Blackout

It's funny how some drinks immediately put you in mind of the people drinking them -  Pimms and Lemonade, Gin and Tonic, Champagne Cocktails and not forgetting Snakebite and Black.

To the uninitiated Snakebite and Black is a delicate blending of lager, cider and blackcurrant cordial. Don't ask me why such a drink came into being or who was responsible for it - although I do know that my sister took it a stage further by mixing Special Brew and Merrydown to make a concoction called Merry-brew! I also know that Snakebite and Black was the drink synonymous with my late teens and the beverage of choice at the only truly alternative nightclub in my part of Essex - The Pink Toothbrush!

Essex gets a bad press - blonde hair, white shoes, ford fiestas and the like. But there has always been an undercurrent of Essex-onians outside that particular bracket. And, I'm glad to say, I to finally managed to move to the dark-shoe side. But it wasn't always the case as at school I was at a lost fashion wise. Although thankfully I never fell into the set we knew as the 'Casuals' - those folk who only wore clothes sporting a known 'label' (along with white socks!) It took until I was about seventeen to finally hit the mark, aided in my conversion by my sister and other friends.

Overnight I went from a lanky, specky, geek, with a school-boy hair cut, pastel shirts and stretch jeans, to a long coated, 501s and check-shirted wearing, monkey-booted alternative. My hair was cut to a flat-top (great for having the ladies come up and stroke the back of your head), however the arrival of Bros put an end to that. Instead I went the other way to a long-haired look - which the girls also took delight in by holding me down and giving it the full Robert Smith treatment. My friends agreed that I'd found myself and sealed the deal by taking me along to the aforementioned nightclub.

The Pink Toothbrush was situated in Rayleigh and was a Mecca for the unconventional. Originally called Crocs (with live crocodiles on stage apparently) the place changed hands in the early Eighties and eventually changed name (as well as putting the crocs out to pasture). To enter The Brush was to leave the Essex everyone knew behind, strangely passing a bar (called Palms I think) that had so much ultraviolet light and people in white that you could probably see it from space! You'd pass through the doors, check your coat (if didn't mind waiting a hour to get it back again at the end of the night), move past security and finally fall through the looking glass into a beautifully dark alternative.

This was the land of the Goth, the Punk, the Psychobilly and a hundred other indie strains. Also a small crew of New Model Army fans were on hand for wrecking duties during the evening and invariably taking centre stage to stomp along to 'Vagabonds'. 'Alternative' covers a wide spectrum when seen together in one place but amazingly I don't recall any trouble in The Brush. It was as if we gathered to dance united against a common enemy. The floor would fill to the sounds of The Wonder Stuff, The Smiths, The Housemartins and The Cure. Knackered and happy we were finally rewarded with a trip to the bar, there to partake of a pint of the blackcurrant-beverage, presented to you with two straws to further speed up the enjoyment process.

I've lost track of how many nights I spent in The Pink Toothbrush, partially due to the memory lapsing side-effect of SB and B no doubt, but mostly because there are just too many to mention. Sadly after a few years my friends and I began to move on or away to university and work. On a visit back home during my Higher Ed years I drifted into The Brush one night. I was glad to see that the place was the same but I could feel I was changing once more, as no doubt we all were - new lives and new venues awaited us. At that time my family also moved away from Essex and I never returned.

However, I was pleased to learn, upon starting this entry, that The Pink Toothbrush is still going strong and still keeping the alternative faith alive. So if you're close enough and feel young enough please go along this weekend and raise a plastic-glass of the true-blackened-brew in my absence...

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Office

The best office I ever had definitely suffered from sick building syndrome...

While attempting to be an actor I held down various temp jobs. The one I held the longest, and officially saw me move from acting to full time-work, was at St Thomas' Hospital in London. It started out as three hours a day as a filing clerk attached to three medical secretaries (though not in the biblical sense). The job appeared straightforward  "track down and deliver patient notes from around the hospital" but was often harder than it sounds even with a rather clunky file-location-database-thingy. The secretaries were part of the Paediatrics Department and had their offices up on the eighth floor of what was then the tallest building at the hospital. Two childrens' wards were also on this floor but a third had been left empty and housed the secretaries and myself.

