Out of the Darkness

I have not blogged since June because it has been an exceptionally difficult year. Now life is getting better, I feel as if I have emerged from a long, dark tunnel. More than six months of fighting crises, one after another.


It is hard to blog about matters you cannot really write about. The internet is such an open medium.

But I can say that what I have faced this year took up all my resource and initiative, as well as quite a lot of finance.

I have certainly never spent so much time consulting lawyers, using calming hypnosis CDs, or drawing on friends and friends of friends for their advice and help.

When the chips are down, it is very interesting who offers a helping hand.

I have won my battles and suddenly skies are blue again. I can get on with my life and try to make everything better.

I became quite ill during this time but now, gradually, my health is improving and I am feeling much better about myself, life and what the future holds.



Inferno-fighting kills creativity. I have hardly written a line of poetry in more than six months and getting back into it is not easy.

My ordeal has taught me a lot about myself: my powers of resilience and ability to never give up hope and to win fights against the odds.

Even with the help of friends, you can feel very alone and scared in a tight spot. And one of the trickiest aspects of it is that the rest of your life goes on; you can't stop everything to fight, and so there are hardly enough hours in the day.

Despite all that was going on, I managed to get up to Edinburgh for a few days in the summer, which was great.

It has been two years since I went to the Edinburgh Fringe and my appetite for it had been renewed by my absence. At least for those days I forgot my troubles - and watched some fantastic comedy.

The atmosphere in central Edinburgh in August is unique. Every space a venue. Every pavement a stage.

It was good to see my old friend Micky Flanagan doing so well. His show at the Pleasance was a cracker!

But most of all, I enjoyed just hanging out in the bars, the Spiegel Garden, the Pleasance Courtyard, and Teviot Square. The nights seemed magical!

I also spent a few days in Les Deux Alpes, in the French alps, which was fun.

The resort offers summer skiiing on the glacier but, after my previous experiences, I decided to simply enjoy the walking and the views, which were spectacular. I do not miss the sport. God did not intend me to ski.

I enjoyed sitting at the bar on the glacier, having a beer in the bright sunshine, and watching others ski.

The ice caves were also enjoyable. Well worth a visit, because of the ice sculptures.

The weather in Les Deux Alpes was mixed; as wet and cold as much as it was warm and dry. A tad disappointing for August (that's how late this blog is!)

Les Deux Alpes is a strange place. The locals are not always as friendly and reasonable as they seem at first, and the architecture leaves something to be desired, although I was tickled by the breeze-block Moulin Rouge.

On a good day, though, the alps are breath-taking. I love the cleanness of the air and the incredible distance you can see.

During this tricky year, I found my mind obsessed 24/7 on my problems and it was very hard to think of anything else. Not healthy at all.

One thing that distracted me was following the so-called Mighty Rooks, Lewes FC, who play their home matches a few hundred yards from my home.

Last season's delegation battle was riveting and came down to the wire, with Lewes staying up with a glorious victory away at Hampton, the last match of the season.

Some images of that amazing, unforgettable day are posted in the blog entry below this one.

Matters have moved on since then, of course.

The club was taken over by the community, and, sadly, the heroic manager Ibbo (Steve Ibbotson) and his brilliant assistant Jason Hopkinson have decided to step down. A pity but you can understand their reasoning.

They have given it their all and now feel it is time for someone else to have a go at the coaching. Although the altruistic Ibbo, thankfully, is staying on as a hands-on chairman of the club.

Attendances are up and the club recently celebrated its 125th birthday; there is no reason why it shouldn't find some kind of regular success again on the field. I truly hope it does.

My poetry club, Lewes Poetry, has also buoyed me on.

At one point I thought I was going to have to give it up for a bit, but somehow it has a momentum all of its own that kept me going with it.

Featured poets this year have included Martin Newell, Peter Wyton, The Anti-Poet and Mark Niel, but the gigs with simply local Lewes poets have been equally enjoyable.

There is such talent in Lewes town! I am always amazed at the variety of poets who come through my door on club nights.

The final gig of the year will be 18 November and is to feature a marvellous range of poets from Lewes and surrounds.

It is hard writing this blog. It's been so long, I have fallen out of the habit.

I've just finished another short stint on Rocket FM, Lewes Bonfire's radio station.

I was more relaxed and happier with my performances this year, and, again, had a good response from listeners.



