unloveable.co.uk

Help (me) write a Dr Who book for charity

2009-01-24T17:31:00.005Z

Are you a celebrity? Do you know someone who is?

Then will you please help me to write a Dr Who book for charity?

My mum has been ill, suffering from Alzheimer's, for about four years now. She recently moved into a retirement home where her nursing needs could be met more fully.

I don’t have many skills, but I have got something of a strong will. So I'm putting together a book, to help raise awareness of the effects of early onset dementia (particularly the fact that it is affecting more and younger people every year), where all the profits will go to research into Alzheimer's. I'm hoping you may be able to help.

The idea I've had is simple: to ask those in the public eye with a connection to or enthusiasm for Dr Who to write 200/300 words each on a particular favourite memory they have of the series.

"The public eye" means... either, fairly high profile fans (at least, ones who can be credited with something), or people in telly generally or who have worked on the show, or proper, honest-to-goodness celebrities (the kind who would get reported in the tabloids if they phoned Dr Who after the Dalek Invasion Of Earth to say "Hey, I f***ed your grand-daughter, Susan"), or journo types who make a living from writing and can cause a stir with their opinions.

Each contribution may be something from childhood, a particular favourite adventure or moment from the series, or something more recent. The story need not simply be a memory of watching the programme; perhaps it's the experience of working with an actor who played Dr Who, getting that elusive Target novelisation, or finding a Police Box outside Earl's Court tube station – heart-warming, entertaining or evocative memories that would make the book as enjoyable to read as I hope it will be to put together.

So, what I hope you reading this might do to help is either a) volunteer a piece for the pie, or b) forward this Word Document request to people who are more famous and/or more suited to having a crack at it.

I mean, surely between us - using that six degrees of separation rule that founded Jamie Oliver's Ministry Of Food, or got that guy a date with Drew Barrymore - we know enough famous people to make this the best Dr Who book ever.

If we can get one hundred big, big names to contribute, the whole thing would make a nice 200 page, albeit small size book. Then, if every Dr Who fan currently hoovering up merchandise bought just one copy - bingo! Loads of dosh for the Alzheimers Research Trust charity. Everyone's a winner.

However, I am in the very early stages of planning. I have yet to persuade the BBC to licence the Dr Who brand (although that is, in fairness, not a necessity), though they have indicated it is not entirely an impossibility. I also need to find the best publishing deal for it. I hope to avoid “self-publishing” because in order to make any significant contribution to charity, the book would need the widest distribution channels possible.

But let that not stop us.

To date, I've already had lovely submissions from Bill Oddie, Toby Young, Conor McNicholas, Marc Platt, Paul Cornell, Chris Chibnall, and Ian McMillan, plus promised contributions from many others.

"A man is the sum of his memories," a wise Time Lord once said. Hopefully, together, we can prove it's more than that.

So why exactly is the Internet full of kittens?

2009-01-10T16:14:00.002Z

Killing two birds with one stone: here's a video introduction to Henry Berry, one of our two rescued kittens (both six months old, brother George not pictured)...

... which is also serving to act as a test for my newly acquired (for work) HD video camera, the Kodak Zi6. And also, 'cos I've never posted to YouTube before, some learning about all that lark.

Lighting by Dave Daylight, music by Madness (on Radio 2), with the missus singing along. Okay, it's no Citizen Kane, but give me time.

Heidi Berry RIP

2008-12-11T12:10:00.003Z

Yesterday was a very sad day.

About a month ago, the missus and I noticed that our lovely cat Heidi had started behaving slightly out of character. She'd had her annual check up in October, so it was a bit of a surprise to see her behaving as if she were unwell.

Although often wary of strangers (and extremely timid with children), she'd always been very sociable with her family. She loved to climb into bed and snuggle up (usually, and uncomfortably, on your head). She was persistant in her pursuit of all comforts. In fact, we have the scratches on the bedroom door and carpet outside to prove it. Though her name was inspired from a tendency to hide in even the smallest of spaces when we first brought her back from the Cat's Protection League, she was more often to be found curled up on a cushion in the lounge or sitting, staring at you whilst you took a bath. One of her favourite things was to have her face stroked and she would often turn and lean toward you in anticipation if she was on your lap, or stretch out a paw in demand of attention as you passed. If she was really happy, and you were blessed, you'd see her tongue stick out as she purred.

But during November, she'd started taking to sitting on a chair in the office upstairs and snoozing rather than racing downstairs as soon as we got home. We'd call her down as we watched TV but she didn't always come.

Even so, when she was up and about (mostly at the weekends), she was still pretty active. I've got some great photos of her sitting on the roof of the shed at the end of our garden that were taken only two weeks ago. (She rarely went up there - usually only for a bit of sunbathing on hot days, so this in itself was just as uncharacteristic as her recent quiet behaviour.)

But then we noticed a worrying development, in that she had started to lose weight quite quickly. Never a lean cat at the best of times (she was very little and had quite a saggy little tummy in any case, but she had been on a mixture of diet and dental control food most of her life), she was noticably thinner over the last couple of weeks. We could feel her spine as we stroked her and her legs seemed bonier. When she wet herself overnight on the sofa, it was clear something was wrong.

