Dream Hard

It is important to keep a notebook of your ideas.
In my case that might be little jokes or plot devices, some song or soundtrack ideas.
Sadly, that means I've got thousands of notes.
I got pretty good at recording them.

Some of your best ideas will come when you're asleep  - for free and without effort. Record the idea quickly on waking and hope it is coherent  or legible when you revisit it and, who knows, Poindexter, you may have something.

Last night I had a perfect way to end a story – it was a song or two songs, so easy to forget if you don't make a note at the time.
So I awoke and scribbled them down.

Looking back it was a bit unusual as I am just as likely to record a vocal note in a blurry voice.
But my pen – it illuminates so that I don't have to turn on the bedside light, (or at least Alexa doesn't have to) - was the chosen weapon on this occasion.

Remembering this in the morning, I went to check my notes.
Nothing.
Nothing had been written.

I couldn't remember the crucial songs that would give my story such finishing punch.
The record had been expunged.

Then I realised I'd been pistol-whipped by my own psyche.

I'd only dreamed writing my dreams down.
I'd awoken ... in my dream, carefully documented the dream ...in my dream , and I went back to sleep ....in my dream.

It is tough to stay ahead when your brain is treating you as though you're in a sequel to Inception.

Derren Brown: Showman ?

The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled Was Convincing the World He Didn't Exist

**Alert: Spoilers

The greatest trick Derren Brown has pulled off is persuading everybody not to review his show.
His latest one, Showman, I saw yesterday for the second time.
It's not good.
And a year in it should be by now. It was actually worse than a year ago.
He was looking tired, a large prop in the form of a bulky wheelchair is brought onto the stage early on, and the sequence it heralds still half-failed. And as the sequence was just spinning a coin and seeing if it would land heads or tails, it was hardly a visual spectacle.

The next was rolling a die to see when a chosen number between one and six would come up - again, not much of a spectacle.
This from a performer whose television shows acted out the End of the World, or played with death in Russian Roulette, or assassinated Stephen Fry or pushed somebody off a building .

I know this is theatre not TV and I have seen all but one of his live shows and several more than once. They used to be highly entertaining.
I know enough about magic and hypnosis to know how he does 95% of the stuff and the other 5%....well,  I have to look cynically at the many "ushers" he brings with him to the theatre.

But because Showman lacks the spectacle of some of his earliest shows, there is no reason for us to be sworn to secrecy.
There is no big reveal, there is no stunning jaw-dropping denouement.

In previous Derren Brown audiences, I'd gasped with the rest of the audience. Here, there were no gasps.
It wasn't just that the overlong 40 minute interval (for technical difficulties!) withdrew the energy from the room because there wasn't much energy to begin with, either on stage or in the audience.

Derren has relied much more on stage hypnotism in his recent shows, being careful to say "this isn't hypnotism" in order to avoid any restrictions from the 1952 Stage Hypnotism act. And he gets away with this because he's not saying "Come and see Derren Brown hypnotise" despite the fact that is exactly what he is doing.

That would still be just about ok except that the hypnotism he was doing could not have been more standard - routines that make audience members forget the number 7  and their own name is part of just about every hypnotism show I've ever seen. And I've seen plenty.

I can see how Derren and Andy Nyman will justify this to themselves. They will say to themselves that not so many people are doing this sort of act anymore. So why don't we just go do it? But the answer is because all the other hypnosis  acts out there are doing it.
We were expecting something more in the way of originality. We expect something greater from Derren Brown. God knows we'd paid through the nose for it.

He didn't even wipe the suggestions from the volunteers sufficiently. Going back to help one-woman who had still not remembered her name, he pretty much ignored everybody else who might have been exactly the same situation.
It was sloppy

The only secret here is that he is using very old routines.

When the big Teddy is given away (there is a nice funny moment from a photograph that I am happy not to spoil ), everybody in the audience would know that his name had just been printed by a stagehand for placing on the Teddy because there's no other possible explanation.
There is no magic here. There's nothing magical. There's not even very much of interest.

An attempt at  psychometry - doing readings on objects brought by audience members largely fails. I can see from some reviews is not the first time.
And boy did it go on forever as he flustered around before resorting to a safe "hit " at the end that he had in his back pocket  

He puts a ring on a glass stem at the end - a shop bought trick. OK but not really on brand.

