Wednesday, 31 July 2013

Expertease

There is an old Bob Newhart sketch, called I think the Bus Driver.
It's a classic. A real classic. If you haven't heard the album, you should get it. There are other classics on there and even when I bought it as a youngster on LP, it had already been a classic for 30 years. (I know, I'm younger than I look. At least that's what they used to say... thinking about it now, nobody's said it in years, and my dental hygienist this week had the perfect opportunity. Twice she's hurt me. Twice!). 

It shares the same album as classics such as "An Infinite Number of Monkeys"... ring any bells? Or the Discovery of Tobacco? No?? Philistine!
Anyway.
It is a bus driving training school. The instructor trains the new driver to drive jerkily to make it as difficult as humanly possible for a pensioner to navigate her bones to and from her seat, and, needless to say, there's other unhelpful jiggery-pokery along the way, typifying the public servant. (These were the days before privatisation cured the world with a hefty dose of distracting corruption!)

It is, to use an overused cliche....hilarious. More than that, Newhart is utterly brilliant.
The end of the sketch – not so much a punchline but an end – is a summary of the salient points of the driving school. At least I think it is, I haven't heard it for a decade or two. "So remember", says the instructor, "it's accelerator – brake, accelerator – brake".

Due to Newhart's brilliance, you imagine the old lady careering backwards and forwards to the punching of the pedals. And there's nothing like thinking of anything or anyone falling over to raise a chuckle. 

Some things have to sit with you for a while, sometimes a short while, sometimes the longest time, sometimes a New York Minute. (I thought I might as well go for that, I was already sounding like Billy Joel).
And I stumbled across a new thought just now. Based on an echo (aren't they all?), a combination of words that my brain reminded me of. A second glass of Vin de Table Rouge may have played an essential part (although frankly it takes a bit more like Vim de Table).

It was simply this
That's what life is.
Its accelerator – brake, accelerator – brake.

And now...shucks... I fancy a Kitkat.

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

You've Got a Nerve!

You know that feeling when you watching You've Been Framed. (Sue me, smart arse)
The one you get just beneath the skin, the one that rolls over you.
The strange undulating tingle when somebody on a bicycle go straight over the handlebars into a wall.
Or falls off a stage into the front row.
That's what medics call 'visceral'.
Medics and horror writers. 
That's what visceral is. The not-very-accurate nerve endings that supply our inner organs.

They are hardwired accidentally (or not?) to a set of primal prehistorical directives. 
What's going to make your liver roll? 
What's going to make your kidneys tingle, your flesh crawl?

What's going to give you THAT feeling in the pit of your stomach?
Because there is only one nerve supplies the pit of your stomach. 
The vagus nerve. Non-medics may need to give that first syllable a looong "a". But the vagus nerve is not the sort of attitude that wins you a fortune in America's most famous gambling desert.
It's just THAT feeling.
And rather than over describe it, it's the thatness that makes it unique.

Thursday, 25 July 2013

The Cull

Ideas are like rosebushes.
They need to be pruned. If you are waking up with yesterday's thoughts, free up the space for some new ones. May I suggest writing the old ones down as a way of putting them to bed or in context. 
If you are obsessing about ideas rather than developing them, get them on paper, or screen.
Perhaps if they are concepts that have touched you, write them down and make them rhyme. Pretend it's verse. And by the time it's on the page, it pretty much will be. Verse can make a simple idea mythological. Strong. And pruning your own thoughts and ideas is healthy. Don't be frightened to cast out something that may have a bud,  if you think it is too weak a bud to generate real growth.

Look at the ruthless bastards that the world knows as gardeners!  Taking the sword to living tissues more viciously than Victorian surgeons. And yet, they are the ones with tidy garden (if you'll forgive the phrase).

New ideas need not just a bit of space for themselves to sit in, but free physical intracerebral space in which to grow. The almost infinite capacity of the human mind needs to prepare a bit of space with finite boundaries. It needs to have the decks swept. Paradoxical, yes, and maybe it would not be necessary if we were masters of our brains. But we are not. 
The space that you free up should scream to be filled. Then,  ideas can leak, and spread, and flow. They can paint and taint other ideas and before you know it, they are developed. Into new ideas, maybe slightly better, perhaps revolutionarily different. One step closer to a truer truth that is more relevant and has more capacity for the leverage in day-to-day life. You are standing on the shoulders of your own giant.
I think I'm going to go and de-rust my secateurs.