So last Saturday she went to the vet, who said she needed an x-ray, as there was a lump in her tummy. Even then, we still thought that it was possibly just an obstruction in her intestine. (We'd been feeding her some "treat" catnip and chocolate drops over the last month, to cheer her up, and at one point we thought they'd maybe clogged her up.) We were instructed to put her on an immediate very simple diet of white fish and small pieces of chicken, to keep her warm (although she never took to the furry hot water bottle we'd leave her overnight), and keep an eye on her toilet habits.

Some cats eat plastic bags, they said. Some can get blockages from the string around meat joints. But it could be worse. Heidi was clearly delighted with her new mealtime regime. We even let her lick our plates on the table (which we'd never done before). She seemed as normal as before. She even had a little fight with us, and let us stroke her tummy (a typical greeting on our return from work or at breakfast - she'd roll over onto her back and purr, until we played along, then she'd attack!). Perhaps a simple operation would put things right?

Not so.

On Monday, she had the x-ray, which revealed that in actual fact she was suffering from an aggressive tumour in her tummy, with more on the way, and an accompanying thickening of her intestinal walls. She wasn't going to get better after all. It was as bad as things could be.

That night, at home, Heidi was pretty spaced out (probably from all the anaesthetic she'd had) and, for a cat who could've qualified for an Olympic napping team, didn't seem to be sleeping well. We made an impromptu litter tray for her in the utility room. (The reason she'd wet herself on the sofa, we realised now, was because it had become too painful to go through the cat flap.) In the event, she was even cleverer than that and, during the night, came up the stairs, went into the bathroom, and had a wee in the shower. (She was definitely her daddy's girl.)

And then we made a decision.

So, our final night together as a family was in front of the telly on Tuesday, for the most part with Heidi Berry stretched out on my lap, purring in half sleep. We watched Survivors and Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe. (Good episodes both.) We ate a stir fry. We smiled at her, we cuddled her, we fussed over her. We kept everything as normal as possible. We were brave.

Then, at about 10.30am yesterday, the vet arrived to put Heidi to sleep. Our little cat had spent much of the morning sitting on a chair under the dining table, looking out of the back window into the garden and watching mummy and daddy as they busied about making cups of tea, listening to the radio and wrapping up presents for people. Typical tortoiseshell that she was, Heidi feistily objected to being moved - she had a hell of a growl on her - and having a line put in her leg (where she'd had the anaesthetic line a few days earlier).

We took her to the sofa, but she wasn't having any of it and wandered off, so we had to bring her back. I talked to her, smiled and stroked her head as the vet and her nurse delivered the lethal injection.

Then, as the vet said "She's gone," my heart broke.

Being brave, someone clever once explained, isn't about not being afraid. It's about being afraid, but doing what you need to do anyway. Once Heidi was gone, there was no reason to be brave any more. I cried - no, I sobbed, uncontrollably - for the first time in about fifteen years. We said goodbye to our little treasure (she was only about seven years old), as she was taken away in a soft blanket. She still had her eyes half open (just like when she was asleep) and her tongue was sticking out.

She was only a cat, a brindle rescue cat with a kink in her tail and green eyes that lit up weirdly in half-light and camera flashes. She was a pain in the arse, fighting with the DVD loading drawer or the lead of the steam iron. She was sulky, and moody, and pretty damn violent at times. But she was often friendly, and cuddly, and warm and purry. And she picked us to live with these past six years.

And do you know what?

I loved her.

Hateful or discriminatory?

2008-11-22T16:13:00.002Z

Two words that eBay have applied to me trying to sell this board game on their web site. They removed the item about five minutes before it was due to sell (for about £18, thanks).

The reason? Can you guess?

According to eBay themselves, "You're not allowed to list items that promote or glorify hatred, violence or racial intolerance, or items that promote organisations with such views on eBay."

Ah, so that would be the hatred, violence and racial intolerance promoted by Escape From Colditz, the 1970s children's board game devised by Major Pat Reid, British war hero and former prisoner of war and sold successfully by Parker for a decade or so. The hatred, violence and racial intolerance endemic in educating a younger generation about WWII and the treatment of prisoners in one of the world's most notorious high security war camps.

Hatred, violence and racial intolerance in a board game? Hmmm... maybe they should come 'round to my house at Christmas. Those Trivial Pursuit sessions can get quite heated.

Could it be what they're actually offended by is the appearance of the Swastika symbol on the game? The Swastika, for those who don't know, had been around for centuries before it was appropriated for use by the Nazis and generally means "luck" or "victory".

Are we to assume therefore that the simple use of the Swastika, even in context, is considered offensive?

No, eBay doesn't seem to think so. Look at all the other Nazi memorabilia and merchandise you can buy. Literally thousands of items at the time of writing: http://shop.ebay.co.uk/?_from=R40&_trksid=m38&_nkw=nazi&_sacat=See-All-Categories

But, of course, they'll happily remove your item if some knee-jerk, ill-educated idiot decides to complain. And will they apologise for whipping off my auction without warning or deliberation? Will they sausages.

