Earwig Corner

It has been a very strange and most stressful time in my life. However, I do manage to derive a little comfort from my allotment at Earwig Corner, Lewes.

We have had the allotment for a couple of years now. It was in a bad way when we took it over, and last year was the first that I managed to get it fully cultivated.

This year - after lousy weather and bad things happening generally - I am just getting stuck into it, putting in new crops, encouraging self-seeding ones that have made an unexpected come-back, and digging it over and removing the weeds.

I have to confess I particularly like being up at Earwig Corner when no one else is there; in the evenings (when light permits) or other unpopular times.

There is a tremendous tranquility about the place as the sun goes down behind the hill.

This is when I get the most (cultivational) work done and have the greatest enjoyment of the view across the meadows and down the valley to the snaking Ouse and the railway line headed for the big bad city (boo!)

Keeping up an allotment, you tend to think progress is slow and not easy to discern.

But looking back at the photographs that I have taken at Earwig Corner over the last couple of years, you can see a lot of activity - and change.

Those images are scattered throughout this blog entry. . . going backwards in time.

The other way I have of keeping my sanity is going down to the seaside.

Fortunately, near Lewes there is plenty of it to choose from.

At Easter, I went down to Hastings and Brighton. It was glorious at both locations.

In Hastings, I came across an alien playing pool. Decent chap, not at all like the rotten eggs on Doctor Who.

I also went on to Ore - God knows why, it is like the housing estate from hell - and had a spicy kebab and drank a pint in a pub which was closing down. I think I caught its last day ever.

Sad, really, it had a bit of everything, and was rather like a living room inside. The sort of street corner "local" public house that will soon be history throughout these isles.

What has happened that I can tell you about?

Well, the show I did in conjunction with another poet and blogger at Oxfringe - Byron, Get One Free - was a surprising success.

I was in a bit of a state during the run-up to it, for other reasons, but it all came together on the night.

The audience reaction was very positive and the Oxford Times's critic Angie Johnson gave it a rave review, calling it as "hugely entertaining".

Thanks, Angie! You're a diamond!

The venue - at the Copa Bar, in the centre of Oxford - was excellent, and the OxFringe technicians extremely helpful.

The show's success gave me a confidence boost.



* My friends at the Runaway Cafe, at Lewes Station, are having a hard time.

Vic and Jackie Elsey, have not had their lease renewed by the railway company, Southern, and are being told to give their famous establishment a McCorporate makeover to slake the desire of the pen-pushers at Southern HQ for uniform catering branding!

Of course, this has gone down terribly badly with Southern passengers who love The Runaway with its good, freshly made food and opera, poetry and wacky jokes from Vic.

Lewes is a traditional place of independent spirit.

People here don't like seeing local businesses driven out to be replaced by ghastly food chains with poor service, over-priced food - and less-than-zero atmosphere.

I have set up a Save The Runaway blog in support of the cause - and there is also a great deal of online activity happening about it on various FaceBook sites.

I have written a campaign poem which is reproduced at the bottom of this blog entry.

[7 April update: I have just heard that Vic and Jackie have won their battle and are having their lease renewed - and, to celebrate, read the poem out on local radio this morning!]

We dedicated the March edition of Lewes Poetry, at the Lewes Arms, to the cause of saving The Runaway and collected signatures of support, many from people at an Amnesty International meeting in the neighbouring room!

The great Martin Newell - one of Britain's leading performance poets - headlined the Lewes Poetry gig and was absolutely superb.

He really is a fantastic poet and performer.

It was just a shame he didn't get the size of audience he deserved.

Nevertheless, the pop star Captain Sensible was among the few onlookers.

He seemed an extraordinarily pleasant man.

Chatting to him I found it quite hard to picture him in The Damned.

Still, none of us is getting any younger.

Here's a picture of Earwig Corner in January or February this year (2010) when there was still ice as thick as concrete.

Lewes FC, the Mighty Rooks, are also fighting desperately to stay up in their current league.

There have been some great matches this season and, also admittedly, some terrible football from Lewes at times.

However, the Mighty Rooks do not deserve to go down.

They are fundamentally too good a team for that.

So, it was gratifying to see Lewes FC beat Welling (The Mighty Del Boys) in a glory day at the Dripping Pan.

The Mighty Del Boys are among the most successful teams in the league - with also one of the most pugacious away-supports.

At one point, when a Welling player was sent off and some unfortunate banter was exchanged between rival sets of fans, I thought there was going to be a riot!

