Obiter Dicta

Wednesday, November 30^th.

Gather round friends, pull up an attitude and relax, while the ol’ Hot Chestnut Man tells you a story.

Once upon a time there was an Election, and the pople voted in the Tories, something they had been too clever to do for years and years and years. But, some people said that it wasn’t really the Tories because they had joined hands and got married to the Liberal Democrats. But, says the old Hot Chestnut Man, anyone that sleeps with a Tory automatically becomes one. Like in a magic spell. Oh, they may twist and they may turn, and try to protest that what they said earlier was said because they didn’t know enough then, but nothing is ever of any use. The Tories have them in a very powerful spell called ‘Gotchaby Rabollox’. And they become Tories too. So that, really, theTories won. Even though they didn’t. And all because the people of Liberal Democratia, who are a simple people, believed what the Tories told them.

And the people who voted saw that the leader of  the Liberal Dems was no more than a political courtesan. For the price of a ministerial salary for himself and a hand-picked bunch of his confederates, he sold his birthright to a cadre of sneering toffs. Tuition fees, alone. That’s what people should have shouted when they saw him in the street: “Tuition fees alone! Ya lyin’, two-faced, hypocritical, phony, insincere, duplicitous cad!” And the ol’ Hot Chestnut Man said, “I hope he enjoys his place in prosperity – as the man who buried the Liberals once and for all, the man who hammered the final nail in their political coffin. For, make no mistake about it: they’re gone. They’re History - Ancient History. They’re fucking Geology. Palaeontology. From here on in. They’re with the snaw that fell last year, and the glory that was Grease.”

But lo, some said that the ol’ Hot Chestnut Man had lost his marbles. Until the strike. And then they saw that the Tories, the Bullingdon boys  - ‘I’m Bullingdon Bertie; I rise at 10.30 and sneer at the Proles when I do. For they all smell of cabbage, and working-class garbage and old socks and urine and poo’ – David and Boris and Gideon, had inherited all the haughty and disdainful genes of their ancestors. And the Bullingdon Boys thought that it was fair enough that certain lower orders should work longer than they had agreed should be the case; contribute more to their pensions than had been contracted; and then should get less at the end than had been agreed by all parties. Because were these people not schoolteachers and nurses and council employees and such conniving sluggards as these?

And the people said to themselves, ‘Well! Next time there’s an election, we know what we have to do.’

And the ol’ Hot Chestnut man said to himself, ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

* * *

I’d like to talk briefly about Twitter too, this week. Oh yes. The old Social Networking Sites.  I’ll be brutally honest; I went on in the hope of punting my book. I’d been footering about the margins of Tweeting before and almost died of inanity poisoning but, on the advice of my agent and my daughter, stuck with it.

I’m glad I did. There are some woofling bores out there, and some barking madmen too. But there are some genuinely amusing people and some genuinely smart and interesting ones too. Like life, I suppose. In 140 characters or less.

There’s an idea in there. Somewhere.

Here’s to the next time.

Obiter Dicta

Wednesday, November 22^nd

Ah! Here I am. Knew I’d get here eventually. I’ve been posted missing for the last couple of weeks.  Missing presumed blogless. But no.  Back again and all blogged up. Chockful of blog. The mind bloggles.

Some of my time over the intervening interim was spent with the dear old Mater in Leicestershire. She had fallen the previous week and, at 86, that could have been serious. Well, it was serious in one sense. I mean, she hadn’t done a comic fall. A pratfall. She wasn’t doing a Mrs. Pastry or anything, Keystone Copping all over the place. She fell seriously all right. She just didn’t give herself a serious injury. Which was a blessing. Is the expression, I believe.

She’d fallen in the living-room. I asked her how she fell. She told me she’d tripped over the rug. I said, ‘Lift the rug’. ‘Ah but son,’ she said, ‘I like it there. It protects the carpet.’

The fitted carpet has a pile on it high enough and thick enough for The Borrowers to have to hack through it with machetes. There are small woodland creatures living in there. It’s an eco-system on its own. I lifted the rug. That evening, she stumbled over one of the three rugs in the hall (also fitted with carpet). I lifted those rugs. Now she has a rugless house but is in less imminent danger of tripping and braining herself on the fireplace or the bookcase in the hall.

I love my mother dearly, as all good boys should, even 60-year-old boys, but her deafness causes me a great deal of stress. Correction -  her refusal to admit that she is deaf, or to wear a hearing-aid, causes me a great deal of stress. Every second utterance has to be repeated, slightly louder and slightly more slowly. And the volume level of the repeat has not to be too loud, or she snaps, ‘I can hear you perfectly, you know.’

