Review of 2008. Well why not...

... everyone else does it. And 08 has been a fairly spectacular year. The first full year of Maverick Limited, me deciding to apply to Uni and getting in. Moving to London full time which was a glorious wrench. Leaving my house after 20 years and living full time with my partner of 17 years...

It needs a picture. Mmm. I know! My part-time review, 'Best Pies of The World' (London edition).

Here's a GREAT pie. Occasionally served in the RADA bar.



Happy New Year.

Come the revolution, comrade...

I've been watching, as I guess we all have, the programmes and events surrounding the 90th anniversary of the end of the First World War. It's all been very moving, but I can't help but wonder at the futility of it all, how it's always the little man who suffers. Left to their own devices, the soldiers on the ground managed to arrange a football match. Apparently the Germans won. Again.

This time last year we presented my Henry V - Lion of England at Brighton. When I was adapting Shakespeare's story in 1992, about an invasion of France, I was listening to the news about the war in Bosnia. It never ends, does it. That's why last year, at Brighton, I had Ed, our Henry actor, pin a poppy on his costume, as he gives the final lines. "... think on our tale, look at the world and muse, How little, little mankind has grown, and how much we still all have to lose." There was a palpable gasp from the audience.

And talking of a world fit for heroes, how come I can't find an NHS dentist in West London? I thought we had a Labour government. Come on politicians, this isn't good enough. You can lead a country to war, but can't arrange for me to have a loose crown fixed without it costing me a fortune.A hero - Ed Morris in Henry V - Lion of England. By... er... me.

Bill's Big House

My education into the big wide world of London theater continues apace. I'm still mindful of the fact that when William Shakespeare was my age, he was actually returning to the Midlands at the end of his career. But then Bill never had the M40 or a Renault Megane, did he.

The first two months have been, in our esteemed tutors own words, something of a 'boot-camp'. Head of the course Andrew is a rare breed - an easy academic with a soft Scottish lilt who has, unlike many academics, been there and done at least most of it. He has all the T-shirts (almost literally!) and has done everything and been everywhere. We - the students - are amazed the R.S.C and the National Theatre have escaped Andrew's gentle touch. It can only be a matter of time, if Andrew decides he fancies it.

The other chief boot camp jackbooter is Julius - arguably one of the top six people in British Theatre. He's an interesting mix, is Jules, and I like him very much. He comes in for lectures once a week after he finishes his day job which at the moment is TEN No 1 theatre tours! After lectures one Thursday night he offers fellow producer-in-training Samantha and I a lift home - we're in the same direction - and he pops in to his office to pick up his phone charger. What an office! But if you're Bill Kenwright I suppose it's all tax deductible.



In stark contrast, here's my office...



A desk in our 1 bedroom flat. Although, apart from the phone, it's newer than Bill's office.

IKEA Wimbledon, we salute you.

Posh Innit!

Look! A new Maverick logo! The first one designed by a pro, Dave Walsh Design, of Birmingham.

The original logo was a mix of me, John Slater, Robb Williams and whatever we could get a computer to print for free. Remember the days, computer fans, before the days of WYSIWYG? (Ask if you want to know more. There's a comment section on this blog thang.) x

Playing with the Big Boys

New experiences continue unabated, not least of which is the fact I've been able - had no choice really - to get over the claustrophobia I developed some years ago on the London Underground. And I also find I'm really quite enjoying this University lark. Don't get me wrong, the pay is rubbish. Well non existent. Actually of course you have to pay fees. (I can't BELIEVE there's virtually no financial help for an MA. Age discrimination I think. Or maybe academic discrimination. Most Masters have done a 'normal' degree. Not me mate. I think I'm a special case. Well, special. Maybe just a 'case'. Whatever. Get back to it...!)

It occurs to me that one of the big gripes I had about my beloved Birmingham is that there were no networks. There are maybe four theatre producers in Brum that I can think of. And the chances of us ever getting together socially were virtually impossible. And we all have different agendas and methods of working. Plus most of the original 'Mavericks' have moved on, mainly to London. My main, regular chums in Birmingham have long since been bored by my theatre talk and it is not doing them a disservice when I say most of them have absolutely no ideas about the standard or concept of theatrical production anyway, so nights down the pub tended to fairly uninspiring for me and probably very boring for them.

