Soundsmove - David Goodall

When That Bloke's Away....

2011-12-13T16:05:00.001Z

Welcome, my friends. With the snow outside being blown by a force ten gale, and with the owner away; I have an empty. So I'm lying back; a bottle of Pauillac de Pichon Lalande breathing, and I'm watching the David Attenwotsit show with a million non-flying birds. I'm waiting for the number to call to order one, but they seem to be saving that till the end.

I won't take up much of your time. I thought I'd share with you a little pastime. It being snowy, windy and generally wet and bad out there, I am loathe to venture out. However, unlike dogs - a feline gentleman does NOT poop in the house - unless it's one of those poor souls you lot refer to as "house cats" - for which read "mocked-by-others-cats". So, despite the inclement Freudness of the weather, I braved the cold, the snow and imminent badger attack to do what must be done.

Now - your average cat will develop a very poor set of taste buds doing this. How? I hear you ask (cats have excellent hearing): Again, unlike dogs - or "God's Little Jokes" as we call them - a feline fellow does not leave his leavings in plain view; to be prodded, sniffed and [lord save us] nibbled by every passing canine moron.

This decorum necessitates digging. The digging consequently leaves one's paws like this:

[Note the crusted areas where the dirt has begun to coalesce]

Now - if you lack opposable thumbs, and you wish to clean your paws, licking is about your only option.

You dig into that much for long enough, and any wine over a fiver a bottle is simply a waste. I have developed a system....

If I clench my paws, I can hold onto (and indeed bunch up) the dirt both on and between my pads. This prevents small amounts falling on the carpet. Not that I care about the carpet, but specks of mud falling from one's paws have the same exponential curve as an avalanche. Once little bits fall - lots starts to fall, then the bits that are left become ingrained, and one's only recourse is to lick them clean.

Sorry - I had to pause (or paws?) to retch at the very thought.

If, on the other paw, I keep the dirt off the carpet; not only does the dirt not dissipate into cloth, pad and fur alike, but it actually starts to bond - to gather if you will (even if you won't) on one's paws.
This accomplished - it is a simple case of finding soft furnishings where one can begin the ©SocksSense Cleansing System (pat pending)

1 - Find a soft, pliable but dense surface on which to begin the gentle, but definite padding action.

Boss man seems to like this footstool - I can see why; he must get his own feet well clean on it (he calls it an "Ottoman" but I can see nothing Turkish about it).

2 - Next: I like a soft and giving fabric, like that found on the sofa in his "studio"

You can see how technique is important at this stage.

As an aside - I'm not sure what this "studio" is all about; the walls are covered in [apparently expensive] foamy stuff, so the more apposite name would seem to be (to me at any rate) "The Climbing Room"

Makes far more sense, don't you think?

3 - Now comes the final stage. By now you've removed the wet, top layer on the leather; the secondary layer - or "mantle" has been removed with some gentle kneading of the sofa. For the deep, thorough clean that will get all the remaining (admittedly ingrained) mud from the surface and between the paws, you need cloth. Of course, the cloth needs to be somewhere comfortable, malleable and warm. After trying various options - I can heartily recommend a duvet

It doesn't seem like much, but if we take a look at a detailed view....

You can see that the duvet section really gets all the little bits you might not otherwise even notice.

In conclusion - it might seem like a lot of work, but this system really focusses on comfort while cleaning, as well as thoroughness. The pay-off is that your taste buds will never be dull again.

This is vital when you decide to go through a phase of staring at "bargain" food in a bowl, then looking at the owner as though insulted beyond tolerance. A few days of that and you'll be back on the good [expensive] stuff in no time.

Now I reveal my inner force

So beware - and adieu

Your Life In Their Hands

2011-12-12T19:37:00.000Z

There was a risk this would be a picture-free edition. Can't have that, so I shall spread the story out a bit with digressions.

Back in June, I received a call from an anonymous altruist:

"You're nearly fifty."

"Thank you. I was already aware of that. You are, however, slightly premature."

"You need to come for a check-up. Like an MOT"

My initial worry was that, should I fail, would I be allowed on the Queen's Highways? The day came, and off I toddled to the Health Centre.

Except, the check-up wasn't in the Health Centre; it was in "The Fountain"

The Fountain is NOT an actual fountain - there is a fountain, but the capitalised Fountain is a building opposite, that used to be a very good restaurant. Brought to a slow death by having the most eclectic and comprehensive menu known to man.

Here is the Lesmahagow fountain - in the background is The Fountain

In The Fountain (see above) I was met by swimming pool attendants. They may not have been; they may have been badminton court attendants. Either way, they were dressed in tracksuits.

This is possibly a way to make you feel you are in the presence of health and fitness experts.

You are not.

Interestingly, when I Googled "South Lanarkshire Leisure Staff" for images, this was on the results....

I'm not sure why. Unless Alan Bennett has a murky past in the gymnasia of Carluke?

Anyway - my check-up:

First - I should point out that due to a torn achilles tendon, a dodgy knee and [mainly] laziness, I had put on several extra punnets in the past few years. In fact, for the past 2 years I have been mainly rotund.

I shall leave this part of things by saying I am now 24 lbs lighter; 6 waist inches less in circumference; and still going down (not in the way you're thinking)

With this in mind, I was not surprised to be told I was overweight.

"You should change your diet; [smiles knowingly, and in a patronising voice says] cut down on the fish suppers, eh?"

"I have fish and chips about twice a year. Besides which, cooked properly, and eaten in moderation; fish and chips is actually good for you."

I'll admit I am irritating at times. Most times.

"Well - cut out the chocolates."

"I eat a Mediterranean diet"

"Pasta?"

"Yes."

"Well, cut out the cream sauces."

"What cream sauces? Which Mediterranean diet involves smothering pasta in cream? I have simply been lazy - I shall get back into things, and we'll be fine."

They took a blood sample. My cholesterol was high. Leaving aside the fact that the whole cholesterol issue is highly debatable, and leaving aside the fact that I should have been told to fast for 10-12 hours beforehand - my level was 5.2 - 5-6.4 is the NHS "mildly high" level, depending on the makeup.

I take issue with the NHS figures anyway.

"Oh dear - your cholesterol is very high: five point two."

"That's not very high"

"It is - it puts you at risk of heart attacks and strokes"

"What is the breakdown of lipids?"

"Oh, we can't tell."

"So I could have more 'good' than 'bad'?" (I'm putting inverted commas round the terms, as my attitude to lipids is contrary to the NHS stance anyway)

"Well - west of Scotland - hardly likely, is it?"

Nice. They then took my blood pressure (which by now was rising anyway). It was 142/85. I was in danger of dropping dead, and had to see a nurse as quickly as possible.

To be fair, the dropping dead bit they did not say. The nurse bit they did. At the time, blood pressure (BP) was not something about which I knew anything. I suggested it wasn't that far off normal, and that I had just been irked by someone (I didn't elaborate) - nope - I had to see a nurse; it was too high.

This, I'll admit, got me worrying. As I said, I didn't know much about it - they had tracksuits and had booked a community hall; who was I to argue?

I phoned the surgery and booked a consultation with the nurse to get my BP done.

On the day - in I went. There was the nurse in a uniform. BP taken. 152/102. Ooft.

"This is bad. You'd better come in for blood tests. Any stresses?"

"None that I know of. Do you want to take the BP again?"

"No - I just took it."

Back in for blood tests. Same nurse; same uniform (possibly washed). BP taken: 158/110.

"Higher."

"I'm very nervous."

"Shouldn't make a difference." (WTF? Really?) Again - BP not taken twice.

I mentioned that I'd given the whole 'stress' matter some thought, and I reeled off a few things that might have added to a sense of stress (I didn't mention the pool attendants, the aspersions on my diet or the rising panic of being told my heart was about to explode)

"See - this is why I go home and I don't want to hear anything - cos I get everyone's problems thrown at me during the day."

After an awkward pause, where I fought down the urge to shout "You fecking asked me to tell you!" I asked what was next.

I should see the GP on Monday.

I headed home, and got ready to shoot off on a flight to the Irish Film Festival (we won, by the way). The phone rings - it is the nurse. "The doctor says you've to get an ECG on Monday, and see him on Wednesday."

"Oh - is it bad?"

"He says that if you feel pain, you've to call an ambulance immediately"

I'll go into the merits of panicking someone with high BP later on - as there's more.

I flew off to Ireland, and had a relatively good time; aside from not sleeping the entire time I was there.

Monday: ECG.

I saw the nurse.

I saw the nurse.

I did a double-take.

This nurse was not the other nurse. The practice is small. I said I didn't know there was more than one nurse; there isn't. The person in the uniform, taking my BP once a session and being present when I'd booked an appointment with the nurse - was THE RECEPTIONIST.

The nurse took my BP: 180/80 Ooft (although the diastolic was better than previously).

ECG done - all was normal, but my BPM was 115. I pointed out that my resting BPM is generally 62-68, so I was basically fifty more nervous. She was cool with this notion. She took my BP again.

(See? A professional)

160/80. Still not great, but a drop of 20mmHg all the same. She was sanguine, and said there wasn't much to worry about. So I headed off - happier than I'd been for some time.

Wednesday - the doctor.

I shall run down my previous experiences with the clinical staff at the practice later.

He took my BP: 192/90. He shot out and came back in with a bit of paper; he was going to prescribe medication.

"For how long?"

"The rest of your life."

"Erm - shouldn't I get a 24hr monitor?"

"Well - I can refer you, but you'll still have to take the medication."

"I'd rather wait till I've had the monitor."

"Well - it could take three or four weeks for the referral - who knows what will happen to you in that time."

By now I am freaking a tad. I still refuse the medication. He refers me. He then says - "You have to do some aggressive weight loss." (His italics, not mine)

Now - if someone IS about to pop off with a heart attack or stroke; if they are stressed and hyper tense - what might the effects be of telling them they might not last the four weeks it will take to see a consultant? What might the effect be of their starting unsupervised, unassisted aggressive weight loss?

Off I went - no second BP taken.

This is now officially a saga - so I shall cut out the interim. I got the results back. Well - I phoned the practice for the results.

"Can I have my BP test results please?"

"BP? You don't phone for that! We take your pressure and we tell you there and then."

"Oh - I had the cuff, and the..."

"You mean the twenty-four hour blood pressure monitor results."

"Yes - the blood pressure test..."

"The twenty-four hour blood pressure monitor results."

"Yes - can I have them please?"

"They're not here."

"Oh - I was told to check in two weeks."

"Well you've checked and they're not here."

"When should I call back?"

"How should I know? You'll have to ask the cardiology unit."

Nice. And I don't mean the National Institute for Clinical Excellence.

I eventually got the results. All normal. I resisted the temptation to point out to the GP that, had I taken his medication (which I would be on for the rest of my days), he'd now be telling me that it was working.

He did end the conversation by saying: "My work is done."

Arsehole.

I shall describe my other [few] brushes with the practice personnel in a later blog.

For now - I leave you with my trip to The Hillhead Book Club

Where the lovely Lynn bought me breakfast.

It is a delightfully quirky and eclectically decorated and furnished retired cinema.

There was a little market happening on the Sunday we went.

The cutlery and crockery are delightfully random.

My Eggs Benedict were a triumph

Lynn had the Full Scottish - which left me with a tad of menu envy.

Very good, and much recommended. The evening and lunch menus are also excellent; the atmosphere is great and it's in the middle of the West End shopping street of Byres Road.

Go.

Last - but not least:

I have a big problem with the grocers' apostrophe, but this signwriter couldn't have screwed up more had he tried:

Goodbye.

Ketchup

2011-11-08T23:00:00.000Z

I know, I know, I know - after the umpteenth email asking why the blog has stopped - I must play catch up. Too much going on.

More of events in future blogs, but I have had to get a new car [blogs passim]; I am going to get a new GP (your life in their hands? I fecking hope not); I've been:

1. Penning a christmas show
2. Writing a feature film
3. Sampling culinary delights, and...
4. Learning about practical pigs
5. Learning about practical pigs - I thought it merited a repeat.

More of most of that in later blogs.

The car....

You might remember the last time I saw my dear old Swedish ride (comments on a postcard, please), it looked like this:

Awww. Artistic, lonely and defunct.

I browsed the Interweb, and came across another Swedish ride; I'm fond of a Swedish ride (time enough for double entendres - can we move on now?).

I arranged a test drive, and set off for the glories of Stirling. Having no car [well, duh] I cadged a lift with the lovely Lynn, and found myself in Bridge of Allan at a very ungodly hour.

Note that this is before the clocks went back, I mean - we're talking early.

I took this photo as I headed back from buying a hearty breakfast of rolls and sausage (one each - I wasn't going mad), and settled down to have the feast in Moss - a shop of infinite taste in Bridge of Allan...

I then borrowed the Moss van and headed off to Arnold Clark (no, seriously - they've changed) Volvo in Stirling.

I arrived - as arranged - at 0900 for my test drive.

This was my view until 1130.

Still, I was impressed with the car, and ordered it. The car would be ready on Monday.

I was - of course - still without transport, and Lynn not only drove me through to Stirling on her day off [one of two], but she also treated me to a wee coffee & snack in a farm shop near Tillicoultry.

This was the "express café"

If you're expecting that to mean it is quick - then you, like 98% of the English-speaking world, have misunderstood the word "express". Apparently it means you go to the counter and order your food, then it takes just as long to deliver it as it would do in any other location. The only alternative worth considering, is that the owners are heavily involved in quantum physics, have taken advantage of the recent discoveries concerning the speed of light, and actually are delivering food faster, but are either doing it in another membrane (see "String Theory"), or are subsequently buggering about with the space/time continuum in such a way as to negate their previously speedy service.

That said - I should point out that the food in question (chocolate fudge shortbread) was so good that I forgot to photograph it until it was too late....

Had I thought - I could have asked the staff to let me go back in time and photograph the cake before I'd eaten it.

Of course, the danger there is a complicated one of creating an anomaly (see "Grandfather Effect"), whereby I might tell myself that:

a) the cake was/is/will be good

b) I forgot/forget/will forget to take the picture.

In the case of b) - the danger is that I, thus forewarned, actually do take the picture, thus negating the need to travel back in time to take the picture. In which case I neither meet myself, nor warn myself about forgetting to take the picture. In which case I then forget to take the picture, so I go back in time to take the picture, meet myself and commit b) - the danger is that I, thus forewarned....

Easier to take a snap of an empty plate.

OFF TO VOLVO!!

The cheery folk at Volvo appear to be indulging in a little H&S/S&M with inflatable slaves...

I get that the inflatable dummy is a crash test item - I do not, however get why he has no trousers, and some ties hanging down.

I hope they are ties.

I really hope they are ties.

After the usual sign this, do that routine, I drove off in my new car.

I am happy.

Nothing to add to this blog - I am in catch-up mode, and therefore blogs will be short and to the point.

In case some folk are concerned that I received a lot of transport from Lynn, and seem to have given nothing in return, I did convert a simple board into a new design icon:

You can't say fairer than that.

The Long Goodbye

2011-10-06T18:05:00.000+01:00

A brief blog; a catch-up blog.

Back from Cyprus, and off I shot to the Tron theatre to see Elegies For Angels, Punks and Raging Queens.

Now I'm not overly fond of theatre, and I'm not overly fond of musicals. Why did I find myself going to the theatre to watch folk sing? My friend, agent and lunching companion: Paul Harper-Swan had directed the piece, and I'd done the poster.

Having said that, my involvement in a theatre piece is rarely an excuse sufficient to draw me along to watch. One of the reasons I like directing, is that you can wave "g'bye" when the tour goes out, and - aside from a couple of check-in visits - it's all over, whether or not fat ladies warble.

So that is the why I went - now why do I so rarely go?

Have you seen the standard of theatre in Scotland recently? Don't get me wrong: there are some great actors, and some fab directors. However, there are also any number of actors who think that assuming a grumpy face and a loud voice is what passes for acting; there are any number of directors who think getting someone to assume a grumpy face and a loud voice is what constitutes directing. Once you've paid the silly prices, you can't really leave, as it's not fair on the actors - it's not a film; they can see you walk out. Theatre audiences take note of that one - it's not a film - so discussing the plot loudly is not good. Albeit one better than discussing your flaming holiday to ruddy Xanthe in the theatre.... during the play.

So - you can't walk out; it's not enjoyable; people's standards have slipped so astoundingly low that there are any number of people in the audience who'll wax long and loud on how great the acting was.

I'd suggest actors go to classes, like American actors do. But I've seen the standard of most classes up here. "Acting for Camera" by people who main experience with a camera is getting "those Butlins photos developed". Here's a heads-up: you don't need a camera to do an acting for camera class. They can be useful - later on, but they are not essential. You do however, need someone to teach the class whose ratio of pocket-fluff-to-talent-and-experience leans less towards pocket fluff.

But still - actors pay their money, then think they're an expert because someone who once made a short film that nobody saw - or - who once attended one class in a ten-class session - tells them: "Now I have taught you - you are a expert."

Hactors - at least look them up on IMDB. For God's sake.

Well - that rant came up like a wee fit, didn't it?

Elegies For Angels, Punks and Raging Queens

Absolutely excellent. My only complaint? The wrong venue - it needs somewhere bigger. But the cast were excellent, the stories handled with delicacy, humour and grace, and the direction was sparse and to the point.

So - I've spent my week driving up and down to Glasgow. I went down the bulgar wheat road....

Not attractive visually (and not in the car), but a wee curry with aubergine, almonds and bananas was rather nice. The blob at the bottom left is mango chutney. Nice.

To finish off the foodilogue - I had a spate of roast potatoes.

In their jackets, accompanying chicken stuffed with Roquefort and wrapped in prosciutto.

Sautéed mushrooms, asparagus and spinach at the side.

Then...

Coated in turmeric and pepper and roasted to accompany some reasonable pork in white wine, rosemary and bay leaves. The pork was neither Curly nor Wurly [blogs passim], and as such - inferior. Broccoli with pine nuts and garlic.

These meals were had during the heatwave. Remember the heatwave? Yes? Living in England. If you do not remember the heatwave; if it passed you by, you are living in Scotland.

If you live in England, or abroad and wonder - "Is the Scottish weather really as bad as the Jocks make out?"

England - 27ºC - barbecues - beach trips.

Scotland - roast potato weather, and any paddling to be had was in my back garden....

I had lunch with my old friend and Yoga guru, Judith. I should point out she is my old, and dear friend - and she is a Yoga guru. She is not my yoga guru. My brush with yoga was at the local club, in the local secondary school, populated with a clique of overweight ladies. I left after a couple of weeks of being ignored.

Maybe I should have stayed.
Maybe, had I persevered, they'd have taken me into the fold (or the folds)
Maybe, had I stuffed my pockets with Snickers bars, I'd have been the popular new boy.

However, sensing the class was not following the spirit of yoga - I beat a hasty retreat. Unnecessary, as an ambling retreat would still have outpaced anyone chasing me.

A good lunch at Stereo

Drive home. The [automatic] car seems to be making slightly aggressive gear changes. I get onto the M74, and get up to speed. The car randomly shifts gear up, then down, then goes into neutral.

I don't know whether you've tried it, but coasting at seventy, in neutral, with cones along the hard shoulder - is interesting.

I exited the vehicle and called the RAC (or any generic breakdown service)

As I was a single woman in distress, they arrived in no time flat. I didn't say I was a single woman in distress, but I'm sure they decided that from my phone call.

Either that, or the RAC sit and wait point is in Rutherglen, 10 minutes from my location.

They arrived, and I sat in the van while they went about their business.

It was decided that my car wouldn't go into gear properly.

This was a good decision, as my car wouldn't go into gear properly, which is what I told them on the phone. I also said it would need a tow.

"You'll need a tow."

"Ah."

I sat inside while he went about strapping up the injured vehicle.

I was dropped off at Cross Garage in Stonehouse, where they were kind enough to furnish me with a courtesy car.

Now I was exceptionally grateful for the car - not least because I live in the middle of Bum-Feck Nowhere, and public transport is great if you want to go to Hamilton. If you want to go anywhere else - you have to do it from Hamilton. I had a fight to choreograph in a hamlet called Nemphlar. Look it up - see if you can find it.

So the car meant I didn't have to let the good Kenny and Annie down.

