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.

The Party's Over....

I've already Twittered that I can't believe that we had our last lecture tonight! It only feels like a month or so since I started Uni - an MA in Creative Producing - but of course it was last year. The work is not yet over. We have another presentation next week and our dissertation in September, but the formal bit is done and dusted. And although the time for 'real' work is upon me and I have to try and repay the thousands of pounds it's cost me in bank borrowings to do this course, I can't help but feel quite sad.

Have I changed? This was me 2 years ago...

http://www.artshub.co.uk/uk/news.asp?sId=163056&ref=admin#


Maybe not hugely? But I think I have.

As I've already mentioned I'm the first of my family to go to Uni, even though I think my siblings are far smarter and harder working than I, and I almost feel the experience should somehow last longer because of that. I've not had a full summer to learn the routes to cycle to lectures and get to know the real cheap student haunts or be wistful and longing or angry and student arrogant. I suppose its because its a Masters and only one year and unlike most of the others on my course I've not had three years previously taking a 'normal' degree. And maybe its age too; the fact that I'm going through these feelings in my 50's instead of my 20's. Although, as has been pointed out, I was having fun in other ways in my 20's!

And tonight we had a very apt lecture from producer Neil L. We've had some top talent talking to us on this course and Neil by his own confession, is and yet isn't, a major player. He's a real enigma; both supremely assured and simultaneously self-effacing. He managed to piss off some of the chorum at his first appearance with his strong and provocative opinions and assertions. But to be fair to him, our first time with Neil was also his first time with producers, instead of directors or actors. And we soon all warmed to him for his enthusiasm, passion and belief. And tonight, with his lecture entitled 'Surviving as a Producer', he became the first of our lecturers to get a spontaneous and genuinely warm round of applause.

Looking back on the lectures and lecturers we've had over this (fleeting and all too brief!) course, we've been spoiled with some of the very top names in the theatre industry. It's been an eye opener in many ways and if nothing else has made me realise the work I like doing - maybe I can call it a career now - the career I have chosen (or did it choose me?) is as tough as it was at the Billesley Pub in Birmingham.

The business of theatre producing, particularly commercial theatre, is tough and brutal and like most professionals in any tough business you have to be careful. But I've also realised from our lecturers that because this business IS so brutal and tough, there's a perceptible camaraderie amongst those that last the course. We've had lectures from some very hard nosed operators, but its obvious that they are full of admiration for us wanting to be in the game - even at student level. Once we graduate, these Uni philanthropes will treat us like any other competitor. And yet I can't help but feel that if any of us were REALLY in trouble, rather than laugh and spit on us, they may actually rally round and help if they can. In fact I know this for a fact. It sounds weird. And maybe it is unique to theatre.

And I know once I graduate, I shall always think very fondly of the professionals I have met through the course. And never forget Neils final lecture and the final, spontaneous round of applause from we producers to be. Or, indeed, that the first course of this type at Birkbeck appropriately ended with a spontaneous outburst of audience appreciation...

The NickBury Set.

I'm becoming aware of three things.

1. I'm the first of my family EVER to go to University. And I'm a bit pissed I've got to fork out nearly £5k in fees and survive with no income. Grants? Don't make me laugh! (I spit on this govt. But the previous one even more!)

2. I've almost finished my Masters even though I've hardly got used to it yet. And...

3. Because of 2. I should document it more. So here are some pics of the view around Birkbeck College, University of London. Including one of the most ridiculous wall plaques I've ever seen...


The pic of the ridiculous plaque is too ridiculously small. Next time perhaps.

But don't you just LOVE George Birkbeck? Go Doc...

Flat out.

I feel really knackered and yet strangely satisfied. I'm at Uni and earning nothing and the last loan I had is about to run out, but I went to lectures today in Russell Square and Gordon Square and was aware of the awesome pedigree surrounding me. On almost every building there are blue plaques. Christina Rossettii lived down the road, Keynes, Virginia Wolfe, Lyton Stracey and the whole Bloomsbury Set lived and worked in the buildings I'm now studying in. It's quite effecting. I see a job for an Associate Producer. It's part-time till August, then full time at the Edinburgh festival, for a play about the Monty Python team. Perfect. I apply with not much hope. x

Happy St George's Day?

There seems to be a whole forced thing about why we should celebrate St George's day. Now I say we, but with a name like Hennegan, guess where I hail from!