It is the time of year when everything seems to gather pace: Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, Christmas, New Year. Loads of work and a quite a bit of socialising. It will all go in a bleary flash!

Photo Reflections

September and early October proved hard going – and not just for the banks (why does Robert Peston speak in that odd way?)

The Summer, by contrast, was idyllic for me - with wonderful stays in Edinburgh, Greece and Italy.

Once back in Blighty, everything seemed to start going pear-shaped!

Sometimes I feel my life is like 100 plates spinning on tall poles.

When I – most unusually – take three weeks off in a month, they first lose rotational speed, then wobble, and start to crash to the ground.

I shan’t bore you with the details, but in September and early October, problem followed problem.


I struggled to keep my life on an even keel.

Then, just when I thought I was getting on top of it, a scrote plundered my bank account, making me thousands of pounds overdrawn (and I couldn't even blame Peston).

My best guess is that while paying for meals in Greece or Italy my debit card was cloned, and then – a month on – a villain started spending my cash on the Continent like there was no tomorrow.

Now the account is frozen and the bank – which, typically, did not notice a thing – is investigating.

I have been in reflective mood following this. . . but also, strangely, because of photography.

Let me explain.

In 1970, aged 10, I started taking photographs – and have never stopped.


I have tens of thousands of them from the past 37 years, but until recently I have never attempted to catalogue them.

So early this year, I decided to see what I had in terms of images!

I thoroughly enjoyed cataloguing the black-and-white photographs I had taken in the 1970s and those I had inherited from the 1950s and 1960s.

However, with new images coming in all the time, I was never likely to finish the task unless I put a lid on new arrivals.

Rashly, I decided to catalogue the photographs in the collection taken this year.

I should not have bothered.

Rarely have I endured such a tedious exercise.

What I always considered to be a hobby is really an addiction.

So far this year there are 73 sets of images in my collection – most 36s, some 24s, and about two-thirds film and one third digital.



Going through them was one of the most boring things I have ever done.

I could not believe how repetitive my photography has become.

Even though I am taking pictures largely on film, I suffer from photographic diarrhoea, producing 20 images of an object or person where one or two would suffice.

When the penny dropped, I stopped taking photos for the first time in more than 35 years.

It has been a revelation.

For the first time in a long time I have been looking at sights of beauty and truly appreciating them.

For instance, the other day I arrived early on a Saturday morning at my allotment at Earwig Corner and found it shrouded in mist.



As the sun rose behind me, the dew on my shed evaporated like steam in a sauna, and before me the blanket of mist over the landscape gradually lifted during a period of at least half an hour until the distant chalk cliff came into view like a giant sticking its head through a cloud.

It was a really beautiful sight and one I would not have appreciated through the viewfinder of a camera.

It makes me think that photographers are often so obsessed with capturing images that they do not truly look and appreciate.

On holiday in Greece and Italy, I noticed it all over the place.

People were so mad about filming that they snapped away and videoed constantly, hardly glancing at what they were recording, probably never to be viewed.

Now I have started to look for myself again, I realise that photographs cannot compare with the sheer depth and stunning beauty of the original.



The best lens is the eye, the best camera is the brain, the best images are held in the mind’s eye.

By comparison, many of the images in my enormous collection pale into insignificance.

Sure, there are some interesting pictures of subjects I would probably have otherwise forgotten.

However, there are also some atrocious shots, and the overall impression is of a maniac behind the shutter release.

This and my woes set me thinking more deeply about a whole range of areas.

Why do I attend my local church in Lewes?

I was appalled by the pronouncements of the vicar – or 'Rector' as he likes to be called – at the recent Harvest Festival service.



He preached that it was “un-Christian” to buys eggs or chickens that were not free range.

As it happens, I buy free range produce.

However, if I were struggling to feed a family on the breadline, I would not appreciate being called 'un-Christian' for buying a bargain battery bird from Tesco.

Readers of this blog may recall my previously mentioning this Anglican priest as the man who produced his stinking socks for his homily at a Christmas morning service.

(What do you make of that, Mad Priest Blogger?)

Moreover, you can attend his church for weeks on end and hardly hear a mention of Christ, such is the obsession with the Old Testament.

The Rector a nice chap, but the problem with the C of E, as with the Roman Catholic Church, is that parish priests have an enormous amount of freedom and are hardly controlled by their bishops.