It all seemed quite exciting.

For me it was the proverbial six-pinter (of Harvey's Best Bitter, that is) as the opposition chanted: 'You've got lovely beer.' Indeed, we have.

Talking of Sarf London, I dropped into an excellent "stand-up poetry" club called Bang Said The Gun in Borough.

It is a beautifully thought-through club with moving visuals behind the acts, a tequila slammer open spot section and even shakers and rattles provided for the audience to fully show their appreciation.

I particularly liked the compere, Dan Cockrill, who was entertaining and welcoming and kept things moving at a cracking pace.

I like the space as well - the top room of a loud, trendy and buzzing Borough pub called The Roebuck.

I shall certainly be going back.

The other big event recently was Smiffy's second birthday.
The Smiffster had a party with cake, balloons and, of course, presents.

Smiffy looked a bit bemused, although I think he enjoyed it. He had a good go at catching his clockwork mouse.

On the social front, I met up with fellow blogger Steerforth at the Lewes Arms for another proverbial six-pinter.

He was just as interesting as his Age of Uncertainty blog, which I can highly recommend.

To my amazement, he has even written about me.

What will the next few months bring?

Anyway, I am sure I am sure I will find some solace at Earwig Corner.

Here are some more images:


August 2009.



May 2009.



March 2009.


2008.

And here's the poem:

The Runaway

Heavenly fresh coffee,
The tastiest bacon in town,
Milk lovingly ladled into good tea
’Twixt opera as Vic’s quips abound.
Goodfellowship and fine fare meet
At The Runaway – the commuter’s treat!

Camaraderie true in ev’ry way
In this sanctuary, clean and cozy,
The living picture of The Runaway
Where even blue Monday turns up rosy,
A service bespoke, time-honoured, compleat,
Where passengers leave smiling, replete.

Ought we trade this rare gem for a plastic shell
With the McCorporate gleam of fast-food chain
And bored staff who feel themselves reborn in hell
In a pen-pusher’s scheme that knows no shame?
- We won’t be druv, in Lewes we say,
Together we’ll save The Runaway!

Oliver Gozzard, April 2010

Edinburgh Nights / Joe's Comedy Madhouse

Edinburgh Nights

Edinburgh Garret 10pm. It is the perfect summer's night in Edinburgh - The City of Dreams. The night sky is a deep, deep blue, tinged with green, yellow and red at its edges. Fireworks are exploding behind the castle. The Firth of Forth looks serene in the far distance, from my room, the Edinburgh Garret, at the very top of this great granite building, off George Street.

I am at the Edinburgh Fringe - probably the greatest festival in the world - for my 10th year with The Stage newspaper.

I never tire of this trip - it always gives me a thrill to be here in August. From where I am typing, I have a wondrous view over the rooftops of Edinburgh, down to the docks at Leith and the Firth of Forth. It is a special place, my favourite and highest garret.

When I am in Edinburgh, I very quickly fall into a very different routine from in the Leamington Garret or Lewes Garret, where I tend to get up early - between 5.20am and 7am - and go to bed between 10am and midnight.

Over the years in Edinburgh, I have generally gone to bed between 3am and 5am and risen between 9am and midday. Reviewing comedy in this magical place, your times shift attending shows in the wee hours of the morning and quaffing the night away.

That is not to say that I do not also enjoy the days in Edinburgh: talking to my fellow reviewers in the Stage Flat (rather like a peaceful version of Big Brother - for critics), walking up and down the hills at great speed, bumping into all sorts of comedy people whom I have not seen for yonks, and soaking up the incredibly rich atmosphere. It is when the sun goes down, however, that Edinburgh truly becomes the City of Dreams for me. I love the buzz around the Pleasance Courtyard and in the Assembly Rooms bar at night. Nothing compares to it.

In years past, I have experienced some extraordinary Edinburgh nights. I remember remonstrating at half past midnight in the street with four comedians to try to persuade them to go ahead with their show so I could review it. They conceded eventually and the show became one long conversation between them and me as they constantly drew me into their work.

I recall bumping into the great Jerry Sadowitz very late one night and going for a meal at 5am with him at possibly the only restaurant open at that hour in Edinburgh where he regaled me with dirty gags. And, on other occasions, singing and dancing the night away with the locals at Fingers Piano Bar. The nights have it in the great city at this superb festival. This is what I wrote after my first Edinburgh Night this year:

Edinburgh Garret, Saturday, 5, August. An amazing night - and the view from where I am writing is brilliant, a stunning sky, land and seascrape. I hit the town in a big way last night, checking out the Assembly Rooms and the Pleasance Courtyard, before flowing down the hill to the Holyrood Tavern for my annual feast of madness at Brian and Vicky (Krysstal) Damage's Pear-Shaped at Midnight.