Friday, 12 July 2013

News Flash

I was in the park (just) before 8am today having a run, the occasional lunge and the odd undignified squat.
I know it's not exactly news. 
I'm just telling everybody I can.

Sunday, 7 July 2013

Not Since 1936... Never Say Never, Once Again


A reminder where effort can take us.
Where vision and resolve can lead.
What hard work can bring in increments
What enduring pain and early mornings can achieve.

To pick at the seam of success.
To hammer like rain from the gods
To yield to nothing and no-one
To defy what fools think are 'the odds'

To defend when defence seems pointless.
To throw even the kitchen sink
To attack with all you are worth
To make the other fella blink.

To play the last like the beginning.
To fail and pick ourselves up.
To fight on, as though we're winning.
To persuade your opponent to give up.

To be a model of role and of action.
Something to admire and inspire.
To be mindful of looking the part.
Thoughts. Words. Deeds. Attire.

To aim as true as you are able.
To fire. When it's the right thing to do.
To emote and dally sparingly.
To smile, whatever happens to you.


Well done, Andy...Bloody well done!

Monday, 24 June 2013

The Bearable Blurriness of Being

Many of us spend many years learning Method.

Method is a beginning for some artforms.
And an end for others.
It's fine in itself for task orientated work. Legal work for example, judicial arenas in general, care in the community.

But after learning method, we improvise technique. Technique is expertise. A high level of expertise is mastery. Mastery is an individual solution to an individual situation.
Individual solutions are needed in areas such as improvisational entertainment  (Improv), perhaps Info Technology (IT) and certain parts of (non-surgical) medical and paramedical disciplines.

Improvisation involves game, risk, play.
It might not suit a lawyer.
It might not suit a nurse.
It would suit a lawyer that sues a nurse however. There are plenty of holes in the ground where his earthworm can jump out. Then he can extend them, eating away at their blurry edges so that his victim falls through. 
He gets rich.
You get hurt. 

Mastery has to be just that. The degree of artistic and technical competence that can defeat a legal process that lies in wait.
You'll need every corner of your artistic brain to survive.

Give it some thought whenever you feel like bigging up your job description.
Think of that next time you think you want some limelight. 

Monday, 17 June 2013

State of the Art Entertainment

I've just tuned in to my local radio station and it turns out they have a competition on. They have this mystery song and if you can identify the year it was a hit, you can phone in and perhaps win a prize or even a namecheck.

What will those imaginative funsters think of next?

Saturday, 15 June 2013

Being Played - Part 2

Then  the BBC want to hire a 12th Doctor.
And (a secret insider tells us) we already have the name, it's Doctor Who's second Rory..... Rory Kinnear. A balding son of a well-loved chubby TV character actor, ideally suited to play corrupt politicians, and weak dodgy businessmen.
He is the new Doctor Who.
Don't make me laugh...
Best known for Charlie Brooker's "Black Mirror",  where he played a Prime Minister who was forced to have sex with a pig.
I can see the headlines now... "Woooeeeoooo.... It's Dr Pigfucker".

"We don't know who the new Doctor is....we've just started casting..... we are at the beginning of the process" scream the BBC.
"No. You are lying".
If Steven Moffat doesn't exactly who the new Doctor is, I will eat my sonic screwdriver and its two alkaline AAs.

Matt Smith was cast at least a year in advance, and he is currently filming his final two episodes.
They've made a masterclass out of misleading us about his exit, presumably (and understandably) because they're sick to death of talking about it. But pretending they didn't know exactly when it would be?..... Do me a favour!
My guess is they knew years ago.

And now we're supposed to believe this ridiculous decoy information, designed to irritate and get tabloid coverage, with the usual ridiculous (I pray and trust) rumours. Somebody will be predicting the next Doctor is going to be Joanna Lumley long after she's left this mortal coil. She will need to regenerate herself to substantiate the rumours.
And so we are being played again.
For idiots.

For what it's worth, .. you can stick with John Hurt for me all the way up until there is a scene where he has to run ... then if the licence payer can't afford the CGI (after all, its not as it the BBC just threw away a hundred million quid on a failed IT project that The Moff could have been given for the 50th), then my money is on Daniel Rigby.
You won't catch either of those chaps on the wrong end of a farmyard animal anytime soon.

