A Novel Idea
I loved creative writing in school. It was the one subject where remembering facts, dates, formulae, et cetera didn’t matter. No right or wrong answers, just putting down on paper what was in my head. Sometimes my teachers thought I went a bit too far with my creativity, but I always considered that their problem. After all, what’s wrong with a story in which you travel to the moon, jump in a crater and find yourself at a Wham concert? Exactly.
And, I’ve continued to love it. Every now and again, I’d write a short story. In 2005, I began to write a novel, after an idea I’d got in 1999. It got as far as 19,000-odd words before I decided I didn’t know what was going to happen next, and since then, I just haven’t got around to working out any more of the plot.
In about 2006, I heard about NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that within the month of November, you write a novel. More precisely, a novel of at least 50,000 words. Fairly short for a novel, but a novel nontheless. The plot can be worked out before November 1st, and editing can be done after November 30th, but no writing must take place before November, and by the end of the month, at least 50,000 words are required.
There’s no prize other than pride and a nice little certificate to print out. The point, of course, is to get people writing – to give people like me, who’ve fancied the idea of writing a noivel for ages, the impetus to do it. Granted, one could do such a thing at any time of the year – but there’s something about a target set outside of your control that can spur a you on, specifically if you have support from friends (you can have “Writing Buddies” in the manner of social network friends) and if you have support from the organisers (you get pep talks from writers and former winners). Just as a person who fancies running a marathon can benefit from this kind of support, so can a writer – after all, this is little more than a writing marathon.
This year, I thought I’d give it a go. Firstly, of course, I needed an idea. This came easily. In 2006, I’d had an idea about a story whereby some underdog/everyman type of protagonist, a librarian, is thrust into a quest for the Holy Grail, impelled his mysterious and beautiful boss – the grail being something quite different to what common folklore tells us. I’d had a go at writing something on this idea at the time of its inception, which never got past a page of A4. As the rules of NaNoWriMo stated that I couldn’t have written anything previously, I was going to have to start from scratch. Which was a good thing, as the original wasn’t that good, in my humble opinion.
As November 1st approached, little plot points would develop in my head. I’d worked out who the boss woman was, her motivations, et cetera, and got an idea as to how it was going to start. But…50,000 words? That seemed like quite a target. That averages at 1667 words per day. As a practice to see what effort that might require, I wrote this. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad. The question was whether or not I’d be able to sustain that over the 30 days – assuming I didn’t reach the end of the story early.
I began writing minutes after November began happening. In the first 24 hours, I got through about 2000-odd words. In the first week, I managed to carry on quite well, not always hitting my target but certainly moving steadily. I wrote in the hours I was at home; at other times I’d sketch the plot in a notebook if I had spare time but no access to my laptop.
After about a week, I had become practised at writing at length, and found that it came much more easily. Some days I’d get more than double the daily target. I’d normally be aware of what the next few chapters would need to be, and tried to get 1,500 to 2,000 words per chapter, which became easier to do as time went by. I was also feeling that I wan’t needing to plan as much of the plot in advance as I had done in the early stages – it wasn’t exactly writing itself, but it seemed to come more naturally.
By the third week, I was ahead of my target and each day becoming further ahead (which allowed me to have the odd day’s breather). My only worry, after about three weeks, was that the story wasn’t going to last for 50,000 words. I had about three more chapters that had to happen, and 7,000 words to go. But my naivety as a writer proved a blessing – I realised that there was an important plot point that had not been explained. This allowed me to introduce two more chapters – one to explain it, making a minor character very much more important, and one related chapter to solve another plot qundary I was in. As a result, only death or serious illness was going to stop me finishing, as I was four or five days ahead of where I needed to be, with maybe 3,500 words needed out of three chapters.
I hit the 50,000 mark on a train to Derby. The magical word was “find”, though I only noticed that I’d surpassed this mark ten words late. It felt bloody good, though. The next day, November 26th, I finished in true author style – holed up in a hotel room with a “Do not disturb” sign on the door. 53,000+ words, according to the NaNoWriMo site (52,000+ according to Word – presumably as it doesn’t count hyphenations). Either way, 50,000 words was my bitch.
It’ll need polishing, of course. As yet, I haven’t had the time to go through it and find the mistakes, continuity errors and other anomalies that are bound to be there. I don’t flatter myself that it’ll make Stephen King worry about his living, but it’s my novel and I like it. I got to the 50,000 word mark and that’s all I wanted to do – to prove to myself that I could.