So its only just occurred to me that three days a week I am not only listened to when I talk about theatre production, but listen to lectures about it and hang out with people who are equally if not more into it than I am. Bliss! I have a new bunch of chums who rave about theatre in different disciplines and I am regularly meeting/talking to theatre obsessives, mainly West End, but not exclusively. It can't last. This is almost fun. Imagine. Me, at my age, admitting that. They won't believe it down me local in Brum...

The Seven Ages Of Hennegan

All bow. My bag on Joan's desk. Her actual, real desk!

We're all going to die, right? I mean, we have no option. All we can hope for is a long easy life and a short easy end. Now I'm 50 years old, I should be thinking about retirement, maybe. A serene dotage. My mate, Fat-Belly Norton certainly is. But then Brian has had a 'proper' job all his life, with a career path and a pension. On one hand, I envy him. On the other hand, I think I'm just the right age to start a new career.

So I'm now a student. I'm going to University!

There are a couple of things this brings up. Firstly, they accepted me on this MA. Something of a miracle as I've not troubled the education sector much since I failed my 11 plus. You're supposed to have a good degree or experience. Guess which I had. Then another fact I overlooked - I am the first person in my family to attend Uni. It didn't really occur to me until I told Dad what I was going to do.
"University, eh, son.? They'll send you back with a bag of brains then. Make up for me." (By the way, everyone loves my old man, including me. The story of how he survived A Bridge Too Far in WW2 is frightening in its randomness. Maybe next month I'll tell you about that.")

So I'm off to University. To be honest it's an MA in Creative Producing so its more a validation of what I've been doing for the last 15 years, interspersed with radio, than a new career. But it's a strange feeling. We've had a flat in London since my ill-fated gig at the Globe last year, so accommodation was not a problem. Down sizing from my 3 bed house to a 1 bed flat is a problem, but I'm dealing with it. Looking after Maverick should not present too much of a challenge with our cyber-options and the excellent Debs as administrator. Being a commuter on the tube in London is more odd. So too is meeting my corum. Not class, corum. Or Chorum. Sommat Latin. I ent sussed it yet. But on our first day we are all due to meet outside the Uni in Bloomsbury. I approach a young looking group of people who turn out to be American tourists. I explain I'm a Birmingham tourist looking for my corum. They look at me strangely and walk away.

When I find out where I'm supposed to be, I finally find my corum. My 6 other potential Masters. Only two of us are blokes and we're both called Nick. I hope its a good omen. We are a disparate but interesting group and I can see almost straight away what Andrew, the course director, is trying to achieve. We will infest, if that's the right word, a broad range of performance disciplines when we leave and hopefully we will all have the right tools to make a difference. Although I already have many of the tools. In fact I wonder if I'm too 'tooled up' to be here, but Andrew's first address hits the spot.
"There may be some repetition in the early part of this degree. You are all experienced in different areas, so you may find you repeat areas of knowledge. You, Nick, for instance, will have little problem with the academic work, given you already have an MA, 2 BA's and you've taken time off your PhD. " Eh? I'm about to remonstrate when I realise it's the other Nick he's addressing. I think Nick is my age, but he's 27. Wishful thinking on my part. So young and yet so qualified. He's a nice bloke too, on first impressions, and I can't help but feel this degree will give Nick and many others on the course the necessary Producer smarts to allow them to change the world. I'll be long dead by then. Or will I? I am the eldest, but not by THAT much...

Some of my Chorum... chora... corum...

Later we meet the Directors. Some of our work is with the Theatre Directing MFA's. They are all about 12, passionate and intelligent. I find them captivating. They have solid, firm ideas, formed by philosophical debate. Even Director Andy, who tells me he is 37, went to RADA to train as an actor and is originally from Harbourne in Birmingham, is really only 15 and unnervingly handsome. Later in the second week I have a debate about the play 'Festen' with a beautiful director who in spite of her tender years is frighteningly focused.

Beautiful Directors, hangin' outside the Theatre Royal, just being brilliant.

I'm saved by Joan Littlewood and the fact that for the last 15 - 20 years I have worked in glorious isolation. Now Joan is sadly long dead, but amongst other things, (oh what a lovely war) she bought a new, mainly socialist agenda to the Theatre Royal Stratford East. A venue I have heard much about, but never visited till now. Much of our course will be based there. (It's a long way from our flat in West London, but being a Brummy, I can't reconcile distance with the Underground. Not natural and I'm still not comfortable with being in a tube under the earth. Give me the 50 bus any day.)

