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The One Show. Edwina Currie and the Price of Housing

26/2/2014

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I do an “in praise of” page in Facebook, describing simple things that give me pleasure in today's world. As part of this I have a small collection of things that whilst very popular in themselves, are dismissed by the more culturally savvy Zeitgeist-meisters as somehow beneath them. On this list is such as Mumford & Sons, cheddar cheese, iceberg lettuce, Hugh Grant and The One Show, which I have nominated many times. There really has never been a better show to eat your dinner to.

And tonight's was a belter. As its main piece, and what I meant to write about before the awesomeness of the show took me in a different direction, was one of those shorts on house prices, which I've seen cyclically every few years since the 80s. You know, the one where they look at a house selling in the North for thruppence ha'penny and a lock-up garage in Kensington selling for all the tea in China.

The northern locations, and indeed the price, have never changed. Stockport, Oldham, Burnley. Tonight, we were in Blackburn where the odd, very odd, person came round for a viewing and poked his head in the metaphorical laundry bin before leaving, shaking his head in sorrow. In London, meanwhile, 80 young aspirational couples who work in finance and bank with mum and dad, were caught in a bidding war against each other whilst a spotty young estate agent stroked himself off into an aspidistra.

So far, so what. But what's striking is how the locations in London have changed. Over the years Fulham has become Putney has become Balham has become Tooting. But tonight we jumped the shark, punched through the glass ceiling, picked up the Northern Line and carried it onto maps uncharted. A three bed in Blackburn may still cost a barely affordable £125,000 but a three bed end terrace in West Norwood costs £575,000. In West Fucking Norwood. 

The One Show meanwhile, moved on quickly. A football team from Stoke were on. Last weekend they won for the first time in six and a half years. In front of 12 spectators. Happy days. Within minutes special guest Jerry Springer was on all fours barking like a dog. Really. Phil Tufnell then takes part in an incredible shadow-puppet show about to open in the West End (presumably without Phil) whilst the dashing Dan Snow fondled his very own bomb and Edwina Currie fellated an alsatian.

Oh OK , that last part isn't strictly true, I'm just hoping Google picks up on it in searches, but nothing is entirely impossible when it comes to this show, which just keeps on giving.





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Lynn Shepherd loses her sheep?

24/2/2014

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Lynn Shepherd has penned an interesting diatribe in the Huffington Post on JK Rowling's writing life post Harry Potter. You can read it here.  It has, naturally, created a shit-storm on Twitter and Facebook. Lynn's going to take a good kicking under the line, and some support, and it'll be interesting to see if her Twitter followers increase or decrease in number. And her book sales. To be clear I have no strong feeling about what she says either way. Who cares?   But I was lost for something to write about and this does raise a fair question about who gets published in today's world.  

As an author published late in life, I say glory to all writers. And my hackles have never risen at the genuine one-offs such as JK Rowling. How on earth does an outlier such as her have any influence on whether I am published or not? Lynn certainly doesn't join up the dots for me there. Her argument comes across as all slight and no substance.  

Which is OK by me, because aren't we all a seething mass of irrationalities?  Personally, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that, in darker moments, I'm chippy as hell about the middle-ground of moderately talented writers with nothing to say, who parlay up their Oxbridge education and journalistic background into a book deal or two at the expense of less connected writers with better stories better told. (You can buy one of the latter here).  

I've no idea where Lynn sits in my own little prejudicial world, but I'd hazard a guess...





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My First Ever Interview

19/2/2014

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I've never been interviewed before. Well, once for Commercial Union's graduate recruitment brochure, where truth be told I cut a rather fine dash and, through sheer force of personality and iridescent blue eyes, caused many bright young things to sell their soul to the devil. I apologise to them all, if they could put their gold and silver down for a minute and buy my flipping book... 

Where was I? Ah, yes, here it is.