It could be argued it's a xenophobic backlash! Ooo the Scottish can do their thing, the noo, and the Welsh and the Irish are all so... identifiable. But not we, the English. We mustn't upset anyone. National days are not for us. Surely, though, England to the other home nations is like a big and more successful elder brother. The bastard's always beating you, but you're stuck with him. Part of the family though, and so you're not going to give him an easy ride. We English, like a big and more successful elder brother, might not like the crap we take, but we still appreciate our siblings.
And while the Tories and right wing papers get hysterical about any perceived (and usually misreported) slight to our national identity - "they're not teaching about W.W. 2 anymore" (Wrong) "We can't mention the holocaust because it upsets the Muslims" (Wrong again) I actually find this kind of attitude sloppy and lazy.
Surely England stands for things greater than national costumes and food? Democracy, for instance. Magna Carta was a moment in the world, was it not? Is that arrogant? Possibly, but that's what I think being English is about. Not arrogance, but one of the reasons I've not yet applied for my Irish passport is that to my mind the quintessential thing about being English is that we shouldn't have to worry about visible markers in the sand (or the tabloid newspapers). Being English to me is being proud of my Bangladeshi neighbours who work all the hours God sends and have introduced my Birmingham neighbourhood to a new style of food. I don't mind St George's day, whoever he was! Its an excuse to say Happy National Day. But to my mind Being English should be about being passionate, but sensitive and most importantly comfortable with being English! Not getting arsey if other nations have better dances, or flags, or attitudes to national days. Being English should be about saying, yep, we are English, but you are your nationality, and as an Englishman, I embrace that. Not patronising, but happy in our English skins. And seeing other nations having a good time. I suppose the only other Big Good Reason for St George's day is commercial exploitation. But that's another story.

And if not, feck ya all ya English gits - me Dad's from Co Mayo!

Heh!

x

Super Tuesday!

God. What a day. Today (later) Rebs has a recall for a commercial. I will hear if the only source of finance left to keep Maverick Theatre alive is going to kill us or carry on with our application for funding and I have my first ever presentation to potential commercial theatre funders at the Actors Centre in London. Watch this space. We've run out of dosh, so tomorrow will be kill or cure.

Mmm. But at least I'm not Jade Goody.

No. I had no empathy with her either. But a loss is a loss, poor them.

The Great Unwashed, Comrade Thatcher.

It's election week at Uni. I had an interesting debate - almost a row - with one of the people standing this week. I told them in 1992 I had 2 posters in my window at home in Brum - one for a theatre production in the Billesley pub - the other for John Major and the Conservative Party. She was horrified.
"How can you create a theatre for the working classes on one hand and yet support the Tories?" she asked.
A bit polarised, perhaps and, eh? Working classes? This maybe proves two points.
1) I was instinctivly creating a theatre for people on a council estate who didn't attend theatre. i.e. MY people. Working class? No one told us that. I was born and grew up on that estate. We were not stupid, but theatre have never asked us directly to get involved. So we didn't. I set up Maverick. Maverick asked. People came. Simple really.

2) Politicians or the political parties didn't ask directly either. Or, for that matter, the unions.

So in an attempt to self educate, in 1991 I wrote to the Tories, Labour and the SDP ( I think it was then.) It was a short letter, asking why I should vote for them.

I heard nothing from Labour or the SDP. But I did have a letter AND a phone call from my local Tory candidate telling me why John Major, "one of us, a grammar school boy," deserved my support. Not the nation, but just little ol' me. And they sent a poster, asking me to display it. And so I did.

So the political grandees, the powers that be, can bicker on the BBC, contradict each other on Question Time. But never forget that ignorance and intelligence are NOT the same thing.

Comrade!
x

To Blog, or not To Blog, that is the Question. OR Does Twitter and Facebook fill the gap? The Answer? Fish.

I think I've already mentioned that when I started this blog it was really a way to promote Maverick Theatre, without having to pay for a web site. And in a sense now things have moved on web wise with the Mavs, this is less justifiable. And now I Facebook and Twitter, I wonder if this blog has any personal relevance. The whole argument about WHY people blog/Twitter/Facebook is another thing altogether. But in 1997 I kept a diary about the making of a play at the Billesley Pub in Birmingham. Called ' A Ghost of A Chance', it was unusual for me, because it was the first time I had directly worked with nationally well known artists for a protracted period of time. Before that my biggest 'star' had been Sir Derek Jacobi playing my non-physical Hamlet's Ghost. But that had just been an afternoons recording at the R.S.C. Thrilling, I have to say, but just an afternoon. But for 'Ghost' I'd won an award through the Royal National Theatre, it was packed with nationally known talent even though I was still completely unknown by the industry and the co-star of the play, which, by the way, I had written, was a young boy I would have to professionally look after. So it was a fairly unique experience all round for me. I'm not quite sure why, but I kept the diary. Johnnie S as ever acted as editor and proof reader and made it into a book and we sold copies during the week long run of 'A Ghost of A Chance' and it sold rather well.


What a blog looked like before the internet. Our book cover from 1997.


I only have one hard copy of the diary now - the others were all sold - and I'm not sure what happened to the original. As I couldn't afford a new computer, it probably now languishes on some hard drive in a poorer part of the middle east. And that's one reason for blogging. The industry seems to keep them archived. I think I have all the blogs I've written on this site. And that can only be a good thing. A positive Web 2.0 initiative which means if you're a poor little theatre git as I was with knackered second or third hand computers that crash and burn regularly, you at least will still have your musings on a hard drive somewhere. Yes, I know there's always paper, but if I want to print another copy of my 'Ghost' diary, someone is going to have to sit down and retype it all. If it was online, it'd be a copy and paste, thank you very much.