At the Theatre Royal, I hear their lovely head of outreach and education describe a theatrical philosophy I thought had only existed in my head and at the Billesley Pub in Birmingham when we were there. It's a real shock. I am not alone! A notion I thought I had invented had been created previously. It's a shame Joan is now dead, although I am sure there are more protagonists. I then realise that I am sitting at Joan Littlewood's desk and her library is in the same room. For a theatre anorak, it's a dream. I take a photo of her desk. And although it takes a few days to sink in, I realise that for someone who has worked on his own for so long and generally been responsible for everything, its great to be part of a group.

Mind you, it's only been a couple of weeks...

The End of Innocence...!

Ah well.  It finally had to happen.  My little lovely niece grew up last week and became a legal adult.  18 years ago (and nine months as it happens) my sister broke the news that she was about to bring another life into the world.  My brother and other sister had previously done the baby thang, but Fi was my contemporary, whereas the others were a decade above us.  So it felt a bit more special.  I still have a grainy VHS recording of Fiona telling our (now departed) Uncle Mike the news.  "I don't care what it is, as long as it's healthy."  Well it - she -  was healthy and I felt a heavy dose of family bonhomie when she came into the world! A lovely sweet girl who I probably had more to do with than my other lovely, sweet nephews and nieces.

Imagine my shock then, when as we sit having a birthday lunch at the Bluebell Cider House in Earlswood - her ex-school chums work there - that she wants a pub crawl to celebrate her 18th!  I'm horrified.  We'd had a bottle of champagne, as you might to celebrate such an occasion. So in horror, I ordered another one.  Niecy said we should move to her boyfiends local.  Good grief.  To minimise the shock of that, I ordered yet another bottle of bubbly.  My neice seemed to be drinking mainly orange juice in spite of the occasion, so in horror I ordered another couple of pints.  Then a chum of my niece turned up, to ferry us to the boyfriends pub.  Can you imagine!  Drive.  In a car.  I know her friend had not had a drink and in fact did not all night, but I still found myself reaching for another pint, just to get me through the shock.  Eventually we arrived at the boyfri

ends pub in Solihull.  I started taking pictures for this blog, although they were not very good, so boyfriend said we needed a couple of shots to help.  Then I found a bench in the pub garden had been dedicated to a local who had died tragically young, so to get us through that, me and boyfriend had another shot.  

My sister seemed concerned about something.  It might have been the fact I'm moving to London yet running Maveric

k in Birmingham.  I'm not quite sure.  So I had a few drinks while I thought about it.  It was a jolly night, but then, for some strange reason I became concerned that my niece had been over drinking. I'm sure I'd seen her have one or two drinks although she seemed remarkably sober.  I think.  But she obviously was not sober, because suddenly there were two of her.  And they were both swaying.  Such a shame.  Her 18th and all. At some point she was hanging on to me while I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her and then a bit later my niece and my sister almost fell over me and making my legs go rubbery having called me a taxi and trying to get in it with me I think although I can't be too sure and anyway where had they all gone and what time is it now ooooo look at the lovely coloured lights and remember l

ovely niece and sister and boyfriend and your lovely friends drink responsibly co uk www or wwwhatever time i got home i have no idea oooo i could murder a bag of chips but no chance where do i live? oh yes here.  hear.  no here.  i love my family i do. wheres my girlfriend?  oh yes london.  i'll phone her.  what does a phone look like nowadays.

The next day I felt quite ill.  It must have been something I ate.  My niece was fine, apparently. But tsk, tsk, I despair at the folly of youth and their binge drinking, as reported regularly in the Daily Mail, for instance.  Have you any stories to share about the irresponsibility of youth?  Please comment below.  I really really need to hear your sad and sorry tales too.

Above: Raging, drunken young people looking at me with some concern.

Time for a Murder

Or at least, a film about a murder.  Or at least, a visit from a film crew who are filming some stuff for their internet site which is about the film they want to make about a murder if they get the funding.  And we all know, applying successfully for funding is murder.

