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Stanley McHale is a single man rapidly approaching thirty who loves and dreams of the same things he did when he was seventeen. But the band was never formed, the novel never finished, and the ill-chosen career in stand-up comedy is giving him more headaches than headlines. With the self-imposed deadline of his thirtieth birthday to either make an international success of himself or go and work in Woolworths, why not pull yourself up ringside seats for the tragically inevitable descent into mania and psychosis by reading his increasingly inane, pedantic, desperate, harrowing and wretched daily diary. It'll make you feel a whole lot better about yourself.

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April 2006 Archives

Sunday 30th April 2006

Posted by on April 30, 2006 12:26 PM

You’ve got to love the French, really you do. Like a vast swathe of the continent, they’ve mastered the fine art of doing nothing. It’s more prevalent the further South you go, but even in northern France, Paris for example, people will be far more unoccupied than we ever seem to be. The think the secret lies in the philosophy that sat idly having a coffee or glass of wine IS doing something. It’s sitting down having a coffee or a glass of wine. They are correct.

table wine.jpg

I was enjoying a bottle of red by the old port here in Marseilles at lunchtime and found myself considering the other characteristics of the French. Here’s a truism, they have a problem with crossing the road. Rather, they find crossing the road very easy, but crossing the road whilst avoiding the risk of a fatal accident far harder. There’s a pedestrian crossing yards from where I’m currently sat, and already there have been countless near misses. The problem seems to be that the motorists don’t know there’s a crossing marked on the road (to be fair, it’s very faint and there are no other signs) and so don’t think to watch out for people stepping into the road, but the pedestrians are perfectly aware there is one and nothing will stop them using it, even if a car is speeding towards them. This causes the cars to screech to a halt (literally, in two cases today) and the driver to gesticulate angrily at whomever has just stepped casually into their path.

Interestingly, the pedestrians never put up a hand of apology or even hurry on their way, but just continue to drift across. It’s the French thing of asserting their rights. It’s their right to cross the road, and so they’re going to enforce that right, even if it kills them. Which is just might. The French love standing up for their rights; it’s why their default setting is standing on a barricade or being on strike.

The motorists know they have a right to drive down the road, the pedestrians know they have the right to cross it. And herein lies the problem. It’s one big battle of wills.

Saturday 29th April 2006

Posted by on April 29, 2006 11:56 AM

Whenever I travel by air, I always wear a suit. If you’re travelling long haul on a proper airline it boosts your slim chance of an upgrade, but today I was travelling on Easyjet and they only have one class, rubbish class, and so what you wear doesn’t come into play. But I’d still wear a suit when travelling on Easyjet or any other budget carrier because it’s not even about the journey – it’s about the arriving. If you arrive anywhere in a suit you’re pretty much set for anything. You can go out for a meal, you can cut a dash along the promenade, you can dump your bags at the hotel and immediately hit the tiles. Obviously don’t wear a suit that someone in a call centre might wear – clad yourself in a well cut travelling suit.

The other very valid reason for dressing smartly for travel is that there was a time, not so very long ago, when everyone did. You turned up for your flight, or your ship, looking your best. Now people will turn up in anything. Some will even turn up in sports wear. This is entirely unacceptable unless you’re representing an international sports team or your country at a sports meeting. At Liverpool airport today, some gents had chosen to travel to the continent wearing hats and T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘England’. Oh they’ll know where you’re from alright… They’ll take one look at your bald head as you stumble around complaining of the heat looking for a full fry-up that you’re from England. There’s no need to advertise the fact further.

So I arrived in Marseilles this afternoon, dumped by bags, and went out looking for adventure. There’s a great way to get to know a new city and it’s people well if you’re a stranger – get drunk in it. That way you don’t really have to search out anything, everything will search out you.

Friday 28th April 2006

Posted by on April 28, 2006 11:54 AM

Deadline day, and I made the mistake of underestimating it. By evening, the book would have to be finished and e-mailed to New York, but I reasoned that there wasn’t really that much more to do apart from some smartening up. The editing is all done, a second draft all printed out, and today’s creation of a third draft would mainly be cosmetic.

So I had my hair cut in the morning, made my way home quite leisurely, had a spot of lunch, and finally began to work at about 2pm. I’d promised it to be in Byrd’s inbox by 7pm, our time. But this was naïve and stupid of me, because the afternoon just threw up problem after problem, with more and more to get done. Then I started re-writing sections like an idiot. I won’t bore you. But it got sent at about 7.40. I was astonished to find that I’d actually broken into a sweat over the final 30 minutes.