And I’d advise anyone who’s ever wanted to write a novel to try the same. Go on, what do you have to lose?
Retrospection
It’s been a hell of a year, if I’m honest. There have been some bad moments, certainly, but looking back, I’d prefer to concentrate on the good points. As I’ve done the past couple of years, I’ll sum it up month-by-month.
January: The year got off to a cracking start as I had the opportunity of a lifetime – to perform Shakespeare in front of a person who’s not only a personal hero of mine, but who’s also one of the finest Shakespearean actors alive – Sir Ian McKellen, in Macbeth.
February: I auditioned for a film. And got the part, as a transsexual in Rid of You, produced by students from the University of Sunderland.
March: Filming of the aforementioned movie, along with bagging a third part at theRoyalty in a season.
April: The month of birthday celebrations, as ever, memorable for certain reasons that I shan’t elucidate. Plus, becoming a local election candiate for the Green Party. And – finally passed the driving test!
May: Came third in the local elections, defeating the Liberal Democrat candidate. Performed in Funny Money at the Royalty, playing a corrupt detective. Had never done a farce before – great fun. First car, Toyota Yaris, bought. Scary having to hand over the amount of money.
June: A second visit to Grizedale in the Lake District, this time to see Kate compete in the Great North Swim. Took the baritone ukulele; a shame that the only tune I had was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. At least I could profess to being able to play Mozart.
July: Performing in ‘Allo ‘Allo with the Washington Theatre Group, the first night proving eventful. A trip to London to see the Tiger Lillies followed, as did another trip to Grizedale for Kate’s birthday. The uke cme along again; this time I was armed with something that might passably have been called a repertoire.
August: Attended an historical event – Sunderland’s first ever Pride parade.
September: Back to the Royalty to play Otto Frank in the Diary of Anne Frank. Most substantial part I’ve had there, and I think the most challenging.
October: Trip to Cleethorpes for Nina’s wedding, along with a chance for a good long drive which took me over the Humber Bridge.
November: Wrote a novel in 26 days (blog on that coming soon). Trip to Derby for a meet-up with crosswordy types – lovely place, Derby. Some fine local ales, and I’d highly recommend Mr. Simms sweet shop.
December: Celebrating five years with the Washington Theatre Group. More of that, please.
Can 2012 possibly be better? We shall see…
Five Years and Counting
Five years ago today, my life changed.
This is far from hyperbole. It began with a chance invitation to a party, and those people who know me in the present day will know where it currently is. And hopefully, it’ll keep on going.
18th December, 2006. Nigel and I were invited to a party by our friends Carl and Phil. Cat, our estimable hostess, had worked on a film with them, and had told them to invite some friends along to a Christmas bash. It was there that I discovered that most of the guests were members of Washington Theatre Group. I’d done a fair amount of theatre in my youth, but after going to university and discovering beer, I’d mostly forgotten about it. The members present were a delightful bunch, so I thought I’d pop along, with Nigel in tow.
The first night turned out to be a dress rehearsal for their panto, Cinderella. Despite having dabbled with theatre before, I couldn’t help but think that I’d never be able to do what they were doing. None more so than Peter and Neil playing the ugly sisters. The very thought of it – I’d just look silly! And it’d only be a year before I was playing a dame myself.
Confidence comes a lot more easily than we’d often think. My first role with the group was in Blue Remembered Hills, where I began the play running around pretending to be a Spitfire, like you do. Massively nervous the frist time the wanted me to rehearse that – and it showed. Cue, however, Pamela, Angela and Nigel giving me a hand by running around like Spitfires themselves. Not an image that escapes one’s recollection too easily – and it worked. By the first night, I’d got Spitfire imitation down to a T – though flapping wings was perhaps stretching the imagination a little.
That show lasted two nights, which was a damned shame. But it had been a massive boost to my confidence, so much so that by the time of the re-auditioning for the dame in Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, just a few months after, I was quite happy to put myself up for that part.
By the end of that show, I could count theatre as my main hobby. Since then, I have had numerous other roles with the group. Not only that, but it gave me the impetus to audition for a part with the Royalty Theatre, with whom I’ve now done six shows – the highlight being Macbeth, partly because it’s Shakespeare, partly because it was watched by a personal Hero of mine – Sir Ian McKellen. Membership of that theatre has also led me to doing a single professional performance (ok, the pay was only £30, put it’s still pay).
