Booktrust Interview

Oh sheesh y'all, if you have a sixty second window in your schedule lolling open and unsightly like some ageing schnauzer's slobber-rimmed gob then why not cram a tasty shin bone in there - metaphorically, bien sûr - by reading my short interview on the Booktrust website. I drop so much knowledge it's like I'm some kind of klutzy bookseller trying to rearrange the encyclopedia window display - WHICH IS TO SAY I DROP A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE.

Penzance, May 28th

So I caught the train down to Penzance, my nose all runny from hayfever and my shirt sticking to my back in the heat. As you get close, the track is bordered by lots of verdant spiky bushes and trees that look like they belong in Malta or, y'know, somewhere rather hot and exotic.

When I arrived I realised I needed somewhere to stay, so I rang around some guesthouses. All of them said they were booked up for the week, until eventually one chap said that yes, he had one room left. I asked him where the B&B was. It turned out it was behind me, about 30 seconds away. When I met him, I found myself being extra smiley and polite, and I realised that it was because I felt a bit weird about being a young man booking himself into a B&B all on his own, down here on the edge of the country, apparently without having planned it in advance. I think I was worried he might think I'd come down to Cornwall to commit suicide, and they'd find my shoes neatly side-by-side at the end of the quay. (did you know that people who commit suicide by jumping off things tend to take their shoes off? It's one of the early warning signs bridge attendants are supposed to look out for)

The man running the B&B was very helpful, and recommended a couple of good seafood restaurants, before giving me directions to the road I thought the Arts Club was on. On my way to the night, I heard shouting echoes from amongst the thick stone pillars of the church. A guy with splayed, bird's nest hair around a sunburnt bald pate was propped on one elbow, talking loudly to a teenage boy slugging on a can of Stella. The man had a bedroll and rucksack next to him. He made an expansive gesture to illustrate some garbled, recondite assertion and an almost empty litre bottle of Teacher's whiskey went clattering down the steps, each bounce ringing and echoing across the street.

I'd sent an email to check that the night was definitely on before I left Cambridge, and had received a simple 'Yes! Still on!' from someone who, as it transpired, never showed up to the venue. I asked a short man wearing little wire frame spectacles if he knew where the Arts Centre was.

'I think you mean the Arts Club,' he said. 'Follow the street down and it's the yellow door on the left.'

I waited for an hour inside the Arts Club. There was no mic, and no performance space. The two rooms were decorated with the motley abandon of some fruity widow revelling in her newfound freedom after her stuffy husband's long overdue death - albeit with a fully-functioning bar installed at one end. Actually, no - that's exactly the sort of very cool extravagance a fruity widow would splash out on.

When it reached the time for the evening to start, there were three people aside from me; two of whom were down in Penzance by chance and had decided to pop down to the Arts Club to see what it was like. The person supposed to be running the night had not turned up. There was a sort of nervous murmur as to whether anything would happen at all.

In the end, it turned out to be one of my favourite open mics I've been to so far. I'm not going to explain everything that happened here, but I met some fascinating people and really felt quite privileged to have stumbled across such an odd little coming together of people of all sorts of ages, to talk and listen and share.

I'm starting to collect all my photos and recordings and notes and memories together now, and I'm battling Dr Procrasto for the opportunity to sit down and start synthesising them into the beginnings of a story. My journey is far from over, but I really do feel like the nights I've visited and the people I've met are beginning to change me. The only question is whether I can convey that on a page, and make someone else feel 'wow!', or whether they feel so precious precisely because, as the saying goes: 'I guess you had to be there.'

Homework - NEW SEASON!

Ahh. Finally, the new season of Homework is about to kick off. Homework is Aisle16's London scratch night, a kind of loosely themed literary cabaret on the last Wednesday of every month. Each night has a main show, with support slots from the residents, and often a guest slot.