And so that’s it for now – job done. 417 pages, over 101,000 words. Signed, sealed, delivered.

He’s going to read it over the weekend and get back to me early next week. And then of course I’ll be able to forget about being a writer and get a bar job. The finality will be a relief.

I celebrated the completion of this pointless project by going to see a band at The Barfly. I was walking down Seel Street last week when saw their poster, and was immediately attracted because it contained a photo of a train, and I like trains. I like trains a lot. And so clearly do this band, because they care called I Like Trains. How could I not go and see them?

Thursday 27th April 2006

Posted by on April 27, 2006 11:52 AM

Leaving my flat this evening I was stopped by a large man standing by the lift.

“Do you know where number 38 is?� he asked.

The numbering system of flats in my building is the work of a mad man and so this was quite a poser.

“38? Um, the thing is it’s quite a complicated system. There are five floors but you can only access certain floors using certain lifts and the numbers seem to be quite random sometimes.�

“I know!� he said, scratching his big bald head, “It’s a nightmare.�

“I think it might be on the second floor.� I offered and he got in the lift with me to descend to it.

The lift in my building is the slowest in existence according to the Guinness Book Of Records and so we had quite a time for a chat on the way down.

“It’s a mad system.� I continued. “I know a bloke who lives in this building, his flat number is twenty higher than mine, but when I went to visit him for the first time the other day I got lost and eventually had to call him. There no rhyme or reason to it. But I’m pretty sure 38 is on the second floor.�

“Good. She’ll be surprised to see me at her door!� he chuckled.

“Oh.� I laughed, slightly disconcerted. “Not a murderer are you!�

“No. I’m a bailiff.�

The door opened at the 2nd floor, he thanked me, and got out. I was annoyed that I had helped a man toward ruining some woman’s day / year. I know he’s only doing a job, but I suddenly felt sullied that I was now in some way part of him knocking on this woman’s door.

Wednesday 26th April 2006

Posted by on April 26, 2006 2:02 PM

I forgot to give you yesterday’s morning cocktail recipe – curse my eyes. I also know I’ve not updated you on the infilling of the dock of late and will publish some pictures of their progress very soon. Just you rest easy now, this site will remain the premier site for Dock News. I’d have it no other way.

Today’s morning cocktail was an interesting little number and contained the following;

325ml Pineapple Juice
325ml Orange Juice
7 Strawberries
1 large carrot
1 pear
2 red apples
1 banana

I think I’ll call it ‘The Shamen’, because like the popular early 90’s dance troupe, I could ‘Move Any Mountain’ after drinking one of these beauties.

Today I woke up with an uncommonly wretched hangover and decided to go and sweat it out with some football. I’ve grown to like meandering around Sefton Park’s lake idly kicking a ball along as I go, but this was going to take a more severe effort on my part and so it was down to Sports World on the Speke Industrial estate to get some new boots, a new ball, and a goal that cost £7.

The boots were an extravagance but I need a new pair. Mine have got all hard and decayed after years of inactive service. And no doubt things have moved on in the world of football boot manufacture – I was sure to be a better player with new footwear. That much was a definite and had nothing to do with evil advertisers putting the idea into my head. It was also logic, not advertising executives sitting in their evil castle, that told me a more expensive pair of new boots would make me a better player than a new pair of modestly priced boots. The salesman agreed with me. We were both right.

Tuesday 25th April 2006

Posted by on April 25, 2006 10:38 AM

I drove Michelle into work this morning, thus performing the school run, and then again went to the park and kicked my deflated football around as I made a meandering lap of the lake. It really is the most civilized way to start the day and if I time it right I miss the majority of the traffic on the return leg of the school run and make it back home without biting lumps out of the steering wheel in frustration.

I got a bit of work done this morning but was soon out again to meet T-A for a lunchtime pint and pick up a French CD off of her. We’re both big fans of a language teacher called Michel Thomas and both own his eight CD French course but my third CD has gone missing. My French is about third CD standard and so that’s annoying – I wanted to brush up before going to Marseille on Saturday. T-A was at the pub but the CD wasn’t, she can’t find hers either. She can find every one of the eight apart from number three. There seems to be a conspiracy.

If you bump into any dodgy looking people in the Liverpool area with a basic grasp of the French language, but not too good, about three CD standard, let me know – they have our discs.

