decemberwords

A few words on the subject

The collected

ill-informed drivel

Richard Asplin

December 2009

A few words on tea, cake and Maggie Philbin

7th Dec 2009

Good morning most. Hoping you’re all lovely. Well, I know you are. You’re here, after all.

It’s been tremendously busy since we last spoke. Like a man measuring his height with liquorice, I’ve been up to all sorts. A dinner, a party, shopping spree, a haircut, a new fashion discovery, some movies. Plus I managed to squeeze a birthday in quickly too.

But first up, the event that has been called by Twittering folk “brilliant” “our best yet” “very entertaining” and “I had a nice time.”

It was the Windsor Fire Station Bookswap.

Firstly up, a thankyou to all the fine people of Windsorville (and an even bigger thankyou to those not residing a pebble’s-fling from the royal town but biffed along anyway) who turned up on the 26th Nov for the event. You lot completely made it what it was and without you it would have been frankly awkward and embarrassing. As well as nauseating as we would have had to have eaten all the cake ourselves.

Those who missed it I’m sure had other fun things to do however here’s a round up.

I had no real notion of what to expect of a Book Swap set in a firestation when I hungrily accepted Scott Pack’s kind invitation. In the stark echo of my imagination I pictured a draughty church-hall sort of affair. Maybe trestle tables, maybe biscuits and tea from a large catering urn. With people sitting about in their coats chatting in cliques. Maybe a speech or a short talk/reading by Scott or a guest. With owlish bookfolk meandering around in bad knitwear making polite chat and swapping copies of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin for some Alice Sebold and vice versa.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The event itself (a monthly do) takes place in a studio area with tiered seating and a small stage, more akin to experimental theatre. The stage has a comfy couch, two chairs and a table laden with tea making facilities and cake eating tools. The audience – by and large women (by which I don’t mean bi women and large women, I mean mostly women) – a bunch of trendsome bookish sophisticates with no doubt tickets to Hay and memberships to the South Bank and Friends Of The Royal Academy cluttering up their bags in between things torn out of The Guide and Waterstones magazine.

Scott Pack (book brain behind TheFridayProject and Meandmybigmouth and Marie Phillips (author of Gods Behaving Badly) wander out and introduce guest authors who then come and slouch on the squashiest couch in the world. Tea and cake is served and then one of 4 things happen interchangeably for the next 2 hours plus fag break.

Amiable hosts will ask the authors a question, and the authors will have to amuse and entertain both all and/or sundry with ad-libbed quips, anecdotes, badinage and raconteurism. Like an episode of Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned without less focus on football and more on favourite fish.

Scott or Marie will pluck a question from the cleverly named “question jar” that has been pre-filled with the queries of the audience so the paying hoards get to find out what sort of eggs the authors like.

Scott will dish out homemade cake.

The audience will, with varying levels of bashfulness and bravado, attempt to interest their peers with the book they have brought along (a mixture of enthusing, gushing and reading the back blurb) in the hope of swapping it for something less awful instead.

For reasons passing understanding, the entire event is Twittered live and uncensored by some poor fool who’s been talked into clattering into a laptop for 2 hours on a Thursday night – you can try and make sense of the commentary here.

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, frankly. It’s the nearest I’ll get to being on a panel show (which makes me sound like John Tuturro in Quiz Show – a reference I’m not expecting anyone to get. Quiz Show? Movie, starring Ralph Fiennes about the cheating scandal in the 50s? Directed by Robert Redford and was almost the big break out movie for the guy who played Doctor Fleishman in Northern Exposure – Rob Morrow – but then wasn’t? Stick it on your Love Film account or whatever you kids do. I recommend).

The audience were charming and sexy and very understanding and seemed to take to my not very unique brand of shouty sarcasm. The audience also ate up the charming tuna-based conversation of co-guest Robert Hudson. I swapped a copy of Nick Hornby’s latest nonsense for a hardback of the new Adrian Mole, so the whole event was worth the trek before I’d even opened my stupid mouth to shout about 2012 or Myra Hindley.