Last year, despite drifting across three venues, we managed to have a fantastic run, premiering new material and shows every single frickin' night. For a gig that consists largely of poetry, it manages to be pretty raucous fun. Back in October we debuted the full version of Infinite Lives, our show about video games and the grinding vapidity of real life, which is developing into something I'm really proud of. I think it contains the best material I've ever written, and it's on a subject I really care about. Me, Joe and Ross also debuted the full version of what would eventually become Found In Translation, our show about how we tried to infiltrate infamous French experimental literature group, the Oulipo. We're due to perform Found In Translation at the Port Eliot Literary Festival, on Sunday 26th July. Again, the show's final version is something I'm really chuffed with and proud to be a part of. My other highlights from last season include: taking part in the four person performance of Ross's Obituary poem, which cuts up four obituaries from around the same time then splices them together as if they refered to one person; hearing Kate Nash do a set at the end of Joe's Submarine reading; watching Ross, Chris, Joel and Luke perform Services To Poetry on a tiny stage in a room packed to bursting point, and remembering that they're my favourite poets; and getting to play Where Jenny Goes on my uke with glockenspiel accompaniment.

So anyway, the new season goes on until the end of October, on the last Wednesday of every month. It's upstairs at the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club, although knowing our history with venues, I wouldn't be flabbergasted if at some stage we have to make new arrangements and up sticks to somewhere else. But that's all part of the crazy make-do-and-mend ethos that makes Homework so special, so slapdash. The night's certainly one of my favourite to do, because the audience are always great. We experiment, we write lots of new material, and because of that, there's that exciting feeling that what you're watching will never happen again. It's just a really cool mix of new stuff and super-bankable classics that is loads of fun to perform and seems, from the crowd's responses, to be, err, nearly as fun to watch. Heh.

So, the new season kicks off with John Osborne's Radio Head - current Radio 4 Book of the Week. As well as John's reading there'll be a full set from Tim Key of BBC4's Cowards and Charlie Brooker's Newswipe.



I reckon Tim Key is awesomecakes.

As if that wasn't enough (well, actually it obviously isn't - you can't have a cabaret night with only two acts) me, Ross Sutherland and Chris Hicks will all be doing support slots, performing new material and generally being convivial little imps. I've actually written brand new poems, which I'll be trying out for the first time at Homework. Squeeeeeeeee!

So look, if you're reading this, you should come. Here are the details. The mental thing is, it's only £3 on the door. If you can't get there, we film each night and it sounds like an actual film crew should be turning up to the opening night too, so there'll be eager lenses a-go-go. Fingers crossed it will be giddy joy and everyone will have a great time. We've been super-jammy with our regular audience at Homework. They're lovely and the main reason we keep doing it.

Oh, and last but definitely not least, we're extremely grateful to the Arts Council, who are helping to fund this second season. They've been really, really supportive, seem to get what we're doing, and have trusted us to work hard and develop it. Hats off to them, really. Thanks to them, we're now able to put on a whole half-year of exciting, innovative, affordable live literature in East London. Hooray! It's not just good for us - it's good for all the somewhat nutty heroes who put in so much work to create a vibrant performance poetry scene. There's some fantastic stuff out there if you know where to look. Ahem. But may I suggest starting at Homework?

This Happened Because Tim Made A Mistake

'Tim is off on a search to rescue the Princess. She has been snatched by a horrible and evil monster.

This happened because Tim made a mistake.

Not just one. He made many mistakes during the time they spent together, all those years ago. Memories of their relationship have become muddled, replaced wholesale, but one remains clear: the Princess turning sharply away, her braid lashing him with contempt.'

I've just completed Braid, the critically acclaimed time-shifting platformer. I'd heard lots of great things about it, including its being the highest-rated game on Xbox Live, but I never got round to playing it until I read on the news section of Ryan North's awesome Dinosaur Comics that the artwork was done by David Hellman of truly incredible webcomic A Lesson Is Learned But The Damage Is Irreversible.

I know I'm using a whole messload of superlatives here, but it's rare that this sort of confluence takes place. A Lesson Is Learned is one of my favourite webcomics ever. It's been on semi-permanent hiatus since 2006, but the stuff up there inspired me, made me laugh, and reminded me what true storytelling is all about. There's an incredible mix of styles and lots of engaging, surreal humour. Some of my favourites are Now We Are Poor Again!, Getting Over Women, Alcoholic Rabbit Tears It Up, and Traumatic Incident No. 17. Go on, go read them. I'll wait.

Braid is a platformer where you can reverse time. As the game goes on, new elements are added and the puzzles get more complex. Glowing green things remain where they are when you reverse time. Glowing purple things leave a shadow version of themselves behind when you reverse time, a kind of ghostly echo that plays out when time begins moving forward again. Your aim is to collect the puzzle pieces scattered around each level, then reassemble the bits of the puzzle.

