rag was a pigeon rolling around with no head above it's beak.

Or another time we saw one get it flying in front of a car. I had to pass that fucker's corpse every time I went to get my booze.

The long and short of it is that I hate the fuckers.

But I still prefer them alive.

202: Uncle Roy

2007-07-16T23:49:00.000+01:00

There was a bloke I meant when I was going out with this girl Gemma, many many moons ago. Now for some reason Gemma's folks didn't like me, and this was the day I found out why.

I had put my meat for dinner in the oven and walked Gemma up to West Ruislip station. She said she was worried that her Uncle Roy had driven down to get her. I told her there was nothing to worry about and got her onto her train. As I got back to the end of my road, there was a bloke leaning out of the back of a cab.
"Do you know Clayton Smith," he asked, all wonky eyed.
"Yeah, that's me," I replied, quite aware that this was the famous Uncle Roy, the bloke who had tied his kids to their chairs to make them eat their dinner.
"Get in," he said, I'd forgotten about my dinner in the oven but knew where this was leading to. Confrontation with the parents of Gemma. I was more than up for it.

The cab drove us to the pub at the end of Gemma's road.
"Aren't we going to the house?"
"Nah, let's have a fucking drink first."
And so it was. Me and Uncle Roy in this shitty pub Gemma sometimes worked in down Greenford. I can't remember what Roy was going on about but he was an utter utter tosser. He was trying to talk down to me (now I think of it - I bought the fucker a pint as well!). I mentioned the tying up kids thing and he left in a strop. I thought he wanted a fight, which I was quite up for, so I followed him out. He apologised and we walked to the house of Gemma and parents.

At the door, Gemma's Mum reluctantly accepted me in, but Roy wasn't. So he went down the rugby club. The previous week, Gemma had supposedly escaped from home, jumping down her back wall having been hit by her Dad. For this reason, I'd called the police on the family.
I didn't care though. I wanted to see them face to face and understand why they'd taken against me.

Apparently it was because the only time I'd been round, Gemma had dragged me upstairs. I had no idea there was a barbecue waiting for me. I apologised for this but said i had no idea why i'd been alienated.
I was then told that because her parents knew some friends of my parents from the local rugby club they had reason to distrust me. Gemma was suddenly cuddling up to her folks like I was a bad person.
I told them to thank Roy, but I'll be on my way (suddenly remembering my food dying in the oven) and got the train back.

We kept on going out after that. She had an abortion from me, and was surprised to hear at college that I'd got off with a couple of people. I later found out from someone she was seeing that she'd been fucking a 14 year old.

I mean there are similar stories about her, but what annoys me is that she had everything in her power to sort things out but (ahem) strangely didn't want to. I remember one night for instance when I thought it would be cool to go out with her mates from work - well yeah...

Something I learned from Uncle Roy though was that one about walking on the side of the traffic to defend the lady.

That is if they aren't tied up.

201: Latitude

2007-07-16T23:26:00.000+01:00

"Fuck, I'm not going to make it at the press tent Liv, you're only down as three people - I'm gonna have to strike my tent and drag into the main enclosure..."

"Olivia Skinner plus three that's fine."
"What?"

I was in.

The days were warm. The weather rocked. I got a bit giggly with the woman who worked for Avalon and was having to man the Marlborough tent.

I don't remember much.

I believe it was fun.

The staff were nice.

But this was all a problem for me. I'm used to festivals where you chuck your shit wherever you like, you drink hard, smoke hard and fuck the end of the universe. I'm not used to paying deposits on cups, dithering over whether my food can be composted, and grinning at people's fucking kids. Damn them. Damn the fucking hippies. Damn this fuss about global warming. Fuck everything and everyone.

Maybe it's time I just grew up.

I had fun.

I think.

200: Baby

2007-07-08T16:17:00.000+01:00

Pete is holding his day-old cousin.
"Do you wanna hold him mate?'
"No thanks. I don't do hamsters or babies."

Mikki, the Mum, is looking as knackered as you'd expect her to. Pete hands the baby to Mik. It starts going apeshit, crying it's tiny eyes out. He won't stop.
"I think he's cold. Mark, can you put some clothes on him?"
The clothes don't stop the mewling.
Mark (the husband) runs to get the midwife.

The midwife is a big Jamaican lady. She undresses the kid, rips it's nappy off. Baby's clean.
"Have you been winding him?"
"Well yeah. I mean I did yesterday."
"You need to keep winding him. Keep rubbing his back."
Some bioke runs into our room and asks the midwife, "'scuse me. 'ow long on each tit?"
"That is up to her," answers the midwife.
She rubs the baby's back for a while and the baby belches.
The crying stops.

"Can you show us how to pick him properly," asks Mark.

After we've escaped, Mel, Pete and me wait for a bus. They're both full of glee. I'm wondering why I took three hours to get from Hillingdon Hospital to the one in Twickenham to see a crying child.
"Oh, it was so tiny," Mel exclaims.
"Yeah - well cute," says Pete.
"Don't all babies look the same?"
"No they don't, shut up."
"Sorry. It was great to see Mik so happy. When the kid's a stroppy adolescent we can all take pleasure in remembering its first whinges. Fucking hell you should have heard these kids on the bus earlier - right noisy bunch of cunts they were. That said, when it came to who paid what for their trainers they were better than our generation. Matt used to spend up to 200 quid on his pumps and shit. They were all boasting about who had the cheapest."
"So where are we gonna get pissed then?" asked Mel.
"Somewhere in Hammersmith I guess. Have you both got your I.D. on you?"
They nodded.

199: Physio

2007-07-08T16:01:00.000+01:00

"Mr. Smith?"
"Hello."
"Would you like to come with me now?"

