Coincidences

Life is full of odd coincidences I think; I was talking yesterday about a radio play wot I wrote which I had come across.  Then the following morning Facebook threw up a 12-year-old memory of this play, which I had totally forgotten.  I didn’t mention this but the play, a modern take on Dante’s Inferno, is triggered by a news item about the anniversary of 9/11.  The protagonist is asleep and dreaming but conscious enough to hear the early-morning news on the radio.  The entire dream in which he explores hell guided by a character from a BBC drama series, takes place in a matter of moments between sleep and waking.  Well: this draft of the play, though the content is quite good I think, needs a lot of reformatting, so to remind myself of the guidelines I went on to BBC writersroom which is the starting-point for anyone wishing to submit a script to the BBC.  I read through the guidelines and then I thought I’d read a script to give myself an idea, so I clicked on one of the two or three available.  It was called A History of Paper and was about a bloke who’d kept a box full of scraps of paper from a previous relationship.  It transpires eventually that she died in – guess where? – one of the Twin Towers on 9/11.  How’s that for a coincidence?

The current window for submissions isn’t up yet but I’ll try to get it in shape for then.  The BBC short story award is also open for submissions – and it’s free, with a first prize of 15k, so I shall submit something for that.  It’s all go round here… 

First of March today. White Rabbits.

Kirk out

Gives Me the Pip

Several people have mentioned to me that they can’t seem to comment on here without having an account.Surely you don’t have to have a wordpress account to simply comment on a post?I put this down to one of the myriad ways in which WordPress seems dedicated to making the lives of bloggers harder; day by day their dedicated teams trawl the tangle of wires at the back of the blogosphere seeking things to unplug so that the hapless blogger can no longer do what he or she once did.It’s enough to make you give up – and sometimes (let’s be honest, nearly every day) I think about doing just that.But where do you go to give up?Where would I blog?I’ve looked at Tumblr and I don’t think it’s for me, and somehow I just can’t seem to contemplate giving up blogging.It’s communication; it keeps me in touch with people, and it’s a way of expressing thoughts which I can’t put down elsewhere.So I guess until the day that WordPress finally packs up the whole show, I shall just keep up the unequal struggle.

But fear not! for today is the anniversary of those sweet little friends of ours – the ones who remind us every hour on the hour of what time it is.Yes, it’s the 100th anniversary of The Pips – not the ones who supported Gladys Knight but the ones that beep on BBC radio and are succeeded by the words: ‘This is BBC Radio 4.It’s one o’clock and here is the news.’Or whatever.Crashing the pips is something every broadcaster wants to avoid, but it must be quite a skill getting out everything you have to say without rushing and without leaving too long a gap of dead air before the pips come along.Apparently the pips are kept in a vat or something and released one by one when their time comes, whereupon they beep upon the air and expire.It’s a sad life being a pip.Here’s a radio 4 programme about it:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001w0yw

A friend of mine recently commented that on my blog I share a lot of my life with the world.I don’t think of it so much in that way as having a circle of friends who I talk to.Would that more of you could only talk back…

Pip, pip!

Kirk out

Nominated Kleenex

The world seems to be going from bad to worse right now, what with the horror that is unfolding in the Middle East. I cannot comprehend Hamas’s actions; surely they must have known there would be a furious and disproportionate response from Israel. But the government’s (and media) response has also been disproportionate, showing very little sympathy for the Palestinian people or recognition that like the indigenous people of America, they were there first. It was their country; and no matter what you think about the right of Jews to settle in their own land, to the Palestinians it has to feel like an occupation. Suella Braverman’s latest wheeze is to make support for Palestine a criminal offence, presumably along with mentioning climate change and, next week, voting for anyone but the Tories.

Sometimes I do get very scared about where we’re heading, both as a world and as a society; I listened to part of an interview last night where Roger Hallam was interviewed by Radio 4’s Nick Robinson and found it quite chilling. Roger Hallam (not the actor, that’s Roger Allam)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Hallam_(activist)