Some “tweets” on the event suggested it was the best one yet. Which is flattering. However some tweets say things like “right, that’s it, you can all fuck off, I’m going home – love S.Fry” so I guess they’re to be taken with a skipload of salt.

I was also interviewed by the ever so charmful Melanie Gow for her webular site Beat – my drivelsome whitterings on subjects as assorted as two subjects that have nothing in common can be found here by those foolish to wade in.

Anyhow, that was that. A lovely evening. Especially as I had the next day off work. And the day after that was my 37th birthday. Joy in a bundance.

More soon. Keep well.

Love to all

What ho gang and suchforth. As far as my mailing list shows, there are about 30 of you out there receiving drivelsome updates in your inbox. So thirty wotchas I give to you, one each. If there are more than that, some of you are going to have to share one between two. Don’t fight over them. Pull your chair over. That’s it. Don’t be shy. There we are.

A few things today I’ve been wanting to get off the chest.

Number onely, I had a birthday. It was a couple of weeks ago now, but I haven’t had a free moment to sit and bash this out. A voluminous “thanks everyone” (“theveryone” – a Look Around You reference no-one will get) who was involved in making it lovely. I am now the fresh young age of thirty seven. This is annoying for the following reasons:

I am not young. I used to be young. In fact I was once hailed as a “blue chip young novelist” for Chrissakes. I am no longer able to be described this way. This saddens me, ever so slightly.

There are now things I cannot do. Not because I’m not able, or fit or pecunirous. But some – like learn to ride a motorcycle – that now smack rather horribly of “mid-life crises”. Growing a ponytail and buying leather trousers are also on this list.

Thirty seven is the amount of men that were on the receiving (or “enjoyable”) end of blow-jobs given by Dante Hicks’ girlfriend in the 1994 Kevin Smith debut “Clerks.” In the movie it becomes something of a catchprase and the foul-mouthed yet adorable Randall shouts “thirty seven?!” when he sees her. So every time I get an enquiry about my age, I am forced to think about fictional blow-jobs. Nice.

Anyhap, I was thoroughly spoiled by kith and brethren. And then I went out and thoroughly spoilt myself.

Now. 37 is about the age to take oneself in hand, as I believed I’ve mentioned so I thought I would give you all an up to date summary of how this is going so you can gasp and wonder and let your mind wander to figuring out what exactly it is about the squashy faced square jawed boss-eyed joke-dodger Helen Lederer that made her famous? Where did she come from? And why? And will she go back? And is the idea of her naked in the stage version of “Calendar Girls” as nauseating as I imagine? Anyway. Back to me, obviously.

1. Still not smoking. I am terribly pleased about this. It has now been 198 days since my last Camel Light. I feel better for it, I think. Less wheezy. And I no longer feel the need to clear my throat with an “a-hhhechm” every two minutes, which used to annoy me while trying to watch The Shield.

2. Still not drinking. Now this is a fairly new development, drivel fans, and needs a little explanation.

My maddening predisposition for bi-polarity that was diagnosed officially about 3 years-ish ago means my mood is never particularly stable. It don’t take much to plunge me into a pit of existential despair (usually triggered by something like losing an Internet connection or not taping Harry Hill). Or alternatively, to have me bouncing off the walls with new-project Christmas-Day glee, (triggered by a nice cup of coffee or remembering the themes to Jigsaw). I am medicated for such things so can steady my keel across the weekly waters without too much of a peaky-trough-fest.

It would appear that the text books are correct however and alcohol is something of a whatever-the-word-is for my meds and after booze-unit #2 (what frank Zappa would have called his son if he’d been Minister for Health) the synapses begin to misfire and I become not much fun to be around (and less fun to actually be). This all came to a head at a recent birthday party – thus spoiling it for me and my nearests – so I am conducting an experiment based on removing alcohol from myself.

I’m on day 23. Which might not sound like long, true. Howe’er in that time I’ve had

a book event

a comedy night

two birthdays (including my own)

a pub quiz

a poker night

a work drink

two work Christmas parties

Christmas dinner

An otherwise boozy lunch.