In the mean time, there are still plenty of opportunities to buy Call Of Duty, God Of War and Grand Theft auto on eBay, kids! Forget learning about real people who fought real wars, or boring old board games. Not when you can shoot some pixellated kraut right in his fucking face, dude!

eBay - you need to revisit this policy. You're in danger of looking like reactionary buffoons. You know, the kind that thrived quite well in Germany in 1938.

The original thought of Firetop Mountain

2008-10-16T10:35:00.002+01:00

About seven years ago, when I worked at E4.com, I commissioned a very talented writer called Paul Rose (you may know him as Mr Biffo) to create a comic version of those old Choose Your Own Adventure books for our site. The conceit? That instead of being set in a "Fighting Fantasy" world, they were occupied with the most mundane, everyday things... like working in an office.

He came up with two or three stories, which still exist online somewhere in the depths of Channel 4's web site. The first one was entitled "The Brown Noser Of Firetop Contracts PLC" (a clear homage to Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone's original - now available to buy in a 25th anniversary edition) about a senior accounts director trying to make his way in a mundane business.

What I should've done was tell Paul to go and write an actual book. 'Cos look what's just hit the shops? "The Regional Accounts Director Of Firetop Mountain, a skillful comic account of the drudgery of modern life, and on the other a thrilling adventure populated by creatures of myth and legend", written by Stephen Morrison and Alex Jenkins, it says here.

As they say, there's no such thing as an original idea. I do wish these two every success with their book (gawd knows the web site was never that popular), and hope that they might get in touch with Paul if they turn the book into a series. In any case, I know what I'll be getting the rellies for Christmas.

I'm not the bloke who wrote The Amber Room

2008-09-04T15:31:00.002+01:00

I wonder how many people have ended up here looking for The Amber Room, The Third Secret, The Templar Legacy*, "that bloke off Top Gear" who now does radio (hey, I used to do radio too!), or Peter Gabriel's road manager.

I've been Googling myself again. I'm probably the world's fourth most famous Steve Berry, which is no mean feat considering all the others I could find are older than me.

What prompted this? I found out that I'm not the only alumnus of Hutton Grammar School's VI Form to have had a book published and I did a quick search for "Emma Young" (for 'tis she), and came up with nothing. Well, nothing other than the fact that she now resides in Australia and writes for the New Scientist. But, I reasoned, what if she'd tried looking for me in the past and failed, thanks to the much more popular Dan-Brown-coat-tail-hanging version of me in the US?

Because, yes, my ego is big enough to assume that anyone I went to school with must have searched for me online by now.

In other news, I went for a job interview recently and at least one of the panel had read TV Cream Toys. I wonder if it helps?

* More I bet now that I've added his book names into a post.

Win stuff

2008-01-24T13:39:00.001Z

Although book sales have been going steadily and satisfactorily (okay, so I'm going to have to withdraw the deposit I put down on that Caribbean island), I'm really surprised how few of those people have reviewed the thing on Amazon.

I mean, really! Only three people. And one of them said it was great but only gave it four stars. Bloody hell! What's a guy got to do?

Well, I reckon the answer to that is "bribe people". Which is what I'm planning to do.

So, here's the deal. I'm going to give away my brand new, only ever used on Nuts TV for demo purposes (see below), Evel Knievel toy, in return for a good review.

If you fancy winning it, then this is what you have to do.

Go to Amazon and review the book (you may have to sign up to Amazon or something to do this)
Come back here and post the link to your review, claiming it as your own work.

When enough people have reviewed the book, I'll pick my favourite and update this blog entry, then contact the winner and send out the prize. I'll lob in some TV Cream Toys postcards too (and maybe even another copy of the book).

(Oh, I can't work out how to dismantle Evel's gyro revver thing, so I'll send all the packaging and stuff with the prize in a well-packed parcel.)

Thou shalt find the winter's rage

2007-12-20T13:00:00.000Z

Perhaps I shouldn't only blog when I'm promoting myself or angry about something but, well... tough. I'm completely at my wit's end and so utterly fucked off that I need to vent a certain amount of frustration.

It's a long story. In April, my mum, Janet, was finally admitted into a residential care home. What I didn't mention before was the sheer application of will and effort that it took to get that far - and how I had to jump through the many hoops the local council care services and finance teams had presented along the way to secure that place. There were countless forms, assessments, reviews and agreements to be made and/or signed before the simple act of moving one very sick 63 year-old lady less than a mile to her new room could occur. It was a huge relief to have finally achieved it, not to mention the added comfort of knowing that, finally, professional carers would be looking after Janet 24/7.

At the end of October, however, (whilst celebrating the mother-in-law's 60th in Gloucestershire) my wife and I received a phone call to say that Janet had had a fall and been taken into hospital with a fractured hip. Since then, our lives have been transformed into an almost constant battle with bureaucracy to ensure the continued wellbeing, treatment and care of my mum.

What I need to explain is just how difficult it has been to find out anything from the hospital staff themselves. To begin with, no effort was made to inform me, Janet's next of kin, as to the extent of her injuries. No amount of querying on my behalf would result in a consistent answer. No doctor or consultant was available to tell me whether or not Janet had been scheduled for surgery and no nurse or sister was available or able to tell me what level of care or support Janet was getting in the ward. The disjointed shift system meant that, for over two weeks, no single staff member was around to ask from one day to the next. No information about the patient advice and liaison service was made available. No contact numbers were given. At times it was like a game of Chinese whispers.