Earlier in the evening, I had seen an Israeli comedian doing a Siberian character act badly while being outwitted by the small and intelligent audience at a free venue. So, a chaotic evening of comedy with some great new acts seemed like a breath of fresh air.

The club is held in the back room of the pub where Brian Damage (pictured below) and Vicky met in the millennium year when they both had shows there as well as one of my favourite acts the Comedy Referee Ivan Steward. Despite their age difference, Brian and Vicky fell in love and married and have happily been promoting shows there since. They also became a double act and have over the years perfected their performance together.

Their warm-up is a surefire hit, regardless of how small an audience is or how hard to please. The show is a straight transfer of what they do in London: a random bunch of comedians who have rolled up on the night. The good, the bad, and downright ugly of comedy. Somehow with the bread of Brian and Krysstal (Vicky's stage name) between the jam of these acts, the show nearly always works. The show I attended last night was the first of this year's run of Pear Shaped at Midnight.

First act up was Karl Edrik, a strapping big lad with some good material. He showed promise but needs to work on his delivery. Next I have to confess I went up and performed a poem written for the Oliver's Poetry website.

Then Fringe stalwart Peter Buckley Hill appeared wild and wonderful with a satiric song lampooning the raw ambition of many Fringe performers. Buckley Hill has done much for the Fringe, promoting more than 50 free shows this year, and remains a Rebel Within.

Caroline Clifford (pictured) - a pretty girl clad in something akin to DDR Communist Party garb - was a very funny act; the storyboard sequence at the end being particularly strong. She could have a great future in comedy.

Dave Howarth had some good gags, and Ginger and Black - unsurprisingly a flame-haired woman and black guy - were outstanding. The send-up of Eminem's Stan was absolutely brilliant. They need to develop a lot more material but have genuine star potential. (But please change that embarrassing name).

Man mountain Rennay was also good. The line in one routine that 'all weddings are gay' won a particularly big laugh. Tiffany, who looked like a model, gave what appeared to be a slightly sozzled performance, ranting about a range of subjects including boyfriends. It was not polished but had its moments.

Rich Sandley performed well with some strong material. Having patiently waited a long time to go on, Judy Batalion was excellent. Her routine about her mother and technology was particularly outstanding. She has great stage presence as well as a winning smile. Phil Kline was laconic and amusing in an anarchic sort of way, rounding off a first-rate evening.

It did not matter that when you took away the comics, reviewer and camera crew, the audience comprised just two people. Indeed it was undoubtedly a finer evening for it. I got back to the Edinburgh Garret at 3.30am, exhausted but happy.

Well, that was Friday night. The other nights so far have proved as eventful. A topic of conversation in the Stage flat was the planned boycott of the visiting Israeli Army Cricket Team. One of the reviewers had picked up a leaflet from a Scottish Palestinian group claiming the visiting side's hands were still warm with murder; their fingers saturated with blood. We have all been urged to boycott the event.

'How can you boycott something you had no intention of attending in the first place?' I asked, amazed that Israelis played cricket at all. Besides, it seemed to me that the tour should be encouraged as cricket will surely be a moderating and civilising influence on the Israelis.

Another reviewer said that the British had taught the Taliban cricket in Afghan prisoner of war camps. 'Well, the Taliban should play the Israelis,' I said.

Incidentally, I persuaded the Stage's team of critics to write a series of Edinburgh Fringe 2006 poems for the Oliver's Poetry website.

They are rather good: Edinburgh Moment, How Many?, Nudity on Stage, Sleep and Ed Cases.

Went out and bought some new shorts and then traipsed off to one of the free venues, Lindsay's, to see the old Joe Comedy Madhouse act Steve Day in his new show, Comprehensive.














Steve Day's performance was excellent and, afterwards, I had a good chat with and comic and comedy writer Mike Belgrave (pictured) in the garden. It was fascinating to hear about the politics of the deaf world, such as when you are allowed to spell deaf with a small d and when with a capital D, something fiercely fought over by militant deaf people.