My office had originally been a bedroom on the ward and would have housed three or four beds. Instead it now had two tables, a chair, a filing cabinet and a shopping trolley. This isn't one of those unexplainable trolley occurrences where they appear in canals, ponds and gardens across the planet. Instead this was an essential piece of equipment, used by the clerk to transport medical files. I'd hope that by now the advances in computer science means the files have been slimed down. But at the time an unfortunate patient could have as many as three thick files full of notes, charts and results. To carry them by hand up from the filing room in the hospital's cellar was asking for a slipped-disc and a new paper carpet if dropped - hence the trolley.

Another, equally obscure pieces of equipment was a broom! These were used exclusively by member of the filing room to retrieve files and notes which had fallen off shelves and were strewn all over the floor (I joke not). They did finally bring in some better shelving, the kind you see if spy movies, with the big wheels on the end that can be rolled along to save on space. However, this called for the final piece of clerk-kit - a good pair of boots. There you'd be in the shelving, searching for the lost secret of the January blood test, when suddenly some bright spark who hadn't checked first, would start rolling up your shelf! After the initial thrill of re-enacting the trash-compactor scene from Star Wars had passed you'd quickly move onto screaming your head off for them to stop. ("Listen to him, he's dying R2! Curse my metal body, I wasn't fast enough!") But if all else failed your sturdy monkey-boot planted firmly between the stacks would avert a crushing death and allow you to clerk another day...

But the best part of the job was the view from my 'office'. For those unaware St Thomas' sits on the river Thames at Westminster opposite the Houses of Parliament. My room looked directly over the river and straight at the face of Big Ben. Never again will my place of work ever command such a view. Who needs a watch when one of the most famous time-pieces in the world is chiming exclusively for you. And if bored I could watch the boats on the river, the people crossing the bridge or smell the bullshit coming from Parliament. One of my favourite memories is that in the winter months, when it would be dark at the end of the day, you could watch the clock light up in dartboard like segments until the whole face would be shining before you, waiting for Peter Pan's party of four to arrive.

As said my temporary role eventually became permanent and eventually meant moving to a different, windowless office on the ground floor. Thankfully I'd still deal with the secretaries and got to visit their floor from time to time. But after about five years I finally made the break, moving on from the hospital and left London life altogether. One of the last things I saw from that aerie on the 8th was the construction and eventual raising of the London Eye. A decade later and I hopped into a pod on the Eye for the very first time during a visit to the big smoke. At the zenith of our flight I turned and waved to my old office and any clerk who might be watching...


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Exhibition

As already stated I'm the sort of person who leaves his brain floating in the past more than is considered healthy. A bit like the bath I suppose - too long and you go all wrinkly. (Hang on! Brains are already wrinkly! So float away!) Even though I'm now an age passed the big 4-0 I'm Peter-Pan-proud to say I am a teenager at heart! However, there is one thing that takes me back to pre-teens. In fact one place on Cromwell Road in London. I refer of course to the majestic Natural History Museum. To stand before that arched entrance still fills me with delight. I feel  I am entering a palace of the Gods!

As a child trips to London would often involve my family spitting up for the day. My mother and sister would head for the shops while my father would take me to a musesum. We covered most of the biggies - British Museum, V&A, Museum of London - but we returned time and again to that place that dinosaur dreams are made of. Personally I blame Blue Peter. They were always taking trips there and advertising one exibition or another. To be fair I never needed much encouragement and all praise to my father for being dragged around again and again to look at the bones, stones and stuffed animals!

Each visit  would always start with a trip to the latest addition but would also involve the same list of unmissables. Dinosaurs (natch), mammals (to see the flying whales and throw pennies on its tail), metorites (to witness matter from beyond our planet) and the slice of giant Sequoia (marked to show the passage of its life through the history of the world)! Finally a climb the top of the stairs in the main hall to listen to the echoes of joy and wonder floating up from below.