is a leading light in Extinction Rebellion and founder of Just Stop Oil. Like many people I support the aims of these organisations but have grave doubts about the effectiveness of their tactics as they seem to alienate more people than they convert. Throwing soup at a painting gets attention, sure, but does it change hearts and minds? I seriously doubt it. But never fear! for Hallam maintains it doesn’t matter. It’s not important whether the protest is effective – what matters is to live a ‘good life.’ His central thesis is that a handful of super-rich people are plotting to wipe the rest of us out. This I do not believe. That the super-rich are out of all proportion responsible for climate change is undoubtedly true, but I don’t think they’re driven by anything but greed and a desire for control. Yes, they must be stopped and no, I don’t know how – but I simply don’t believe they want the rest of us to die. Apart from anything else, where would their customers come from? Because even if they fully automise their operations they’re still going to need people to buy their products. I do genuinely believe that global capitalism is killing the planet and destroying much that is worthwhile in society – but I don’t believe there’s a conspiracy to wipe us all out. It’s hard to listen to Hallam and understand what he’s saying but some of the things he said touched me, like finding a sense of peace when you act on harmony with your core values. I didn’t like him much but I have the feeling he may just be the sort of pain-in-the-arse figure that movements need; because as Naomi Klein rightly says, This Changes Everything – and if we don’t act, we are doomed. You can find the interview here:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001r7jn

Anyway, this wasn’t what I was going to write about at all and now I can’t remember what I was going to say. Oh yes – it was this: I had an email from the library saying my Naomi Klein book was ready for collection. Joy! So I put a little note in my diary saying ‘Naomi Klein book’. Except that when I looked it had autocorrected to ‘Nominate Kleenex.’ So now I have to nominate a kleenex and I don’t know how to do that at all…

Kirk out

TW3 and an e

That was the weekend that was. Well, it was a weekend of sorts anyway; there seems to be a lot happening right now, what with festivals and fairs and Radio 2 in Vicky Park in Leicester (I didn’t go to that but still, it was there). What we did do was to walk to Gorse Covert a couple of miles away and have breakfast in Morrison’s cafe (very nice) then walk back to Fearon Hall for the Repair Cafe where I waited an age for the guy to take a lamp apart and decide that a bit was missing. He then took a very good look at my kettle, pronounced it repairable but said he was out of time. Well, he was nothing if not thorough and to be fair we had arrived towards the end; I would have got the bus from Gorse Covert but they’ve cut them back and now they’re only once an hour. Such is the madness of this country and this government. Yesterday after Meeting we went to the Sustainability Fair with stalls from such organisations as the Climate Vigil, an African aquaponics project (sounds like a very good idea in countries with low rainfall) and an upcycling project. I got a Morsbag (a bag made from old material) a pot of jam and several books, all for free, which means I now have something to read when I go to Southwold. So that’s all good.

I didn’t go to Radio 2 in the park for two reasons; one, I can’t afford it and two, there wasn’t anyone performing who I liked enough to make the effort. Simply Red were on but from what I can gather they’ve reinvented themselves and now seem to do the blandest of pop; the Pretenders were on but I’m not enough of a fan to bother. There’s a homogenising effect with Radio 2 I find; they put people like The Pretenders and Simply Red alongside Kylie and Busted as though they’re all of equal value.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/events/e4jqwh/performances#all

But I guess it was ever thus: at any given time on TOTP you could find Yes performing next to some idiot like Jo Dolce, who I heartily wished had shuddupa-his-face a long time before. But I guess I’m just an old fart who doesn’t appreciate the enduring value of Kylie Minogue…

Today I shall be mostly… working on short stories, waiting for my thyroxine and buying a sleeping bag. Hope you had a good weekend too. Oh, and I nearly forgot – my mental health memoir has been published:

https://www.poetryformentalhealth.org/mental-health

Kirk out

The Sixth Commandment

It’s been a while since I’ve posted any TV reviews so I thought it was about time we had a catch-up. Consider me your own personal iplayer. So the best thing on TV at the moment – in fact the best thing for a long time – is The Sixth Commandment starring Timothy Spall, Anne Reid and Eanna Hardwicke, an Irish actor I hadn’t heard of (and don’t know how to pronounce now that I do, but don’t get me started.) I had to think for a moment about which is the sixth commandment – it’s Thou Shalt Not Kill, and this is a true-crime drama centred around a small village and its church. The true-crime genre is a rapidly expanding one and the usual format is to focus on the perpetrator while leaving the victims in the background. Not so this one. Made with the blessing of the victim’s families, it puts them front and centre in the story. Episode one concerns Peter Farquhar (a name nobody ever smirks at, though I almost did) who is just retiring from his job as Head of English at a school in Stowe, Buckinghamshire. Peter is loved and respected but lonely; we understand that he is gay but that as a devout Christian struggles to accept this. His spiritual advisor, a remarkably humane priest, tells him not to be so hard on himself, but Peter cannot believe anyone could love him. He plans to spend his retirement writing a novel and teaching a course at Buckingham University.