The graphics feel like an oil painting come to life, all flowing shapes and vibrant colours. There are lots of witty nods to games like Donkey Kong, Super Mario Bros, and Elevator Action, including the obligatory 'your princess is in another castle' brush off. But although the game mechanics are innovative and very cool, Braid is more about creating an immersive, moving narrative experience. Every twist in level design is reflected in the storytelling.

I must admit I was a bit taken aback when the game started, because the protagonist is called Tim. I don't want to spoil the story for you, but Tim appears to have messed up a relationship that was really important to him, so he sets out to find the 'Princess' that he lost.

I know it sounds silly, but the game really affected me. Maybe it was partly to do with the character having my name, but Braid gripped me emotionally in a way no game ever has before. When I completed it, I felt utterly bereft. The story that unfolds is subtle, elegaic, and very sad.

I read an editorial in Edge last year that talked about how some indie games tend to get dubbed 'art' by virtue of their being unenjoyable as entertainment. I think there's a lot of truth in that. Braid is a rare example of a game that manages to be both shrewdly crafted art, and good fun. It's available as a download via Steam, for just £9.99. It was an impulse buy for me, and I'm super-glad I took the plunge. It's short, but astoundingly executed.

'Our world, with its rules of causality, has trained us to be miserly with forgiveness. By forgiving too readily, we can be badly hurt.'

We crave narratives. They can help make sense of the whirling havoc of our lives, give us goals, promise some golden reward later down the road. But there's always a trade off. Stories are blinkers, and the bigger and brighter the prize, the harder it cleaves reality.

I'm not sure Tim even understands what happened. Perhaps wilfully so. A mistake implies agency, control. Maybe the truth he can't accept is that it would have always turned out this way. There was nothing he could have done, no perfect play. So he carries the guilt for company. Better a haunted house than a lonely one. It would have always turned out this way. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

We Can't All Be Astronauts - Review

So, We Can't All Be Astronauts got reviewed on a blog called Geek Pie - and it sounds like they liked it.

They call it a 'brutally honest, hilarious and engaging memoir', and describe it as 'the best possible tool for any budding writer or someone wanting an insight into the creative process'. Um, I'm not sure that I'd go that far, but thanks! I'm really flattered and I'm glad that they felt they got something useful out of it. My favourite books are ones that help me to see some part of my life, large or small, in a new way, so I hope that Astronauts manages to do that for readers too.

Anyway, I'm just chuffed to get such a positive review - it even managed to make calling me 'self-obsessed, precious and arrogant' sound like a ringing endorsement! If you'd like a copy of We Can't All Be Astronauts of your very own, or if you know any aspiring writers who might enjoy laughing at misfortune, seething jealousy and self-aggrandisement, you can always pre-order a copy here. The release date is Thursday 4th June. The Norwich launch is on Friday 5th June, and the London launch is on Monday the 8th. Come along!

Bristol Open Mic

So I finally returned to my home city, Bristol, to do some open mic poetry. I did a bit of music in April at a couple of nights put on by Mark Venus, but this was my first time coming back to do some poetry.

It was pleasant in lots of ways. I got to hang out with the redoubtable, articulate and completely non-hirsute Byron Vincent, a very talented stand-up poet who regularly excites in me pangs of narked jealousy. He did a new poem, but only after hurling out the standard welter of self-effacing chaff about how he'd probably mess it up and accidentally poison our unborn children, etc. Turned out it was very good and he performed it exceptionally well. Gah! Fooled again!

On the way to the gig, we walked from the city centre up towards Montpelier. I'd had an off-kilter sensation for a while. Suddenly, I got this weird nauseous feeling. When I looked to the left of the road, I realised we were directly opposite the flats where my first proper girlfriend used to live. It had been almost a decade since I'd gone there. The exterior had changed but I experienced powerful flashback sickness, as if my old picture of what the building looked like was constantly trying to burst through.

It was unpleasant, frankly. I felt like memories of a past life were leaking through. I remembered dropping to my knees on her doorstep in the driving rain, the day before I was due to leave to go to university. I'd wept and clutched at her. It had been clichéd and embarrassing - and utterly, utterly sincere.

In the present, I was staggering up the road, pointing weakly at things, while Byron looked on, confused and a little alarmed. We passed under the viaduct and moved onto the Gloucester Road, which sparked off a whole other set of associations from a completely different time in my life, because my mate Will used to live just off it on North Road. I pointed at the building where the Venue magazine offices used to be, and sort of wheeled and stumbled and grinned at the toy shop where me and Will once went to get Super Soakers.

