Glimmer Men
On occasion I like to embark on an evening of culture and sophistication. Other times, like last night, I like nothing more than blasphemy and knob gags. I've been looking forward to this for some time. Since embarking on my Twitter obsession and discovering Richard Herring hadn't died in a unfortunate éclair incident and was touring in fact. So Thursday 19th March 2009 at Liverpool's Unity Theatre myself and my ever tolerant wife, having Shanghaied my mother into caring for our daughter while we went out to enjoy ourselves, met a couple of friends and laughed our socks off and wiped tears of joy from our cheeks.
Herring bounded onto the floor like an enthusiastic kitten. Actually, given his current girth and hairiness maybe Ewok would be more appropriate. Not one of the cute ones like Wicket or the baby in the basket who shields his eyes when C3PO does his 'Vader impression, maybe more a Chief Chirpa. Whenever I've seen him on television he's always appeared sprightly, even when being melancholic, though as this is around the midpoint of the tour with material he first performed at the Edinburgh Fringe in August 2008, I was expecting him to be more subdued. His Empire destroying skills had clearly not waned through touring however.
Hitting the floor running with the single greatest piece of blasphemy I've ever been condemned to Hell for enjoying, we were taken on a journey through Herring's adolescence as he examined his inability to commit, his childish behaviour, and his obsession with masturbation and the need to catalogue it. He read passages from the young Richard's diary, much of which will be familiar to anyone who has been aged between 13 and 17 and written bad poetry, and talked of his upbringing and the effect being the son of the Headmaster during this adolescence has had on his psyche.
We learned amongst other things of his early obsession with comedy and breasts. His fleeting moment of coolness when Dexy's Midnight Runners released Geno. His first love, and meeting her again after twenty years. His uncontested genius at Maths and History. His freakishly small hands and their potential uses.
Sometimes pushing the envelope and referencing current news events, Herring managed to draw a few sharp intakes of breath before the guilt edged chuckles forced their way out. Mostly though the show was a considered retrospective of his formative years rather than a barrage of jokes or satires, and as such it felt like sitting down with an old friend recounting the stupid things you did in your youth. Only this friend was smarter and funnier than you and had you known each other as youths he would never have associated with the likes of you. Obviously.
Closing with a prolonged conversation between himself now at forty-one and at sixteen, he juxtaposed his ambitions then with his position now and ends with a touch of reverence for his father, before one last punchline to send us out happy.
On exiting the venue there was the opportunity for a brief meet and greet while Herring sold merchandise and collected donations for Scope (at this point I should say a big thank you to Mal and Tiff who in offering us a lift home allowed the bus fare to go to a worthier cause). Maybe I won't go to Hell. Maybe just a few millennia in Purgatory.
Richard Herring's The Headmaster's Son is touring until the end of April. Details can be found at http://www.richardherring.com/
Not living in Scotland and not being an Express reader I wasn't party to the ground breaking scoop of 8th March 2009 when Paula Murray unleashed both her barrels on the Dunblane survivors.
In the days that followed publication, numerous messages started bouncing around the Twitterverse and links were posted to the article. Like many who have read it, I was aghast at the depths to which this journalist was willing to stoop. After reading it, I read it again. I was looking for the public interest. I was looking for, well, the story.
I've since sent a few e-mails and signed a petition but I still feel genuine anger. This anger isn't just about the article, it's also about the Press Complaints Commission's codes of practice, and oddly, it's also because despite the few e-mails and the petition signing, I feel so useless and somehow, vulnerable. I don't know what else to do and so the anger turns to frustration which in turn spins back round to anger. But this post isn't about me. Truth be told it's not about the Dunblane survivors whose only misdemeanour seems to be acting like normal teenagers. It's about a shining (though perhaps in context that should be rusted and faecal splattered) example of the gutter press and her character assassination of the most vile kind. It's about Paula Murray.
I keep wondering why she felt the need to attack these survivors. Was Paula Murray involved in some horrific accident that left her in a coma through her teenage years? Was she so ostracised by her peers she spent her adolescence locked in her bedroom, cardigan buttoned to the neck, nose in an Enid Blyton? However she spent it, she clearly never uttered a foul word, had any form of sexual encounter or made any obscene gestures, as that would just be hypocritical.
Anyway, one much wiser than I has collated the details and explains the situation much better than I ever could, so I would ask those few who stumble across my words to please read his: http://bit.ly/3hukrY
O' Brother
Once upon a time, not too long ago, there was a little watermelon who's name was Martin. Martin was a happy little watermelon who looked forward to growing up and being a nice big watermelon. He would spend his days in his little corner of the greenhouse, practising his dynamic tension and waiting for George to visit. George tended to Martin and was an accomplished gardener. Each day he would stand over Martin and smile down at him. He'd check the soil, give him a dash of water and take hold of him, squeezing a little. Though they were quite rough, Martin felt at ease when George laid his hands on him. He would have liked to make friends with the strawberries too, but he always felt they looked down on him, so he focused all his attention on George and making George proud. Martin liked George. George was his best friend.
One morning, Martin was aware that something was different. He took a moment to compose himself and started his dynamic tension routine, only he couldn't. He had no flexibility. Every part of him was taught. He concentrated and could sense the vitamin C levels within him had peaked. He realised he was now a fully mature watermelon and felt elation and pride. The strawberries could look down on him all they wanted, he knew when George arrived he would be proud of him. He felt himself glow, his green flesh incandescent.
As the sun started to fall on the west side of the greenhouse, it's rays smashed through the glass roof and shone on Martin like a spot light. George would be visiting soon and Martin, eager to please, made every effort to soak up as much of the sun's rays as he could. He really wanted to look his best when George arrived.
Martin felt a chill and looked up to see George stood over him, casting a shadow. As George bent down, Martin could see his smile. Martin had never seen George so happy, and so felt happier than he'd ever felt himself and relaxed as George laid his hands on his ripe body. Martin was soon being carried on a euphoric cloud. George had never held him this long before. His hands were caressing every part of his flesh, his fingers probing every pore. Martin felt alive in a way he could never have imagined. George's fingers reached underneath, into the dirt, and Martin started to drift off as if into a dream. He'd never been touched there before, it was exciting, electrifying. Every fibre of his being trembled, and then the pain. Incredible pain. Mixed with the exquisite pleasure of touch Martin was dumbfounded. The contradiction was terrifying, alluring. The combination unbearable, delightful. Through agony and ecstasy, Martin passed out.
When Martin woke he felt weary. He was exhausted. There was something wrong with his soil, it was hard. The greenhouse glass was fogged, only one pane seemed to be allowing light through. He could just make out George stood by it, though he seemed shorter, half the height he usually was. No, wait. George wasn't shorter, Martin was taller, higher. As his mind cleared a little more Martin realised this wasn't the greenhouse, and he wasn't sat in soil but was on some kind of wooden board. As George approached Martin saw he had something shiny in his hand. A ruler? Was George going to measure him? George took hold of Martin with his granite like left hand. His grip was firm and lacked the care Martin was used to. George raised his right hand and Martin now saw the knife clearly. This was wrong. There's been a mistake. They've been friends for so long. Friends don't hurt each other.
Martin wanted to scream, to plead with George. He wanted to remind George of all the time they'd spent together and how George was like a father and best friend all rolled in to one, but he couldn't. Martin was a watermelon, and watermelons can't speak. He began to weep.
As George's knife tore through Martin's flesh and cut into his body, a few of Martin's tears escaped.
Credit Brunch