Enter Ben. A student at the University, he breezes in late to Peter’s lecture on the Romantic poets and charms him by his enthusiasm for the subject. They become friends and pretty soon Peter decides that it’s time he took in lodgers once more. He gives a room to Martyn Smith, another student, and in short order Ben moves in too. He makes himself indispensable, doing odd jobs in the house and garden, and shortly confesses to Peter that he is in love with him. Peter is of course ecstatic; he announces this thrilling news to his stunned brother and sister-in-law but they don’t get to meet Ben as he suddenly has to pop off for something, a pattern that is set to repeat. The sorry saga unfolds quickly; Peter is persuaded to alter his will in favour of Ben, after which he becomes mysteriously ill, experiencing hallucinations and collapsing. At this point Ben turns up the gaslight, telling Peter that he became drunk, assaulted him and defecated on the floor. All untrue. He also tells Peter’s relatives that Peter has an alcohol habit – another lie – thus laying the groundwork for the murder, which he will try to pass off as alcohol poisoning. Peter dies, apparently of alcoholic poisoning as an empty Scotch bottle is found on the floor, and is buried – whereupon Ben turns his attention to his next victim, Peter’s neighbour Ann Moore-Martin. It seems that Ben has already poisoned her dog, and he uses the pretext of sympathy to get close to Ann. He chooses his victims well; Peter, isolated and vulnerable because of his sexuality and Ann, lonely and with no immediate family save a niece. The same story unfolds; he moves his stuff into her garage, telling her that Peter’s family have forced him to leave Peter’s house (not true) and sets about making himself indispensable to her. Just as with Peter, he tells her he’s fallen in love (‘I don’t see age’) and she believes him. In the same way he poisons and gaslights her, going to the extreme lengths of writing messages on her mirrors which she believes to be from God. Like Peter she changes her will in favour of Ben; like Peter she collapses and nearly dies, but recovers only to die in hospital later. The alarm is raised by Ann’s niece, her only relative, who has had concerns about Ben from the start. Suspecting foul play, she alerts the police who begin to investigate and find a disturbing pattern of behaviour.

The unfolding story is more shocking than the viewer expects; like the Young Poisoner (https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0115033/) Ben has a notebook in which he details all his thoughts and plans, saying at one point that he could kill fifty people. All this time he has been training for the priesthood and seems outwardly the perfect pattern of a Christian disciple. Religion features heavily in this series, which is remarkable for the respect it shows to people of faith. At no point is religion mocked, undermined or satirised, nor are people of faith shown to be fools who should have known better. Likewise there is tenderness and respect shown to the victims; they are intelligent, thoughtful people who have led interesting lives and who simply had the misfortune to run into Ben Field. I won’t go into the investigation and the trial – you can watch it yourselves – but it had us on the edge of our seats; in fact we did something we very rarely do, which was to binge-watch the whole series. Highly recommended. (There’s a documentary about it too on Channel 4 as part of a series called Catching a Killer.)

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0fvlpf9

Apart from that, we have finished watching The Marvellous Mrs Maisel on Prime, an excellent series though it lost its way somewhat after the fourth series, and have moved on to Daisy and the Six. In its way this is quite compelling; it’s a biopic of a fictional pop group who strongly resemble Fleetwood Mac; the ups and downs, the drug-taking and the relationships. The problem with having a fictional group is that the music has to be specially written and is never as good as, say, a film about the actual Fleetwood Mac would be. Still, there are good performances from the main actors as Daisy and Billy who closely resemble Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham, though in the series they aren’t married. It doesn’t quite come off but it’s close enough to be enjoyable, so I’d say it’s worth a watch. https://www.primevideo.com/detail/Daisy-Jones-and-The-Six/0PTTLRQF3LB1X2N0OTNY32CH6S

And I’m realising I hardly ever say anything about the radio. Have you been listening to the Archers? What about Helen, eh? She should never have gone anywhere near Rob, if you ask me – but then they never do.

Now, what sort of motorbike should I get?

Kirk out

Finally, For Cryering Out Loud

I was beginning to think nobody was going to pay attention. Barry Cryer died several weeks ago and I expected a flurry of tributes; special editions of I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue or reminiscences by old colleagues, but found only radio silence. Finally today I came across a radio 4 tribute, Cryering with Laughter, presented by Jack Dee and featuring numerous people who’d worked with him. It’s an entertaining listen featuring many of his favourite jokes, but there was one story I liked the best. Cryer was one of a kind; old-school in the same way as, say, The Goodies (yet not quite so corny) but devoid of sexism or racism and always interested in up-and-coming comedians. One of his friends was Kenny Everett and he tells this story about Ken’s TV show, in which he was involved:

‘Kenny used to have a character called Cupid Stunt. After the first series Bill Cotton (a bigwig in the BBC) collared me and said look, we can’t have this kind of Spoonerism on the BBC. He’ll have to change it. I said OK, and in the second series Kenny changed the character’s name to Mary Hinge. Bill Cotton came over. See? he said. You don’t have to be rude to be funny.’

