I WANT THE BODY OF AN OLD MAN

Regular readers of my tweets will have noticed that from moment to moment I get preoccupied with my age. I am not by any stretch of the imagination elderly or even approaching elderly, but one thing has started to bother me. Hollywood men and their film ages. Harrison Ford was my current age (plus some) when he made Raiders. I would be happy to have his body in The Last Crusade at this moment in time. George Clooney is over a decade older than me - yet his body in The American is quite astonishing. Brad Pitt is closer to may age, but lets face it - I can never compete with that. And Clint Eastwood - well he was born old. And he still has a freakin body that forces me to pop a t-shirt on when I am round the pool in his company. (this seems to happen far less frequently than I expected it to).

Women naturally compete with images of the Jolie (it is law that both sexes must find her attractive), the Bellucci, the Hayek etc etc etc (yawn). But is there ever a consideration for the poor man sat next to you as you dribble at the sight of Jason Isaacs tattooed arms (you know who you are) or caress your tumbler of wine absent mindedly when Wolverine accidentally rips his shirt off with his clumsy metal paws. We know you are sitting there thinking, 'Hang on, he is at least a decade older than you, what is going on?'

One word, Parenthood and the 90s (OK that is three words two numbers and a letter - but say it really quickly and it is one word). Throughout the 90s us men, in the young flush of courting and wooing were told that what women want is a soft man, soft of thought and soft of flesh. Vast swathes of men leaped at this - we worked our bodies hard to achieve this perfection that women sought. We snared, we begat, we nurtured our begatlings. Only now are we all learning that in actual fact, the soft thing, it's not so much a big deal, in fact we were kind of lucky. The Clooney thing, aged man with body of teenager - that's the thing.

George Clooney aged 109

So with a weary self-awareness we sink deeper into our sofas, covering ourselves with cushions, thinking in one global thought. Shit, I never saw this coming.

Me aged 37.

I am no slouch, I exercise. But these bloody aged actors are making it exceptionally difficult for the ordinary young man.


Pah! Back to the press-ups.

A ROAST POTATO OR A YORKSHIRE PUDDING

We all hate queuing don’t we? But we hold it up as one of those eccentric bastions of Britishness that make us the proud nation we are, like knotted handkerchiefs, sitting on a beach in the rain forcing ourselves to enjoy it because, ‘we are on holiday’ and Yorkshire Puddings, those joyous puffy dishes of cholesterol designed to hold gravy and not really go with any kind of food whatsoever. Which reminds me; food value, a common debate in our house is the comparative value of food on a plate. (I will get back to queuing later – as this blog has now turned into food value).

a recent queue for an Apple something.

Breakfast Food Value.

It would be a strange family where everyone liked the same food. So, when sat in a café or hotel and breakfast is being served – more to the point a Full English – there are items that some people won’t eat. My wife won’t eat eggs or mushrooms; I am not so keen on tomatoes and can survive without beans. But are these four foodstuffs all of equal value?

This is what happens to food when it is not exchanged by the correct rules.
Do you want to be responsible for this? Do you? DO YOU?!

In her mind an egg is equal to a rasher of bacon – but no – meat is instantly elevated to its own food value category. This is based on volume and weight. A sausage is equal to two rashers, this is food fact. So what is an egg equal to? Maybe two tomatoes – but only when scrambled, a single fried egg is only equal only to one. I am happy to concede a scoop of beans to a scoop of mushrooms – this seems a fair trade. Fried bread is not equal to a hash brown – a fried egg and fried bread is equal to a hash brown – or some beans and mushrooms combined. Here is the matrix of food bargaining that is available at breakfast:

I was surprised to find this was the first image
on Google under sausage. You Googlers are a filthy bunch.

The Breakfast Matrix:

Sausage = X2 bacon or X bacon + scrambled egg + mushrooms
Bacon = X1 small sausage or a hash brown and X1 fried egg
Egg (scrambled) = X2 tomatoes
Egg (fried) = X1 tomato
Hash Brown = X1 fried bread + X1 fried egg or X1 fried bread + either mushrooms or beans
Baked Beans = X1 scoop of mushrooms or X1 tomato
Mushrooms = X1 scoop of beans or X1 tomato
Tomato = X1 scoop of beans or X1 scoop of mushrooms
Black Pudding = nothing – never swap your Black Pudding.


Lunch/Tea/Supper/Dinner Food Value.

With breakfast out of the way – let us turn our attention to lunch/tea/supper/dinner (read the meal name as per your class). Meat doesn’t come into food value in these meals as you would be a fool to order a meal featuring as its primary constituent part a foodstuff that you were compelled to swap. However, vegetables and their gourmet colleagues can be a minefield. Roast potatoes are often the cause of more marriage break-ups than nay other food. This is simply because each person does not have a shared perspective of their high value. Is a roast potato worth a slop of spinach? Of course not! Roasts can only be exchanged for three things ever; a Yorkshire Pudding (although whether this is one or two is a very fluid negotiation that needs to be entered into at the time of bidding), a generous scoop of mash, and very posh fries. It is a foolish man/woman who ever tries to take this food value to any other area. The Yorkshire Pudding is slightly more transient, it can be offered up to combinations of vegetables, but may only be exchanged prior to application of gravy, a Yorkshire Pudding daubed in meat sauce will negate any deal, be warned. The rest of your plate is a simple bargaining process based on weights and measures – all legumes share an Orwellian egalitarianism, except cauliflower cheese. Here is your crib sheet on main meal value:

Some people who were foolish enough to enter into food negotiations blindly

The Lunch/Tea/Supper/Dinner Matrix

Roast potatoes = X1 (or X2 dependent on girth) Yorkshire Puddings or X1 entire single serving of mash or half a single serving of posh fries
Yorkshire Puddings = X1 roast potato (or X2 dependent on girth) or X1 entire single serving of mash or half a single serving of posh fries
Mash potato = X1 roast potato or X1 (or X2 dependent on girth) Yorkshire Puddings or half a single serving of posh fries
Posh Fries (only ever exchange half a serving = X1 (or X2 dependent on girth) Yorkshire Puddings or X1 entire single serving of mash
Cauliflower Cheese = X1 small roast potato or half a serving of mash or a quarter of a serving of posh fries
Cauliflower = all vegetables are equal
Carrots = all vegetables are equal
Peas = all vegetables are equal
Spinach = all vegetables are equal
Leaks = all vegetables are equal
Asparagus = all vegetables are equal
Broccoli = all vegetables are equal
Sprouts = all vegetables are equal
Cabbage = all vegetables are equal
Parsnips = all vegetables are equal

This list is seemingly endless so apply all the rule you have learned here to all other vegetables – although I would be happy to hear from you about anomalies as this help prove the rule.