So I am - as I said - grateful for the car. But... try being six feet three inches and driving it. I was too tall to use the wing mirrors. Anyway - it wouldn't be for long. They were running diagnostics on the car, and I'd get the news soon.

£2500 - to fit a new transmission system.

I took back the courtesy Noddy car, cleared out the mats, tax disc and sat nav from the Saab. Checked the seats and floors for coins, and said a fond farewell.

The garage owner is in the Fire Service, so the Saab will shortly be rammed up an embankment, rolled over and attacked with oxyacetylene torches as "practice" -

My car and Steve Jobs on the same day: what are the odds?

From Mr Jobs:

“Almost everything–all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure–these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart. Stay hungry, stay foolish"

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

And my favourite quote:

"Click. Boom. Amazing."

It's All Greek to Taxis, But A Lovely Plato Fish

2011-09-30T10:34:00.000+01:00

Why is work so damned difficult?

On Thursday I travelled to Gatwick, and had a surprisingly OK meal at the Gatwick Hilton. Up at Dawn's Crack and off to the Terminal Shuttle. Very futuristic....

Having long since said goodbye to 21, I checked nervously for any Sandmen that might be following.

For any smart bottoms who might want to say: "The Lastday in Logan's Run was thirty!" - I'd tartly reply: "RTFB"

Anyway - off I jetted to sunny Cyprus (and sunny it was). The juxtaposition of the futuristic, shiny-tiled tunnel above, and Paphos "Airport" is an interesting one:

There we are, wandering across the runway. Nary a bus to.... to bus us. Which I liked. I also liked - on the way home - the security guards at the scanner machines ignoring all passengers and baggage that went through, as they were having a jolly conversation.

As I waited for my case on the carousel, I felt my tummy rumble at the thought of the wonderful Cypriot dishes that would be on offer. There were a couple of signs hinting at the delights to come:

"I'll have the Colonel's Special, parakaló"

I was scooped from the "airport" by Kathleen Ruddy of Rubber Ear Productions. She and her husband, George are currently touring a very funny play - "Sex, Chips and Ouzo" - and they have the notion to turn it into a film, which they have asked me to direct. Much though the decision was a tortuous one, I weighed up the hardships of working in Cyprus, against the joy of producing a good comedy feature film.

It may seem straightforward to many readers, but consider the downsides:

The walk from my hotel was blighted with a constant view of the bay...

The sea was a constant distraction, with its cool, clear waters and its "come hither" swooshing:

It's hard to find a restaurant that has a good warm fire indoors, and that actually closes said doors -

Another restaurant view to show the hardships....

And as for the theatres...

Back to the restaurant:

I walked down here, and being told I could not have fish mezes (there being only one of me), I opted for a few starters.

Here you can see: grilled sardines, squid stuffed with tomato and feta, pitta to dip into tzatziki, hummus and taramasalata. All washed down with iced water and a cold Keo. Naturally, it being foreign muck, I couldn't finish it.

See? Heads and spines left behind.

I went for a wee walk thereafter, and came across the one, global constant I've seen in the past year: Stupid signs.

I liked this one, by a banana field:

I want to know whether it includes Fun Boy 3.

And this -

"Quality" - OK, I can see why you'd shout that one out. Even friendliness - it suggests the competition might not be that friendly.

But "cleanliness" - cleanliness? In the centre of the hoarding? I'd kind of expect that one. To have to advertise it as a selling point makes me a tad nervous. Cleanliness should be as unnecessary a USP as "Our Pies Contain No Paraffin"

Off that night to watch my first of three performances I caught. All were excellent, performed by a super cast in amazing locations.

Day 1 - Coral Bay Amphitheatre:

That isn't the full audience! It was a full house, but I had switched off my phone by the time the show went up ('cos I'm good, I am).

The next night was in the Amphitheatre in Tala.

The light was fantastic.

And so was the wind.

It being an amphitheatre, I don't think you're actually meant to change out of your toga/mask in private; a dearth of changing facilities. The plucky, resourceful Rubber Ear folk (to be fair - most of the innovations are devised and executed by the tirelessly inventive Richard) set up a marquee - well, a gazebo.
All good and well, but even without the curtained sides (note roll of blue fabric on the ground), the gazebo was showing great potential as a hang glider.

The inventive George set about nicking rocks from the delicately presented landscaping, and deftly planted the kite firmly on terra... erm.. firma.

Detail:

Another good and different facet to Rubber Ear, is the way everyone chipped in with a lot of work.

If you don't believe me - look at this:

That's right -actors carrying stuff; stuff that doesn't include their ego, headshots or insecurities. Amazing, eh? Admittedly, in the background, you can see another actor looking on in a disinterested fashion, but I can assure you that he [Alex] was carting crap about, and flying along with a screwdriver in no time.

As the set went up (and the gazebo went even higher), the sun set. Did I mention the theatre is not only idyllic, but in an idyllic location?

Ruddy gorgeous.

That is to say: the scenery is gorgeous, not the writer, Kathleen Ruddy. That isn't to say that she's not - you see what happens when you try to explain things?

NICE VIEW.

I was to return to the same venue the following night. In the interim, I whiled away the days in my hotel; in the pool, or writing a screenplay in the air-conditioned bar.

It was hell.

To make the torture complete, Kathleen and George invited me to lunch the next day. We drove over the hills to Porto Latchi: a restaurant by the harbour.

Here we see Ms Ruddy, shortly before she suggested I not put this photo in the blog. At some 2,265 miles distance, I feel safe in breaking that particular embargo.

A nice spread - this time I could have the seafood meze.

Crayfish, squid, octopus, red snapper, mullet, sardines - too much to mention. All really nice. Washed down with the ubiquitous Keo.

Kathleen headed off to prepare for the evening's performance, and I headed back to the hotel. I spent the afternoon in the bar, as when I got back, I had no door in my room. Some joiners were working on all the wood in the room: wardrobes, cupboards, dressers and main door. So I sat downstairs and worked, until there was a power cut, and the wifi routers went down.

Swim.

I called a taxi, and we headed off (taxi driver and I) to Tala Amphitheatre.

"Are you sure it's not Lempa?"

"Yup - Tala."

"I don't think there is an amphitheatre in Tala."

"I was there last night"

"Why are you going again?"

"Regardless - I'd like to, and it's there."

"Okay"

Off we went. Into the main street of Tala.

Into the main square of Tala.

Into some side streets of Tala.

Into the main square of Tala.

My driver got on the radio (actually, the mobile phone). A few, brisk words were exchanged.

"No drivers know anything about this."

"Nevertheless..."

We stopped. The driver hooted at someone, then reversed at Jason Statham speed to block their egress from the square. A few, brisk words were exchanged.

"He is going to tell me, but it is too difficult. We are going to follow him."

And follow him we did. And find the [giant] amphitheatre we did.

"Great - now I can tell all drivers where this is."

"Kali Nychta"

Note the sign.

I can only assume that the [Scottish] people who were rat-arsed steaming and surrounded by cans, could read neither English nor Greek.

Always a delight to see the Scots abroad.

Theatre in Cyprus at 20:00 - pished.

Schiphol Airport at 05:00 - pished.

Saturday lunchtime anywhere - pished.

"Here's tae us. Wha's like us? Damn few. Thank God."

For a country that waxes loud and lyrical on how fecking brilliant the Scots are, there is a remarkable inability to see the irony that the "brilliant" face of the nation is of alcoholic, xenophobic bigots. And yes - I know that most folk are not like that, that in all cultures, the vociferous minority get the attention (loud Americans in cagoules, complaining. Loud English folk, speaking English in Spain and demanding eggs and chips), but that's too easy a response. Much though we may not all be peeing on bins and kicking someone's head in for wearing an England top; we condone it by inaction. Most Scots still have the mantra: "My god, that was a great night - I was totally steaming." Most Scots, when buying a round, will meet a request for a soft drink with: "Oh, are you driving?"

At least most Scots are not the raging bigots with an amazing ignorance of the history they purport to understand. Nevertheless, we too often are happy to espouse the idea of "drunk is fun" - and too often we are apologists for overt racism, as long as it's aimed at England.

To lighten the tone, and to present a sense of dignity, I once again leave you with this image:

Antío

A Death, A Troll and a Bit of Durty Nelly

2011-09-14T18:07:00.000+01:00

What films were on offer this week?

Well, last Tuesday I was privileged to watch Post Mortem

You can tell from the poster that it is a laugh-riot-rollercoaster of mayhem and mishaps.

There has rarely been a film more aptly named, save for the possibility that one was watching the death, rather than the aftermath. Twenty minutes in, I asked my companion - David Morgan [blogs passim] (I felt especially bad, as I'd invited him to the torture): "Is it me, or is this shit?"

- "It's shit." Came the sanguine reply.

Sadly, it wasn't till after the film, when we were disgorged into the street, that either of us realised the extent to which the other had been desperately hinting.

Not sure how bad it is?

Here's a review:

Post Mortem is a true endurance test and; there’s virtually nothing to admire or even mildly like about it. The political context acts as background noise but Larrain’s obsession is with a static foreground seeped in drab colours and peopled with ugly entities denied colouring.

Part of the film’s aesthetic downfall comes from the manner in which Larrain irrationally holds uninteresting shots to unexceptional, pointless lengths. Only the boredom distracts, lulling you into a terminal slumber. Castro contributes what can only be termed a 'non-performance'; he simply ‘exists’ as the film’s centrepiece, emptily present like a toxic grey cloud that can't be budged.

What motivates a director to create such a blank slate of a character - a man so dull, dead-eyed and unsympathetic in every way? You could argue the social disillusionment of the time in Chile engineered such degrees of apathy but as a filmic representation Post Mortem induces an almost physical pain, so torturous is it to endure. The unreasonably elongated final scene is symptomatic of either Larrain’s self-indulgence or very perverse sense of humour. Wiping my hands of this film forever I can’t muster the energy to ponder it any further.

Trollhunter

Was absolutely smashing. Go see it.

On the film front - I was away in Clonmel last week, to accompany our films Crush and Changed Days at the International Film Festival of Ireland, September 4th - 10th.

This was a fantastic event, and a great few days. Like all things in Ireland (and yes - the caricatures are actually fairly close) - it had its share of anomalies -

Before I get into said anomalies, I should emphasise that these in no way marred the festival: I have rarely had a warmer welcome or a friendlier festival. And I have never been to a festival where the director (Will Nugent) knew the history of almost all the films and filmmakers. "Impressive" does not cover it. The man is a genius and a treasure. Add to this the fact that he has virtually no local council or tourist board support, and yet he is organising a festival with films from across the world - and many of the filmmakers have been before. We'll certainly be heading that way again - I wouldn't miss it.

However, my blog would not be my blog without anomalies [and food and adventures]

I'd sent two sets of screener DVDs to the festival address. The festival address on the website was NOT the festival address. Where most festival organisers would have simply left it at "we never received your films" - the IFFI director went hell for leather on the hunt. He eventually tracked them down to the local postie, who knew the festival had moved, but couldn't remember to where it had moved. On top of that, the films were in the Post Office van (on the off-chance he might bump into Will), and the van was at the garage. The films would arrive on the Thursday.

Which they did.

The venue was the Hearns Hotel in Clonmel. This was a grand hotel, where the owner arrived at the desk and said: "You must be Victoria." before we'd said a word. All very friendly and very warm. The breakfast, sadly was neither friendly nor warm. I bypassed it on day 2, and we went out for breakfast.

Outside the hotel, hung a large banner:

Note the following:
The year
The dates

Dougie and Jeanette were already in Clonmel, having decided to use a week to visit all there was. I flew out on the Thursday, and was joined by the delightful - and random - Ms Victoria O'Rourke.

Here Vikki is waxing lyrical on some subject or other. Perhaps she is inventing a new word?

Monopolied

"There was an argument, and the whole thing monopolied out of control"

I am writing to Chambers and the OED to demand the inclusion of this word. It's fairly obvious what it means, and there is a certain amount of - one might say cultural onomatopoeia to it. The word "monopoly" conjures a feeling that is undeniable, and the idea of something monopolying out of control is fairly clear.

Meanwhile, Mr Wallace was counting how many of his 212 jokes of the evening were actually funny

Foolishly optimistic.

Having Dougie and Jeanette there was - of course - a delight that made the few days highly enjoyable.

Shannon is neither the largest, nor the busiest airport I have visited.....

Hello? Hello? Anyone there? I was reminded of Dawn of the Dead. I was reminded of most post-apocalyptic films. I was not reminded of an International transport hub.

However - such is the joy of Ireland. Other joys included:

Durty Nelly's - behind it is Bun Ratty Castle. But that there is Durty Nelly's.

And this....

Is Durty Nelly's Irish stew. And very nice it was too, washed down with a glass of Bulmer's Cider.

This is Cahir Castle - Ms O'Rourke and I visited it on the way back to the airport (award in suitcase). It was actually a really well laid-out tourist experience. I have to admit though, the Milky-Moo milkshakes after the castle were my highpoint.

Swans on the river at Clonmel.

There were several delightful walks around the town, and the streets were old, narrow, busy and (as our American cousins would say) quaint.

Some interesting things in the streets - the obsession with hurling is noticeable to say the least. From entering County Tipperary, the flags, banners and signs started - and didn't stop the whole time we were there.

An interesting, somewhat dilapidated building.

What might it be?

On the way from the airport, we stopped for lunch here:

The interior is typical, and pleasant.

On our first night in Clonmel, we headed off to Dougie and Jeanette's hotel for a grand evening meal and a reasonable number of Gins & Tonic.

This was followed the next day (after the unsuccessful breakfast) by a good lunch which involved more Bulmer's to wash down a fine bowl of soup and some lovely homemade bread.

They do know how to do bread, do the Irish.

Great stuff.

Mmmmmmm

Friday night was the Awards Dinner.....

Which was very enjoyable. As you might have gathered from comments above - the enjoyment only increased, as we won Best UK Film Over 20min for Crush

Such a nice man is Will Nugent, that after the hurly-burly, he bear-hugged Dougie, apologising that he "had nothing in me Santy Sack for you" - but a nice photo was forthcoming:

Ms O'Rourke wangled her way into the picture too.

To be fair - I'd asked her up, as it is her performance that carries the film, and as lead, it's nice to collect summat, other than your redundancy notice.

Here's the award - nice.

Shilla's Meals, A Touch of Class and The Curse of The Festival Awards

2011-09-07T18:38:00.000+01:00

A rather full week - a rather full belly.

My mid-range nephew [blogs passim] - mid-range was by no means a comment on his fiscal value, horsepower or optional extras, rather a comment on his grouping in the age stakes - was kind enough to take me to lunch at Shilla in Glasgow's West End. An excellent Korean restaurant with many unusual dishes, and a dining room akin to a large living room. I mean in size - not decor: there was no telly; no bookcases; no cat - no cat was by no means a comment on Korean cuisine, rather a comment on the state of affairs in my own living room:

We shared pa jeon - a Korean omelette (nephew and I, not cat and I)

which was preceded by a selection of pickles. I had oh sam bul go ki - a spicy grill of squid and pork, and a sweet rice drink.

Yes - a sweet rice drink. Rice punch, they called it.

1138 Argyle Street, Glasgow - go there!

And many thanks to mid-range nephew for the treat.

Well, the world of politics is a smashing one and no mistake. We are certainly not in the grip of a caricatured Tory government; not even a hint of feck the poor and fellate the rich - no sir.

However - there was an interesting divergence in approach, which I am sure had nothing to do with socio-economic origins:

11 August

"Those who make the wrong decision, who engage in criminality, must be identified, arrested and punished, and we will make sure that happens"

This was Theresa May - Home Secretary (A woman with "home" and "secretary" in her job title and no one has complained?)

Here we see Ms May, in Sontaran costume, during a break in filming Dr Who.

Let's zoom forward to ....

23 August

"The United Kingdom further states that the criminal prosecution of bank employees due to participation in tax offences is highly unlikely"

This is a clause in the UK-Swiss tax deal. But who would suggest such a thing? Who would sign it? Who would completely reverse Ms May's/General Staal's tough stance on criminality?

Hmmm.......

Step forward George - née Gideon - I'm-a-rich-dick-and-better-than-you - Osborne. And I thank you.

The Brits are funny when it comes to class. And it's not just upper shafting lower.

The acting profession is replete with folk shouting of their working class status. They shout it from the satellite dish-saturated high rise flats where they do not live, but where they speak of how folk are "honest" and "real" - as though having a couple of quid stops that happening. Neatly sidestepping the obvious conclusions to be had by the hactors themselves having slightly more than a couple of quid.

Now here's the deal: You might have been born/grown up working class, but you are middle class. That's all there is to it. No opinion, no point of view. Fact. There is, of course, room for debate - but it lies in whether or not you adhere to the concept of a class system. I, for one, do not. I have no truck with it. It is something I avoid at all costs. However - if you do adhere to it, and by definition you must if you keep referring to yourself as "working class" - then you accept there is a class system. If you accept the existence of the system, you accept the rules of the system. If you work in the arts, or have a higher education qualification, by the rules of that same class sytem - you are middle class. If you do not accept the system - you are not any class.

Get over yourself - and it.

Whatever the socio economic group one claims to be championing, classism is the UK's racism.

(My thanks to David Morgan for the quote)

Anonymous (it's a film - go Google) - deals with the idea that Shakespeare:

didn't write Shakespeare.

He just agreed to say he wrote Shakespeare, and for about 500 years, the conspiracy has been successfully guarded.

Ho hum.

Apparently - Shakespeare was written by Edward de Vere, courtier at the Palace and such.

Sexy.

Simon Callow

Yes....

had a nice rant on Radio 4's "The Today Programme" basically saying that a lot of slightly snobby people were far comfier with the idea of the 17th Earl of Oxford being the nation's greatest playwright (apologies to Brendan O'Carroll the writer of Mrs Brown's Boys), than the son of a Brummie glover.

He may have been right. Brits and class, Brits and class.....

As a quick (and non-scientific) test: let's review the subjects of [General Staal] Theresa May in her "hang 'em high" statement:

Yup - bad boys and girls I don't doubt. Please do not think I condone looting, rioting or generally being a spoiled git whose excuse is "It ain't fair." However, the expression involving geese and ganders comes to mind. Also the "fair and equal society" promised by Call Me Dave and chums.

With this in mind - let's look at the folk being excused latrine duties by Gideon à Million:

Hmmm - sing along: "One of these things is not like the other..."

--------------------
That was my attempt to draw a line under it.

I am off to Ireland tomorrow. I have two films in the International Film Festival of Ireland - hardly surprising is it? I mean I doubt Ireland plays host to the International Film Festival of Djibouti.

Two films. Both are up for awards. My track record in getting to awards ceremonies in The British Isles, is not great [blog passim]. And yes - British Isles - I didn't say UK - look it up.

I merrily left the Tesco in Lesmahagow (there's another tale), and noticing a drop in power, looked at the dashboard to see the following:

The wee light to the left means there is a problem with the engine: get it sorted NOW - the light to the right means my automatic transmission has died: get it sorted by driving to the garage in one gear - NOW. Ho hum, ho hum, ho hum.

As a matter of interest, when I Googled images of: Saab dashboard panel transmission warning light (and that was the exact search) - this came up near the top of the page:

Really?

Finally - not wishing to cast aspersions, but do you ever see either of these couples in a room together?

Fatima Whitbread

Or

Muammar al Gadaffi

And

Bill Bailey

Or

Gollum

Goodnight.

Cheap Tickets; Cheap Shots & The Unbearable Side of Jury Duty

2011-09-01T15:26:00.000+01:00

Another weekend - another trip to the bizarre land of Garrion Bridge Antique Centre [blogs passim]. There is nothing much to report: I thought it would be nice to have a bite to eat there - just to say I'd done it. On closer inspection of the café - I suspect had I done it, I would now not be in a position to tell anyone about it; that would be left to the coroner. However, I did take a meander through the cards section....

Now far be it from me to cast aspersions on card makers, but ask yourself: were it your birthday, and you hurriedly and excitedly opened the envelope to see what delightful card your [slightly warped] relative had sent; would you be happy with a Persian cat - not only apparently sporting an olive as a prosthetic eye, but also looking like a genetic experiment involving the sperm of Winston Churchill and Orson Welles.

Then there was this:

What is funny about this? What is "almost" funny about it?

Taste in humour aside - who the hell thinks "Almost Funny" is a suitable sub-genre for cards?

