Today: Buckingham Palace. Formal, decadent, but I got to shake hands with such people as Mario Petrucci and Wendy French. You cannot get more establishment than the Queen. Kayo and Myself stood there afterwards wondering how we’d got there. The answer is obvious, but it’s a little too good. I got home and looked in the mirror and realised with some horror that the photographs of the event will be mad: my hair was everywhere. And I wore Doc Martens. The meeting with the big Q left me hollow, though it was nothing compared to the boy who ate too many canapés and threw up on me.
- You can trust Shirley to provide some decent criticism
- Today, at the call centre:
Natalia: ‘You know, every time someone sneezes and the person doesn’t say thank you a fairy dies.’
Truan: ‘No way. ..’
Natalia: ‘Yeah, I know, just imagine..’
Truan: ‘But it can’t be – otherwise they’d be extinct!’
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.