I am willing to suspend belief. I am not expecting to be fooled and I can enjoy a trick even if I know a plausible method to two. But I do need to be entertained

Continuing to ask his audience to not review anything in the show implies that they have been privy to something other than a mediocre magic show with some fairly mediocre hypnosis.

It also means that you can never get honest reviews about Derren Brown's theatrical shows. This is one.
I can't even find one on youtube.
Spoiler alerts are perfectly easy to notify for those who do need them.

Let's talk turkey. 

A 250 date tour should clear £25 million.

People love him.
I love him.
But cult-like control over a loving audience, some of whom still swear he is reading body language, is getting thin.

Showman should be a lot better.

Being There


"It is not the same on television. You need to be there to get the feeling inside"


This is the beautiful advice of an older lady in a radio vox pop remarking on the Queen's funeral

Vox pop.
I'm this case, 17 words chosen to represent the voice of the people.

Listen to them
Listen to us
Listen to the words
They are telling you what life is.

Of course, you have to be able to bear feeling it in order to invite it in.
So do it in your own way.
Bit by bit.

When you do talk though, please give someone your eyes.
Don't just greedily take their stories.
Leave your phone in your pocket, or at least have the decency to apologise should you have a valid reason to briefly reach for it. Your first born child may be stranded in the city centre with some thugs who know karate for example, or maybe your illustrator is rescheduling your sleeve tattoo. Or.....no, that's it.
These are the two valid reasons.

And then breathe in deeply, smile, give your love and energy and listen.

Just listen.


You won't know what your friend needs until you do.

It's the name

There is a problem with "self-help"
It's the name.

I have come across two objections this week to the concept of self-help.

Would anybody really object to a positive piece of encouragement, hack or a tip, a filip?
Would anybody really object to positive suggestions enthusiastically performed with love and affection from someone bringing hopes for the best in and from another.

Something given without financial transaction between you.
But even if there is the barter of token or passing of money in exchange for a podcast or book or talk or a course or workshop or presentation, if there is a value that leads to change, then it's of value.
A quick poke in the eye or a big long, luxurious bath presented in a  modality that you yourself prefer to absorb messages.

Some people have a quick shower.
Some make it a cold one
Some people have a long luxurious bath.
Some wouldn't have a bath in the house. And if space is at a premium, always bear in mind, you could fit in fifty air fryers in the space taken up by a single bath.
Think about that briefly, why don't you. (By the way get yourself an air fryer.....trust me)

The first of the two " self-help deniers" was Jonathan Goodwin - essentially, if you're not familiar with him, Britain's only escapologist and a man I have been watching on TV for 20 years since his home-made Channel 4 programmes. He's appeared in various other variety shows with his stunts and warm personality but it was only Britain's America's Got Talent extreme that led to his paraplegia last year and facing a lifetime in a wheelchair.
He has just (September 2022) started his tips of positivity on Twitter but prefixed them by saying  "I hate all that self-help stuff ", but of course that's exactly what he is offering.
And it's brilliant.
So this is undoubtedly a branding problem.
A disclaimer such as that is a sign of vague embarrassment at the concept of giving advice. How very British of us!

Who would say to their loving grandfather, giving them life advice.. "Sorry Grandad , I'm not into that self-help stuff. Find yourself a different sucker. My brother's over there"
A psychopath, you say? Well, possibly.
Certainly somebody who is telling you that they're not open to new ideas today, thanks very much.

The second of the two people was a friend to whom I was trying to send positive vibes and life advice  -  a bipolar who was struggling with his moods.
I wasn't claiming anything that I was doing was original but I know how useful it is to continue hearing inspirational stuff from time to time.
You may find it in your entertainment, Youtube, your music, a play, a book, a quote... really literally anything that fills you up with the joy of spring. 

It might even just be the joy of spring. Who doesn't look forward to her (or his?) return. 

Is spring a lady? Should we even ask?

I received a message back  .. "Yes I know all that self-help stuff"
But we all need a reminder, I reminded.
This is simply another wall that my advice has to climb over. That is a common enough thing.