With thanks to Leah at chicklitreviews..   
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Don't Dictate

18/2/2014

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Anne bought me a dictaphone as a Valentine's Day present. I said to her a few weeks back that I often think of poetry and stuff when out walking the dog and have to say the words to myself over and over like a litany to remember them until I come home and can note them down. I actually said that I liked doing this – there was a rhythm to it. But no matter, pragmatism will out in the name of love.

I imagine I'm going to be like Alan Alda's ghastly character in Crimes and Misdemeanors who interrupts conversations by whipping out his dictaphone and saying something like “Idea for a screenplay....” and, to be honest, I've just spent an hour making like Buzz Lightyear.

Anyway, it works, for I used it on my walk today, but by the time I came home I hadn't just forgotten the message but also that I'd actually used it at all. When I finally remembered I ran for some paper, pressed play, pen poised to transcribe whatever poetry gold I was about to save from oblivion.




'Get Dentastix for the dog', I said.



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Gyles Brandreth or Happiness.

16/2/2014

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You know your life has taken a wrong turn somewhere when friends post photos on Facebook of them about to enjoy Bruce Springsteen live in Melbourne, whilst you stand in a queue to watch Gyles Brandreth in Shrewsbury.

The town was even more sodden than it is usually. The Severn was pumping through the heart of the town like a demented giant with a severed artery. The theatre car park was six feet under. There's signs to a new housing estate called “New Town Meadows” or something. Now, really, why would anyone buy there? Anyway, on the way home my mind turned to the theme of the afternoon's show – happiness.

There's the big stuff – old friends, say. There's achievement – your own book nestling at the top of an Amazon chart so obscure it appears to only contain your own book . There's the pleasure of the journey, in this case a yellow moon rising in all its glory – like a ruddy-faced farmer leaning over a hedge. There's love, as you bicker yet again over the class-war that is the conundrum as to whether its Shrewsbury or Shrowsbury. And there's the silliness that comes from pronouncing Meole Brace as though it's a place in Italy (do it properly and I promise you'll giggle). Not a bad weekend, then, regardless of rain and place.


Gyles Brandreth, by the way, was flipping brilliant...

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Some Polite Applause Please

14/2/2014

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We went to see that “all male” version of Swan Lake at the Birmingham Hippodrome last night. It's not my usual thing but Chas and Dave were sold out. It was a bit weird. Definitely not for anyone who felt inadequate during the Linford Christie lunchbox years.

Oh, who am I kidding, it was glorious. The male swans were gusset-wetting sexy. Come the end I was on my feet roaring for more, along with all the adolescent girls, my hands whipped into concupiscent curds of excitement. Anne had to towel me down.

Oh okay, listen, it was all right. Nice music of course, a bit of decent dancing, even some totty. It was also quite boring and disappointing in places. Especially the dance of the little swans, where I couldn't help feeling it was missing something - oh I know - ballerinas.

So why on earth the standing ovation (or half standing ovation)? I can't remember one in a theatre before. Not for the real Swan Lake. Not for Branagh, Jacobi, Dench, not even for Leslie Crowther in panto. Is it yet another modern phenomenon that's passed me by, like Ryan Gosling and Flappy Bird? Has too much Strictly and X Factor turned us into uncritical cheerleaders for the just Ok. Are we all American now? Have we caught a collective dose of ovation inflation?






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Farewell Trip - who are you rooting for?

11/2/2014

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It's been fascinating reading reviews and listening to people's responses to Farewell Trip. It's not something I've ever been able to do before, to be both writer and part of the audience. And in particular it's been interesting as to how each individual has read the book.

A key part of reading stories is that most people take a protagonist as their hero or heroine, identify with them and follow the story through their eyes, taking their side. If they can't find anyone likeable they often can't find a way into the book, or film, or play, and so on.

I've had this conversation with Anne many times over the years. For I have little problem with everyone being dislikeable, and enjoy art that leans that way. A little distance, a little Brecht. As long as it doesn't kill emotion. But she needs someone to root for, to invest in.