All the while, I’ve continued to perform with WTG, and in February this led to me being cast in a student film – which was an excellent experience, and an eye-opener into the film-making process.
In the programme for Cinderella, Cat made a comment on the group (and this has always stayed with me) along the lines that the group had given her the confidence to feel that she could do anything. This could easily sound like pure rhetoric, but after five years I can say that it’s quite true. These days, I’m more than happy to take on challenges that previously I would have thought entirely beyond me, such as learning to play the baritone ukulele or writing a novel (which I did – and I’ll have to do a blog on that one, soon).
So yes, it isn’t exaggerating to say that the Washington Theatre Group has been life-changing. I certainly hope that it continues to be so.
Poppies and the England Team
So, the England team have been banned from wearing poppies. That’s the way that the press are putting it, making it sound like England are being victimised. FIFA’s response is apparently that they oppose political messages on shirts. You will have your own opinion as to whether or not a poppy counts as such. But I think that this issue isn’t quite as black and white.
A good deal is made about wearing a poppy. Even the British Legion’s advertisements tell you to wear poppies. But isn’t it more the fact that you’ve paid for the poppy that counts? I could wear as many poppies my clothing will allow, but if I’ve paid for none, then I’ve hardly been much use. It could be argued that wearing one is good advertising, or raises awareness, and that will certainly be true to some extent – but it’s hardly a substitute for making a donation to the charity.
Despite this, last weekend in the Premier League, we saw all teams with poppies printed on their shirts. But were these paid for? I’d certainly hope that clubs, or the players, made a substantial donation for the right to do this, otherwise it feels a little lip-servicey, if not hypocritical. If you know one way or the other, please tell me.
So, back to England. If the poppy is not a political symbol (and I more or less sway to that opinion), then there’s probably no reason for FIFA to disallow it. However, I do think it should be up to individual players to choose if they want to wear it. There’s always a chance that for whatever reason, a player might not want to wear it, and they should not be forced to, either by the powers that be, or peer pressure. And if a player does wear it, a suitable donation to the charity should be made.
If there is a case to make for it being a political symbol (please let me know if you think it is), then I think my points in the previous paragraph are even more important – as it would almost be forcing a person to display a political symbol with which they don’t agree. And that is never right.
So I think there’s more to this argument that “we should” or “we shouldn’t”. Personal choice, rather than social pressure, has to play a part.
Out of Date
A short piece I’ve written as a practice for NaNoWriMo, to see how much work an average day’s worth of writing would require. Enjoy.
Out of Date
Jemima switched on the tap, and let it run. Work had been an utter bitch that day, with Mr. Bogface being in an even fouler mood that usual. Mr. Bogface was a jobsworth manager of the worst kind, and seemed to have an especial dislike for Jemima, probably because she was a woman, young and better at the job than he ever was. As a journalist for the Ayresome Gazette, Jemima had spent the last four years carving out a great career for herself, and there were rumours that one or two of the national dailies had tried to court her. Old Bogface had been a journalist there for thirty years before being moved into a management position and his only contribution to the national press had been a stern letter to the Telegraph about the quality of its crossword.
That day, Jemima had penned a frightfully good article about corruption in the local council. The Council leader, it had been rumoured, had been taking bribes from local businessmen to work local legislation in their favour. Jemima’s network of informants had given her a wealth of information on the situation. When combined with her talent for writing, this had produced a document which most at the paper thought would really shift copies. Most, that is, apart from Mr. Bogface. It didn’t help that he was a good friend of the Council leader, but he didn’t want to say much about that. He just made Jemima’s day as hard as possible – constant putdowns, numerous pointless errands and requests for re-writes of other stories.
But Jemima had finished work for the day, and was now looking forward to a relaxing bath. She’d make herself a drink, and lie in the bath with a good book for about an hour, forgetting the horrible day she’d had and simply wallowing in the blissfully hot water.
As the bath ran, she wondered what drink she could take in with her. There was nothing alcoholic in the house; she wasn’t teetotal, but it had all been drunk at an all-night party the week before (she still couldn’t remember who that had been under the mistletoe – nor why there was mistletoe, as it was July). She didn’t fancy a coffee, as it might have kept her awake. Hot chocolate? Why not, eh?