But why call this "self-help"?
This is one person helping another, or trying to (and that's enough, by the way)
Self-help doesn't work as well when it is said in your own voice. You know you too well.

It doesn't get round the outside. It doesn't come in the back door. It doesn't fill the cracks. It doesn't seep in.
For many, it doesn't, get this, work as well.
But in the voice of another, even if the words are familiar, it's NON-self-help, it. Agency from another agency.


Of course, the Universities supercharged this idea. And perfected it in lockdown.
They could get students to teach themselves, eliminate most of their teaching and still lumber students with £9000 of debt per year.

Criminal? Well you could teach yourself a law degree on Youtube or in prison should you find yourself there for a modern crime such as freedom of expression. Then you could prosecute the Universities who are getting away with this travesty of profit-seeking over education.
Unless you're learning an artistic professions such as medicine, that requires interactivity, why go to University?
Most of the other crafts require apprenticeship more than a degree.
That is self-help.
Self-education is self-help.
But self-help, as the term is usually deployed, is something you give to another.
It involves humility and a kindness of spirit.
It is a gift.

Helping yourself... in the way the language is usually used, is of no credit. It is an act of selfishness.
Helping others... on the other hand is the road to apparent sainthood.


There is a significant branding issue.

Because self-help is ultimately the only help  there is.

Time's Arrow

Some years ago, I wrote a blog.

And some years later I thought I'd revisit it and see if there was any value in the 5-7 years.

Some years after that I decided to do just that. 

That is today.

I will revisit it chronologically (from the beginning), perhaps retool any bits worth saving for eventual compilation and a broader audience.

And, I think, enough time has passed that I may have a few things to say about the world again.

Or maybe not.

We'll see.

It is the 1st of September, 2022.

Ten forty one in the evening.

In case you were wondering.

RIP RDV

Sorry to hear of the death of Peter Bowles.
I worked in earshot of him a couple of years ago while filming Victoria,  where he was overtly thankful to the runners who offered him their  ministrations of cushions, blankets, admiration and tea while filming on a brisk, fresh day Wentworth Woodhouse. The impromptu muffler was appreciated but the overgenerous fluid top-ups were rejected, showing all the experience of the proud owner of a bladder that had clocked up over 80 years and a housewives' favourite more than familiar with the complexities of period costume.  

He also holds the distinction of having written the only autobiography I have ever read, which I ordered after filming with him.
A thoroughly enjoyable tome called "Ask Me If I'm Happy"  - an opportunity to consolidate his anecdotes from a different era in showbiz.

In the early pages, he visits a doctor in New York "where all sorts of tests were carried out on me" before being told he must have his tonsils out immediately or risk suffering death from a heart attack at the age of 20. Declining due to the cost, he decides to take his chances but a second doctor blames his debilitation on "what he is suffering from is what is known as the Actor's Condition. That is, he listens to his body a lot of the time and expects to hear applause".

I also flirted with a brief career in journalism after seeing his trench coat on Lytton's Diary but I think I just really liked the theme tune
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM3GLr9jgKA

Warm Caller

Cold caller: 02087763616
Me: Hello
Her: Hello I am calling you from the technical department of Virgin Media
Me: Are you? Are you actually calling me from Virgin Media? Or are you lying?
Her: I am lying.
Me: OK, well why don't you do something that your mother will be proud of.
Her: OK, I will do one day.
Me: OK, goodbye.
Her: Bye  

Spring

The birds are coming, the birds are coming

Nature's warming up to burst

They're chomping at the bit

It is March the twenty-first

They are stealing them a house

They've tweeted the invasion

(Though I recognise some faces

Back for the occasion)

The birds are coming, the birds are coming  

The battle lines are Home

Searching for foundations

Perching on my gnome

They've annexed my back yard 

And it's horticultural distress

The order seems invisible 

They think it's just a mess 

The birds are here. The birds are here

"Go pick on someone with a lawn..

You're reshaping my entropy

Now my rhododendron's gawn"

Oblivious to grand design

And the fingers to the bone.

