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COMING TO A TV NEAR YOU...
It's been another one of those weeks, thus far, driving a desk but going nowhere. For all that though, it's a rather more spacious desk than it was this time last week and work is so much more pleasant when viewed upon a flat screen monitor. The 19" CRT that I've been using for a couple of years now has been consigned to storage and a gorgeous, sexy, 17" flat screen TFT LCD in its place. Sort of...it actually sits in front of me now as opposed to off to the side at angle like the CRT did due to its ludicrous depth. I've reclaimed fully half my desk and can now work comfortably with papers immediately to hand. Phone rang yesterday with a producer from Granada Men and Motors asking if I'd be willing to act as a judge/talking head in a new series starting in November. Why not, I'm not exactly rushed at the moment. Hence, there will be a TV crew in my office next week and a make up artist attemtping to do the impossible with my visage. I have a good face for radio apparently, hence why my TV career to date has been some reportage for Sky via a satellite link with no video feed. Still, the unsuspecting public can be protected no longer: the genie is about to be unleased from the bottle. It's mum and dad's 37th wedding anniversary today and A's 13th birthday tomorrow, both events warranting a little naval gazing on my part as I wonder "where the hell did the years go?". It's my 36th birthday in 6 weeks, another year almost over...I want to be 27 again. Still, people do say I don't look old enough to have a daughter who's 13, but they tend to be people who want a favour so why the hell should I listen? P's out tonight with the boy (if you read jak1960's blog, it's the 'boy' referred to in there) who's back in the UK for a bit. Pauline's calling in to see me for a coffee tomorrow evening, and Ian called in last night, so I'm not completely cut off, despite being without a car still. That's three times this week I've walked into town and back again and I'm fair begininng to get used to it! |
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1.10.03 18:16 |
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BOOKWORM
This arrived throught the post from the publishers last Monday:
What an inspiration the guy is. The book is never going to win any prizes for its contribution to the annals of literary greats, but then it doesn't pretend to want to. It is what it is - the simply written, insightful story of one of football's most talented men and a true icon of our generation. Charmed life? Surely, but it didn't come without merit, nor without the self-belief and determination of the boy who was destined to become the man. Personally, I can't help but like the fella - always have done. For all the fame that has attached to him, he seems to have remained a pretty down to earth guy, more bemused by the life he leads than anything. This is the man that still pinches himself when he leads England out on to the pitch, that cheers with the crowd when the team he plays with score or win. He's living the dream and for all the trappings that go along with it, is as unbelieving as any that it's all real, his. I don't know why I'm such a prolific reader, but it's been one of the constants that have followed me through life since I was a boy. I've always loved books, the escape they provide, the window onto other worlds where imagination becomes your eyes. I remember when I first left home aged 17, the books I had filled three shelves in the first house I bought. Looking round my office now, those three shelves still live on in the many bookcases that line the walls, the books still there amongst the many biographies, reference works and novels that reflect the changing taste of my personality through the years. I feel insecure if I don't have at least one book on the go, something to occupy my mind when I'm not engaged in something else, filling time in on the train, in the bathroom, in bed before I go to sleep and again when I wake up. Doubtless, some psychiatrist somewhere will tell me that it's indicative of a discomfort at my own company, of similar roots as the fact that I rarely have an absence of noise around me - MTV plays to an emty lounge, the radio is on in my office or there's a constant stream of mp3s coming from the computer as background. All is know is that I take something away from every book I read, acquire a new peice of information, both sating and renewing my constant thirst for knowledge. Only question now is, what next? |
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4.10.03 13:59 |
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CHARM SCHOOL