So well done to some very smart Birmingham film people.  George Fleming, a man born to make documentaries for TV, although TV may not realise it yet.  Pip and his company, Blue Hippo Media, based in Digbeth... sorry, the East Side, as it is now called, has some great ideas and helped me with my desire to turn Maverick into more of a business.  Check out his website.  And Billy Bannister, another man born to record film and TV sound, although he always seems busy, so perhaps TV is perhaps more aware of him than George.  Their joint efforts to find funding for their film 'Killicurum' must surely be successful if there is any justice in the world, particularly as they are using my current Henry V actor, Ed Morris, to help with direction.

Of course there is no justice in the world, so they might not get their money.  But I loaned them my garage and part of the Henry set to make their on-line trailer and later today I heard about Michael Grade bemoaning the fact that ITV's profits were down substantially and they would obviously have to drop their Public Service remit.  

Of course, the poor ITV dears are being murdered by the multi channel environment and the internet.  The only way they can hang on for dear life is if they drop all those terribly expensive and therefore, not very profitable things.  Things like local news.  Documentaries. Local productions. Working in the regions. 

There's bugger all TV left in the West Midlands anyway.  I never thought I'd cheer the BBC, but I certainly do.  Although there is even talk of them cutting production in Birmingham.  And isn't it spooky that I heard from a friend in ITV that they were planning massive job cuts many months before the current bleating?

I suppose you can't blame a commercial company for doing what it must do, look after its shareholders.  I dont have much affinity with the fat cats, but you can't blame them for wanting to be richer.  But the airwaves are a limited resource.  And the media should be more than just about profit.  ITV are going to shaft us on behalf of their shareholders.  We should scream murder, but we won't.

Back to more relevant matters.  Aren't prosthetics wonderful!  I'm sure you saw my performance in the film I Bought A Vampire Motorcycle - surely everyone did, didn't they? - where I got my legs blown off. Here's Pip's son with a severed hand. One of many in a tupperware container in the crew car.

You've got to hand it to him.  

And here's the star that made it.

More Blood on your dagger, dear?

A Moments Silence Please

It is with deep regret, ladies and gentlemen, that I have to announce a death in the Hennegan Birmingham household. Yes, after many years, dear people, a beloved pet has passed over. I am now a house without any fish. None. Not a single one. Apart from the fish fingers in the freezer, but it would be as tasteless as they are to mention them at this point.

Yes, dear friends. A great shock.

What can I say about Flappy the GoldFish.? Well, for a start, his name was not really Flappy. No. Many years ago, when the sun seemed brighter, the days longer and the grass greener, I skipped gaily into King Heath and purchased two fish and a bowl for a fiver. Neil and Buzz as they were known to one obsessed with the moon landing, cost 50p each. The folly of a child, naming fish after two of the most famous humans on the planet. Or it would have been had I not been 42 years old. But no matter. It was obvious who was who. Neil was a mustard coloured fish that seemed contemplative and solid. He'd gently fin his was round the bowl. Buzz, on the other hand, was bordering on manic. He'd shoot round the bowl like a thing possessed and was rarely still. Not an inch of the bowl was unexplored by Buzz. Although it was a small bowl. And their fishy personalities matched their famous humans. Neil Armstrong, arguably the most famous man ever, since that eventful day in 1969 has rarely given interviews, shuns publicity and lives quietly. Buzz Aldrin, on the other hand, got back from the moon and shot around like a mad thing, glorying in everything and picking up the odd addiction along the way.

There is one big difference with my Neil and Buzz, mind. Neil only lasted a week or so. He probably bored himself to death. Buzz, on the other hand just kept manically swimming everywhere and growing and growing. And when my lovely lady Rebs saw him, knowing more about animals than I do (if not an actor, she would have liked to have been a vet. She deals with me quite well...) she instantly commented on the size of his fins and the fact he flapped around a lot. Hence the nick-name Flappy. I think she thought Buzz was a stupid name..

John Slater saw Flappy about a month ago.

"Woah! Big goldfish", he said. And he was right.

The end, when it came, was quick. He'd been a bit off colour for a week or so. No, not off Gold colour. We fish owners just know. I played with his aeration for a bit, but it was to no avail. He did his belly up thang and although I left him for a day or so ( he did it once before and recovered. An attention-seeking ruse, I think) and I tried some medicine, it was to no avail and he passed away officially last night. He is now at rest with the other Hennegan pets - Andropov the Mexican Red Kneed Tarantula - in the Hennegan Pet Plot. Up the garden. Not buried, ju st chucked up the garden and left for nature.