The prize. The Irish have always known the true value of the potato.
My granny once gave me a meal with four different types of potato. Happy times.

I have only covered tradition British eating here – there is a more complex matrix that needs to be applied when entering the realms of French Haute Cuisine and Mediterranean foods, as there are very important considerations such as is a sun blushed tomato of equal value to a sun dried tomato? (This is something that Plato attempted to tackle and failed). Also is a terrine equal to a seafood mousse? But these I will deal with on another day – as you must learn to walk before you can swap with confidence.

Please feel free to add your own Food Values, they may be wrong, but I am happy to consider them.

MAN UP OR MAN DOWN

The company of men and what it means to be a man and how you deal with manship is a preoccupation for many men. It is an interesting state. While we all accept life is a joyous cornucopia of different beings, this is rarely put into practice on man things. Male partners across the world are forced unnaturally into man-thing groups, much the same as the children of parents who are friends, shuffling uncomfortably in a front room forced to play together when quite frankly they have less in common than bread and concrete.

Concrete - as you can see - it has cracks in it much like a cracker - but a cracker is not bread.

I like all my male friends, which is why they are my friends, I have chosen them and vice versa, but have you ever observed a group of men who are relative strangers at a social gathering? At a BBQ, they are all stood round the hot coals clutching their beers gazing at the sizzling meat. This, contrary to popular female belief, is not a group of men bonding, it is an awkward group of emotionally fearful men staring at something in a desperate attempt to come up with a witty and generally appealing remark. Unlike, our female counterpoints we don’t actually have generic conversation. Football? Really? In this day and age this is a high risk opening gambit, especially for me, and I know I am not alone. If you are in a group of men all stood around in football shirts (apart from being in hell) you are on safe ground, if not however, you will be in the company of one or all of these types.

Football bore, knows too much because his life is empty, you will be stuck listening to this person forever.

Passionate fan, will get so animated talking about his beloved team he will give you an impromptu spittle shower.

Fair weather fan, this person knows very little but is so desperate to look informed and be one of the ‘chaps’ that he will agree to every comment, get names wrong, and strangely seems to have knowledge of only one season back in 1982 when he had bought a Panini sticker album and memorised all the players.

A football. I had to look this up - I expected a ball with lots of tiny feet on it.

But lets not restrict the crippling awkwardness to football, oh no, there are a myriad of topics for men to flail around at out. Cars! Here is a conversation I had recently – shortly after this conversation began all the other men stood around at the party slipped away like Arnold Schwarzenegger when he caked himself in mud to hide from Predator:

City Male: (stood feet a firm shoulder width apart, beer in hand, shirt with colour up (and WTF is that about?) tucked in black jeans, sensible brogues on feet, clean shaven, filling as much space with his body as he can) So, Martin…
Me: (wearing shorts, a pair of Birkenstocks, t-shirt, full beard and not really trying to even be present in this dimension) Ermm… it’s Simon…
CM: Yeah of course, ha ha… as I was saying Martin… what are you driving these days?
Me: (attempting lame joke just to lighten the conversational crisis I have found myself in) You mean apart from sheep?
CM: (blank look as joke bounces off his not metaphorically thick head) Are you a farmer?
ME: Err no, I am not… I have a Peug….
CM: (cutting through me) I drive a 5 Series … she’s a beast (I recoil physically at him saying beast, I also expect him to describe his wife as a ‘sturdy lass who goes well, not bad for a filly with a previous owner)

At this point it is important to note – I don’t know what a 5 Series is. But I am prepared to bluff.

CM: continuing: Of course this would be quite useful in your line of work (Eh? Works in theatre – not much call for any cars in theatre) with all those sheep, you could fit them all in the boot Martin.
ME: (look of despair) Ermm I am not a farmer… that was a joke.. I work in theatre… and my name isn’t..
CM: Why did you say you were a farmer Martin? That is a bit odd..
ME: I drive a Peugeot. (look of defiance)
CM: Ha ha ha …. you are a funny man Martin a funny funny man (then he does that punching the shoulder thing, why? Why would you just hit a stranger? This also spills my cucumber martini onto my feet, at which point a dog comes and licks it up)

Farmers are a bit more tooled up these days.

So I am left standing with a man who thinks I am a farmer called Martin who jokes about his car ownership supping a half spilled cucumber martini whilst a dog gets pissed licking it from my naked feet in opened toed sandals. This, female partners, is how us males get humiliated every time you put us into all male environments expecting us to be able to cope.

THE CHERRY ORCHARD. NOT A REVIEW OR MAYBE IT IS, I'M NOT SURE.

This isn’t a review, it is just some thoughts. And bloody hell is it hard to write a blog on a phone on the late train home!?

I often wonder if Chekov had any affection for any of his characters, he seems to sit like a Grandfather once removed from emotional attachment - to the point of ambivalence - looking at his series of grandchildren, playing, goading and failing in their lives, not giving them unconditional love or a rescue from their emotional pratfalls.

The Cherry Orchard at The National taps into this detachment perfectly, maybe too perfectly. Although I will say, for once, his ambivalence is tempered through humour though and it is here that the warmth does bleed through, a warmth of humour so often overlooked by directors in the earnest study of a Russia in flux. What stood out to me most in this production is how prescient (I have used this word twice in as many blog entries - I need to get another word) the writing (aided by historical hindsight) was, coaxed out in the translation with a very modern speech patterns, and how it seemed remarkably apposite to our current political situation, I feel that there no mistake in the subtext of Englishness of the production.

It is easy to see now how each character is on the precipice of a new and fundamentally altered existence. The loss of the old guard in Ranevskaya and her brother, the downward class mobility of her daughters with quiet acceptance, the rise of the middle-classes following the abolition of serfdom, seen in Lopakhin, hollow victories in economics but still unable to rise above the reverence that history forces him to bestow on Ranevskaya. Tragically, we sit there knowing that for all of their achievements, in a few years they will have to relinquish it to the communist state. The eternal student Trofimov, naïve yet inspiring, is about to get his utopia and will undoubtedly embrace it regardless of the dissatisfaction it will engender - making me very concious of the adage, 'Careful what you wish for.'

