Happy New... oh yes, a bit late for that.

It's been a busy and fairly tough financial start to the new year.  I didn't really have time to write last month.  Since leaving Uni I've been spending a lot of time looking for part-time work and trying to get things ready for my new production company and as always, everything is many times more difficult and time consuming when you have no dosh.  But I'm almost ready to start my new life.  Sort of.  Well, new career anyway.  It's taken 50 years, but I now have some sort of focus on what I intend to do professionally.  And I'm fortunate in that so far some very successful people in the industry seem to think I am going to do okay.  One or two have even tipped me as a 'rising star'. Heh! 

But the reality at the moment is that the difficult financial situation has meant I have discovered southern dole offices, too.  Posher than Kings Heath, Birmingham, although my London 'office'  is a newer building! I get the impression that there's a bit more care and help available than last time I had to sign on.  In the early 1990's I think we were just dole scum.  Now the Labour Govt seems to really want to help. Things are much better now. There are still rules, but in the past you were either on the dole or not.  It was unhelpfully black or white. You felt a bit like a hopeless scrounger. Now, although it's actually tougher to get help initially and they ask more questions, they've even accepted that I have to spend time to prepare for a new business and they have been offering help and referrals.  I get annoyed by people who seem to think benefits are some sort of easy way out. Try living on £65 per week.  It stops you starving, sure, but its not really going to give anyone a lifestyle after bills are paid. There are always those that will abuse any system, but I think social benefits, like the arts, are a mark of a civilised society and I for one feel better for being part of that.  Plus, with the eye-watering amounts of tax I paid in the 1980's, I would need many centuries of claiming £65 per week to break even! I suppose the key word about National Insurance is that it's, well... insurance. 

There are some benefits to being very poor again. I cycle to sign on, which is as it should be, and actually gives me some exercise. And it has forced me to find cheaper stuff in London.  Not an easy task in leafy Chiswick. I go to my exclusive show biz club and drink tap water (served in posh jugs with ice and lemon), use the free wi-fi and finish with a coffee.  A whole days work for £2.95.  Then down the road in Turnham Green, if you get fed up of home made food,  you can eat a massive plate of Chicken and Black Bean Noodles and a mug of Chinese tea for under a fiver.  Now that's living!

 

That's living!  All this for under a fiver in Chiswick.

This theatre thang has never been about the money but believe me when I say I am hugely looking forward to the day when I can afford a holiday again.  But in one way I am truly blessed.  I have a plan. I am in an industry that is starting to notice what I do.  It might not work out exactly as I want, but at least I have some hope, ambition and direction. I feel desperately sorry for those others who are suffering as a result of this current economic climate and can see little hope at all.

No more noughties!

Me in reflective 'new decade in new city' London mood. Do I look like a Master?

So, a new decade. Time to take stock. It's been possibly the most significant year of my life professionally. I've moved full time to London. I decided that 50 is a good age to finally go to university and I am now apparently a Master of Arts. With Merit, don't y' know. (I KNEW that soddin' 11plus result was wrong!) And I've set up a new production company that is 1 year old on 2nd January.

So a big year and a bigger year ahead. My personal version of the global recession means business is hard.  And the theatre business is possibly harder.  I've tried to find finance from a number of sources, includuding one for over 50's starting a busieness. (After making me jump through hoops for nearly a month they then decided they wouldn't support a theatre production company. Thanks. Like I can afford that time when starting a new business.)

But my first 'commercial' production, HANCOCK'S FINEST HOUR, (www.hancocksfinesthour.com) already has its first few hundred tickets sold for the historic Theatre Royal at Bury St Edmonds in April 2010. Other dates are coming together. So I might be in my 50's, but it's fun to start again. I'm discovering new parts of my new home city (Can you ever not be surprised by London?) and although its a new fledging business I know the route I have to follow. I perhaps need a business partner but at least I know that. I have no guarantee of success but I know the direction.  Oh, and I have a nearly finished screenplay that has been attracting kind words from the likes of Warner Brothers.  2010.  Bring it on.

Lest We Forget?

It's been an unusually domestic week for me. And with remembrance day, British troops in Afghanistan and the Sun newspaper giving Gordon Brown a bad time over his handwriting, one that has given me pause for thought too.

It was a big week on the domestic front because my Dad, at 86, had never been to London before. He apparently drove near it in the 1940's, but that was in the back of an army truck. So he and my sister came down for a few days. I don't think I ever spend enough time with my family. Is it just me or do we all feel like that? I am so focused on trying to create art and avoid arts oft nearby regular bedfellow - grinding poverty! So it was nice when they came down, and as ever Bex was the perfect hostess, worrying over every detail.

Dad actually passed near London in the 1940's to jump on a plane for Operation Market Garden at Arnhem. Dad was a paratrooper, a 'Red Devil' and was part of the cock up that marked a bridge too far. He was wounded and spent a long time as a P.O.W. It's just as well he was captured when he was. I checked his company details on the 'tinterweb and the very day of the morning of his capture most of his comrades were wiped out by a machine gun nest. Incredible, but true.
My Dad, above, on the Thames embankment for the first time, aged 86. Note cap in hand.