Hell yes.

The physio is a young Jewish student with dark brown hair and goregous eyes. I suppose it isn't unusual for folk to fancy their physios, but every time her face came near mine I wanted to grab her and kiss her.

"Have you been doing any of the exercises?"
"No. Not once. I'm not sure where the week's gone - bit of a haze to be honest."
"Well your reach is getting better, I wonder why that is."
Drinking and wanking - I wanted to say.
I saved myself some dignity and said, "Drinking."
She giggled.

Maybe wanking would have got a bigger laugh.

198: Gay Days

2007-07-06T02:36:00.000+01:00

Last Thursday, I'm up in Turnpike Lane to see this girl I used to go to gigs with. I'm a bit early so I decide to kill some time in the first bar I come across. It's called Catch 22, looks like it's trying to be a bit fancy but it will do. As I'm sitting in there I notice the locals picking mags off the shelf - they have names like Oxygen. I'm in a gay bar. Nothing wrong with that. Luckily, thanks to the old brain scars I'm wearing a hat and probably look the part.
I go out with my Turnpike Lane chums and find that they're all very happy about the smoking ban and they remind me, like everyone else, about the amount of smokers who welcome the new instigation. I'm not entirely against it myself until I see the kind of shits the ban has turned them into. They've all become health fascists.

Sunday morning, I get back from my friend, Matt Gay's house (that's his real name - he isn't gay), having been to see gay comic Stephen K. Amos, as well as my friend Matt Krishen. My Dad says, "How was Pride?"
"I didn't go to Pride."
"Oh your Mum reckons you went last year."

Sunday night a few of us are down in Brighton to watch the mighty Guitar Wolf. Before they start however there's a support band called The Hip Priests. The singer seems to take a shine to me and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. I think he's just being pally, but then after the show, he won't leave me alone. Again I think maybe it's the cap I'm wearing. He's telling me that if he were gay he'd fuck me.He's clearly been pilling but I'm getting a bit worried - particularly when the lanky skinhead grabs me and gives me a big kiss straight on the lips.

I know friends of mine, at this point, will want to wind me up - and I don't want to piss off any gay chaps either, but on the Monday I was sorting out some comics my ex-girlfriend had been through and found a copy of The Gay Times from 2001 - the year I started in telly. Now I may have started in telly that year but I couldn't (and admittedly still can't) work out why I bought it. I rang her. "You're probably thinking, why did he have that?"
"Well yeah, but I don't think you're gay."
"I'm certainly not - but I don't know why it's there."
"Don't worry about it."
"I can't think why I bought it. I don't remember writing anything gay-related."
"Relax. I'm sure you aren't gay."
"I know I'm not, thank you."

I let it all go. That is, until today. It was raining on Oxford Street so I ran into an ordinary looking pub called The King's Arms. The bar chap called me 'Darling' and sure enough I was in another up-hill gardener's question time. I didn't mind it as it seemed like a normal pub. In fact I picked up a copy of Oxygen which was a myriad of cocks.

Now I've got nothing against gay chaps - and those that have I reckon are hiding something, but it's as if the last week has been a sign that I should be gay.
It's like, "You're crap with women - be gay."
...Like fate is telling me something.
But as broad-minded as I am, I'm not. The thought of a cock anywhere near me is as attractive as being chased by a slug.

Like I say, I know I'll get stick for writing this, and what is the answer to the Gay Times? No fucking idea.

Take the piss - I don't fucking care. I wouldn't write this if I gave a shit.

Or would I?

No I fucking wouldn't.

197: White Lies

2007-06-30T00:13:00.000+01:00

I always prefer to go out during the week and stay in on Fridays. Its the night I can stay in watching Sky Arts and Jonathan Ross and not worry about shit. I even forgot I parked my car full of gas somewhere in Haymarket last night, but I'm sure it will still be there tomorrow.

Mum came in about 10.15, and straight out the back for her usual fag. The smell of Mayfair drenched the living room so I got up and calmly shut the back door. Meanwhile Pete Doherty was high as a kite in a quickly dying interview on Ross's show. It reminded me of when Shane MacGowan was out of it on Danny Baker's old TV show and the audience were laughing at him. Baker lost his rag with the audience trying to tell them how important MacGowan was. As Arcade Fire played out the show, I got up and found my Mum still smoking in the garden. I popped my head out the back and joked,
"Have you been chaining it?"
"Eh?"
"Have you been smoking since you got back?"
"No. This is my first one."
"No it isn't."
"I shut the door to keep the smell out when you came back."
"This is my last one tonight anyway."
"So it isn't your first?"
"It is!"
I was so angry at her lying to me for no good reason, I walked down the alleyway and had one by myself.

I have to get working again and get out of this house.

196: Head Like A Hole

2007-06-22T22:13:00.000+01:00

TWO WEEKS AGO:

“Mike! Can I talk to you for a sec’?”
“Yeah sure man, what’s up?”
“Look, um, I know you’re leaving for the day, but I’ve been told you had a biopsy last year. I’ve got one next week.”
Mike stops and turns to me.
“Yeah, it was after we edited that Lawson programme last year.”
“Well, how was it, how are you?”
“I’m alright. I was having fits at the time. I was in there for a week.”
“Just a week?”
“Yeah, it was around now. I had my kid send me his first Father’s Day card.”
“Damn, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I still have the fits though. I took six weeks off work and had nothing but headaches. Didn’t drink for months.”
“Do you now?”
“A little bit.”
“And you have fits now?”
“Yeah, but it was more serious than that. The doc’ said this tumour would kill me.”
“Wow.”
“So why are you having it?”
“I broke my shoulder in my sleep in February. And then again apparently – Clean break – bad break. …Did they make you talk in the operation?”
“Eh? Ah, I see. No. That’s good if they’re making you do that.”
“Is it?”