The servants, although used as tools to book-end the scenes remain the most keenly drawn characters, reflecting the reality away from the grandiose mechanics of class struggle, economic power struggles and the eve of revolution. These are people who are living their lives, giddy and love-struck, predatory and selfish, foolish and aspirational and empty without purpose. These are the characters audiences identify with, humans moving from day to day, responding to the changes in their lives that they have no power to control, surviving how best they can.

In short I thoroughly loved the production, Zoë Wanamaker fantastically conveys a woman stalling the inevitable and in acceptance of her flaws embraces them and holds them up with an emotional superiority to all her question her. Mark Bonnar is urgent, pious and everything we have come to expect from a proto-revolutionary. Kenneth Cranham, so deathly I fear for his health, but greatest praise for the complexity of Conleth Hill’s performance, portraying the middle-class angst with such (and literal) dexterity.


Go and see it if you can.

I HAVE TO GIVE SENSIBLE ANSWERS TO MY KIDS OR THE END OF BULLSHIT

It has finally happened. The period of bullshitting our kids has come to an end. Here are a couple of examples that I have been shot down with recently.

Ginger: Can the tooth fairy carry paper money?
Me: No, the wind tends to catch it and they get blown off course and often into lawn mowers tearing their tiny limbs apart, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that by just being greedy would you?
Ginger: Actually, I am not being greedy, paper money is lighter than metal money. They could fold it up. And nobody cuts their grass at night.

some marketing genius has taken tooth and fairy and created a scary soft hybrid

And


Blondie: Can I ask Father Christmas for a computer?
Me: Oh course not, he is old, does he look like the kind of man who could build a computer? Asking him to will only embarrass him and he will spend hours worrying about it when he could be making toys for other children. This will mean that your request prevents hundreds, possibly thousands of other children from getting presents and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that would you?
Blondie: That is why I am asking now. Christmas is ages away. He doesn’t get busy until after the Summer and Granny can use a computer.

I am pretty sure this is the kind of computer she had in mind, thus justifying my response

It is also the small crap you say to divert a needless purchase like Moshi Monster cards;

Me: Oh you don't need those Moshi Monster cards, I have asked the shop guy and he says the ones in the packet are the ones you already have.
Ginger: You are lying Daddy. Stop lying to me.
Me: (in my head only) It isn't my lies you have to worry about, it is the lies of the 'system' the lies of men and women in positions of power that will screw you over. (perhaps too harsh for a seven year old).

or the tiny lies you spout to prevent having to invite the dreadful child that has somehow become their friend from coming round;

Me: OK, but we are a bit busy right now, but I will promise I will speak to her Mum and we can invite her round next week.
Blondie: You said that last week. You always break your promises. We are not busy, Mummy asked you to put up the pictures and you are still slying on the sofa.
Me: (in my head only) Get used to it kid, you have no idea what promises me and your Mum are going to break when you are old enough to start dating people.

It has become apparent that all these excuses and nano-lies are now being logged in their tiny little minds and are jockying in readiness to be hurled back at us with exocet precision at a moment when they will do the most damage. What is worse is they are shaming us, and in public now.

I have to change my gameplan a little, it is truth versus inoccence time once again.

YES OR NO

Today you should vote. You will be voting on AV, and perhaps you will be voting in your local election. There are some things that you should remember every time you vote.

These are things that my Grandfather told me when I came of age to vote and they are surprisingly prescient given that this was 1992 and the adult playground called twitter had not been invented. My Grandfather's funeral was the same day as an election, the last thing said at his funeral was, 'before going to the reception, go and vote.' So here are his wise words.

• Don't vote for someone because your friends are or because it is fashionable or a celebrity told you
• Vote for someone because you think it is right
• Don't be bullied into voting one way or another
• A politician shouldn't expect your vote, they should win it
• You are not stupid if you don't understand their politics, they haven't communicated it properly so ask them to explain it more
• Don't vote blindly, find out as much as you can before you vote
• Don't dismiss the alternative view out of hand, listen to it first
• Most important of all, do vote

ODDS OR EVENS

Competition is a lovely thing in the right hands. I am neither a right wing ‘competition is all, losers should be scraped into the drains’ type person, nor am I a left wing ‘everyone should just join in and stand around until nobody wins’ type person. Inclusiveness is key and the correct tone should be set for ever endeavour.



The case-in-point is our street party. At 12noon, the Royal Wedding happened, then people charged out en mass to set up tables and chairs, share good humour, food and drink. The actual subject of the Royal Wedding barely raised its head through the day. There were those who were high on the pomp and circumstance, and there were those who really couldn’t give a stuff about the Royals but had been offered a chance to converse and play with their immediate community. Then began a small slice of times gone by, the competitions.


Cake competition. Lots of kids entered truly awe inspiring creations, made from rice, and other such ummm…. things that kids make cakes out of. There was a winner, they were happy; the young’uns that didn’t win weren’t too bothered.

Cakes - loads of cakes - some were winners too

Egg and spoon race. Lots of kids entered. I fucked up a little here as I was supposed to have boiled the eggs. I didn’t. So seconds before the race I was taping eggs to spoons of the youngest entrants to give them a fighting chance. Most of the little blighters still managed to drop the whole egg and spoon ensemble. There were admittedly a few upset kids in this race – but this is mainly because there was no winner.



All races need a start. Not all races need a finish (think human).


Welly throwing. Nobody won this either. In fact, thanks to some cava fuelled throwing we nearly only had losers. Sorry about your front door Phil.

The clever ones amongst you will notice this is in fact an egg splat and not a welly.

Hat competition. I didn’t know we had this competition. Some kids won. They were happy.

This hat would have won. It didn't. Lady Gaga was not
 present at our street party either, as far as we know.

Sack Race. I won (some call it a draw). I was happy. My eldest was beaming.

We made the sacks race each other with male jockeys riding them.
Some people thought this was cruel. We returned the sacks to the wild after the race.