Myself and T-A used to be, a-hem, involved, and I took her to Nice on a date once. I’d bought this course before I went to learn French in secret and therefore impress her when we arrived by chatting away to the taxi driver in his tongue. I tell you, it does the trick.

Oh yes.

Not with the taxi driver I hasten to add.

Monday 24th April 2006

Posted by on April 24, 2006 10:03 AM

Today’s morning cocktail was the same Pillow Cooler that I made yesterday, because I’d not been shopping and didn’t have any other ingredients about, but I did add some honey which had a pleasing effect. The serious blending will start tomorrow. To that end, I went into town today and bought some fruit in readiness. Nothing too outrageous – we’re going to take this a step at a time. But a decent blend of flavours I hope. Tune in tomorrow to see what became of it all.

Perhaps, if I practice for years, I’ll become some sort of master blender, a little like master whiskey makers in Scotland, and will have a special certificate I could put in my kitchen to prove to guests that when it comes to blending up fruit into a refreshing drink, I’m a bona fide expert in the field. Then their faces will look impressed. I wonder who would judge such a bold claim? Perhaps there’s some sort of smoothie university you can go to and take a course. There probably is in Australia, the spiritual home of the smoothie. That’s what they study out there, not science or literature. Such things mean nothing to an Australian. All they want to know about is surfing and smoothies, the only two subjects taught in Australian schools. And criminology, which is their version of ‘history’. Ha-Ha. I made a joke.

So after I’d bought my fruit I was walking through Williamson Square and saw quite a few people sat around on the new, funky wooden benches that have been installed at a cost of £97,000,000,000. I was headed for the taxi rank but thought ‘no, these people are right. It’s nice to just sit in a square, even a drab and in desperate need of further regeneration square, and just watch the world go by for a few minutes’. So I did the same.

The fountains in Williamson Square have been a big hit and it is quite pleasant to idly watch them. The individual fountains alternate in height and shape and so you can happily watch them go through their different cycles – it’s nice enough. It’s not Rome, you understand. It’s not the calming and charming water feature you might find in a Venetian courtyard, but it’s North West England’s version and it’s good enough for us.

Sunday 23rd April 2006

Posted by on April 23, 2006 2:32 PM

I made my first smoothie this morning, trying to act on the idea I had yesterday rather than it being another notion that’s good in theory but never put into practice. It was a triumph. It was a very simple recipe because I didn’t have much fruit around the place, but here it is.

Approx 700ml fresh orange juice, not from concentrate.
1 x large banana.
2 x green apples.
3 x baby carrots.

I know a carrot isn’t a fruit, and I was unsure if I should risk them, but they added a bit of bite to the drink and were a welcome addition. I think I shall call this seminal first ‘morning cocktail’ The Pillow Cooler, because just the thought of making it got me up this morning.

Why not make yourself a Pillow Cooler tomorrow and see how your day pans out?

The good thing about this drink is it gives you all the fruit and veg The British Board Of Sell Lots Of Fruit And Veg recommend you eat every day, following on from yesterday’s theme. I can’t see that blending the fruit up into a frothy drink makes any difference, so you can feel righteous about yourself too. It’s a winner.

I think I’ll make myself a new smoothie every morning, noting the recipe each time, and never once consult a smoothie recipe book. Therefore I will be entering brave new territory every morning, going off road if you like, and will soon have concocted the perfect Morning Cocktail (that sounds better than ‘smoothie’ – less Australian surfer slang) which will be unique to the world because if you do something randomly you greatly decrease the chances of anyone else having done it. Obviously someone’s made a Pillow Cooler before because it’s very simple, but you wait – you wait and see what I’ve got in store. We’re going to go Morning Cocktail mental over the next few weeks. And of course some days we’ll be mixing up some alcoholic ones – why not? If it’s a non-work day I’m sure there’s no law against adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that. It will get the day off to a flier.

Hold tight!

Saturday 22nd April 2006

Posted by on April 22, 2006 3:37 PM

Neither dressed or left the flat today, embroiled as I was in reading the first draft of ‘It’ and taking a red pen to all the early chapters which are disappointing and are going to need a compete revision – as you already know all too well. It’s encouraging to know that there as many distractions to be found around the place when editing a manuscript (which I must start describing it as – it’s not a book at all yet, it’s a manuscript) as there are writing one.

