Red Bastard

I've just seen a provocative clown who aims to get as to change our lives.

Red Bastard is an edgy, dangerous act. It has good intentions again reminding us that we need entertainers to break out of our own patterns. (Why is that?) 

At the end of the show he strongly encourages (or gives the opportunity) to someone to do exactly that. He doesn't know how it will end, but in my show a man telephoned his girlfriend in Australia and told her she needed to respect his parents more.

At this, another man leapt to his defence (although thinking about it now perhaps a little late), suggesting that he was bullied or provoked into it. The performer took off his costume, articulately disagreed and offered himself for a post-show, well, let's say debate.

The person who took the opportunity defended the performer and the situation, henceforth to be known as the choice he made for himself. He agreed with the entertainer that he done something that needed doing.

Perhaps the entertainer judged it perfectly after all. I think he did. I think he knew what he was doing and I speak as someone who's leapt to the defence of many.

Not every exploration needs closing down. Sometimes you must encourage the opening of a door, even if you know it leads nowhere. Help them through it anyway and it may lead to another door. Tell me you know where that one leads, Nostradamus.

Dreams were discussed in the show - the dreams of the audience.

But who cares if you write that novel you always wanted to write?

Well first off, you do.

Do you want to write it and expect it to be a bestseller? Maybe it will be. Maybe it won't.

Maybe if you write it, another door will open. But either way it certainly won't occupy the same space in your head anymore.

You'll probably learn something through it. And you will be able to give yourself a big pat on the back and get on with your life.

Yes, you need to protect people from doors with precipices on the other side. Of course.

But you can also put protect someone by putting them in harm's way, letting them play in the mud a bit, building experience, creating resilience.

As my mother would say, a little bit of dirt never did anybody any harm.

This was a show of controlled harm, with clinical execution. 

And if that's OK for surgeons, it's OK for clowns and comics and it's OK for me.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if at tomorrow's fringe nominations, a little red bastard makes an appearance.

It's True Is That

Entertainment is changing.

It always changes. 

What would you say you like best - theatre, comedy, music? 

Story or tunes?

In songs you really like, why do you really like that song? 

Maybe you've written a song, perhaps just in your head. What came first the melody or the words?

Whatever the song, surely it can be enhanced and advanced by a little story. A journey, even.

Made you like poetry, but might not you like some better if it were put to music?

The battleground is changing, the lines are blurred.

Standup comedy isn't standup comedy anymore. It's just standup.

Comedy Improv isn't comedy improv anymore. It's just improv.

Experimental theatre isn't experimental anymore. It's just theatre. Nowadays, frequently it might be developed by improv techniques, and know exactly where it's comedy lies.

So whether we prefer theatre, or comedy or music, we're all a little bit wrong. Because we like a little drama. We like the truth. We like a little angst, and sometimes we even take pleasure in a little pain, even our own. We don't really understand why. But it's all to do with connection. Connecting. Connect out.

It all comes down to truth.

Bizarre slapstick is fine, but it's funny because it accelerates and exaggerates the truth.

Is there a form of entertainment that you can identify, that does not trade in the truth? Well, perhaps simplistic pop is cynically overwritten. But we all need a little light relief, now and again.

We gobble it up. They tell us nowadays that we consume it.

So if comedy is truth, and all forms of entertainment and drama lean towards this. Then everything is funny, right. Well, you probably don't think so. But I'm going to disagree with you, while you reach for your well-worn examples..

Only the bleeding hearts tell us certain things are off-limits. But they are dangerously wrong.

Entertainment never changes. It just keeps telling the truth.

Deal or No Deal

Sometimes I look over my written thoughts, and hear a criticism in my head

That's just idealism.

That's idealistic.

I don't know if it's dismissively repellent or repellently dismissive. But either way I don't much care for it.

Rudeness dressed up as analysis is a particularly abhorrent piece of scorn.

It is the reserve of the lazy. Not just the lazy wordsmith but the genuinely lazy person.

Idealism takes fighting for - ask any soldier. It takes bleeding for. It takes taking a hit. 

Those of us who believe in it, and have walked the walk occasionally take hits some might never comprehend, in stories never told.

But if you're planning any journey or working towards any aim or destination, what the devil is the point of keeping anything other than (what some might dismiss as) 'idealism' in mind?

If you don't know where you going, how on earth will you recognize what you've made when you get there?

How Fat Was She?

In a sold-out show, where the tickets were free, you might decide (should you only require a single seat) to ask the ushers where such a thing would be.
I'm not inexperienced. I knew they liked to pack 'em in like well drilled sardines, and despite ordering my ticket a month ago, I was on "standby", because I only turned up 20 minutes in advance of the show. This was still maybe 15 minutes more than I would choose but not the 60 minutes the BBC would demand. For those interested, what the BBC actually demand is that you miss a show in the previous hour in order to have your ticket validated. Or risk it.
I was risking it.