- Can I help you, sir? You seem to be at a loss.

- Yes - I hope so. I'm looking for a specific type of card, and you don't seem to have it.

- Really? We have most genres: Wedding? Congratulations? Birthday? Humorous?

- Well - I was actually looking for something almost funny....?

- Get out.

Not content with this - a trip to Edinburgh was on the cards, where more freakery was to be had. Initially, we stopped for a coffee at the delightful Valvona & Crolla off St Andrews Square -

As you can see: a very stylish glass and steel affair. Great staff and a tasty selection of morning goodies.

The delightful Lynn went for a pot of tea and a croissant with butter and jam, while I opted for a black coffee and an almond croissant. Very nice.

Note the way I have deftly kicked the table and spilled coffee down the side of my cup.

You can't learn that sort of thing.

A wee wander round the shops of Edinburgh - capital city, home of the castle, the fringe, the tattoo and the shittiest traffic system known to man. Soon to be home to the costliest and most pointless tram system known to man.

Home also to the freakiest "cuddly" animals ever:

I don't know what it is these foxes know or have seen; and I don't think I want to.

BAFTA screenings for this year's Scottish awards have ended. There were a couple of reasonable films - and an unbelievably large number of incredibly piss poor films.

You know, there are a couple of wise epigrams worth considering:

If you don't know how to make a film: don't practise with a feature-length one.
If you like to see actors mugging and shouting (because they think that's acting): get them to do it in your livingroom - do not subject the rest of the world to it.
"Naughty" titles do not a good film make.
Friends telling you your film is great does not necessarily mean it's great.
Bad reviews don't always mean someone is bitter or jealous. Maybe they're right?
Having managed to finish something does not make up for a lack of quality.
Just because you did finish it, does not necessarily mean you should have started it.

There is possibly less mental torture being on jury duty on the marathon of London Riot court cases, than there was sitting through some of the exceptionally poor offerings this year.

Anyhoo - a culinary roundup:

During the week I made a delightful arrabiata meal....

I made some Rowies (look it up), which tasted great...

... but sadly looked like soggy envelopes, or steak pie lids.

However my main treat for myself involved:

Peanut butter cookies - which I enjoyed in my new chair:

For those Frasier fans thinking this is an Eames - it is not. However it is a damn fine copy.

And very comfy.

Sadly - it is so comfy, and the peanut butter cookies were so nice, that my intention to give some to the cast of the play I just directed, somehow fell by the wayside. Still - "The road to hell..." etc

Wednesday - I went to Edinburgh. Wot? Again? Actually no: the Valvona trip was after this trip. It's all gone pear-shaped, chronologically speaking. On this occasion I took the train. First Class no less. Motherwell to Edinburgh, 1st Class return: £4. I know - amazing. It did lead to a couple of anomalies:

The ticket inspector told me several times that: "These prices will be going up." I kept double-checking with him that my ticket was kosher. "Oh aye - but they're going up." "But can I use this ticket?" "Not when they go up." "But I'm travelling just now - as you might notice, owing to this conversation, for one thing." "Oh, it's fine just now." "So...?" "I'm just saying."
I dozed off, and woke to see (at head height) a bare backside moving away from me. Someone was off to the toilet, and had decided to get a head start on the necessaries. I must say - it's not the most pleasant way I've ever woken.

Motherwell held two great sights:

I was very pleased to see that the signs are now in Gaelic too. For a ridiculous number of years now, the Gaelic-speaking inhabitants of North Lanarkshire have had to suffer while their heritage and culture have been subsumed by the imperial colonisers. I'm assuming Gaelic is what they write and speak in Motherwell, as it certainly isn't English.

And there was this....

Apparently they found someone who was good at something, and thought it worth advertising. Next week: "Larkhall's Got A Tolerant Person"

Only kidding - they're all bigots.

Only kidding - they're not bigots.

The papes are bad for bigotry.

And finally Esther....

Well, that brought back creepy memories. Innocent times, eh? When a man in a silk bathrobe, with oily hair, rubbing his hands together and discussing phallic veg wasn't considered a risk.

This week I mainly saw:

Rabbit sheep -

And a Hitler cat...

Heil and goodnight.

Eton Trifles and the Old Volte-Face

2011-08-21T16:28:00.000+01:00

Not a lot to put in this today, as this month I 'ave been mainly rehearsin'

The plays have gone exceeding well, and they both open Monday 22nd. We shall see what we shall see, but I have every confidence in a superb cast.

They are off touring the wilds of Scotland for around 14 weeks, so I wish all the best to them and all who sail in them.

This will be an extremely short opus.

I thought it worthwhile to bring up a few political problems I am having:

1) Gordon Brown & Alasdair Darling "Just leave it, Darling" were both vilified for their economic plan. A great deal of the vilification came from the marginally post-pubescent George (né Gideon) Osborne, who is to national fiscal policy what I am to seal breeding. Sadly, it must be said the the follow-on ridicule came from the great unwashed public. "Ha ha - you want to spend your way out of a recession? You put us here in the first place." - was the general vibe. I'm not sure how the ConDemNation Alliance sold the idea that without Brown and Darling, the UK would somehow have avoided the recession that hit the rest of the world; nonetheless they managed it, and people who are as capable of understanding Keynesian theory as they are of realising X-Factor, Britain's Got Talent [sic] and 75 cookery shows do NOT good television make, sent a resounding message of "whatever" at the polls.

In come Gideon and Dave, oh - and Nick. Watch Mr Clegg during PMQ and you'll see the face of Faust. He jumped at the chance of dropping his principles as quick as prostitutes drop their knickers, and with the same, subsequent coitus. The price - it now seems - was rather higher than expected. Every Wednesday Parliament sits, Nick Clegg looks more and more like a man just realising he is condemned to be hanged by people he thought were friends, with rope he provided himself.

So Gideon sets about explaining how cutting everything will work; how investing in government projects (at a time when only the government can invest in large-scale projects) would only make things worse. We keep getting figures thrown at us about daily loan repayments etc. We get no comparisons of what daily loan repayments were prior to the crash. We get no inkling of the daily cost of Trident, or Afghanistan, or of keeping MPs in private, rather than communal accommodation.

And now (drumroll) unemployment is rising, and shows signs only of increasing - and mark you that doesn't take into account the number of people now halving wages to work part-time - inflation is on the rise - falling wages, rising fuel and food prices and fare increases on the railways, mean that this winter will be a doozy. What will folk do when they cannot afford to get to work, heat the house or feed the family? Riot? Been there, seen it, got the T-shirt.

Apparently we should budget better, and use savings. What savings, Gideon? Any money anyone does have squirrelled away is only getting 0 to 0.5% interest. The banks are still charging ludicrous amounts.

Clydesdale Bank listed their "unplanned borrowing" charges as:
returned item £35 per item
monthly charge £25
daily charge £25

And the banks are helping?

FWIW (as the kids say) do check out this little ditty: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGq6HMp8duA

Northern Rock - government-owned - has mortgage rates 4% higher than the Bank of England's rates.

Oil prices are down and fuel continues to rise because "there is a lot of tax on petrol" erm... What?

Domestic fuel prices go up by 18% as oil prices fall. The government does SFA. Why? Why bother when your voting demographic is not affected, doesn't notice and doesn't care. Remember the 80s - anyone?

2) In 2010, Jeremy Browne at the FCO confirmed that the government was committed to ensuring constant and free access to social media sites in countries under totalitarian regimes.

In 2011, David Cameron confirmed that the government was committed to finding ways of restricting or shutting down UK social media sites "when necessary".

When Nadine Morris was challenged on the Radio 4 Today Programme, she said - "but these regimes are unfair, so of course we must challenge them. But if we choose to do it in Britain, you must remember that we are a democratically elected government; it's a completely different matter."

Thanks.

And finally....

No compassion for rioters. No leeway. No mercy. This is serious. It is vile. It is inexcusable.

The [some paraphrased] comments by Call Me Dave on the recent riots.

"We got drunk, trashed the Ritz & then walked down Piccadilly to loot a few items from Fortnums"

These were the actions (as described by Boris Johnson) of the 1986 Bullingdon Club

These actions were dismissed by Mr Cameron as "high jinks".

I'm confused.

It's almost as though there was one law for the privileged, and one for the rest of us.

Surely not?

Gongs, Gangs and Sneakers

2011-08-09T21:04:00.000+01:00

Well, well, well - A week of nothing and everything.

To get it out of the way: the LA awards have been - erm, well - awarded, I suppose. I was lucky enough to get Best Director, and Changed Days was awarded Best International Short.

So that's nice.

What's happening in Glasgow? Well, nothing much. I am currently directing a play wot has been wrote for schoolchildren. The idea is that it will stop them being fannies on the road - I can only hope it works. The cast are very good, and a lot of fun. However, photos of actors acting are bad enough, without subjecting people to photos of actors rehearsing

Suffice it to say they are doing well.

Young James has seen its final days [blogs passim] and my nephew Andy was there to set a punch.

The set was quite impressive - here we see the outside of the set...

Note that the cheeky working-class fellow in the cap was in fact an extra - or - as we must now call them - a Supporting Artist.

I don't know what contact you might have had with extras, but there is - in my experience - little or no "support" coming from them. Unless by "support" you mean an uncanny ability to demolish a platter of sandwiches, or deliver tales of how often they have spoken to Billy Connolly.

Anyhoo - here is the same archway from the other side...

Very impressive. Note Andy in the blue T-Shirt, surveying the scene with a masterful eye.

More at home in this shot...

Ready to bin the tar, laughingly referred to as "coffee" - ready to get fighting, after another covert raid on the sandwiches.

All went exceptionally well, and Andy was flying solo later that week. No one died (as far as I am aware) - so all in all a success.

I should draw attention to my smug aura. Not because my nephew has shown a talent for the old fighting; not because I have won more accolades;

Out of focus or not - I grew these and they tasted grand!

I cannot pass the blog without reference to London's Burning, Fetch the Engines, etc.

I admit I reacted to the first riot with a knee-jerk "Torydickwads" assault. Which might have been reasonable.
However, after riot forty-two, and seeing the "disaffected, disenfranchised" youth attempting to re-affect and re-enfranchise with some watches and a few pairs of Nikes, I had to stop and reassess.

If nothing else - it has impressed on me what Call Me Dave meant by "The Big Society" - folk all getting together to get things done. Sadly, in this case the things they were getting done seemed to involve burning buildings, smashing vehicles and nicking stuff they wanted. Kids arson about.

I have been much impressed by my actory/theatry friends (acquaintances) firing into anyone's mention of water cannon, arrest or even "Tarquin, don't burn the nice man's livelihood" with the response: knee-jerk, reactionary right-wing rubbish - it is lovely to hear them rush to the aid of the hard done-by gangs of London. I am quite sure they will show just as much support to anyone they find emptying their belongings, or - as happened to some Londoners - taking a dump in their bedroom.

"But they're disaffected. It's the cuts - the cuts what caused it."

Which is interesting. The reportage I've come across has involved "We're showing the rich and the police that we can do what we want" - and - "Why don't we get us some of them watches, like?" I haven't yet heard the report, nor has anyone in the kind, caring - and let's not forget bullying - Scottish theatre community pointed me to the report, where the yoof says "I'm totally sick man, cos they've only gone and reneged on fifteen years of Keynesian fiscal policy, like. Innit?"

Still - I do not lay all the blame at the Looting popular Front - after twenty years of granting kids the right to punch teachers; to be bought, break and be bought again as many console game machines and iPhones as they can swallow; an exam system so facile that not stabbing anyone gets you a good pass - why do we get surprised when the kids get hacked off that life after school isn't as pish easy as school was?

That said - I'd not use it as an excuse per se - nor would I be swayed by talk of single parents, domestic violence, slums, etc, etc, etc. A lot of people have lived through a lot of problems (like having parents divorce is worse than living through the blitz?) and yes - they do get angry - they do get frustrated - they do want to pan in the windows of a big shop. Here's the thing though -

They don't do it.

They choose not to.

We all have a choice at the moment of action - these dickheads chose to steal some shoes.

Rule Britannia.

I cannot leave you, gentle reader, on that solemn note - here is a photograph of Mr July. Feel free to go for a wee lie-down after viewing it....

In which Callum Has a Brazilian And I Wrap LA

2011-07-30T17:33:00.001+01:00

The location is a lie. The events happened partly in Century City; partly in West Hollywood; partly in Santa Monica. As I write this I am in Heathrow, waiting for the flight to Scotland.

But does this app allow you to put in multiple locations? Does it fanny.

I tried at one point - putting in Lesmahagow and Dundee. The resultant map location was somewhere in Greenland.

We headed off to see Justin Deanda at ICM for a cup of coffee and a chat. I must say that we were most solicitously cared for by Justin's assistant, Michael (ta much), who ran after us with bottled water and constant checking that we were ok. This was a double bonus, as everyone else in the ICM lobby was in a suit. Callum and I being in shorts and t-shirts, and being coddled by Justin Deanda's assistant, made us look like "talent" in to discuss important things (where is your hotel? How's the weather in Scotland? You know the kind of stuff)

If you check the signage, you can see the similarities to most Scottish agencies....

All that's missing is a trail of chips, vomit and condoms.

Earlier we had dined at The Farmers Market. There is a stunningly good Brazilian restaurant there, where they weigh your plate [blogs passim].

A happy chappy - or -
Un caballero agradable.

This was an interesting store -

Moments after I took this, Callum came out.

So what? Decide for yourself.

As it was Callum's last day in LA, I humoured him in his obsession with being photographed beside things:

This was shortly after coming out of the "Closet" - I'll give him this: he makes friends quickly.

And....

Further to the right was an old tramp with his life in a shopping cart; I think the sign was aimed at him.

Now - a short interlude for some shop signs between The Grove and Santa Monica.

Oy vey! The Mongol hordes!

... And they do not sell fish....

...such as "I bought you these because I just killed your dog and haven't been able to tell you."

I liked this one!

I didn't like this one....

Jesus.

Then this one was a touch disappointing:

I went into the shop and mooched about. After ten minutes, no one had come up to tell me:

They could cut down my trees before the caused damage

They could "concrete" my drive to make it look like a relief map of the Sahara.

They'd passed the house and spotted loose ridge tiles which, if left unattended, could bring about the End of Days.

They could tell my fortune.

Bohemian Dream my arse.

This was - I thought - a novel approach to growing one's business....

Yes - I do need a babysitter. And you know what? I was going to check the phone book for registered sitters, or perhaps see if the local council had a list of approved organisations or people, or even check with friends and neighbours ton see if there was someone known to them to be trustworthy and to have a good track record. But when I saw some stranger had gone to the bother of nailing a torn piece of paper to a tree, well - that tipped the scale. You're hired!

Food in LAX

And this is about all there was.

No, seriously.

If you want to eat anything less crap, you have to do it before security.

Heathrow - after security.

"Not much difference" you might think. This tasted good - point one. This was only one of many options in a cafe that was only one among many eateries.

Come on Los Angeles - get a grip.

It's Hollywood, there should be enough of them out of work.

Ha ha ha ha. A very funny film crew joke. Hmmmm.

I am about to board the flight, so as a last picture of LA, here is a back alley in Santa Monica, you must picture a Red Gran Torino.

Two men jump out, one slides across the bonnet (hood), the other crouches, pistol in hand; he is wearing a cardigan.

Altogether now...

Dadum, dadum, Dadum, dadum, da dum dum dum da dee dum da dum da...

Dum dum dum.

Location:Century City, LA

Callum, His Kilt and The Pacific Rim

2011-07-28T18:12:00.001+01:00

Now don't go getting too excited: we have indeed visited the Pacific Ocean, but did not get as far as Australasia. And a large gay man was following Callum in his kilt ("Omigod, I love your skirt"), but he too failed to reach the Southern Hemisphere.

The "skirt" incident happened on the last night of the festival (which Changed Days closed - kudos to us). Callum was wearing a plain, blue kilt. I have previously had words about wearing non-tartan kilts when abroad; people recognise that tartan+skirt=kilt. Remove the tartan and you are, in Callum's case, a tall, handsome young man in a skirt - or, as it's also known - fair game.

We were stopped and interviewed for the cameras, much of the questioning relating to attire. After the interview, a large, sensitive man in a bright suit started chatting to Callum, opening doors for him and letting him walk upstairs first. Manners are not dead, and seem to go hand-in-hand with lechery. This fellow said he was in publicity, and sat beside Callum for the length of a couple of films. When I asked him for his business card, he scribbled an email address on a torn-off scrap of paper and hurriedly left.

The email address does not work.

I have a problem: what is this sign saying?

"When was your last test?"

"Is this your last test"?

I think, if they wish to encourage screening, they might make the former reading of the sign a tad more obvious.

Very true.

Off to Santa Monica!

We took the bus along Santa Monica Boulevard, which ends at Ocean Avenue, and is - as you may or may not know, historic Route 66.

"No way"

Yes, way.

Ocean Avenue is a delight too -

And I prefer it to the East Coast's Ocean Drive. Although Ocean Drive is nice, and not half as tedious, mundane or generally wet and crappy as the Lighthouse Family song might conjure.

Did we go to the Pacific?

Here you can see Callum paddling IN THE PACIFIC.

In the distance is the famous Santa Monica Pier. We walked through the breakers and decided to continue under the pier to the other side. Quite breathtaking.

However, had I paid attention to what was ON the pier, I might not have been quite so cavalier about trusting it sufficiently to stroll beneath.

It has everything, and quite impressively so.

A funfair - and a large car park to boot...

A big silver man...

A hat convention...

A law school...

?

A law school. For those of you heading off to uni for year one, or to continue your several years of legal study in Scotland. Rain, snow, wind, neds, the crass, vapid waste of oxygen that is The Hour (both the BBC show & the STV "magazine") - spare a thought for the poor students at the University of Southern California Gould School of Law.

Awww.

There. Thought spared.

We headed off to meet with Phil Brock of Studio Talent Group. Phil is a phenomenon (too many phi in there). An actor, stunt man, stunt co-ordinator, talent agent, manager, a civic representative - the list goes on, and on top of that, Phil is president of the Talent Managers Association - the national umbrella body for talent managers throughout America. Add to that his presidency of numerous charities, school boards and everything else, and it is amazing he found time to come to lunch with us at all!

We set off on foot, with Phil and two of his team: Travis and Lola, who are very funny and damn fine company. We arrived at Callahan's, a cracking diner, exceptionally retro, with a cracking menu. I ordered Phil's recommendation: a Mexican broth which was absolutely excellent. It's on the corner of Wilshire and 12th - if you're down that way: go!

Alice and Phil from the Studio Talent Group; Callum from Shawlands. To be fair, and to be more impressive, Cal is also company manager of Baldy Bane Theatre back in Escocia, as well as a good actor and a master of the louche production meeting [blogs passim].

It's not often you get to tout weird connections, but here goes:

Alice (above) has a connection with the Santa Monica Pier ferris wheel:

Steady, not like that.

She tried to go on it a while ago, and was refused entry. Why?

Was she drunk?

Was she violent?

Was she wearing chain mail?

Nope. On any other day, any one of these might have been a possibility (not true - comic licence), but on this particular day, Alice was on her own, and the owners of the fun fair say that singles are suicide risks.

Erm....

Cheery folk, carnies.

Here's the article

We said our goodbyes, and headed off to have a production meeting:

Then (another Phil recommendation) off to Chez Jay.

I won't go into too much detail, other than to say a Chez Jay peanut has been to the moon.

Interested? There are many more stories, so why not Google it, or go to their website?

If the inside looks familiar, you have:

1. Been to a post-Oscar party with Lee Marvin.

2. Worked in the Secret Service for JFK

3. Seen James Cameron's Titanic

Answers by email to comp@anythingotherthanthreeisabigfatlie.com

And finally - how could we go to the Pacific Ocean and not photograph a lifeguard hut?

Altogether now...

"Some people stand in the darkness,

Afraid to step into the light..."

Location:Santa Monica, CA

Racy Rodrigo and The Dead Sea Proles

2011-07-26T15:37:00.001+01:00

"I like your shoes!"

?

"I like your shoes! Come over here. Where you from?"