The internet is a constant, obviously. It sits there quietly in the corner, toying with you. It’s saying ‘You can sit there with your old fashioned pen and paper all you like, pretending to work, but what you really want is right here. You want to have a go on Google Earth don’t you? Well why not? Five minutes isn’t going to hurt anyone.’

It’s evil. I’d disconnect it at the wall if I… could.

I’ve found the kitchen takes on a new and magical allure when there’s other things to be done. I’ll go to the fridge and have a good look in that every ten minutes. I’ll eat some of my pumpkin seeds. Ah, we’ve not covered the pumpkin seeds as yet have we? Seeing as I’m struggling to write anything about a dull day I might as well tell you about my dietary habits, which changed for the better quite considerably about two months ago.

Friday 21st April 2006

Posted by on April 21, 2006 3:06 AM

I don’t know if this will be of the slightest interest to anyone but I was looking at the British Airways website today and decided to check the comparative prices of their different classes. I wanted to know, for example, how much it would set one back to go to New York and back in first class, compared to business class, or economy? If you’ve got too much time on your hands late at night then why not try doing the same thing?

Here are my findings. For scientific purposes, all the prices for all routes are for the same days, outward and return, which were in mid-May of this year. We’ll take the New York route first. All prices are return, not one way. I suppose that ‘flexible’ means you can switch your tickets to a different flight if need be.

LONDON – NEW YORK.

Economy (lowest) £385
Economy (flexible) £862
Premier Economy (lowest) £1,047
Premier Economy (flexible) £1,384
Business (lowest) £3,835
Business (flexible) £4,236
First £6,627

Strange how someone paying £385 is on the same flight, going the same speed, with the same delays, as someone paying £6,627. Is that the price of a bigger seat and better meal on a six hour flight?

Also, if you’re a company shelling out £4,236 for someone’s business class seat, you might as well really impress them and guarantee they sign that big deal by getting them a First class seat for just a little more? You’d have to be a fool to think otherwise.

I know you’re loving this so here are some more fare breakdowns for other routes, all on BA, all on the same dates.

Thursday 20th April 2006

Posted by on April 20, 2006 2:03 AM

I met K at lunchtime, still carrying around my new 400 page pet. According to him, I’m on the shortlist for the Big Value show in Edinburgh this year, which means I’d go up there for a month and just do a 20 minute set every night as part of a bill in a well attended show at the Café Royal. About 30 nights on the trot. I’m in a good position here because I honestly don’t care if they pick me or not. If they do, great, off to Edinburgh for a month, but if not, I can enjoy the rich pickings of a comedy circuit starved of half its comics (who will all be in… you’ve guessed it). Either’s good for me.

The advantage of doing the Big Value show is that, despite it’s rather bargain-basement title, a lot of industry folk come and see it, you inevitably get to meet a lot of new people, you’re in stand-up mode for a month so you write tons of the stuff, and doing a 20 minute set a night gets your comedy club set razor sharp for your return to the real world. You can also get gigs at other places and try a lot of ideas out. There’s an idea which K and I concocted over a year ago that has never been performed, for example. There’s never really been the opportunity to do it because comedy clubs don’t allow you the flexibility and, more to the point, it’s the most outrageously obscene thing anyone will ever have seen. I’d probably do it once and then leave the country. Edinburgh’s the place for all that. On top, you don’t have to have the stress of doing your own, hideously expensive, solo show. And you get all your accommodation paid for. So there are lots of advantages to going up.

The advantages of not bothering are exactly that – you don’t have to bother with Edinburgh, the comics, the bitchiness, the egos, the strained tempers. And so that would be fine by me.

I await the outcome of hearing if I’m ‘in’ or not with a relaxed curiosity.

Wednesday 19th April 2006

Posted by on April 19, 2006 11:57 AM

I typed the final word of the book today – saints be praised. Not the last word I’ll ever contribute to the project, obviously, because there’s probably months of rewrites ahead, if it even gets that far, but the last word of the last chapter. Which was the word ‘Day’, with a capital ‘D’.