Tug of War. Also known as the Main Event. This was the moment when everyone could settle their differences with their neighbours opposite. It was Odds vs. Evens. You can imagine the heady scent of testosterone as we all marched down to the 'theatre of Tug'. It was decided there would be three Tugs; Male adults, Female adults and Children. There was a great deal of forest noise making, and from the most unlikely sources. Collectively, us (and boy do I mean us) admin-based-commuting-withered-limb males could stand tall with our fishermen, builder and body-building brothers by a different house. Flip-flops were discarded and hands were dried on our nervous children’s clothing. The call went out to ‘take the strain’ and within that instant 50 males who, only five minutes prior had been conversing about the disruption caused by the airport extension whilst sipping on a flute of fizz, turned into sweating, heaving, growling beasts. Veins popped, children sped on the wings of infantile pride to hysteria, their shrill cries of ‘pull, come-on, pull’ attracting dogs for three counties. Wives, girlfriends, sisters, mothers and grandmothers intent on treating this tawdry masculine willy waving competition with the scorn it deserved were all sucked into the gladiatorial heat of battle. There were promises of all kinds of fringe benefits being tossed at the potential victors, from kids being sent to bed *ahem* early to being reinstated in the inheritance. With dogs barking and snapping at the duellist’s ankles and meagre muscles starting to ache more than they did when we last put up a shed, a roar went out from our side. A roar that galvanised Team Odds in the final sinew tearing tug. We pulsed with this roar, all our excel spreadsheet angst, our ektron web management frustration travelled to our palms and pulled at once. We won. This battle was reincarnated three times. Odds won each Tug. Later, as we were all chatting and trying not to let the shaking muscles show, it transpired that the roar was caused by the guy in front of me treading on a stone and hurting his foot.

Imagine 50 men holding this at groin height, yup you get what I am saying....

There was no prize except the pride of a street coming together and having fun. The general consensus? Sure the Royal Wedding was fun, but the street party even better, we should have one every year regardless of the occasion, in fact the street party IS the occasion.


Roll on 2012 and the Street Olympics.

BEING NICE OR NOT (ANYMORE)

I am going to give up being nice to people. Generally I am a nice person, sure I will cut you down to your ankles with a barbed comment if I feel I have to, but on balance I enjoy helping a fellow human in a moment of strife. Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to re-mortgage my house and give the money to a leading charity, I am talking about the small things here, the things that don’t take me out of my way, a door held open for someone who looks as though they might need it, a smile to a stranger who looks really forlorn but also happens to be staring intently at me, a gentle reminder that an item of clothing is about to be left on a train. Those kinds of things. I am not about to save the planet with them and I am certainly not going to change somebody’s life with this generosity of spirit, but, until now, continue to do them I have (that sounded a bit like Yoda, sorry. He was quite a nice person too. I am not saying I am nice, although I am, that is for others to decide, oh hell now I sound like a politician, they are not nice, well some of them are I am sure, but they are not known for it. I’ll stop typing for a moment)….

This is Yoda. I am a little bit taller, less old looking, and not so green in complexion

I am not seeking thanks for any of these acts, although a cheeky wink or a nod of acknowledgement is always lovely. I am pre-programmed to do these gargantuan benevolent deeds, striding the planet like a Colossus of good will, because that is how I was brought up. As most of you are I am sure.

This is Colossus (of Rhodes - if you want his full address)
Again I am not as old or green. I am actually this tall though.

This morning however, I did all of the aforementioned acts and one by one was faced with unprecedented curmudgeon. This has shaken me to my core of reasonableness. Let me take you (by the hand and lead you through the streets of London, sorry, again. I am not focusing enough today) through these bizarre events.


Episode I (train)

(Train pulls into station, man gets up sorts him self out, I do the same. I notice he has left his jacket on the shelf, he is clearly about to leave the carriage)

Me: Excuse me, hello, I think you may have left your jacket behind.
Man: No I haven’t. (barked)
Me: Oh sorry, I thought it was yours.
Man: It is mine, I haven’t left behind (he is on the platform and I am on the train, I’ll let you decide. He also barked this at me)
Me: Oh OK (puts jacket back on shelf)
Man: For fucks sake (pushes by to collect jacket, pushes by me again to alight train)


Episode II (street)

Me: (ambling along, note person walking towards me is just plain staring at me. I smile in a friendly ‘How Do You Do’ kind of way)
Streetwalker*: WHAT?! (then they suck their teeth at me, mutter something and walk on)

* I am not suggesting they were a prostitute – just someone walking along the street


Episode III (door)

Me: (sees person - I shall not genderise this moment – both hands full making way towards the door I am using. They have a small way to go, I think ‘I have got the time to be nice, I can wait. Adopts nonchalant door holding pose so as not to harass ‘person’)
Non Gender Specific Person: (Literally shouts at me) I CAN OPEN A DOOR FOR MYSELF, I AM NOT A CRIPPLED WOMAN. (darn it, let gender out of the bag)
Me: Oh.. um… I was just being nice.
NGSP: REALLY?! I DOUBT THAT. (pushed out onto street)


So. In short, you three miserable bastards that I met today have just ruined it for everyone.

HOLD THE LINE CALLER OR WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE.....

Long before the time of such TV pearls as Fonejacker appeared, there was only one true great prank caller. My wife. Her accents are myriad, she can be a child, and aged male, a deeply entrenched indigenous persona of any county, or she can be a combination of any of the former and much much more. Her knowledge of vowel and consonant use for every brogue in existence is simply baffling. Her accents do not stay tethered to this Fair Isle either, there are very few continents and their countries that she is not mistress of, except the US Boston accent, I still think my Boston is better than hers. In fact, on one occasion, as a non Spanish speaking person herself, she was able to confuse a Spaniard into thinking she was talking in an obscure Catalan dialect. We have had great amusement over the years at the expense of our extended family, calling randomly with ‘sales calls’ ‘lost zoo animals’ ‘evidence of law breaking’, the list is goes on. It did get a little too much when there came a point that I stopped accepting calls at work because I simply didn’t know if it genuinely was Tatler after a location for a shoot involving ballet dancers stood on zebras. But there was one particular moment we haven’t quite owned up to as yet. The Scottish Lady.

These are zebras. You will notice that they do not have ballet dancers on their backs.

We have a dear friend, who we shall call Eric Closet for the purpose of this story. Eric is a gay man, at the time of this occurrence a ‘not out to his parents’ gay man. He works in an industry that takes him all over the country and globe staying in rather nice hotels. On this occasion he was the North of the UK, in a hotel known well to my wife. It is basically the one you wish you could stay in as opposed to the other one which is nice, but not as special. He had finished a week long residency, things had gone well, some things had gone badly – but the crux of it was, he was pleased to be heading home to his ‘friends’. He is settled in on the train, it is a Sunday, and the train is packed. He gets a call on his mobile.

Here is the UK - it has a North bit. See if you can find it.

