The Hungry Centipede

Long time no see... I mostly use Facebook these days in preference to blogs and Twitter and was not sure where blogging sat any more. Now I know - it provides me somewhere to 'go off on one' without cluttering up the Facebook Wall...

I was having a chat with Tom (son, nearly 13) as to what sorts of horror films he could (certification notwithstanding) watch. He is an avid CSI viewer, so is quite used to quite graphic body FX - with blood and gore aplenty. However, as he will freely admit, it is still the implied and psychological horror that still unsettles him. Case in point the original Doctor Who episodes with the Weeping Angels.

The Saw films are something he asks about frequently and he will no doubt sit through them as soon as he gets the chance. My advice to him is to leave it a while longer - not so much for the gore but for the fact that it could happen. Jigsaw could be behind Tom one dark night or could be in the corner of his bedroom, whereas he is less likely to discover Grissom picking over the grisly remains of another victim on his pool table when he comes home from school.

I wonder what my advice will be on the Human Centipede series that is up and coming. I'm not going to comment on the film itself - The Guardian did it far better than I ever could. But it did get me wondering what a tough gig it must've been for the actors. I have a lot of sympathy for all those up and coming stars when all they can get is 'first victim' or worse still 'unclothed corpse' - when there is no acting skill required save for not breathing or getting goosebumps.

Do you think there were arguments among the actors as to who got to be at the front - like a perverse pantomime horse ? Strict rules on diets? Agreements on how long it was acceptable to have your face up a colleague's bottom before you could have a break? Wiki describes how the film makers designed"... hardened underwear for the actors to wear with a rubber grip for the actor behind to bite onto..."

I don't think Tom will need guidance on this franchise - he will doubtless make the right choice on his own.

Coming Soon...

Currently rehearsing for Quasimodo http://www.redgravechurch.co.uk/events_2.html

Eighteen Months?

It has been a year and a half since my last post - I could've had two babies by now...

Just for the Craic

There is a bloody great crack in the floor of the Tate Modern and it is a piece of art. Discuss.

Well is it art? Before I read the leaflet the gallery provided I thought I would jot down my own thoughts and compare them both at the end. Just a private experiment to see whether or not I ‘get it’.

I used to think that while portraits and landscapes were literal representations of what the artist saw (abstracts, surrealism and the like aside), modern art concealed some sort of code that needed to be broken. I realised after some time that I was probably wrong on both counts. Portraits often contained more about the subject - or the artist’s view of them - than a photograph ever could. Then there could be an additional subtext driven by the politics surrounding the individual as well as the artist’s own agenda and/or own emotional wellbeing. I’m not so sure about traditional landscapes, as I am not much of a fan and will walk past them fairly quickly, but I am sure that the same applied here.

So it was actually these ‘literal representations’ that would conceal some hidden message, whereas with Modern Art, a blob of paint may just be a blob of paint. Despite what the artist, critics or pseuds would have you believe, it may be nothing more than an adventure in pigment, unusual medium or self expression. But I relish the controversy, the arguments, the self importance and the arrogance of it all. Far more fun than just finding out that the reason that some obscure noblemen ended up a big nose and buck teeth in his portrait was because he was sleeping with the artist’s wife.

So what about the crack? If the official meaning that is attributed to it is that it is ‘…emphasising the division in society in religion, politics, gender, race, affluence, power etc...’ then that’s all too obvious and would be a shame.

Personally, I saw it as artistic vandalism on an enormous scale – but in a good way. Banksy and Keith Haring were underground heroes of the eighties and nineties before their works of graffiti were adopted by the ‘legitimate’ art world. However the architect behind the crack (like Tracy Emin and Damien Hurst, I cannot regard anyone that sub-contracts their art as an artist) has been commissioned to damage the Turbine Hall floor. So that legitimacy has been automatically handed to them, rather than needing to be earned.