There wasn’t a great celebration or anything, I’m going to save my riotous lost week until I send the thing off, but I did take pleasure in printing out the final chapter and adding it to the back of my file which already contains the rest of the tome. I could then pick it up, hold it in my hands, and say quite accurately “I have written a book. Look at it. This is my book. It might be a book about an unworkable theory and is therefore of no use to anyone, but it is a book. My book.�

I took my book for a walk around town. I’m nervous about the editing, which I know I’m going to have to do before I send it off. Not anything drastic, but I know the early sections aren’t as good as the later ones and I do need to pay them some extra attention. I spoke to Byrd in New York this afternoon and he said to not worry too much about sending it to him, even though he’s a well respected literary agent and editor, but just send it as something “between friends�. This makes me feel better about it. He also said how much he’s looking forward to getting it, and that he has to say that to people several times a day but this time he means it. What a nice man.

Tuesday 18th April 2006

Posted by on April 18, 2006 1:02 AM

I was sat on a train waiting to depart from Liverpool Lime Street this afternoon when I saw a poster discouraging people from avoiding their fare. The penalty, it warned, could be three months in prison.

Now you know my theory on this. How the poorly motivated self-employed person could benefit from going to prison on a short term sentence to finally get some work done. It’s the writers dream punishment. One cell. One laptop (and they allow lags anything these days, don’t they) and whole months of nothing but studious and zero-distraction work time. It would be the salvation of so many.

Obviously I’ve always said all that as a kind of joke, because prison would be a terrifying place to go and in the unlikely event of anyone ‘inside’ reading this now or in the future I’ll bet they’re thinking “Okay, I’ll swap. You have my cell for a few months and I’ll swan about like a tit as you do every day, doing what I like.� Still, if anyone were thinking of going to prison on purpose, and be thinking of ways to go about it, dodging a train fare is a pretty harmless way of securing your passage. I don’t know if that’s the best terminology if reference to prison but we’ll let it go. It doesn’t hurt anyone… It also gets you out of the house.

So how would that work? You’re on a train, the ticket inspector comes down and says “tickets please� and you say… what? “I don’t have one. I am dodging my fare. And now you have caught me�?

The ticket inspector would just say “Well, you have to buy one now.�

And you’d say “No. I’m dodging my fare. I am a ticket dodger. We don’t pay.�

And he’d say “But you’ve not dodged it now, because I’ve caught you dodging. You have to pay now. That will be £3.70 please.�

And you’d say “No! I’m not paying under any circumstances. I have my dodging principals to think of.�

And he’d say “In that case, I’m going to issue you with a fine which you’ll receive through the post.�

And you’d say “No! I don’t want a fine, I want to do some chokey. Can’t you see I’m a writer? Look at my scarf. I need to do that 3 months inside you’ve advertised on your poster. My agent’s going mental for a first draft of my latest.�

Monday 17th April 2006

Posted by on April 17, 2006 1:03 PM

I’ll be glad when all this Easter nonsense is over. And if it seems rather disrespectful to describe the resurrection of Christ to be nonsense then I apologise, but he might have picked a more convenient time than a long weekend to die and then live again because it throws up all sorts of confusions. First, today was a Monday, but I couldn’t decide if I should be working or not? I don’t work Monday to Friday as you know, but today had a sort of Sunday feel about it, which was made worse by there being a full football card, and therefore it had an element of Saturday about it too. Jesus did many great things, but he also knew how to mess with our heads. I don’t even know why he picked Easter to die and then live again on, why not just any old time of the year? Easter is confusing enough as it is without him adding to it.

There was a part of me that thought it should be down the pub, another part of me that thought I should be watching Soccer Saturday on Sky Sports, and other side of me that knew I should be putting the final touches on you know what. I am a simple man, my friends, and I don’t like all this change and confusion. It said Monday on my calendar, but it sure as Hell wasn’t one. I didn’t really know what to do.

So in the event I watched Soccer Saturday (even though they didn’t call it that because it was a Monday and instead of Jeff Stelling presenting, it was that Rob bloke that looks like a monster), worked, and went to the pub. Don’t ever let it be said I’m not adaptable. I’m a jack of all trades. But I couldn’t really APPLY myself to any of the three. Yes, I watched the football but I wasn’t watching it properly. Yes, I worked, but I didn’t really do any proper writing it was all just scanning stuff and printing sections out. Yes, I went to the pub, but then I only had a pint and moved on to another pub – I couldn’t settle into a good session. It was a complete mess of a day.

Michelle had been away all ‘weekend’, and came back from Manchester today with the infant-faced Athena. I was rude and sat upstairs in my office working rather than converse with them in any way. I was making a point. I was saying ‘It is a Monday. It is a working day.’ But they didn’t pay any attention. They are too holy, the pair of them. They had chosen to worship Jesus by sitting downstairs and watching Friends on E4 like all right-minded Christian folk.