Re-reading my last entry, and daisiesinthegrass's comment to my previous entry here got me thinking. Whilst never emulating David Beckham's success, I did lead what seemed a charmed life right up until my 30s but 27 shines out like a beacon across the years as the age where it all peaked for me. It's the age and image I possess of how I'd be if I ever got to Heaven (ha! like, that's gonna happen! :rolleyes:). Why 27? The reasons are both simple and complex. Simple I guess, because it was a time in my life when I seemed to be at my peak - physically, financially and mentally. I still had the drive and desire to succeed in the City without the cynicsim that came later and hobbled my drive; I had the ambition and thirst for new experiences, the money to pursue them and a naivete that made everything I did seem like a new sunrise. If I'm honest, looking back things stayed that way for a while but the erosion of my naivete was a gradual process and it's only looking back from here that it's apparent. I'd led a charmed life to that point, seemingly possesed of the midas touch at whatever I turned myself to. I fell into my career in the City. There was no longing to be an investment broker, the offer just came along and I took it. Circumstances and luck conspired with a little of my abilities to make me very good, very quickly at what I did and I made a name for myself. The financial rewards grew exponentionaly year on year and from the age of about 20, I found myself in an environment where I was feted by my peers and charmed by my bosses - it was both intoxicating and suicidal. I worked in a high-pressure, frenetic environment where I was judged not by how I went about business but what I acheived and the guys and girls I was privileged to work with were fantastic. My memories of those years are priceless - living a life that could only have existed due to the unique mix of personalities and people that I found myself amongst. We worked hard, we played harder. We travelled abroad together, saw success together and shared the losses. We drank, partied, danced and laughed until our sides ached. We dressed in Boss and Armani, drove Porsches or Ferraris and shared a disbelief that we could be so fortunate. It couldn't last, of course. It never does. From the first realisastion of what you have achieved as a team, the death warrant is in the post. It may take years to arrive, but arrive it will. Life never stays the same, good or bad. Something, somewhere has to change. One key member of the team decides to move on; someone else's marriage breaks up, someone else forms an intimate relationship with another team member of the opposite sex...whatever the catylyst, the dynamics change and events lost the sheen. There was something special about having a Porsche by the time I was 25. Loads of people have them, but not many under the age of 30. There was something special about flying concorde the first time when I was 24 and I'd paid for the tickets with my own money - but not so much when I was thirtysomething and it was a press trip, on someone else's money. I suppose we all want to be unique, different...we want to be first. In my twenties, it felt that way whenever I achieved something extraordinary. To achieve the same now, aged 35, wouldn't have the same kudos attaching, I guess. It's a personal thing. Achieving great things when you're young sets you apart - success comes to many with time and effort, but is gifted to only a handful with effort alone. We had that, and we lived it so I guess I always knew that what followed would be different somehow. It was destined to happen with me for many reasons, not the least of which was that I became a bit of a wanker, I suppose. I was a cliche, the sterotypical City boy. I invested some of the money I earned, but I spunked a whole lot more away - gadgets, casinos, parties. I confused hedonism with life; one has a cost and demands more that the other. I'm given to self-awareness, which works for me often, but can also work against me. It did then - I became vain, intoxicated on the esteem in which others apparently held me. Newer members on the team were a little in awe of me and one of the girls on the team with an agenda of her own flirted with me a little too intensely. I started to believe the hype. I was a tosser, an overpaid, flash twat. Your frame of reference is what you know and you judge accordingly. Thus, when everyone around you earns in six figures and spends it like there's no tomorrow, it skews your perspective. We forgot that people outside the industry existed and lived happy lives on less than a tenth of what we earned. Our reality was the only reality; we were a macro society of extremes, arrogant and not awfully nice with it. It all came crashing down one day when I got made redundant. Utterly unexpected - we were making loads of money but the department as a whole was losing it. The department closed, end of. We were surplus to requirements. Clear your desk, leave the building immediately. The payoff was adequate and I was in no rush to try and recreate what we'd had somewhere else, so I took a