Like Jack Dee and many others, Cryer was great at self-deprecation. When asked which series of a radio show he’d liked best he said, ‘the third – because I was just beginning to get the hang of it.’

For Cryering With Laughter is a great listen, featuring colleagues such as Sandi Toksvig, Stephen Fry, Andy Hamilton and Jo Brand. Go forth and seek it out, I command you.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m0014j7t

Kirk out

The Snot’s Progress

I realise that’s a bit of an off-putting title so I’ll try to make up for it with sparkling content. Actually I really loathe it when people refer to writing that way; it’s not ‘content’, it’s writing. You hear people describing themselves as ‘content-creators’ – why? It sounds like you’re putting toothpaste into a tube, instead of choosing the best words in the best order and making the finest piece of writing of which you are capable. I think Orwell was right; language is sacred (not that he actually put it like that) and that the destruction of language is the last victory of an oppressive state. But who needs Newspeak when you have people voluntarily calling what they write ‘content’?

Ugh.

Anyway, apart from dealing with the aforementioned snot which with depressing predictability has now settled on my lungs, what have I been writing? I’ve not been at it full time this week but have nonetheless managed to come up with a new story featuring Dickens… I’m quite excited about that. And I’m starting to adapt my radio play into a stage play for a competition. The closing date’s July, so I’ll have to get a move on.

In between all this I’ve been listening to old episodes of Mark Steel’s in Town. If you don’t know this, it’s a series where comedian Mark Steel visits a town, spends some time going round and talking to people and then comes up with a half-hour routine which celebrates the absurdities of the place. There’s nowhere else this could happen but Britain. Where else can we laugh at our contradictions? Where else do we have goats running wild (Lynton and Lynmouth) or monkeys roaming the streets or planes crossing the road (Gibraltar) or half-finished bridges (Bedford). He picks up the nuances of the place; its prejudices and politics and without being overtly political (though he is firmly on the left) he pulls off the amazing trick of celebrating the place and bringing people together whilst taking the piss. I think this is a much underestimated series and I urge you to listen. He’s yet to visit Loughborough but I hope he does; I’d love to see what he makes of the sock man and the Carillon.

from Pinterest; image removed on request
Loughborough Carillon - Loughborough

I’m off now to listen to Alexei Sayle on Desert Island Discs.

Kirk out

Jeez, That Was Hard Work!

Submitting work to some people becomes ever more complex. I’m used to sites which run submission procedures such as submittable instead of taking work via email, but the BBC goes one step further. First, read the guidelines. Inside the guidelines are more guidelines and more windows to open and when you’ve read those there are more layers of the onion to peel, more tabs to open, more terms and conditions and privacy guidelines to read, and when you’ve ticked all those you can start to submit. Oh wait, first you have to create an account. Sigh. OK, now I’ve done that so I fill in my logline (this is a radio play: the logline is like the one-line description which tells you what the play’s all about. I’ll tell you what my logline was in a minute.) Right, that’s done. Now the big moment: uploading the document. I make double sure I’ve selected the right one, and click on it. Nope, everything lights up in bright red. Problem? The document, it seems, is too big. No, hang on, they want a PDF. OK. I go back into the document, export it as a PDF, save it and try again. Nope, the box is outlined in red again like the eyes of a hungover alcoholic. What is it this time? you grunt between gritted teeth. It appears the document is too big. How can that be? They’ve asked for at least 30 pages of dialogue; how can I make it smaller? I ask OH who it seems like me got megabytes and kilobytes mixed up but anyway came and fiddled for a while to try to make it smaller. No dice. So I emailed the writersroom and got a reply saying that since megabytes were larger than kilobytes I should have no problem (one of these days I’ll get these into my head.) OK let’s try again. I just open the PDF to double-check but it’s not there, just the first page with all sorts of edity-type things around it like a decorative frill. Argh! I call OH again who helps me by saving (‘exporting’) it once more as a PDF to the desktop so I make absolutely sure to upload the right one. Fine. I go back to the submission page only to find it’s not there! Where has it gone? Fortunately after fiddling I get it back again and most of my information is still there. Phew. And – click on upload and – yes! Finally, success.