We did the usual thing, showing Dad and Sis around darkest Chiswick and taking them to our favourite haunts. I'd met them both at Euston and we took the Northern and District Lines to get home. Now Dad is sharp and full of humour and although his hearing isn't too good (and he stubbornly refuses to wear his hearing aid) and he's not as lithe as he used to be, he's nobodies fool. So it was strange to see how strange the everyday of London was to him. He was fascinated by the electronic signs inside the tube carriages. He thought they were a great idea and seemed transfixed by them all the way back to Stamford Brook. He couldn't understand the need for all the different tube lines.

"And what if you're colour blind with all those colours on that train map?" he commented. He was shocked by how violently the turnstile doors slapped open and shut. I think he may have a point there.

But what really made me think was us walking from Westminster to Embankment pier past the RAF war memorial. I was slightly ahead of Dad looking for my camera. When I looked back he was looking up at the memorial and had his flat cap in his hand.

"You all right Dad?" I asked.

"Just thought I'd say hello to the boys," he said and nodded at the memorial. "They looked after us as much as they could."

I took the pic, then he doffed his cap to the memorial, put it on his head and off we went.

I asked him about it later. Dad was born into extreme poverty, the youngest of eleven kids. His mom, my Grandmother, died when Dad was seven. My Grandfather, Paddy, was an Irish labourer from Co Mayo in the west of Ireland. He was a big drinker (so THAT'S were I get it from... not my fault then!) who would often use his belt on the kids when he'd had a bit too much, which was most nights. I have some sympathy. Not with beating the kids, but the pressure must have been immense. There were 12 of them in two rooms in an up and down house in Leeds and often they went hungry too. When Paddy sobered up later in life he would often tell Dad the army was a good way out. Three square meals a day was a lot better than the everyday life they enjoyed. So aged 16 Dad and a mate from Leeds lied about their ages and signed up. Not the best of times to join the army. As Paddy said,

"Join the army, yes, but not when there's a bloody war on!"

Dad was grateful to the airman who took care to give them a safe landing at Arnhem. But it transpired later that there were other people looking out for him too. Dad's C.O. never acknowledged Dad's age. But the day they got captured, the day dad's platoon was massacred, the C.O. got his company up in the early morning, and moved off quietly, leaving Dad and his young chum asleep. When they woke up, the older guys had gone. The German officer who first captured them looked set to turn violent until he saw their age. In perfect English he said to Dad, "You are too young to die in this war."

And it got me to thinking about the current engagements. The loss of life is hugely regrettable and tragic and indeed many of my cousins in Leeds were in the forces, but was WW2 the last TRULY justifiable war? Can the 9/11 tragedy be compared to the invasion of Poland by Hitler? Is it right the Sun newspaper seems to be making an attempt to discredit the P.M. by using and directing the anger of a grieving mother? Isn't that just a bit too much 21st century?

Something don't smell right, kids. I feel uncomfortable. I suppose it's always us, the great unwashed, the working class who get stuffed by other peoples principles; it's always us that ends up galloping into the cannons or marching into the hail of shot. But is it right, nowadays? I dunno. This time last year, during a performance of Henry V - Lion of England, in Brighton I had actor Ed Morris place a poppy in his coat at the end of the show which caused a palpable gasp from the audience. (I won't give too much away about that. I want you to see the show!) But what do you think?

I'm just very grateful to Dad's C.O. and that unnamed German officer in Holland. Or I almost certainly wouldn't be here to ask these questions.

Movie Madness...

...or should that be movie Magic. I'm at the Cheltenham International Screen Writers Festival and jolly good it is too. If knackering. Very knackering...

What a Fete!

Its been a while since I've been on here and its because everything is coming to a head. My working class equivalent of the grand tour - a three year search for self improvement and a real career though specialised education - sorta finishes this year. Finance and time are running out and so I've been vary aware of not wasting either. Not that being on here is a waste of time (?) but if I've time to knock out a quick blog I should be writing my dissertation or trying to promote the two 'Introduction To...' classes I am running later this month -
Creative Producing and Screenwriting.

But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Or maybe a nutter. And talking of nutters, I decided this weekend to take some time out. I read about the Big Swim from Chiswick Pier. Since I've been in London full time I've been constantly working against some sort of deadline and since lectures finished I've not even had the exercise of walking to the tube, so I thought Saturday afternoon about three o'clock I should head out and suss the area a bit. So here in pictures is Nick's Guide to a Bit of West London And Jolly Nice It Is Too.


This road above is not leafy Sussex or Warwickshire. Nope, its a road not far from our Chiswick flat, 20 mins from the bustling metropolis of The City on a Saturday afternoon. How can you not love this?


