Back here again

A WEEKEND OF RETURNS

In the eighties and nineties I performed in several amateur theatre productions. Acting both terrified and delighted me. In the noughties my job often took me around England and Wales to give talks to audiences ranging from little more than a dozen to more than two hundred. Presenting both terrified and satisfied me. Last night we went to a poetry and music event where audience members were invited to bring along a poem and read it out. So I did. My first stage appearance in many years. It both terrified and pleased me. The ham lives on...

(This was the poem I chose to read out.)

My last post in this blog was back in January. I have continued to write ever since. Every day. Mostly nonsense, mostly mundane, often rambling and incoherent (well, not quite Trumpian levels of incoherence...). But I write. I haven't felt like sharing it. With anyone.

But here I am again. Here I hope to return. Because last night reminded me that, as the ham, the performer, is still within me, so is the writer. So is the desire to expose my writing to others. And in doing so expose myself (but not in the way that attracts police attention). Even if hardly anyone bothers to read this...

There will be more (may contain Lego).  Probably...

Launching Bits and Pieces

BITS AND PIECES - A STORIES AND POEMS BLOG

I grew up in a small 1950s mid terrace.  Out front a handkerchief law and prissy wee privet.  The back garden was much bigger.  Narrow, but maybe 12 metres long, split into 2 about two thirds of the way down by a tall wooden fence.  Originally the area nearest the house was grass, but early in my childhood the builders came round, stuck a new room on the back and paved over the green.  I can't recall what the further end looked like, apart from the permanent presence of a shed.

Always looking for ways to save money, my dad honed his DIY skills over the years.  That new build on the back would eventually be fitted out as a dining room, although it took a couple of years to get it all done.  Meanwhile the modernisation of the garden meant digging up that lower section and bringing in a pile of paving slabs of various shades, some cement and a sledgehammer.  Multi coloured crazy paving was the objective, somewhere to hand out the washing away from the house.

Progress was slow.  To be fair he worked shifts, there were always other demands on his time and Edinburgh weather no doubt played a role.  But he was also a slow worker. Methodical he'd say, and the results justified the care he was taking.  As it gradually emerged it looked pretty interesting, by sixties standards.  It got to a point where over a third of the area had been covered and the rotary washing line could be put in place, so at least the area could be used for purpose.  But then it all seemed to grind to a halt.  Years later that space was part paving, part broken ground, and putting out and taking in the washing always had the thrill of knowing there was a potential ankle-turning moment lying in wait.  Many, many years later the fence was taken down and the whole garden landscaped.  The crazy paving never did get finished.

Over the last four and a bit decades I have, off and on - far more off than on - had periods of trying to write stories and poems and messing about with bits of fiction in my head.  Be it nature or nurture we inherit certain characteristics from our parents.  And I seem to have acquired that inability to see things through from my dad.  There are notebooks and cardboard folders and files on my hard drive that are testament to that crazy paving.  Ideas that never quite made it, poems that fritter out for want of an ending, stories that don't even make it to a middle.  I'm rubbish at seeing them through.

Mostly.  Along the way a few, a very few, have reach something I could regard as completion.  Most are short (surprise, surprise), rarely more than a page or two.  Most have sat unread by anyone but me, or perhaps one or two others, for many years.  They aren't worth sharing the voices tell me.

But why not?  The worst anyone can do is tell me they're awful, and that wouldn't come as a shock.  Mostly they will get ignored, and that's fine too.  But if even one of them brings out a smile, or an unexpected thought, in some random reader then there will have been a point to doing this.  So Bits and Pieces is the repository of those few finished works.  Only three to begin with, more to be added over time.  Doing so might even motivate me to return to those crazy paving jobs and see if I can smash up a few more slabs, or come up with something new.  I'll see what happens.

First up is a poem I wrote a few months ago when I was having one of those spells of trying to write.  Nothing was working out so I began a verse about being unable to finish anything off and that was the one I found flowed out easily.  Followed by another recent poem, one of those I mentioned before as having stalled.  Unfortunately by the time I got around to polishing it up the political subject had already resigned from the post that gave her prominence.  But it still feels worth sharing.  And finally a very short sort-of story that came from real life.