Four days in, and Janet's "emergency" hip replacement had still not taken place. Only after I decided to take unpaid leave from work and literally sit on the ward for an entire day was any effort made to provide an explanation.

The day after her operation, I went to visit my mum and found her soiled bed clothes from a day or two previously had been stuffed into her bedside table and left there. No effort had been made to contact me to let me know that they should be collected for washing. When I complained, I was headed off by the ward sister who assured me it wouldn't happen again and that, in any case, any complaints to the ward manager (whoever or wherever he was) inevitably would lead nowhere and would just make life that bit harder for the staff on the wards.

In the weeks that passed thereafter, it became apparent that Janet was unsuitable for physiotherapy rehabilitation (due to her dementia and the consequent inability to take on board or learn from instructions) although, once again, no one told me that physiotherapy had either commenced or ceased.

Then, the residential home turned up and re-assessed my mum's state of health, deeming themselves no longer able to care for her. This meant they would not take her back into the home under any circumstances (apparently based on their personal judgement that Janet - who was understandably very stressed and confused by the whole situation of being in hospital - was no longer able to feed herself and now required assistance to move from bed to chair and back again). I disputed their assertions, explaining that back in familiar territory, Janet would be sure to return to her old patterns of behaviour (indeed, she was entirely capable of feeding herself immediately before her accident). But the judge's decision was final. In fact, the care home had actually attended two assessments (the first one carried out without my - or the hospital's - knowledge) and the decisions made, I was told, based on an overheard conversation between two of the hospital nurses.

Janet was therefore now homeless and an entirely new set of nursing assessments would have to be carried out to decide exactly what level of nursing care she needed and where would be a suitable nursing home (see the distinction between "residential" and "nursing") to accommodate her. It's interesting to note that the care home's definition of nursing needs is entirely different to the hospital staff's definition of nursing needs and that, in fact, the two assessments are conducted entirely independently.

Thus began a new set of procedures, this time carried out by the hospital's discharge coordinator (who works across nine wards; that's cutbacks for you) and occasionally punctuated by various members of the hospital's social work team and the local council's adult care team attempting to find out (from me) exactly what was going on. Of course, it's too much to ask that the disparate social work teams communicate with one another without using me as a middle-man. (If you've ever attempted to return a call from a social worker, you may be aware that the phone receptionists are not allowed to put you through but instead pass on an email to say that you've called. Never accidentally press "reject" on your mobile if a social worker is calling, as you may never speak to them again.) Adding a further level of excitement to matters, the financial dept. of my mum's (now previous) care home continued to pursue unpaid fees that were, according to financial agreements met pre-April, originally arranged to be paid for (in lieu) by the council themselves.

In order to fund a place in a new home, however, further decisions needed to be taken about my mum's state of health. To achieve nursing support funding, she would need to be deemed medically unwell enough to pass through a panel review. The panel decide based on nursing reports and a "two tick" system - if the patient receives more than two ticks then they should, in most cases, qualify. Being unable to walk unaided and requiring assistance to eat/toilet/wash (the two reasons given by the residential home for not taking Janet back, remember) are two tick-qualifying reasons for nursing support.

Despite this, however, the mysterious, anonymous financial panel (who I picture looking, and behaving, not unlike the council of shamen from The Mighty Boosh) decided yesterday that Janet does not qualify for a funded place in a nursing care home. Which leaves her in the position of being a) too sick for a residential home place and b) not sick enough for a nursing home place.

So Janet is now taking up a hospital bed, unable to walk, toilet or feed herself, is not receiving any rehabilitation to help her communicate or get mobile and cannot be discharged to another place of residence. How is this helping anyone? Why is there such a lot of red tape to be cut through just to get some kind of support? Why is it impossible to find out exactly who to talk to and what questions to ask? Why is there no single person to liaise with or contact who knows exactly what a patient's status is?

Last year, I took my mum to the local carol service - she was an active churchgoer until fairly recently - and she spent Christmas Day (and Boxing Day) with me and the family. This year she will be spending Christmas Day in that ward, in that bed, on her own. I wonder where the board of governers of the Princess Alexandra hospital will be spending their Christmas.

Out on Tuesday

2007-11-06T21:17:00.001Z

Finally... FINALLY, the book is out. Currently winging its way from the warehouse to a Waterstones near you is TV Cream Toys. I thought it'd never happen.

Mainly 'cos there was a last minute redesign, but also 'cos there are so many things that can go wrong in the chain between commissioning and actually seeing the thing there on the shelf, I had convinced myself that this book would never see the light of day. But I'm glad it has.

A massive thank you to everyone involved in making it a reality - fellow TV Cream staffers, contributors, friends and family. They should all be listed in the acknowledgements but, if there's anyone missing then, er, sorry. I'll credit you in volume two. (As fucking if!)

After a couple of weeks' bad news, it good to have something to be cheerful about. Raise your glasses; here's to selling bucketloads before Christmas.

Now go out and buy it.