And so began a sales pitch to pass Dead Sea Salt Scrub to a couple of men who were far removed from the ideal consumer socio-economic group. Both Callum and I had oily salt rubbed on our hands, then we were chastised for having a residue of dirt appear in the pristine cloth used to rub off the excess salt. Then we had our hands moisturised. All-in-all a very metrosexual experience you might think, except for Roza, who tried her damnedest to be cute and sexy, but - bless her - came across like a Neapolitan market stall owner, trying to fleece you for every last euro. I bought the products for the lovely Lynn, and had to argue in an Adam Ant fashion, to convince Roza I would take no more of her goods.

If you'll pardon the expression.

Then Roza's boss (pimp?) suggested I get the treatment. I was plonked on a chair and had mud applied to one half of my face, while Roza chatted like a gattling gun. Roza (for it was she) was from Israel. On hearing we were involved in filmmaking, Roza was also a singer/actress/dancer, and excellent at them all. To demonstrate this, she proceeded to sing, while interspersing stanzas with comments on how I could use this cream to make my lines vanish, before I needed plastic surgery.

Ah, LA.

When Callum took out his camera, she became very reserved indeed.

Note the "don't photograph me" look from her, the complete absence of ego as she tries to hide from the camera. Hmmm

Note also the fact that I look like a half-reptile creature from V.

Fortunately, a hideously scarred epidermis was not the finished result. The finished result was exactly the same as the "before" - but I did feel softer. As a last ditch sales pitch, Roza asked me what I wanted to lose most: the lines, the puffiness or the oily skin. I said I was perfectly happy with them all, and that Israeli though she might be; never haggle with an Italian.

"Are there trams here?" Asked Callum, looking at the purely decorative tracks laid into the walkway.

"Ha, no" I said, "Those are purely decorative."

Two minutes later...

At least no one was run over.

Earlier in the day, we met the talented Peter Foldy for lunch at Swingers (I surveyed the diner, and there was neither a fruit bowl, nor a bunch of keys in sight). Peter is a fab man with many funny stories, and lunch was a blast. Callum is an actor, and as such is not really involved in pitching. This is good. "What's the film about?" asked Peter. Callum dutifully jumped in, and after a minute or two, even I had second thoughts about whether I'd want to see it.

Actors - never leave them alone with their thoughts. In his defence, I should add that he is more than an actor, and that - as I said - pitching is not his thing, and is an art that must be learned. I know some writers whose pitch skills could turn Star Wars into A Study Of The Effects Of Airborne Lithium Elements on Southern Hemisphere ExoSkeletal Carnivores. So no shame there.

Where Callum excels (aside from the aforementioned acting, at which he is rather good) is in holding production meetings.

Remember this?

Discussing the next feature.

There is also:

Planning the allocation of vehicles for Spring 2012:

- and -

Discussing casting options for a winter tour:

Yup - he knows how to work.

As we walked from Swingers - our consciences and car keys intact - to The Grove (Roza and The Tram) we passed by a captain (obviously - check out the hat)

Who was obviously about to embark on an antarctic expedition. How do I know this? See the cane in his hand? A ski stick. No, seriously.

I imagine most of you will have studied, or at least be aware of the philosophical definition of art. Aesthetics basically allow for an object to be considered art, when its utilitarian function is superseded by it's aesthetic attributes, or where it has no utilitarian function at all.

An umbrella is not art. An umbrella is for when it pees down.

However, in LA - by the above definitions, an umbrella could indeed become art.

And does.

Above a shop door.

And no - the shop was not selling brollies.

The more alert among you (the ones not on medication) might have noticed our tale is actually in reverse. Once again we are in a time vortex.

In fact....

What's that? Oh my god! WHEN are we?

What's happened?

.......

Ha ha, I'm only playing with you. In fact we did NOT go back in time at any point in our trip yesterday. The truck and gas station are permanent features of The Farmers Market [sic] - so don't worry; any butterflies we stepped on will not make people's spelling any worse. From what I've seen on Facebook, in order to make modern spelling and grammar any WORSE, stepping on a butterfly wouldn't do it; you'd have to kick an african bull elephant in the nuts to cause enough of a temporal ripple to worsen that particular travesty.

Continuing our backward event theme:

Our journey to lunch with Peter was facilitated by Rodrigo.

I can't be sure, but I suspect that Rodrigo was either a drag racer, a fighter pilot or plain suicidal. Who knows, perhaps a little of them all?

Cheery beyond belief and scarier than hell.

Had Travis Bickle met Rodrigo, it would have been a different film.

It's still out there if anyone is interested....

Taxi Driver: Days of Thunder

Adios, y hasta la próxima vez

Location:West Hollywood, Los Angeles, CA

The Production Pool & The Big Kahuna

2011-07-24T15:14:00.001+01:00

Let's get the car sorted.

Previously on Blog LA...

My car was being serviced, getting a new tyre and a new overflow valve for the coolant system; then being put through its MOT, or indeed its VOSA, which used to be a shampoo that was kind to kids.

I'd left the garage with my credit card number, and Lynn was going to be the communications conduit. Lucky that she was.

They couldn't get my card to work, so Lynn was kind enough to use hers for the SIX HUNDRED QUID bill. I suppose it's not as bad as it seems, given the service, the MOT and then adding in the new parts (I think a new nearside lens was also needed). Lynn then had the great idea of her taking my card details, as she suspected some inaccuracy on the part of the garage. The garage tried again (this time using the correct details), took the fee and refunded Lynn.

My nephew has taken the car to the wilds, and gives it the thumbs up.

Good.

Callum - the male lead in the film Crush arrived, having spent the flight from JFK sitting next to the extremely funny Fred Willard

Fred is coming to the screenings tonight.

We went for a wee wander yesterday, having first broken our fast at Patties [blogs passim]. Up Vine, along Hollywood, down La Brea and back along Beverly. It was roasting. Getting the odd bit of shade was as welcome as walking into a centrally-heated house when you've been outside in Scotland in the summer (apart from the seven sporadic days that crop up annually to make us say "--fill in month-- was hot")

On Hollywood Boulevard, we passed by a store called "Blvd Books" - let me show you, then see if you can spot the anomaly....

Look closely, take your time, write down the discrepancies and mail them to:
Bookshops With S&M Gear In The Window Competition, Thumb-cuff House, Gimp Square.

Off we wandered, and Callum spotted a star worth photographing (which is no mean feat for someone who can now count himself among Fred Willard's list of "Strangers I Have Met")

I photographed a film actor photographing a name of a film actor.

Pop will indeed eat itself.

After our energetic, 2-hour Douse-Your-Clothes-In-Sweat endeavour (successful, might I add), I decided to crack the whip and demanded Callum attend a production meeting in our new office.

And yes - we did actually discuss work. Hah!

We then repaired to our rooms (I slept) , and regrouped at 1745, all set to go off and view a screening of several films.

One of which - Sydney - is one of the worst things seen in the history of creativity. And I include my robotics. I think I might have caused internal damage in my attempts to stifle outrageous laughter. I am going to try and find a screening copy. This must be seen. If Avatar can be a success, so can this.

On the subject of Avatar, I am pleased to be able to leak to you (there's a mental image you might want to delete immediately) that there is now a sequel in the offing, and judging by the posters, the blue avatar forest indigenous luddite yet honourable enigmatic bullshit masked as wisdom creatures find themselves in New York!

Exciting, eh?

Sneak preview anyone?

Anyway - back to the screening.

We were really there to see the talented Andy Cassels' screenings of his films "Seance Fiction" and "Mixed Messages".

Both films were really good, and Andy has won a prestigious award out here for his work, and picked one up in Cannes too. Add to this talent and success, that he is a nice man, and you wonder how to organise a hit on him.

Of the two, my favourite was Mixed Messages.

Find it, get it, view it.

Done.

After the screenings, Callum and I ventured into Astroburger. To quote from Pulp Fiction: "Mmm-mmmm - that is a tasty burger"

It's 0713, the sun is up and the pool beckons. As does a coffee and a bear claw.

Screening of both our films today - fun fun fun.

Location:Los Angeles, CA

Taxi Kidnap & The Missing Mic

2011-07-23T15:46:00.001+01:00

Well, I'm here in LaLaLand once more. Delightfully, I was upgraded by the ever-helpful British Airways

And had a very nice lunch of Bresaola, Cress and Parmesan with a wee fresh pea salad. And a glass [or more] of a fine Bordeaux. Dammit - they reel you in. They reel you in to the point where you check the club class fares on every flight to see if it's doable. You catch yourself saying "£800? It's not THAT bad...."

Anyhoo - a good flight, I watched three movies (Paul, Narnia 3 - or God Is Love - and Battle for Los Angeles). They were actually all watchable, Narnia getting my dander up occasionally with its blatant godliness. Immigration was 2 hours, but no full body cavity searches. So bribery gets you nowhere.

The hotel is nice - if lacking in the comedic value of the Best Inn Hollywood where I stayed previously.

This hotel is the Rodeway Inn.

This is the view from my window.

This hotel WAS the Econo Lodge. The change happened last week. LA cab drivers don't actually know where anything is, and the name change has only exacerbated the situation.

The awards ceremony/party was on Thursday, and was very well-attended. There being free food and booze, who'd have imagined it? I had some very nice chats with people, and the ceremony itself was good comedy, as no one had thought to check the microphone prior to using it. Cue a lot of "speak up" - "fix the mic" and even a "you suck" which tickled my funny bone.

What was amazing was that folk who were waiting to collect their kudos could hear that they couldn't hear; could tell that folk were hacked off with it and yet STILL insisted on doing a ruddy chapter from Les Miserables as an acceptance speech.

This was the Stone Rose Lounge prior to the deluge of people seeking glory and canapés. Disappointment came to some in both areas.

The general confusion was added to by the wonderful Larry Hankin. He thought his film was in a different festival, it turns out he'd read the name of a distributor who was showing his film AND sponsored the awards do. Much confusion and reminiscent of Seinfeld. He is a funny man, and coming to our screening. for those of you unfamiliar with the name -

I left the shindig, and hailed a cab. A Yellow Cab with the light on pulled over: "I'm going to pick someone up" - and off he drove.

So -
1) Why have your "for hire" light on?
2) Why stop and let me run up to tell me you can't take me?

It's reminiscent of getting the really funny guys who'd stop then drive off when I was hitch-hiking.

Ha ha

The next cab stooped and had no such story.

- "Vine and Melrose please" Note the 'please' - it costs nothing.
- "I'll need to pull over."
-"Umm"
-"I have a call, and I don't know if I can take you"
-"Uh-hu"
-[on radio] "Hello sir, sir? I have a service call, and I have a fare in the cab. Can I take the fare"
-[on radio] "Your call takes priority. Do not pick up the fare"
- "I can get out if you want..."
-"No, no: I just need to check. [on radio] Hello sir - he's in my cab. What can I do?"
-"Erm..."
-[on radio] "Ask him to leave, we can get a cab to him - go to your service call"
"Really, I can get out - they'll get a cab to me."
[on radio] "you're not listening: he's in the cab, he won't get out - what can I do?"

Radio goes off, and he drives away. He then does a U-turn and starts driving AWAY from my destination. I suggest either a stop, or a series of right turns to take me in the correct direction. He says it'll be ok. I start to wonder how this will read in the obituaries. The radio beeps.

[on radio] "Are you going to the service call?"
[on radio] "No - I have this passenger. My meter's not on. What should I do?"
[on radio] (Exasperated) "Well if you have a fare in the cab, your meter should be on."
[on radio] "But I don't know if I should take him"
[on radio] (Shouting) "Well you ignored my direction as to what to do, you've disobeyed an order from your supervisor and now you're still asking what to do. You're going to do what you want anyway, so I really don't care"

He then drove on for a bit, past the Stone Rose Lounge, I'd left thirty minutes earlier, and dropped me off beside a Checkered Cab. I got in, the van driver was confused - perhaps suspecting I was a right bad 'un - but I explained (as best I could) and we headed off. His name is Davide, he's Armenian and has seen more horror in his life than most folk can imagine. If you're surprised I got so much from him in a short time; I had a longer time as he overshot my stop by two blocks (LA blocks are large), so much was he enjoying the conversation.

To bed.

I walked to breakfast the next day, past this sign

I thought I knew what a pump station might be, until the addition of "& Nurtury" What the hell is a nurtury? And what is the connection with pumping? No wonder El pollo está loco.

Breakfast was at Pattie's Grill, and I had the Pattie's Omelette.

Tomorrow I shall finish the car saga, and introduce Callum and Fred Willard to the mix.

For now - breakfast beckons.

Location:Los Angeles, CA

Westward-ho! Can I get a lift?

2011-07-21T00:03:00.001+01:00

All operations were hanging on the state of the car [blogs passim]:

1. I had to get to Glasgow (Lesmahagow is not famed for the speedy shuttle service to anywhere north of Hamilton) in order to stay over with the lovely Lynn and get a lift to the airport.
2. I also wanted to get to my nephew's house, as my mother was going to be there prior to catching her flight home on Thursday.
3. My brother wanted to borrow the car for reasons involving a black and white cat, and had therefore come down from Tomintoul by bus.

The car - as you may or may not remember - was to be ready on Tuesday; I was due to head to Glasgow for around three.

This is the area at the back of the house. Note the red stones, the old drying pole, the almost poetic line of the slabbed path.

Note the lack of a car.

Hmmmm.

What was going to happen?

Find out soon.

Back in time now, to the weekend. I feel it only fair to say a fond, and respectful "farewell" to Curly - or Wurly, I'm not sure which it is. These two were raised by my brother on his pig sanctuary (I'm using the word "sanctuary" in not so much a loose sense, as a completely erroneous one), and taken "for an adventure" when they got big enough to eat, sorry - to have an adventure. Various bits of either one have been languishing in various places since then; one of those places being my freezer.

I should also clear up the "farewell" conceit: I cooked the last joint, NOT the last piece: there will be other farewells.

Anyway -

This was after four hours in the oven alone. Curly has just been joined by some veg, and they are all about to spend another hour or so together.

Well done, Curly.

Back to Tuesday - I called the garage - they were going to call Saab to see where the missing valve was (they'd ordered a replacement; they hadn't just lost it and checked with Saab to ask for possible locations). They'd call me as soon as they'd called them.

An hour and a half later, I called them again.

Apologies - they were going to call Saab to see where the missing valve was (they'd ordered a replacement; they hadn't just lost it and checked with Saab to ask for possible locations). They'd call me as soon as they'd called them.

Despite it being a well-known rule of comedy that things happening in threes is funnier than any other number in the world, we did not repeat the previous procedure. They DID call back. The part was en route from Newcastle (a typical Swedish town), and they'd see me on my way by late afternoon.

Several things happened in a "lucky white heather" way -

I want to point out at this juncture, that the iPad spell-checker appears to be adamant (or Adam Ant) that "white" needs a capital. I mention it only as a passing curiosity, and to explain why it may well be capitalised for the remainder of the blog, as I can't be arsed changing it every time.

1. My good and talented friend Raymond needed to get some audio edited, so I couldn't have headed up even with a vehicle.
2. My niece's mum was heading off for a break, and was leaving her car with niece and nephew

3. Something else I can't remember, but the use of the number three makes it very funny.

Raymond arrived late, owing to a dancer taking a tumble (don't ask). The garage called and said the part would not arrive until today (handy), but could I give them my credit card details anyway? My brother had not yet left Glasgow on the bus. Raymond offered to give me a lift to Glasgow, my brother borrowed my nephew's car (see how the mother going on vacation had a point? Two cars), and the lovely Lynn drove from work to my nephew's house to pick me up.

So my brother gets a car (mine will be taken to him by a series of improbably convoluted actions); Lynn got to say g'bye to my mum; and I was ferried to all necessary points.

In my rush to get out of the house (Raymond was taking his son to the doctor, but was going to be late because of the dancer incident, so as soon as we finished the audio - we were in a bit of a speedfest) I left some sausages in the fridge. I am hoping my nephew - a different one - either puts them in the freezer, or takes them home to have himself. I do not hope, however, that he help himself to my healthy batch of tomatoes.

As I type this, I am somewhere over Idaho, and thus unable to talk to the garage.

I am confident all will be well. Anyway - I got bumped to club class and have had Champagne, so I really don't give a rat's testicle.

The Vet and the Vets

2011-07-14T21:40:00.001+01:00

A fine couple of days.

First, I invented a time machine - or was it second?

Warning - the moment you invent a time machine, you're as well having given up on what tenses you will use. Didn't you?

Now - some may want proof. Be grateful that I am a kind man - look what happened to Thomas: He didn't believe Jeebus had died and got better, so Jeebus shoved his finger through Thomas' hands! Eeeew.

- no

- wait....

Okay - that's not what happened. Nevertheless, I shall humour you -

PROOF!!

Nephew Andy, all set to engage the TM (time machine), which looks very much like a monitor.

Some smoke, coughs and a sandwich or two later....

And there we are - wandering the streets of Glasgow in the early 20th century.

Pause.

I had to take a break, as I was laughing so much. FOOLED YOU!!

Oh, dear. I'm wiping away the tears. That was funny.

I know it might seem as though we'd used a time machine, but we hadn't. No, no - Andy and I were "on set" as the acty people like to call it, for the new series "Young James". It follows the shenanigans of young James Herriot - he of Christopher Timothy and cow's arse fame. The "time machine" that looked like a monitor? Well it was a monitor!

Oh, you should see your faces!

The gentleman in the "Chim-chim-eree" garb is in fact a actor. He has a polystyrene cup of [stewed] coffee. Stewed coffee wasn't invented till 1982, and polystyrene hasn't been invented yet at all.

The courtyard is in fact all laid out with film equipment to give the impression of time travel - or of being a vet circa 1930... I'm not sure which. Either way - it's the magic of television. Like when Robert Peston pretends he doesn't sound bored.

Or when Nick Robinson pretends he's not completely in love with David Cameron and Robin - sorry, George Osborne.

Here we see Nick imagining what it would be like to have Dave's babies.....

Anyway - the point is -

what was the point?

Oh yes - telly is magic

See the courtyard filled with all sorts of technical flummery

See the amazing giant black thing.

Whatever will they think of next?

See the pile of pretend dead animals like a bizarre, Satanic massacre.

Erm.......

Quick distraction -

HERE'S A FUNNY SIGN:

They do lawns, but they've made it sound like "Law n Order"

Aaah.

The big black thing is in fact in the careful hands of Iain Harrison, scaffold expert extraordinaire.

Here we see Iain and Andy hard at work.

The picture is out of focus, so you can't quite pick out the beads of sweat.

Once again hard at work - Andy realised that although lunch was over, sandwiches were imminent:

Every cloud....

The day went well, with Andy stepping in and checking over the old "grab-a-whip-get spammed-in-the-puss" routine with Tony Curran. Mr C was [as ever] delightful, and keen to follow any advice offered by the killer ex-marine.

Funny old world.

Yesterday saw me head north to visit with Prof Alan Newell and his goodly family, prior to a pre-production meeting about a new film I'm making.

Prof Newell is responsible for many things:

The first computer system to be used in the Chamber of the House of Commons;

Predictive Text (yup)...

and the Amazing Leaning Couch

(not one of the successes).

I had a delightful time, marred only by Alan spotting my tyre was flat. However - he did provide a battery-powered air pump - not one of his inventions - just a device from Halfords.

As I left Dundee with a level car, the knowledge I had a slow puncture and the sun in my eyes - I heard the tell-tale 'ping' of the Saab information system.

Now they call it the "information system" - but in truth it's just a bad news machine. I mean it's never pinged to say - "nice weather we're having" - or - "Time for a pie?"

On this occasion it told me my coolant level was low. Not too big a deal - aside from the fact I'd filled it 90 miles earlier.

Buggers.

BuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggersBuggers

I have now deposited said car at the garage.

We shall see what we shall see.

The Copycat Chicken Is A Grass

2011-07-13T09:33:00.000+01:00

Exciting times in Glasgow - oh yes.

Exciting if you are a complete geek with no life and an unnatural love of road networks.

- or -

Exciting if you've ever had to drive north, past Glasgow, sweeping west and then queueing for an age as five lanes of traffic bottleneck into two and the road turns south, taking you a couple of miles from where you were an hour ago.

Exciting if you've ever been stuck at stupidly-phased traffic lights; trying to move a mile or two across the south side of the city.

THE M74 EXTENSION HAS ARRIVED!!

It is a joy - a masterpiece of gentle curves and dynamic geometry.