As a recent convert to Moseley Rugby Club on Billesley Common I was having withdrawal symptoms till I discovered the Chiswick equivalent on Saturday. But although they have a brick built clubhouse instead of Moseley's portacabins, the whole operation is much smaller, provincial (in London!) and lower-leagued. But it means the (smaller) clubhouse is completely bursting with kit bags, players, trophies and beer. I intend to find out more when time and finance allows. And in the fleshpots of the metropolis it also looks as if people can leave bikes unlocked!




Like I said, nutters. They have their own society, don't y' know. This dip pool by Chiswick pier.

Top Nutter wins silver thing, presented by the Mayor of Hounslow, for...




...winning this 1k swim to Chiswick Eyot and back. The winner did it in 12 mins! The last guy took 45 mins against the tide. A huge effort. I stayed to the very end and found the massive cheer, applause and encouragement for the last guy strangely moving. I might be turning into a girl. Or a nutter. And again, being in fleshpots of the metropolis, the whole event, Mayor and all, had the feel of a small village fete. Like Kings Heath Carnival without the tents.

I look again at the river and I start to think this big swim would be something to work towards...

Mmm. Back to work then.

Michael Jackson Memories: Part One

If you're around for long enough, you suddenly find that everyday events become legendary over time. For large chunks of my working life I have been fortunate to work in radio. In the early '80's I had the privilege of working for BRMB Radio, then the most successful radio station in the Midlands. There wasn't much competition, mind, in those days. Anyway, to Michael Jackson. Most people who worked at BRMB then - and maybe now! - will remember this story.

My last radio studio. A bit more advanced than MP1!

The boy-wonder record rep for Sony - then CBS, I think - was Bobby Hermon. He was, and occasionally as a freelancer, still is, a colossus amongst what were known as 'record pluggers'. There's a whole story there, but that is for later. Michael had just signed his first solo record deal and so Bobby was hiking Michael on a promotional tour of what was known as the 'Big Five' commercial radio stations in the UK, mainly based in the metropolitan areas.

Michael J, as you know, had a fairly high voice. We all know this now, but then we didn't. We were his first set of interviews. Bobby bought Michael into what was known as studio MP1 (we think it might have meant Music Production 1. There were some sweet anachronisms with early BRMB. We were all a bit BBC in those days. The D.J's office had a plaque on the door that said 'Announcers'! Or was it Presenters. Memory dims...)

So the morning show presenter - let's call him Steven, to protect the shocked - stands to greet Michael. Bobby introduces Steven to Michael.

"Hi Steven", squeaked Michael.
And Steven, being an Announcer and thinking Michael is having a bit of a joke, squeaks back "Hi Michael!"

I left the studio at this point. Forever etched on my memory is an image of Steven laughing, thinking he's joining in a great joke, and Bobby H looking horrified. Michael seemed not to notice...

Melancholia... like Insania, but without an eejit singing!

Roger D. Scott - far right. R.I.P.

I'm feeling a bit low tonight, or should I say this morning (4.50am!) Partly because I've had a few hard Uni days, but also partly because I've had to walk away from a project that could have been great, but I was mislead somewhat by the originator. So it means I have time now, at least for a few hours, when I can be self indulgent. Every day for the last few months, including weekends, I've worked an average of 12 hours. Yesterday 18 hours, the day before 16 hours. All for no money!

I'm usually always fairly positive. But when not driven by work, and having reached an impasse in a hectic schedule, I sometimes find myself taking a quiet moment to reflect. And as they are often rare moments they can sometimes be intense.

Like Roger Scott. Not the radio jock, sadly no longer with us. But Roger D. Scott, even more sadly no longer with us. Scouty person, who has been around it seems for all my life, who wasn't a best friend, but a friend; an adult who was always there - who took me to his sisters farm when I was 12, who occasionally would talk to our Mother and gossip till dawn, owner of various scouty awards, with an occasional mid-Atlantic accent and a love of anecdote. Dear Roger who became a vicar and then Maverick Theatre's Chaplin, because he liked to support me and be involved, if I'd noticed. Roger the toastmaster who gave me an award for Services to the Arts in the Midlands and who, I think, I used to smile at in later life a bit too much and ignore a bit more than I should have done. But a character who was always smooth and easy and then died a few months ago with the same easy smooth grace, planning his funeral service from his hospital bed and then passing smoothly away at... what age? I don't, to my shame, even know that. Although he died from one of the hospital super bugs and I'm ashamed for all of us for knowing about that.

And I heard in London he had gone and I drove to Birmingham for the funeral service and arrived late. And as as I was let in, the porter, who recognised me from my days at BRMB Radio, many days ago indeed, muttered how Roger seemed to have known everyone and a packed crem was indeed testament to that. And the soul-searing 'Last Post' played on a solo trumpet. And the service and the final song, dignified and moving, 'Time To Say Goodbye'. And my brother's tears, dignified and moving.

I'm so sorry Roger, I let you slip. Time to say goodbye.