Having had three pints in the afternoon, I felt tipsy. I cannot drink like I used to when I first came to Edinburgh a decade ago. I no longer have the constitution for it. I started drinking orange juices between shows for my evening shows, all at the Assembly Room, which is conveniently close to the Edinburgh Garret.

Adam Hills was genial and good; Rich Hall was hilarious, as always, but clearly suffering from the smoking ban, and Mike Wilmot's blue show was disappointing. The reviews will be posted on The Stage website. I was back home at 1.30am and slept like a log!

On Sunday, I met a friend for lunch, which was very pleasant - so enjoyable that I shifted my Simon Munnery review to another day. I caught Justin Edwards' comic songs at the Pleasance. They were funny, although not as amusing as his character Jeremy Lion.

For my third and final review of the day, I had plumped for a strange show called Confessions of a Paralysed Porn Star with Sarah-Louise Young (pictured). I had chosen it because I once interviewed Sarah Louise Young when I was Television Editor at the Daily Star. She had struck me as interesting, in charge of her own destiny and making a lot of money.

The C venues are pretty lousy in my view, and this one, in the Carlton Hotel, was no better than usual. The Sarah-Louise turned out not to be the former porn star but a young actress and would-be comedian of the same name who had jumped on the bandwagon. The show was dreadful for reasons I have explained in detail in my review for The Stage, but I did meet a really interesting bunch of people there.

Consequently, I talked and drank the night away at a variety of venues, including a jazz night at the Spiegeltent. It was light by the time I got back to the garret this morning.

Today has been tricky. I wrote up six reviews and filed them to Stage HQ at London Bridge, and felt so drained and tired that I almost did not go to My Dearest Byron, by the Another Midas theatre company, in the C cubed venue, at Brodie's Close. I wanted to report on it for this blog and also our sister site StandupCom Magazine. I enjoyed the show but it was not quite how I remembered Byron's affair with his half-sister.

I disliked the slightly wet way in which Byron was portrayed, although the girl who played Augusta was good. It seemed the production had cut a few corners and I was not sure it had all of their facts spot on. However, full marks for giving it a go and generating interest in Byron.

Afterwards, I went to see Penny Spubbs at the Pleasance, a really hot new female double act comprising Anna Crilly and Katy Wix. It was a great show, although I was tired, and it was so hot in the venue, that I fear I nodded off briefly in one sketch.

I managed to buy an edition of Albert Camus's L'etranger, saving 14 quid by climbing the stairs at Blackwells. It was £18 in the schools section but only £4 in the languages section. When I pointed this out to the staff, they did not look pleased. I shall read it in conjunction with the English one.

At the Gilded Balloon I bumped into my old mucker The Comedy Terrorist, a.k.a. Aaron Barshak, who now has a very long, greying beard, and seemed on good form. We watched Tony Law's show, The Dog of Time, which was excellent. I went straight on into Brendon Burns' concluding show in the Brendon vs. Burnsy trilogy. It was outstanding. Now it is past midnight and I have not even started work on my Edinburgh poem.

UPDATE: My final two nights at the Edinburgh Fringe 2006 were just as memorable. On Tuesday night (8 August ), I went to The Stand to see Simon Munnery who was excellent and did a very funny one-man Sherlock Holmes play. My review is on the Stage website. In the evening, I reviewed La Clique, at the Spiegeltent - a variety/circus show. It was sensational - the most exciting performance I have seen in 10 years at the Fringe, even if I did pay £4.30 for a pint of lager at the bar!

Afterwards I was as high as a kite on the entertainment, and danced to the Aussie reggae band in the second Spiegeltent. The slippery slope! I ended up drinking with Mike Belgrave at the Gilded Balloon, taking a high-speed rickshaw to the Assembly Rooms (which was closed as it was 4am), and then boozing on to nearly 6am at Fingers Piano Bar.

It was a night and a half. I recall fending off a nutter in Fingers (he walked off and fell over) and dancing to American Pie with two girls (perfectly innocently, of course). I went home and took photos from the Edinburgh Garret of a spectacular sunrise. Then I slept until 2pm and got up to continue writing up my reviews.

I had caught up by the early evening on Wednesday (August 9) - my last night. I went to see Boothby Graffoe at the Stand and bumped into the Phil Nichol who was extremely friendly and pleasant. Afterwards, I met my friend Nick Awde, a fellow Stage reviewer, at The Stand and we watched Scott Capurro together. We have very different takes on Scott.