18 / 06 / 07 :

Dad and I are heading out of the tube station at Hammersmith. A TV friend passes by, “Hello mate, how you doing?”
“You alright? Where you working right now?”
“Oh nowhere, you know how it is.”
“I do, same here.”
“Well, I’ll let you get on mate.”
“You too.”

We get up to the hospital before noon as they’d asked us to.
“Hello, I’m here for a biopsy.”
“You’re in bed F6.”
“Thank you.”

I pass a TV room where someone is struggling to watch a bad mix of BBC One.

The ward is arranged with our faces the colour of a lovely old chess set – white, brown, white, brown… I smile at the chap in the bed next to me. A scar forms a hook shape across his head. Dad looks faint.

Walking around the ward I can see everything from the Millennium Eye to Wembley to the Trellick Tower to my old flat in Barnes.

I’m interviewed by an Irish nurse who turns out to be a friend of a fella who has kipped over after a couple of ska gigs. He warns me I’ll get bored. I tell him I’m pretty good at keeping myself entertained. Dad heads home. A physio’ comes in who turns out to be someone I worked with in my Social Service days. I ask her if she could treat my broken shoulder – but she can’t. She doesn’t really do shoulders. She’ll refer me to someone downstairs.
She’s interrupted by a doctor who sits down with me and talks me through tomorrow’s operation. This doesn’t take long:

- Clamp over head for the CT scan. This will leave four holes on my bonce.

- Use the CT to work out where the bogeyman in my brain is.

- Drill into head.

- Take tiny bit of brain out.

Someone phones mid-way through the interview.
The number comes up as Private. It must be the BBC. I’m waiting for an interview for the Culture Show to come through. I ignorantly say, “Can I phone you back?”
They say, “Yeah sure.”
Of course I have no idea who they are.
I thank the doctor and ask if I’ll be seeing anyone else today. He shrugs and says, “I doubt it. You’ll be Nil By Mouth from midnight, and we’ll get you in some time after one.” The good thing / bad thing is they won’t ask me to talk while I have a needle in my Gulliver.

The time is 1.30pm. I know I can’t leave, and if I leave I can’t drink, so what I can get up to is restricted only by my imagination. I decide to go out the front and smoke.
On my way out I run into a graphics chap from the Beeb.
“What you coming for?”
“Throat problem. You?”
“Biopsy.”
“Well you take care, yeah?”
“Yeah, you too. I’m just going for a fag.”

And that’s as eventful as the afternoon gets. I can’t log on to Facebook in the cafe where most of the best wishes are kept.

So it’s back to the ward, where I know I’m doomed to stay for some time. The chap with the scar is a member of a Zaidi family. I mention to them that I know a Zaidi who is a Shia Muslim, are you Shia Muslims?
They smile politely. Apparently it is a common name. I tell them that I am a Smith, and they look none the more impressed. The man’s wife is gorgeous, and his mother has come over from Pakistan to see her son.
I remember what my colleague Zaidi was telling about how she believed in arranged marriage, and I lay back wishing that my folks can find a similar atheist or Buddhist to pair me up with. Or anyone for that matter.

To the left of me is an old Hindu chap who runs a corner-shop near the Royal Free, and across from him is an easily agitated silver-haired fella called Roger. The bloke doesn’t stop complaining, and well what would you know he’s from Hillingdon Hospital.
“All I want is more fuckin’ pillows. I ain’t got nuffin to rest on ‘ere.”
“At my shop I see them coming out of Royal Free with all the pillows. They take them to park. Sit on them.”
“Issa fuckin’ disgrace!”

I admit to myself that I am bored now. The time is about Four in the afternoon. I pick up the book I’ve just bought. It’s called Mustn’t Grumble and it’s by a Kiwi who returns to Britain to find out what it’s like. It’s like my blog would be if less happened. I can’t bear it.

Roger switches his radio on. The timing couldn’t have been better.

I’m sittin’ on the dock of the bay,
Watchin’ the tide roll away,
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay,
Wasting time…

195: There will be no more posts due to Facebook

2007-06-13T21:59:00.000+01:00

So how many of us have wasted some time on there yet?

The thing for me is that while I got sick of MySpace pretty quickly, on Facebook, there is always a suspicion that you might be missing something important. Perhaps a really meaty discussion is going on. Maybe the end of the world has been announced and you'll be the last to know.

But no of course, someone's put up loads of pictures of themselves pissed in a club last night.

Someone's really looking forward to watching a film.

Someone announces that they are: insert something witty here...

An old friend has added me.

An old boss has added me (?).

I've been invited to join a group called the "'Your Mum,' Is A Valid Insult."

And then I see a questionaire about which fucking drink I'd be, I realise I can get free MP3s of rubbish bands that have somehow been associated with my favourite music - and before I know it, I'm checking my emails every two minutes to see I've got a message.

I've fallen for it. I'm so gullible.

SO WHY HAVE WE FALLEN FOR IT? (I know some of you think you're above it, but it won't last)

Hats off to the chaps behind it. It is as if they've waiting and watching as the internet has developed.

First there was Friends Reunited - we loved that until they told us to pay a fiver to get in touch with people so we didn't bother. (One person we knew faked his own death on it - he was really flattered when he heard his old school was considering a memorial - wanker.)

Then people dispersed onto their message boards, funny websites and peer to peer music swapping systems. The MySpace, then Youtube, and all the other failures in between.