The best of the clergy are marvellous, but the others either embark on their own kooky journey of faith – or do something really bad.





The other day I was thinking of the Rector’s pleas for his congregation to tithe – give one tenth of their income – to the church.

Then I walked past the great big comfortable rectory and looked at the two newish vehicles parked outside, and thought: ‘No, I will make my own choices, thank you very much indeed.’

I think I shall find another church in Lewes to attend – and keep my donations indexed-linked to the cost of a pint of Harvey’s Best Bitter.

Then I started to think about the internet and my presence on it.

Why have a spent some much time creating Oliver’s Poetry Garret and what part does it play in my life?



Firstly, I guess I write for the same reasons I photograph.

It is a compulsion and an obsession.

When I was a child, I was always making notes, just as I was always thinking of taking photographs, pocket money allowing.

So I write for someone.

When I was national newspaper columnist, my words would have been read by hundreds of thousands or even millions of readers.

Now they might be read by just a handful, but I don’t mind.

I derive pleasure simply from the process of writing.

MySpace is really the home of self-publicists (though aren’t all websites?) and the people who use it most enthusiastically are plugging their music or comedy gigs.


It is interesting to follow what of my former Joe’s Comedy Madhouse acts are up to.

But, despite its initial phenomenal success, MySpace strikes me as a poorly designed and ultimately flawed platform.

It is ugly to look at and few users I know run successful blogs off it or reply to email on it.



But what’s good in my life?

The Poetry Café has been kind to me and my experiences out have inspired me to start a long narrative poem based very loosely based on the life of Byron.

Thusfar I have written 85 verses (of eight lines each).

It is a bit of fun and I am quietly pleased with progress.

Also on a positive note, I was lucky enough to witness The Mighty Rooks (Lewes Football Club) chalk up their first win of the season (after a mere 12 matches) - against The Mighty Yellows (Oxford) - on the hallowed turf of The Dripping Match (down my street).

Chris and Chris have signed me up to write a column for the Rooks' unofficial fanzine, of which they are editors.

I am calling it High On Spring Water (Lewes have closed their ground's bar during matches), and I am told the first edition will appear in the next issue of this marvellous organ, which is entitled Ten Worthing Bombers (and a bargain at less than two guineas).

Returning to my reflections on photography, I have taken one photographs from each of the recent films I have had processed and used them to illustrate this blog entry.

Now I am up to speed with my 2008 cataloguing, I have taken a vow to stop taking photos like a lunatic.




On a recent visitation to York, I stayed in a hotel which had marvellous Victorian photographs adorning its walls. Each a beautiful one-off.

From now on I shall be a Victorian photographer, taking a frame here, a frame there. Thinking and planning my images, not wasting film.

At least it will give me a chance to get on and catalogue my photographic output for the 1980s, 1990s and the rest of the 2000s.

By the way, don't miss A F Harrold's performance at Lewes Pint of Poetry, Lewes Arms, on 24 October 2008.

And I have used some of my archive pictures to liven up some of my old blog entries (see below).

Enjoy!

Back To Reality

Returning to Leamington Spa after three weeks of holiday was a hell of a shock to the system.

It had been wonderful being in the Lake District for a week and then at the Edinburgh Fringe for another seven days. My third week on holiday I spent at home in the Lewes Garret, which was relaxing in its own way, although everything around me seemed to be breaking (the car, the internet router, my watch et cetera).

I drove back up the M23, M25 and M40 in a car with a broken head gasket, wondering when it (the car) would conk out (it didn't), feeling depression descending upon me. My first week back has been tough.

The district council has introduced pay meter parking on my street, without even telling the residents. You have to pay for any parking you do between 8am and 8pm, seven days a week. Another money-spinning public rip-off! Even my efforts to get a parking permit failed. Apparently, Warwickshire County Council has listed my street as a business zone so you are not allowed to be a resident there, even though they are more than happy to take council tax off you!

Moreover, I spent a lot of time on holiday writing poems for a poetry competition, but after all my effort, I fear I have pushed my entry into a redundant post box so it may never even get to the judges. How stupid is that!

And... wasps keep swarming into the Leamington Garret (and my room has the smell of fungus about it). Welcome back to Leamington!

Naturally, the day-job is a mass of work and problems, which I had almost forgotten about. I am not feeling great.

I suppose holidays do that to you: lift you up and drop you down again.

