Yesterday was my last day at Spiked; I am not the kind of person who is missed, so it was all very low key and quiet. They gave me a book, which was nice; a fat, lonely planet guide to New York. And I didn’t even predict it.
I went home to get my camera and film my grand-dad. After much grooming, I got him to speak quite confidently and extensively. The trouble is that he is old and bitter; most of what he said was a tirade against Jamaicans. I had to ask patronising questions such as ‘What is your health like?’ and ‘how has it been raising children?’ Being around him is a civilising force; he – and others – are embarrassing reminders as to why one shouldn’t crush small animals or kick tramps for fun.
Then up to Foyle’s for a reading. There will never be a good gig at that place, so long as the mics remain shit, the walls white and the demographic elderly. It was Helen Mort’s launch; she was an FYP five times and is now studying psychology at Cambridge. After the gig I got talking with Gloria Dawson – the other supporting poet – and we all went for falafels at Dionysus. Then back to Farringdon for a bizarre stint at the Whiskey Society.
I considered going to bed when I got home, but there was podcasting to be done. Yes, they are short, sharp bursts of pleasure, but in my case, they take eight hours to make. I was thinking about it on the bus, how tech heads get a thrill out of making things and ‘artists’ get a thrill out of using them. It’s a perfect relationship, which is why conflict between art and science is rubbish. We’re one or the other – sometimes both – and we co-exist beautifully.
It turns out that my dictaphone is shit. Of the hour and a half I recorded about ten minutes was audible. I have no idea how to compress or amplify sound properly and I had to record my script about ten times, in the wee freezing hours of the morning, so I sound bored. I just sent it to Lisa at the PS, so what can I do. A toast to the podcast cherry.