Of course, in those days there was only the main body of the building open without all the additional wings and things. But this meant that if we got there good and early we could spend the morning in the NHM, have lunch in the restaurant (I'm seeing fish-fingers, beans and chips on a paper plate, but then that was my staple fare at age 7) and then after lunch we'd nip round the corner to Exhibition Road and the Science Museum.  I have a feeling that my Father preferred this museum due to his engineering background and love of Science Fiction. He definitely seemed more impressed by the planes suspended from the ceiling than the whales. Science Fiction is another shared passion between my father and me and I remember will glee the time the museum had on display both R2-D2 and C3-PO and Luke Skywalker's landspeeder!

Our third biggest passion, after comedy and Sci-Fi, is books (which often incorporates the first two) and an author recommended by my father, Russell Hoban, also describes lovingly the wonders of the Science Museum in his novel 'Amaryllis Night and Day' and in particular the display I always remember the most there myself - the Klein Bottles. The madness and impossibility of them would draw me in and I'd follow with my eye the twists and turns, trying to understand how such a thing were possible. The doughnut / bagel theory eluded to in my past post 'Arrest' certainly had its foundations in those incalculable curves of Klein.

One of the most random, cinematic like moments of my of my life also took place in the Science Museum. It was towards the end of the day and the galleries were emptying when suddenly a strange music filled the air - a whining trill that was beautiful and melancholic. We followed the sound and were finally greeted with the sight of a man standing by himself in the centre of the hall wearing full evening dress. He stood in front of a small, green cabinet which he appeared to be conducting. It responded magically to every shift and flow of his hands by singing the strange song. My father quietly explained that this was a Theremin, an instrument the sound of which sends tingles though my body to this day. I stood enthralled as the soloist finished the piece never once touching it but rather caressing it from a respectful distance...

It's moments like that I hope will stay in my mind wash after wash after wash...

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Conclusion

Who knows the allegory called 'Plato's Cave'? (Anyone? Anyone?)

Well, basically Socrates put forward an idea that if a group of prisoners spent their whole lives chained in a cave and only looking at one wall, onto which shadows are cast from other people wearing odd shaped hats, then eventually the prisoners would believe that this is the real world (or a Lady Gaga video). So convinced would they be of this false reality that they'd be unable to recognise the real thing if they saw it. And finally, if the prisoners were given the option to return to the cave would they choose reality or the shadows (remind anyone of the 'The Matrix'?). Today this can be seen as a premonition and allegory for our immersion into TV, which raises an additional question - what if the prisoners had TiVo?

Now, I'm not an impatient person but the one thing that does push my viewing buttons is a cliffhanger. Having to wait until 'Next Time' to find out what happens. It never used to be a problem. I used to love those those cinema serials they showed on TV back in the eighties - 'Flash Gordon', 'Zorro' and 'King of the Rocketmen'. At the end of every episode you'd  have to wait a week to see if they really did die in the explosion or fall into the volcano. Of course they never did because the start of the next episode was always completely different from the end of the previous one - they were well clear of the blast or the volcano was really full of chocolate pudding. Actually that last one might be just one of my personal fantasies. Hold on... Where was I? Oh yes...
 
But the digital, downloadable, box-set-able age has completely destroyed that part of me that was happy to wait. If you're like me then a box-set is just an open invitation to watch episodes back to back, so destroying the cliffhanger element. I will often willing loose sleep to find out just how Jack Bauer moved the clock on anther hour. And now On-Demand TV, iPlayers and hard drives mean that you can 'box-set' current programmes while they're still showing. A good example is a TV series written by an old friend of mine. Every week people are watching and reporting on how good it is but I can't. I have to hoard and wait until the series has finished and only then gorge myself in a gluttonous, eight hour ecstasy of horror and humour (and giving me something to do while I eat that volcano full of chocolate). Of course you still have to contend with the end of series cliffhanger, but I can handle it (just). 