I couldn't flush Flappy down the loo - he'd have blocked a main sewer, the size of him. Obviously I am distraught and yet my pain is eased by the fact that the sodding thing cost me a fortune in fish tanks, filter, pumps and other tackle. His last set up cost about five hundred quid in total! EBay, here I come!

A-hem. Please feel free to attach any tributes/comments to this post. He didn't get out much, but Flappy had a good innings, as they say. Amen.

Flappy/Buzz in happier times. He was a good fish. We shall not see his gigantic likes again. (Unless I nip down the fish shop of course.)

As I was Saying

I've done almost everything this month, and jolly good fun it has been too. After my one appearance as John Slater's driver/stand in Lighting bloke a few weeks ago, he called again last Sunday as he'd been let down. This time it was a less glamorous job - Van Driver And Bloke Who Dropped Off Set/Cloths/Lights At Various Places In London. Now when I say less glamorous, I mean the title was, but scooting round the Opera House, Royal Ballet and various other central London locations was actually, to a theatre anorak such as myself, quiet exotic. And John lead in his posh van. And it was great to do a job where I had no responsibility. Plus, as someone who occasionally lives in London and therefore never drives in town, it was a real novelty! And if, like me, you never drive in central London, let me tell you the congestion charge has worked a miracle! You can almost get into second gear in the centre now. Of course, the Euston Road and other routes just outside the zone are another matter...

So that's that. In addition I had an interview for a Masters Degree at a University in London. This is pretty cool, considering education and society generally had written me off as a child when I failed my 11 plus. (I think I might be dyslexic with figures - I would often get letters the wrong way round. But now we have calculators it doesn't matter. )

Then, I finally got my remortgage through which, although it was less than I needed at least allows me to put £10k into Maverick Theatre and give it a chance of life. There are 2 or 3 dear people that Maverick still owes money to. I won't name them, but they were involved with the creation of the Henry V - Lion of England tour and the relaunch of the company and although they will probably never work for me again, they will also probably never know how grateful I am that they understood our particular problems and when they could have got very shitty indeed, they decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and just be patient. It's not what typical commercial businesses are supposed to do and it is so brilliant that they decided not to be typical. Be assured, I have a list in me head of people who have been kind to me and Maverick and if we ever do make any real dosh, they will get first choice of everything.

We may have an established venue prepared to co-produce Hancock's Finest Hour. That too is very good.

I had a phone call from a former colleague and now a chum and I am going to be doing some inserts into the breakfast show of Smooth-fm in the West Midlands for three weeks soon. I also have a couple of standing tickets for David Tennant (Dr Who) and Patrick Stewart (Star Trek) at the RSC I can't use. They are apparently like Rocking Horse Dung, so I might head for EBay.

And I still get the odd mail about BRMB, and having gone to a doo last week maybe I should do a bit about it. But it's too late now. Although when I first met John Slater....

Phew! What a month. Or how to Do All Things.

I've been a van driver this month. Slater must have been desperate because he phoned me up. "What are you doing for the next three days?" He needed someone to drive a van and help get in for a dance tour he is managing. But I'm known for not being the most technically adept! Although I started in theatre as an amateur lighting person.

And I'm writing this instead of finishing my film treatment. There's a deadline. So here's a picture of my P.O.V (good film term, eh!) in van situ. I shall get on with my treatment and finish this tomorrow. Probably.

FADE TO BLACK.Can't find the pic I wanted. So here's me doing another job. Not for Slater. For Chrysalis.

Fade again.

Bad Blogger Sells-Out!

I've been a bad lad - I wanted to keep this blog up at least monthly, but now there's the Maverick website this seemed a little surplus to requirements. After all, I only really started this to get the Maverick Theatre message on-line. Then a cheque for fifty quid arrived from Google! Suddenly I thought I should keep on here. You're not supposed to mention that if anyone clicks on most of the links on this blog, I get nought point nothing of nunkpence, which after decades amounts to the price of a pint. But there are obviously more people reading this than I thought. I don't have the figures - I think I can do something about that - but thanks very much, you! 50 quid in a year and a bit. Not a good rate of pay, granted, but better than the proverbial poke in the eye.

I shall eat curry and drink beer tonight, gentle reader, and it will all be down to you!

In fact here's one I had earlier, in Stratford-Upon-Avon...