...And all the while these clever bastards were thinking, "Hmm, they all love the web, but they feel slightly alienated. What if they could find their old school chums, college buddies, mates and dates, they could download free music - but still pay the companies for what they really wanted, upload their videos, tell everyone about their favourite films, form discussion groups, and do all of it without really having to think much because they're probably at work?"

They are evil geniuses. They know we all like to post opinions, but aren't so keen if we don't genuinely know anyone, so now we can invite our chums to take over the board.

It's all good fun, but, as the free MP3 by Ann Driscoll I just got off the sight says, "People would have something to say if they kept their mouths shut."
And that's exactly it. Our attention span shrinks, we think we've had a good chat, when all we've done is post rubbish like, Dave is feeling up a Pig's Cock, and we go home feeling enriched yet not entirely satisfied.

I can't concentrate writing this. There's music playing, I'm having a conversation with someone, the phone keeps ringing, and there's something I want to watch on TV. I'm turning brain dead under the abundance of available media.

Actually fuck writing this... I'm gonna post that one about the Pig's Cock...

194: Table Fable

2007-06-08T23:07:00.000+01:00

"5 on red."
"5. Red again, Sir."

I snorted over my brandy, as the pale black-haired Polak took my chips. I was playing against a young city boy trying to impress a blondie, an old dear who looked like a fat Maggie Smith (could have been her now I think of it), a Chinese doctor, and a blabbermouth ex-squaddie who deemed it impolite to shut his cakehole about the ruddy Falklands. The nicotine stains on his fingers were so thick he looked like he'd been fingering every sheep on the islands.

The Polak span the thing and I rested, with my eyes staring into those of the doctor. His name was Wong. And that's not me doing a bad Jonathan Ross impression (I briefly heard this man patronising a listener on the wireless).

We'd played three games already, but this was Wong's first game.
"Why you go for 5 red?"
"Why do you ask sir?" I asked, resting my drink on the table.
"I just like to know how people get their hunch," he replied.
"I don't know, maybe I was 5 when I discovered I like red..."
"Or?"
"...Or 5 people have died in this area over the last year, and I think they were killed by a red."
He raised his inscrutable eyebrows at me.
"Anyway, Mr. Wong. What was your number?"

"13 black," said the fit young polish man.
"That was me," said Wong.
"Ah yes, I remember."
Wong took his chips. Fifteen hundreds worth.

"This guy's on a messed-up run," said the inept yuppo to his escort.
"Messed up I may be old chap," I declared, "But running I am not."
"You're not on a run neither."
"'I think you meant to say EITHER."
"Yeah, alright old man, 'either.'"

"I'll tell you another thing about them Argies,.." said the chain-smoker.
"Please don't," said the portly Margaret, "I dread my ears will become common."

We all put the same numbers on again.
The ball span.

"You've been in this town a while, haven't you Doctor?"
"A year and a half."
"Nice seaside town?"
"Very nice."
He was staring back at me now. Not an eye on the ball.
"Chinese love a gamble don't they?"
"I heard a terrible story, you know, about the community round here."
"Did you sir?"
"Gangs of Chinese men watching the boys fight naked and betting on who would win."
"Sounds like ridiculous racism."
"Does doesn't it? Unless that is, someone here has found himself the influence to win every bet he places."
"I don't know what you mean."
"No, me neither. I mean I haven't been sitting behind CCTV cameras for months watching you or anything, no one in this casino knows that you're paying cheaply hired poish chaps to weight your balls."

The Polak intervened, "Sir, I know not what you implying."
"I'm not accusing you of a thing dear man, I just know how this has been weighted. On my first game here, squaddie won on a 13 black, then the old lady, then the yuppy. Now what's going on with that ball?"

5 red came in.

"Either that or I'm completely fucking pissed."

193: The Chap

2007-06-08T22:02:00.000+01:00

The morning lamps came on, waking up a chap lying under a bench on the green.

He blearily opened them and then shut them again, but they stung.

Had he been crying?

He didn't remember crying.

The last thing he remembered was...

Oh Christ...

He remembered nothing.

* * *

Had he been drunk?

Breath seemed reasonable, if a little dehydrated.

Clothes?

Pair of jeans. Nike tracksuit top. White T-shirt. Pair of green Fila trainers on his feet.

Hair.

Yup. Definitely some hair there.

Beard.

No. Stubble.

Feelings of injury? Beaten up a bit?

Not really. A bit of an ache in the back, but that's what you get for sleeping on your back.

The green was surrounded by small suburban houses.

There was no traffic.

The chap sat on the bench, attempting to gather his thoughts.

* * *

192: Watershed

2007-06-07T22:22:00.000+01:00

Just got a text from a mate saying, "The watershed has definitely moved. Old bird's spread prolapsed vag' at 8.30!"

I thought he was referring to the fact his ex-girlfriend is ready to drop her baby and gave birth at 8.30. He was however, talking about a discussion we had over a few ales the other night about what you can and can't show or say in the world of broadcast.

Now, some old woman having a kid, I don't think anyone find that erotic - though it might disturb younger viewers. But there does seem to be a confusion at the moment.

At 8pm you can choose between The Bullshit Detectives on BBC3 and How To Look Good Naked on C4. Bullshit Detectives is filled with every swear word but fuck or cunt, while How To Look Naked is filled with tits. Now you could easily say, "Yeah but with Ofcom it's all about context and the bird's on that show are all looking a bit dog-eared," but try telling that to editors of Razzle. Blokes can rub one out over whatever they're given, and the fact that some oriental (sorry south-east asian) iron is feeling up their wobbly bits would not deter the vinegar strokes.

Similarly, there's a massive confusion on radio. Sean Rowley on BBC London tells his interviewees off if they so much as say, Christ, while Vanessa Feltz on the same station responds to everything saying, "Oh my God." Meanwhile on Radio 2, Jonathan Ross and Ricky Gervais can say Arse to their hearts content, because they're millionaires and no one's got the guts to discipline them.

