Friday, October 26, 2007

sandwich

grey day clouds that mirror the grey pavements but at least the pavements are full of people drifting pushing looking is it half-term why are there so many tourists or is that just always the case in london i ought to know 'cos i've been here thirteen years thirteen? is it really that long grey cold pavements that aren't paved with fucking gold who said that? but they're definitely better than stockport never go back there no way stockport stockport stockport no matter how many times you say it it never gets any better no tourists i suppose that is one small thing in its favour why the fuck are they taking a picture of that? i wish they wouldn't keep stopping in front of me with their brightly coloured rucksacks the northern line is the other way the other way for fuck's sake now where can i find some lunch not eat i went there yesterday and the day before mind you they do very good pork pies are they bad for you? are they? pork pies? surely not really there's far worse wow she's gorgeous italian or spanish no idea reminds me of that pa on that shoot we did in madrid a couple of years ago now she was wow she was... look where you're walking you fool you nearly knocked over that small child and now her dad's giving you a dirty look big bloke too but i could probably outrun him pizza hut no wonder this country is full of fatties mind you they look like tourists i daresay but what must they thinkof the food in britain not much doubtless maybe i should go to the library and try to write something no scratch that it's too much like hard work and that is something i'm not cut out for at the moment more like never have been actually the things that go through your head when all you're doing is looking for a lunchtime sandwich

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

A Booker Prize-winning lunch

Well, not exactly.

Alright, not at all.

I was in Hatchards earlier. (Note: Hatchards is where the Royal Family buy books, it's probably the poshest bookshop in the world. So when her Royal Mummyness wants the new Jilly Cooper or when Prince Charles is desperate to get his hands on the latest Harry Potter they trip along to Hatchards. Obviously they don't trip along, someone else does. Or, more likely, Hatchards go to Buck House. Anyway, you get the general idea.)

Yes, it's posh, but Hatchards is great. Catering politely and discretely for a full spectrum of tastes, it's a thickly-carpeted, oak-panelled oasis of restraint.

Sounds like a high-class prostitute's.

Does it? Right.

Anyway it's a right royal pant-wetter for your average bibliophile. And today was even more pant-wettingly pleasant than usual because on the ground floor there was a photo-op involving the six shortlisted authors for the Booker Prize, prior to the announcement of the winner tonight. Flashbulbs blinded, photographers urged and staff fluttered around like delirious moths.

"Delirious moths"????? What ARE you on now?

Don't know sir.

Where's this thing going anyway? I thought it was a blog (a very intermitent blog) about "words". This is just waffle.

Waffle is words. No?

No, waffle is rambling nonsense that doesn't make any point and uses up valuable life. Waffle is what you get in dull meetings when the person with the least to say insists on saying it at interminable length while everyone else just nods quietly hoping they'll SHUT THE FUCK UP. To sum up, waffle is bollocks. Clear?

Er, yes.

Right. Carry on

So there I was in Hatchards: photographers, flashbulbs, delirious moths. And six Booker Prize-shortlisted authors. At least I assume there were six but I couldn't see over the top of the photgraphers so there may not have been. I think I recognised Ian McEwan and some tall bald bloke who may or may not have been a writer. And someone who looked a bit like Jimmy Saville. Which could be male or female. Or even, Jimmy Saville.

But it was a celebration of words. Or at least a celebration of the fact that words can make lots of money for the publishing industry.

Eventually I ambled away from the literary scrum and sauntered upstairs where I idly flicked through books by people who can write better than me. And, as usual, I came away wishing there was more time to read and learn and write.

And then I bought a pie.

Which was the 'lunch' of the title.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

That last post

Rambled.

And rambled.

And... well, you get the idea.

I shouldn't settle down at the keyboard when I've had a few ales late at night and expect the Lord of Wit to be at my elbow.

So apologies for that.

It was 'real' though.

And at least I thought it was Cyril Connelly who said that stuff about happiness writing white. He quite possibly did but he wasn't the only one.

Maybe that's why I can't write much at the moment: I'm too happy.

Blimey.

I just want to write

So, fuck it, I will.

I'm not sure what I'll write about and it's quite likely that the results will resemble a load of self-indulgent horse shit, but, well, it's what I want to write, so there.

I think that's how it should work when you're a 'writer'.

I don't want 'to be a writer'. I just want to write. Stuff.

At any time, day or night.

Maybe people like us are crazy.

Well, as far as I can see we're no crazier than anyone else. And if we are a bit different, then all power to us I say.

Express your feelings, give vent to frustrations, exclaim happiness, love or disappointment.

But put it down in black and... well, black really.

'Happiness writes white'. So said Cyril Connolly, I'm told.

Is that why most writers are perceived as miserable bastards?

Or are we just always writing against the grain, with a point to make?

Woke up today, felt great, had a nice breakfast and the rest of the day was lovely too.

Not exactly the start of a riveting read is it?

But then, what is?

Still working on that one. Unfortunately.