But I am no less impressed. It is a visual feast – juddering across the floor from one end of the hall to the other before it meets with a frosted glass wall and is transformed into a translucent reflection of itself disappearing into another dimension. The work is as much about watching the other viewers and their reactions to what they see. Some people are simply dismissive and take the opportunity to ridicule and deride its existence, spouting tired old platitudes about how it is a pointless waste of money and so on. Others laugh and joke about falling down the gap as they collectively shuffle along in tiny steps as they trace its angular progress. I have started to learn how to draw, and I now regret that I did not use it as the subject for one of my drawing exercises, as one or two student types were obviously doing.

The ‘genuine’ reasons behind its inception are an irrelevance. Like many before and after me, I simply enjoyed it. So on that basis, I won’t bother reading the leaflet and finding out what I should have thought of it.

It’ll only disappoint…

A walk on the wrong side

Following a business meeting in London I decided to drop in to the Tate Modern to see the current exhibit in the Turbine Hall (more on what I saw another time...) But rather than struggle back to Liverpool Street Station on the Underground, I chose to make my way back from the gallery on foot. However it was 5pm and the pavements were as crowded as I imagined the tube platforms would have been, and I seemed to be constantly walking in the path of other people. If I veered towards the road, I ran the risk of being clipped by a bus or lorry. The other side of the pavement meant having to avoid people blindly emerging from their workplaces or skulking round pub doorways having a cigarette (DAMN that smoking ban!)

Still, I bravely ploughed on, relying on my increasingly out of date mental map of East London to guide me. A few years back I had the ability to stagger from one pub to the next on autopilot, but now my trips to London are so infrequent that I have accepted that entire roads of buildings are demolished and replaced between visits. The Foster Gherkin wasn’t there one moment and the next it stood there in all its glass fronted retro lava lamp glory, complete and occupied. And it occurred to me that in the same way that one inevitably becomes like ones parents, I had become the very thing that I hated when I was a London commuter - a tourist with no idea which way to walk.

If you work in London, you may have noticed that shop names are becoming more literal. ‘Pret a Manger’ seems quite subtle when compared to EAT! barking at you to buy its sandwiches and cheap, nasty coffee. Got me thinking as to what other names you could come up with. You could earn your money at WORK, go for a beer at GET DRUNK, buy a kebab at VOMIT before going to the TOTALLY FAIL TO GET OFF WITH SOMEONE TONIGHT nightclub. Let us hope they don’t rebrand the public lavatories in the same way.

(The irony of the fact that I used to hang around a lot in the Virgin Megastore has just dawned on me…)

Back to my journey home, and my sense of direction is failing fast – surely I’ve walked past that Starbucks twice already? Hang on – just because there are only two branches in the whole of East Anglia doesn’t mean you’re lost. Remember that this is London so there are Starbucks everywhere. EAT! shouts out at me once again, just to prove the point.

I’m in luck. I recognise Aldgate and push my way through a crowd of people just standing around. Probably waiting for a guided tour of historic London landmarks such as Weatherspoons, McDonalds and Boots.

A few minutes and I’m back at the station. Exhausted but relieved to be almost home save for the train journey I give in to the temptation of a freshly baked pastry and climb on board. Balancing my laptop on an almost pointless pedestal table, I begin to construct this entry. Train departs on time, so I’ll be home by 9pm in time for Torchwood.

Two minutes later there’s an announcement: “We apologise for the delay – this is due to a passenger pulling the communication cord on the train in front.” Should've made that pastry last...

Day of the Jekyll

This entry was started in May 2007 but not posted because... well I can't remember why not. Anyway, here it is although I have updated it a bit.

Riding on the crest of the wave from my dramatic success with "Gary", I immediately threw myself into the process of auditioning all over again. "It's all right," I said to myself, "musicals are just plays with the odd song, it'll be fine."

I really wasn't sure about publicly using my vocal chords in a singing capacity - my last public performance was singing the first verse of Once In Royal David's City as an 11 year old soprano soloist. Thirty years on and my voice now was, well I wasn't sure what it was to be honest. I had sung in public as an adult, but there was almost always alcohol involved, and lots of it. Notable performances included an ill chosen rendition of Dream On by Aerosmith at a karaoke sponsored by Wild Turkey whisky and a guest spot at my own wedding, treating the asembled masses to Just a Gigolo / Bring Me Sunshine, fuelled by champagne, adrenaline and euphoria. Don't ask why I chose those songs as the detail escapes me. I suspect it was all the band and I actually knew between us...