Comedy gets a way with a lot but then, as far back as the 50s, Milligan was making jokes about acts with names like, Novark & Goode.

Maybe the watershed is a silly idea in the age of the internet and we shouldn't, as Jerry Sadowitz puts it, be watching the clock until 9pm and then shouting, "Fuck!"

I do think though that there is a breakdown in standards going on. My Mum just came back from the races to tell me that they're advertising parties for children to come and have a gamble. What next? A puppet presenting CBeebies Lotto?

And I don't want to see GMTV presenters telling authors that they've written a "Really fucking good book."

Why would I care? Well not just because I got laughed at by compliance at the Beeb after my producer told me report that used the words, "Breast" and "Penis." It's more that there's no point in swearing or nudity if it loses the shock value. We like naughty things because we have been socially conditioned to believe they are naughty.

Likewise, its great when those words get said to piss off the controller, a favourite being John Lydon on Danny Baker's radio show:

"'oo's that kid through the window there."
"That's my son."
"Oh, is it? 'ello son. ....Daddy's a wanker."

191: Benefit Fraud

2007-06-05T01:52:00.000+01:00

This is my situation...

I broke my shoulder after having a fit one night in February. At the time I was out of work and still claiming Jobseeker's allowance. I moved back to my folks and after too long a time, got a doctor's note to switch to disability benefit while I waited for news on my noggin.

Come May, I got asked back to the BBC to do a job. Apparently though, I needed a doctor's note to sign me off. No doctor would give me one as I potentially had a brain tumour.

So I didn't sign off, but i sent the DWP a letter telling them I was willing to pay off the 50p I'd taken off them.

They ignored this and sent me another letter saying they'd advise me on how to find work (?).

Then I got asked in for a biopsy.

I've been inadvertantly breaking the law, but have admitted it, and told them I was willing to pay them back. Now I have to tell them I can't come in to seek advice about how to get work because I'm fucking working.

I try to phone, but no one wants to know.

Maybe I should wait until I'm dribbling in a wheelchair and ask them how I can become President of Europe. Motherfuckers.

190: Final Days Of Being A Drunk Bastard (I reckon)

2007-06-05T01:14:00.000+01:00

I woke up at 4a.m. this morning covered in cider. I'd been drinking with Matt in Old Street and had intended to go to my mate Chris's for roast dinner with a few people. I never made it.

Mum came back from Bingo while I was watching Have I Got News...

Mum: "I told your Dad off for calling you drunk."

Me: "Did you?"

Mum: "Yeah you were passed out in the chair when we got back from the social club. I told you I'd won you a bottle of whiskey."

Me: "Oh yeah, of course. I remember."

Mum: "Dad said, 'leave him, he's pissed.' I said, 'No he's not, he's knackered, he was working all day yesterday and late on Friday.'"

Me: "That's true."

Mum: "You said, 'I'm just going to tidy up the room, do a bit of work on the computer and go to bed.' Then you got up, walked to the telly. Stood there for a sec and went back to your chair."

Me: "Yeah, I was wasted."

Mum: "Then you went upstairs and came down after a while and you were fine. You watched the rugby with Dad."

Me: "Yes. I remember that. I saw the Sevens final. New Zealand beat Samoa."

Mum: "So... ... ... ..."

My hand is poised over the pause button on the telly remote.

Mum: "...He apologises."

Me: "Jolly good."

I continue watching the telly.

189: Biopsy Time...

2007-05-31T11:28:00.000+01:00

...Just had a call from the doc. I asked him not to do it on the 26th because I'd like to see Devo.

188: No News Is No News

2007-05-27T12:09:00.000+01:00

Wednesday night, I was at the Gore Hotel in Kensington having a few wines with a couple of ladies. Due at Charing Cross Hospital the next morning, I didn't want to stay out too late, but before I knew it we were in another hotel, begging for more drinks in the early hours of Thursday.

My chum had a twin room at the hotel, so I stayed there as it would be easier to get to the hospital.

I got there late. Very late.

Luckily the doctor was late too. It wasn't the doctor I was hoping to see.

He told me the radiographer was off this week, and that there was nothing new to tell me.

What a waste of time.

187: Shoot

2007-05-26T12:33:00.000+01:00

9a.m. Monday morning, I'm climbing up and down footpaths at Brent Cross, with a big stinking fucking hangover.

I find Borders and the crew are already there. This is where my producer has decided I have to direct some Pieces to Camera. We've got big clunky tracks, a mini-jib, and all that gear.

Now here's a word of advice to any budding film-makers out there. Never try to film in a book shop with it's own Starbucks and Children's section. Particularly not during half term.

Our presenter hadn't learned her lines, so it was queue card time (another piece of advice - cue cards under a camera don't work). After about an hour of battling with children screaming, coffee machines, tills, beeping lifts and people walking in front of the camera - the camera broke. It was almost as if it had thought, "Fuck this," and resigned.

I came back to the office relieved, knowing that I'd be editing all week, and wouldn't have to try again.

* * *

The edit went by through the week, and I was kept entertained by the editor's stories of Thai bar girls.

My producer came into the edit for a viewing, "We're going to shoot again at Keat's House on Friday."
"Oh good. Good luck with it."
"You're directing."

* * *

Friday morning, I'm ambling around Hampstead Heath. The same crew are there, getting the kit together. The room we're using looks infinitely better. And - we're using Autocue. We have all morning to set up, play with lighting, and get it looking lovely. The presenter isn't due until two in the afternoon, though we do have to get out by 5, because one of the curators of the house has to get away to run his scout pack in Bromley.