Anyway, being at heart a love story, it seems many of the people who have read Farewell Trip have been living the book through Ruth's eyes. And a scant few have taken Trip's side (ironically, there aren't meant to be any sides, not as we wrote it anyway). I had a long conversation with a male friend who was determined to fight Trip's corner to the end (and of course I agreed wholeheartedly). I'd like to think this is all credit to the power of our writing, and that our two distinct voices have resonance. But it's more likely that, as readers, we take sides very early, and along sex lines. Either way, it is much like life...





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Mirror Mirror

10/2/2014

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My "silly" poems have been out being road-tested by a select few (well, the three people who groaned and said "Oh all right then").  My new Norwegian judges kindly came back to me with their verdicts yesterday. Most of their findings chimed with mine, but not all. And for some reason they both professed a liking for this, which wasn't even on my long-list for inclusion in any book, so let's rescue it from the dustbin of my mind and give it an airing... 



Mirror Mirror

it was not that
the man was fat


nor that he sat
and sat and sat

it could be that
he wore a hat


(of course it's that
the man is fat)




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What's in a name?

6/2/2014

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Names continue to have the capacity to place one in a particular time and class in this country. So it goes. I was very much aware at Grammar School that I was the only Gary - not only in my year, but in the whole time I was there. I remember playing football against the local comprehensive and five of the opposition team were Garys. I spent most of the match dizzy.

The name has pretty much disappeared now, its small window long since closed. So what have we to show, Lineker aside, (and I often enlist Gascoigne as well)?  Not much.

I was chatting to another Carina author on Facebook last night. I happened to mention that there's not one Gary but two on Carina's books, plus I'd bumped into another novelist so-named on Twitter. I made a glib, self-effacing, throwaway comment, honed over 51 years.  

“I never knew it was possible for so many Garys to be literate to be honest.”

I liked his answer.

“As a teacher, I think it is fantastic that Garys are finally making a positive mark on world culture, especially after Mr Glitter has let the side down so spectacularly.”  



Reminded me of this old thing...




In The Name of Love

Isobel, over the centuries not much has changed;
The most important thing about a man remains his name.

Take, for example, a man named Ralph.
Don't date him if he rhymes with Alph.
But if he tells you he's called Rafe,
Fellate him first, then make him wait.

Want to meet someone who's as sound as pounds,
Head for a bar in the best part of town;
Shout out “Torquil” and when someone turns round,
Go and say, “Oh, there you are. It's your round..”

Forget all that nonsense about love, what a bore;
It's a myth put around to keep poor people poor.
And whatever you do, please don't marry
A loser with a name like Wayne or Gary.


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Farewell Trip - on sale now!

5/2/2014

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Picture



Farewell Trip is on special offer on Amazon. 

Just 49 pence in Britain 

Just 81 cents in the United States of America. 



I've no idea how long the promotion lasts but click on your country of choice to take advantage!


I'm assuming it's some sort of promotion (no-one tells us anything) which is great. That said, it does feel a bit like ending up in the sort of bargain bin found outside every second hand bookshop, the one obliged to include two weather-beaten Dennis Wheatley paperbacks, a battered copy of a cookery book from the eighties complete with remnants of a disastrous attempt at making Singapore noodles, and a copy of the maintenance manual for an Austin Allegro (well-thumbed).

Still, 49p eh. That's not a sum that buys you much: 

16ml of a glass of humdrum red wine in a London All Bar One – that's not even a mouthful.

A 30th of a discounted ticket to sit in the rain and watch Fulham fail to have a shot on target before losing in the 119th minute to a team two divisions below them, although, to be fair, you do get a whole row of seats to yourself.

6 minutes of that Oscar-nominated film you feel you really should go and see, but which you know is going to be horribly depressing and make you feel utterly ashamed of yourself for weeks even though you never did anything wrong.


Instead, for just 49p, you can read about two fully-lived lives, and a love story played out in loads of exciting locations across the world, and Lampeter. There's a cute little rescue dog called Benji, a rant about those silly padlocks young lovers insist on tying to every city bridge, and sex with a blisteringly hot young Frenchman. For 49p! I know!

Plus, without giving too much away, the banker dies. I do so like a happy ending...


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