year out, which was where it changed for me I guess. Away from that environment, away from those people and that life, I came down to earth with a bump. I looked around me - at the friends who'd stuck around, unimpressed by what I earned or did, those who led normal lives going out to work and coming home again for far less money. They'd been there all along, but I'd been too caught up in the life I was leading and those who attached themselves to me becuase of what I represented, not who I was. I took my daughter to school and picked her up every day, cooked every night, looked after the home and wrote a little. Life became incredibly normal and I loved every second of it. I budgeted, spending only what I could afford, not whatever I wanted. That year passed too quickly and I'd resolved during it that I wouldn't go back but the lure was too great. Someone made me an offer I couldn't refuse as the money started to run out and against my better judgement, I went back. It was destined to fail of course, because I'd stopped believeing in what I was doing; the desire simply wasn't there. I could still do it, but it came to represent for me everything I didn't want to be. I stopped trying and within six months, followed my heart; I shut down my screens for the final time, handed back the company BMW, phone and laptop and headed home to normality. I think life's caught up with me now. You can't heap that sort of abuse on your body for so long and not expect to have to pay for it. It's in my eyes, etched in my face. The vain part of me wants to look that way again, the way I looked aged 27, the way my finely tailored suits hung from my frame. Sometimes, when I was alone with my thoughts in those days, the reality of it all came home; I took the opportunity to learn, enjoy the fine wines we were drinking like water; taste the food in the Michelin starred-restaurants we frequented. It's all to the good, I suppose; it's the foundation on which I've built my career now. I love what I do, I enjoy the freedom it grants me. Sometimes though, I long to unknow, I hunger for that elusive feeling that, like the first hit of a drug, can never be recaptured. That's why 27. Having a daughter who's 13 freaks me out sometimes - I don't feel old enough. And there's the rub. For all that I used to think I was different, she's the ultimate reminder that I'm not. None of us is. She's different, not me. She's what matters, the important one. I think I've finally grown up. |
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4.10.03 15:13 |
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AMBUSHED
At least that's what it felt like. Film crew arrived at mine yesterday morning at about 11:00. Two fellas, researcher and his cameraman together with lights, camera, sound mixer, monitors, the lot. 30 minutes later, my office is no longer an office, but a Heath Robinson-esque TV studio. Amazing how much heat those lights generate! After much faffing around, checking of lighting, sound levels (no good with that mic, change it!) we're ready to go. "OK", says research-type dude, "Ten categories, ten motorcycles in each. We'll run the camera and then just look towards me and give me 20-30 seconds on each". Suddenly, it dawns on me. Ten times ten...that's a hundred takes minimum. No script, no questioning, no autocue. Just me, a journalist with no TV experience talking freeform. We start. One down - not too painful. And another one. First ten are pretty straightforward. Next ten - there's two in this category that were also in the first. Plus four that I've never ridden, yet alone formed an opinion on. By the time I'm halfway through, I'm flailing badly. Try it - take a subject you know well and then talk freeform in an intelligent and articulate manner for 30 seconds without repeating yourself. Then take 30 aspects of your chosen subject about which you have the scarecest of knowledge and try it with those. I'm hardly going to seem authoritative now, am I? By the time we reached the last ten, given retakes ("sorry, a plane/train/car/wind noise intefered with that, can we roll it again?) we'd been at it for four hours solid. Four hours in which I was melting under the lights, struck dumb as my normally encyclopaedic knowledge of motorcycles went AWOL and deserted me. I know you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear but I hope to God they can do something with the footage they've got whereby I won't come across as a complete and utter fool. Ha! Fat chance. It didn't help that the three other judges were all big names in the world of motorcycling and they'd all already done their bits, although the researcher tried to make me feel better by telling me that they'd all had trouble doing it. Ha, should be good then - especially as the program is going out with an episode once a week for 12 weeks and it's just the four of us linked together by the presenter. I guess