mdm

I was as cool as a breeze till 4pm. Some madman decided to let me loose on the great unwashed and do a public reading of my work. I got an email about some palaver and apparently said yes. I must have been on meds. I thought I would arrive by train - (despite the fact that this meant I would have to leave town and come back as it is only around the corner) toting my diary and other sensational things. He  described me as " the wonderfully perceptive and funny writer and blogger " which has stroked my ego no end, but is in fact an admission on his part that we have in fact, never met. In real life I resemble Bernard Black from " Black Books " with a foot of ash on the end of a fag, ordering minions around, behaving like a minor deity, becoming irritated by people who cough or laugh in the wrong places, and spending an inordinate amount of time refusing to go anywhere that I might have to engage. What shall I read? What, far more import...

I am notorious for not opening emails. For the last year, I have watched in idle fascination and some considerable dread, the count steadily reaching  thousands and then escalate way beyond it. I scan the senders name and think spam, scam, and damn.  If there is something that piques my inherent curiosity I will idly tap it, speed read the relevant details and file it under one of three imaginary folders – Must read soon/ later/ never. More and more, the never option is being utilized.  I need a P.A. I think, and file that thought too in the dimmest darkest reaches of my mind, to be considered at a later date.  Any email that begins with Hello, Dear is from a Nigerian in a smoky internet café in Lagos, idly fanning himself, as he composes convoluted messages seeking to extract either a promise of a liaison/visa/Bank Account details.  There must be a veritable army of them tap, tap, tapping away at sticky keyboards randomly reaching out to anyone ...

Every male at the gig has a Manbag. Even the ones who horse up late with red faces holding cycling helmets. What can they possibly have in those bags, I wonder. Their  Gym gear? An iPad, a charger, a copy of Proust and a chicken tikka wrap? Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet and watch?   - ( Which is how the old man remembered how to bless himself)- I remember the days when men had a packet of fags and matches  in one pocket of their pin-striped  suit  jacket, and a rolled up hanky, a tin of Zubes , coins and a single key in the other. His roll of money would be in the arse pocket. These men however are a different breed. They wear flat caps and waistcoats and designer stubble. They stand around in groups of 5 or 6, looking like the Kaiser Chiefs, holding artisan beers , talking loudly about web-in-air, play station games, and how much their runners cost. They talk about women too. I am on the smoking balcony getting a respite from the peop...