The autocue arrives at 11, and the mirror to reflect the image of the words on the camera breaks. Then the builders start. Then the planes fly lower.

But we managed it.

Then we cleared up. Our runner managed to accidentally nick the house's garden lights and a stepladder.

We should have got the paintings.

I think I'm going to save up and buy a studio.

186: FA Cup

2007-05-21T21:49:00.000+01:00

It's FA Cup Final day and as I'm staying in Ickenham, there's only one chap I want to watch the game with and that's Mr. Bishop. I don't know what it is, perhaps it's his endearing racism, his hatred of referees or his unconditional love for bunch of Europeans what practice their game in West London.

I leave a message with him.

A minute later, my phone rings, I don't recognise the number, but guess it's him.
"'ello, 'ello."
"Hello. This is Baronness Helena Kennedy. I'm ringing about the filming next week."
"Ah, yes..."

After that call, I get another with a number I don't recognise.
"Hello, Clayton speaking."
"Awright geezer, I was just walkin' up to the offie and wondered where you're watching the game."

Bish is already slightly pissed by the time I march round there with a pizza and 10 cans of lager. By half-time, he's lost interest in the game and wants to dance to Blur.

185: Smoke

2007-05-14T21:40:00.000+01:00

http://home.btconnect.com/smoke/excerpts/10excerpts/10excerpts.htm

184: Pissed

2007-05-14T21:05:00.000+01:00

Sunday morning in Bristol.

My brain is starting to come round.

I've been walking a long time - I know that much. I also think I've staring at this building for a long time.

Somehow, I get to the flat where I'm staying. It's 8.30 and everyone is stirring.

"Bloody hell, where have you been?"
"Dunno."
"Did you take all those pills."
"Dunno, I can't find them in my pocket. I don't have my phone."

I collapse in the armchair.

"Amy and Rich have got it. Apparently you pissed all over some girls room and the girls chucked you out."
"Oh dear."
I feel really guilty.

I'm soaking wet, so I borrow some flared jeans and an addidas hoodie.

* *

Later i walk into town to get my phone back off Rich and Amy, they're all sat drinking Scrumpy outside the Apple boat.
"Hey Clayton!" Someone shouts, "You were 'avin' a wicked time talking to yourself last night."
"Right."
"Hey, don't look so down about it, they were a bunch of fucking bitches. We gobbed all over their beds."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, and someone turned the gas on the hobs."
"How did you get my phone?"
"After you disappeared I rang it to see where you were and this bitch picked it up saying, 'I've got someone's phone!' So I just swiped it off her and called her a twat."
"Ok."
"You were talking to yourself though."
"Hmm."
"We all did well last night. Though just as I was leaving someone put the window through."

We move onto another pub and Gabba from Chaos UK shouts, "Hey Clayton, heard about you pissing everywhere last night. Good man."
"Cheers."

Then someone else says, "Where the fuck did you get them bell bottoms?!"

183: Final Frame

2007-05-03T01:10:00.000+01:00

"Well for those you who have just joined us it's been an amazing day of snooker, and we're now about to see if Kevin Nelson can beat Joey Chom to guarantee his place as World Champion."
"Yes, er, great day of snooker. And Nelson is for me quite typical of a snooker player."
"He is, he's the kind of lanky kid who stayed out of trouble at school, and if anyone asked you what you remembered about him in those teenage years, you wouldn't have a single memory."
"That's right. Never bullied, not academically exceptional in any way, just one of those kids who was a bit spotty and didn't talk too much."
"...Probably alright at geometry though, John?"
"No doubt ...excellent at guessing angles, I'd say."
"One thing I must say for him today, is that if he'll get past Chom today it will be with his safety shots."
"...Absolutely. ...very much like how I used to play for safety by staying in the fifth form area during lunch break with a snooker magazine. No one could notice me, no one could touch me."
"Like us all John, just another very pale character with a fondness for waistcoats and water."
"If only this was a game for ladies in a short skirt or two."
"I don't think they'd understand it."
"You're probably right."
"I'm definitely right."
"You are. As anyone who watched Point Break can attest to."
"Any socially awkward young man."
"That's right."

182: The Human Footprint

2007-04-26T21:07:00.000+01:00

There's a programme on tonight called The Human Footprint, which tries to show us how much stuff we consume in our lifetime. The way they do this is to gather all the stuff we'll get through and film it.

So in watching how many pints of milk I'm supposed to drink, I have to watch an AERIAL SHOT of the stuff. So in this documentary I get to see nappies - wasted, thousands of eggs smashed in front of bewildered children, bread stacking up a whole street. Which begs an obvious question - how much stuff did they waste to make this programme?! Couldn't they have written an article? I mean don't lecture on me on how much we're wasting while you go ahead and waste the stuff!
I bet the show had one runner as well to set out all the stuff.
"It's not a very hard job Mike, you just have to lay out 499,687 milk bottles.... and then..."

"And who amongst doesn't like the odd bar of chocolate?"
I don't, and I don't drink much milk either so don't waste a load to show me how much I might eat!
THAT IS A WASTE.
Oh, right, and I'll eat 845 tins of beans too - no I won't!
I'll eat shitloads of animals, and you know what's good about animals? They fuck each other and make more animals - and soon I'll only be able to eat them organically.

"We all fart..."
No we don't. I go for a shit! I don't like farting!!!

Okay, now they're showing me how much bog roll I get through! Stop wasting stuff!

Now I'm watching piles of shit - literally!

...Now we speak an average of 4,300 words a day. Women say more than men. I've never heard that contested.