So - back to the audition. It was goodbye to Gary and hello to Henry - Dr Henry Jeckyll to be precise - as we all waited, seated in a circle nervously clutching our loaned copies of the Jeckyll and Hyde libretto, (which I discovered is neither a type of moped nor a cheap Italian wine). The hall we were in had served as our local theatre, staging (for three nights only) a reasonably funny drama. Now it was just a village hall again, and soon we would be called into the room used by Slimming World every Thursday to read through our audition pieces.

The spoken auditions went well enough, and these were followed a few days later with the singing auditions in the hall of a local junior school. We were all taught a Lloyd Webber song titled Whistle Down the Wind from scratch and were then asked to sing it repeatedly in various ways - in chorus, individually, acapella, as a jazz number...

Tremendous fun, and although I proved to myself that I could hold my own in the chorus - dancing and singing - I decided to give myself the summer off and perhaps audition for the panto instead...

Postscript: Since writing the draft for this entry, the musical has been and gone and was quite spendid (my contribution was just to work Front of House). Mere Players have now found out that their production has been awarded the National Operatic & Dramatic Association award for 2007 Best Production in the Eastern Region.

New Blog News!

Yes folks - I have started a new 'theme based' blog chronicling my efforts to become an adequate artist.

I have a book that I'm working from and well - you'll have to read my new blog to find out...

We should treat kids like animals

This is bloody disgusting. I heard a reference to Dog Bling on the radio a couple of weeks ago - Google it and prepare to hurl.

If humans want to adorn themselves with jewellery - fake or otherwise - than that is fair enough. That is all about reinforcing feelings of self worth, identity, culture, tribalism blah blah blah. But unless they are being prepared as a Sunday roast, why do we need to dress up our animals too? Do they actually give a stuff?

I'm not saying we shouldn't clothe them. I can almost sympathise with the little old ladies who put little tartan coats on shivering rodent-dogs, because without them they would die of hypothermia. It does of course beg the question why they need the rats on strings in the first place. Don't try that 'companionship' rubbish on me - what kind of moral and spiritual support could these nasty little mutant dogs provide anyone? They spend their pointless little lives either standing on window ledges in a wide-eyed catatonic state of terminal bewilderment, or on the rear parcel shelves of Nissan Micras yip-yipping automatically at anything that moves, as they slowly cook from the inside out because their owners neglect to provide any shade or air.

Yet however small the beasts are, they still crap like a lion on Ex-Lax. Dear old Doris has to carry a Waitrose bag around with her so that she can scoop Tricky Woo's oozings up, only to absent mindedly leave the bag under a park bench for some unfortunate toddler to discover.

"Look Mummy, I've found some Play DooDoo."

I'm not saying that all small dogs are rubbish. Jack Russells are totally cool. They are strong, sturdy little animals, packed full of natural character and would sooner gnaw their own leg off than stand for being dressed up like a Barbara Cartland voodoo doll.

The thing is this: if you want to make your dog happy then feed them and exercise them regularly, and when you are out, be prepared for them to jump into stagnant ponds and filthy ditches, roll in cow shit and eat manure. The look of utter satisfaction on a dog's face when he is plastered in mud and crap is worth far more than all the tatty bling in China.

And if you want to make your kids happy too, then the same applies. Apart of course from all that stuff about shit and manure...

An Evening with Arthur Smith

As I said in one of my first blog entries, I'm currently rehearsing for a part in my first play. OK, this is not strictly my first acting job, but I don't think I can really count my brief appearances as fourth shepherd in a 1971 school nativity or as Julius Caesar's wife Calpurnia in a sixth form production. For the record, it was a boys school and I was 11 years of age and still with an unbroken voice and anyway, why am I trying to justify myself to a blog?