Scottish Lady: Halloo, I’m really embarrassed by this, I would never really do it normally, but I ..I..just had to call you. Sorry, is this Mr Closet?
Eric Closest: Hello. Who is this?
SL: Oh, you won’t know me. I wish you did know me (giggles coyly). This is Mr Closet isn’t it?
EC: Yes. Sorry I didn’t catch your name. (Eric is one of the politest people you will ever meet. He never gets angry. We would all have hung up by now).
SL: Oooh I am glad it is you. Your voice sounds so nice. Sorry, I’m a wee bit shy.. oh yes (giggles) my name is Shelagh. (sorry Shequeen – but it was the name she used - you are no way implicated in this whatsoever)
EC: OK, and how can I help, Shelagh? (still achingly polite)
SL: Errm… well it is just that I saw you at the Hotel… and well I thought you were well…. Very attractive.
EC: Oh. Well I am very flattered. But, well I am really sorry but how did you get my number?
SL: Oh.. well… I… ummm asked at the front desk for your name and phone number.. I know its wrong, but I think you are sooo sexy.
EC: (why at this point he hasn’t hung up we will never know – it is a testament to his niceness) You know that is really inappropriate don’t you? They really shouldn’t have given you my number. I am not particularly happy with this.
SL: I know, but I had too. I saw you so many times. I fell in love with you, I just hoped you noticed me?
EC: I don’t think I did. But I am in a relationship so this isn’t really appropriate. (he wasn’t)
SL: Oh I know you are just saying that. Anyway I don’t mind. I think you must remember me. Blonde hair, tall, good boobs?
EC: No I am very sorry I don’t. I really don’t think we should continue talking. I am… as I said, in a relationship.
SL: Well that disnae matter. I don’t mind that you are married.
EC: No, it is not that.
SL: Do you think we could maybe meet? I am sure you will find me attractive. You are a very gorgeous man… I cannae stop thinking about you.
EC: NO (starting to get a little impolite). Please, I am really sorry, I am flattered but no. I am going to end this now.
SL: Noo don’t, Eric. You dinnae mind me calling you that do you. I have gone to a lot of trouble to get your number, the least you could do is talk to me (voice turning a little bit colder a little bit more menacing)
EC: (again – why hasn’t he hung up? And by the way me and Wife are absolutely pissing ourselves that she has got this far without being rumbled) I do mind. I find it and invasion of my privacy. The Hotel should not have given you my number. I am very unhappy by this.
SL: (really quite cold voice now, threatening undertones) Well Eric. I didn’t think you would be like this. I thought you were a nice man. You won’t even give me a try? What is wrong with you. It has taken a lot of courage to call you and you treat me like this?!
EC: (why the niceness Eric? Why?) I am very sorry you feel that way. (she is a random nutter who is stalking you – hang up hang up) But it would never work out between us. (WTF?! You don’t know her why are you reasoning?)
SL: You don’t know that Eric. You said you didn’t remember me Eric. Eric I find your tone to be a little rude. You are being dismissive Eric. I don’t like to be dismissed. (I personally would be extremely worried at this point – instead I have a pillow over my face and tears running down my cheeks)
EC: For God’s sake I am GAY! (silence) (we are hurting from internalising the laughter) (I have a picture of a full carriage of Sunday travellers stopping mid-journey bustle and just looking at Eric. Parents explaining to small ones what gay is. Couples nudging each other either saying, ‘I knew it’ or ‘You’d never have guessed’. A lady or two looking crestfallen (because he is a devilishly attractive man). A man or two moving seat to get a better view).
SL: (breezy voice) Oh OK Eric. Nae mind, good bye.

(phone goes dead)


So the rest of the day, we flip between cold sweats of thinking, did we push it too far? to outbursts of hysterical giggling. Eventually Eric appears on our doorstep. We do deadpan faces. We ask him about his week, the Hotel, his trip home. He tells us the whole tale of the mad stalker. We remain stony faced and caring, muttering things like ‘terrible’, ‘invasion’, ‘what kind of a person would do that’….

This is pretty much the shame we felt.
Thanks Angel October 28, 2008 5:36 am
from curiousanimals.net - you helped me visualise my inner torment

We are on the verge of coming clean and then he tells us that he has called the Hotel and blasted them for giving his details out. They denied it, obviously, he threatened all sorts of legal action over data protection. We went a quite a bit cold here. You know that tiny icy hand on your heart feeling? We suddenly felt like the two worst people in the room….. um obviously. We hurriedly left the room together to huddle in the kitchen…
’what the bloody hell should we do? We can’t come clean now because it will make him look foolish with the Hotel.’
‘But he doesn’t have to speak to the Hotel again, he can just drop it.’
OK we would confess, before it goes any further.

As we stepped back into our front room – Eric was accepting a free weekend from the Hotel as compensation. We kept quiet.


Hope you enjoyed the weekend Eric. XX

THE NHS OR HOW MY FAMILY WAS SAVED

Mothers Day made me think, just for a short while mind - as the rest of the day was spent trying to ‘look’ as though I was doing extra to prevent my wife from having to do too much. But think I did.

Everybody in this wonderful country of ours will have been touched by the greatness of the NHS, either directly or indirectly. It has been there for us all, trips to the GP for run of the mill ailments, dashes to A&E for… well Accidents and Emergencies, and routine hospital appointments for those routine medical treatments. Sadly it would appear that in a few years time we may all wake up and not have this gigantic safety net to our lives. I could go into reasons why this is happening but they seem pretty well documented all over the interweb. I guess the crux of my point here is that more or less we all get our money’s worth. I know that a machine as gargantuan as the NHS will have its weak points, this is to be expected, and yes it should strive to be a smooth running, lean 100% success rate entity. This is unrealistic I think. But as far as I can tell it does pretty darn well.

The ideological changes that are proposed seem to be akin to looking at a large clock that, on occasion, runs a little slow. Instead of giving it a good oil and a tighten here and there, more commonly known as a full service on regular occasions, it has been decided that we should just tear out some old bits and stick in some new potentially incompatible parts. Parts that won’t come with a warranty, parts that are not designed to work in sympathy with the larger model, parts that will require their own regular system of checking, parts that will be unable to communicate with the rest of the machine. I would like to be proven incorrect.

My own experiences with the NHS are many, some good, some not so good. It is worth mentioning here that the not so good were still pretty good and that if you are not getting the information/service you feel you should be, you need to be vocal about it, people have a tendency to moan to family and friends, when a little polite moan to the manager does wonders. The NHS cannot improve if they don’t know what they are doing wrong.