On a positive note, I have given up eating cheese to try to reduce the number of horrible nightmares I have. It seems to be working. I still have dreams but they are not as vicious.

We stayed in a place called Loweswater in the Lake District. It truly was an amazing spot. One day we climbed the great fell Hay Stacks which was an extraordinary experience. We got quite lost; it was amazingly open and spacious at the top of that mountain. Like a mini-Lakeland in itself.

The whole holiday was really good and the holiday house out of this world.

In Edinburgh, it was my 11th year at the Fringe Festival writing for The Stage newspaper, and my 10th reviewing comedy shows (the first year I had covered the hateful Television Festival). I enjoyed this year - but didn't have anywhere near as many really late, drunken nights as I used to enjoy!

One extraordinary thing was that I bumped into a former colleague from the Hull Daily Mail whom I had not seen for 21 years. The following day I chanced upon him again in the street and he introduced me to his father, a very famous novelist.

From a comedy perspective, so many of the people I have known since I was doing open spots with them in 1995, are now showing their age (as I suppose I must be). That seemed strange.

I saw some great shows. Brendon Burns was superb (I was pleased to see that my prediction in my review in The Stage that he would win the If.comeddies Award proved correct), as were Jerry Sadowitz and Phil Nichol. I enjoyed Tim Key's Slut In The Hut show and the Poetry Party on the Meadows, organised and ably compered by Luke Wright.

I went away determined to write my own Edinburgh Fringe show, on which I have actually started work. I mustn't let it drop. I have already done quite a bit of work on the ideas. Turning them into a script, however, is another matter entirely.

Another good thing about Edinburgh was hanging out with Tom Hughes, promoter and compere of The Reckless Moment comedy club in Leamington Spa. It was also pleasing to see one of their regular acts, Ivan Brackenbury's Hospital Radio, get short-listed for the if.commedies at Edinburgh, even though I could see it had been a tough one to make work as a full-length show.







Now I am back, I also want to do more journalism again. It was the way I made my living for 17 years and writing those reviews for The Stage has given me the appetite again.

The nights are already drawing in. It is eight o'clock in the evening and it is almost dark outside. And as I write overlooking a burgeoning fairground in the Pump Room Gardens below me, it is still August!

How many more years have I still to serve here in Leamington? It seems remarkably hard for me to get away - I wonder if I ever shall!

While I was on holiday, the usual round of sad demises occurred. The Cockney comic Mike Reid died. I always found him a very open and helpful interviewee when he was in EastEnders. In the late 80s, I was backstage once at the London Palladium and watched from the wings as he did his act. He was a remarkable performer - brilliantly quick with great timing. Years on, I was interviewing him and we got into a discussion about stand-up comedy. I asked him how much of his material he wrote himself. He replied: 'None at all - I'm not that clever.'

Lord Bill Deedes also died. He was a lovely man. When I was working for the Sunday Telegraph, I remember drinking with him at the bar at Davies wine bar / pub. He bought pitchers of beer and was pouring pints for all (he must have been about 85 then). We had a very lively and entertaining conversation about the state of British television. Funnily enough, I noticed this week that British TV was the subject of Bill's last column in the Daily Telegraph - the column he did not quite complete and was published posthumously.

Bill always looked forward - never back, something I could learn from him.

Saddest of all for me was an e-missive I received from my brother Nic while in Edinburgh. It was entitled: 'John Constantino - sad news'. Of course I knew instantly my old school friend was dead and waited resignedly as the creaking computer struggled to open the file.

What can I say about John? He was incredibly kind, gentle, intelligent, a brilliant linguist and a polymath. I have no idea why I lost touch with him. He was my closest friend in the fifth form at Poole Grammar School. I would hang out with him and a boy called Russell Tandy. We made a strange trio. John's family moved away to Dorking and then Marlow, I think, where his father managed posh hotels. I visited him there and kept in touch into the time I started working on the Hull Daily Mail. He came to my Last Night at Park Squat party, when I evicted myself from my squat on Little Park Street, near Hull city centre (the image of John is from that occasion).

He visited me once again but after that, for no apparent reason, we lost touch and never saw each other again. I thought last month I would love to see John Constantino.

I have no contact details for his family, although my brother had heard from a mutual friend that John had married and had a daughter. Other than that, I know little.

The experience caused me to go onto the Friends Reunited website where I tend to divide the boys listed from Poole Grammar School into those who bullied or mistreated me and those who didn't.