Naw, Mum you cannae.

Watching TV has taken on a whole new dimension. ‘What did he say, son?’ is a regular question. So, by the time I’ve repeated –slightly more loudly and slightly slowly – what the actor said, we’ve missed what the next actor said. God knows how she manages  when there’s nobody else there. I shudder to think what skewed ideas of drama or comedy she has taken from her imperfect hearing of the dialogue.

* * *

When I returned from Leicester, I finished my judging of the Edinburgh Writers’ Club poetry competition. The standard of entry was pleasingly high and the winner – For Mary Haldane – was a great piece of work.  It did exactly what I had hoped the winner would do: burned itself into my memory. Congratulations to Kate Blackadder and I hope her poem is published in a literary magazine soon. It deserves wider recognition. The runner-up, by the club’s treasurer, Tony (sorry, I’ve forgotten his surname) was a wonderfully atmospheric and reflective piece called Evening Mooring. It was written in the villanelle form and Tony’s great achievement was that the content and the delivery of it matched the form so well.

And finally, The Locked Ward is nearing publication and Cape’s publicity people are now taking over. I have already filled in two written questionnaires for magazines, and the bound proofs have been sent out to various luminaries to see of we can garner a friendly quote.

First quote is a beauty. Gabriel Weston, a surgeon who wrote the memoir Direct Red for Cape a couple of years ago, has furnished Dan Franklin with the following paragraph. I rather like it. Toodloo till next time.

I really enjoyed The Locked Ward. He is compassionate without any taint of
sentimentality, and the way he uses language is so elastic. It's like he's
the most brilliant court-jester in the most colourful of courts. Bravo to
him!

Obiter Dicta

Thursday , November 3^rd

Some days later this week with the old bloggeroo. I have actually been writing like … whatever the appropriate simile is for writing. A typewriter? Bob Cratchit? Or just  ‘like fuck’, which is what the guys in the pub would say. Towards more picturesque speech!

I have been working on a piece that is, at the moment, called Grand Guignol. It started off as a short story – well, it started off as a poem , many years ago – but it has sprouted wings and taken off, and I’m rather hopeful of its being a novel one fine day. Or a novella. Or a nouvelle. Whatever the difference between those is. It is different; that much I will own to. We’ll see how it progresses. At the moment, it’s taking up all of my writing time. And enjoyably so.

Other things on the go –

Well, the 26 poems arrived that I have to judge for the Mulgrave Trophy, presented by an Edinburgh writing club. I have to say, with no little astonishment – and sheepishness – that the overall quality is staggeringly good. Even on the first reading, I could see that. The subject matter shows remarkablevariety, and the styles no less so. One or two in Scots. Most in free verse. But two in terza rima – and one sestina! On first perusal, they seem to be handled skilfully too. I have to append  a short crit to each one, so there’s a fair bit of work to be done there. And a speech to be drafted too. They’ll get their fee’s worth from me, I can promise you that!

My first published prose work, The Locked Ward, will be published by Jonathan Cape in the UK on January 5^th, 2012. It is a memoir of my seven and a half years as a psychiatric orderly in a secure unit. There are many funny stories, as well as one or two sad ones. And what I hope is useful information about serious mental illness and how to help people who suffer from it. Initially, when my agent suggested I write it, I was reluctant in the extreme. Ethical considerations, matters of confidentiality and the like, made me think it was impossible to do.

But there are ways and means. None of the patients in the book would be recognised by anyone. I have changed names, ages, gender, nationality – anything you can think of, to render the patients anonymous. Some characters in the book are composites – amalgamations of several different people. One patient might be spread around five different characters. Similarly, with staff. I have used ten or twelve names and stuck to them over the seven years, despite the many comings and goings of staff over the period. I wanted to write the book because it was by far and away the most interesting job I ever had, and I thought others might find it interesting too. And I wanted to celebrate the patients: a band of people who, despite the most catastrophic illnesses in some cases, showed stunning bravery, humanity and resolve.

The book written, the audio book voiced, I now have to assist with the publicity for the project. The PR people at Cape have taken over and a very affable guy called Chris is dealing with that for me. He’s been on email to check what I’d like to do. Write? Yes. Public apearances? Yes. Radio and TV? Yes. Those rich old Caledonian tones might be broadcast far and wide yet.

He has also dangled a very exciting possibility before me. But I’m not going to mention that yet. Because, although I’m not superstitious (touch wood) I am very wary of The Unspeakable Law. Which states: ‘As soon as you mention something, if it’s good, it goes away; if it’s bad, it happens.’ I won’t risk that at the moment.

But, rest assured, as soon as anything transpires, you’ll be the first to know.