Sunday 16th April 2006

Posted by on April 16, 2006 1:53 PM

I’ll keep this short because I’ve written more today than I have any other day in my life and another shift would send me loopy. I can’t really focus on the screen as it is.

Essentially, the book’s as good as done. It’s been conquered. I haven’t stuck the flag in yet, but I can claim it as conquered territory. Basically the last few words need to be done (which may amount to three or four pages, it may be three or four paragraphs depending on what I feel’s appropriate) but I didn’t want to do that now – I’d probably make a mess of it because I’m so worn out and besides, I want to celebrate that last word. Not mark the occasion by dragging myself up to bed.

There were two bits to the book that needed doing to finish it today, the Introduction and the final chapter. I’d already started work on the final chapter on Friday, and so that was a prime target, but this morning I switched my sights to another section (for the first time with this project) and wrote the Introduction. This went very smoothly and only took a couple of hours, which was very promising.

The strange thing is, I’m actually nervous about finishing. I almost don’t want to, and at the same time want to finish more than I’ve ever wanted to finish anything. I want to finish this more than a cold cross country run when I was thirteen. Why is writing a book different? When I was doing cross country runs when I was thirteen I wasn’t saying to myself ‘this is horrible and exhausting but secretly I wish it would never stop and I could run this cross country run for ever and ever without ever stopping.’ So why do I feel this way about The Power Of 10?

I started dabbling with the final chapter straight away but it soon became clear what it was going to involve – a mammoth push of about 5,000 words. That’s about as much as I’ve ever managed in a day before. The weather outside was beautiful and so I took a walk to prepare myself, thinking the chapter out in my head. I walked right down to the Pier Head which looked great in the sunshine and then into town. I stopped in at The Lion for a pint but THIS is how dedicated and focused I am, I left it at the one pint, went home, sat down, and wrote like a lunatic.

Saturday 15th April 2006

Posted by on April 15, 2006 12:31 AM

I was travelling back to Liverpool on the train when I had one of those mad conversations that make you think perhaps it’s you that’s wrong before you realise all that’s happened is your opponent is so completely wrong it’s planted some doubt in your head.

I had chosen to pay £15 to upgrade to first class, it’s one of those guilty pleasures I always permit myself. You can only do it at weekends and when you’ve got a long, diverted journey ahead of you, and standard class is a zoo, it’s almost essential. The difference is astonishing, today I got a carriage all to myself.

You pay the extra money to the ticket inspector and today I was the first passenger he came to. Sorry, ‘customer’, as we are now referred to. I offered him a twenty pound note but he didn’t even have five pounds worth of change and so said he’d have to go and sell some other tickets and come back to me. I don’t know how he expected to sell tickets without having five pounds in change on him but that’s by the by. He’s obviously used to be a Liverpool taxi driver.

I was sat enjoying my quiet and spacious journey when the person in charge of the on board shop came on the tannoy and said he was now open for business, and that anyone with a first class ticket could have free teas, coffees, water or biscuits. This is another perk of paying £15 to upgrade, you can make that back by drinking loads of tea and water whilst gorging yourself on all the biscuits you can fit into your fat mouth. So I got up to walk down to the shop when it occurred to me that I’d not paid to be a first class passenger as yet, because of the change situation, and so I didn’t have a 1st class ticket to show to the man in the shop in return for all my lovely free tea.

Friday 14th April 2006

Posted by on April 14, 2006 9:33 PM

I lost my cash card on Monday, ironically after using it in the bank and saying to the cashier “Look at the state of that, could I order a new one?� The signature had rubbed off on the back and sometimes it didn’t swipe properly because it was just a bit knackered. Anyway, I don’t know if I left it in the bank and they were too incompetent and evil to call me, or I somehow just carelessly discarded it (which I’ve never done before) but a few hours later it was no longer on my person. This hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience as I’ve not really spent anything this week but today I had to go to London and realised it was a bank holiday, so I didn’t have any access to money.

Bloody bank holidays. They’re nothing but an inconvenience to self-employed people, and the Easter bank holiday’s the Daddy of them all. It’s a wretch. And banks knock off at four in the afternoon anyway, they’re the last people to need holidays. Have Nurse Holidays. Have Chef holidays. These people put the hours in. Bank Holidays… I ask you.

