King Arthur lives!

A story on the BBC website today reports that a Pagan campaigner protesting for better access to Stonehenge is being evicted from the site. (see link below)

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/wiltshire/8022291.stm

King Arthur Pendragon (the guy actually changed his name to this in 1976 by deed pole) has been staying in a caravan near the site since last summer in order to maintain his protest.

You have to check out the story, if only to see a picture of the protester (real name John) who looks like he's just walked off the pages of Beowulf, complete with grey beard and ceremonial robes.

While public access to historic sites is a very serious debate, I couldn't help but smile as I sipped my morning coffee and read about poor John, ummm, I mean King's plight.

Not only do I love the exentricity of it all, but the very idea that if the man who spawned the King Arthur legend were to return incarnate I'd like to think he would be fighting for justice, peace and the rights of the common man, not living like a hobo in a caravan outside some old ruins in the English countryside.

Good on you though King!

When Annie came to visit

Little Pinch spent the night in the big city last night, in my spare room to be exact.

It was lovely to see her and nice to think we could help out on her long trip across the country and over to Ireland by providing a warm bed and a hot shower.

I don't think she'll mind if I say she was tired. I was tired having not finished work till 9pm that evening.

I wanted to make it a big, special night in our nation's capital. I should have taken her to the Millennium Stadium or for a walk around the flood-lit castle walls. We should have stood, shoulder to shoulder, at the water's edge down The Bay looking out across the inky black sea of possibilities a capital city has to offer.

Instead we fed her cheese and bacon sandwiches and Easter egg, sat on the sofa and chatted as she learnt to play Green Green Grass of Home on her guitar. But, maybe, that is the real spirit of Cardiff.

We'll do the castle and all that tourist crap next time Annie, I promise.

Doesn't anyone have a fresh idea?

While waiting for my morning coffee to cool I read today that plans are afoot for an operatic version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

It's going to be called The Golden Ticket, and is due to premiere in St Louis, USA, in June 2010 (Video on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh7GvGoiTtY).

Now Roald Darl was my childhood hero. I grew up listening to and reading the adventures of Danny the Champion of the World, George and his marvellous medicines and all the other fantastical and magical characters Roald brought to life.

But an opera? Really? I am sure it will be a very lavish and well-adapted production, the Gene Wilder film of the 70s was great fun (sorry Johnny, but you just didn't cut the mustard as Willy), but isn't there a producer or financier out there with the balls to back something NEW?

I am sure there are plenty of new writers bursting for a chance to see their work come to life, and I'm also sure that the late, great Mr Darl would be happy to see that new talent (perhaps inspired to become a writer/film-maker/producer having grown up reading his books) given their chance to shine.

Sweaty airplane and Haggis

The job of a journalist is basically poking their noses where nobody wants them and asking all the questions everyone else in society has too much moral conscience to ask.

We are vilified and championed in equal measure (yes, there really are people who think that a free media is the cornerstone of a democratic society, and no, they are not all journalist lecturers).

Part of the job is also, sometimes, reviewing things for the paper/magazine/website/radio show you work for. In line with this I am going to Scotland this week to walk in the beautiful hills and sample the delights of local cuisine.

I have dusted off my 1950's style rimmed hat complete with little white card tucked under the ribbon which reads "PRESS" and am ready to venture over Hadrian's Wall to see what tempting treats the Scottish tourist board can offer.

I have sumptuous visions of me standing by a windswept loch, the clouds swirling overhead like rich cream in a thick, sweet sauce, whipping out my pad from my grey Lois Lane trenchcoat which is churning around my legs, licking the end of a pencil before hovering it above the paper and asking; "So what's on the menu tonight, Haggis or deep fried mars bar?"

I think they may not be inviting me back.

How time flies

Gosh, I hadn't realised it had been so long since my last post!

This is always the difficulty with blogging, you go through weeks where you have something to post every day - several times a day sometimes - then some weeks the 'real world' takes over and internet land has to take a back seat.

Last week, for example, two friends had babies. A boy and a girl respectively*.

So I have been busy buying cute cards and toys and standing in BHS wading through racks of miniature outfits with embroidered rabbits on and then travelling around the country to gush as the little tikes dribble their sick down my new top.

* I mean that one boy baby and one girl baby were born, not that one of my two friends was a boy - now that would be worth posting about.

Deer Heads and Chips

I finished work last night, ran to a nearby bar and changed into jeans, a top and nice shoes (in the toilet obviously, not in the middle of the bar) and did my make up and put my hair up.

Then I went up to the bar and ordered a coke which I downed in one (I'd been in the loo for about 20 minutes, the least I could do was buy a drink - although I won't be going back to that bar in a hurry, I don't want them to think "oh, there's the woman with bowl problems"!)

The venue was lovely, a very middle-class wine bar/cubby hole of a place with fairy lights on the walls and a deer's head mounted above a tiny nook fire with a red Ikea lamp in the grate.

The night was a mix of music, comedy and poetry - although I would say most acts were poetry, roughly every other. I was a bit flustered owing to the rush from work to get there, plus the event was the first one the organiser had put on so it was a bit disorganised. There was no discernible set list, so I was on the edge of my seat at the end of each set not knowing if I'd be next up or not. But I still managed to enjoy it - I think.

I wasn't drinking as I was driving which was a bit of a shame because there was a huge group of office workers there all from the same company and when they drunkenly mobbed me after my set I felt a little out of tune with their staggering, slurred enthusiasm.

Still, I sold a few booklets of my work which paid for my sausage and chips on the way home.

Set list crisis and stage fright

So my next gig is tomorrow night. It's a "night for the unpublished" and will include other comic poets, comics, music and some spoken word stuff.

The organiser tells me they've had lots of interest for slots, which is both great and terrifying news. The good news is that with lots of interest in slots it means the whole event has been pretty well publicised, and as it's free there will probably be lots of people there. The down side is that with lots of interest in slots it means the whole event has been pretty well publicised, and as it's free there will probably be lots of people there.

Eek. I don't have very long on stage, about five minutes in fact, so the question is what do I go for? I have some really crude "shocker" poems which always go down a storm at pub and club gigs, but also some more weighty poems of actual literary merit as well as *hilarious* content that always go down well at poetry and literary events.

What will they want tomorrow? How many people will be there? Will they laugh with me or at me?

It's nearly enough to drive me back to the fags!