It means people in the South Side can travel on the motorway and cut out numerous inane junctions. It means traffic can travel from the South (Engerland) to Stranraer, or Glasgow Airport, or Prestwick Airport ("Glasgow" if you fly Ryanair, despite Glasgow being some thirty miles from Prestwick, and the real Glasgow airport being in.... Glasgow) without heading unduly north, swooping south and crossing the river Clyde at the aforementioned bottleneck, causing mammoth jams in the process. It means I can get from my hoose to my nephew's hoose in 25 minutes, as opposed to up to an hour.

Another fine example of engineering and pythagorean delights, is the shed supplied by New Victoria Gardens Allotment Committee.

As you can see, the deference paid to maintaining an exemplary set of parallelograms is simply stunning. To be fair to the current Committee: the shed was supplied by the previous committee, whose adherence to guidelines, ethics and fairness was in direct proportion to the shed's adherence to a right angle.

That said - the plants look in fine fettle, and I shall be cooking with many of them in the months to come: this is the fair exchange policy Lynn Bennett and I operate. She grows 'em - I cooks 'em. We eats 'em.

In the last blog - a cat waved:

Remember how it offended the sensibilities, while simultaneously causing a few "aww"s? Well - news must have spread: on a visit (to deposit my mother for the second leg of her UK extravaganza "Live and Unleashed" Tour) to my brother's farm [blogs passim] I came across a chicken exhibiting a frighteningly similar move:

However - this chicken was not waving - oh, no: it appears to be using its new-found dexterity to put the blame squarely on the chick beside it. "He did it - the one on the left. I'd know him anywhere."

Perhaps an idea for a new series that blends "All Creatures Great And Small" with "The Bill?"

Anyhoo - a fine tramp around the farm revealed what might have been a fine tramp.

"Babe in Chains - Escape From Stalag 17"

If you squint your eyes and peer slightly to the left, you will catch sight of the guard (my brother) standing by the captured pig as it paces the exercise yard. The reason he is hard to see is that he is dressed in his camouflage Gandalf coat. On first looking at the photo, I was terrified by the bag apparently floating in the air.

Of course I am joking about the pig. The pig - Kevin Bacon is not a prisoner of war! He is a happy, friendly pig who is enjoying a light meal. I look forward to having Kevin down to my house for another nice meal....

Those of you who remember my last visit to Torrans might remember the cheesecake. What did Jan cook this time? What delights did I take away with me?

Now, I did take these two away with me, but Jan has not branched out into Highland Pimpery. These two French ladies had spent a week working on the farm! Getting all about it, digging fields, toting bales and generally doing farmy things. And doing them all extra-specially early, as, although they had set their watches to UK time, they had neglected to change their phone - which they used as an alarm.

Tant pis! (it means "too bad" - not "auntie's pee")

As a reward, I gave them a lift to Glasgow on my return.

Although to some, stopping off for Irn Bru and white pudding/fish suppers might seem a rather perverse reward, verging on punishment.

They enjoyed it.

They were very polite, so perhaps they hated it. Either way - they said they enjoyed it. So there.

And I? What did I take from Jan's kitchen?

A delightful pie of black pudding and rabbit. Mmmmmm.

My nephew (more to come soon) had been up, and was putting his sniper training to use by "taking out" a bunny or two.

Born free - then straight in the pot.

A-ba-tha, a-ba-tha, a-ba-tha That's All Folks.

Whoodies and The Pensioners' Brazilian

2011-07-07T10:26:00.000+01:00

Gatwick Airport, and I am suddenly surrounded by what I take to be an American choir or band. They are all dressed in bright blue hoodies. Immediate references to American Pie and Alyson Hannigan's Band Camp story sprung to mind, I don't mind telling you.
American accents. "What was that they gave us [on the plane]?"
"That was kinda like an English breakfast"
"Cool"

THEN - up pipes an english accent, then more, then some Scottish ones. WTF? What happened to the good old days when you could make generalised assumptions about people based on race, socio-economic group etc? How dare they get kids from different countries and dress them up the same? What are they trying to do? Is this some One World crap?

To make things worse - the kids are organised, polite and [relatively] quiet. They stand aside to let passengers pass. Ah me, teenage group - where are thy taunts? Thy sniggers? Thy chibs?

Multicultural, quiet, polite teenagers travelling en masse. Obviously coke mules.

I escape the throng and leap to the quiet oasis of the BA lounge. I steal my [2nd] breakfast.

Billy Boyd will be well-acquainted with the concept of second breakfast: if it's OK for Peregrine Took, it's OK for me.

To be fair (to me), the espresso cup was already there. As I had a three-hour wait, I passed the time wisely....

The repeated images of tomato juice are not - I repeat NOT indicative of a Bloody Mary, much though it is a brunch beverage of choice [blogs passim]: simple tomato juice and tabasco. Mmmm - nippy fruit.

A highly jolly flight to Rome, then into the hire car and down south for the sun.

The hire car was shiny, if a little on the tiny side - suitcase on the back seat, as the boot is suitable only for small items. Serial killers take note - unless you're disposing of a body on site and returning with simple trophies - this is not the vehicle for you.

Nevertheless it is a good-looking car, and the view from my mammy's hoose is by far and away excellent compensation for a cramped drive.

A couple of days were spent in general lazing about and getting ready to return with said parent in tow. I took the time to do a spot of writing - to the point where I think I have a finished rom-com narrative; and to move from Horace/Horatio (I have left Garibaldi for the moment - interesting subject: turgid writing) to the tale of two cities...

"Rome & Jerusalem" - very interesting, very well-written. In some ways - the perfect companion to a nice Moretti beer.

However - it was not (nor could it be) all mucking about, reading stuff and generally being arty farty. There were tasks - important and worthy tasks.

It had been several months since my last visit, and so my mother was suffering from terrible withdrawal symptoms due to a lack of Coppa Brasiliana:

The Coppa di Fragole in the foreground is mine. The sacrifices one makes for a parent.

Also of note is that this is one of the few occasions one can talk of a Brazilian and a parent in the same sentence without causing serious and long-term psychological harm. The other occasions include "My mum met a..." and "My mum was born in Sao Paolo, and therefore is..." All other areas are to be avoided. Much like a brazilian.

I noticed, in the house, evidence of the Pope's direct line to the fella upstairs. Here I am referring to god/God, so those of you in tenements or multi-level buildings need not worry. I don't know who the fella above you is, nor did he impinge on my trip.

Note the invisible cell phone at work...

"Hello? I'll have to speak quietly - I'm in a Vatican."

High too on the odd/miraculous stakes was the Incredible Waving Cat.

Do feel free to be slightly freaked by that.

We set off on the return leg, and my mother was well-catered for on the BA flight. We went Club Class (hence the lounge) as a wee treat. Intended as a treat for my mum, it almost ended in a wee surprise for me: the flight attendant was excellent - couldn't be faulted. He was attentive to my mum, joked with her and generally got her everything she needed. However, he also seemed more than a little interested that a middle-aged man was looking after his elderly mother so intently. "Does she keep an eye on you?" "Do you have to sneak off to misbehave?"

While my initial reaction was to smile and make light banter, and while my proclivities might not lean that way - I did subsequently learn that a senior cabin steward makes a good wage, and he and my mum did get on well.

It would be a spot of security....

In the UK once again, and today brings a trip to the countryside to oversee some head-butting for the "Young James" TV show currently in production. My main recollection of "All Creatures Great And Small" - the last incarnation of the James Herriot stories - is of someone wearing a cow's arse like an evening glove.

If there's any of that nonsense - I shall make my excuses and leave.

Is There A Doctor In The House? Oh, I See.

2011-06-29T08:55:00.003+01:00

Sunny days!

Edit that:

Sunny day!

And as luck would have it - I was headed up north (not too far up north) to the ancient and lovely town of St. Andrews.

A beautiful and ancient Royal Burgh.

Famous for its cathedral.
Around which I may have cycled in 1979/1980 - at night - dressed as a monk - while between my scenes (AWOL) in Measure for Measure at the Byre Theatre (Dundee Courier: "David Goodall spoke loudly" - now there's a review worth keeping). Anyway, the nocturnal meanderings proved effective in scaring the bejesus out of late-night strollers.

Who the hell strolls round a ruined graveyard at night? Unless of course it happens to be a West End director walking his post-dated dog.

Plays havoc with your knees apparently.

Famous for its golf course(s)

Awww, lovely, eh?

I have a friend (Ghill Donald) who caddied there in the summers. He once grabbed an American's highly expensive putter and set about battering a gorse bush.

The colonial golfer was aghast, angry and something else that starts with 'a' - until Ghill calmly explained:
"Haggis - it would have run off with your ball."

£20 tip!

Famous for:

Fisher & Donaldson - God's own bakers.

Actually - to be fair it's Eric Milne's own bakery. A genius chocolatier and a verra verra nice man (you can never over-compliment a master chocolatier).

NB - if you do find yourself in a position to compliment such a fellow in such a trade: Master Chocolatier is safer than "Master Baker" - that can go wrong.

Why were we there?

To work of course!

I set off with Charlie's Angels - the Cumnock Story:

(left to right - Una MacNab, Marj Hogarth & Hannah McConnell)
as we were to present food for thought (after having demolished thoughtful food at the buffet) in the area of "Intermediate Care" - this is where doctors get you out of hospital as fast as they can, then social work organise a visitor who delivers you lunch at 10am, puts you to bed at 7pm and refuses to change a light bulb on Health & Safety grounds.

The room was full of doctors.

Initially I was averse to the idea of dumping people in their homes, until one cheery chap, when asked why a daughter - in a scenario - wanted her mother to stay in hospital, answered:

"Her daughter has no idea how much riskier hospital is than home"

I queried this, and he listed an array of horror stories.

Unnecessary:

He had me at "rampant infection"

Anyhoo - a pat on the back to the angels/actors: all delightfully talented, and all - through happy circumstance - in debt to me to the tune of an ice cream. St. Andrews being the home of Luvian's ice cream parlour - there was little else to do at the conclusion of the 45 minutes...

yes - 45 minutes - don't let anyone tell you acting is not hard work [blogs passim]

...than walk in the sunshine to get -

ICE CREAM!!

I then popped across to the said Fisher & Donaldson and bought 6 of their fine and unique butteries (or "rowies" as the sheepshaggers would have it)

Examine the curls and twists; imagine the crisp, salty goodness and the rich, creamy aftertaste.

Imagine Hannah McConnell dropping them on the ground.

Charlie's Angels? Charlie's Arseholes. Grrr.

Anyway - no harm done - I wasn't about to let some grit, dust, possible dog pee and whatever else stop me enjoying my prize.

For those of you of a nervous or delicate disposition: the above was a piece of comic exaggeration.

The bag fell, and the butteries remained securely in the bag.

Please send all complaints to someone who gives a rat's testicle about your opinion.

Then home.

The M74 opened that evening. More of that at a later date.....

I leave you with this:

a fine piece of design from the Medical Faculty:

Note the fine detail of the map. Oddly enough, there was no giant, red line that day - not that we could see.

Note also the clever colour scheme:

What you might take of be a series of pontoon docks and gangplanks, set on the coast of an island, is - in fact - streets by the sea.

The Medical Faculty have decided to go with a map that portrays the land as blue and the sea as white.

Your life in their hands.

Errata - or - I've Been Telling Porkies

2011-06-27T08:15:00.001+01:00

I would like to take this opportunity to correct some errors.

In a previous blog, I referred to these pigs as Oxfordshire Blackspots -

They are - of course - pedigree Oxford Sandy & Black pigs.

I also called this handsome chap Oswald -

He is - naturally - Wilbur, and NOT Oswald.

Wilbur has also insisted (at threat of litigation) that I point out in no uncertain terms that there have NEVER been black spots in his heritage, as any fule kno.

I therefore take this opportunity to retract wholly, and with prejudice my previous statements regarding both Wilbur's name and his ancestry, including, but not limited to the ancestry of his descendants. I completely and unreservedly apologise for any distress that might have been caused to Wilbur or his family through my erroneous statements.

Apologies done, errata corrected; I shall now have some breakfast.

Oink, oink.

Croquodile Tears

2011-06-26T15:04:00.000+01:00

It has been a full week - the Edinburgh International Film Festival kicked off while I was away in Tain, but no matter, as I made it down there anyway - fairly honoured to be asked by Raindance Festival to be part of a panel of "experts", listening and commenting on pitches from filmmakers. I have placed "experts" in inverted commas (") as, while my fellow panellists were indeed experts:

Paul Birchard, writer, producer and actor on such oeuvres as "The Dark Knight" and others
Chris Collins, Development Producer at BFI Film Fund

I'm not sure I fit the bill. Nevertheless - it was an honour to be asked, we heard some great pitches; we heard some poor pitches; I had a laugh.
There was also a free bar.

Everyone is blurred, as they had obviously been drinking too much.

Here we see Mr Paul Birchard - musician, actor, film maker and Julian Chapelle from Raindance.

Much fun was had, and - after retiring to mutter conspiratorially, we returned to the free bar (surprisingly), and prizes were duly given out. The winner getting some cash too - nice.

Also nice was that I bumped into the uber-talented Ms Andrea Possee:

As you can see, Andrea is an extremely happy person. Is this a general state? Is she glad to see me? Was there a free bar?

Answers please to: Possee Gets Drunk Competition, The Priory, London.

Andrea wrote the crackingly eerie score for Paul Campion's New Zealand feature film: "The Devil's Rock" - which has its UK screening at the Century Theatre, Fox Screening Rooms in London when I am away in the States!

I have to admit I am not too unhappy, as I shall be away to pick up my award. Which is nice.

Why would I be going? The score to this Kiwi feature film, was mixed in Lesmahagow at our Soundsmove Studio - which is nice also.

I shall catch it on its UK release.

Friday was the official launch of Crush at Dynamic Earth in Edinburgh. It was a grand event, Government ministers and press folk abounded. More to the point was the abundance of tasty sandwiches and tortilla wraps. I am still not ready to trust a wine glass to one of those plastic clip-on-the-plate jobs. I used one, but discretely kept my thumb on it, to prevent disaster.

Dobbies in Perth. What are you doing? I mean what exactly are you doing? I was up that way, near Comrie, meeting the wonderful Maria Miller and Una MacNab.

Never a dull moment.

After amusing all and sundry by standing with humorous signs, we headed to the Dobbies café. We were joined by Alec Westwood. Alec is a fine actor, who had the misfortune to work with me on perhaps the most disastrous film-that-never-was. Not disastrous for him - he got paid. Some of us didn't. Enough said.

Anyway -

Here we see Alec ably demonstrating the juxtaposition of counter-cultures: A Joy Division T-shirt and a delicate mini-teapot.

Now that's art.

Also an artform is the ability of Dobbies café staff to screw up a sandwich order over the period of 45 minutes.

I shit you not.

I - fortunately - cobbled together a self-service salad (I could resist neither the devilled egg, nor the opportunity for alliteration). Maria ordered a ham & pickle toastie; Una a cheese and tomato.

After 10 minutes, a cheese & tomato sandwich arrived. No - it should be a toastie. The server (who had exactly the same voice as Max from Hart To Hart), headed off with the offending sandwich.

10 minutes on - a cheese & tomato toastie arrives. Still no sign of Maria's order.

5 minutes thereafter, the lady with Max's voice (yes, the lady) appears with a ham (you've guessed it) sandwich. She is sent off to deliver it to someone who wants it.

A younger server appears to query our disdain. "You want cheese pickly?" she broaches.

Now - I am quite happy for staff to be from anywhere - that is not my point: she could have been from Rotterdam or Rotten Row - it would not have mattered as long as she understood what was on the menu - which she didn't.

"No - ham and pickle"

"Cheese?"

"No - ham"

Off she went. The chef appeared. He double-checked and apologised. He headed off to right wrongs, or perhaps to write wrongs.

The toastie duly arrived - 45 minutes from the initial order - cheese and pickle.

The more observant/less asleep among you might have noted that the order was for ham & pickle. But by this time Ms Miller was ravenous, and winter was approaching. She capitulated.

Not to be put off by a simple toastie and its semi-success, the chef reappeared and went to the other table who had sent things back. He proudly (and not a little hopefully) brandished a croque monsieur to a [loud] chorus of "No - a cheese toastie".

He kept cheery, but could not understand the complete disaster that was engulfing his domain.

Always keen to help, I offered to take the offending comestibles off his hands - he agreed.

It was actually (cheddar notwithstanding) a passably enjoyable croque monsieur.

So despite the hardships and frustrations borne by Maria, Una, the other table and indeed the staff -

Goodall made out like a bandit.

Never The Tain -or- Pigs Might Fly

2011-06-21T22:42:00.000+01:00

The last days of filming. Awww.
There were many, many extras. However, it should be noted that we do not call extras "extras" - no. We now call the "supporting artists" - as they support things. Leaning pillars, football teams, ethical positions. I'm not sure what they support - but they must support something, otherwise - why make their adjectival noun "supporting artists"?

Here you can see a sea of extra... supporting artists. Coming through the midst of this sea; parting the waves, if you will, is Señor Barrie Hunter. Tain's answer to TJ Hooker.
Earlier in the day, Ken addressed the extras in a scene reminiscent of Russell Crowe's pre-Teutoberger Forest speech in "Gladiator".

I lied - it was in no way reminiscent of that. It was polite, funny and succinct.

Note the Bowie lookalike at the front: what is so interesting in your paper, sir? Eh? Eh?

Pay attention!

The catering on location was jolly - especially in dishes like tandoori chicken, or Thai green curry chicken.

The coffee did not reach those heights.

We formed a coffee committee, similar to the escape committee in Colditz.

But without the prison camp. Or the guards. Or the risk of death.

Nevertheless it was a committee of similar ingenuity and secrecy.

Mr Paul supplied a fine, Italian bean [naturally], while Mr Roger demonstrated an aptitude for inventiveness and construction worthy of REME. Look it up.
Existing filter lids were torn apart, refilled and reformed to make a rather nice cup of coffee. I feel confident that, given the situation, the tools and the expediency - we might have managed a pontoon bridge across the Rhine.

Here we see the coffee committee discuss their next "job" - perhaps a variety show to distract the guards?

I did a lot of prop-holding. I broke a door, jammed a bung and poured a load of "whisky" on the floor during a take.

Nice one. Yay me.

My trainer could only look on in shame - Alan is an artisan at the distillery, and is wise in all things whiskular. Also showing deep disapproval and disappointment (it's always worse than anger, isn't it?) was the 3rd AD - Maz.

Much though she is looking disapprovingly here, I do not know whether she is aiming her disapproval at the lock incident, the biscuit incident (enough said), or the fact she is being photographed.

All the extra... sorry... supporting artists were brought in to attend the herculean efforts of Bruce - a real auctioneer, who managed to keep it fresh, interesting and lively for endless repetitions of the whole scene: great patter and totally authentic; I doubt an actor would have managed that for the whole day - not without either complaining or hamming up the auctioneering to the point of being David Dickinson.

Bruce

However, the day and indeed the entire shoot was brought to a delightful conclusion by two things:

1. - halfway through one day we were served a snifter of 2000 Balblair, and the same of the 1989. Mmmmm.

2. It was Ken's birthday!

All packed up - a full breakfast and it was off to Lesmahagow - via Torrans, where we find several things:

My brother's wife Jan had made a fine cheesecake. I heartily approved.

My brother's farm...

has chickens (camera shy)

Soay sheep.....

camera shy - more of them another time. In the meantime, why not look them up? "Google them" as the kids say. See what they're about, then order one.

And Oxfordshire Black Spot pigs....

Far from shy:

The kids are alright

Oswald (a talkative fellow) has some bread between chatting

Becky does her "smiling doggy" impression.

Of course - farming isn't all killing chickens and watching vets anally intrude cows. Oh no - there is a lot of reading to be done:

I'm not sure how sensitive it is to have discussions about bacon in a magazine any curious pig might chance upon.

And for those quiet days, or those long, winter nights:

The Crofter - if it's in a field; it's in here.

My one worry was the contents list:

I have my doubts as to the "Crofter's wife" section - is this amateur porn? And I do not wish to even consider what "Farmer's seeds" might entail.

Goodnight - don't have bad dreams.

The Firth Ferry Four

2011-06-17T06:40:00.001+01:00

A sunny, sunny day. Big scenes were to be done the next day, but on this day we were - aside from some publicity stills to be taken - FREE!