When The Truth Lies

I've seen Reginald D Hunter 5 or 6 times before.
His latest show was a worry as reviews were bizarrely polarised. 
In the Midst of Crackers received either 5 stars or 1 star in reviews and not much in between. A bit strange I thought..

Well, I can reassure you (a little bit), it is a 3 star show, and the first hour is 4 stars, before one of the most extraordinary things you will ever see on a stage occurs. Reginald D Hunter capsizes his own boat.

So what went wrong?
Well, in short, he betrays the trust of his public , alienates the audience, and never gets them back. Entertainment is about creating "state" but Reginald D Hunter's mojo for this, well... it must be lying in state.

Specifically though, what went wrong?
After a very good first hour, Reg's seppuku was set in motion by, but crucially was not ultimately caused by, a  joke about rape. Shocking? Not at all...this is the UK in 2013. We've heard all this before.  Rape jokes were very popular about three or four years ago. It's quaint that Reg is still doing this material.
The joke was fine but well... familiar, even a little old.

Of course,  being Reg he didn't so much tell a joke as perform a story piece about rape. Perform it so compellingly, that in convincing himself, he convinced his audience. (Is that what they call method acting?)  And this was a perfectly serviceable joke. SPOILER ALERT I'm going to tell you what it is.

This will not be the word perfect but it will build a bit of the atmosphere the audience experienced. He quietly tells a story of a friend of his who was having a lot of difficulty in personal relationships and her life in general was decaying  with depression and mistrust.
He takes extra painstaking efforts to deliver this in his most honest, truest delivery. He stands stiller. He speaks quieter. It's deliberate.
She opens up to Reg and tells them that she was raped by someone she trusted when she was a lot younger and since then she has had difficulty trusting men. She had never been able to call the police as she felt humiliated and embarrassed.  (Are you laughing yet?). These feelings and decisions were projected into the rest of her life. She draws a distinction with her friend Reg, noting that he'd never thrust himself upon her physically. To which Reg quips."Well, I never knew you wouldn't call the police"

Fine, a perfectly serviceable, edgy, well-constructed joke for open-minded people. So what's the problem? We are at a live comedy gig. We like Reg...so what?

Well, so what ... is that he lost the audience for the rest of the show. His practised,  deliberate performance , delivered such malice. It could've been quickly brushed away , with his undoubted skill. But he didn't bother. He left it leaking, hanging, growing. The next half an hour was painful. He found a few laughs in the end, but he thought he would treat himself to several double vodkas along the way. My guess is he had a few more afterwards. I would have.

He seemed vaguely aware that something had gone wrong, but didn't seem to know what it was. He was lost, searching for someone or something to blame.  He didn't know how to get out.
It's reasonable to believe that an audience approaching 2000 people, that several people in the audience had endured a sexual attack at some point. How much deference we are supposed to paid to this in such a performance, I don't know. I'm not a professional comedian. But a cold sadness went through that room, of which Yvette Fielding and Derek Acorah would have been thrilled.

Cue an unprovoked attack on a couple of people at the front who had not heckled him. He was a couple of large vodkas in at this point and presumably didn't like the look of them. His attack "I'd like to see you two fuck" . Big laugh! Bit weird. The people he was attacking looked unhappy for a prolonged time. He wanted to chat with them, but this is an experienced audience. He had a microphone and had already used it as a tool to rape one presumably fictional family friend, the majority of the audience and now was looking for further victims.

Three vodkas in, judgement was waning. And  there was a fourth  to come.

He found the time to have a dig at Bernard Manning whom he defined as a "racist". I'm afraid I'm with Stephen Fry on this one when he referred to the late Bernard Manning as the greatest joke teller of his time.   Reg has some work to do to achieve this standard. Perhaps he might focus on this instead of talking ill of the dead.
The reason I remembered this moment was that Reg made an interesting distinction between his own "racial" humour, and the "racist" humour that Bernard performed. What an elegantly convenient, conceit. No, I mean it. Really, really, elegant.
But when Bernard Manning told us that an Englishman, an Irishman and a Pakistani went into a pub, we knew it was a joke.