I shall now post this, and begin another piece that talks about the interesting, but financially challenged month I have had. It is a tale of theatre, films, writing, missed parties and being credit crunched. And, I think vastly overdue, a tribute to John Slater. Dour Scotsman with a heart of gold and a middle England accent; once a much beloved broadcaster of this parish at BRMB in Birmingham and former Maverick cohort who is now much in demand as a Production Manager on the national and, nay, international, stage.

Ah... the 'dotes, dear loves, the 'dotes.

Goodbye Broadcast, Hello Bottom Line

It's the beginning of the end for local commercial radio as we know it! And its already having a big economic effect on me. Eh? Let me explain.

For years, commercial radio has been subject to regulatory controls. OWNERSHIP has been the subject of regulation. If you wanted to own a radio station in the UK, one of the conditions for holding the license was your commitment to the local scene, whether that be speech, music or community. And it followed, therefore, that you needed to be a company with your roots in that community. Or at the very least the country the community was based in - i.e. the UK. Not any more. The government or whoever it is that has final word on these things, did away with the ownership rules just last year. Anyone from anywhere in the world can now own your local commercial radio station. Let the Market Decide. (Didn't we go there with fairly disastrous consequences in the 1980's?)

Already the (I would argue) catastrophic effects of this seemingly logical legislation is being felt. The big regional stations throughout the UK are now dropping programme makers, d.j's, producers and journalists with a haste that can only be described as ferocious. It's nothing to do with quality or even broadcasting, actually, but with the bottom line. It's obviously far cheaper to have 1 production team based in London broadcasting a network programme to the dozens of their other radio stations throughout the UK than to have to pay dozens of local production teams. Listen to a radio station in the day anywhere in the UK and more and more the chances are you are listening to a programme originated and presented from London. With local commercials of course. And surely with all the controversy we've seen recently about misleading the public, is this not another form of gentle deceit?

The reason for all this, I hear from commercial operators, is that "we've got to compete with the BBC." This, I think, is complete bollocks. (Technical term.) For years commercial radio has done a very good job of competing with the BBC and indeed, generally trouncing them in the listening figures - particularly when local stations fight against the BBC networks.

This cull of creative talent is simply about the bottom line. Now that big overseas companies can move into our lucrative UK radio market, you can bet your Dow Jones they certainly will. And indeed they are. And although there are some monopoly rules, the current radio groups can see what is coming and so are preparing for the takeovers that will and are happening, hostile and otherwise. The more profitable they can make their companies appear, the more attractive they will be to potential buyers. So get rid of many overheads as possible, especially people. The regulation is now so light it's proving easy.

I fear in a few short years what's left of our radio industry will be as globally corporate as all the other bland, soulless, money making brands in the world and Commercial FM UK will be owned by one or two massive international groups, probably based in America or Japan. And as elsewhere it will be the bottom line that matters. Sad days indeed. And of course national commercial radio will become a pale imitation of the BBC networks. Instead of something vibrant, with its own local - and I certainly don't mean parochial - identity. It is possible to have a popular contemporary station with a local slant as has been proved time and again. It means radio will all but disappear as an industry and we shall return to the dark days pre- 1974 when radio was a small, London-based enclave. And the days when commercial radio was introduced to offer the listener a choice will be virtually over.

I'm not against anyone making a profit, by the way. Far from it. But is this not just another case of a unique British industry being decimated to protect fat cat shareholders? Bugger the quality, feel the profit.

And how has it affected me? I just took in a lodger who works on the breakfast show of a major West Midlands radio station. And the Private Equity company that now owns the lodgers radio station have just made him and dozens of others he works with redundant. They are now going to network most of the programmes from London. Just like the other big radio group in the Midlands... !

My Wireless life

When I started this blog it was supposed to be about how the Maverick Theatre Company progressed, but one of the progressions of the MTC is that it now has its own website and blog. When I started this, it hadn't. So I think I may make this more personal, perhaps. Or at least as personal as you can on the www.

I've had lots of emails about me on the radio, so I thought I might give a quick run down here about the start of my occasional, much loved career. With occasional pictures!

This pic, above, is me outside the studios of what was Radio Thamesmead, in about 1977 ish. I've obviously not changed much...!

Left school with CSE's - on my estate you had two choices of career - British Leyland (Rover) or, if you were tall, the Police who were fairly desperate and badly paid in the 70's. I was tall. I lasted about a year.