Jemima had some idea that she might have some cocoa powder in the cupboard. Her hypothesis proved correct, but only after mounting an expedition right to the back of the cupboard, past instant mashed potato, rice, stock cubes and spice jars that might have been there since God was a boy. On taking the small jar of cocoa powder from the cupboard, it occurred to her to check the sell-by date on the bottom. September 2006, it read. This was November 2011. Cynical about the idea that cocoa powder could go off, she took the lid off the jar and peered inside. No mould, no weevils, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Just cocoa powder. Ah well, she thought, what’s the worst that could happen? Jemima stuck three heaped spoonfuls into a cup, added milk, boiling water and a bit of honey to sweeten it. The bath having run, she placed her mug on the side of the bath, took up her book and tentatively got into the steaming hot bath. She spent a few seconds acclimatising herself to the heat, and then opened the book where she’d bookmarked it, and began to read.
Soon, Jemima was immersed in the book and had clean forgotten about her hot chocolate. Such was Jemima’s interest in the book that her peripheral vision failed to spot something happening. The liquid in the cup began to bubble a little. Had Jemima been watching it, she’d have noticed a number of little bubbles appearing. The bubbles would appear to harden, and by degrees, would turn an ominously dark shade of green. Eventually the bubbles would begin moving around the liquid as though they were themselves alive. And every now and again, one of these “bubbles” would leap out of the cup. Some went onto the floor, others into the bath.
Jemima had been immersed in the book for some time, and didn’t notice a thing out of the ordinary until one of these dark green globules innocently floated past her. Jemima did a double take thinking, for some reason, that it might have been a spider. Sitting up in the tub, she quickly realised that it wasn’t. And from her new vantage point, she saw a mass of other similar globules at the tap end of the bath. They were everywhere – in the tub, on the floor, on the side of the bath – even a few in the sink. And every few seconds, a new one would pop out of the cup of hot chocolate.
Not entirely sure what to do, she thought the best course of action would be to jump out of the bath, going “Aaaaaaaargh!” Moving away from those globules on the floor, she picked up a towel and dried herself, keeping an eye on the strange little things. She replaced the towel and put her clothes back on, as though not being naked would make everything go away. Unfortunately it didn’t.
Jemima surveyed the scene in her bathroom. What were these things? Okay, she thought, that’s the last time I ignore a sell-by date. Was it mould? Was it something living in the cocoa powder? Or just some odd chemical reaction? She moved toward the sink, to take a look at one that was hanging on the edge of the basin.
It looked like a marble; a sphere about a centimetre in diameter, dark green and with a glossy surface. Some remnant so the hot chocolate still encrusted it. The globule just sat there, doing nothing. She took a look at the cup of hot chocolate. Nothing more was coming from it. The globules were doing nothing. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to touch them, as she wasn’t sure how harmful they might be. A few minutes past, and her common sense returned. Just some crazy chemical reaction, she thought. If I can tidy them up, things should be okay. She went away to find a dust pan and brush.
She returned a few seconds later, but when she saw the globules, she was petrified with fear. The globules appeared to be growing legs. She looked around at them, half in wonder, half scared. One leg appeared to be growing at a time, though by now, some had six legs, others were just growing their first. They were looking for all the world like they were growing into glassy spiders, and Jemima absolutely hated spiders. She hated being anywhere near them, and would sooner have had to spend a night with Mr. Bogface than to have to deal with them at all. Nearly, anyway.
As she watched in horror, it seemed that her worst fears were being realised. Some of the globules had grown eight legs, and these ones were beginning to change in other ways – growing extra body sections, hair, eyes, jaws. The one saving grace, in Jemima’s eyes, was that they were not moving. Just, somehow, turning into a large army of glazed, shimmering arachnids. They were truly fearsome, and Jemima thanked numerous gods in which she didn’t believe that they couldn’t move. She hoped they wouldn’t. Jemima stood there for about half an hour, not wanting to move in case they did, and formulating plans as to the best way to get the hell out of there if one of them so much as moved one of their infernal hairs.
Soon, Jemima was more or less at ease. She still knew not what these things were, but again thought that if she could just get them dumped in the bin, things would be fine. But she was to be proven wrong on this point. For almost as soon as she’d taken up her dustpan and brush and was steeling herself to scoop up the one closest to her, she spotted one beginning to grow wings.
Jemima jumped back against the wall. She looked on in utter terror as all of these apparent spiders grew wings. Flying spiders was her ultimate terror. She hated spiders enough – but if any could pester you in the way that wasps could, that would be so much the worse. One by one, the “spiders” grew wings. But they were still not moving, thankfully. Eventually, her bathroom was full of them. It looked like she’d spontaneously set up a macabre glassworks in her bathroom, and it only briefly occurred to her that she might be able to sell these as souvenirs for tourists. Only briefly, for two reasons – one, her house wasn’t a tourist resort, and two, the little buggers had begun to move.
