Sunday, January 17, 2016
We could have done it over the phone, or via Skype, if I'd had Skype, but I wanted to have a look inside the station. I'd been passing it every day for years, whenever I was in town, and latterly I'd known several people who'd been in there to talk about poetry, or charity. I don't like to admit it, but I'm occasionally very competitive. I want adventure; and I don't want you to have more adventure than me.
The experience was brief, but I loved it. And hated it. I went into a studio just vacated by the guy on the afternoon show and spoke into a microphone like Willie Nelson on a tour date promo. The young researcher asked me about the club, the bands who'd played there, and the attractions of the rock 'n' roll and rockabilly culture. I said that it was my first experience of anything vaguely adult, and that even the stories about the violence the club attracted were compelling reasons to be there for a naïve kid. I theorised that back then everybody wanted to belong to a gang, and mine was just a nostalgia gang with greasy hair, tight trousers and fluorescent socks. Was it the same these days, I wondered? I didn't know.
Occasionally my voice trembled. His attentive gaze made me nervous. I was afraid I was talking crap, or worse, sounding as old and irrelevant as reminiscing about these things was making me feel. It was a club that had been demolished at least a year ago. And the school I attended when I went there had been turned into a housing estate in the Nineties.
I don't want to go into the archives of history as an ex-Ted, I thought, absurdly, even as I romanticised for my interviewer. But in some way the idea that something, at least, might outlast me for a while was curiously comforting. And it sure as shit won't be my poetry. Those were good times. And the music was excellent.
After about fifteen minutes, the researcher concluded the interview. Is that it? I thought, Geldof-like. I wanted to go on for another half an hour, expanding into new areas, inspiring other programmes.
"That's great," he said. "I can use more of that than I thought."
Are you just being professional, saying that? I wondered, while feeling simultaneously flattered, like a child who'd been praised for cleaning up his toys. Public appearances of any sort open me up like a wound, letting out all of my insecurities. But I have to take him at his word. We'll see when the show airs on February 7th at midday how much of my interview made the cut.
Not that I'll be listening. I'll be out walking in the park while Michelle listens for me and prepares all the reassurances I will, and won't, believe.
Friday, January 08, 2016
It's now ten years since I started SUFFOLK PUNCH. It's also, shamefully, ten months since I wrote anything on it. I didn't realise this until I logged in half an hour ago.
MARCH 2015? How the hell can it be nearly a year since I wrote anything on this blog? It seems only...wait, nearly a year, actually, since my whimsical Buddha rabbit experience (see last post).
And what has happened in the last 10 months? (Not much.) Is there any justification for this slovenly keyboard performance?
Well, not having a keyboard is a good justification. I still don't have any internet either, not at home. I post from home to social media, but from my phone. My epilepsy doesn't respond well to more prolonged sessions on my mobile, though, so blog posts aren't a good idea.
Plus I'm still working nights, 5 nights a week, and sleeping most of the day. It's kind of hard to make time to get up between sleep and work and bus into town to go to an internet café.
But all these are excuses. I have enough money to respond to the avalanche of broadband offers I get through the mail every day. And some of the ones I've chucked in the bin would have given me a free tablet. I just haven't worked hard enough, and now we've reached the 10th anniversary of SUFFOLK PUNCH, I've decided that has to change.
We'll see how long the resolution sticks.