there's a reason I stick to print media as opposed to broadcast. I enjoy writing for one, taking time with articulating the facts and playing with the language as I do so. Perhaps it's easier to make the transition the other way - if you're used to speaking to camera and therefore thinking on your feet, it must seem like a breeze when faced with a deadline that's weeks away and you have to write an article. Still, I can console myself with the fact that as it's on Men and Motors, nobody will see it anyway ;-) I was feeling pretty wrung out by the time they left, although I was bouyed a little by an unexpected email from an editor confirming that he wanted to run a feature that I'd sent him on spec. Money was good too and I felt a little brighter as I couldn't for the life of me remember having sent it to him, so it wasn't on my list of prospective commissions and I therefore handn't mentally already spent the money. Ha! Had a meeting over lunch in London today with a prospective investor into the new magazine I'm planning. He seemed positive and was complimentary about my portfolio which is praise indeed coming from someone so high profile in publishing and who has a reputation for not often dishing out praise. My plan to custom build a new PC is coming together nicely. Got a high-end motherboard on it's way, a cool aluminium case on order together with a high-end sound card and speakers. Monday saw a courier arrive with a 200Gb hard drive and I've been promised two 10,000rpm 36Gb drives which I can set up in a RAID array for hyper-quick data transfer. The system should fly when it's built - I'm hoping to build it around an AMD 3200XP+ processor with 1Gb of RAM, so it should be impressive as hell. The rest of the week's looking up. Lunch with Alan the PR tomorrow which is always an enjoyable and relaxed affair in a top notch venue. Friday, the Jaguar XJR arrives and we're planning to head out to Berkshire at the weekend to review a Michelin starred restaurant which rather helpfully has bedrooms to allow you to take full advantage of the well stocked wine cellar. My kind of heaven, that. |
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8.10.03 19:00 |
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CHILLED, NOT FROZEN
Nick's wife Eva is a lovely girl - 9 years his junior, Spanish and like a breath of fresh air amongst our little circle. It was her birtday last week and Friday night saw 12 of us celbrating it in style at a Chinese restaurant in Cheshunt. It's been a while since I ate Chinese and I have to confess, I was really looking forward to it - Chinese restuarants can be so disappointing with their fare and good ones are few and far between. This one came highly reccommneded though, hence the fact that we ventured so far off of the beaten track for us. This place didn't disappoint and boy, did we go to town! I drove, which was no hardship given that I'd had the Jaguar XJR delivered that morning; I'd been tied to my desk all day answering the door to various couriers who came bearing components for the new system that I'm building, so I was just itching to get out and rack some miles up on it. Furthered that cause yesterday with a trip to Liss in Hampshire for lunch with an Indian businessman at his restaurant there. He owns a company called Honey Garden Sauces which hand makes and sells genuine curry sauces as used in the restaurant. I'm writing a feature on him and the company for the news agency I write for and the sauces are just delicious - I can't recommend them highly enough. He's a delightful man, passionate about what he does and all the more interesting for it. He gave me a box full of his sauces to take away with me and having tried them before, I can't say that it's going to be any hardship living on curry for the next month or so! Driving back up the M3 yesterday I was lsitening to Steve Wright in the Afternoon on BBC Radio 2. There's no denying it really, is there? Yes, he makes me laugh out loud just as he used to. It's just that now, he's migrated from Radio One to Radio Two along with all of the other names I remember from then, over there on Radio Quiet where the cool young things who listen to R1 never venture. Mind you, I still think Mark Lamarr is funny and he's on R2! Two songs back to back caught my imagination on the way home - Tina Arena's Sorrento Moon and the new Blondie track. Tina can really belt a tune out and Blondie hardly needs an intro - that woman is just soooo sexy, even now. Once again, I feel like a caged tiger. After a day out the office, I'm home alone again. The phone hasn't rung yet and the only emails to grace my inbox have been Spam, furthering the sense of isolation that I feel. For someone as gregarious as me, home working is probably never going to fire me up the way it does some people - I miss the cut and thrust of office life too much. I need to be around people - I miss flirting