What I really can't stand is when you're denied closure from a show, where a series ends never to return. Examples of programmes which ran there course with a satisfactory ending  include 'The Prisoner', 'Blake's Seven', 'MASH', 'Six Feet Under', 'West Wing' and even 'The Good Life'. But so many time I've been left permanently suspended not knowing what became of my heroes. What happened to 'The Man from Atlantis', 'Manimal' or 'Automan'? And worst still is when they drop something halfway through a series because of low rating even if there are more episodes yet to be aired. TV companies are playing with our lives by unthinkingly not recommissioning a programme without rounding out an ending first. Such practices lead to Fan Fiction - and we all know how dangerous that can be - ("Why Scully, just what do you intend to do with that alien probe?").

But always remember Socrates. It doesn't have to be this way. We can leave the cave! We can free our minds! We can take the red pill! We can turn our backs on this make-believe, face the light and lead a true life!

(Now, if you'll excuse me Lumpy-shadow just pulled a gun on Twisty-shadow and said he's his father, but I don't believe him...)

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Tea

I really , really want to like tea. It seems to be such a wonderful drink. An inspirational brew that has kept this country going decade after decade. It seems so unpatriotic not to drink it. Every time I say "No thank you" to a cup I feel as if I were kicking a bulldog or unbuttoning a Pearly Queen.

It's the ritual that surrounds the prepartion of such a simple drink that really draws me in. Whether it's with tea urns and tea leaves or teapots and teabags the whole process of creating a cuppa has a ceremony to it, much like... well the Japanese tea ceremony, natch. And it can also stir such passions in people. When is the best time to drink tea and which kind? And in particular the whole milk in first or last debate which could very well start the Second Lilliputian War.

And tea is the true social leveller that everyone can enjoy.  Be it from bone china in fancy hotels to chipped mugs in office kitchenettes to tartan flasks on windswept beaches the whole nation is doing it. No one looks up or down on anther tea drinker, but they do look strangely at the non-brew-believer. And if you don't partake then you can't join the tea-party. I couldn't feel this much peer pressure if the whole House of Lords fell on me!

So I finally gave in last week. Seeing Johnny Vegas and his monkey friend pushed me over the edge. Boiling water, one teabag, one splash of milk and a spoonful of Mary Poppins medicinal bribery later and I was ready. However, after one sip I had the usual Emperor's New Clothes moment.

"Can't you fools see?" I wanted to cry "Its just hot, brown, bitter water!"

Sorry Britain. I've let you down...

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Maybe I could take up cricket...


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Meal

From first sight there was only one possible name for her - Maude.

During my first year at Drama School - still excited at the novelty of living away from home – I realised that my original digs, which I shared at the time with my sister, were too far away from the school itself. Each morning I had to rise early to take a train and then two tubes before reaching my destination. Breakfast was invariably chocolate and crisps from a garage by the tube station. Following a day of Strindberg, singing and silliness, and possibly a post-performing-pint, I would have to reverse the journey. I’d arrive back late at night and, if my sister had taken pity on me, reheat some dinner or else revert to my staple of the time – toast and mayonnaise! Finally I’d fall into bed only to be up six hours later to do it all again.

Therefore, myself and three fellow students, also on the look out for better accommodation, searched around for a house to share. Almost the first place we saw was a small, three bedroom, 1930's semi. She was old and quaint, but solid and homely; hence her name. My house-mates took the bedrooms while I had the front ground floor reception room - complete with sideboard, tiled fireplace and electric fire. The mattress on the bed just had one big dip in the middle and stood on three legs and a biscuit tin, but I never slept better. I can remember cosily sitting in that room of a wet afternoon reading ‘The Wasp Factory’ and listening to ‘Sinead O’Connor’ explain that nothing compared to you. Best of all I could get up at a normal time, return home easily and consume real meals (although the toast and mayo was still a must!).

Although Maude was still a distance from the school she was at least closer to the nearest town where the majority of the student body lived. Almost as soon as we moved in we inevitably had a party. Whether it was a birthday or just a bash I can't remember, but everyone was invited. A good time was had by all and for such a small space the back sitting room and small kitchen managed to fit in an extraordinary amount of people. For all it’s TARDIS like qualities, however, it was Maude's homely nature that everyone liked and without even trying to she quickly became the hub for our world.