Several reviewers noted people leaving the theatre with looks of dejection, anxiety in their faces rather than smiles. A friend who went  to the show told me they woke up feeling sad over the following days. I believe Reg did harm that night. More than Bernard Manning did in his entire career.  Comedy has to reflect the times, it has to play to the people, not to the ego. Bernard never lost sight of that.

Reg may console himself with some sycophantic tweets.
But he doesn't need to panic, he has a further ready-made excuse backed up by his entourage. He blames a secret mysterious character he knows as .... LIVE Reg.
In fact, let's get rid of that one once and for all.
"People think I'm the Reg that you see on Have I Got News For You. Live Reg ain't like that".
I don't know how you write a YAWN in text. But consider it done.
It's a silly conceit. Britain was at the forefront of edgy comedy when Reg was in diapers.

Why would an experienced comedian choose to commit suicide on stage The only possible excuse, other than contempt for his audience (which cannot be the case) would perhaps be the challenge of getting the audience back on board and the show back on track, in the quickest possible time. Reg is more than capable of doing this. I would have bet real money he'd have achieved this within 30 seconds.
But in Newcastle the Reg  I saw didn't even know the crowd was lost. The black feeling oozed through the auditorium like an slick, dragging us tiringly through 50 more painful minutes. Minutes which contained some good material. But when you throw the towel in so compellingly, you don't get to take it back.

And sadly, Reg doesn't do 45 minutes halves. Nooooooooo! He thinks is playing an arena every night. He wanders on the time that suits him after the interval (having forced on us a comedian we never choose, like we don't have better things to do...usually someone fairly shaggy and frequently Australian), leaves when he feels like it, and last week (which is how long I've waited to write this in the hope I would feel differently) seeming not to care about the mood he left behind in others.

Intervals aren't only for audiences who kindly lubricated themselves for him to make his show go well. They are also an opportunity for the comedian too. One he sorely needed.

I could equally have titled this reflection "When The Truth Dies".
I'm not sure the  artist currently known as Reginald D Hunter, always knows where the truth lies but I don't think it's the end of the fourth double vodka.
He needs to reframe "Live Reg" into "Lairy Reg", something that is a little more honest, a little less grand, that plays a little less to its own sense of self. Because currently his sense of self is misfiled.

Reg considers himself a thinker, more so perhaps than a comedian,  but if he takes only his own advice or that of Twitter, he could stay lost  for a while.
I love a bit of psychology with my comedy. Perhaps if he wants to see it done really well, he should go and watch Daniel Kitson.
When you are a true therapist or psychologist or clinician, there are responsibilities, ethics, a code of practice. And even as a comedian, perhaps even more so, you have to respect the same principles.

There is one overriding true principle.
And it is this.
Do. No. Harm.

Too many years ago, I saw a comedian in my local comedy club who signed off with these words which I have always loved and  remembered.

"Support your local comedy club. It's the only place you can go to hear the truth".

Do you remember that, Reg?

Now ask yourself the same question.

Without the comma.

Friday, 14 June 2013

Eggs & Tits

Do you ever feel like you're being played?

Case in point. A live Saturday night Britain's Got Talent final where Simon Cowell gets, wait for it ... egged.
The outrage!
Is this really the best we can do? An egging?
And this wasn't delivered by some 20 stone Father 4 Justice scaling the stage in a Superman outfit. No, they save themselves for spray-painting a portrait of the Queen. Well done, fellas.
The "perpetrator" cast in this role was a giggling viola player in a black dress, throwing out half a dozen 'free-range', frankly... like a girl.
If it was up to me all the parties involved would have been hard-boiled.
Presumably viola-girl was told there is no such thing as bad publicity, when the genius behind this "sensational" live event got to sign her contract of silence.

Even Simon had a magnanimous egg-related pun to deliver just in case you doubted the stunt's lack of authenticity. A live joke from somebody as comedically witless as a man who stays up to 3am watching the Flintstones every morning? That's the most improbable thing of all.

And in the same show, in a lesser publicised incident, Amanda Holden decides while , barely needing to move from the sitting position, to lop a tit out in a manoeuvre commonly known as the celebrity nipple slip.
Really? She wasn't dancing the fecking lambada for crying out loud.

We don't mind being played.
Frequently we will even play along.


But for goodness sake, put some effort in.