David Mitchell

one of best male comedy minds in Britain
signing someone else's book -
bloke in front takes centre stage

2012 B.C.

It was a bit Python-esque in parts. It was totally free. It was one of the best cultural experiences I've ever had. It was was a celebration of Bob Cobbing's life and works, held at The Castle Hotel in Manchester, organized by The Other Room.

I was suffering a little bit from anxiety (not related to the event), and that coupled with the crowded conditions in the venue meant I didn't get the most out of the night (so it could have been even better than the glowing report I'm about to give it). Yeah it was very cramped, and the way I was 'squishing myself in' led to a wee bit of pain, but that was only due to the popularity of the event, not the limitations of the location (incidentally, The Castle Hotel is a lovely place. I had a couple of pints of Robinson's 'Double Hop', but I'll try and keep this literary and leave the ale monologue for another time). Once I'd settled down, though, the fun began.

The performances were genuinely brilliant, from "only the warm up" right through to the deep-sea diving and Hollywood films, all in the spirit of the late Mr. Cobbing (1920 - 2002). He was an Enfield poet noted for his work in concrete, visual and sound pieces but if you want more biographical details, click on the above link to be taken to his UbuWeb page. Clive Fencott, who was reading from his own collection Am I On My Feet (El Uel Uel U, 1976), helpfully explained a couple of bits and bobs, including the idea of poetry as experience, rather than language (and that Bob could have 'performed a wall panel' if he'd wanted). This brought home to me the importance of the works that were being read out and also meant I 'got' more out of them.

There was a lot of humour, especially during the Hollywood poems, but overall the experience was nigh on indesribable ('fascinating' is right, but doesn't do it justice). I feel sorry for you if you didn't make it, because you really had to be there to feel the full extent of the performance. Even a video recording wouldn't give a fair reflection, the sense of passion from the poets burnt so brightly in person.

The second half saw a cavalcade of poets performing Cobbing's own 'ABC in Sound' which turned out, despite their ostensible reservations, to be well organized. One poet in the ensemble performed accoustically a digital remix he'd done of part of it. The thrill of seeing such a physical and audible collage of artists was fantastic, and I thought to myself I could have no regrets if I died there and then.

I went a bit mad on getting some of the poets' books afterwards, but mourning the pecuniary loss would be silly when I consider the poetic treasures I have gained. It was great to see my sister and other friends there, and everyone was unanimous in their support of a great night. Check out the links throughout the post for more opportunities to take part. Go on, do it now!

Here are some more linky-links to relevant stuff:

• http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/ (Robert Sheppard's blog, he performed on the night)
• That's it actually, all the other links are in the post pretty much...

'JOHNNY DEPP DEEP IN SUSPICION'

The recent events surrounding the uncovering of Jimmy Savile's disgusting past (60 alleged victims and 340 lines of enquiry now sullying his once okay name) have shed new light on other celebrities' sordid 'kiddy-fidling' affairs.

This crisis of sexual depravity is thought to have stained and corrupted the decent nature of Christian folk as far flung as Hollywood. A documentary, shown recently on ITV2, has shown how Johnny Depp (star of such previously 'family-friendly' films as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Rango and From Hell) has engaged in 'indecent activities' with young people.

Sleepy Hollow (now thought to be a sick joke of a title) flagrantly shows blatant scenes of Depp 'co-starring' with Christina Ricci (who has been in other films too). Camera's captured Depp (now 49) and Ricci (once as young as one month old) embracing, kissing and swooning at each other's feet.

A man who says he saw the 'documentary' told MIBR, "Ricci looked about 10, 11 maybe at a push, and Depp loomed close to her looking like a man possessed. It was clear to me that he wanted to 'violate her' and, such was the intensity of his animalistic desires, it took only the strongest of supernatural forces to deter him from his aim.

"Personally I would. I mean I'm not 'paedo' but she is very attractive. It's okay for me to say this, I'm a father myself, not a monster. Especially in that corset, though, she looks very mature and personally I'm a breast man. Her breasts were very alluring."

Tum Birton is yet to comment.

If you've been effected by any of the issues in this post, please remember it is disingenuous.

Thanks to the BBC news website and IMDB for their cooperation in supplying the facts for this story:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-19939349, http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000136/bio

Half Nederlands

I've just been reading some of Rene Van Valckenborch's poetry.

Admittedly the sight of a breast heightened my involvement (from a flying start, I assure you), but after reading Twitterode 87, I was absolutely hooked.

The Twitterodes are fascinating, accompanied by an image which gives a pleasant alternate plane to the words.

They are often amusing (in Twitterode 79, the "lip-moulded stream of eternal spittle" is amusing because the classical statue framed in the picture seems beyond 'spitting', as a 'disgusting act', but referencing it so lyrically and 'philosophically' - that is to say 'deep', considering the theme of time contained within - almost brings it back to a beautiful act worthy of the subject of the sculpture).

