Showing posts from August, 2013

ConFUSION Soiree

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 importantly, shall I wear?
A Miu Miu and a…

Skinky and the Brain

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 cafĂ© 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 they think is a possible mark.  This explain…

Gimme some Sugar, baby.

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 people in front of me. I am in the exclusive venue known…