e.e. cummings: so cool he doesn't need capitals

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


e. e. cummings

West Wing? More like BEST wing...

"I have wit, I have charm, I have brains, I have legs that go all the way down to the floor, my friend"

"I drink from the keg of glory. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land"

"Why should we go to Mars? Cause it's next. Because we came out of the cave and we looked over the hill and we saw fire. And we crossed the ocean and we pioneered the West and we took to the sky. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration and this is what's next."

If for the sake of argument in some kind of Greek-gods-gift-bestowing-upon-me type manner I could write like Aaron Sorkin but in order to do so I would have to be a crack addict...it would be totally worth it.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins

Lolita has been on my 'To Read' list for an absurdly long time. Perhaps the joy of reading it was partly personal triumph and the joy of ticking an item off a list - perhaps it's just that it's AMAZING. I wish I could more eloquently express what a stunning piece of work it is. As a child I wore glasses. I have a vague and possibly false memory of the time I first saw the world clearly; the clarity, the sharpness, the colour - this is how I felt reading Lolita. My literary glasses are on and the world is clear again. Hurrah for Nabokov. And paedophilia.

I wish I were joking - it seems I'm drawn to it these days; I'm fairly disturbed by the fact that the next book I read also centred around inappropriate adult/child relationships: The Rehearsal by Eleanor Catton. I feel it would be pretentious to suggest that writing about other people's writing is a false echo of the real thing and has something to do with Plato's shadows on the cave - in other words it's totally douchey. That being said, this book is really, really good. The writing is like nothing I've ever read and I wish I'd written more of it down so I could impress people at parties by pretending the words were my own. I go to some wild parties. My only worry it it seems more like a long short story than a novel; what is it about writers that they think if they write stunningly we'll ignore the fact that the plot doesn't really resolve? My other Only Worry is that Eleanor Catton was born in 1985. This isn't a problem in itself, but hark, what's that? She published the book in 2007? This girl wrote this incredible book at 20. I'm trying to teach myself to change my perspective on this; rather than be intimidated by this and feel like I haven't acheived enough and it's shameful I haven't written a novel yet, I have a different perspective. I am motivated and inspired to acheive more and do more and be more. If I say that enough it will become true.

Thou Art

Last week I attended the ukelele fest that was Thou Art; an indie-esque festival in the depths of Suffolk. There were a lot of cool people there; I slightly felt like I was soaking it up by osmosis. There were so many brilliant things about it, so here are just a few:

Bunting:

Art on trees:

Face-painted tambourine wielding singers:

But best of all - amusing signage:

Next year you should definitely go.

Being Heliocentric is Fun

The lovely people at Information Is Beautiful have imagined what would happen if our solar system was a music box. It is incredibly awesome. I could try and explain but it would be easier if you could just go here and press play...

All you need is Love...and scissors

Rob Ryan is an artist/illustrator who makes sillouette paper cut things.
Rob Ryan is amazing.
Rob Ryan taught me how to love.
Rob Ryan makes me want to be a better man. (N.B. I'm not a man)

This is Rob Ryan:

http://www.misterrob.co.uk/

I heart The Dench

Question: How do you enjoy exciting theatrical delights when you have no job and no money?

Answer: Volunteer! CVtastic and free theatre.

For me this means The Rose Theatre in Kingston, where I saw Dame Dench in Midsummer Night's Dream. There was a lot of hoo-haa about The Dench, which is understandable, but even without her it was pretty good...and funny, which is odd for Shakespeare; even when the dialogue is genuinely witty and great I always get too distracted by the middle-aged men laughing heartily just to show they are clever enough to get the joke.

Particularly funny in this production (and also particularly handsome) was the chap playing the weaver. This made the play quite difficult for me to focus on, as I was stuck in a fantasy world of the day we will eventually meet....we both reach for the same e.e.cummings volume in the library and because of the library's Rule of Silence, we conduct an in depth discussion of contemporary literature through mime. Once out of the library, the first words out of my mouth would be "I liked your Bottom", he would shoot my a shy and confused smile and I would clarify that I meant Shakespeare...and of course he loves rubbish jokes and innuendos, two things we go on to share for THE REST OF OUR LIVES. In the Cotswolds. With an Aga.

So, long story short if you want to know what happened in the second half you'll have to ask someone else.

Good times, I love it

Despite what some people keep saying, just because I am a fan of several female comedians that does not make me a lesbian. Having said that, I bloody adore this woman:



www.laurasolon.com. You're welcome, The Internet.

I'll be the very model of a modern English patient

I left my last post on the glorious teetering cliffhanger of "hunchback with limp approaches job interview through the hail"...which, incidentally, is the first line of my screenplay, Unemployed and Undead...but let's ease your suspense. Addressing the major problems of the day in no particular order:

1. The stye healed up nicely and I can see again.
2. The hail stopped pretty sharpish after I delivered a strongly worded missive up to the heavens.
3. The interview went better than anybody expected and I'll be returning shortly to convince them they can't manage without me.
4. My leg, however, swelled up like a bastard and I ended up in hospital getting IV antibiotics. Which is no great shakes in itself, but it did enable me to hear the following coversation between two pensioners on the same ward...

Wife: Don't leave me here! Why can't I come home with you?

Husband: You know you have to stay here, don't make this difficult...

(I say husband/wife...I'm basing that on the fact that they seemed affectionate towards each other, though of course that is not definitive proof. They could have been lovers having an octogenarian extramarital affair. We'll never know.)