My book's gone up... in price

2007-06-30T04:13:00.001+01:00

It seems that TV Cream Toys is now retailing at the recommended price of £12.99, a hike of three quid since it first hit the pre-order shelves of Amazon and the like, which also has the side-effect of bringing it into line with the previous TV Cream Anatomy Of Film release. Well done everyone who already bought their copy for £6.97, thus saving almost 50% off the RRP. Now go out and buy another one to celebrate.

This increase either means that my book is now coming out in hard cover, or that the printing costs were too much for the publisher to bear, or my royalty has gone up. I bet I know which one it is.

Intravenous drip

2007-05-22T13:23:00.001+01:00

A trip up north on Friday took a dodgy turn on Saturday, as I collapsed at a friend's wedding after dancing too viciously to Wham!'s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. It's perhaps a bit hyperbolic but certainly no exaggeration to say that, for the two hours before I finally keeled over, I was convinced I was on my way to a first heart attack. The truth of the matter is that, after three nights out on the trot (one of which lasted, fuelled by Red Bull and vodka, until 5am), I had probably completely wiped out my energy reserves.

The ambulance came and took me away to the hospital (thank you to Tony and Sharon, the ambulance drivers, who had much to my amusement both read fellow-Friday-Books-author Tom Reynolds' Blood Sweat & Tea, still available at good bookshops), where I remained for three hours under the supervision of Mark the staff nurse. One IV bag full of fluids, one chest x-ray, two ECGs and several blood and urine tests later, I was discharged under the supervision of my by-now-knackered missus.

Come Monday, I had to go and have another blood test. There isn't a bare patch of skin on my body remaining for someone to suck the stuff from. I'm like a heroin addict without the fun side-effects.

It has to be said, I am a total wuss when it comes to needles. I've spent a lot of time looking the other way these last few days.

Also at the wedding was a girl called Leela. I was delighted. She was white, 26, and British. I said "Oh, like Tom Baker's assistant in Dr Who, right?"

She had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I suddenly felt very old and not very delighted at all.

I'm possibly more ashamed to admit to thinking the following, just before I fell to the floor:

Oh no, now I'll never know what this Mister Saxon business is all about.

And also:

Oh no, everyone will say "He was laughing and joking just a few minutes before he died".

Oh no, I think it might be a bit late to radically alter my lifestyle.

I hope it's not too late to radically alter my lifestyle.

Blake's 7

2007-04-25T00:07:00.001+01:00

From the ridiculous to the even more ridiculous. I made this logo ages ago. I think it was going to appear on TV Cream but I obviously never got 'round to putting it up online. So here it is, perhaps some passing members of Horizon (the Blake's Seven appreciation society dontcha know) will fancy it for something - a desktop background perhaps. It was drawn by hand on a computer (i.e. traced). So if there are any mistakes... well, I'm sure I'll hear about them.

I have met three of Blake's 7. Michael Keating signed a poster for me at the Southport Arts Theatre when I was about ten years old (I bet I've still got it somewhere). Gareth Thomas and Paul Darrow both turned up at Fab Cafe in Manchester whilst I was living up there. There's a pic of me with the latter on the Fab web site, should you want proof. (In fact, I ran in to Paul Darrow when I was working at Channel 4 - he was in the foyer, clearly about to go in and do some voice over work, so I collared him. I think he thought I was the person he'd come to see, so I rattled on very quickly about how great it was to see him again. I wonder how confused he was.)

Fantastic fact: in my more bored moments, I can do a reasonable impression of Kerr Avon.

Cut me, I'm purest ham. Anyway, enjoy the logo.

Janet Berry

2007-04-13T13:54:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I had to put my mum in a care home.

Janet Berry was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in the spring of 2004 and moved to a new home near where I life with my wife in September of that year. I gave up my job in 2005 to look after her and took her for her last holiday to Walt Disney World that autumn. Late last year she began to show signs of severe deterioration, getting lost outside her home (and also, later, in it), and losing the ability to care for, or toilet, herself properly. She had visiting carers - originally just once or twice a day - who would come to make sure she was washed and dressed, and that she went to bed at night.

In recent months, she started to hallucinate that people (usually on the television) were trying to break into the house and kill her. She spent a lot of time frightened, recoiling in horror, crying or trying to express panic. She struggled to string together more than a couple of words of sense.

Now she lives in a room in a residential home alongside other people with dementia. At the moment, she still knows my name and treats me as her only friend. Every time she sees me, she tells me how much she loves me. She continually asks where I am. I am told this will pass. I didn't even tell her she was being moved. We just left her house and walked to the home together, down the high street, with a suitcase of her clothes. She skipped once or twice like a little girl. She likes being out in the sunshine.

This photo is of Janet when she first went on holiday with my dad, Peter, probably in 1970. She doesn't recognise him in photos any more - I don't know whether this is cruel or otherwise.

But at least this way I can tell everyone, and I don't actually have to talk about it.

The truth about cats and... robotic dogs

2007-03-13T15:12:00.001Z

It was my birthday last week and, interspersed with bouts of illness, drunkenness and job-interview-ness, I found time to unwrap my presents.

My wife cleverly bought me a 1/4 scale K9 from TV's popular Dr Who show (I'm off to the press premiere next week - coo, the excitement!). I thought it was only fair to introduce him to the house's other 1/4 scale animal, Heidi. She's also been suffering a bit of fur damage the last few weeks (trips to the vet have as yet yielded neither cause nor cure). I don't think she was overly impressed with her new tin chum.