with the girls, bonding with the fellas and winding up those who are just asking for it by taking themselves too seriously. I miss people watching from behind my paper on the morning train, the after work beer, the sense of achivement at successfully blagging an afternoon off. Where's the fun when there are no parameters other than of my own? Where's the incentive in beating the system when I am the system? I've got a £60,000 car out on the drive and time on my hands - A's overnighting chez les grandparents ce soir - but P and all my friends are at work. Sense or purpose required, I feel like I'm all dressed up with no place to go. Fuck it, I'm not even in mufti today - it's nice out so I got dressed in proper atire 'just in case'. Cats are today's excuse for my lack of industriousness - mine and others. Just got up to find an unfeasibly friendly cat wandering the house. It's effrontery seems boundless. This is the cat which wandered up to the patio doors last night and saw my own Katya hissing, mewling and spitting through the glass at it whilst it just sat there nonplussed. This morning, bold as you like, it's wandered in and was attempting to feed from our own cats' food bowls in the kitchen. I walk over with a stern look on my face and admonish the stanger and it replies by brushing against my leg and follwoing me through to the lounge. Ejecting it from the premises works so long as I rapidly close the door - otherwise it attempts to come back in. Outside, through the glass, it looks at me pitifully, mewling to be let in. I have no idea from where it hails, but it's size and general health dictate that it lives somewhere. So bold though, and clearly at ease with strangers, it's holding me hostage through a closed door. Can't have this - I've despatched Katya to patrol the grounds. Stand by for action...
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14.10.03 12:48 |
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TOUR OF DUTY
P was out last night and whilst channel surfing, I happened across TOPT2 as they showed a performance by Cathy Dennis with D-Mob back in those heady days of 1989. Wow, talk about time machine. Suddenly, there I was back in the days when we were all cheesy quavers, doves were the new religion and we danced until dawn. Late night TV meant Tour of Duty (class series, remember the LT, Zeke and the guys of Bravo? It was like a tv company decided to restage the Vietnam war just to make a series), Get Stuffed (classic tv, only to be watched drunk and half asleep) and The Word. We were so much more innocent then. Life was so much simpler. Capital radio had Chris and Kara doing the breakfast show and Pat Sharp had crap hair, but played some great tracks. Mark Lamarr did side-splittingly funny stand up, Ab Fab was original and 'alternative comedians' really were alternative. Did it all seem so great at the time? Probably not, but the lenses of hindsight are rose-tinted and none the worse for that. We can't change the past, it can't reach across the years and bite us, so we can wallow in the good times and let them paint our futures. The greatest gift that age has bestowed upon me is that now, I know when I'm living a segment of my life that will act as a beacon through the years. I can appreciate the good times and know which elements are destined to feature on my own personal TOPT2 in years hence. And what's a few lines in my face if that's the reward?
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15.10.03 13:43 |
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AIN'T NUTHIN' GOING ON BUT THE RENT
Still penned in at home, this week courtesy of A's school and the scheduling of 'inset days'. I'm sure there's a good reason for the school scheduling two together (today and tomorrow) just one week before school breaks for half term, trouble is it's never communicated to parents. Yesterday, school closed at 12:00 as there was an open evening for prospective parents last night although again, it's never communicated why that necessitates shutting the school just three hours after commencement of lessons. A was one of the puplis acting as a guide so she was back up there again at 18:00. Made the most of today with her - we cuddled up on the sofa and watched DVDs and ate popcorn. Wasn't of a mind to work anyway, so it was time well spent. She's had a quilt day, laying in, writing thank you letters for her birthday and generally chilling out which has probably done her a power of good. Monthly under 18's disco again tomorrow night, so she''' no doubt be off to her freinds' to get ready. She's sleeping over at L's afterwards, so P and I have a night to ourselves. And as I've now given away all of my sweeties, does anybody want to donate one or two to me? I'm broke! All greatfully received. |
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16.10.03 17:56 |
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