Thankfully a bit of spare room on a credit card got me my ticket but I knew I wouldn’t have anything to spend and that’s not a nice feeling. Money isn’t important, but it does provide you with a little safety and security when you’re out and about, it can get you out of trouble, and into trouble, and that’s important.

The journey down was a modern miracle. Everyone says you should avoid travelling during Easter but the train was empty and I sat with my computer and a countryside vista out of the window for a pleasant three and a half hours. I’ve started work on the final chapter of the book (yes I will talk about the book again if I want) and have realised a way to avoid writing a separate conclusion by incorporating it into this big climatic last bit. Then it’s done, God be praised. Good job too – I’m aware of how boring I’ve become.

Met up with A in Holborn at a little favourite restaurant of ours that does these astonishing pancakes called My Old Dutch and then strolled down to Temple and stood on the embankment enjoying an almost balmy, beautiful dusk. London has never looked better. We just stood there and took it in for a few minutes.

Thursday 13th April 2006

Posted by on April 13, 2006 9:32 PM

There soon will come a day when I don’t have to mention this cursed book anymore and we can get back to the old days when it was all talk of Spar Live and car insurance games, but for the next two or three days I’m going to talk about it if only so I can look back in years to come and say “Ah yes, April 2006, that was when I was finishing that book that didn’t make sense and thought would make me millions of pounds but instead fell on it’s behind, was never published, and eventually forgotten about. What an ambitious young man I was. Happy times. Nurse, can you help me to the toilet again?�

“Not reading that old fashioned diary of yours again are you, Mr McHale?�

“I was, yes. It brings back so many lovely memories. Ow! What was that for?�

“You know we don’t allow happy memories in here, Mr McHale. And I’m not taking you to the toilet again, you went yesterday.�

“But I must. Ow! Okay, I’ll wait.�

“Now give me that computer, I think I better lock that away for a while don’t you, Mr McHale? We don’t want… oh you filthy pig!�

“I’m sorry. I told you I needed to go.�

“Well you’re not getting your computer back for quite some time if that’s what it makes you do.�

“Ow! Ow! I’m sorry Nurse Taylor, I’m sorry!�

Wednesday 12th April 2006

Posted by on April 13, 2006 9:19 AM

Board up the windows, let the washing pile up and the sock drawer go unsorted, for I have found me a brand new distraction greater than all of these things combined and will keep me from my work for far, far longer. Also, just like the distracting internet, this is also right in front of me on my computer, and has been available to people for a while, but only Apple Mac users very recently. I discovered it today and it threatens to ruin everything, it’s called Google Earth and it’s the high priest, daddy, evil overlord, big boss man, and undisputed champion of time wasting gadgets.

It’s probably very old news to everyone, indeed even a luddite like myself knew about it over a year ago, but as I say us artistic Mac users have been denied it up until now. They probably assumed we were all too busy editing rubbish films or designing websites for our arty mates to bother with it.

It’s an online application that you install into your computer and then use via a broadband internet connection that allows you to roam the Earth at will, using detailed satellite images. You can go to Rio and zoom down onto Copacabana Beach, in enough detail to see little sun worshipers lying about, and then either type in your next destination – or do it manually and pretend you’re working for the CIA – and have a look at something else. I’ve so far been to my house, naturally, had a look at Moscow, Tokyo, the pyramids, Sydney, the Grand Canyon, L.A, New York, Fiji, Madagascar, London… It’s equally fascinating and pointless, the two vital ingredients of a good time waster.

What’s great about it is the way it’s designed as pure entertainment. It’s not got any real practical value. So instead of being designed to pin-point things in an instant (it does allow you to search for street names and go straight there though) it works better as a sort of game, and the interface is designed for you to enjoy yourself. The game I play is think of a building in the world, say the Empire State building, and then challenge myself to zoom right down onto the top of it without using any directional guides. I know, I’ve already invented a game for this time wasting monolith – it’s all over.