Jemima saw them moving and was pinned to the wall in fright. Her instincts were telling her to get out of the house and call the Ghostbusters or somebody, but she couldn’t move. Every muscle in her body was paralysed. It seemed that the little creatures were looking right as her. For a while they seemed to be getting to grips with their new-found mobility, like horrifying, miniature Bambis-on-Ice. However, as soon as they found their feet, as it were, they began to move slowly toward Jemima. Closer and closer they got to Jemima, who by now was almost in shock, and in no danger of moving anywhere. She’d been looking down at the marching army of spiders, but suddenly looked up to something she’d spotted from the corner of her eye, and found herself face-to-cephalothorax with a flying specimen. She fainted.
The spiders moved over her body, lying on the ground, and proceeded to dine upon her flesh. Voraciously, they devoured her, until in a few short hours, nothing was left but her bones and clothes.
Her skeleton was discovered a couple of weeks later. Sergeant Orange was most puzzled by the affair, as there was no indication as to how the body of a young, fit woman could suddenly be divested of all its flesh.
“I’ve no idea,” he told his colleague, Constable Tomato. “No forced entry, no chemicals that might have had some odd effect. Only a cup of hot chocolate in the bathroom. Never has a good effect on my guts, that stuff, but it’s never turned me into a skeleton.”
Constable Tomato stifled a grin. He loved hot chocolate. So much, in fact, that he’d snaffled the jar he’d found in the kitchen. Nobody would miss it. And as soon as he got home, he’d enjoy a nice big mug of it.
© John Appleton 2010
Religion
This post has been inspired by a question asked on the Sunderland Green Party forum recently, and I thought it might be worth a blog post, as religion is something that interests me, in terms of how it affects me and society. The question is thus:
What role should religion play…?
1. In the lives of yourself and others
2. In politics / public debate and policy
The first question: A simple answer is that it probably shouldn’t have to have any role, although even in this day and age, it doubtlessly will, even if by minor degrees. Days of the week, for instance, being named for deities. The England flags ubiquitous during international football tournaments have a Christian cross upon them. Streets, schools and other places are often named for saints or other religious figures. Of course, these are just roses by other names, and probably don’t have any influence on ourselves or society to any great extent.
Then, of course, there are those aspects of religion that do have a part in our lives, and affect the things we do – even if we’re not religious. We take Good Friday and Easter Monday off work, for instance. In the past we’ve been restricted by Sunday trading laws. And I can confidently predict that later in the year, myself (a Pagan) and my friends Nigel (an atheist) and Charlotte (a Jew) will be sitting around a table in a pub swapping Christmas presents. We also have some very major religious influences. Extremism, terrorism, war – in this way, religion has affected everybody from Holocaust victims to those people prevented from taking liquids onto aeroplanes. In vastly different ways, of course, but religion has been there; if not as a direct cause, then as an excuse. These are roles that religion plays in our lives regardless of whether or not one has a religion. Where a person does subscribe to a faith, however, its influence will be even more profound – though not necessarily on the same level. It really depends upon how a person sees their religion.
Some will see their religion as a philosophy, or set of philosophies, to explain life, the universe and everything. In this respect, it probably differs only from atheism in the presence of some supreme being or entity. This may be enough to play a serious role in a person’s life. Reverence of nature is part of Druid belief, and subscription to that faith may well encourage somebody to be more kind to nature. But there is also a legislative aspect to many religions. Christianity has many laws, for want of a better word. The best known of these are the Ten Commandments, though the bible, in particular the Old Testament, is full of many others. Many will see it important to keep to such tenets, as a way of keeping faith or attaining some higher station (entering Heaven, for instance). This can be a positive thing if it encourages such things as friendliness and respect, but not so good if it represses natural tendencies, such as alternate sexualities.
Religious law, however, raises a good question concerning personal freedom. Yes, a person has freedom of religion – but should a person be free to believe in something that prevents them from being themselves (and therefore even more free)? The argument over niqabs is a classic example – is it a woman’s right to subscribe to a religion that compels her to wear one, or is it a woman’s right to bear her face in public regardless?
