26/08/07
Come thrill me again... -
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First off - I'm not dead. An odd amount of messages have recently enquired about my pulse, to the point where I have been starting to believe that my demise has been reported somewhere. So, for the record, I'm alive - I have merely been making way for the North of the Border lot and felt including blogs over the past month or so may have seemed slightly, well, gloaty. Not because of what I have been doing, moreover what I have not been subjected to this year. Nothing worse than somebody banging on about how they're not losing money this year and all that bollocks - in the times I have been up to do shows at the fringe there has always been some cunt doing that and I am so not that person. I remain proud of all of those souls living the dream up there.
However, given that I was uncommitted, I decided that I was going to make an effort to do something with my August time this year, to warrant not making the journey North yet also giving myself the break that my head and body has been screaming out for. I think I pretty much managed to balance the leisure/work thing, despite suffering nervous irritability, anxiety dreams and an alarmingly regular propensity for heartburn over the last fortnight or so.
Today/Yesterday/Saturday I got to put to bed one of the frustrations of last August, by going over to Wembley to see St Helens play (and win) in the Rugby League Challenge Cup. You may recall from last year that it was a major annoyance for me that they were playing in a cup final which I could not attend, so this year that was put to rights, even if the new Wembley Stadium was a major disappointment - utterly without soul, and a massive metallic reminder that there are certain things in life money cannot buy. Sitting in that dome today, with nothing close to 'atmosphere' made me mourn the character and excitement of the old place, the twin towers (the Wembley ones not the terrorist ones) and despise the business people even more than I already did (which was a lot). Hard to believe it could have taken them so long to make something so shit. But Saints lifted the cup at 4.45, so it wasn't all bad.
I started the month by recording the last two episodes of my podcast, and I have really missed doing them over the past few weeks (the whole first series is still on iTunes for the time being, and of course at www.chortle.co.uk/raypeacock). I'd sort of got it into my head that doing them would distract me from the Fringe, but hadn't reckoned into account the fact that the series break was coming at Episode Ten which fell in the second week of August and so would leave me with nothing to do beyond the handfull of gigs I had booked in. So I did what any artistically minded person would do in such a situation and began writing a book.
Yeah you heard me - writing a book. A proper one and everything.
I wrote one a year or so ago (or rather I finished writing one then - took me fucking ages to do it), but the rejection/conditional letters from publishers and the complete disinterest in reading it from a large chunk of my friendship base sort of put me off writing the next one. The indifferent friends thing - that's a big deal for me incidentally, and I'm not entirely sure that it's fair on my part to feel it to be so, but that doesn't alter the fact. It's been the same with the podcast - I've got so many emails and MySpace messages from people (strangers) who listen to it religiously (perhaps sometimes TOO religiously), and then I'll speak to someone who's meant to be a mate or whatever and hear "Oh, I'm a bit behind with them" or "I've not got round to listening to them yet". It actually kind of offends me, especially when in the next breath they start talking to me about fucking Big Brother or something. Ever get that thing when you actually start thinking the universe is giving you clues about whether or not you need certain folk in your life? Is it really that big a drain on a friend of an "artist" to at least make an effort to be fucking supportive?
Anyhow, the book is coming along nicely - it is sort of writing itself but at a reeeeally slow pace, which I'm also kind of enjoying. For a good while I used to think I was an impatient kind of chap, but I've started to believe more and more that it was more a case of that I have moved in impatient circles - I'm actually extraordinarily patient, expecially where creativity is concerned. Big fan of doing stuff slow.
Not that I live at a snail-pace. For example, I went to Chessington World Of Adventures (and that name should be reported to the Advertising Standards people by the way) the other day, so that proves that I live fast sometimes. To save any wondering on your part, I'm gonna slag that off too. My theme park of choice will always be Blackpool Pleasure Beach (although I no longer go there), and basically, anything that isn't Blackpool Pleasure Beach gets the thumbs down from me. Especially when it is full of "those" sort of people (you'll know the ones if you've ever been) and seems to pride itself on queuing, shit food and an enormous wasp population. These things do not adventures make. The only good thing about the day was the fact that I managed to train Little Raji James' children to point at him in public a lot whilst listing various films and TV shows he's appeared in and looking total strangers in the eye for acknowledgement of recognition. A brilliant game.
Gigs wise, I've had a load of fun in the past month, in particular my weekend at the Leicester Summer Sundae festival thing, which is officially my favourite of all the summer festivals. I compered the comedy tent on the Saturday and Sunday, and the long old shows meant that I could cram such a varied amount of play into them that I thought I would literally run out of fun. Highlights included making children do really bad swearing, lots of breakdancing, a freak show and proclaiming a bloke called Jamie a God (he sat on a cow onstage whilst I banged a gong and three hundred audience members bowed, chanted his name and generally praised him - it may have been my finest onstage moment ever).
The downside of my weekend there was the fact that I was constantly mistook for the lead singer of the Magic Numbers as I walked around (they were playing the main stage) - I had members of The Divine Comedy, Echo & The Bunnymen and even fucking Sophie Ellis Bextor nodding at me backstage as though they knew me, until somebody pointed out that they all must have thought I was that bloke. I'm not actually very knowledgeable about the Magic Numbers, and to be fair, wouldn't have known him if I was pissing on him, so had literally no idea what he looked like or how accurate a doppleganger I had unwittingly become, but as I left on the Saturday night I did meet him. He had a beard and long hair and was a biggish bloke. That's about the extent of it. As a matter of fact he is twice the fucking size of me - his head is bigger than my body - and I shouted at him for making my life a misery that day. He gave me a massive cuddle and apologised - we got a photo took together and we really don't look alike (it's on the podcast myspace page in the pics section - www.myspace.com/theraypeacockpodcast) but I took to him given how well he took the random abuse hurled at him by a total stranger. I think his name is Romeo or something.
And that is kind of that - sorry for hijacking the blogs section at such an important time but I was whining here first, long before any of this lot. Am gonna start up writing on here proper again next week (apologies for this one - am clearly out of practise) as it might help me to carry on with my book (I'm really trying not to call it a novel - there's just something about saying that word I don't like).
Don't forget - full podcast series is on iTunes and www.chortle.co.uk/raypeacock - it really does have it's moments and it's so free it hurts. Maybe you could listen to it as you do cooking or masturbate or whatever it is you do? You know, kill two birds with one stone as it were.
See you on the beach x
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