PROCEDURES!

In the supermarket I was bashed into by two trollies. This panic Christmas buying is frying people’s brains

I eventually reached the check out carrying my ‘Bag for Life’.

‘Would you a like a bag, sir?‘ the assistant said sweetly.

I pointed to my bag. ‘I’ve got one thanks. Didn’t you see it?’

‘Yes. But we have to ask. Sorry.’

So bruised (I think) and confused by the inane rules that the checkout people have to follow, I went home..

I had three ‘down the line’ interviews to do at the BBC (thanks, Sam). Catching a tube at 8.00 in the morning is a nightmarish experience. Brunel was a genius but even he couldn’t imagined what his precious underground system has turned into. The Elm Tree Police would have a field day, packed in so tight, each carriage should have a vicar conducting marriage ceremonies. By the look on the majority of the faces in my carriage had definitely consummated their marriage rights before the vicar had even opened the good book.

At the BBC I had to deliver a copy of Lies to Robert Elms at BBC Radio London before the interview with him on the 30th of December. I went to the desk with the envelope.

‘No, you’ll have to take them to the Delivery area just down the road.‘ I go there but I couldn’t see how I could get in. Fortunately a bloke was there who told me which button I had to press.

Inside, it was a bleak place with an unattended cubby hole. There was a man waiting with a multitude of parcels. The attendant arrived, mumbled something and the parcel man moved off.

‘For Robert Elms.‘ I said, offering him my envelope. He pointed somewhere vague where there were parcels piled high. ‘Put it there?‘ I said.

‘No.‘ he said irritably. ‘On the rollers.’

I see the rollers and put it there. Nothing happens. I take it back to the morose man. ‘Okay?’

‘No. On the other rollers.‘ I thought he was going punch me in the face.

The other rollers started moving through a covered tunnel and then emerged on the other side. I took it back. He stamped it and took my envelope away.

Outside, I thought what was that all about? Alright bombs but it was my book for Robert Elms, who on earth would want to blow him sky high?

Two books to be delivered for Steve Wright show for my interview on the 9th of January. BBC Radio 2, much easier. I speak to the receptionist, she makes a phone call and down comes John Dutton and takes them. So much simpler.

The three interviews done I get on the tube. No, I can’t do anything about the BBC’s procedures but what about supermarkets?

How about traffic lights at the end of each aisle. Mini roundabouts? I’m sure there have been accidents in these places, not fatal but certainly not good for the reputation of these establishments.

Anyway, Happy Christmas to all you ‘bruised’ shoppers.         

P.S. SEASIDE

A small addendum to my previous post, which apparently no one is interested in.

The only actors that I wouldn’t call on to be Station Announcers would be certain EastEnders.

When I was in that show I had to learn how to ‘lip read’, so inaudible were they.

So the bosses of Railway Lines should be careful that none of them slip through.         

BESIDE THE SEASIDE

I was down in Brighton last Wednesday, the 19th, to do a live interview with Sarah Garrell on BBC radio for Sussex and Surrey plus an interview down the line with Andy Potter for radio Derby to publicize my new novel Lies.  Very pleasant except the journey down to Brighton was chaotic.

There’d been a ‘Security Alert’ at Victoria Station, so police cleared the station for an hour. The trains were jumbled up and all over the shop, hence massive delays. But I eventually got to my destination.

A few drinks after the interviews with my mate Jon who designs the covers. I slept well that night.

Next day at Brighton Station, I stumble onto the 10.19 train to Victoria. Dribs and drabs of last minute passengers rush on and search for seats. Then there’s an announcement from the train driver. ‘This train is out of commission, So if all passengers would leave the train and await further instructions.’

Everyone piled out, about four hundred of us looking bewildered. Then the Tannoy started. His words spewed like gushing water, none of them comprehensible, just one phrase seemed to be clear ‘Platform 5’. The four hundred rushed off. But there was no train on that platform. And the board sign said ‘Bedford’. Then the train arrived. A few climbed aboard, obviously not concerned about wether it was the right train or not but just to get a seat.

The rest of us stood around waiting for another announcement but none came. It was obviously a tea break. Then another train arrived on Platform 6. A load of them went on it. I asked a sensible looking man, who was climbing aboard. ‘Does this go to Victoria?‘ ‘No, but Clapham Junction, if that’s any good.‘ That’ll do me, I thought, so I joined the confused travelers. Eventually the train moved off.