But let’s concentrate on the good. The frontline cuts that are happening could have prevented me from having a wife and two children. There are 30 maternity wards undergoing or at risk from closure along with many A&E dpeartments, let alone what is happening to PCTs, the least that should happen is that A&Es are kept open to cope with the potential disasters that the PCT chaos will cause.

Several years ago my wife was rushed to hospital with placental abruption. Sooo much blood! She was rushed into emergency surgery where our doctor… hang on I have to add this point…our doctor had been Saddam Hussein’s obstetrician and had been smuggled out of Iraq with her two children in suitcases because her and her husband had refused to bend to his will and were going to be sentenced to death…(this is a longer story, I have simplified it). Anyway, there we are, wife haemorrhaging like a crazy bleeding thing and Ginger getting more and more distressed, our Doctor starts barking orders at people to move just a little bit quicker in order to save both mother and child. Ginger is born at 29 weeks weighing 1lbs 15oz. There had been a knot in the umbilical cord hence she was so small. Off Ginger went to intensive care for 10 weeks, we learnt to be parents by changing her little body through holes in her ice cream tub (incubator). There were ups and downs, we were zombies for most of the time. Occasional light relief came in doing little voices for her when the Doctors did their rounds, and then there was the competition for space in the freezer for pumped breast milk. You would walk onto the ward in the morning and there would be 10 women pumping their boobs for all it was worth, labelling it up and jamming it in the only spaces left in the freezer… a mammary, sorry memory that will never leave me. If anyone wants to help out a NICU/PICU ward ask them if they need a new freezer, I bet they say yes. All the care was second to none, from absolutely everyone involved. And on top of the care was the advice, in particular from one nurse, as we were stood crying over Ginger’s tub, ‘Why are you crying? Who is that going to help? She needs parents not people crying, pull yourselves together and get on with it.’ Advice doesn’t get more useful than this. Ginger is growing up (way too quickly), my wife survived and we now have a second child, Blondie.

So all in all the NHS did us proud. There will be others in the same position as us in the near future, but they won’t have the same joyful outcome because their maternity ward won’t exist, they won’t have Doctors available, or an accountant will have decided that those lives are not profitable enough to save because they will involve spending more money than they are prepared to allocate in that quarter.


So what does the NHS need? In my humble opinion, it needs oiling, it needs regular check-ups. It doesn’t need replacement parts that may never be delivered, leaving a hole that will never be filled and that will put lives at risk.

And to think after all this, all Ginger and Blondie bought their mother was a tin coffee pot.
If you want to help Prem Babies - have a look at Bliss

MY POEM OF LAST FRIDAY

Here is a twitter poem I wrote on the train last Friday whilst faced with a man who I thought was about to die. I hoped Art would save him. Twitter doesn't do a reversed timeline so read it from the bottom.

If you read this with Roger McGough's voice it is almost good.

LET'S HAVE A STREET PARTY - FOR ME

We are having a street party. This, for me, is the most extraordinary thing. My wife is organising it. Basically the whole road thinks she is doing this to mark the Royal Wedding, but in actual fact she is doing it to silence my incessant griping about the fact I missed the street party that happened in New Eltham at the last Royal Wedding, aged 8. I have carried this bitterness around with me, like Richard III’s throne envy, ever since. At parties and social gatherings whenever the conversation turns to, ‘do you remember when we were kids, and we all had those street parties for the Royal Wedding, wasn’t it great?!’ my wife has become increasingly adept at either shutting the conversation down Alastair Campbell style, or physically ejecting me at least to ten yards from the centre of debate before I launch into the, ‘O woe is me response.’

Let’s cover off two facts:

1. I am not overly fussed by the ‘Royalness’ of the wedding. I am not particularly anti, and I probably wouldn’t go on a march to uphold them. It is the excuse to have one fabulous Chas ‘n’ Dave style knees up with all my neighbours, the ones I know and the ones I will hopefully be firm chums with post event.

2. Yes I have been at one other street party. I was four, it was the Silver Jubilee. This party happened in Torrance, East Dunbartonshire or as I understand it, soon to be sucked fully into Glasgow. We lived on a new-build estate, it was the epitome of 70s community life, fathers in jeans a little too tight round the groin and far too loose at the ankle all sporting the most impressive moustaches and mothers wearing lurid floral patterns woven into the most flammable mixes of viscose and polyester known to man. This should be a happy memory. I was dressed as a thief for the fancy dress competition, this, no-doubt, was a witty comment by my parents on the strength of ill-feeling towards them for arriving and ‘stealing’ jobs from the Scottish, my father from Belfast and my mother from London. I didn’t win the fancy dress competition. My enduring memory of this occasion was the ginger kid who lived opposite taking my Evel Knievel and burying it in the undeveloped land over the back of our house. This alone has ruined my early experience of Street Parties.

We were on the wrong side of the resonance of this play

Look at how we all looked - aren't we funny (this is not us, it is random people)

I will never see him again *wipes tear*

With this already starting to eat away at my tender psyche, the news that on the 29th July 1982 we would be having a street party was, to quote Tina Turner, Simply the Best. The next thing I am about to say, shows me up for the belligerent little ingrate I was as a child.

My parents had booked a holiday in France. I wouldn’t be at the Street Party. My soul was rent from my body. The holiday was booked before the day was announced and certainly before the Street Party was announced. But I was 8. I could not conceive the practicalities of losing hard earned money so that the brattish member of the family could eat jam sandwiches off a Union Jack plate.

It is a plate - but it is also a flag. Genius

Just imagine this on a plate that you could also use on a flag. Double genius

I was sullen, lying on the back seat of the car under the duvet that all parents at that time used as a seat belt to protect their children on a long journey. Occasionally kicking my sister whose legs had strayed into my seat allocation. Sucking miserably on my quarter of cola cubes I had bought for the journey. We didn’t have the luxury of a Walkman at this time so I was forced to listen to my parents’ radio choices or morosely read comics. We dragged our caravan through the South of England, across half of France and onto a (really rather nice) campsite in Saint-Jean-de-Monts.