I breakfasted with Barry, then set off on a wee walk to work off the rather nice poached haddock.

I am of course referring to the breakfast, and not to mr hunter.

A lovely walk in the sunshine, and my eye was taken by the apposite positioning of the road sign:

Indeed it is, but "cemetery" usually suffices.

Off to the co-op Café (yes - there is one) with Paul, where despite our best efforts, no one would ask us for ID. Why they would do so for purchasing coffee I am unsure. Nevertheless, not ones to sidestep the opportunity to try and be funny in what is no doubt an irritating way if you're serving coffee, we persisted with the flawed conceit.

1230, and Messrs Hunter, Birchard and I decided upon the wizard wheeze of coinciding our arrival on set with the occurrence of lunch. This worked out well, and lunch - tandoori chicken - was well worth the hardship of sitting outside the unit base, in the sun, doing nothing.

The one tiny, minuscule blackspot was the trip back to the hotel after lunch - sorry - after the photoshoot: this was facilitated by a young driver who shall remain nameless [Fergus]. Fergus, it would appear has a need for speed. This is fine on a motorway, in a car. This is also fine on a motorbike, on twisties with a good road surface (i.e. The A835 to Ullapool. Mmmmm, twisty). I am less sure of the wisdom when performed in a minibus with a high centre of gravity; on a surface reminiscent of a mélange of Shredded Wheat, Weetabix and marbles; on a road best laid out on a map in Lucida Cursive.

There is a point to this: all things create ripples.

Our planned trip to Cromarty (it being our day off) lay in jeopardy. Roger had finessed a unit car, and we were all set to go to the pace of which Mr Hunter sang so eloquently regarding his stay. I am a bad passenger, and was looking at the strong possibility of revisiting my tandoori chicken at an inopportune moment.

Messers Birchard, Allam and Hunter set off alone. Until it occurred to me (fanny that I am) that I HAD MY CAR. I drove off and caught up with them at the Nigg ferry.

Mr Hunter joined me in the car for the crossing, and, as you can see, was demonstrating his inimitable mime/comedy skills by falling back on the old reliable "flashing the Vs". Comedy Genius.

Needless to say, we were all excited at seeing the mirth metropolis as described by Barry from his prior stay.

A quaint harbour.

A very badly written sign

Roger, Paul and Barry being moved by standing in front of where Barry stayed.

All in all - highly picturesque as Cromarty is (if you avoid staring directly at the oil derricks in the Firth), it was also - like most or many highland villages - shut.

We wandered around, got barked at, narrowly avoided gull poop and got wet.

However, we did discover a wee pub with copious guitars, and the staff were happy to see them played.

I present - not only a Dark Knight actor and supplier of fine coffee on location.....

...but an excellent jazz guitarist. Mr. Paul Birchard.

AND - there's more....
Playing delightful blues, right in the thick of it (see what I did there?)

Roger "fingers" Allam.

Barry and I also played, but I'm not worthy of a photo, and by the time it was Barry's turn, I'd reached guitar-photo-saturation-point.

We set off back to Tain - heading down to the ferry. As the ferry eased its lazy way across the Cromarty Firth, we admired the beautiful, if somewhat forlorn view - of the ferry as it eased its lazy way across the Cromarty Firth. We got into the cars and headed back to Tain, the long way round.

Driving behind Roger on the way back; he with his flowing hair, and Paul with his cap; they resembled a "what would it look like" scenario, where Victor Meldrew and Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen take a comedy drive in the country.

last but not least

03:22

I'm not getting up at this time just to photograph the light in northern Scotland: I woke up; it was light; I took a photo.

Okay?

Location:Tain & Cromarty, UK

Sunshine And A Rainy Day

2011-06-14T23:57:00.001+01:00

Rain did not quite stop play, but it did alter the schedule. Much though it's good to keep it real, there is a point at which filming in a deluge is counter-productive.

This was the view of the outside world...

This was the view of the inside world.....

We did manage to get some interiors done, and I headed off for [another] walk round Tain. Many lovely buildings -

The 17th century jailhouse (now courthouse)

With fine details. These are not the only buildings with inscriptions to edify the mind...

Having dined there, I might take issue with the conceit of "all things" - but I suppose a motto - or strap line of "some things" might not entice the casual passer-by.

My stroll took me off the beaten path, down to the sea, where I chanced upon the Golden Gate Bridge

I suspect the real bridge doesn't have the warning:

"Footbridge closed. Imminent danger of collapse" - I considered testing the warning, then thought better of it.

The path took me through muddy banks and pleasant lanes

Of which Tain has more than a few.

Always prepared for any eventuality, precautions are taken for the rare influx of summer visitors.

This is a somewhat bespoke and rarified spot. Room for one or two tyres.

I returned to the hotel and ordered something to take the edge off the rain

Followed by chicken stuffed with haggis.

Looks good; the haggis tasted good, as did the chicken. However, if you are going to pan roast something and there's a dearth of cooking liquor - COVER IT. Dry, dry, dry.

Today the sun was up and a fine day was in hand. Add to this the fact that the talented mr Barrie Hunter arrived, and you have a recipe for....

... hanging about in the sun and doing nowt.

William and Jasmine sharing an iPod

Mr hunter, looking like Highland C.H.I.P.S. Gets a final check from wardrobe - the verdict: "McPoncharellitastic"

Given the sunshine, it only seemed fitting we filmed indoors, in the dark.

However, this was alleviated by the presence of an aladdin's cave of malt whisky.

Ken makes a few alterations:

Roger practises his sign language...

Barrie and Charles pose...

Charles is a genuine Master of The Quaich. A veritable mine of information and a generally fab fellow.

The evening whizzes by as Happy gives a Masterclass in the famous(?) board game of Carcassonne.

WTF? The rules appear to involve drinking beer then randomly shouting "Carcassonne!" much though I am convinced Happy made up the rules as he went along, he still managed to lose.

2345 - and still not the longest day.

Location:Tain,United Kingdom

The Antiques No-Show

2011-06-12T22:48:00.001+01:00

How nice to be blogging from the iPad again; it puts me in mind of my missives from exotic locations: Los Angeles, New York, Port Talbot.

Anyway.

I am on location in Tain...

Yup - it's up north.

I'm sure it's popular: it's in a delightful, nay idyllic locale. Stunning scenery, great food, many MANY malt whiskies. Quaint architecture...

Note the quiet street. A quaint, quiet part of the town?
Here's the main street at 7pm

Buzzing.

I met with the delightful Alicia Devine on Saturday, and we had scones. Scones! In Bradford's Tea Room. With cream and jam. A lovely afternoon. One point of concern was the proprietary markings on a bin in the car park:

For those unfamiliar with the heading - "NCP" stands for "National Car Parks"

My concerns are legion:
1. Why do they need a refuge?
2. How many use the bin as a refuge?
3. Who the frazzle decided a bin was a good place for respite?

I had a very pleasant drive, and arrived at a very nice hotel.

And the vital supplies of...

Hot chocolate and shortbread. Mmmmm

Having investigated Tain on foot, which took thirty minutes, I tried dinner in the [Morangie House] hotel - excellent. Simple fare of scampi. Really fresh, lovely salad, homemade tartare.

Unfortunately it was so nice that I once again forgot to photograph it until I'd part-demolished it.

Apologies. Finished off with a nice coffee and a lovely Laphroaig.

One nice piece of quirkiness in the room is the random - well, two:

The position of the bedside cabinet makes going to the bathroom interesting

And having restored the original features of the room to a fairly decent standard:

They decide to place the ubiquitous trouser press in the obvious location:

Whattafu?

Having walked around, had a coffee (prior to dinner) and settled on the bed to watch the Canadian Grand Prix, I had a good punnet of strawberries and raspberries.

Anyone who follows F1 will know that the Grand Prix stopped for two hours due to rain. Colossal rain. So the BBC dutifully kept following the exciting images of a large, wet, expensive car park - cancelling The Antiques Roadshow in the process.

Points of View will make good viewing this week.

Incidentally, after dinner I was lucky enough to catch the end of the Grand Prix. Really exciting finish. But at 2230, as opposed to 2015.

Also - here are my berry boxes.

Apologies.

Location:Lesmahagow; Tain - UK

Fags, Booms and Recommended Reading

2011-06-09T16:10:00.001+01:00

I shall be brief - I shall write about briefs.

So -

Briefs in brief.

The week has been mostly taken up with mentoring pupils at a high school in the arcane art of filmmaking. I must own to some ambivalence regarding the project:

On the one hand - the pupils in question get to make a film; they get time out of class; they generally get to bugger about.

On the other hand - having me as a mentor might be construed by some as on a par with having Tom Cruise get stuff down from off your wardrobe - time-consuming, distracting and ultimately something you'd be quicker doing yourself.

However, they have worked wonders. I assume some of you will know of this situation from previous blogs. The NHS (now in a palliative state) has commissioned schools to get pupils to make their own anti-smoking short films. A couple of said schools have approached me to "mentor" the situation. This means I do very little aside from say: "I don't know - if that's what you want..."

So the kids have devised the theme (having discussed the pitfalls of smoking, the reasons folk start and just how easy or difficult it is to stop)
They sorted the narrative
They wrote a logline!!
They did the screenplay
Cast the film
Sourced locations
Got permissions for the cast, for the crew and for the locations.
They directed, filmed and boomed it themselves.

I supplied equipment and the odd encouraging shout of "huzzah!"
On arriving on Monday - the Depute Head in charge of the project supplied me with:

A cup of coffee and BLUE RIBAND!! I thought they'd died out years ago. I'm hoping they are still in production, as I'm not sure the effect of eating a twenty year-old chocolate bar. Time will tell.

We'd set aside time to film over three days. Scottish weather being what it is - we were praying that the rain would hold off.

Our exteriors worked a treat -

We were even fortunate enough that filming things like the football scenes (we had no football team booked, but we did have three young lads in ties and untucked shirts) coincided with a PE class.

So our football episodes were team-tastic.

Even our scenes by the "red box" were rain-free. The rain seemed to work its way around our schedule.

The "red box" is what the pupils call it. What it is and why it is beside the sports pavilion, I don't know. Perhaps it is full of those people who come in with notes about not doing gymnastics because of asthma?

Exteriors completed on days 1 & 2 - we found ourselves ahead of schedule - unheard of! We decided to take a gamble and go for broke - interiors next:

We even managed to work these scenes around breaks and lunchtime pandemonium.

All in all a very successful time. Finished ahead of schedule.

One point of concern: we filmed one scene in the library.

Those of you expecting tomes on Shakespeare, encyclopaedia volumes or collections of Harry Potter novels should look away now.....

Can someone explain to me why this is OK? No - NOT "Lord Sha" (although even that is tad worrying - is it a character from an L. Ron Hubbard adventure?) - anyway - not that: "Girls in Pants"?? Now - our American friends might wonder "what gives?" or they might think "Hey, Dave - let it go: no biggie" (that's how they talk) - but I hasten to point out that here in Scotland - pants does not refer to trousers - exterior clothing; pants are underpants!

Now I'm not suggesting the title of the book infers a cornucopia of inappropriate pictures inside, in fact I am fairly sure the title gives "pants" the American meaning.

THAT'S JUST AS BAD!!

I don't want kids in Scottish schools calling "trousers" "pants"

A fag is a cigarette, an oozie is a suppurating sore and a fanny is not an arse. Except when you call someone a fanny -then you do actually mean they are an arse.

And and ass is a donkey.

Please let's not get into a debate on biological etymology: I am well aware that an ass and a donkey are different, but I'm allowing myself a little artistic licence.

So - all finished and not a downpour in sight.

For those of you (not from these climes) who might laugh and think I'm being pessimistic or melodramatic about the weather - after all: it's June!

Taken on Wednesday at lunchtime.

Yippee - it's a Scottish summer!!

Bright Sky At Night - New Sky In The Living Room

2011-06-05T18:16:00.001+01:00

It's June, and for those of you from another latitude, this is the sky at 11pm

And it's only going to get lighter for longer.

Long days mean - more time to shove my hands into the mud outside my house and try to make it into something less reminiscent of a WWI documentary on The History Channel.

You may remember I had plants waiting in the rain -

To go into my overgrown front garden (this is not a euphemism) - see?

So - a bit of digging (several hours of digging to be honest) and I found my old plants under the weedage.

They are rather hard to spot, on account of the fact that they have been assaulted by mad mental weeds for the past four months. They will grow again - oh yes: they will grow again.

Some holes had to be dug, some mud had to be transported through the house, and I had to endure the embarrassment of the cat - inside the house - standing on his hind legs and running against the window with his front paws, while howling. I suspect he is auditioning for Renfield in an upcoming production of Dracula. Anyhoo - holes dug; cat ignored and we are here:

I'm fairly happy with this, and shall be interested to see how long it takes the Scottish climate to kill these ones.

The day began (we are travelling backwards) with a visit from the Sky man, who genially replaced my HD box. It had been merrily recording programmes without fail (except when I was away, when it would record programmes with fail), but when trying to watch these programmes (failed or otherwise), they'd pause.

Pause is too kind a word; it includes connotations of "play"

- i.e. "I've just paused that programme to make some coffee; I shall press play when I'm ready."

As opposed to:

"The feckin box has feckin frozen again, forty feckin quid a month for feckin frozen programmes..."

You get the idea.

Along came Sky and installed a new box. This one is smaller on the outside, yet apparently larger on the inside. This is rather apposite, as the first programme I tried to record was Doctor Who. Don't get me started on the self-aggrandising tone this show has taken. That aside - I recorded it successfully. It paused four times on playback. At least with these pauses/freezes all I did was press pause (really?) then play and all went on as before; with the old box, I basically had to switch it off, do a system rebuild and sacrifice a chicken [for good measure] to get another ten minutes further along. That said - I still would like to pay money then watch something without having any moments of drama suspended (not that there was any danger of anything other than shocking hyperbole coming from the Doctor).

Ho hum - maybe it needs to get used to its surroundings?

The day was nicely broken by the arrival of Matt:

Matt is a good fellow, and a conundrum. He is a podiatrist, who doesn't want to work in podiatry, but does want to work with feet.

By which I mean he wants to work in a profession where feet are the focus - not that he wants to have a job and keep his own feet - which I'd take for granted.

He is emigrating to Australia, or Spain, or Cyprus.

He is the most entrepreneurial spirit I know, and I know Richard Branson!

I don't - that was a lie.

What is not a lie however, is that Matt brought chocolate cake. I can't show you the actual cake, as it enjoyed the half life of a Higgs-Boson particle. However I can show you a photo of the same model - the Co operative Chocolate Cake:

Ta-da!!

Very nice it was too.

What is a tad disturbing is that when I typed "co op chocolate cake" into Goggle, these images also came up:

Quizzical Jesus....

Coquettish Arnie impersonator...

I have given up trying to figure out the universe.

Friday was spent auditioning people for a forthcoming series of productions. I bought coffees and pastries on the way in. I turned a corner. I have latte IN my seat.

Perhaps permanently.

Anyway - a lot of good acting went on, and not the kind where the good acting is you saying "very good, thanks. We'll be in touch" and meaning "Oh God, what was that? Please tell me you have other career options" no - the good acting was by the people attending. Jolly good show.

Thursday morning involved myself, Dougie & Floss (both in Changed Days) - I should add 'award-winning' every time I mention it just to be annoying.

The purpose was that we perform a 20-minute piece to three other actors, so they can stand in when one of us can't manage the sporadic gigs that turn up. It is interesting to note that the smoothest run was the one that involved the least number of those of us allegedly showing how it was done.

The afternoon was the final meeting with the pupils who are making their own anti-smoking film [blogs passim]; we shoot this week.

On Wednesday I shot off to Prestwick Airport to pick up the talented Alyth McCormack, take her back to the hoose and record her voiceover demo reel. If you're looking for fab singing, Gaelic-speaking or generally things of that ilk - she's yer wummin. She often sings with The Chieftains.

I am now off to prepare dinner. I was toying with trout - not in an abusive way - but on hearing Peter Alexander wax lyrical on the subject of beans on toast, I have decided to opt for beans & cheese on toast.

For the record:

1. Buttered toast

2. Cooked baked beans

3. Cheddar (or Red Leicester)

4. Grill it. Bang. Beans & Cheese on Toast - done.

I brook no alterations.

Sweating At The Coal Face

2011-06-02T23:08:00.000+01:00

First things first: Another award!

I am highly chuffed and a tad taken aback that I appear to have won "Best Director of a Short Film" at the rather prestigious New York International Film Festival.

Which is nice.

As I am looking to collect the award in July in LA (I know - the geographical content has no foundation in continuity), I shall currently make do with my stalwart "Socks & Tux" photo....

The more I look at this, the camper it seems.

Ho hum.

Back to important matters -

The Mystery of the Phone Numbers & Feety Fish/Fishy Feet.

Having left a rather garbled message with [what turned out to be] Coalburn Leisure Centre, I called the mobile number.

DG (for it is he) - "Hello. I found your number in my kitchen"

NM (to be revealed) - "Uh?"

DG - "Yes, you'd left it there with a leaflet about hungry fish"

It transpired the person (Nicola Morrow) was an audio-technology student, looking to book some studio time "Not at your full rates" - Needless to say, the manner of discovery, and the direction of the conversation was NOT conducive to haggling for reduced rates.

DG - "Why don't you come to the studio this afternoon and we can discuss what it is you're after?"

NM - "Where is that?"

DG - (after a meaningful pause) "93 New Trows"

NM - "Oh, the studio is in your house?"

DG - (after a pause with even more meaning) "Well..." (and a soupçon of incredulity) "...yes" Thinking You've been there - you entered my house uninvited when you left the sodding footfish leaflet

We agreed a time, and none too impressed, I put the kettle on and set about planning my lecture on The Sanctity of [my] Property. Fortunately, while I was checking the condition of The Somme - aka my front garden [blog passim], my neighbour across the road asked if I'd found the note he'd left in my kitchen.

We do that sort of thing in the village: in and out of each other's houses, with each other's property.

That explained:
1. The appearance of the note
2. The ignorance of my studio location
3. The tone of "are you mental" from Ms Morrow.

In a nutshell - Nicola came to talk, was absolutely delightful and enthusiastic. It turns out she is an excellent singer, so in return for backing vocals on the [in progress] album, I let her work in the studio. I came off best I think, as she not only sang, but the work I gave her was recording the track "Cry" from the album.

Win-win

That refers to the fact that the situation was of benefit to all parties, and is not an obtuse reference to a Panda in captivity.

I thought I'd had my fill of action figures in the street in LA [blogs passim] - but after walking through the new St Enoch Centre - which doubles as the set from Logan's Run

I came across this rather eclectic group.

It all seemed a bit random, and if I'm honest - I was not completely unafraid.

Monday was filming a wee action scene for a TV show (which shall remain unnamed as I have signed a confidentiality thing)

By God - acting is a hard, hard life.

Called at 1000 for a rehearsal. I renewed my acquaintance with the delightful Harry Ward. We were driven to the West End. We chatted. We snoozed. We ate lunch. We were driven back to the Unit Base. It was well-equipped with amenities

And

I did find however, that if I stared at the carpet for too long, I began to have flashbacks to Vietnam.

All the more disturbing, as I have never been there.

We watched Family Guy. We snoozed. A taxi was ordered. The taxi came. "Just hop in. He'll take you to the next location. Oh - they might not be there yet." We got in.

TAXI DRIVER - "Where to, lads?"

US - "Erm - don't you know?"

TD - "Nope."

We compromised on The Botanic Gardens. He dropped us off. No one was there (aside from the hundreds of folk enjoying the sun. At this point, we reflected on just how hard it is to film things.

Note the sunshine, the grass, the general lazy atmosphere - similar to being down a mine - or in a kitchen - or in a war zone.

Or so you'd think, the way many many actors, directors, producers, whatevers crap on about how tired and emotional they are. TRY A REAL JOB, you fannies.

We called the office. "Stay by the main gate - that's where they'll arrive."

Sound advice. Except for the fact that they HAD arrived, but at the opposite side of the park, and they'd sent out search parties for us.

In the end we got there. We were shown our version of the Batmobile

Note the car wrangler's position. When I asked him why he seemed to be holding onto the car, the sanguine reply was:

"I'm not too confident that the handbrake works."

That was nice.