Of course the whole programme is referring to averages, so you can't be too pedantic - it's just the amount the programme wastes to prove a largely vacuous point. Especially when the advert break is full of highly expensive adverts that are the result of thousands of little fucks who spend their lives making a fortune and sponging freebies from other companies.

181: CamDumb

2007-04-26T01:36:00.000+01:00

I think I caused a power-cut during a gig last night.

We were at The Proud Gallery in Camden. I'd been there before for a Christmas do, and hated the place, which is one of the many new buildings in the old Stables Market intended to gentrify the place and drive out any of the old poor fuckers who had genuinely home-run businesses there. I used to get really cheap nice (enough for me at least) clothes from where these new places are. I know whoever owns the Stables has rent to pay but someone is missing a heart somewhere.

Anyway, so we're in this yuppy stinkhole, and it has been filled with the appropriate Hooray Henry and Henriettas. The first act does acoustic-fun-with-pedal-replay-type things, if that makes any sense, and can barely be heard over the over-excited shit-sticks catching up over how much K they took on the Camden Crawl last week. The singer started off being well-meaning but got increasingly frustrated, ending up just throwing out sarcastic comments at everyone and getting off stage as soon as he could.

My friend approached some bloke she'd been to school with who was also apparently some member of a band called Razor Patrol (well one of those two bands - can't remember) who are quite successful.
"I went to school with you."
"Yes. i remember you."
"Well, just thought I'd say hello."
"Yeah sure, it's been too long."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
He seemed to think she was stalking him for being famous.
"He's such a bastard."
"Why's that?"
"He thinks he's too big to talk to me now. I remember when he asked my friend to ask me out. I was given a choice of either him or another friend of mine, and I picked the other one. He cried."
"So why didn't you just go up to him and say, 'remember when I made you cry'?"
"That wouldn't be nice."
"He wasn't nice."
"Ah, well."

The Crimea came on and did their thing to a nearly full room, but one that wasn't too interested in listening. That's almost okay, if there's nowhere else to socialise but there's a room the size of my old school hall full of empty comfy sofas adjacent as well as a nice warmed up outside area.
Some little fuck down the front was pretend-dancing and pretend-smoking (you know, not inhaling) like I'd imagine an extra in a club scene in Hollyoaks might.
We stood down the front, though still miles away from the stage. The PA was killing my ear, so I took a step in front of the speakers.
And that's when the power went.
To their credit the band carried on acoustically without stopping.
They carried on through about 4 songs while the roadies rushed about to get everything going again.
That was the best bit.
The audience had no choice but to listen.
Crimea are a pretty straight ahead melodic band, but they can really put the effort in when there's no power.

I feel sorry for Joe, their manager in a way. Crimea have just been dropped by Warner, and as the lads all still have day jobs they still thought, 'Damn it, we'll still release this new album, but release it for free, as well as for money if anyone really has to buy it.'
Joe's other acts have similar attitudes. There's Nizlopi who had the big Christmas No.1 JCB song, which was undoubtedly helped more by the animation on the internet than any airplay - apparently rather than make a 2nd album they thought it would be more fun to go on holiday.
...And there's also The Young Offender's Institute who were formed through an advert Joe placed for musicians with criminal records. Last year they did a gig with some band and nicked all their stuff, now that band have been renamed The Twang and are trying to emulate the sods who made monkeys out of them.

Joe'll be alright I think.

Tell you what though folks - if you do happen to have a JCB lying around the place, drive it through:

The Proud Gallery
Gilgamesh
The Devonshire Arms (wouldn't serve me last week for not looking 'goth or alternative' - sad twats, I don't fucking want to - can one be an alternative to alternative? I did offer to bring my records in.)
Any place selling 'LEGAL' highs, incense, saucy T-shirts,
aggressive old sods in bought-out clothes shops (particularly you lot, Merc),
tourists (leave the Japs alone though, they're nice),
scousers (Anywhere! Infact, start that JCB in motherfucking Liverpool - no actually don't - Liverpool's like quarantine - just don't let them within the M25),
hippies,
beggers,
double-beggers (the ones who just want to sponge rather than save),
rastas selling fake gear,
anyone wearing a hat to look like Pete Doherty,
the irish,
Pete Doherty,
property developers,
...In fact everyone but fucking me and all the stall-holders in my head...

Okay, I've gone too far....

Here is a perfect day for me, when me and my mate Matt were about 12 or 13, going up to the Camdens...

There used to be a shop called TEENAGE BAD GIRL which was the coolest place to go if you were into your video freaks. You have to remember that classics like A Clockwork Orange and The Exorcist were still banned on video back then, but we could get not only them but all sorts of other debauched fun...

Me and Matt would parade around in our T-shirts - him in a Reservoir Dogs one, and me in probably something like a Therapy? top and threw ourselves into what then was a curious world of under-the-counter videos, cool T-shirts, and weed that was likely to be better than what our new mates at secondary could their hands on. Ooh, when I think of the fuss my T-shirt of Snow White being gang-raped by the Dwarves caused. I knew it was meant to be a lesbian T but alternative to the alternative is a fun mind-set.
BAD GIRL moved to the Stables, while other shops sold me and our mates films like Necromantik and Traces (not Faces - hell no) of Death, and we delved further through our adolescence in the world of cult, indie and of course T-shirt.

