A few days ago I posted the transcript of a short monologue I had written. This is that same monologue “performed” (I use that term loosely!) by me and uploaded to Soundcloud. I haven’t the audacity to call it a podcast, but I guess some might. I’ve a new project underway with friends, and there will probably be more sound files to come – some monologues, some poems and even the odd song or two. Chances are I’ll be posting them on a new, dedicated, website too, so watch out for that.
This monologue is a bogologue (I’ve written several) – this one based in the toilet of a restaurant where a man has fled to seek respite from a date that’s not going as he had hoped.
A bit misleading, the title of this one, but it is humorous (well, meant to be, but with a bit of “poignant” thrown in for good measure) and it does take place in a toilet, so what the hey. The toilet in question is that of a restaurant where our protagonist is holed up contemplating the folly of his actions and sharing his thoughts with us in monologue. I wrote it for a recent Read Your Words evening, where it went down rather well. I’m hoping it also works well on paper (well, screen), and I may at some point get around to uploading it as a sound file, along with other similar offerings. Please note the views of my monologue characters are not necessarily mine, so if you take the hump at anything the ol’ fella says don’t take it out on me…
Oh god, another bloody disaster. I tell you, I’m not cut out for this internet dating bollocks. Whatever happened to just meeting someone in a pub and getting talking? These days, if you say hello to a woman in a pub she looks at you as though you’ve crapped in her handbag. Or maybe that’s just me?
Maybe it’s an age thing? I mean most women my age are either married or dragging around so much baggage they assume any bloke saying more than two words to them is only after one thing. That, or they’re on a girls’ night out and just want a bellyful of Pinot Grigio and a good old moan about their husbands or boyfriends. Or exes. Continue reading “Toilet Humour”
I don’t write about TV programmes very often. I think the last time was about Grayson Perry and his series on “class”, but a big part of that was about Tunbridge Wells, which I write about quite a lot, so I’m not sure it completely counts. And it was ages ago anyway.
So anyhow, I’ve just got round to watching Chris Packham’s documentary about Asperger’s Syndrome (BBC TV – catch it on I-Player) and the impact it’s had on his life, and it was a pretty tough watch in places. It’s wonderful that Chris Packham had / has such a unique obsession and the drive and understanding to carve a career from it, but, as he observed himself, for every one like him there will be a thousand other “High Functioning” autistics who haven’t quite got what it takes to negotiate all of the tricky social complexities and realise their full potential. Or even part of it. That’s not to say that Chris Packham found it easy – the description of him making lists of the must nots he’s constantly repressing to appear “normal” was particularly informative (and familiar!) – but his special interest and intense focus did enable him to create a niche for himself that was a little more accommodating and comfortable than the round holes that most square-peg autistics find themselves forced to try to fit into. Continue reading “Asperger’s and Me: Chris Packham.”
I thought I ought so here goes… Not one of my best, but seemed apt for sharing on social meeja on a day when when lots of people will be sharing poems on social meeja…
Slave to the Algorithm
No clickbait here, mate,
Just a beautiful forest of emerald green
And winding trails leading to white sandy beaches
With the bluest, cleanest waters you’ve ever seen.
Come feed the sharks.
No clickbait here, mate,
Just a mountaintop you can lob yourself from
If you’ve a mind to,
Just a glider suit or bungee cord or parachute
Between you and certain death.
Or you can take the scenic route if you like;
Just grab your mountain bike and bounce your way from rock to rock
Or ride the white-knuckle express to the bottom,
The longest, fastest, craziest slalom
The world has ever seen.
Come be extreme.
No clickbait here, mate,
No breadcrumb trails to lead you astray,
To waste your day chasing that elusive meme.
Twenty-four life hacks that will change forever
The way you cook a jacket potato.
You’ve been doing it wrong all your life.
You won’t believe what happened next.
Hold on, is that Pikachu?
Go, Pokemon, Go!
He’s already gone.
… because not only does THE CAMERA LIE, but it tells particularly nasty whoppers where I am concerned. However, this one was taken of me reading one of me poems at Tonbridge Calling yesterday and apart from the colour cast from the grass it wasn’t too awful, so I thought weeeeeeeeell…
Anyway, that was me reading yesterday, and more of the same will be happening again next Sunday at the same location for Invite a Tree for Tea. Hopefully they’ll get a pic of my much-easier-on-the-eye poetry partner in crime, Peppy Scott, too!
Between now and then I will also be doing my stuff indoors at the Forum in Tunbridge Wells, as support for three time world champion spoken word artist, Buddy Wakefield. THREE TIMES you say? He must be a bit good then… Gotta be worth a looksee (‘listenee’), ennit…