Now this is a beach. It goes for ages that way - and if you turned around ages the other way too

And our two week holiday began, far away from the Street Party I knew I was missing. If you take away the fact that I was missing the Street Party, it was one of the best ruddy holidays I had as a child. Moules, frites, les glaces, croissants, le baguette, les fromages, Orangina – all in endless supply. I had adventures too! My mum had to dig a tick out of my forehead, a couple got burned in a tent explosion (umm look this was nearly 30 years ago – it was exciting, I hope they are OK now obviously). The beach was vast and sandy, they had these Bugsy Malone style racing cars you could ride all over the place. It was just intense fun from beginning to end. Except for the 29th July. This day, of all days, was washing day. My mother and I watched the Royal Wedding on a black and white TV in a campsite launderette. The news feed kept cutting to scenes of the British public all over the UK sitting at tables in their roads! This still excites me, actually putting a table in the middle of a road and eating at it, this is so anarchic and on a day that celebrates Royalism.

Imagine watching your friends having fun on one of these. Yes, now you are with me aren't you.

In short – I was sad this day. When we returned (once again, thank you Mum and Dad for one of the best holidays ever) I was greeted, not only by that depression that the rest of the summer holiday now is just treading water because the best bit has happened, but also by all my frigging mates telling me what a ruddy good time they had had without me. This has haunted me ever since.

I am neither American or a girl - but this is what a 'haunting' looks like

My wife is taking my memories by the ankles, holding them up like a newborn and spanking them until they cry, for this April, we shall have a Street Party. And I will be the man with the biggest grin because I will know it is all for me.

FIRST NIGHT PINCHY MOMENTS OR BE KIND TO CELEBRITIES THEY ARE HUMAN TOO

There are some moments in life that, in our house, are referred to a ‘pinchy moments’. These are those tangible little highs that you get when you meet somebody, see something or get upgraded to First on your flight to Newquay (the last one was a lie). The younger generation probably call these OMG moments, but we kids of the 70s are sticking to the physical violence of a pinch. I have been fortunate to have experienced many of these, and hopefully will continue to do so. But this isn’t about the ‘pinchy moments’; this is about the daft ‘almost pinchy moments’ of first nights.

In my view, the under part of the arm is the most painful place to be pinched. There and the testicles.

As the husband of a commercial theatre wife who worked for a well known West End Producer for many years, it has been my pleasure to attend more first nights than Biggins (I know this to be fact because he wasn’t at all of the ones I was at, ergo I have put the time in where he has quite frankly slacked off).



There are 6 basic rules about being the spouse at your partner’s first night:
1. You are always on time (I try to be this – however it is quite tricky when your wife’s idea of on time is actually arriving in a different time zone. Remember Singapore @FiMagill? Six hours early at an airport will never be acceptable in my book, and this was before 9/11)

2. You are on best behaviour. (I can do this, but there is a cut off time when you can start to drink too much and steal Dawn French’s bottle of champagne. I didn’t do this)

3. You must sit with all the other spouses of the show down at the front of the stalls. (These seats are invariably the most cramped, as a 6’ 2” man this always means that my knees are troubling my ears. There would be considerably more smoothly executed births if maternity wards bought the front four rows of any auditorium)

4. You must give a standing ovation. (I hate this – I am not a stander. Also, I don’t wish hurt the feelings of any producer, writer, director or actor, but a standing ovation on a first night has as much value as trying to spend Lira in Italy. We stand to keep our partners in an occupation. I have stood at some of the worst theatrical guano I have ever seen. It is not a sincere act)

5. You must learn a whole raft of platitudes to get you out of the dreaded, ‘Well?’ question. (Some of the best ones are, ‘The staging was, well, you know.’ And ‘I was just saying to [insert name] the production values were, well you know.’ And ‘the characterisation, I said to [insert name] was, well you know.’)

6. LEARN THE NAMES AND THE FACES OF THE CAST AND CREATIVES. (I cannot stress this one enough. To be asked by the composer, ‘Did you enjoy it?’ and to respond, ‘I liked it, but I still think I prefer his earlier stuff’ is not acceptable, there is not enough egg in the world to cover your face after making that mistake)



I digress, back to the daft ‘almost pinchy moments’. These are the times when you see a celebrity at a first night, and they just seem so normal, or lovely, huggable and not in the least grand, due to one little humanising gesture or aspect of their appearance. Here are three of them.


My first and most enduring of these was to turn around at a first night party to see legendary song writer, guitarist and rock establishment foundation stone, Brian May, towering over me in his clogs sucking on a Kia-Ora through a straw. The drink was not available at the party so he must have brought his own. I like that he was considerate enough to bring his own drink to a free-bar. I like his clogs less so, but Kia-Ora trumps clogs so he is OK.

Brian May - note he is not wearing clogs in this picture

Too orangy for crows - but not Queen[s] it would appear

The original name for Queen's greatest hit was Clog Rhapsody

Secondly, Emily Maitlis, siren of Newsnight, looking as glamorously erudite as she possibly could, was chatting earnestly with her fellow social and media commentators about the intrinsic value of whatever we had just seen, only for us to notice that the hem had fallen slightly on her dress and it was being held up by a safety pin so large that it would have taken Vivienne Westwood, Malcolm McLaren and a small army of punks to lift it. I like Emily, I have never spoken to her, but in the spirit of trying to save her blushes a few of us gathered behind her to prevent the safety pin being quite so obvious. I have sort of blown this now, so sorry about that.

OK so it wasn't as big as this one.

Newsround wasn't the same after John Craven's sex change

Thirdly, the lost and solitary celebrity. You never ever imagine the species called ‘celebrity’ to ever find itself in a corner of a party with nobody to talk to, looking slightly forlorn, isolated by their own aura. This did happen briefly to a Hollywood A (possibly B as I haven’t seen a film starring him for a while) lister at his own first night do. I stress this wasn’t one of my wife’s, she is far too professional to ever let this happen, we were ‘rented’ for a friends night. I won’t name him, but you will have seen him in something. I went over to chat to him:

Me: Well done tonight, excellent performance, oh I am Simon by the way.
Him: Hey dude, yeah I’m on a bit of high.
Me (having run out of conversation already) the staging was, well, you know.
Him: Yeah, I do, incredible.
Me: (still nowhere to hide and regretting my bold conversational move) I was just saying to Chris the production values were, well you know.
Him: Well it’s what you expect of London’s West End. (I love the American way they talk about London’s West End – it is so…. villagy. It makes me think every city in the UK should have its own West End. Just imagine being able to say, ‘Yes, actually we have a transfer to Canterbury’s West End.’ The pride)
Me: Ah yes. And the characterisation, I said to Chris, was, well you know.
Him: Yeah, sure, thanks. We worked really hard on making it different from the movie. And the guys down the front seem to love it, they were on their feet at the end.
Me: A standing ovation on the first night, what more can you want?
Him: Hey, do you know how I can get a drink, I’d love a Kia-Ora.