John Constantino had no listing at all, but Russell Tandy was there, having thrown years of unemployment in London to teach at a cyberspace universe in South Korea. Good for him! I even splashed out the seven pounds fifty to congratulate him, although his email address no longer seems valid. No reply came from Russell Tandy.

In a way I was glad, I couldn't face telling him about John's death.

Subsequently, I heard that John had been involved in a choral society in Swindon and emailed it through its website. Yesterday, a friend of John's from the society telephoned me.

It was fascinating talking to her about John, like posthumously catching on an old friend, half of whose life you had missed. John had married and has a 14-year-old daughter. He worked in IT and enjoyed surfing. He had become a Roman Catholic (as I am), and his mother and brother had moved back to Portugal (his dad, a wonderful man, had died seven years before).

Hearing it all made me all the sadder that I had lost touch with John Constantino. Suddenly a memory came back of when, on my 16th birthday, we had gone to a party in Canford Heath, near Poole, which had been invaded by a large group of mods.

John had been kicked in the head by one of them, and, greatly outnumbered, we decided to beat a retreat. As we left the house, I kicked the first in a long line of parked scooters. They went down like dominoes, their manifold mirrors smashing.

With mods in hot pursuit, we ran for our lives through the labyrinthal underpasses of the Canford Heath estate, laughing like idiots.

Dear John, even though I hadn't seen him for at least 20 years, I shall still miss him greatly.

The Tour / Moving to Leamington

I have been on tour!

Not, I hasten to add, the poetry tour of which I dream but a working tour of six cities to promote a most worthy fundraising campaign for research into a horrible disease. It has been good.

We started with a big do in London with a member of the Royal Family and then a quieter but useful media event in Bristol. I like Bristol. Our accommodation was fairly dreadful – like a half-built Crossroads motel - but I really enjoyed dining out in Clifton village, near the wonderful and very high bridge.

Despite being incredibly tired, we had a very pleasant dinner at the Walrus and Woodcutter restaurant, just above the hollow of a hill, and then a drink a pub at the Clifton pub where a jazz-reggae duet was providing ambient sounds.

Students were everywhere. Earlier a group of pretty girls had accosted us in the street dressed as pirates. 'I've cut up my new jeans to be a pirate tonight,' one leered at me. I asked: 'What about tomorrow?' She laughed: 'I'll be a pirate in lectures!'

Then on Sunday, I ventured up to Manchester on a (whisper it) Virgin train which was packed to the gills and charging rip-off prices at the buffet.

The two little Mancunian lads I was seated beside had, between them, three mobile telephones, two Gameboy consoles and two personal stereos. They made a hell of a racket and one of them whinged all journey that he was 'sweaty' but still kept on his shellsuit jacket. I had a headache by the time we eventually rolled into the once great city of Manchester.

It was cold with an eerie ground mist which made it look like Victorian London. The streets of Manchester were almost deserted on a Sunday night. I went to a huge bar, almost empty except for a group of blokes who were drunkenly singing, and, afterwards, had one of the most revolting takeaways I have ever tasted. The next day it was beautifully sunny, although the event I was organising was not a great success.

Like Liverpool, its glory days are (currently) behind it.
The Tour A sad apathy pervades Manchester.

Leeds, on the other hand, was brilliant. Real enthusiasm there; the people were far friendlier. We ate out in a fantastic Indian restaurant called Akbar, where the chefs bring out the meals, and massive nam breads are hung vertically on special holders on the tables. Much Cobra beer was quaffed, and afterwards we played pool at a hilarious pub called Hoagy's, on Eastgate, Leeds. Cracking night!

The following day it was a long drive to Edinburgh. The weather was amazingly fine. Brilliant sunshine all the way. Clearly there had been a deep frost the night before the trees were Lapland white – truly scenic. We lunched in Gretna Green – home of elopement - and then stayed the night in Penicuik, eight miles south of Edinburgh, where there was a brilliant get-together of the Edinburgh University and Penicuik folk clubs.

The work event also went well. I had a look round Edinburgh which seemed to me to be incredibly sunny for the time of year. I have only ever been to Edinburgh previously in August (although 10 times in total) and was intrigued to see what the main comedy venues looked like in February.

The 'Pleasance Courtyard' was a university car park but I was surprised to find the inside bar still called the Pleasance Bar, serving inexpensive food and with comedy posters featuring old Joe's Comedy Madhouse turns like Rob Deering on its walls.