Wife: You don't know what it's like here! It's the worst place in...England. Probably.

Husband: That is not helpful Ingrid. I do know what it's like; who's been here for every hospital visit? Who's sat by you? You're just confused now - and don't say you're not cause you didn't know your own address earlier. You didn't even know who the Queen was!

Wife: I know who the queen is it's Elizabeth.

Husband: Maybe on the second go you knew but not at first you didn't!

Wife: I hate this place.

(Pause)

Wife: Why can't I come home with you? Why do they have to keep me here?

Husband: They need to do some tests...

Wife: Fucking tests.

Husband: Yes they need to keep you here for fucking tests, you're staying overnight for fucking tests now stop complaining

(long pause)

Wife: What would I do without you?



If someone had told me a week ago I would find eavesdropping on sick pensioners swearing at each other in a hospital an hilarious and heartwarming experience, I wouldn't have believed them. It may not fit a Richard Curtis definition of a heartwarming moment, but hearing that old man swearily berate the woman he had stood by in sickness and in health about her tests....well it was fucking romantic.

Shit My Dad Says...

So, apparently Twitter "sensation" Shit My Dad Says http://twitter.com/Shitmydadsays is going to be made into a TV programme in the US...hard to see how they'll scale down the profanity and keep the funny, but there we go. If you don't already know, a 29-year-old living with his 74-year-old dad...write down stuff that he says. Does what it says on the tin.

Sample Tweet: "STOP apologizing. You're sorry, he gets it, Jesus. You spilled a glass of wine, not fucked his wife."

It probably says more about me than I care to examine but this is exactly my cup of tea. And I like tea, a lot. I once made a comic about the process of making a cup of tea that's how much I love it. (Yes, it was for a college project and yes, I know this is weird.)

If it wasn't for the fact that they practically make you get a tattoo saying "Plagiarism is Bad" across your forehead in the first week of Uni, I might be tempted to try something like this myself. I'm not sure it would really work though - my dad hasn't yet reached the Really Old Man stage where he just says whatever comes into his head, for one thing - and for another, when he's funny, it's because he tries to be. Really, really hard.

Sample Joke: "I have a Norwegian friend who only likes to eat 50% of his meals... he's a Lars Half-full kinda guy".

Think what you like, but I think this is hilarious. And I'm not ashamed to say so. (I'm a little ashamed).

Marginalia Larks

Books are good, right? We're all agreed. But what's...gooderer? Spending thousands of pounds on an English degree and being unable to think of the word 'better' for several minutes? No! Second Hand Bookshops. They, quite frankly, Rock My Socks. I was thinking about making a T-shirt that says "Second Hand Bookshops Rock My Socks" but it's not the snappiest slogan in the world, and there is the inevitable problem that any girl wearing a top with words on has to suffer the indignity of someone basically reading her breasts. I digress.

My Second Hand Bookshop of the Week is without a doubt, Any Amount of Books which can be found in real life at 56 Charing Cross Road, and on the internet here: http://www.anyamountofbooks.com/ . They don't make 'em like this anymore - leather so stiff and battered, fifty years old and you can practically still smell the cow. A couple of doors down, in another labyrinth of libris (Latin and alliteration, get me) I stifled giggles at the incredibly super-posh odd couple proprieters, who could have been performing a Fry and Laurie sketch for all I know, with their disdainful commentary on pretty much everything. Flicking through these second-hand gems, you find things you wouldn't in Waterstones - 50 year-old bus tickets fall out of the pages, inscriptions to long-dead lovers are still marked on the front page.

This message for example - who is Philip? Was Miranda his lover? Why is her name in sarcastic quote marks - is it a code? Were they spies?! Ok probably not. But it's still interesting - is he in the forces, still off on a post-war peace-keeping thing in '49? And if so, is what he really needed a copy of "Three Plays for Puritans"?

What all this boils down to is that my books have had lives and loves before I was even born. Which, in my jobless, loveless state, just makes me feel more inadequate. My books are more accomplished than I am. That is depressing.

Comedy Ahoy

So...by a very loose interpretation of the word 'professional'... I am now a professional comedy writer. As they say in Malory Towers, Jubliate! Ok, so, actually I got one joke on radio show that invites submissions, but let's not quibble over facts. It interrupts my pride/boasting. This experience has reinforced two things for me:

1. My Radio Comedy Geekery Radio comedy is awesome. Anyone who says different is an idiot. If you don't know who Laura Solon, Clement Freud or the Penny Dreadfuls are - shame on you. You have brought dishonour upon yourself and the house of your father.
2. My Respect for Topical Comedy Writers It is not easy to think of jokes about the week's news when most of the news coverage is either about an earthquake which has killed thousands, or the attempted suicide of a Prime Ministers wife. Of course, there are some who would say this is what comedy is for - to make the unbearable, bearable - to shine a light into the darkest of places. Thankfully I did not have to grapple with such deep issues as I wrote a joke about tits.

Talking of radio comedy - one of the very loose aims of this blog was to discuss how I stave of the dispair of living a directionless existence, and radio comedy definitely fits into this category. If you didn't know that you can see recordings of BBC stuff for free by going to http://www.bbc.co.uk/tickets ... well you do now. If you've not seen a dwarfish Danish lesbian attempt to make jokes about the news whilst getting off her face on fortified wine made by monks, you've really got to take a good look at your life and ask yourself what the hell you are doing. I love Sandi Toksvig.

Just so you know I'm not delusional: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00q0771