We got shooting - Mr Ward turning to Ute Haagen-Dasz for inspiration in "opening van doors" - I had to "get out of van" - for which I recalled my intensive training as the back end of a cow in Paisley Town Hall.

Note the expressions of abject exhaustion, and the blurred effect of the photograph, owing to the high levels of movement.

Like a chain gang.

All in all - Mr Ward and I were handsomely paid for sleeping, reading, eating and watching telly.

Hi-diddly-dee.

Fishy Feet and the Phantom Deposit

2011-05-28T15:42:00.000+01:00

It's been a week. A WEEK!

First things first - Horatio has been put to bed. Finally.

He can go back to join his friends. I'm now stuck with the quandary of continuing the biography on Garibaldi (all jokes on a postcard please to "Takes The Biscuit Competition, London W1 8QT"); a collection of letters of the Roman Empire; the book on broadsword technique [blogs passim]; or a new addition on loan from my nephew: "Man Down" by Mark Ormrod.

Decisions, eh? And the chiefs at NATO think they have it bad.

Having taken home herbs and onions from Mr Broadbridge, I made this:

A soup of Welsh onions, chives and lovage. The cretins are not from Mr Broadbridge.

Since the main ingredient of the soup is lovage, I have been thinking of calling it "My Lucky Number One Soup"

eh? eh? Lovage? Lovitch?

Never mind. Those of you wondering what Lovitch is - I refer you to my comments on MC Hammer [blogs passim].

This was swiftly followed by a relaxing Sauternes with a dessert of some puff pastry, maple syrup, nuts and ice cream:

All in all - a success.

To business.

Sunday was a day of taking a crazy notion to make pasta al forno. For those of you (like my nephews) wondering where I hide my wood oven: "forno" just means oven - "al legno" is wood. So I basically baked some pasta. That said - it was heartily nice, and my nephews took to it like hungry people take to food...

Yes - you can see hard-boiled eggs there. Duck eggs to be precise. Want to make something of it?

Anyway -

Monday morning was a trip from Comrie to home. No great shakes, other than the 80mph winds. A static queue appeared. After an hour, a man approached and told us a car had been blown off the road, then the subsequent ambulance had been hit by a tree, floating across the road in the March... May winds. After a brief pause to reflect on the irony of the event, some deft U-turns and shenanigans took us on a detour:

Note the miles and miles of bugger all.

[post detour] Monday & Tuesday were generally spent fixing computers that did not require fixing, but did require a priest. If you're going to build your office on sacred Iroquois burial grounds, things are going to go wrong. So either move office location, or get used to using paper and pens.

Tuesday was into school to work on the NHS anti-smoking film project. The pupils involved are way ahead of where they need to be, and are an absolute delight. However, I did spot this poster -

And I did try to stay positive - despite being somewhat freaked. The girl is obviously not "David" - therefore the poster was placed there as a divine message for me. It's the only logical answer.

Wednesday was off on the train to Manchester.

Manchester... yay.

The great thing about Manchester is that they actually have trams. Edinburgh, on the other hand has a bunch of crooks who get guys to dig up the roads, cause chaos and upheaval for several years, then say "It's going to cost more, or we can bugger off and leave you with this mess."

It would seem Edinburgh councillors have seen sense, and chosen the "bugger off" option.

Anyhoo - Manchester was to meet with Laura Willis, who is the PR wiz and guru for the film projects. We had a good time, eating and stuff. All very PR. I also enjoyed the "Don't Get Killed By The Trams" game.

I have come away with many tasks, and am generally fired up.

Not so fired up that I choose to ignore the front "garden" - it's a strip of ground. In Spring it produces a cornucopia of colour. Around about now it produces a field of dead flowers and live weeds.

This happens annually. Annually I dig up said weeds and try to plant more rosemary, lavandula and heather. The forlorn hope is that eventually these "hardy" plants will kill off the weeds.

A lavender "tree"

The reality is that every year there are more casualties to the -12º winters.

This year I bought plants in numbers. However, the weather has not exactly been the summery planting kind.

Note the swimming pool effect, as the precipitation gets too much for the drainage system.

Finally:

I came downstairs from having a shower, and discovered a folded-up piece of paper in my kitchen. On it there were three phone numbers - work, mobile & home. And a name. That was it. I unfolded the paper, and it turned out to be a flyer for having your feet eaten by fish. There were no numbers on the printed flyer, so I assumed the hand-written numbers were somehow connected with the hungry fish. Well, you would - wouldn't you?
I must say, I was feeling a tad resentful as to the marketing strategy of entering people's houses and leaving calling cards, like Raffles The Gentleman Thief - if Raffles hadn't nicked things, but had placed small fish under the duvet to have a nibble.

I called the home number - no reply. Called the work number and it went to answer machine. I left a rambling message about breaking and entering, scribbled notes and hungry fish.

It turns out I had called the local leisure centre. Much to their confusion.

The plot thickens....

You are about to enter another dimension. A dimension not only of sight...

2011-05-22T17:25:00.002+01:00

Exciting moments - I found out that both my films - Changed Days and Crush have been nominated for awards by the New York International Film Festival - we shall hear the results in June.

Crush was screened at the Court Métrage in Cannes, apparently to a pretty rave reception. Of course it might have been screened during a rave in reception: I might have misheard.

Just when I thought there was nothing else to blog. Just when I thought blog was a noun.

Sunday. Sunday in Summertime. Sunday in Summertime in Scotland.

It being the weekend, I am graced by the presence of the lovely Lynn. With the outside temperature cracking the paving at nearly 13ºC, 60mph winds gusting and intermittent sunshine/deluges, we decided to pay a visit to Garrion Bridges Antiques Market. I have been there several times before, and foolishly said: "I won't bother taking the camera." Luckily, the wiser of the two of us insisted I take it. "You never know" she sagely said.

First things first - Garrion Bridges Antiques Market (henceforth G-BAM) is not the most obvious place for blogspiration (for my German readers - I made that word up).

A giant, metal barn adjacent to a car park. In busy times, a strange man directs traffic in and out with the dexterity and aplomb of a man who has never seen a car and never given directions. Not inspiring.

To be fair, on leaving Lesmahagow, I did spot a man dressed as Batman, crossing the road to stand at the bus stop. In the UK we have a computerised system of roadworthy certification and insurance, so if your vehicle is not fully road-licensed, the guardians of the law will stop you and ask you sarcastic questions. I suspect the batmobile was either out of its insurance period, or due its MOT.

The MOT is a roadworthiness test for vehicles. It stands for Ministry of Transport. The Ministry of Transport no longer exists, so WTF?

Anyway - with Batman being a generally law-abiding bloke, I thought trying to photograph him through the rear window of the car WHILE driving would have been a step too far.

Off to G-BAM. What a joy. I shall write very little - this is a wonder for your eyes. This is as though The Rapture had happened, and God is severely playing with my sanity.

On entering:

What might these wonders be?

Hats

Motability scooters.

There is also a large (LARGE) line of wheelchairs, walking canes and comfy chairs that have built-in gooseneck lights, teacup holders and little fold-away tables.

Some are "water-resistant"

In this area you will also find useful items such as magnifying glasses, teaspout pourers (?) and many, many elasticated items that you never imagined might need to be elasticated.

What else, in this place where wonders never cease?

A lizard. I don't know what exact type he/she is, but it's been there for several years. If you stop long enough, you can see it mouth "kill me"

This odd couple are in the café. Why they are at the café I know not. I find them eerie. I have never eaten at the café. Perhaps I never shall. If anyone is interested in how the café fares - please leave a comment and I might try it. There is also a strong possibility I'll suggest you bugger off.

I stopped to look at a Yamaha electric guitar. Gold-plated Humbuckers and an excellent neck. I have no idea of the model, as there was no nameplate or serial number. As I tootled around, a man who'd been sitting in an armchair (it had an adjustable headrest) started talking at me. He was a mine of information, very little of which was a) interesting b) factual

Much as I tried to go, he kept on with anecdotes about what a bad guitarist Clapton is; how awful Chuck Berry is live; and how, having given his bass to a girl to practise, he'd much rather have poured lighter fluid on it and set fire to it.

I shook his hand and left.

The conversation continued as he got up and walked around with me. Luckily, I spotted Lynn at the book section, and the sight of literature had the effect of garlic on a vampire - or cheap hair wax, if the vampire is the ever punchable Edward Twilight Guy.

There is an offer: "Buy three books and get the cheapest two for free" - I cannot see how this is anything like good business. Nevertheless....

I found an excellent first edition on Broadsword techniques and the etiquette of duelling with swords. To this I added the obligatory historical tome on Rome, and Lynn added a book called "The Indian Rabbit" - this last book was neither the study of 'solo entertainment' aids or subcontinental game cooking I'd hoped it might be.

I also found these:

Written by someone who'd never been, I suspect.

And.....

Nothing I can say is sufficient.

Onwards around G-BAM

Not really. I mean, I'd like to encourage innovation, but I've been going to this place for years. Occasionally you find something of merit (read on...), like interesting books, first editions, instruments etc. I've bought some lovely 18th century paintings, and a 19th century map. However, "New Ideas In Progress"? No.

I take it back. Luminous numbers.

Bugger me.

This is not a photo of an early 20th century library/games room; this is some of the stuff in the world of wonders. Quite good.

Turn the corner....

It's the "and beyond" that disturbs me.

"Chicken D'light" - "Steak" - What?

See? They've put "buy" in inverted commas, because it should read "by" - but they've made it buy - like you've been shopping!!! I had to sit in one of the special chairs to get my breath back, I laughed so hard.

Luckily, it was a "water-resistant" model.

This sign is on the way out.

How we laughed.

The Infernal Bumbling of The Plotless Kind

2011-05-20T01:50:00.000+01:00

Right - first things first (this is patently untrue - read on) - let's deal with the title and to hell with chronology!

I'm crazy, me.

Directing a show in August, and I am short of males. So myself and Alison (writer of the stage version of Changed Days) headed off to a show performed by drama students at Langside College.

Ahem. Normally I might not mention the name of the college, then I thought to myself: "Self - if you were delivering praise you would not shy away from naming names; it is only fair you do the same for more derogatory comments." Or words to that effect.

The sad thing is, I may actually have said something like that out loud in the car on the way home. Sad indeed.

A lot of the trouble with going to college performances is that 75% of the cast are poop, in this case, however, the cast were actually [90%] grand. The performance was of five [not] short [enough] pieces. The cast were actually very good, and worked as hard as possible to make something of the pieces. My problem is with the sort of college that puts on a show that is faux-Dada, with little or nothing to be learned by the cast (aside from "never work with that man again"). I'm sure that somewhere the director will respond to criticism with an acerbic "It's too abstract for them" - however - it wasn't truly abstract. It was... what's that word? It's a tad technical, and if anyone can't follow the detailed terminology, I apologise.

It was crap.

A director who finds a very poor, disjointed and amateurish script, then directs in a way that would not be acceptable direction in a detour sign. No discernible shape to the scenes. No attempt to control the performances or add chiaroscuro. Self-indulgent twaddle, and - unnervingly - a little bit too voyeuristic.

All in all - well done to the students. Director - have a word with yourself and try to learn your craft. There's a lot more to directing than telling people where to stand and to speak louder. What chance do they have if that's their education?

Done.

Zoom back a day.

I'm not sure what it is that Socks [the cat] does, but he seems to manage to get dirt - sandy, stony dirt - to fall from his paws on command. I woke up and clambered out of bed, surprised by the feeling I was at the beach. On closer inspection - THIS is what was on my duvet...

I apologise to the faint-hearted, but to be honest, it wasn't pleasant at this end either.

There are no footprints up to the bed.

It wasn't muddy outside.

What the hell does he do to
a) collect all that stoor?
b) hold it in place until he's settled on some clean linen?

He's annoying.

Bedlinen prematurely in the washing machine, I decided to head off to visit the talented Mr Broadbridge. Fiddler extraordinaire - Aidan has appeared in numerous films as the dandy violinist in the powdered wig. He is an excellent session musician as well, and plays on numerous albums as well as in numerous orchestras. I went to visit to organise a new album... no. I went to record some mandolin parts... no.

I went (via the country road detour)

You remember that one? They are still doing roadworks. They have, however now put up signs stating the road is closed, and to follow the diversion signs.

There are no diversion signs.

I went to Aidan's, discussed stuff (if it gets too technical, please let me know), and Aidan then supplied me with:

Chives, Welsh onion and lovage.

I feel a soup coming on.

My nephew is up in Tomintoul, having accompanied the forest of logs [blogs passim] to their final resting place.

A photo from my brother's farm shows a field of Soay sheep....

Tasty indeed. Hopefully there is some wild mint growing nearby.

And a host of baconettes....

Becky has been busy, and is producing delightful piglets of an exceptionally high cute factor. I'm afraid, that much though I find them cute and "awww"-worthy, I still only see little rashers in a field.

Off to Glasgow to see the "play".

Home to a meal.

I haven't actually cooked for over a month, so it was nice to get cutting things and doing all that kitchen stuff.

Mozzarella, tomato, prosciutto crudo, basil and Sicilian olive oil (a present).

Fettuccine alla bolognese. Both accompanied by a very nice El Bombero

No real adventures today.

It's quite nice to have little drama to speak of.....

It Ain't Heavy - It's For My Brother

2011-05-18T18:26:00.000+01:00

What a fabulous couple of days. After the good news of the weekend... For those of you who don't know:

Previously, on StarBlog...*

The 45-minute drama Changed Days won "Best UK Film Under 60min" at the Swansea Bay Film Festival, but the director [me] was prevented from attending, as he had to thwart a terrorist plot to infiltrate a good-looking, middle-aged woman into the Welsh countryside by dressing her entirely in clothes from Primark. Yes, the MILF in Cheap Clothing plot was dangerous, and had to be stopped.

In his [my] place, the Awards Team stormed the complex [hotel] and made the environs secure [got drunk]

Here we see Dougie give his famous rendition of Titus Andronicus. Reviews were mixed: "Mr Wallace gives a passable performance as General Titus, marred only by his persistent, and illogical cries of 'What's I got on me head?'. All in all, he mars the production."

The girls head out, tinnie and goodie bags in hand. It was moments later that they realised someone had stolen the edges of Vikki's dress.

And now, the continuation....

Well, aside from annoying people about the award - that's it really.

I had decided to annoy a friend and producer, by dropping off DVDs of the films when next in Glasgow. I was shortly next in Glasgow. I set about burning a couple of copies of the films -

for those of you who are unfamiliar with the artwork on the discs:

or -

VISIT THE FILM PAGES! Crush and Changed Days

Just as I pressed the icon to eject the disc tray, a black shape whizzed past me.

I say whizzed...

Our Socks has developed an odd, and perhaps unhealthy fixation with the disc drawer, and will happily pass the time staring at it, once he knows something is afoot.

Anyway, discs done, I breakfasted like a king (providing the king in question is content with a piece of toast), and headed to Glasgow to aid my brother and nephew in the loading of "a few logs" onto a van.

The van:

The logs:

The filled van:

For those of you of a nervous and/or suspicious disposition, I should point out that my brother (image 1) was NOT still at the back of the van's interior in image 3. Had he been so trapped, it would have made my nephew's good-humoured grin a little more disturbing.

As for the amount of wood ("a few logs") - I am fairly sure the van was built to take it:

This wheel was circular before loading.

Then with a hearty "hey-ho" some scratches and a pile of crap on my shirt, I headed to Scotland's equivalent of MGM Tower, or Paramount Studios [blogs passim]

Film City:

Note the skip placed outside the building for the disposal of dodgy ideas. You'd probably think it was constantly being emptied, but no! Here in Scotland, we are proud of our attitude towards sustainability, so we use everything. Much the way many communes of the mung bean variety use effluence to fuel heating systems, fertilise fields, etc. We in Scotland are proud of the fact that nothing is wasted, and we consistently put our shit ideas on television.

The skip is there for people to deposit their self-respect.

Off to do some computery things for a friend, and then off to the cinema to watch a film with my friend and talented (for "talented" read "scarily efficient") 1st AD/Production Manager/Line Producer/Actor Wrangler, Maryann. The film was a BAFTA screening, which in effect means there is plenty of space in the cinema, but a good queue at the popcorn. A French film "Point Blank" (À Bout Portant - told you it was French) didn't have the best of starts: it was pink - everything was pink - at first you imagined it was a statement - after a minute, you imagined it was a mistake - after four minutes, you imagined you'd damaged your retina on the way in. Projectionists not being what they were, the chap had obviously pressed play (with "everything pink" option), then buggered off for some tea, vodka or opiates. After a tortuous time the film stopped, then restarted in glorious NormalColor®

A good film - beautifully shot, well-acted and with great tension and atmosphere. HOWEVER - taking a ten-minute break halfway in to have a character give us the exposition in unashamedly expositional style (see opening of blog - a-ha! there was a reason) was a tad annoying. Anyhoo, aside from that, and a series of endings to rival The Return of The King, it was good.

Home to a howling cat. Bed with Horatio. I know - but I've been really busy, and it's a long book.

Up today - into Lanark to do a two-hour film fighting workshop. I left sufficient time to stop off for a bite of breakfast. I did not however, leave sufficient time to allow for roadworks. Roadworks on a country road. Roadworks that BLOCKED a country road. Roadworks on a five mile stretch of country road with few turn-offs and where the warnings that the road was a dead end came here:

Thank you.

Buffoons.

I weaved around some back roads -

And arrived in Lanark. Not to be defeated, I stopped off for my eagerly-anticipated roll and coffee.

This was in Armando's; a delightful little café on the High Street. "Under new management" the sign SHOULD say. "Under Management" is what it actually says.

Armando's is noteworthy to me inasmuch as they have a very expensive shop window, all engraved with bits of frosted design on it. Very posh indeed. I am often tempted to pop in and ask how much it cost, and whether they are aware that there is no apostrophe in "Pizza's" [sic]

Ruddy hell, I ask you.

Anyway - breakfast done, workshop done and I stopped off to get a much-needed iron. To be precise: I stopped off to PURCHASE said item, and not, as the sentence hinted on a second reading, stopping off to get creases out of my skin. I bought the iron, and made an impulse buy of a breadbin and a potato ricer (well, wouldn't you?). Wrong PIN. No it's not. Wrong PIN. I'll use this card.... "this card" was at home, as I'd taken it out to write down the numbers on a form. Off we go home - ROADWORKS - reverse - longer route - off we go home.

Call the bank.

"You haven't changed that card's PIN"

"I have"

"You haven't"

"I have"

Like the cut and thrust of Descartes challenging Voltaire.

"Where did you change it?"

"At an ATM in Lesmahagow"

"You didn't"

"I don't know the original PIN, but I withdrew funds in New York"

"Yes - I see that. Was that where you changed the PIN?"

"Grrr."

I poked the last needle in the voodoo doll, and returned to Lanark.

ROADWORKS

I reversed and...

went to Lanark.

I collected my goods, and went to the bank to deposit funds.

Note the following points of interest:

1. A queue

2. TWO tellers

3. One of them is doing SFA

4. As per item one.

Home. ROADWORKS. I kid you not - I have consistently forgotten they were there. I did speak to one of the "engineers" about their laissez-faire signage. "Yeah, the police have been on at us as well."

I'll bet they have.

Till next time.

* I'd appreciate it if you would be so kind as to imagine tension-building music at this point.

Sharps, Flats and The Never-Ending Journey

2011-05-17T01:29:00.000+01:00

The last night of Guys and Dolls was a delightful success. Always a bonus when you nab a performer at the interval to check why half their dialogue has gone, ask them: "Is everything OK?" and they gleefully tell you it couldn't be better, unaware of the glaring omissions.

Thumb on the pulse.

Home at 2230, the sky still quite light (that's Scotland for you), off to bed, all ready for the journey to the award ceremony in Swansea.

0900 and we are all set to go. Myself & the lovely Lynn; Emma (DoP) and husband Ali, and not forgetting Vikki, performer in Changed Days, and lead in Crush.

0905, pull in to the kerbside to investigate rumbling noise. Flat tyre. The Saab has a small-scale emergency spare, while we could use this to go to Swansea, the recommended top speed of 40mph would mean we would get there some time on Monday morning.