However, the second question is a little different. I’d agree that people have a right to religion (you can’t stop people believing what they want anyway, metaphysical or otherwise), though I don’t think it has a place in politics. Religion is, after all, a belief, not a proven fact, and it would be highly irresponsible of any government to allow blind faith to affect its decisions. Any metaphysical theory has only a minute chance of ever being correct, and faith itself is very arbitrary. Therefore, laws enacted in the name of faith are arbitrary. In Tudor England, for example, Catholics were executed as heretics when Protestants were in power; when the Catholics ruled, Protestants were executed. Clearly, government cannot be fair if it is based upon the unproven beliefs of whomever might be in power. Such beliefs do not even have to be religious, of course – McCarthyism brought the same sort of issues as the Salem Witch Trials.
Government must work upon what is known. We know that condoms prevent death and disease. We do not know if there is a deity out there who will banish us unto eternal torment for using them. In reality, it’s just as possible (and as improbable) that there is a deity out there ready to grant us eternal paradise for the same thing. If there were proof, of course, that Hell awaited us for such an act, there’d be reason for our government to protect our eternal souls. But unless we have that, we cannot make laws on blind assumptions – religious or not.
Of course, this isn’t to say that a state’s laws should not make any reference to religion at all. It should still be realised that people have a right to religion, and a right to practise it. In these cases, it is the responsibility of the state to ensure that people can do so equally. I’ve long thought it a shame that the Bank Holiday schedule in England is mostly based around Christian festivals (even if they’re only there to suppress Pagan ones). A Muslim might be happy to be given Easter off, if for no other reason than a break from work, but would that same person be happy to be working through Ramadan? (if you’re a Muslim, I’d be interested in your thoughts on that – not being one, I can’t answer it. You get the idea, anyway).
Having said this, it often irritates me that religion is often given an untouchable status, whereas other forms of philosophy are not. For example, if an employee refused to work a Sunday to attend church, many employers would submit to that, for fear of being labelled politically incorrect (at best). But I doubt the same would apply to somebody who wished to attend a political event, no matter how fervent their belief. If we recognise religious freedom in the law, we should also recognise other philosophical freedoms.
Slutwalks…your thoughts, please.
Over the past couple of months, protest marches dubbed “Slutwalks” have begun to occur in numerous places around the world. I have some concerns about these protests, which I shall explain shortly, but the purpose of this post is to invite opinions that I may not have considered. This is a feminist issue, and I fully realise that, being in possession of a Y-chromosome, there may be something that I’m missing. If so, I want to know what it is.
For some background on this, the movement began as a response to a remark from a Candian policeman that “women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimised”, as well as similar sentiments from a Canadian Judge (Wikipedia gives greater detail on these incidents).
Nonsensical remarks, of course. Any person, man or woman, has the right to dress to be presentable, smart, attractive or even sexy. This might be for personal confidence, it may be to attract somebody, but it certainly isn’t to elicit attacks. If so, it’d be much easier to stick on a Sunderland shirt and run around the Bigg Market loudly questioning Alan Shearer’s parentage.
As a result of the remarks, the Slutwalks began. These involve many women (even though this may not have been the original idea) marching in scantily-clad outfits. The point of this is to show that women have a right to dress this way if they wish, without fear of being victimised. I don’t question the intent of the marches, nor the nobility of the message the marchers are trying to give. What concerns me is the efficacy of the protests. Will it have any effect on the chauvinists in society?
I see it this way. I imagine most people in this day and age believe that the original remarks made no sense. To these people, the protests are preaching to the converted. It is those people of a misogynistic inclination whose minds the protestors are trying to change. But I can’t help thinking that the only thing these people will see is a group of scantily-clad women – sitting ducks for objectification, in their book. Assuming “objectification” isn’t too many syllables for them. Or “sitting”.
In short, I think the message will be lost on these people, as they won’t really be the type to look far enough beyond the surface of a person’s body to see their hearts or minds. In many ways, it seems like misogyny has won: the initial sexist comments have resulted in a mass of women, scantily clad, effectively providing cheap entertainment for chauvinists – whatever the actual intent. Does this help the cause?
So am I missing something? I honestly want to know if I am, so please challenge my views if you can. I’d also be interested to hear from men who have attended these marches – whichever side they were one. What effect do you think it’s had, if any at all? All comments absolutely welcome.
Soldier, Doctor, Transsexual, Copper.