There are also twists and shifts of pace that drag your eye (and brain) along like the strongest of currents. Take Twitterode 73, marrying senses of similiar and yet opposing dualistic worlds; the "dog-cobbles-bollards-street-city" represents a process akin to a camera panning out from a small object to a larger expanse of space. To represent this in a small linguistic space screams out an energy and tension that, PERSONALLY I rather like.

Given the chance, I'd certainly publish it and not feel remorse for getting prosecuted for purveying immoral materials :-P That's before I've read 'em all too.

Check out the Van Valckenborch posts on Robert Sheppard's blog Pages right here: http://www.robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Van%20Valkenborch

WORLD'S DEADLIEST BLOG POST!

I wonder what that would be like?

Loop

The other night I went to Edge Hill again. Monday heralded the beginning of my MA course in Creative Writing there, and though I know there's a lot of hard work ahead of me, it was great to be back. There were a few 'old faces' there from my time on the BA in English and Creative Writing, and it was a pleasure to see them, but it was also an invigorating experience to meet the 'new faces' too (all of whose faces were actually older than the 'old faces', what with them being more mature students). After some initial introductions and feet-finding, we got onto talking about methodologies, which is a very cerebral topic and the harbinger of tough (but no doubt enjoyable) times ahead.

When the seminar was over though, and I had chatted a bit to a good friend and fellow blogger (check out his 'Utterances of a Heathen'), I walked back through Edge Hill's lovely 160-acre campus and it brought back to mind the day I first moved there three years ago. I was pretty hungover, thanks to nice night of farewell drinks with my Lancaster pals, and was sleeping a fair bit during the journey down. I was wearing my Liverpool shirt (I thought it important to let people know my football standing and probably have some banter over it) and some classic sensitive-eye sunnies and I remember actually that I wasn't clean shaven (I was a bit annoyed I wasn't because I had to have a picture taken for my new unicard and looked a bit scruffy).

I'm not going to go into the whole day, suffice to say that being back in education at Edge Hill transported me all but bodily into the past. I swam in the - probably compromised - memories: sharing drinks with new hall mates, mum crying as she said goodbye to her smelly son for a while and, something which continued for a long time, not unpacking.

So I'm back where I began. Or am I? The shirt's different, though it still bears the same badge. I've put on a bit of weight. I guess the core of me is very similar, but here I go again into the unfamiliar.

Commissario

I've found my next love. Some of you might be aware of the Inspector Montalbano series currently showing on BBC4 which is pretty damn good. Luca Zingaretti is completely on the money as the title character - he obviously has a good grasp of the humour of the scripts and uses a lot of physical expression (very important for a Sicilian character) as well as vocal and emotional. The character Montalbano much be such fun to play, a suave, food-loving, cynical yet sensitive, attractive yet, for many reasons, unavailable man fighting for truth and resolution in a hectic and disturbing world. I watch the TV series like it's my marijuana, I light it up and am completely out of the real world until it's out of my system. The only logical thing I could do is buy Andrea Camilleri's novels, ably translated into English by Stephen Sartarelli.

The good thing about the books (well, the book since I've only read The Shape of Water thus far. I'm currently awaiting the next instalment, The Terracotta Dog, which can't bloody come quick enough!) is that they do follow the Italian crime-fiction tradition of lack of a happy ending. Yes, Montalbano is an extremely clever guy and gets to the bottom of the mystery, but realises that he cannot get sufficient evidence for a prosecution and therefore has to let the case conclude in exactly the way he had been fighting against the whole time (the structure of the novel is set up in a way to remind you of the pressures Montalbano is under, therefore raising the tension and really driving on the narrative). I guess the experience of that is more rewarding because you feel part of a very select group of people who know the truth, but still have the disappointment of knowing it made no real difference.

That's the 'big picture', if you like, but in the short term of every chapter you are simply soaked in a writing style that is much like a good Chianti; the rich flavour of Sicilian scenery, the oaky maturity of Andrea Camilleri's politically-savvy observation and the full body, underpinning it all, comes from the brilliantly drawn characters whose humour, back stories and believability combine to perfection.

It's not all good though, there is a wee niggle. When I reached the end, I found the revelation of the crime plot to be a little too blazé, like it was just explained as a footballer might reel through a list of racist incidents he has perpetrated before not being prosecuted. Just a bit too 'matter of fact'. However, it must be explained, the initial account of the plot is not the only one. I don't really want to spoil the ending for those of you who haven't read it, but I'll just say that even though the 'big reveal' is the worst bit of the novel, it still has a flair and originality that - as someone who, in terms of crime fiction, has basically only read Sherlock Holmes, but seen adaptations of Sherlock, Miss Marple, Poirot etc - took me by surprise and is instantly endearing. The final few words reveal just a little bit more mystery about the inspector and, as I said before, I WANT MORE!!!