Anyhoo, I am quite fortunate in that the local drama group I joined takes all of this drama stuff very seriously indeed. Not in a po-faced "Luvvy! Daaahling!" kind of way, but in that they want to do as good a job as possible. I am embarrassed to admit that one of the things putting me off from be involved for so long was Lynda Snell's overbearing efforts to put on a village panto every year in The Archers. Although there is of course the actors and the director, there are so many others that get involved in one way or another from the provision of props, sets, sound and lighting through to setting up the venue, selling ticket sales and publicity.

It's ironic that for a play that is about football, none of the cast have much of an interest in the game itself. But then you don't have to be a cat to be in, er, Cats. So, trying to exercise my new found acting techniques I try to think of something that I am equally passionate about as a reference. I remember suggesting to my co-actor Andrew at one point that he and I could use Doctor Who (as we're both fans), but in hindsight I realise this is possibly the saddest, nerdish thing that I have ever suggested. However I would like to point out that unlike me, Andrew can't use a nine year old son as an excuse for his obsession.

Overall I am enjoying the 'Am Dram' experience immensely. There is plenty of laughs and beer to be had, which is I think is as important as the end product of the play itself (three weeks and counting)...

So there I was one evening in front of the PC and I thought that I might send an email to the play's co-author, Arthur Smith, you know, as you do. Most people know Arthur as one of the Grumpy Old Men on BBC TV and for his appearances on on Radio 4's Excess Baggage and Loose Ends. But for those of my generation, we remember him back when he was a regular at the Comedy Store. So were we in fact, going there at least once a month during the Eighties. So many of the turns we saw ended up doing quite nicely for themselves, starting off as part of the Alternative Comedy backlash to Bernard Manning and his sort of 'humour' and ending up as part of the new comedy establishment.

Ah, those were the days... Paul Merton was Paul Martin, Jo Brand was Sea Monster and Julian Clary had a Fanny and was known as the Joan Collins Fan Club. When Eddie Izzard came on, he was in a tweed jacket, not a dress, and were unsure whether he was p***ed, stoned or just plain hatstand. Turned out to be the latter, and wonderfully so. Anyway, I digress.

Back to Arthur. As well as appearances at the Store, he was on TV as (among other things) the first milkman that Richie Rich murdered on Filthy, Rich and Catflap, and the backwards speaking barman in the Red Dwarf episode called, er, Backwards. So I did a quick Google, found his website and shot off a quick email to say "Hi" and that we were doing his play. I also asked about an 'interview' that supposedly takes place between Gary Lineker and Trevor Brooking. "Was it a real recording?" I asked. I wasn't really expecting a reply, especially since his website does warn that unless an email is 'very interesting indeed' then he will be 'not arsed to reply. I thought fair play, at least he's honest.

But blow me if he didn't reply, and with a promptness that puts my emailing to shame. He was pleased to hear that the play was still going and that the original recording was made by a then unknown Alaistair McGowan impersonating both Gary and Trevor. He then went on to wish us well in the production, hoped that the swearing wasn't too much for the audience, and that maybe he'd come by if there were any tickets left.

What a nice chap, I thought. So I thanked him for his reply, pointed out that we were in Norfolk and that it was a bit of a trek from Balham (where he lives) and told him a bit about how we too had worried about the swearing. The group had actually gone through the whole play to justify every rude word, taking out only those we thought were out of context or just too plain naughty to use. However, I said to Arthur, if he did want to see us he was welcome, and that he could bring his 'Grumpy Old Men' colleague Rick Wakeman along with him, as he just lives round the corner from us.

Arthur replied again and just as promptly as before, telling me a story about how they had to contend with the more sweary bits when they toured with the original production. And Mr Smith was even kind enough to give me a few words to include in the program. It also turned out that he used to go to the UEA in Norwich in 1975 (where the picture above was taken), and that he had an ex-girlfriend from the town where I live. Small world.

So if you ever read this Arthur, then once again thanks for taking the time out to reply. You really made my day.

That is assuming it was you, and not some spotty 12 year old hacker just winding me up...