Worked as a dispatch rider/tea boy/junior copywriter for Moore Associates in Hall Green.

Aged 17 I met and lived with a woman who was 39 and had two kids, the eldest 15! An interesting time that lasted a couple of years. Then, for emotional reasons, I had to get out of Birmingham!

Secured a job as a residential social worker in South London.

Looking for a hobby, I offered to help the local scouts (they never got back to me) or start a band (difficult because I worked shifts) before I finally, on the advice of a colleague, went to Radio Thamesmead as a volunteer.

In a month I ended up doing the breakfast shows under the name Nick Mobbs - because I'd have mobs of people around. I'd leave the doors open and see who came in. Characters included The Pub Singer (later used in a similar incarnation on a national station!) and Morph The Thing, someone who used to grunt poetry for kids. I think you had to be there...

There you go. That's how things started. Fascinating innit! Or maybe not...

Off down the dole now. See if they've got any radio jobs.

A Last Christmas at Chrysalis - Part Deux

What a fabulous technological world we live in. I'm under the cosh a bit at the moment - hence my lack of blogging - and I've also had a sniff from a publisher who thinks my cavortions might sell a book and would rather I didn't appear here. Or am I dreaming... ? Anyway, no matter, because I just came on here and realised I hadn't published my last post. So I've just pressed the button and here it is. Well below here. Reading it again I realised I wrote it at Sam's Brasserie in Chiswick. A fine establishment. And here I am, writing this at the Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath, Birmingham. Another fine establishment. Both, of course, with free Wi-Fi. And both serve booze. Spot a pattern?

But the title of this is an homage (notice AN homage, not A homage. Pha! Good me) to my former colleagues who read my entry about my final Chrysalis Xmas Radio party. I don't think I should say Global - the new owners and the people who sacked us all - in case of some legal feedback. Just in case, Global, this post is Without Prejudice. Ta.

And this is kind of an apology to the foul-mouthed star of my Xmas post. Because of her appearance - I described her appearance - I had a guilt-striken text from a lass who said, "I think it was me. But I was a bit drunk and I don't remember. But I'm so terribly sorry for being like that."
I replied and told her not to worry we were all a bit 'tired with the wine'.
I had another text almost immediately again apologizing "But I'm never like that. I always really worry about other people."
Again I replied she was not to worry.
Again I had another guilt ridden text. Poor her. She was really giving herself a bad time.
And so this is MY apology. I felt sorry for K, (noooo I'm not going to tell you her name) after those texts. We were all pissed. But it was great for me, because after the fact, her throwaway, drunken, insignificant action allowed me to insert a bit of drama into a situation I had been very undramatic about. Redundancy really is a big deal and although my cup is always half full rather than half empty, at the Xmas party I became more moved by the End of the Arrow. It was the kindness and the compassion of those not on the Arrow that allowed me to drop the brave face. it wasn't just about me. Apart from Alan, I was the only one at the party who had been laid off. And of course, why would those laid off attend? Dave and Bev are a married couple with two young children. They both worked on the Arrow and were both made redundant. Alan was - and actually still is - a brilliant radio programmer who was instrumental in making the radio group that the new company bought. And so I suddenly realized that it wasn't just about me. My cup is always half full.

And so a personal moment like that meant I was able to come home and think about individual personalities. It allowed me to sit and write about what happened. And had K not made that casual, unmeant comment I would never have had the impetus to write what I felt when I did. And got a really positive reaction off so many people. So bless you K. I'm so sorry I made you feel bad. But you helped me to deal with redundancy better than any councilor could. I was able to write my grief. So thanks. I owe you a drink! xxx

Happy New Year!

... a timely welcome as its now nearly February. I've been fairly wrapped up in the festive season - my first in London with me lovely lady - and getting the tour of Henry V - Lion of England on the road. I'm sitting in Sam's Brasserie in Chiswick - a regular haunt for my London jaunts ever since they became one of the first and certainly one of the most stylish places to offer free wi-fi. I haven't sorted out our flat's connectivity yet.

The Spring tour of Henry started really well, with a visit from the Lord Mayor of Birmingham and good audiences at the mac. I mentioned at the time that the presence of the Lord Mayor was a good omen. It was like a kiss from the city. But now the tour goes on. It should pay for itself. But I have no idea what's going to happen financially after that.