I feel Scott Capurro is squandering his talents. He has gone so over the top that virtually no one is shocked any more. His audiences have dwindled, and appearing at the Stand does not suit him. Somehow Scott needs a smarter-looking venue for his act.

He ended his act by revealing that one of his lovers, a married man with children, had called the other night before a show to say he had tested HIV positive. Even though Scott Capurro said he has had unprotected sex with the guy, he said he was not bothered by the news. He claimed to be was more worried about the impending arrival of a comedy reviewer from The Guardian newspaper.

There is something deeply existential about Scott Capurro's attitude. He does not care about life (or love), so why should he care about death? And why should anyone care about him? I had briefly met Capurro at lunchtime the afternoon before, on stage with him at Lunch with The Hamiltons at the Pleasance Dome (when he won the bow tie tying contest, I got a laugh from the audience by quipping, 'You doing that is so gay!' 'Thank you very much,' he said.)

He seemed like a nice guy on at that level. I do not know if what he said in his act is true. It made me sad all the same.

I went on in the cold night air (the weather had turned) to see Winston Churchill Was Jack The Ripper, by an old Madhouse compere Andrew O'Neill (pictured), at the Underbelly. It was really good. Andrew has improved his material enormously in the last few years.

Afterwards, we went for some surprisingly cheap drinks (£1 a pint) in the pub across the road, and had a lovely chat.

Back to the Edinburgh Garret at 2.30am, and up at 7.30am to pack, write my Edinburgh Fringe poem, Ed Cases, and say my goodbyes to my flatmates and Edinburgh for another year. It has been a classic!

Joe's Comedy Madhouse. (Flashback to Monday, 8 May, 2006)

Lewes - London Bridge train. East Croydon. 6.57am. Wet. I usually sleep on this journey but today I met an old Day-Job colleague and so we talked. She was shocked at what had happened at our former workplace (she had already left).

She had previously told me that she had been bullied there herself - and bailed out some time before me. We agreed we were better off away from that place. She is now worked in health and was going to Gatwick Airport to fly to Manchester for a conference.

After she got off the train, I felt sad. Not because I had told her the truth about our former workplace, but that it reminded me of how un-Christian people running Christian organisations can become.

My former colleague is a marvellous old girl - she was a ‘go-go’ dancer in the 1960s: one of those girls in cages at 'nitespots'. How funny! Who’d have thought she would have ended up working for bishops.

I have my own past as a stand-up comedy promoter and performer, and people keep reminding me of it. The other week I was asked to write a short article related to it for Time Out, and I found myself chatting with Felix – from the Lewes Salsa Class – about it because he has started doing stand-up.

Then, the other day, I was asked by a friend of my former ex-promoter, Phil Zimmerman (pictured), if I could email details of some of the mad things that happened at my club, Joe's Comedy Madhouse. (He and Phil Zimmerman want to use them to promote a kind of tribute club they have launched).

For your amusement (or not), this is what I have sent them:

1. A drunken Irish couple gatecrashed Joe's Comedy Madhouse and heckled all the time, after having claimed to have just bought the pub in which the gig was being held. When this was quickly proved untrue, they were doused in foam from a fire extinguisher by promoter Joe Wilson and physically thrown out to loud cheers from the audience.

2. A rugby player who turned up with his teammates on a night when a comedy play was being previewed for the Edinburgh Fringe lost his temper with the production. When he was asked him to leave and offered his money back, he punched Joe Wilson in the eye using a box of chocolates which was being handed round as part of the show. A massive brawl erupted - and the rugger buggers were eventually driven out by Joe and the audience, while the acts cowered behind the backdrop!

3. The Comedy Referee, Ivan Steward, once accidentally spat on a man in the front row during his act. Ivan said: 'Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to get you - I was aiming at him!'

4. Dr Luther Coleman, on his first performance at Joe's Comedy Madhouse, jumped into the audience and started groping an attractive woman. He had to be thrown out, but shortly afterwards dived back into the club through a kitchen serving hatch, smashing a great number of glasses. The whole audience rose as one to re-evict him and secure the hatch and door.

5. Chocolate Sandwich - an experimental comedy group relying heavily on vacuum cleaners - once bet a heckler that he had to run around the pub upstairs naked if they could raise £5.70 from the audience for him. The punters coughed up the required funds, and the man immediately removed his clothes and treated the shocked crones in the pub above to his naked form.

6. Jimbo once performed his act at the Madhouse entirely from behind the backdrop, so at no point could the audience see his face. On another occasion, he set fire to his crotch with a candle, and was well ablaze before Joe Wilson extinguished the flames with a pint of lager.