They'll mortgage all my potplants

To build a family home

They'll tug at all my linings

With a flush of barefaced cheek

Hanging baskets going bare

"Screw you  - we're here all week"

Salvaging, reclaiming

Caring not a jot

Pirate's bounty never stopping

Till they have the Jewson lot

Twisting, pecking, 

Ever-peckish

A vernal puffed-up display 

Soon off 

But back for more

At the All-You-Can-Pinch buffet.

Kids really do say the funniest things

Whenever my little one comes out with a golden nugget, I often like to praise her by saying..."You should be a comedian".

But my wife quickly follows up with ..."or a doctor or a lawyer".

At least she would do if I was married. 

Or had children.

On which subject, have you ever noticed that strange myth targeted at single people ...namely that they live selfish lives?

It is usually coming from somebody who has committed the ultimate act of selfishness by reproducing another generation as close to themselves as they can muster.

It is a good job such an act is excused in today's society by the process of instinct and the questionable necessity of the survival of the species because having children must be the single most narcissistic act in all of creation.

Of course when they realise what they got themselves into, some of them have to ease off on the 7 day Prosecco  and  develop some selfish habits by putting their kids first.

Hopefully at least one of the loving couple will manage that for some of the time that they share the children in formative early years, and some of the time that they have them in the post divorce years.

The curious thing is that they then decide to misremember this desire for the ultimate accessory and recall it as an act of "unselfishness".

And then.. then.... they  point to people who haven't committed such an unnecessary addition to the population and sneeringly identify them as selfish.

It beggars belief.

The Magus

Yesterday, after a few weeks of dedicated effort, something unusual happened.

I completed a long book.

Reading that is. Not writing it.

The book was The Magus by John Fowles, of the French Lieutenant's Woman fame.

It's always held a bit of a mystique for me not least in the title. 

I'd seen a fragment of the movie adaptation on BBC1 decades ago. It hinted at mystery and supernatural trickery which it turns out is the sort of thing that floats my boat.

As a consequence, it's always held a bit of a mystique in the back of my mind not least in the title. 

There are not many pieces of work that lend themselves to the claim of being one of the best books ever written - frequently hitting the top 100 books of all time, and also claim that they represent one of the worst movies ever made.

The Magus movie - damned forever by Woody Allen's brilliant quote.

"If I had to live my life again, I'd do everything the same, except that I wouldn't see The Magus."

Cruel, but brilliant.

Brilliant, but cruel.

I read the 650-page copy I bought abroad 10 years ago. And knowing what I am like for not completing long books or any books at all, I threw every trick in the book at finishing it  - by carrying my paperback, obtaining a computer file, and using an audio book.

I could read it when I was sitting. I could have it read to me when I was walking somewhere or falling asleep.

In the end by combination of paper and audiobook alone I finished it.

Yesterday.

I mentioned that.

Of course it wouldn't be quite that simple. The audiobook was the original edition but John Fowles revised this with an extra 70 pages - my paperback is the Revised edition  - that is his capital R not mine - and with apparently, though I still have to check this, a slightly different ending. But the ending is fairly open-ended anyway so I don't expect too much of a change.

Along the way I could often track the words he changed or moved around or expanded by reading and listening at the same time, my confusion hopefully adding to my concentration.

It pleasingly phased in and out its ideas of hypnosis and magic, dreams and intoxication, morality and reality checks.

Exactly the same thing as I offer my dating profile.

So in completing the book and jolly good it was too, I finally watched the movie.

Actually, I thought the movie was rather good, and a sight quicker to acquit.

It felt exactly like the book I just read.

Michael Caine was actually giving a performance, 

Of course his character was unsympathetic. But that's the point. It doesn't make it a bad performance. Quite the reverse.

These possibly supernatural Mediterranean mysteries are almost a genre in themselves but a very small one.

There are strong echoes of a BBC TV serial called The Dark Side of the Sun, which has lived with me for many years.

This was one of a number of BBC series written by Michael J Bird, so my next task is to revisit a little bit more of that.

His legacy was series known as the Lotus Eaters, Who Pays the Ferryman, and the Aphrodite something-or-other.

I was always pleasantly haunted by the supernatural paganism of The Dark Side of the Sun.

Is there a deeper well? 

I'll let you know. In your dreams.