Plan 1.
Call tyre company who do it all in situ. -- Closed Sunday.
Plan 2.
Change tyre and drive 15 miles to tyre depot to get new tyre. This will take us to around 1030, but will still be okay (close but okay). -- Alloy key has somehow been changed at the last service: the alloy key in the glovebox does not fit the alloy locking nut on the wheel.
Plan 3.
Hire people carrier from Avis. Being a "preferred" member, I assume I will get preferred service. I now deduce that the Avis definition of preferred and mine diverge somewhere; mine meaning "liking one thing better than another" - theirs meaning "get lost, you pain in the arse"

- Shall I give you my preferred number?
- Do you think it will help?
- I rather thought you'd be able to tell me.
- Depends what you want, doesn't it?
- I see.
- Well? What do you want?

Not the best of starts. I explain. Short of time; flat tyre; five people; Swansea; by seven pm.
- We have a Ford Focus? Vauxhall Astra?
- People carrier.
- It's expensive.
- That's fine.
- It's a lot cheaper for the Astra.
- Does the Astra seat five comfortably and their luggage?
- No. Right. I have booked you a Renault Espace (or similar MPV). We don't deliver on a Sunday (of course not), so you'll have to pick it up at Glasgow Airport (roughly 40 miles away).

Off I go. I get a lift to the airport. Into the Avis yard.
- This is for drop off only. Your car is at the pick-up desk at UK arrivals.

Off I go. I get dropped off at the airport and head in.
- A people carrier? I don't think we've got one.
- Yes you do - I've booked it.
To cut a saga down to a long story - they didn't. Of extra joy was the fact that as a preferred customer, I only needed my preferred card, not the paper licence. So when I told Avis to forget it, and went to Europcar, they had a people carrier, but they needed the paper licence.

Plan 3.
Kick someone. I called to get Lynn to return to pick me up. By now it is 1110. I call Emma and suggest she, Ali and Vikki head off in their car (a wee car, hence not using it initially).
Plan 4.
RAC to remove alloy with explosives if necessary, drive to Hamilton for new tyre, head to Swansea. RAC produced an alloy key (which they gave me - huzzah). Wheel was stuck. Mallets were involved. By now it is approaching 1200, so even if we get the wheel fixed and get to Hamilton and if they have the correct tyre in stock, we are not leaving Hamilton till 1330, getting to Swansea around 2030 for a do that starts at 1900.
Plan 5.
Fly - we book online for a 1400 flight to Cardiff. We'll sort out the 40 mile trip from there to Swansea when we arrive. Click "book flights" at 1202.
- You cannot book flights online less than two hours before departure.
Plan 6.
Buy tickets at the airport. Call the airline: yes we can buy tickets at the airport, yes they are available. Off we head. Huzzah. At 1220 Lynn points out that her photo ID is in her house (it had not seemed necessary to take such ID, as usually I don't require it to drive people in my car). We continue, but start on the arithmetic. By the time we detour, collect ID then get to the airport, assuming no traffic, assuming no queue at the ticket desk, we will have less than 10 minutes to get through security - in Glasgow - at the weekend.

There are times when you have to listen as the universe screams: "YOU'RE NOT GOING!!"

Back home, detour via Tesco for food. A twilight moment occurs in the car park.

Obviously the van on the left is appearing through a tear in the fabric of the space/time continuum. In another universe they got to Wales.

In yet another universe they bought a brown loaf instead of a white one.

In yet another reality they didn't forget to buy bloody coffee.

Back to the house, and we settle in and await text reports from the team in Swansea.
The meals:
Swansea:

Starter: Goat's cheese and something on a piece of slate.
The Welsh do love to stick things on a bit of slate. On occasion I see similar here, but it tends to be that the cat has left a dead rodent on a dislodged roof tile.

Main course: Lamb - Another thing the Welsh like to do with sheep....

Dessert: Dougie didn't say. Dougie was too impressed with his dessert to describe it. "Can't text: eating."

Lesmahagow
Classy Banquet:

There is really very little difference.

To get into the festive spirit, I dressed in my tuxedo. No, seriously, I did. We had the odd text come through, and the odd photo. This is a very odd photo:

Vikki and Emma with Joseph Marcell - yes, 'tis he: not only on the board at The Globe, not only a fine and respected Shakespearean actor, but (more importantly for Vikki & Emma) the butler from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

The more observant among you might notice Emma is holding a cat food can, balanced on some black substance (possibly more Welsh slate). Well, the good news is that Changed Days won "Best UK Film Under 60min"

Some photos:

Emma speaks stream of consciousness to prevent Dougie starting his prepared repertoire of Welsh bestiality gags.

Emma shows off the "Tinnie" while Dougie sulks over the gagging tactic, and tries to figure out whether he can get to Cannes to try out his new "surrender monkey" routine.

To be fair - the Swansea Bay Film Festival logo was on the left. It's just chance - happy, happy chance that Dougie is photographed in front of the Gayfest banner.
Honest.
Just like that time he was walking his dog in the park at two in the morning and got his knees mucky.

Well, if it's good enough for Spacey....

Not to be outdone, I gave my acceptance speech, with Socks standing in for the award...

Note the interesting way the cat looks displeased, and I look camp as a row of tents. And yet I still post it. There's a man confident in his proclivity, and a cat plotting revenge (he subsequently vomited on my towel).

I shall leave the blog with the star of the show, whose night it was, and without whom I would not have a film.

...
Or at least, without whom I'd have had a different lead actor.

"This award means so much to me. I'd like to thank the bastard who left the nail in the road; Avis for being incompetent and rude; the garage for swapping my alloy key; and not forgetting George Osborne for being a privileged, isolated, blinkered fud."

G'night.

An Inauspicious Beginning

2011-05-13T22:50:00.001+01:00

I should say that the title does not refer to the opening night of Guys and Dolls in Lanark. The cast were superb, the audience's average age under 73 and the gods kind. Some of the band are faring very well indeed: the guitarist is a handsome young chap (don't you hate him already?), and as such, is being followed by various female cast members with a mixture of dreamy longing and disturbing drool on their faces. I'm not putting in a photo of him, as readers of a gentle disposition may fall over with an attack of the vapours.

Even the cast member - who shall remain nameless - who managed, in the dress rehearsal, to be content with only his elbow lit, actually stood in his light. The ONLY light near him. Having said that, he did manage to wave his arm to block the opposite spot, thus making it appear that someone was making shadow puppets over the face of his co-actor. Why am I nervous having left them alone?

Off first thing to do a recce in Edinburgh. With my having to drive to Wales, I made sure we'd be done and dusted by 1100. Har-de-har-har.
At 1140, I was in a park with these good folk

Awww etc. However sweet they are, I should like to draw your attention to the fact that they are not part of the film crew. Although two of them are in close discussion, probably about the football, or who was a div on the last shoot, while the other is checking the kerbstones for possibilities of either a health and safety violation, or overtime. Or both. So I suppose they might be crew.

Also in the park (since no one turned up till 1200, we visited a park), was an interesting experiment in mass pipe farming.

Quite spread out, but I think they are coming along nicely.

So - they got there, we discussed throwing someone out of a window, and (perversely) securing the same person so they would NOT fall out the window. Dear Auntie BBC- make up your mind.

The recce was to move on to another location, which will necessitate falling off a wall. I waited till I could wait no more, then blithely agreeing to go over to Edinburgh next week (when I have no idea what I'm doing), I headed for Wales.

Manly men and nervous sheep.

This bit is a tad complicated: I'm returning to Lanark for the last night of Guys & Dolls tomorrow. Then on Sunday I'm driving back to Wales for the Awards Dinner. As I'll be heading north quickly tomorrow, and heading south quickly on Sunday, but heading north slowly on Monday, I thought I'd head down the scenic route on Thursday (I said it was complicated).

The initial scenic wonders were unintentional, as I had to cut across country, owing to the last-minute recce. However, after joining the M74, then sampling the delights of the M6, it was very nice indeed to cut across the Welsh countryside.

The last time I was in Wales was perhaps twenty years ago, and I was taken aback by the lack of motorways. How things have changed: I am no longer taken aback by the lack of motorways.

However, crossing the Brecon Beacons has its advantages (unless you're on a Special Forces course, in which case it sucks).

Note the pony taking up a provocatively alluring position, obviously assuming I was Welsh.

Into Jersey Marine, and into the hotel.

The hotel is not in the tower, the tower is in the hotel grounds (hence "Tower Hotel")

Up this morning, breakfasted and asked reception for an iron. I filled the iron with water (steam ironing), and proceeded to pour the contents of the iron over my shirt.

Take two: I emptied the colander/iron, and ironed my second shirt, leaving the first to dry in the wardrobe. I was called by the technician from the festival.

"Do you have a DVD with you?"

"No, I sent BluRays."

"Yes, the BluRay player is dead."

"Ah."

Now I should point out here, that part of the inauspicious beginning (aside from the recce, the iron and the BluRay), was that in New York I'd come across an article on YouTube about the Swansea Bay Film Festival. Not complimentary. While I had misgivings, I also thought that it was more Zen to keep an open mind and see what transpired in situ.

Now - taking the above into account, replay the BluRay conversation.

Got it?

Exactly.

I hurriedly performed ablutions (doesn't sound good, does it?) and headed off. When I got to the screening venue, the technician had organised a replacement BD player, and all was well. See? And there was you, all ready for a disaster. Hmmm.

I have to say that thus far the festival has been well-organised, well-attended (as well as any of them are), and supportive. Go figure.

Changed Days was very well-received, praised highly by the organisers, and by the LA film makers who came to watch it. As did my ex-sister-in-law and Peter. Saying "Peter" is a lot easier than explaining the relationship, as I discovered when I stepped onto the ex-sister-in etc road. Bev & Peter. Both enjoyed it.

We had some lunch, which was passing good. I had faggots...

For the benefit of stateside readers (you know who you are): it's not what you think.

The service was interesting, as Jeanette discovered.

"Can I have a glass of Pinot Grigio?"

"Yes."

2 minutes pass

"Sorry, we don't have Pinot Grigio"

"What White wines do you have?"

"I don't know - I'll check"

This might have seemed reasonable had she returned with a wine list, but she returned with the option of two wines. Two wines they had last night, and that everyone at the table had remembered. We're not in Kansas anymore.

They also had no lamb, salmon, or several other things. As restaurants go, it was very clean. Certainly not contaminated by food.

I drummed up a good audience for Crush, and we had an interesting Q&A after it. Everyone was most complimentary. Success.

Dropped Dougie and Jeanette at their hotel (they had taken the train in from Swansea), and headed to The Tower.

This is it in more light.

Still a tower.

I had dinner in the hotel.

I got over-excited at having cockles and laver bread with welsh rarebit, and as such I forgot to photograph it till later on. The rarebit was okay - cheese on toast. For those smart-bottoms among you who will now say "well, that's all it is" WRONG!!! (that's for Jane McCarry).

Check the recipe: it's more than that, and this wasn't.

The cockles and laver bread were excellent. Very sea.

The wine was (and is, as I type) Bellingham Pinotage/Petit Verdot, and is exceptional. South African.

Main Course-Entrées-Secondi Piatti etc. Rump steak in a tarragon herb crust. I had it rare.

Very arty.

And very far too much.

However, that's where it ends. The steak was bland. Really, really bland. Now the crust was not herby; you can see sprigs of tarragon, but they're not connected to the crust. Unseasoned breadcrumbs round unseasoned, bland meat. They keep harping on about Welsh Beef: I suspect they keep the best specimens for "entertainment" because this was nothing. I've had steaks from highland cattle, and steaks in Paris, where there was no seasoning, but the meat was well-hung (matron), and tasted great. This was dire. Not aided by the gravy (which was from a cube). The comedy bowl of peas was bland, and the sautéed potatoes....

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Anyhow - the films were a great success, my Ken Loach filming dates have altered so I can finish off the NHS anti-smoking film I'm producing, and the company of Dougie & Jeanette and Alison & Eilean was delightful. Bland beef be damned - it's been lovely.

I'm off up the road tomorrow, then on Sunday ... bugger it - just read the convoluted bit above. I have the better part of the bottle of wine. A bit of telly, then to bed with Horace.

Location:Lanark & Edinburgh, Scotland; Brecon Beacons & Port Talbot, Wales

Duck, Peas and Gravy Tonight

2011-05-11T16:40:00.001+01:00

One of the delightful things about a public dress rehearsal, is that it's all things to all people. Audiences don't pay as they would for the show proper, nevertheless they expect a show. The cast know it's not a first night, nevertheless it's a first night.

I had a pleasant morning chatting with Marj Catsitter, before she left. Not only did she leave the house in delightful order - and Socks in pampered delirium, but she also left Swamp Soup and some coffee. I had the soup (cold with sourdough bread) and it was excellent. It was so excellent that I'm afraid it didn't even cross my mind to photograph it until it was not only gone, but the dishes washed. So...

A day of getting ready for the public dress, so tiny bulbs were sought. These were for table candles (candles on tables, as opposed to table-shaped candles). I am now sure I am back in Scotland. Allow me to explain:
This is Lanark (not all of it)....

Note the quaint buildings; the old, narrow streets; the sun hitting the building opposite.

It was sunny across at the building, but where I stood - it was raining.

I found the bulbs, avoided [most of] the rain and headed back to the venue. The venue is The Cartland Bridge Hotel, just outside Lanark. It was not raining at the hotel. Set in beautiful grounds, the hotel resembles a location from a 70s Hammer film.

For those of you too young to remember Hammer films:
1. Bugger off.
2. They did not involve anyone in baggy pants suggesting you refrain from inappropriate contact

For those of you too young to understand the above comments:

1. REALLY bugger off.

2. Look

Indeed - you can't touch this.

The talented Mr Kenny was at the venue when I arrived. After spraying glue over me, he suggested we go to collect more bulbs. These were not small table bulbs - oh no. These were bulbs referred to by lighty people as "lamps".

These were big boy bulbs.

A road trip beckoned; we followed.

Mission accomplished, we rewarded ourselves with a brief stop for coffee. I added to mine some "Millionaire Shortbread"

Why winning the lottery would inspire you to cover a piece of shortbread in caramel and chocolate I'm not sure; I'd be off down the Aston Martin shop.

Nevertheless (today's word?) I salute the gourmet/gourmand winner whose first thought was "Now I'm a millionaire, how can I use my new-found wealth to improve this biscuit product?"

For people in the first camp: The show went well
For those in the second camp: The public dress rehearsal went well.

The show is being staged as a promenade performance, and while the cast coped admirably, and most of the audience was highly complimentary and appreciative, some of the more diehard Lanark folk were confused to the point of fear, and regarded people walking, talking, singing near them with the sort of horror reserved for a nineteenth century missionary observing a fertility rite.

I was especially impressed by the half-witted couple who sat at the back and talked loudly about what was going on. It's not television, and you're not interesting.

Nevertheless (see?), all in all a success - we shall see what tonight brings.

My good friend and Swedish Dramaturge - Hanna Slättne informed me she was in the country (she actually informed me she'd dreamt of my kitchen, but subsequent elucidation led to the location information).

As she is at the Tron with Tinderbox Theatre's new production "Everything Between Us" (go see it at the Tron in Glasgow this week), and as I had a meeting just round the corner with the jolly Sallie Aprahamian, who is directing Lip Service, we decided to lunch at Ichiban.

Again, the meal was so good, and the conversation so entertaining that I'm afraid I neglected to photograph either my Aigamo-Rosu Bento (duck) or Hanna's Chicken Udon Soup.

The photograph of the [empty] restaurant above will have to do.

Better still - go! Ichiban

Tomorrow brings a recce for the BBC's Pram Face, then off to Swansea Bay Film Festival.

Luck, Be a Lady Tonight.....

....perhaps an attractive sheep tomorrow.

The Return of the Thing

2011-05-10T09:53:00.001+01:00

When I started this blog, it was meant as a journal of sorts, taking note of things - events and people filmic. I didn't realise it would turn out to be more of an epicurean digest (pun intended). With that in mind, I should include the return flight meal - a section missing from the outward leg.

While parked, Horace Nelson and I enjoyed a wee bit champagne and a stretch of the legs. After we levelled out, I went for the VOD, however, I suspect that Video On Polite Request would have worked a bit better. I started watching The Green Hornet, paused the film to chat to the steward on the [vital] matter of Gordon's or Tanqueray, only to find the film refused to restart, or to give any options other than a cartoon of a plane crossing the earth.

I have Nelson at the ready, as the screen at the top of the photo, is resolutely defying me. However...

...it was worth the glitch.
The steward was delightfully helpful, and went off several times to reset my seat's screen. For the first hour or so, my in-flight entertainment consisted of "Please wait..." and "The option you have chosen is not available"
Dinner arrived - I plumped for a mozzarella and lentil salad (as I write this, I realise I have left the menu onboard, so definitions may be vague)

The salad was nice, and came with (little bottle behind the plate) a chilli dressing. Do not panic (if such was your reaction) at the dessert to the left; I left it till after the beef

which was quite nice, but a tad well-done. I have to add that the wine was grand. A lovely Bordeaux, with a seemingly limitless supply. The dessert was a layer cake with berries. The content of the layers is, I'm afraid, consigned to the menu-onboard excuse.

As recompense for my missing film, my brandy was (I was assured) stolen from 1st. I'm going with that, as it was really good. Obscenely good.

The gods of timing (Chronos & Chums?) smiled on me, and no sooner was the tray cleared, and the brandy and coffee set down, than my screen burst into action.

The Green Hornet - while not great, was certainly above average for the current glut of faltering comic book transitions to the screen. It was very nice to see a Marvel character in the hands of Michel Gondry. A definite twist to the usual fare. It might not always have worked, but I did find myself making noises that might have seemed inappropriate in a darkened cabin at 0400. Also a joy to get more of Christoph Waltz. Genius.

We landed on time, and with nearly four hours to kill, I popped into Huxleys in Heathrow. The food was alright, but the service: excellent. The server couldn't have been more helpful, more chatty or more solicitous. Is this really Britain? I shall wait till I land in Glasgow to see whether aliens have truly taken over, or whether this is a one-off, and service is, once again pants.

A real delight, aside from apparently doing some mind-reading on the matters of OJ or coffee refills, was the genuinely amenable attitude to accepting foreign currency. I know it should be a matter of course in an international airport, but try it in Glasgow.

The wait for the flight to Glasgow was not too bad at all. Horace left the Mediterranean under a cloud, but regained his reputation through fine and decisive action in Copenhagen. Horace makes the time fly.

Terminal 5 on a Sunday morning has a feel reminiscent of either Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, or an episode of Logan's Run

If you lick all the cups in the ceiling, it lowers and sticks to the floor.

I was collected at Glasgow by the lovely Lynn, and fed coffee. Then straight to rehearsals for Guys and Dolls, which opens Wednesday (public dress on Tuesday). Highly jolly, very nice seeing the cast, interesting as to what had radically changed while I was galavanting. I put it all back. Harrumph.

Got back too tired to continue the blog in any meaningful fashion (not that I have assumed it was meant to be meaningful in an esoteric fashion; simply that it should have words and grammar pertinent to the English language, and this was not going to happen). Dinner was prepared by the delightful Marj - cat-sitter extraordinaire.

The sausages (they are deftly hidden under butter beans) are vegetarian, and were very good indeed. The wine (deftly hidden down my throat) was ruddy excellent.

The next day was very Scottish indeed. We brunched at a garden centre in the middle of rural Lanarkshire.

Highly aware of my good fortune in the scenery department. And brunch was different fare from that of the past three or four weeks: on showing this photograph to Marj, she asked whether mine was the bacon roll, or the roll and sausage. With not a little chagrin, I had to point out that in the photo, you can see Lynn's roll. My brunch was BOTH rolls.

I plead jet lag.

Off to rehearsals, and it was actually more of a getting things in order. I thought to dress the area with large plastic plants. A drive through the Clyde Valley produced an amenable garden centre manager, and two big plants on loan.

These are they - crammed (delicately) into the back of the car. As God intended.

Next: dinner....

in my defence:
1.Rehearsals - no time.
2. Late - nothing open*
3. Scotland
4. Jet lag¥

* this is a lie
¥ this is irrelevant.

A reasonable run-through ( fired on my part by ginger beer and a haggis supper), then, once everyone had left, Dale (lx) and I were plotting the lights until 0245.

I came downstairs to a cup of coffee! Marj leaves today. Boo hiss.

Location:Atlantic Ocean