OK the drink bit, a little stretch of the truth. But he was thoroughly lovely. Next time I might tell you what happened when I was locked in a Box Office with Grace Jones, the West End’s four gayest Box Office staff members and six bottles Piper-Heidsieck. Till then, go easy on any celebrity you might meet at a first night, their vanity is in your hands.

HOW DO YOU KNOW ME? OR WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO A STRANGER?

There are many inexplicable moments in my life. Things that make me wonder if I am some part of a giant Truman Show project, albeit a British one. This version would be smaller in scale, there would be no Ed Harris playing God from a window in the moon, there would instead be Noel Edmonds perving from my neighbours box room, the whole sorry programme would be quite apologetic, with rubbish sponsors, really poor product placement from Primark and most of the time the producers would be trying to set me free because my life is too dull to pull in any viewers.


This morning I was cycling along on my fold-up, I pulled up at the lights next to a normal looking guy on his fold-up. We had a brief exchange:

Him: Morning (nods at me with that ‘we are smug eco warriors on our bikes’ kinda way)
Me: Morning (same nod back)
Him: How’s your car doing?
Me: (looks over shoulder thinking he is talking to someone else) Err..
Him: You said it was running badly and the exhaust was playing up?
Me: Did I? (now I am pretty convinced we have only been there for a couple of seconds and I haven’t covered this much conversational ground)
Him: Yeah, your exhaust.
Me: (this is true, WTF?!) We’ve sorted it thanks (going with the flow)
Him: Cool. Did you get the cheap one?
Me: (really scared) Yeah, turned out to be the bracket (why am I still talking? Why haven’t I said, ‘I think you have me confused with someone else’)
Him: Haven’t seen you in ages, things good?
Me: Yeah not bad (can’t go back now, I would look like a weirdo who is happy to accept conversations with anyone at traffic lights because I am too lonely)
Him: I’ll catch you around, love to the missus (off he pedals)
Me: (weak pathetic stuttering voice) Y..yeah and… umm yours.


Why, how, who? @slroh is convinced you follow me on twitter. I am not so sure.

Let me know who you are and, indeed, if you know me?

CONVERSATION WITH AN ARTIST

Following the excellent Twenty Twelve on BBC4 last night, which has caused a small amount of introspection among colleagues, I have been reminded of an occasion that has been repeated many times over in my career. In particular the misconceived clock and conversations surrounding its creation and eventual display.

I am not represented by any of these fine actors

The Context.

In my daily life I have to, occasionally, take an artist’s vision, words or imagery and convert it into some copy that the rest of us can understand or show some relevance to the festival or performance that it forms part of.

I then have to go and sell it to the world's media and mostly first time audiences, people who would usually be scared off by all the bullshit that is so frequently wrapped around art so that the art elite can sit in judgement of everyone who 'doesn't get it'. This is my professional and personal crusade, to strip away bullshit and make sure people are comfortable with attending whatever they want and not be bullied into any specific reactions or false notions of art in the broadest sense. All art can be engaged with on any level.

The conversation.

Many many years ago I had, how shall I put it, a curious conversation with an artist that was representing a collective who had created a site-specific piece intended for ‘families to explore the nature of fairy tales through interaction and immersive theatrical experience’ – or as I would call it, something you walk through while actors make you unbelievably uncomfortable and scare your children. Any apparent misogyny on my part is not intentional, this is purely relating to the art and not the the social context. Here was the conversation:

Me: Hello, you must be Jane (name obviously not the real one), I am Simon. Can we talk about your piece so that I can put some copy together for PR and marketing?
Jane: Yes, I am. You realise that I don’t usually talk to men? (cold face, not actually looking at me)
Me: (nervous laugh) Oh really, you must be missing about 50% of the best conversations (idiot).
Jane: (silence)
Me: So tell me about your work.
Jane: It is not something that words can describe, it is something that needs to be experienced.
Me: OK, but in order to get people to experience it, it would be great to be able to sum it up in some way, tease the audience with what they might be seeing (stupidly over enthusiastic and nice).
Jane: But I don’t want it represented in a way that doesn’t represent it. (cold face, still not actually looking at me)
Me: Umm… yes, this is why we are talking about it now.
Jane: How do I know you understand what we are trying to do, you are a man?
Me: Well, I think the first step is to tell me what you are trying to do. (remarkably upbeat, considering)
Jane: (silence)
Me: So?
Jane: (launches into a rapid fire ACE application style description of what they plan) We see the role of women in European fairy tales damaged by the historical patriarchal dominance in authorship and publishing (so far so good). We aim to redress the balance through a series of female signifiers so that the theatrical semiotics are once again under the ownership of the correct gender, the gender that created the stories to provide a direct guardianship of grandmother, mother and daughter (again, I understand – am now thinking how do I convert this into copy to attract families).
Me: What kind of signifiers will you be using, are we looking at Red Riding Hood, with emphasis on the [folk] traditions, uses colour, moon, the kind of flora that suggests different aspects of femininity (I am bluffing a little here but I think I have pulled it off).
Jane: No.
Me: Oh.
Jane: Well that is a bit obvious isn’t it?
Me: Oh OK, but you said it was for families (said nicely trying to hint that highbrow is fine but different entry levels for different audiences is always helpful).
Jane: I have some images that may help explain it (she still hasn’t actually looked at me)
Me: Great! (could have shown these at the beginning of the conversation)


At this point three images were placed in front of me.


One labelled, The Gateway.
This consisted of two men (yeah I know, irony is a funny thing) basically dressed as the two halves of a vagina, making the shape of said body part for people to step through.

This is North Carolina - it rhymes with vagina

Two labelled, The Journey.
This was a series of artist impressions of, again, vaginas, only this time as trees, for the audience to wander through.

A forest - all you have to do is image these trees as vaginas. I can't un-imagine this now.

Three labelled, The Characters.
A hairy naked man with a large phallus, and a hairy naked woman.

This is hair. Imagine this all over a naked man and a naked woman. Or don't. I wouldn't.

Three things stick in my mind, Families, ‘Well that is a bit obvious isn’t it?’, Relief.

The work never saw the light of day.