7. Tiger Mortisse, an undertaker character act, did a set on Princess Di a few days after her death. The audience was in tears, though not of laughter.

8. One act caused so much devastation that Joe was forced to close the club that night for safety reasons. The gig had lasted less than five minutes, and nearly all the other comedians had run away.

9. One gig had so many mad acts it lasted for more than four hours. Amazingly some members of the audience were still present at the end of the night, at around 1.30am.

10. The Comedy Terrorist (pictured) did many of his early gigs at the Madhouse, and went straight there after being released from jail. His debut gig was a huge hit, but, as time went on and he became more infamous, his performances were increasingly bizarre.

Perfect Day / Albert Camus

Perfect Day

Lewes Garret 9.33am. A beautiful Sussex day. Phew, what a scorcher! – as we used to say on Fleet Street. I slept like a log. 

Felt quite ill after tea yesterday. My workload, all the prescription drugs et cetera had got on top of me. My chiropractor thinks I am getting better, although it is not at any great rate. While she was pummelling my back yesterday, she told me an amazing story about her dad.

Apparently her placid old man, a former pilot, had got into a road rage incident with another old age pensioner. The other crone had been driving on the dad's tail and received the traditional two-fingered salute.

When the dad rolled up at a nearby service station, the other OAP had appeared like an old bat out of nowhere and started battering his windscreen with a walking stick –so powerfully that the cane broke in two.

Instead of doing the sensible thing of driving off (NEVER get out of the car where road rage is concerned!), the dad got out to try to tackle the raging oldster.

Predictably enough, he himself was battered and retreated to the car and drove off. What happened next is a little unclear in my mind, but somehow the other guy, who later said he was disabled, fell and injured himself.

He went to the accident and emergency department of a local hospital and then made a complaint to the police about my back doctor's dad.

While I was lying almost naked in her surgery yesterday, she told me the state of play was that he was being interviewed by the police with an expectation – plighted to him by his solicitor - that he would be let off with a caution.

But, no, when my chiropractor telephoned her dad, it seems he is going to be charged with assault. How very unfortunate!

It has turned into the battle of the Victor Meldrews!

Lewes Garret, Living Room. 7.48pm. It has been an idyllic English summer's day. There are so few of them that when one arrives of a weekend it is a special treat indeed.

After stuffing myself full of liquid Nurofen to arrest more back pain, we traipsed off on the train to Hastings which was more beautiful than I have ever seen it. And it was not even particularly busy.

The weather was Mediterranean – turquoise sea, cloudless deep blue sky, intense heat on the face. It reminded me of Cannes in the late spring. God, how fantastic!

I was equipped with three cameras: my 1961 Kodak Retina, 1970s Nikon FM with superb 200mm and 28mm lenses, and my 2005 mobile phone camera, which hardly represents progress. Nonetheless, I took pictures with the full trinity during the course of the day.

Lunched at the Neptune, the best fish and chip restaurant in Hastings. The food is always superb and the service divine.

After lunch I walked past the tall, black fishermen's huts and the whitewashed yacht club onto the rocky shore.

I got home at around six and immediately went out again to the supermarket, buying salad, gravadlax, sausages, cheese, and bottled beer. Made a mega-salad, which was rather tasty, with plenty left over .

Then, another excellent episode of Dr Who – starring The Devil.

As I sip my second Grolsch and see the sun gently go down over our Sussex garden, I cannot help but reflect it has been the Perfect Day.

Albert Camus (Flashback to Thursday, 1 June 2006)

Lewes Garret. 10.14pm. Totally knackered! I have driven 370 miles today and been at the wheel for more than eight hours, in between working frenetically in bright Welsh mountain sunshine and heat.

I loved the drive there from the Leamington Garret – you could see the Brecon Beacons from about 50 miles away, and, motoring westward, the landscape became more and more beautiful. I stopped for breakfast at a garage cafe straight out of the 1950s. Forget Little Chef, this was the Real McCoy.

At the event, I met a photographer called Mari. For some reason I told her about my bag having belonged to the French writer Albert Camus (pictured at the top of this page).

To my amazement she said: 'I did my dissertation on Albert Camus while studying history in France.' Coincidence piles on coincidence. Extraordinary!

Tonight is the eve of the launch of Oliver's Poetry.

I am not ready but, tired as I am, I have been trying to fix up the blog, and put up a poem by me, and one by Byron.