The open mic itself was pretty fun. There was a set performed entirely on jaws harp, and I particularly enjoyed watching a chap called Martin John get eggy because people were talking in the crowd. He buggered off in the break without staying to see the acts in the second half, so I'm not sure he occupied any sort of moral highground when it came to respecting other performers. At the same time, the people who were noisily chatting were other performers, who I doubt would've appreciated his loudly gasbagging through their heartfelt recitals. One of the things I've found fascinating about travelling around open mics is noticing how quickly someone goes from being the meek newcomer digging their toe into the carpet to becoming a tetchy primadonna who feels entitled to an attentive, adoring crowd regardless of the quality of their material. When I've seen bashful virgins break their performance cherry, I've always been thinking 'aww... I hope you grow in confidence'. But confidence isn't always an admirable trait. Indeed, if you're decidedly lacking in the talent department, sometimes a modest comportment is your biggest ally, yet it seems to be the first thing so many people shed.

At the same time, sometimes I've been baffled by the apparent indifference poets show to the people they share a bill with, only to find out that the person on stage has been doing the same three discursive, tedious, self-indulgent poems for the last six months, and so it's only natural that regulars are bored to brackish, bitter tears by their outpourings. With poetry open mics in particular, where there's a roster of regulars, each night represents a roiling political microcosm. I'm becoming convinced that you only need three poets in a room to create three bitterly opposed factions.

The Bionic Woman

So some of you may have caught The Sun's 'story' about Heather Mills getting approached by Capcom to front the publicity campaign for the long anticipated next-gen sequel to classic platformer Bionic Commando. Appearing beneath the headline 'GREEDY MUCCA'S OUT OF LUCKA' the article frothed about how she had supposedly been asked 'because of her charity work with amputees', only to ask for ten times more money than she had been offered, and also 'that a character based on her should be the star of the project'. When passing on the story, various gaming websites have interpreted this as Mills demanding that she be made the game's protagonist. The general thrust across the board seems to be that this is just more proof - as if proof were needed - that Heather Mills is a grasping, avaricious harpy with all the self-awareness of a vacuum cleaner.

Here's my take. One, she wasn't being approached by a charity organisation asking her to help them raise money for a good cause. She was being approached by a massive video games company who wanted to exploit her celebrity to help them flog a product. Not just that, but their only interest in her was in her capacity as a famous monoped. I've noted before that the UK press seem to have got together and decided that Heather Mills' having one leg is not a disability so much as a comic misfortune, and therefore it's okay to take the piss, whilst elsewhere paying lip service to the idea that prejudice against people because of physical disabilities is a Bad Thing. She had every right to turn them down, or ask for whatever remuneration she felt fair.

Two, if I were asked to be part of an advertising campaign for Bionic Commando, I hope I'd have the chutzpah to ask to be the main character. If it's true, then all she's done there is show good taste. The original Bionic Commando is an awesome game - one of the only platformers I can think of that doesn't have a jump commmand, but it's really compact and fun and packed with cool ideas.

The purpose of the game is to infiltrate the enemy's secret base, prevent their huge missile from being launched, and then kill their General. You get to swing from roof beams, sneak past searchlights, and battle helicopters and giant robots. It's tough without being unfair, and the thrill of grapneling over a pack of soldiers' heads is rarely matched in games from the same era.

Third, I reckon the whole piece smells fishy. Would you really approach Heather Mills, practically persona non gratis in the UK press, to promote a game aimed primarily at 14-20 year old males? That's like employing Esther Rantzen as the face of Resident Evil.

Given that the story clearly wasn't put out by Mills herself, it seems likely that what you've got is a canny/cynical PR agency offering her a derisory sum to be involved in promotion, knowing that she'd ask for more, then putting the story out as a way of publicising their game, disingenuously citing it as yet another example of her 'greed' - the kind of quirky celeb piece twatty, credulous rags like The Sun gobble up unquestioningly. Look, Heather Mills might not be a very nice person, I accept that, but I don't know her so it's not my place to judge - and paper-thin promo-articles like this tell us nothing, except that during this economic downturn, attention-hungry companies can always rely on the prejudice and gullibility of the British press.