I also got a toaster (as it turns out, K9 doesn't come complete with a grill setting) and various books and DVDs. Lovely stuff. Hmm... perhaps I should add my Amazon wish list to the "vanity" links on this blog?

Grizzly Adams?

2007-02-22T15:54:00.001Z

A night out from back in 2000 with a couple of the girls from the Bravo Doll's House. This was during a period of unemployment (courtesy of the BBC's then head of children's web stuff - thanks for all the badmouthing you did, Mark) when I decided, perhaps foolishly, to grow my hair... and a beard.

I abhored looking scruffy and was very much at the time in favour of tucking in shirts, not leaving them untucked. As a consequence, I ended up going out looking like a man who had tried to tidy up his scruffy, unshaven, unstyled appearance with a lot of hair mousse and a neatly pressed shirt. Awful, simply awful. This photo was taken in Soho, for heaven's sake!

Bless Arwen (no idea what she is doing now) and Ellie (now one of the world's leading female porn film directors) for not running a mile. (Myleene and Beth not pictured - not present, in fact.) I think this is early in the night. Later, we would all go to a club (at which point I bailed out). I think Sarah Hedley and her cohorts were along for the ride too.

A couple of days later, my then flat-mate's Irish friend came over to stay and crashed on the sofa. He spotted my unkempt appearance in the morning (see - they call it the "just got out of bed look" now) and remarked that I was "looking a bit like Mr Adams, there, Steve".

"Ha ha!" I replied. "Grizzly Adams, eh?"

"No," he shot back. "Gerry Adams."

I shaved and got a hair cut later the same day.

"You're gonna be delighted, get excited..."

2007-02-21T16:30:00.001Z

One of the things featured in the TV Cream Toys book is Paul Daniels TV Magic tricks and a reminder that, once upon a time, the little fella was a huge and well-liked star in the UK. I recently watched a couple of Paul Daniels Magic Shows (downloaded courtesy of UK Nova) and, at the height of his game, he really was a top quality entertainer.

Magic has always fascinated me, to the point where I keep buying easy-to-do tricks and practising them on my wife and relatives at Christmas. I once spent an entire evening in a pub with the other TV Cream staffers, boggling at the close-up magic stylings of David J Bodycombe. (In fact, a playing card not unlike this one, but signed by TV Quick editor-in-chief Jon Peake, is seemingly still glued to the ceiling in that very London drinking establishment.)

I took Jo along to see Paul Daniels at the Jermyn Street Theatre a few years back, and made sure I got an autograph at the end. We both ended up as stooges in the show, as there were so few people there (deliberately so - the tickets were exclusive and very expensive). Also in the audience that night? David "Kid" Jensen, and David Mellor.

The only disappointment was that, at such close range, it was fairly easy to see how a lot of the sleight of hand tricks worked. Which reminded me of the time, back when I was a nipper, that I was invited to take part in a magic show staged at Tarleton High School (although I think my parents pushed me into doing it, I was quite a gregarious littl'un). The trick involved me having to delve into a "magic bag" in which the conjuror had apparently placed various handkerchiefs and pull out the contents. I duly did as I was told and - oh, the hilarity! - it was a rubber chicken.

But I'd seen him do the switcheroo. The bag had two openings, so it was easy for the bloke to flip between them whilst covering his actions with a bit of business. I went back to my seat and never told anyone what I'd seen. Until now.

I still believe in magic, only slightly less than I used to.

What the toast says...

2007-02-20T15:10:00.001Z

Sometimes a sweeping romantic gesture can be done on a budget. If you use your loaf.

This blog is migrating

2007-02-06T16:44:00.000Z

I'm in the middle of migrating unloveable.co.uk over to the new Blogger software. So please forgive me if things start to look a little weird round here.

A concerned parent writes

2007-02-02T01:27:00.001Z

My mum was never one much for writing, even before the Alzheimer's stopped her from being able to do so. My dad, on the other hand, was always jotting down short notes and sending them to me.

Compared to all the other letters I've got in the box (and isn't letter writing a dying art, eh?) my dad's were short and to the point - each one practically a "to do" list. Although this one, sent on 14 December 1991 is more circumspect and melancholy. It was most likely written after his second heart attack (the one that really took it out of him) and you can read the worry and the resignation between the lines. He'd have only been 55. Three years later and he'd be dead.

Of course, this is some time after I'd been chucked out of university but was still living in Aberystwyth (sharing with Irish Mark, Nerys and co. in rooms above what was The Central Hotel), working at Bronglais hospital for a pittance. In fact, after Christmas, I moved into Glynderwen, the shared house on Trinity Road with Rich, Ad, Big Steve, et al, largely due to a falling out with the landlord but in part a separate falling out with Nerys. It was better being around close friends, even if I did have the smallest, coldest room in the house. Even if I was the only one putting money in the electricity meter. Even if I did come home every night with a slightly more corroded soul after a day's denigration by an overzealous boss.