On the downside, I also recently came across a Word Document (pre Apple!) I kept after we finished 'Ghost'. And it's almost embarrassing in its content about things that mattered hugely at the time and about which now I never think. The boy from the play was a huge part of my life then. I was in loco parentis and legally responsible for him, but he's a grown married man now and although I might like to know what he's up to I rarely give him a thought, unlike - my God, 14 years! 14 years ago when he had a huge profile in my life.

But then I also found a casual entry I'd written about my Uncle Mike, who developed a terminal and terribly unfair brain tumour at 49 years old. We went to see him in Hospital and I'd completely forgotten how it was. My Mom, Mikes sister, was also suffering from cancer and was in a wheel chair. We raced then both down the corridors! It was saddening to read this account. But maybe that's the glory of the blog. More detail than Facebook or Twitter. Room to expand. Time to search the soul and lay it down. The fact that a blog is out there for all to see in one sense makes it a broadcast rather than a diary or journal, which have always been perceived as something intimate and secret.

Of course the real reason to blog lies with my fish. When I announced the death of my monster goldfish, people I didn't even know sent me comments. How cool and lovely and positively human is all that then.

So yeah, I might carry on blogging. Big Respect for da Fish!

Captain, my captain.

One of my cohort on my MA - do you see how easily I slip into the language of academia now, eh? - the hugely qualified Nick (all the males on the Creative Producing MA are called Nick. A masterstroke of organisation by the Course Director, Andrew), worked out that we probably only have about 8 academic weeks left at Uni. Which is amazing really, because we only started a few weeks ago. It is actually 6 months now, but that's my point. It only feels like a few weeks. But then a strange thing is starting to happen. Because it's a course for theatre producers, our final project, obviously, needs to be a production. Now I've been brimming over with productions for about 40 years, although many of them were played out with my Action Man and in my head. I only started making them professional theatre projects in 1992. So the thought of a production project feels quite natural. And really, the problems I am facing with the final production for my MA are no different to the problems I had BEFORE uni. It could be argued the problems are greater, because not only have I been doing the academic work necessary for the MA, I've also been keeping Maverick Theatre going, with Debs help. We launched a new youth theatre this year, for crying out loud. And I need to find £25k to get Maverick on its feet - the second half of the £50k I knew we'd need two years ago. Things are getting critically tight this month. And a friend said to me yesterday, what's changed? You came to Uni knowing how to produce. Have you learned any new core skills. And I suppose in one sense the answer is no. But one thing I have learned is the sheer bloody glory of education. Being in a place where one is forced to think critically and assess one's place in the world. Looking at ones contemporaries and being able to make decisions based on instinct supported by fact. (And learning to write one instead of you. One's Mother would be very proud.)
So although I couldn't put a finger on a specific new fact I've learned from the M.A. I feel different about everything and there are numerous skills that have been honed and developed by the course and the tutors. I will, I think, be in a much better place when I graduate, pass or not, than when I started.
Life changing then. That'll do, eh?

Not only developing my Producer skills, I also know where to buy the best value Salt Beef sandwich in the West End. I'm a lucky boy, being at Birkbeck.

What a twit. Er.

First I blogged a bit. Then I got a website for Maverick Theatre. Then, yippee, came Facebook. And now I twit on twitter.

It's addictive. I only have 5 followers. I only know 2 of them. But I follow 4 others. And I really find it fascinating what Stephen Fry has had for brekkie, or that my talented mate Will is writing a new Tweenie tour on his desk top comp instead of a laptop.

The other glory of Twitter is that you only have 149 characters I think it is, to write your post. So it releases a sweep of creativity. Give it a go. It's the 'new thing' at the moment, but as I said, addictive, perhaps because you can't spend that much time updating. And, of course, my 3g iPhone means I can twitter anywhere now. It is slowly dawning on me that I might be a bit of a gadget freak. My mac book pro is a thing of beauty, (referred to as my "mac mistress" by Rebecca, my real mistress) although I am trying to run two companies and pass a full time Masters degree so electronic help is definitely needed. But twitter can be disarming in its simplicity.

I have adopted the hugely imaginative twitter name of NHennegan. Go to twitter.com and give it a go!

Must go. I've another 149 characters to use up...

With one of these you can Twitter anywhere. Check out my iPint application. Not available from any iStore.

Straight in, no messing!

New Year and time to get stuck in. So I created a new commercial production company last night, incorporated it and opened a new business bank account today. It is the next step in my plan to conquer the world. Mmmbbwaahhhh! All I need now are 80 people with a £1000 prepared to take a gamble/have a bit of fun with Hancock's Finest Hour. Easy? I'm reminded of the fact I started Maverick in the last recession. Is it just me do you think...?