So, in eventually gaining access I was pointed to a seat third from the aisle. Next to the fattest woman in the room.

Now I'm sure you know where I'm going with this and I'm not going to pull any punches.

But she was with a friend, and she chose to sit on the seat second in, not the seat adjacent to the aisle, which had ample space for her to spillover.

What troubled me most during my inconvenience was her lack of humility. In accessing "my seat" she must have shifted the vast hundredweight aside a little. But the musculoskeletal pain and discomfort that I experienced over the next 90 (otherwise very amusing) minutes have made me misremember how much effort she really put into this temporal readjustment. 

Certainly, I can verify for anyone interested that her knees did not approximate at any point. I concluded after a while that it was not physically possible for her. Had she tried to approximate those knees, perhaps in the process releasing the space that I was entitled to,  then the sort of workout she would've got, well.... money cannot buy. In fact I would bet many of the shopping channels she so regularly ate cake in front of, would sell a device which would give her the opportunity to practice that task in isolation.

And yet with a little humility she could have practiced the routine manouevre for free, as an act of charity to the person whose seat she was half occupying. Me.

Second in.

Second seat in? On what planet?

Yes, I was very keen to ask her why on God's green troubled world, she hadn't chosen to switch places with the friend on the aisle. But of course I knew the answer. She had gone in bidding for two seats for herself. In a show oversold by 30%. (Ryanair has nothing on the BBC Edinburgh Festival).

And she did it for this reason.

She always does it.

So she occupied, and oozed, poured like a milkshake, and spilled into my space, reclaiming it like algae. Barely moving but always there. Creeping, never giving. No nod, no wink, no humanity. Of course I wouldn't even dare to suggest apology. After all what would that make me?

Unfortunately she also clapped like an otter. Always delivering the last clap in the room, her spongy fingers connecting so accurately every time that the whipcrack resonated through the auditorium. I named her Indy.

I couldn't clap. Because my arms were crossed at the elbow, a position worthy of an Iraqi torturer. Had I tried, I would've looked a lot like Stephen Hawkin, but lacking the same grasp on Black Holes.
Which, it turns out is Dunking Donuts latest crowdpleaser.
Not that she'd know anything about that.

Fringe Thoughts

Maybe you could be tempted into writing a little performance piece yourself, someday.
What would it be about?
What would you want to say?

Maybe you would talk about yourself.
Or you might talk about your work. (But the people at work don't care about that. And your friends seem to prefer to talk about themselves themselves. What do you have to say to that? To them?)

So you might work out slowly what you have to say.
Be convicted.
Show conviction.
Build it. Not like a wall or a conservatory. But perhaps you have to build it like.... a wine. Or the breeding of a horse.
Maybe you will get lucky and it will all pour out of you like a lazy glass of Thunderbird.
Or it could be 20 years of patchworking a quilt.

Or perhaps you'll never know.
Or perhaps you'll never try.
Or never care.
Or you will.
And you will work out what it is you have to say.

And then you will build it.
And then finally, they will come.

Space Recast

A simple thought on the new Dr. Who.
We are closer to the end of Steven Moffatt's era, than we at the beginning. That's a reason for sadness.
Those of us who love him begin to grieve at that.
I suspect it's a slightly British thing - grieving in what is not yet over.
I cannot see the Americans doing the same.
They might give you a "missing you already". But it's not meant. It's not real. Not real truth.
We have to remind ourselves to celebrate what we have when we have it. That's why our early grieving doesn't make us inferior (although I'm not claiming it's entirely wise). But it is the opportunity to realize what we have, when we can still validate it. It's the attitude of gratitude - though tinged. Tinged with an early remorse for what we've not yet lost.

The latest casting gave us an older Doctor.
Not vee-rrry old, but a quarter of a century older than the last one, and that counts for something. A positive something. A lack of kowtowing.
It reflects current society. We've lived through the Stone Age, the Bronze Age. (I was going to we've lived through the Ice Age but you might have seen the same episode of QI that I did and therefore know that due to the polar ice caps, we are still living in the Ice Age). Anyway,  we've lived through many ages but now we're living in the Golden age. An age of Golden girls and Silver haired boys. It's old-age. It's an aging age. It's an aging world.
And the most popular, and best , television drama in the country is going to bring this very observation into our living rooms on Saturdays. After tea. Reflecting humanity again in possibly the most important of all ways.
What's wrong with having your dose of  sci-fi wisdom delivered by somebody who looks as though they are old enough to deliver it? (Putting aside for a moment the fact that the character is nearly 1000 years old).
Already there's been criticism that the new Doctor isn't young and sexy enough to win over BBC America and the demographics they sordidly kneel before. They say that this decision will bury the program Stateside.
Well, there's nothing wrong with being British. There's nothing wrong with our values. Read the news. We are winners. We win. We count for something. Alan Partridge no longer takes his breakthrough movie to New York. He manages his hostage crisis at North Norfolk Digital. We don't need to yield anymore. We have identity to spare. We just need to be us.

