April to June :

DIARY 14/06/07

I've been telling anyone who asks, never again.
"How's the script coming along?" - "Never again!"
It's like pulling your own teeth out, the repetition, the monotony.
So many words. Thankfully they are Samuel Beckett's words and so they dance like ballet, read like poetry, scan like music.
These plays may be just 35 minutes long (each), but they are packed with gems, aces of black comedy and wry humour.
Mysterious they are. But entertaining and thought-provoking, too.

They are 2-handers. Mike Bennett, the other hand, is a fine fellow with all the goodness, courtesy and wit I like in people. I am a jibbering wreck at times and keep saying "never again" as I wander from room to room, sheafs to hand. The script comes to the shower with me, the bath, the loo and in my car as a silent, intimidating passenger whom I consult at every red light and the occasional lay-by. You can't let her go for a moment. She comes to bed with you, sleeps with you and wakes up with you. She's your lover. Yet you hate her. Never again.

But then.....I know I can't let anyone down. And I said yes, as I do - the answer is Yes, what's the question? Again. Another adventure; another box to tick. I aim to deliver. Come see. Anyone who gets me, will get these plays. And you can be in and out in an hour and a half. For fifteen quid. I would. But then I love the words. And also it's a terrific space, The Arts Theatre. A good bar and a clubby atmosphere. Have seen the auditorium, and the stage. Haven't seen the dressing-rooms, but I've been in moe than a few, and nothing will surprise.

I study the script on trains to London for the Beeb, to production meetings, all the time. I find corridors between carriages in the train to hold mobile phone chats, interviews etc. Can't bear the type who dismisses the presence of all others, as though the carriage were his/her private office. I say to them, excuse me, or madame, this is not your private office, if they go on too long diallling and receiving. Hate the ill-mannered and the arrogant. They get both barrels. Then sometimes they will look at me, figure it out and mumble who does he think he is? I've heard it and I think, I am just me. You may see me on the telly, or in your local paper, but I have the right to peace on a train, especially first-class, though not at all exclusively. We all have the right. Phone keeps ringing? Important person? Get in your car. Or get out into the train corridor, and find a quiet place, and speak quietly as though others are (and they are) listening. Respect.

To Royal Ascot on Tuesday where The Other Cockney Rebel contests the St James's Palace Stakes. 6/4 favourite. And quite right too. What he did at Newmarket and The Curragh was phenomenal. He's been valued by at least one prospective purchaser at 10 million pounds. After Royal Ascot, Phil C., the main player, will decide. I only wish he were mine. But he belongs to friends. And I am associated, therefore. You can't ask for much more than that. It's been a great thrill so far, and I suspect there's more to come. 6/4 could look like a steal come Tuesday late afternoon. No such thing as a sure thing in racing. But this charismatic and beautiful equine athlete is putting in work on the gallops to make the mouth water.

It's a good life, with so many adventures. Never again. Tick the boxes now.
Never again? I'll get back to you on that.

DIARY 01/05/07

I still feel that the new year has just started. Can't shake the feeling. Started quietly enough, considering the schedule of last autumn, touring Germany, playing Holland, then the UK. Then the build-up to the Death Valley trek for the Mines Advisory Group.

Some experience, that. I was surrounded by a terrific group of people, all ages, all backgrounds, all with at least one common aim: to achieve a personal goal and in so doing raise funds for a worthwhile cause. Everybody succeeded, from what I saw. The girls from MAG, Harriett and Julia, were splendid leaders and good company. The professionals were bang on with their management skills and knowledge. Almost 300 miles across desert terrain and tarmac, up to the passes and down into the valleys we pedalled. I believe a figure of over £70,000 may be raised when the counting stops. And it isn't going to stop for a while: the Paul Horton original painting, "Onward And Upward", is ready to go "Live, on auction" at any minute. Pre-auction, a bid of £4,000 is already registered. Paul and I have signed a Limited Edition print run of 195.

Many fans (I say fans, meaning some known to me, many not) helped my own funds for MAG. Each of you has my thanks. My own friends and contacts were very generous, some exceedingly so. John Giddings, Juliet Solomon and Nathalie Hayes and her mum and those at their company, and my friends at Barker-Gillette, and Paul Evans, too, all donated sums which answered my call with the generosity of saints. But every pound counts as well as any other pound. The sum will go a long way in south-east Asia and Angola.

And then my poor mother died.

Ten years of suffering invasive surgery to remove (benign) growths got to her in the end. These dreadful invaders might in themselves not have been fatal, but they grew and pushed against vital organs and nerves and caused great discomfort lately, and complications set in after the last removal. They kept her on a life-support machine for me to snatch a few moments alone with her before her life expired. I will always be grateful to my family for organising this, and to the doctors in Denia, in north-east Spain, for their efforts. Many cards came to me from (again) fans and strangers, and I've seen the many messages on the Guestbook. You know I was touched.

Back to the professional side, it's clear we won't be playing many shows this year. You can't keep going to the well, and besides I plan to finish a new studio album by the Autumn, so maybe next Spring we'll hit the UK and European roads with a vengeance. And this summer I will be treading the legitimate boards again, for the first time since "Marlowe". Can't give details yet, but those interested in obscure Beckett work with pathos and black humour (think "Waiting For Godot" for guidance) should keep a night free between July 10th and 16th. It'll be a short run, but it's the West End, and I love an adventure.

SH