Despite my dad's stirling work with the local education authority in Lancashire, I didn't seriously contemplate a return to university until the following summer (and, by that time, it was too late to return in the '92-'93 year). But I did make it eventually, after a further "year out", back at home. Which at least meant I got to spend more time with family, and I earned a lot more money.

"Belting finish"

2007-02-01T23:45:00.000Z

Literally on the back of an envelope, my university band's set list, either for our gig at The Bear (of which, more later), or possibly just for rehearsal.

In any case, the first number (apparently the theme tune to Doctor Who, which I distinctly remember practising on guitars with Rich in his T.C.E. hall of residence room) never made it to rehearsals. Of the rest, songs like All Day And All Of The Night, Johnny B Goode and Wild Thing demonstrate the residual desperation of having to play stuff we'd all learned in other bands.

Genuinely impressive stabs were taken at some tough songs, though. Attempting Bigmouth Strikes Again is no mean feat (and I think we cracked it, near enough) and Save A Prayer was tough on all of us, particularly with those high vocal notes.

More Than Words, whilst something Rich and I were happy to attempt a capella, was ditched for the full band. One song that did creak its way back into the set list was Heartbreak Hotel and, by God, didn't we wish it hadn't. I chose the intro to that particular song to urge people to get up and dance, and then had to watch Rich's girlfriend Rach do her very best to try and sway along to the stodgy, turgid and frankly slow version we launched into. It felt like an age.

However, the two songs that we really excelled at were I Can't Help Falling In Love With You (our own stomping medley of the Elvis version and the Lick The Tins cover we'd heard on the soundtrack of John Hughes' Some Kind Of Wonderful - track it down if you can, it's fab), and Starry Blue-Eyed Wonder (an Icicle Works album track suggested by Ad the drummer, also recommended). Crowd-pleasers both, they were. So much so, we played 'em again at the end when we'd run out of encores. A belting finish indeed...

"Steven, you rock"

2007-01-31T17:00:00.000Z

From a gig at Manchester university in 1993. I don't remember 4AD label-mates Ultra Vivid Scene at all. In fact, I'm certain the support was The Cranberries.

I know this 'cos on the back of the ticket is the autograph (possibly someone else's, as it says "Vic Vega" - the lesser-known real name of Reservoir Dogs' Mr Blonde!) and home address of then-Belly bassist and all-round fuck-you-up rock chick rebel, Gail Greenwood. She and I corresponded for a while after this tour (I sent her some "Cranberry Crusher" soda to a gig in Sweden - I am weird, right?), but then she left the band (or they split up). I can't post the back of this ticket, 'cos she still lives in the same house, with her boyfriend and new-band-co-member, Chil Mott.

One of the thing's I really like about Gail is that she is a complete, snowboarding, skate-short-wearing, turquoise-haired, kick-ass punk metal guitarist (see http://www.bennysizzler.com for proof - typical song titles, "Los Angeles Shitstarter" and "Don't Fuck Up My Buzz"), but she is also a hippie, veggie, art school trained graphic designer and active conservationist (railing against the big bucks expansion of Wal-Mart and the like, see http://middletownfirst.org for more info). Mind you, what could be more counter-culture than that?

I also like Gail 'cos she's the only high octane forty-something rock guitarist I know (and that gives me some hope). And I like her 'cos she wrote "Steven, you rock" on this ticket.

She's right. I do rock. Totally.

In fact, Gail, if you're reading this (and I know you're web savvy so you might just have vanity-Googled your way here) and you fancy a trip over to the UK, drop me a line. I'd be delighted to put you up and give you the tour of London.

Santa's sack(ed)

2007-01-08T22:24:00.000Z

A very busy Christmas and New Year, but I have been "doing funnies" on the radio for the last couple of months. I'm now the guest TV reviewer on Hawksbee & Jacobs, TalkSport, each Monday usually around 2.45pm. The lads over at TV Cream have been "podcasting" each episode after I'm done, but here's quick links if you like listening to weak Partridge-accented stand-up routines (when I can get a word in edgeways).

http://tv.cream.org/berryvision/2.mp3
http://tv.cream.org/berryvision/3.mp3
http://tv.cream.org/berryvision/4.mp3

The diet's going really badly, by the way. But I've got so much on my plate, it's hardly surprising. Not just work, but various doo-dahs with my mum. One thing I have learned: shouting down the phone at Adult Care Services' Emergency Mental Health Unit does work.

Escape to the future

2006-12-23T04:05:00.000Z

Here's a blast from the past. Back in 1997, I did a bit of writing for the then-cutting-edge, now-defunct Escape magazine (stuff off the Internet turned into a lads' mag). One of my favourite ideas for a feature article required a bunch of people to test drive a full-sized racing game whilst under the influence.

Thus, here we are at the end of the night (me celebrating my first drink, 'cos I was the one who had to write everything down and make notes, plot graphs of motoring performance and so on), at the Namco centre in London's trendy South Bank. It was quite new and interesting then, with a proper bar and lovely staff and everything. It's naught but a chav arcade these days.

But, just look at the talent lined up here! There's two magazine editors, one soon-to-be-published author (that's me), people who work in high-up editorial positions at Dennis Publishing and Yahoo! In the flannel panel of this particular issue you will also find the names Charlie Brooker, Adam Bostock-Smith, Angus Loughran and David McCandless. Heady days.