From Edinburgh I flew to Belfast which was cold and threatening to snow. I was terrified I would not be able to get home. I was feeling jaded by this stage and found the shenanigans with the hotels somewhat trying. When I arrived at the Stormont Hotel, I was told building work meant I would have to be relocated to the Europa Hotel in Belfast city centre. There, my room had not been serviced. I ended up sleeping on dirty sheets and clearing up the rubbish left by the businesswoman who'd been there before! The taxi driver told me the Europa Belfast is the world's most bombed hotel. I am not surprised. It must be irate former guests.




All the same I was struck, as ever, by the tremendous friendliness and enthusiasm of the Irish. And while channel-surfing in the Europa, I caught an episode of Never Mind The Buzzcocks show, featuring a cameo role by my co-promoter Phil Zimmerman, at his craziest, eyes out on stalks.


I was mightily relieved to return from my tour of our sceptred isles to the Lewes Garret, despite driving snow and what seemed like an eternity at George Best Belfast City Airport.



Moving to Leamington (Flashback to Saturday, 25 February 2007)

I have moved into the 'Leamington Garret', overlooking the Pump Room Gardens, Leamington Spa.

I can honestly say that none of my many previous home moves have come anywhere close to the pain of this one. I started after I finished work early yesterday – at around 3pm – and were still going at almost midnight, after at least five trips back and forth in a borrowed pick-up truck, lugging an incredible amount of stuff – including a massively heavy washing machine and a remarkably awkward and weighty sofa – up seven flights of stairs (as well as the concrete steps outside). It almost killed me. If my back gave way, it would not surprise me one iota.

Eventually I collapsed out of exhaustion, gave up, with a pile of stuff still in the hallway at the bottom of the building, and went for a drink at a back street, lock-in pub in Leamington. Rarely has a beer been more welcome.

The new flat is great. The living room overlooks the Pump Room Gardens and my bedroom has a fabulous view over the rooftops. On the other hand, tonight it is incredibly cold. Falling asleep does not seem likely.

I feel excited about moving here but also fearful. I was happy living in Warwick, in a lovely little house on St. Nicholas Church Street, and it was a shock when the landlady decided to sell up. I only found out when I arrived back from Lewes to see the 'For Sale' sign on the front of our abode opposite the kirk.

Now, in this freezing sky-pad in Leamington late on this starry, starry night, I am full of worries about the future.

Unusual Words / Clarke Shooed

Unusual Words

Lewes Garret The holidays are over; Edinburgh Fringe 2006 is all packed up. . . back to harsh reality! To soften the blow, here are 30 of my favourite unusual words:

1. Wantwit - stupid person,
2. Disendow - to take away,
3. Bilbo - sword (or penis),
4. Dastard - despicable coward,
5. Nog - beer,
6. Tangletalk - nonsense,
7. Irenic (or eirenic) - doing something for peace or the common good,
8. Braggart - vain boaster,
9. Mortalled - drunk,
10. Creps - trainers,
11. Glabrous - hairless, bald as a coot,
12. Worldling - worldly person,
13. Parlous - perilous,
14. Mien - air, look, manner or bearing,
15. Lushhouse - lowly public house,
16. Mendacious - lying,
17. Porrect - to hold out for acceptance,
18. Scribacious - tending to write,
19. Leam - to gleam or shine,
20. Jen - compassionate love for all humanity,
21. Dipsomania - alcoholism,
22. Ballyrag - to play jokes on,
23. Cloying - disgusting, distasteful,
24. Summerset - to somersault,
25. Unctuous - greasy, slippery or obsequious,
26. Cuckquean - female cuckold (woman whose man is cheating on her),
27. Litherless - without moral backbone,
28. Choplogic - scatty person,
29. Misyoked - unhappily married, and
30. Popinjay - parrot figure set up to be shot at.

I enjoyed that! My holidays were also fun. Here are some of the places I visited after leaving Edinburgh:

Isle of Wight: Went surfing for a day at a lovely place called Lake, and witnessed a remarkable incident. Someone jumped, fell or was pushed off the passenger ferry, plummeting some 60 feet into the cold water. A lifeboat and a helicopter were scrambled, and the ferry stopped. The survivor was winched out of the sea by the chopper and lowered onto the lifeboat. The passengers and crew of the enormous ferry ship looked on.