Not a day seemed to pass without someone dropping by and we soon became the place to visit for parties, movie nights, play rehearsals and script writing sessions (for projects that never quite took off). With a full house of friends the cry of “Bundle!!” would often be heard. This signal would bring ever person in Maude running to the living room, there to pile as many as possible onto the sofa. It did occasionally result in injury (and once even merited a trip to casualty for a neck brace) but never ceased to entertain. My own twentieth birthday was observed at Maude with a toga party where we were attired in costumes made from Maude’s own curtains (‘Sound of Music’ meets ‘Animal House’!).

As well as parties the other major get-together were Sunday lunches. The four Maudelins (as we house-mates called ourselves) along with some of our friends would gather on a Sunday morning (possibly recovering from the night before) and start to prepare the feast. Whilst everyone else ploughed in with meat and two veg I would cook up a pan of something for myself, being the only vegetarian in the mix. My signature dishes at the time being either a 'vat-o-chilli' or a 'vat-o-curry' (the main difference being that one had chilli power and kidney beans and the other curry powder and chickpeas). A large pan of either could see me through several days, sitting on the hob awaiting a reheatin’ n’ eatin’! Lunch consumed we would retire to the living room to blissfully slob out with the TV.

These were probably the halcyon days, but sadly such times cannot go on forever. During my second year I was moved to the school’s sister location in Yorkshire, so others moved in to Maude for a while (one of them My Wife (Then Girlfriend (prior to being My Girlfriend)). Then, on my return from ‘Up North’, I discovered to my dismay that Maude was no longer being rented out. It was the end of a short but idyllic era.

During the remaining time at the school I lived in several other properties with my friends. There were still parties, meals and the rest but it was never the same again. Some houses came close (Albert and Torwood for example) but none quite matched the magic that’d been Maude.

A few years ago my wife and I were reminiscing about the good old, Maude old days - the parties, the people, but the mention of food, and in particular my chilli, brought a guilty expression to her face. Eventually she confessed. Once she and one of my house-mates had accidently spilt the contents of my pan onto the kitchen floor. However, obviously not wanting me to miss out on a meal, they had scooped the lot back up and left it for me to consume later in blissful ignorance! Bless them!

So I can truly say that not only does a little piece of Maude live on in my heart but quite possibly my stomach as well...

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Voting

My kids are about to take part in the school and village version of 'Britain's Got Talent' and number one son has decided to perform a piece which he is learning at his Street Dance class. Of course it would be too simple if this were to just one song. Instead it involves three separate sections from three different songs. So, turning my baseball cap around and grabbing all manor of gadgets, I attempted to follow in the footsteps of of top DJ's like Fat Boy Slim, Mark Ronson and Gloria Hunniford!

To make the magic work required a laptop, my phone, a host of cables, a visit to iTunes and a sound effects CD. And after an evenings toil MC Wordy-Wordsworth completed the track. So pleased was I with the result that I even contemplated joining the talent show with my new mega-mix skills! But I wouldn't want to out-shine my son. It did, however, get me wondering if any of the others talents I've developed as a father could be used to secure my place at the Royal Variety Performance. Possible turns include -

The Stupendous Stinko - The master of illusion who can make any amount of pet poop disappear with only a shovel, some rubber gloves and a common-or-garden toilet!

Make-and-mender - No accident a disaster, no broken toy too small, no snapped piece of plastic too insignificant that this one man solvent-solution-surgeon can't fix it!

Zippo the Speed-reader - Be astounded at how fast a human being is able to read and digest the instructions for any toy in the same amount of time it takes a child to extract the article in question from its box, stare at it and ask "how does it work?"

Batteries Are Included - Will make any amount of power cells (of any size, shape or denomination) appear from thin air before you can say the words "I think its broken!"

The Man of a Thousand Voices (But None of Them Famous) - Can read a bedtime story with up to twenty characters all with an individual vocal pitch, regional accent and personal back-story!

So who would win? I'll let the judges decide...

-X-X-X-