Blimey. That was really hard work. And these days you don’t even stand a chance of getting the play broadcast. What they want is to see an example of your work and if they like it they might choose you as a writer to ‘work with’. I doubt they will choose me but if you don’t try you’ll never know.

And the logline? The play is called ‘The Trans Woman’s Wife’ and the logline:

What is it like to discover after twenty years of marriage that your husband is not seeing another woman but is another woman?

Kirk out

Evolving a Theory of Genius

Another post on the topic of genius.

And a propos of my last post, who should they be discussing on the radio this morning but  the mathematician Gauss:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Friedrich_Gauss

He was a child prodigy who had taught himself to read and write by age three and whose gift for mathematics was reportedly discovered by a teacher, who on trying to keep a class busy by asking them to add up all the numbers between one and a hundred (one plus two plus three etc) was astonished by Gauss immediately producing the answer: he had figured out a short-cut and reasoned rather than calculating.  He then got a scholarship courtesy of a local duke.  So far, so encouraging, but as an adult he seems to have become every bit as obsessive and sociopathic as other geniuses and reportedly,  when told that his wife was dying, asked ‘Can’t she wait?’  This idea that genius demands total concentration; one hundred per cent dedication to the exclusion of all else, is deep in our psyche – and I want to question it.  I simply don’t accept that being a genius equals being an arse.  I am performing my own Gaussian calculations here:

genius ≠ arsedom is my first conclusion.

The programme went on to discuss the old infinite monkey argument.  Gauss, when asked if his ability was innate or the result of hard work, replied that it was the latter plus concentration.  Now, I am entirely on board with the idea that hard work is necessary to genius: the latest version of this being the ‘thousand hours’ theory; the idea that practising anything for ten thousand hours will make you an expert.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-26384712

Well maybe, but have you ever tried to practise something when your heart wasn’t in it?  Did you take piano lessons as a child and hate them?  Surely if Gauss’s life proves anything it’s that the ability was there right from the start, way before he started to work on it.

So I think it all comes down to the inspiration-versus-perspiration question.  It has been suggested that genius is 9% perspiration to 1% inspiration: I’d put it around 75/25 but the principle holds true.  It is entirely possible that were I to practise music for 35 hours a week I would be thoroughly proficient within a year.  I would also be climbing up the wall because, much as I love my guitar, I just don’t wanna.  It is not in me to do this.  Whereas writing for 35 hours a week, busting my gut trying to produce something worthwhile and not getting paid for it – is.

So, to summarise my calculations:

genius ≠ being an arse

10,000 hours ≠ genius

genius = 25% inspiration + 75% perspiration

So there you have it.  Now go forth and multiply.

(In a good way.)

And here’s the programme:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09gbnfj

Kirk out

I Have Ended But Not Finished…

For the last couple of years I’ve been trying to get together a radio play. Aimed at Radio 4’s Afternoon Play slot, it’s called The Trans Woman’s Wife and basically does what it says on the tin, being the story of my experiences since the whole trans thing erupted. It’s a story that needs to be told, though whether the BBC will agree remains to be seen; anyway, I managed to write about two thirds of it but was then stumped by not knowing how it ended. How does this story end? I don’t know how it ends in real life so I couldn’t finish the play. I was well and truly stuck.

And then it came to me. That’s it! That’s the ending, not knowing what happens! So now it finishes with the main character saying ‘I don’t know how it ends.’ It begins with a voice-over and ends with a voice-over. Perfect! I was able to put the play to bed (at least until I edit it further down the line) and go down to dinner feeling a deep sense of satisfaction and release.

It’s not often I feel that in writing. I generally get little spurts of release followed by yet another bloody great brick wall. I generally go down to dinner with a sense of deep frustration and blockage. Not this week. This was a good week.

On the down side, my book arrived – and it’s not my book. It’s the story of a lawyer hired to trace the provenance of a painting and nothing to do with the writing process at all. Turns out there are two books called The War of Art. Who knew? So now if I still want it I shall have to order it again.

Aaaand, if you have a parcel to send, don’t use DHL. They picked up our parcel OK and gave us a delivery slot for the next day but then weren’t able to deliver. Instead of telling us, they took it back to the depot and filed it away, forcing me to chase it up with the hospital and then DHL themselves. When I complained to the woman on the line about it she said in a dull, robotic voice, ‘that must be very frustrating for you.’ I wonder how many times a day she has to say that phrase. Anyway the upshot is the parcel will eventually arrive back here – and we will not be using DHL again.

Happy Friday

Kirk out