And there's Danny. In green. Winner on the night, car salesman at the time and now... well, Danny, what are you up to these days?

My new bike

2006-09-19T18:41:00.000+01:00

My beautiful wife and I went out at the weekend to buy her a bike (so she could come out cycling with me from time to time). Due to various posture and vertibrae problems, she plumped for a sit-up-and-beg type Raleigh road bike rather than the all-terrain type. After a day out on Sunday (to Broxbourne and back, quite an ambitious run for the first time out) she was beginning to regret the lack of suspension.

However, whilst we were in the shop (Highway Cycles in Ware - I wholeheartedly recommend it, particularly as I would always favour a local retailer rather that a big chain store, and also because the Harlow Halfords practically ignored us the whole time we were there) I spotted this Giant Terrago 2005 disc-brake model at a knock-down price and made moon eyes at the missus. Not being the major breadwinner of the family (at least until TV Cream Toys outsells Harry Potter), I ultimately decided that it wasn't something we could afford. Unbeknownst to me, Jo went back and bought it whilst I was riding her ladies' bike back home for her.

I just want to mention how bloody great it is. Already my average speed has gone up to 12mph (it's much lighter than my previous bike) and I am now planning long-haul trips into London, etc., to see if it will conk out before I do.

My old bike

2006-09-06T14:54:00.000+01:00

As my diet progresses marvellously (I have managed to put on one kilo in weight since starting, although I am not adding that to my FitDay diary 'cos it might just be a result of my metabolism kick-starting and - hey - who says it's not muscle in any case?), I have managed to damage the saddle of my bike. This isn't too much of a problem as it is the one that came with the kit when it was delivered and I've never found it that comfortable. However, that means I need to do one more uncomfortable ride to the nearest bike shop and buy a new one. Which itself isn't bad, 'cos it means I'll end up doing nearly double my self-imposed requirement of cycling and my bum might feel better as a result.

I've managed to lose the photo I was going to use on the inside cover of the book. I've got this digital version but not the original, which is a shame as the clothes look hilarious (ahhh, do you remember the '70s?). I have a similar one of me banging a drum at an even earlier age which may have to do instead.

Finally, a question. As I won't be going to many fast food places over the next four months (at least, not until I get really drunk and blow the diet on a five-hot-wing blowout at Chicken Cottage in Seven Sisters), I'm wondering about a certain rule of etiquette re; the queueing there. I used to spend a lot of time waiting in KFC or Burger King, behind a line of people (usually there is a single line, even if there are two or more counter staff serving). There is an unwritten rule, as I understand it, that if there are people waiting in front of you, you do not duck sideways and go ahead of them just because another till is open. What you do is you politely alert the person in front that there is another server waiting to take their order, so they can go ahead. Don't you?

Apparently not. Twice in the last month whilst I have been patiently waiting for my Mini Fillets or Whopper Meal (honestly, how did I put on so much weight?), someone has entered the premises, ignored the waiting line and gone straight to the first empty till they saw. British reticence (and reluctance to get beaten up) usually means that no one says anything but grumbles quietly to themselves. However, both times I have said - as pointedly as possible - "Excuse me, there is a queue here. You need to wait in line." Both times, the person who has sneaked in front (and that is what they are, dirty, filthy sneaks) has confronted me and argued back, usually with something along the lines of "There's another queue here" (this, despite the fact that they are clearly the only people in that queue, have formed the queue unilaterally and have no one in front or behind them so the queue is only a queue in name alone). Both times I have said "No there isn't, mate, get to the back of the line", indicating with my thumb.

The result of this has usually been torrents of abuse from the party concerned and his/her friends (these queue-jumpers are clever and position themselves in as many queues as possible in order that whoever gets to the front of the line first can call over his or her other filthy, dirty sneak cheat friends and place an enormous order of burgers, fried chicken and diet drinks - indeed they often wait until there's a good four or five of them at the front before deciding even what they want to order, which always entertains the rest of the increasingly hungry and thus far patient punters). I have been called "wanker", "arsehole" and best of all "fat bastard" (hey, it's you who can't wait to get to the front and stuff your face with burgers, you drunken, pasty-faced fool), and accused by one extremely mardy North London trollop of "giving attitude".

Had it just happened the once, I might feel - quite smugly and self-righteously - that I was definitely not in the wrong and I am just unlucky enough to share queues (quite liberally) with drunken, impolite people. But 'cos it's happened twice, I need to know - am I imagining the unwritten rule of queueing conduct at fast food establishments? I appreciate it's often hard to tell what is a queue and what isn't in such places but surely asking people politely to join the queue shouldn't result in such violent reactions?

Or, is it as I suspect (given my reduced calorie intake of the past week) that hunger makes people more angry? It certainly seems to be unsettling my heavyweight championship opponent, Richard Herring. I note that he has been eating a lot of berries in his diet. I am wondering whether or not to consume some herring - perhaps this will reverse the obvious voodoo-spell he has cast on me which has caused him to shed two kilos and me to gain an additional one? I shall write some rules of engagement tomorrow and use of such black magic (the tricks, not the chocolate) will be forbidden.