Not a lot of posts for a while here, but it’s been a busy year so far – mostly due to a number of acting commitments, each of which has been noteworthy, to me at any rate. As such, it seems a shame that they have yet to get any mention on this blog, so I’m going to try to make up for this.
At the beginning of the year, rehearsals for Macbeth, staged in an Edwardian dress at the Royalty, were in full swing. In this I had two parts – The Captain who dies as the start, and the Doctor who watches Lady Macbeth as she sleepwalks. Not major parts, but, as the Bard says, “The play’s the thing”. At least the parts required something different – one a desperate soldier at death’s door, the other a calm and collected medic.
The part of the Captain was good for releasing some steam. It takes a bit more energy than normal to be in anguish for even a few minutes, but it’s fun. Covered in fake blood too – some corn-syrup concoction, which is very sticky. The shirt to which much of it was applied was ripping the hairs from my chest toward the end of the run. Once that was over, I could regenerate into the Doctor, and take to the stage for the sleepwalking. This was staged without the Gentlewoman; her lines and the Doctor’s were given to me to present as though giving a lecture, the audience being my students. Having watched Lady Mac slip into insanity, the remainder of my scenes were spent watching Macbeth do more or less the same.
So, much fun had, and that was one ambition realised – to do some Shakespeare. Memorable enough, for such a fan of his writing as I am. there was icing on this particular cake, however. The second performance was attended by Sir Ian McKellen – an actor whom many consider to be the finest practitioner of Shakespeare alive, and whom I’ve had the pleasure of seeing as King Lear. Thankfully, the adage that one should never meet their heroes was dealt a blow, as the good Sir Knight proved charming and friendly, mingling with the audience after the show and taking time to speak to the cast indivudally. This Shakespearean experience was topped off by a further performance of a few scenes to a school, a month or so later at Sunderland Museum.
After that, I’d perhaps be forgiven for thinking that the rest of the year might be an anti-climax. But while it might be the abiding memory of the year, the next four months were not devoid of their own excitement. February saw me branch out a little further, getting the main part in a short student film, along with another member of the Washington Theatre Group. This film, Rid of You, is basically about a fellow who’s decided that he wants to spend the rest of his life as a woman.
I was aware that this wouldn’t be entirely the same as stage work, and two major differences made themselves apparent very quickly. One is the detail. Close-up shots give every nuance of expression and movement the chance to be noticed. On stage, you’re often at least ten feet from any audience member, and a slight movement of the eyes won’t always be detected. On film, it can speak volumes.
Then there was the stop-start nature of scenes. As a scene can be shot from numerous angles, there will be times when a shot might be less than three seconds. It’s not always easy to go straight into a character for the sake of a quick expression. On stage, you’re usually already in character when it’d needed. As I write, I’ve yet to see the final cut, but I hope that I’ve managed to handle these well enough.
Doing this was enjoyable, and there are some experiences that’ll stay with me. Filming on a freezing cold beach in March, with feet in the water. The things I do for the craft, eh? There was also a scene in a bath (no nudity, you’ll be glad to know) and a very cool dream sequence which required some choreography – and looked quite spooky when I saw some shots of a rehersal. Oh yes, and then there was the make-up and stocking sequences. I won’t say too much about these, but I think some residents of Sunderland will be scarred for life. Humorous to think that the previous day, those people might even have been voting for me in the local elections.
While this was winding down, I began to rehearse Funny Money at the Royalty. I played Detective Sergeant Davenport, a Cockney wide-boy policeman, none-too worried about taking the odd backhander. The play is a classic farce – confusion, mistaken identities, dead people turning up everywhere. And for myself, yet another stab at a genre I’d yet to encounter. Farce might be looked down upon by many, as comedy often is (how often do you see comedies getting the Best Picture Oscar?), but that doesn’t mean that it takes no skill. Far from it – the pace must be flawless, especially when things are getting frantic. In a more stoic play, an actor can get away with fumbling in his or her mind for a line and masking it as a dramatic pause, but there’s rarely scope for that in farce. So it certainly was a challenge – this was the biggest part I’d had at the Royalty. But the pace required actually helps. You get less time to remember that you’re an actor, and it’s easier to go through the motions as you remember them from so many rehearsals.
So yeah, a hectic time. But I am an amateur, and I do it because I enjoy it. Like most endeavours in life, you get from acting what you put into it. All this work has garnered new knowledge, skills, experiences and friends. Bring on some more of this!