No Clapham Junction appeared through the train window. and we ended up at Three Bridges. I was furious and stormed about looking for someone to complain to.

Then, the notice board on the platform changed. It read Charring Cross. Thank the Lord, all thoughts of being lost and abandoned evaporated, here was my escape route!

Now a couple of days later and reflecting on that chaotic mess of getting back and forth from the South Coast I came up with an answer to one of the problems that railway passengers face.

Station announcers are simply just gabblers. They should be trained in microphone techniques and clarity. I find most of them totally incomprehensible. So why don’t they use actors?

There are thousands of actors all over the country, all out of work. They would leap at the chance to earn a few bob.

I just wish that whoever owns all the lines would wake up and bring in the professionals.        

GOOD YOUNG SAM

On Monday the 10th my new novel LIES is published to coincide with the Tracks of My Years that I’ll be doing every day on the Ken Bruce Show that week.

As I recorded the interviews three or four weeks ago I have no idea what I said. I assume I mentioned books, the music and my career but couched in what way I have no idea. I do know that I didn’t swear. I have to bite my tongue when talking about certain things.

I’m sure that you know that Ken Bruce is a very welcoming, charming and generally a good egg. And bloody good at his job as well. 

I can’t finish without thanking young Sam Westerby, who I wouldn’t have done it without his application.

Thank, Sam. 

PETER JAMES

I first came across the name Peter James when I was in City Books, an independent bookshop in Brighton. The book had a picture of The Palace Pier on the cover. I bought it. It was by Peter James. (there’s a follow up to this incident but that’s for another time.)

I realised that he’d written a series of books about a detective in Brighton and all of them had Dead in the title. A clever marketing ploy. Whatever, I was hooked.

I discovered that Mr James was vocal about crime writers not being taken ‘seriously’. I suppose he meant that they were never considered as contenders for the Booker Prize etc. It seems that all the ‘serious‘ books, that he wants to be a part of are mainly reviewed the Guardian Review.

I have bought as few from that esteemed publication and without exception they have been obscure and mainly incomprehensible. They are bought mainly, I assume, by so called intellectuals, who like to be in the swim and prove that they read the ‘posh’ papers. Some books do escape those dusty confines and become best sellers.

It reminds me of the 60’s and 70’s when everybody seemed to be carrying copies of ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.‘ The author of this tome was Peter M. Pirsig who sold 5,000,000 copies of it world wide. But I never found anyone who had actually read it.

Getting a taxi to Brighton station the other day, the driver said how much he loved London.

‘I’m going up tonight.‘ he said. ‘I’m going to pick up a writer who’s signing books in Waterstones in Piccadilly. His name is Peter James.’

I rushed to my Guardian Review of that week, which lists authors who signing at various venues, looking for Mr James. But he wasn’t listed.

Thank your lucky stars, Mr James, that paper is the kiss of death.

Incidentally, not a bad title if you switch around. Kiss Of The Dead.   

PRYING EYES

This my last post about my ailments. My baby triffid has been removed from my ear (ouch), skin taken from my neck. Not allowed to touch the dressing in my ear, shower or wash around it. Hence the area is very bloody.

Now I was very keen to see the Fulham game against Norwich. The District Line wasn’t functioning, so I had to go by bus. This journey took about an hour and with lunchtime shoppers there was a constant change of passengers.

You should be very pleased that my inability to post pictures on my posts because if I showed an image of my ear anyone who happened to see it would immediately pass out. I suppose I could have stayed in a darkened room until they checked the dressings and cleaned me up but I was determined to go to the game.

On the bus everyone seemed to be staring at me, not because of any work I’d done but aghast at the sight of bloodied ear. Which I have to say looks as if Luis Suarez had got his teeth into it.

I realised too late, that I should have had a card hanging round my neck, in fifteen languages of course, saying ‘I’ve had an operation on my ear and skin taken from my neck. It Hurts. Thank you for your interest.’ 

The Grand Canyon

A phrase that I constantly think about is this. I paraphrase but here’s the gist.

‘Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose leaf down into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.’

That’s how I always felt about my work, my books, another limping out soon, and my posts.

I’m still waiting for an echo.