Here's the links to the three posts :

The poem about being unable to write a poem

The already out of date political doggerel

The short short story

Our very own poem, Our very own poet

VERSE SURPRISE

A hypothetical question for you. You're given the gift of all the time and money you need to go to an unlimited supply of live entertainment. With the catch that everything you see must fall within only one of these four categories - sport, music, drama or comedy.  Which do you choose?

For me the answer is always easy.  Music.  Much as I love the other three, much as they've all provided me with some amazing memories, it's no contest.  There are no highs like the highs I've had from a couple hours of watching and listening and moving to the sounds of Dallahan or Le Vent du Nord or Blazin' Fiddles or Stephanie Trick or Mr Sipp or the 3 geniuses that comprise the mighty Lau or.... the list goes on and on (but always ends with Lau).

But there's a genre missing from my list, as last night's gig reminded me.  Spoken Word, Poetry, Storytelling, it goes by various names, but can have its own way of providing those special moments in life.  I've not been to all that many across the years.  Luke Wright was a fairly recent discovery, but the poetry gig that's stuck most in my head was over 20 years ago, courtesy of a friend who took us along to see a man called Henry Normal. And we became fans, read his books, found ourselves quoting lines to each other at odd moments.

You might not know the name, or his poetry, but you will be familiar with much of his other work. Along with Steve Coogan he set up Baby Cow Productions and among his many credits as writer and/or producer are shows like The Royle Family, Gavin and Stacey, Red Dwarf, Alan Partridge and the feature film Philomena.  Not a bad list.

But now he's left TV behind and is back writing and performing as a poet.  His appearance in the Poetry Cafe in London near enough coincided with our wedding anniversary, which seemed like a good enough excuse to make the trip. I was looking forward to seeing him again, wholly unaware of just how special a night it would be.

Because Barbara got in touch with Henry, asking if he'd give us a mention on the night.  To her surprise he not only said he would, but he'd write a poem just for us as well.  I was in the dark about this until the night itself and we had a  chat with Mr Normal before the show.  It was a hilarious and moving night , the (our!) poem was wonderful, and Henry is a lovely,lovely man.

You'd probably think that was the best bit of the night, but no.  If you know Barbara you'll know she's pretty much the open book type, always honest, her emotions writ large upon her features.  But she kept this a secret from me without a hint of it escaping.  You can't imagine how proud I am that she's finally, after all these years, achieved a level of deceitfulness to match my own....

As for the poem, well here's a photo of the copy he presented us with, and a transcript in case the original is hard to read.  Enjoy.  We did.

MOT for the 21st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY of

Barbara and Blyth Crawford

MOT

Marriage on track

Mutual ownership treaty

Membership of team

Made of trust

Marvel of tolerance

Merger of two

Ministry of Tenderness

Mate on tap

or

MOT

Misery owned twice

Mad oath taken

Match own troubles

Murderer of time

Monogamy only token

Malevolent odious twin

Malign other twat

Must order termination

Let down at not being let down by the Fringe

DISAPPOINTED AT NOT BEING DISAPPOINTED

Partly as a hobby, partly as a bit of a challenge, I decided, earlier this year, that I'd have a go at writing a review of every gig, show, play and film I go to, and post them on my other blog.  Knowing that, once August arrived, I would be committing myself to a fair bit of 'work'.

There's no pretence I have any degree of expertise in any of the fields I'm critiquing, these are just my views on what I've seen.  I've tried to be as honest as possible, even if that meant being heavily critical of someone I might like as a person.  If just a few people find one of these posts helps point them towards something new they'll enjoy, or helps them avoid something awful, then I'll feel it's been of use.

So it's important that I do reflect the negative as well as the positive.  Nobody is going to place any trust in a review blog that simply heaps praise on each and every event covered.  Last night I wrote about Nina Conti, a show that was hilarious overall, but had a couple of weak spots and I made sure I mentioned them too.

But what to write on a day like today.  Three shows, three great experiences, three I'd happily see again.  I can make minor carping noises about one, because it was the first performance and clearly it needed a little more familiarity, but that will be there within days.  Otherwise.... it was all just bloody brilliant.  Honest.

Roll on the day when I see something a bit shit again and I can regain some credibility.




What a fabulous day, 
All warm and sunny,
Three great shows,
They were all very funny

Though I would look better
And less of a tit
If even one
Had been just a bit shit