Retrospection
So, farewell then, 2010, as E. J. Thribb might say. The year has been good fun, with mostly plus points. So for those who might be interested, here’s my 2010 summed up,
January: As per the previous two years, January was pantomime month with the Washington Theatre Group. This year saw me playing the downtrodden Blue Peter in Peter Pan: The Revenge of Hook.
February: Thought I’d give ballet a try (watching, not doing), in the shape of The Nutcracker, full of music I already thought wonderful. And I’d definitely see some again.
March: A trip to the South coast to see the Tiger Lillies in Brighton with Billie and Jen. I must visit Brighton again one day.
April: A trip to London to see the Tiger Lillies in a recorded showing of Shockheaded Peter at The V&A. The Lillies also made a trip to Durham, so I could see them without having to travel more than 20 miles.
May: Joined the Green Party, shortly after Caroline Lucas became their first MP. Tried vegetarianism for a week.
June: ROCKY HORROR! And Nigel actually remembers this one. Will wonders never cease?
July: Welcome to the Jungle with the WTG, playing a couch potato and a doberman (“Strong, naturally dominant, fanatically loyal, and of course, highly intelligent” – just like me, then). One of the plays was also my inaugural attempt at directing. I’ve never been so nervous in the theatre as when that play was first performed.
August: Much hilarity as a scorpion is found at the Arts Centre Washington and the place is closed for two days. Oh, for those halcyon days in Botswana when even a kid getting stung by a scorpion wouldn’t have the school closed for five minutes.
September: Plenty of theatre this month: Apples, Hairspray, The King & I and Blithe Spirit.
October: Failed a driving test, but passed a stand-up comedy test after doing a turn for the Sunderland Green Party. Hopefully, it won’t be a the last.
November: Performing at the Royalty in Journey’s End – great fun to do, and the moustache will live on in legend.
December: Begun rehearsals of Macbeth at the Royalty, in some small but fun parts.
Bring on 2011.
University Fees
It’s hard to work out whether Cameron, Osborne, and Cable actually know what they’re doing or not. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising if, in their comfortable chairs in Westminster, they believe they’re doing some good, not realising that people will actually suffer from their policy on student fees, or if they’re deliberately trying to make the country more stupid.
That latter theory might sound absurd – but is it? A less intelligent electorate is easier to manipulate. It’s easier to mould their thoughts; to trick them into putting into power those people who’ll allow the status quo to prevail – even if the party changes. Look at Tony Blair, for instance – as right-wing as Cameron or Thatcher. Orwell anticipated such a state in 1984: “The party is not concerned with perpetuating itself. Who wields power is not important, providing that the hierarchical structure remains always the same.”
Such subtle manipulation of the masses in a common theme throughout both 1984 and that other great socialist work, The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists. It does sound absurd, and it may be. But we do have to consider, and be cautious of, this possibility.
However, it might simply be the case that my first theory prevails – that the perpetrators of this policy simply don’t know what the effects of their policy will be. But that theory itself has a flaw in that surely nobody, particularly people who can fool a country into voting them into power, can miss the obvious: Higher fees mean fewer people in University. Fewer students mean fewer people in the jobs requiring high levels of academic skill. Ergo, we lose people with academic skills that are vital – Doctors, for instance.
One of Cameron’s arguments for the policy in Wednesday’s PMQs was that the current system is not fair to people who have to pay tax for university fees when they don’t go to university and don’t benefit from it. Granted, Mr. Cameron, some people don’t go to university. But everybody in this country, at one time or another, benefits from University. To take my earlier example of doctors, we’ve all had to see one at some point. There’s a good chance that many of us have had lives saved by them. This would not have been possible on a basis of A-levels, BTECs or anything else short of 20+ studies.
Sooner or later, all of the benefits of civilisation that we enjoy, and the means of production that help us to live, have come to their present state with the help of university-educated people. We are, to paraphrase Newton, living on the shoulders of giants. Newton himself was University educated – and one of the most influential academics to this day. He is one of the giants of whom I speak.
It would probably be folly to claim that the academically-skilled are the lifeblood of the country. We also need people with vocational skills; those skills that cannot simply be taught in the classroom. But we do also need the scholars – and to dilute the scholars is to weaken the country intellectually.
This might, as I’ve said, be what Cameron et al want; it may not – but that’s what they will get: a weak link in the industrialised world, where we’re meant to be one of the strongest. I can only hope the protests have some effect – otherwise, we risk having a country too stupid to realise that protest is possible. 1984 all over again.