So I think I can feel pretty good about that. I’ll let you know how the experiment works out.

3. I am now on Phase 2 of my much advertised Guardian "British Army Fitness Guide".

I know, I know. But look. I am in terrible shape.

My wedding photos show no discernable gap between my round, bony chin (I have such a bony round half-circle u-shape chin. Why did nobody ever tell me? It’s like a cartoon chin) and my collar bone. It all just sort of undulates in a pasty pale doughy mush of lardy middle-agedness.

I also have a pot belly. Yes, I can admit this at last. I can grab the pasty fucker with both hands. It hangs over my belt. If I look down, naked, I can’t see my feet. CAN’T SEE MY FEET! Like in a comedy. Where are my feet? I don’t know? It’s possible I can’t see them because I can’t look down properly, due to my thick white-bread rubber-ring chins getting in the way of my neck of course. But either way, not good. None of this waist-line stuff helped by the fact my jeans are all either 32” or (thank fuck) my one pair of 34”. But I swear (and I’m going to check right now,) if I relax and measure my waist properly in its largest point, it comes to 38”. I mean fuckinell. When did this happen? I know that’s my belly, rather than my waist, but should there be that much difference?

Anyway, this hangs over my 32” jean tops in a Jeremy Clarkson belt of middle-aged pie-and-chips-ness and it was time it was taken in hand.

Oh and moobs. I’m not going to pretend. I like to think that the fact my chesticles are clearly defined under my shirt makes my like Superman or Vic Mackey. But it’s not due to powerful pecs. Just droopy pale pointy moobs with spidery pubey hairs around nips.

And last June, when I quit smoking, I decided I’d had enough, frankly. Maybe it was being married? Maybe it’s regular nudity? Maybe it’s staring at the approaching 40s? I don’t know.

So anyway, I got this book. It’s really old school. Real white t-shirt, white-shorts, plimsolls and brylcreem stuff. Breaks down into 3 12-week programs that – apparently – if you can complete – will bring you to the fitness level of a British Soldier. Hopefully without the matching intellect. And I don’t have to get a tattoo, read The News Of The World or beat up my wife to qualify.

Have completed the first program (things like: Warm-up / 1min plank / 1 min bridge / 20 twist sit-ups / 20 dorsal raises / 20 forward lunges / 20 standard squats / stretch of major muscles). These refer to exercises, rather than having to lie down and pretend to be a plank, or going to look at a bridge.

Anyhow, I proudly did as the book told me and measured my progress. You’ll be not very interested to learn that, after 6 months (should have been 3 months) of sweating in Kennington Park, I have

not lost an inch around the middle

not lost a single pound in weight

I can however now, if required, in an emergency, do a press-up for the first time in my fucking life. So that’s useful.

Sheesh.

Mental health is steadying itself also. (possibly due to the tee-totalism). As always, I am most content and full of get-up-and-glee when I have lots to do and I’m getting it done.

The new novel “PSYCHE” is cracking along. A page a day, 5 days a week. A good achievable target. Here is an extract of some notes I have made for your anticipation. Very rough. Just sketchy ideas. But you get the picture.

This site is getting updated on a weekly-ish basis which is I guess has settled into an achievable and acceptable thing. Not bothering your inbox too much I hope.

Have just got my guitars back from Denmark Street’s finest luthier, plus a couple of fine “advanced Rockabilly Guitar” DVDs so I plan to spend my winter twanging away like a backwoods pluck-hungry hick.

Oh and lastly, as threatened, portmanteaus (portmanti?). Have you seen the posters for “St Trinians 2 – The Legend Of Frittons Gold.”

Couple of things. Firstly, thank Christ there’s a part two. SO much was left unanswered by the first movie. Such as…

Hmm.

But more importantly, is it just me or does “Fritton’s Gold” sound like shorthand for gold belonging to Fern Britton?

Just me, then.

Enjoy your day, munchkins

Love to all

A few words on portliness, port and portmanti

15th Dec 2009