‘John Wayne Is Big Leggy’ – Haysi Fantayzee
TEN YEARS OF THATCH. CAR-IKEY!
APART FROM THAT, THOUGH: ACE! ACE! ACE!
On Monday, I’m going on BBC Radio Norfolk with Tracey Joyce (‘LOLA’) to talk about THE CHINESE PLAY. That’ll be fantastic!
Not only that, though…
Well, today, I didn’t go into College, as I didn’t feel too well, but, by God, the weather’s lovely.
Anyway, I rang the Fenland Advertiser and they’re really interested in covering the play. I’ve got to contact them tomorrow. I also rang the Wisbech Standard and they’ve taken loads ‘n’ loads ‘n’ reams of information from me about the play, about me, and home, family, Flash, etc. And then there’s the Lynn News + Advertiser (who took photos yesterday) who rang to speak to me. John Hird – the ‘main man’ for this type of thing – rang and we had a chat. He’ll put something in as soon as poss + he wants to arrange a meeting with me tomorrow so we can have lunch or something (God knows what!) and he can get some pictures of me and run a feature!
‘On Returning’ – Wire
The air + the world of Ritcherd J Winterfood is so hot beneath this intense weather. It’s gorgeous.
The Wisbech Standard rang back to double check all their spellings with me. I assume they’ll be printing a little something this Friday. I’m pleased.
I have some funny dreams…
Last nite, I dreamt I was watching a theatre company perform a play for all the college groups in Wetlands High School gym! I nipped off to collect a prop from the College Dance Studio (illogically above Wetlands’ gym), and as I entered, I realised all our clothes had been covered in toys and comics. Suddenly, in walked a class of learning disabled children, all laughing at each other, mocking each other for not being able to read or write (?!). I eventually left with a piece of paper + returned to the gym where the actors had finished and were giving a post-show talk to the drama groups. One of them was attempting to explain the difficulties of pitching certain words or syllables – which sounded so stupid! – and Daniel Abbott was correcting almost every word spoken, which really amused me.
I also dreamt something based around a TV series somewhat akin to The Monocled Mutineer with a hefty dose of The Rainbow mixed in. I was watching it on TV, and it was fantastic: about a young man adjusting to life after the First World War. It was set in Cambridgeshire in the 1920s and dealt with his life, desires, loves and his mysterious ancestry. The main focus was a poem he had been sent by an unknown female and the memories of a mother he had always been told had died during his birth.
Suddenly, the show – starring Paul McGann + Martin Wenner – turned into a documentary about the making of the show and its writer, who, obsessed by his creations lives out the lives of his characters. It showed him in his ‘20s clothes, driving an old automobile; next thing, I am actually sitting with him in the passenger seat, driving around ‘80s Cambridge, visiting the locations of the ‘20s clubs written about in the series, and to the colleges where much of the show takes place. All the while we were discussing + talking about the programme + the true stories it was based on. As things progressed, he told me about the final half of the series which takes place in the Yorkshire Dales, where the main character is born + lives before the Great War + his subsequent move to Cambridge. And as we drive, Cambridge moves away and I am watching the end of the show on TV once again, at Gran + Granddad Winterfood’s Majorcan apartment (as if!). On the table is the Majorcan equivalent of the Daily Mirror (Eurgh!), hailing the TV series as a ‘classic’. Then, the show comes on again – as my Granddad goes out – and I start crying as the final moments of the final episode slowly wind up the series, but then I am actually there in the show! The main character is now dead and his ghost walks along a Yorkshire hillside, dressed in military uniform and waving distantly at a large woman who is crying as she scrubs her doorstep. A beautiful voice recites the poem once again, as if from nowhere, and the meaning of the poem becomes clear. The woman cries a single tear as she looks to the empty hillside, where the ghostly figure has now disappeared. She is his mother.
Now, sorry, folks, if that came off as a load of tripe, but I found that to be an incredible dream. It was fantastic!
I am very proud of myself. A man heading a fox hunt on some documentary and as soon as he came on I instinctively shouted ‘BASTARD’ at the telly. A natural impulse.
LOCAL ELECTIONS tomorrow. Who should I vote for? I want to vote for the Green Party.
Jonny just rang and he’s poohing tonnes about his lines! Yeurgh! That really instils me with confidence. Never mind, it’ll work out in the end. This is a Winterfood production.
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Next time: ‘Keep On Moving…’