I think we were about 13 or 14 when we went to Madstock, where the band in question were supported by Aswad & Dawn Penn, The Buzzcocks, and The Blockheads (not to mention a shite hip-hop act called Credit to the Nation). I remember piling through Elvis Costello records at a stall at the gig thinking, "What the fuck has this got to do with Ska?" Little was I to know at the time of the power of The Specials and Elvis's involvement with Stiff - or what Stiff was.
...And when Ian Dury came on (before Buzzcocks and Madness), by fuck did we have to learn to dance and protect ourselves.
Before the gig it was easy-going - people sat on each others shoulders, pissing everywhere...
but by the time, Ian announced, "There ain't 'alf bin some clever bastards..." we were off...
I was fighting someone's mowhawk, we got really bruised for Buzzcocks, and Madness were a swimming delight. We'd had the most fun we could without even trying to get served a drink.
On the way home, some old pisshead repeating to everyone, "If you're feeling in a state, have a molten choc-o-late..." Anyway.

Back to Camden...

FAVOURITE CAMDEN GIGS I CAN THINK OF WHILE I'M A BIT PISSED RIGHT NOW, IN NO ORDER AT ALL:

1.) The Dangermen AKA Madness / Electric Ballroom / 2005?
Danced with Woody's nephew, went mental seeing Madness at their best in a comparitively small venue.

2.) Boris The Sprinkler & The Hanson Brothers / Underworld / 2002
Just the three of us for that. Hanson Bros were Nomeansno doing their hockey-affiliated Ramones tribute - fucking wonderful.

3.) Misty's Big Adventure / Dublin Castle / 2005
A right good ol' dance.

4.) Prince Buster & The Selecter & The Trojans / Electric Ballroom / No idea
Managed to fall on my face and not spill three of the pints I was carrying.

5.) Dwarves & Cowboy Killers / Dingwalls / 2004?
Half an hour of pure mayhem plus Bedders from Cowboy Killers nearly killing some kid.

6.) Johnny Violent / Underworld / 1998
Speed! Speed! Dancing under a rain of sparks!

7.) Jello Biafra / Dingwalls / No idea
Incredibly fucking ha-ha, thought-provoking and "Oi, what the fuck are you talking about?!"

8.) Big Bad Voodoo Daddy / Jazz Cafe / 2002?

9.) Lou Barlow & Jason Lowenstein / EFDSS / 2003
I've seen Lou alot but he was really comfortable that night and didn't even shout at anyone.

10.) Kid Carpet / Barfly / 2006
I know he's a bit of a novelty act but this was wicked fun.

Hmmm - anyway - shall I tell a joke? I'm not sure how to finish this....

Ah, fuck it.

180: A Diamond's Worth

2007-04-25T22:16:00.001+01:00

Ali's slack black suit was crumpled, though his hair was flat as a gymnast's chest. His thin furry moustache made him look like he'd been tossing salad at her Majesty's Pleasure for too long. I couldn't see his eyes, just two black pits. He looked like the kind of Turk who'd pour you a bad wine and make passes at your friend, and you would still leave the table nervously thanking him.

He was sitting behind the reception desk, opening letters with a breadknife. His cigarette holder lay dormant.
"Good evening, Mr. Redman. Are we away for the evening?"
"Not just yet, old chap. I'd like to talk to you."
"I really don't think we have much to discuss."
"I think we have. How about a man by the name of Jones?"
"Jones? I'm afraid this is a very common name Sir.
"I think you know which one I mean."
The turk cupped his chin in his hand, and stared up at me, toying with his knife.
"Maybe I do."
I ignored the knife and picked up a leaflet from the rack on the counter, it read, 'Things to do in Weymouth,' and had a picture of a family who looked like they were high on something, grinning at the camera.
"I thought you might. This isn't too big a town. Shall we talk seriously?"
"Go on then, Redman," he said wearily, dropping the formalities, "Tell me what is on your mind. Be Mr. Cleverman, like some logical detective in big book."
"Most kind. Well, I've pieced together my evidence. I've put it all into a neat little pattern. I even did a bit of knitting with it from the wool around one's hip. And, as you appear to have summised, I've found this to be the time to make one sort of jaded pounce upon my suspect."

I could see his eyes now.
He smiled.
"The suspect then turns pale as a very pale thing indeed, sallivates nervously and pulls a gun on you from up his nostril?"
"That sort of thing, I suppose, We should sit down and have a bash at it some time."
I reached for my pipe, "I'm awfully sorry, but you wouldn't have a lighter on you would you?"
The chap put his hand in his pocket, and offered me his fire object.
"Very kind," I said, lighting my pipe, "I don't believe you have a gun with you right now."
"No, it is not with me at this moment."
"Did you have it last night when you called on old Jonesy?"
He shrugged and picked at his teeth with the knife, "Oh, um, did I call on Mr Jones last night?"
"I believe you did."
"Oh, so maybe I did. Come on, impress me Mr Redman."
"Just a little deduction, Ali. You smoke Old Moukhalia cigarettes. Those cigarettes leave a very firm ash that keep their shape. An ashtray in his room had enough of those little grey rolls to make at least a couple of cigarettes. No stubs in the tray, mind. And that's because you smoke yours in that giant ruddy cigarette holder. Do you like the way the plane's coming in to land?"
"No I do not. That is bad deduction."
"Yes, it is I suppose. Those stubs need not have been your own, one supposes. Perhaps they may have been thrown away because of something more incriminating. A colouring maybe, like the purple tint of your wife's lipstick."
"Do not mention my wife," demanded Ali.
I took a couple of diamonds out of my jacket pocket and placed them on the counter.
"Nice these aren't they, dear fellow? You'd have enough money to stop renting your son out if you had a share of this."
Ali was beginning to let his emotions show now.
"So what happens now? You explain the whole bleeding plan, before the police arrive at the right time?"
"Could do that..."
"Or what?"
"Or you spare me the room bill, let me rent your son - I pay you a bit of wedge, and Simpson goes down for the murder."

We shook hands warmly, before he led me down to the young man's room.
"This is Mr. Redman," said Ali.
And a jolly fine sod it was too.