We are British.
Dr. Who is British.
Gallifrey is a colony.
And a generation of children who hate Grandad?
Do me a favour.

Never Trust a Bookie

How many times have you read the story... "Ladbrokes slashes odds on X".

Until today, I actually believed that was an interesting representation of the market.

Now I know differently.

A few weeks ago. I tried to place one of those bets on something that was "out there".

So I had what I thought would be a mildly interesting adventure of asking Ladbrokes to quote odds as I could not find them online.

It was a reasonably conventional headline grabbing bet that comes up quite regularly. Namely , the identity of the next actor to play the Doctor (of Doctor Who fame). 

Currently this is a hot issue again, in case you have not noticed.

So I opted for a popular actor, not too well known, but very talented, whom (not Who) I felt would be a good choice. I mentioned in this very blog - Daniel Rigby. As regular readers will remember (coughs).

But Ladbrokes would not give odds.

They went to their assessors.

No odds were available through customer service.

How odd, I thought.

Maybe it's because the market is closed because the secret is already out in some circles.

But today's news surely would make that... well, you fill in the gap.

Because apparently as Ladbrokes "slashed the odds" (remember, they do this) on Peter Capaldi to play the next Doctor. Daniel Rigby dropped into second place.

Second place? Second, if you will. Place!

When I asked a few weeks ago, no odds were given.

They went to their assessors. You remember I told you this.

So what's going on?

If Ladbrokes are actually "slashing" (are you getting it now? Join in, if you know the words) imaginary odds that are not available to the public, then what on Gallifrey is going on?

There you go you see. You beat me to it.

Its marketing. 

Free advertising.

I have to hand it to them, I've been falling for it for years.

This was the first time their marketing actually led to me wanting to give me them my money.

And when I did, they declined. (In fact to be accurate about it. They wasted my time, and declined. A slightly more serious offence in my book).

Then you hear something like this today from their PR department. 

"Spokesperson Jessica Bridge said: "Money talks, and we've seen an unprecedented amount of bets on Rigby in the last 72 hours".

Jessica it turns out is one of the ladies of Ladbrokes PR outfit and it has to be said particularly easy on the eye, but then that's PR for you. It's just an observation, I'm not complaining. But oh, I get it... that makes me the sexist. Right. I always get that wrong.

So rule number one. 

Ladbrokes lie.

I know. 

I know.

I shouldn't trust so. 

Stepping Stones

I've just released my three goldfish into the local stream. 

They were tiddlers really - just an inch and a half long and no more than a third of an inch wide.

I didn't want anything too big, nothing that I couldn't look after properly.

And they weren't really goldfish, well...one was gold-ish. There had been two but I found his friend behind the filter after a month or two.

But in the 10 months or so since, the other three have done pretty well. Given my previous experience with a fairground goldfish in a plastic bag, I've surprised myself.

And yet there comes a time....

Over the next few weeks I can't look after them, so they had to go.

I have heard the local aquarium might take them back. Alas not.

So just after five o'clock I drove down to the local Dene and released them in shallow water.

They were coldwater fish, so they had a chance.

Firstly, they stayed close to the shore. The two grey ones darting around and playing with the gold one. Just as they always had done. And then they split up leaving the gold one. He was easy to see. The others were almost invisible, but they darted around occasionally into view. 

The gold one (I never named him... her? - I feel bad about that now) faced down the current defiantly. I watched to see if he'd wobble or fall or fail. My instincts screamed at me to get out my cup,  wade in, scoop him up and bring him back home.

But he found the little niche and soon steadied himself.

I stayed with him for five minutes and then... his two darting grey friends returned! As if to say, "What you think of this then? This is new". They played a little but still close to the shore where I had poured them in. 

I brought them up to stick together at times like this.

And then, after a few more minutes, they were gone.

My little gold friend faced down the gentle current on his own.

Another five minutes and he darted another foot away, skulking down in his new little crag,  finding different niches.  Everything was new. After a few more minutes he became more brazen and he'd float above the flatter, bigger rocks, putting himself in the middle of things.

My little gold-ish fish...stepping out, striding out, in his little cap and short trousers. 

Finding his way. 

Surviving. 

Trying to live.

He seemed more comfortable after a while. He'd make occasional leaps perhaps several feet into the middle of the stream. I hoped he wouldn't go too far, too soon. But I'd brought my lot up to be tough, resilient, to make their own way. 

I could still see his little coat for another 20 minutes in what was too-quickly becoming the distance.

But it was time to go. I'd done what I could to give them the best start.

I hoped he'd prosper. And be happy. And I felt that I would return to the spot when I came this way again, just in case by some miracle, he was still there.

I walked on, and decided to go for a little walk round the block before driving home.

One circuit later, I walked back down to the bank of the stream, and looked for a shimmer or a glimmer. There was a shimmer but it was just the surface of the water. 

He'd gone. 

For now.

You don't they get that if you flush 'em down the toilet.