Tuesday 11th April 2006

Posted by on April 11, 2006 10:25 PM

Book-wise, and I know you’re not interested, today was the most frustrating yet. I got up early and drove Michelle to work, but I’d done that crazy thing we’re all guilty of from time to time last night of refusing to go to bed even though I was dog tired and instead finding little unimportant things to do into the way small hours. I think I finally went to bed about three, then got up at half seven. And so come nine I sat down to work and I knew it was futile. I felt as tired as you doubtless will reading this. So I thought to myself a nice couple of hours sleep would do the trick and indeed they did, I was now ready to get going, but the phone rang and it was Renata reminding me we were meant to be having lunch. As if I were a desperate housewife. What I should have said is ‘I’m so sorry, but I’ve really got to get some stuff done. Can we arrange something next week?’ but because I try to be a stickler for reliability and punctuality I agreed and set off to her favourite joint, the Hope Street Hotel, but made Ren know I was meeting her with the proviso that I could only be an hour.

I don’t know why I try and be reliable and punctual with Renata though because she’s the opposite. Actually that is a reason, I do purposefully arrive on time for everything with her to make a futile point. Renata, as I must have detailed here so many times, is the latest person I know. But I knew she was coming from her house today, where she was working, and that’s only ten minutes away so there was no real chance of her being late. She turned up 35 minutes late and I was in a mood. Waste of time. “I can see you for twenty five minutes now. How the hell are you late?�

“Oh you know, I had to get petrol for my car.�

Monday 10th April 2006

Posted by on April 10, 2006 1:14 PM

I was waiting for my train to be announced at Euston with a concourse full of fellow travellers listening out for the same news. What happens is the platform gets announced and then the herd move as one, from all areas of the station, towards the one ramp. Sometimes the Liverpool trains go from platforms twelve or fourteen, and some people had naturally hedged their bets and were standing in that vicinity, but other times it can be platform six, or one, and others had chosen that side. It was the 18:17 service we were waiting for, the first train since three this afternoon that the likes of us, with cheaper tickets, were allowed on, so it was bound to be busy.

I chose to go and buy a paper and once I’d bought it, the announcement regards the platform was made. I was standing right in front of it. I saw the anger in the mob’s eyes as they began to move and realised “Look at him! He only went to get a paper and he’s guessed the platform in the process and is now ahead of us all. Get him!�

I started walking down the ramp towards the empty, awaiting train and felt the surge of people build up behind me. Then a few people ran past me. Then more. They were starting to stampede, never a good sign, and I was unsure if I should run with the pack or be trampled. More and more wilder beast-like commuters charged past me, and it was interesting to see how some just ran with abandon, whilst others tried to do a really quick walk, just breaking into a run now and again before realising they were running and moderating it to a furious walk again.

I am too dignified and cool, like the Fonz, to run for a train that’s not leaving for another few minutes, but by the same measure I didn’t want to be without a seat for the whole journey and so adopted a purposeful stride toward the furthest coach, thinking that people would automatically jump into the coaches en route, seeing them empty, and therefore leave the more distant ones alone. It worked quite well, and I got to my carriage with time to pack my bags away, choose a seat at a table, get out my computer and relax before others started to join me. Even when the train left it wasn’t too full. So why the rush? Do people enjoy it and treat it as a bit of excitement?

Sunday 9th April 2006

Posted by on April 9, 2006 9:32 PM

Up and about before anyone else and took a walk in the garden on a clear morning enhanced with an astonishing deep blue sky. Once the others were up we popped open a bottle of champagne and downed that before even going next door to see Grandma and wish her a happy 80th birthday. First things first, that’s what I say.

My aunty Jenny is over from New Zealand for the occasion and so we caught up and gave Grandma her presents. She really doesn’t look eighty. They’ve got friends called Ken and Gay (that’s a perfectly normal name which, yes, has skipped a generation but is by no means funny so stop laughing and consider yourself shamefully juvenile) who run a business hiring out vintage cars for special occasions and films. They’d offered to drive us in to Tunbridge Wells for lunch in one of them and it was a beauty. A black, 1939 Buick Eight, a monster of a car which happily sat seven of us. Grandma didn’t know about this and so it got her day off to a pleasant, if slightly gangsterish, start. We should have been leaning out of the windows with tommy guns. I enjoyed it especially because of course I exist in 1939 most of the time, and so having the car to complement my delusional view of the world was fabulous.

The meal was at a restaurant in the Hotel De Vin, a comfortable and grand place with a great looking baroque dining room which we and Grandma’s fifty other guests were sat. It was a great setting, A had made it down from London, I saw a few familiar faces far older than hers, and the wine was flowing. Dad also came along with Julie, who none of the other side of the family had ever met, which would have been a disaster in a soap opera but in the event was a really positive and pleasant thing. God bless the middle classes and our unerring ability to defuse any potential social time bomb by saying “What s