Brighton: Superb time, shopping, relaxing and lunching at my favourite seafront cafe. On a sunny day Brighton is one of the best places in the world to be.

Chester (pictured above and below): Walked the Roman wall and rowed on the river. I read The Young Visiters by Daisy Ashford, who was nine and living in Lewes when she wrote it in 1890. We saw a very good production of it in Lewes last year, performed by an excellent company of actors including a neighbour. It is great fun and unusual, relying on a child's take of the adult world and its manners for its comedy.

And I saw Van Morrison - for nothing. Van the Man was performing at the race course. Tickets were expensive. But you could hear him perfectly well from the road overlooking the course - you did not even have to look at the guy! It was good, although Van Morrison hardly set the crowd on fire. They only woke up at the end when he played Brown Eyed Girl, shortly before he vanished without a word. Nevertheless, a great man!

North Wales: Travelling by train, bus and on foot, I did a wonderful little tour of Snowdonia and the rest of northern Wales. Highlights including the steam train journey from Blaenau Ffestiniog to Minffordd, a journey I had done more than 20 years before with a mate and two Irish nurses whose names – Jackie Cronin and Monica Healion (pictured below, Monica Healion, now Monica Stone, top) – are forever etched on my memory.

This time it was sopping wet when we got to the fabulous Portmeirion, one of the world's great follies, but we managed to enjoy the extraordinary architecture.

Two more trains and a long hike up the hill from Betws Y Coed and we overnighted at the Youth Hostel at Swallow Falls Hotel. I really liked it there. It offers an excellent bar and inexpensive room rates - and you can borrow from their collection of old books.

The next day, I have never seen the falls, swollen with the torrential rain, so beautiful.

We took an open top bus to Pen Y Pass (very spectacular) and another bus down the mountain again. The rain had kicked in with the vengeance, so we forked out to take the traction railway up Snowdon. You could see very little but the railway is a remarkable piece of Victorian engineering.

We gradually made our way back to Chester where two drunken rugby players were wresting on the station platform, egged on by a dozen others!

From my travels, here are 10 Welsh words (with their English translations):
1. Lifft - lift,
2. Gwesty - hotel,
3. Seidr - cider,
4. Llety - accommodation,
5. Siop - shop,
6. Thacsis - taxis,
7. Preifat - private,
8. Marmaled - marmalade,
9. Tost - toast,
10. Salad – salad.

 
Clarke Shooed (Flashback to Friday, 5 May 2006).

8.01am. Lewes Garret. The green and yellow of the South Downs are overcast - not at their best. On a more positive note, the Government has been given a thrashing in the local elections. Yet, John Prescott clings on his job by the skin of his teeth.

7.46pm. Garden, Lewes Garret. A few minutes ago my substitute chiropractor hoisted me up and down on what looked like a Hannibal the Cannibal transportation trolley. You could hear my neck bones being crunched into position. They still feel strange.

The chiropractor was a middle-aged Australian woman. A useful session. Afterwards, I walked around Lewes, as recommended, and went to see the manager at my bank to complain about the pathetic lack of progress in the probe into the theft of my money in a Leamington petrol station debit card fraud.

'I saw the story in the Sun,' she chirped.
'Yes, I leaked it to the media,' I explained.

We had a terse conversation which resulted in her offering to ask the bank's fraud investigation unit to get a move on. Later, she called to say I should get my money back within 10 days. A victory of sorts! I am not, however, counting my chickens. . .

Later I bumped into a mate from the Lewes salsa class SalsaMagic who told me he was chancing his arm as a stand-up comic, a trade I had tried for five years. He told me about his first two gigs and I asked: 'Have you got a fail-safe opening gag?'

'Well,' he said, 'I think it's funny. I say, "You look like an attractive audience - you should be at home having sex. Except you, sir [pointing at a man on his own]. YOU'RE A VIRGIN!"' No comment.

It is beautiful here in the garden. Although the sun is almost down and the half-moon bright above me, the sky is the deepest blue, the birds performing their evensong for free.

11.15pm. Bed. Charles Clarke has been sacked as Home Secretary, and Prescott has lost his department and most of his workload, but not his job as Deputy Prime Minister, his large salary, ministerial Jags, central London flat (at Admiralty Arch), or free estate in Buckinghamshire. Nice work if you can get it!

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.