Month: April 2018

We can be absolute fuckers to each other if we want to. The longer we’ve known each other, the better we get at it. I’ve been out of a relationship so long that I’d momentarily forgotten. In relationships we notice when our loved one is triggered by something. We are compassionate about it and try to avoid that area. Then one morning they go and do exactly the thing you knew they’d do, and you hate them for a second because you were right so you say the thing you absolutely know you shouldn’t and everyone shouts and everyone cries and everyone comes out the other side knackered but probably healthier despite feeling a bit bruised.

I somehow managed to Tess of the Durberville an email. I thought I’d sent it, explaining how I’d popped in to get those comics. It hadn’t been received. Suddenly I’m some sort of unwelcome aggressive violator because I came into my home to get some of my stuff and my brother found out by reading my blog and phoned me up like he was Columbo. It’s my old home now, though, sure. I moved out years ago so my brother could have space with his burgeoning family. I have never been possessive or relative about the way things have been arranged with him. But even if my nephew can come and go as he pleases, I clearly can’t. I’m not welcome. And my brother tried pulling out all the conversational stops to make sure that I felt surplus to requirements. But I also know that’s because I’ve been triggered so I’m angry and upset.  I took advantage of the fact he was away and I had a range rover to get some of my stuff from an attic that would otherwise have remained there until we both die.

Last time I wrote an angry blog I drove a wedge between myself and someone very dear to me. I have no desire to further alienate Max and I know he’ll read this. We’ve fought like cats before. We’ve sent each other to hospital, thrown each other through doors. I’ve never been as angry in my life as he can make me – over trifles – and he upset me deeply tonight because of things that were unsaid as much as what was said. Because I love him and I knew the time would never be “right” for him for me to come do that. I should have asked permission but he’d have told me not to. So I’ve brought this on myself I guess.

He’s got his new family now and they’re great. But he’s probably still awake worrying that I’ve concealed canisters of nerve gas in his bathroom cabinet, or stolen all the screws and replaced them with bees.

I phoned up Minnie incomprehensible with tears and she got me over to Catford. We sat in front of a fire and I slowly mended. Tomorrow will bring what it brings. Your family is what you make of it, and I certainly have a sister in Minnie. Just as I have a brother in Max, even if right now we’re being horrible to each other.

This evening it’s the Olivier’s. Brian was there, fixing the industry person by person. Meanwhile I was in a bar in Hoxton with tights over my head.

My living room is full of comics and dust. Boxes and boxes of comics. Metric tonnes of dust. Back in the long ago far away time, young Al spent lots of his copious money on comics. He must’ve known that future Al would not have had that sort of money. So future Al is going to have to work out how to sell three milliontyfivety seven comics. Superfast. Come forward, oh comic lovers. Anyone that knows a good way of bulk selling without getting stitched up, help would be appreciated. The alternative, which is not outside the bounds of possibility, is for me to sink all my spare time into learning a new skill, and eBay the lot one by one. Which could be lucrative, but will take months.

Anyway, that’s for tomorrowAl. Today I zoomed over to my old house in the morning in order to put back the things I’d jiggled around in the process of rescuing the comics. Max and I no longer live in our old house together, because he got married and had kids, and mum died so I had a place to eject to and make space for his wife and his burgeoning family. Growing up we were both convinced that he’d be the first to be married. Another illustration of what a bunch of idiots we are when we’re children and we make these very specific plans for ourselves.

Today we did a very different Factory Macbeth. We were in The Electricity Showrooms in Hoxton. Totally different show and cast. I was mostly murdering people which I enjoyed until I had to use my tights to kill Maz. Tights over your face are a big part of the game. But I had a big learn. This will be incomprehensible to you unless you know the game,  but I felt it was right I murder Maz because she’d been using me as a climbing frame. So I put my tights on her face, and then I had no tights for myself. Next time I go murdering I’ll be carrying spare tights for just such an eventuality. Maz died and my tights absorbed her. But then I was standing next to her signalling “I don’t have tights”. Thankfully Wilf had a tights foot which I could just get over the front of my face, but with a proboscis. I need a gusset for my big face… The long and short of it was that I couldn’t play for the last act without either looking like a comedy elephant or being in pain, so I took myself out and went on book in case someone forgot their lines. Being on book is mostly irrelevant for Factory shows because everyone knows everyone else’s lines so you just ask the universe “What should I say?”. But it was potentially helpful this early in the run, and it got me the hell out of sight with my suddenly crap tights. That was pretty much the only choice I had. Or shrink my head.

Factory shows come with great joy and great frustration. It was lovely tonight. Now I’m sitting by Brian and Mel on the sofa and they’re both fast asleep. They’ve been asleep for the whole of my writing, despite Pickle. I’m about to wake them as I go to sleep… Bed is better than sofa…

 

 

That was a long day of driving. They only had a day left with the car, and a huge list of places to check out. We started off nipping to Gatwick airport, where they jumped out in order to get a taxi to Redhill aerodrome while I drove there. They got a taxi purely in order to see how easy it was to get a taxi. That’s what big budgets do, I guess.

Redhill aerodrome is a hidden gem. There’s a cafe on the landing strip with outdoor seating where families can have lunch with the kids and watch us taking off and landing with our little cessnas or copters – these deadly toys. The American associate producer with us knows this shit and wants us to know he does. He has a yacht. He’s had a plane. He’s ten years younger than me and can afford that stuff. Where’s my Breaking Bad? Buggrit. I’d have accidentally killed myself in a wingsuit 10 years ago if I could’ve afforded to. And I’d have died happy. There’s still time, dammit.

We check out the airfield. You have to walk through a museum hangar to go to the loo. It’s full of beautiful old machines. I wanted to stay and play. But we had places to go and I had the keys.

Next was back into town to Camden Market. We stopped for lunch and endless ambling through Stables Market. I had chicken schnitzel for lunch but it tasted of nothing. Still it fuelled the drive to Lee, where we checked out a whitewater rafting area, full of brilliantly designed watertracks for people to cane around in kayaks.

While we watched someone very nearly drowned himself by flipping and panicking. There are very diligent people with ropes who stop people dying, but the guy was in full panic. Despite his best efforts he didn’t drown. I remember myself, aged 15, and my near-drown. If I’d been like him I’d not be writing.

“Jesus boots.” My Godfather, Peter Rittmaster, out in Maine. I loved him. But he didn’t love me. Oh no. As soon as dad died he phoned me up. “You’re a man now.” (I was … 19?) “My job is done. This is the last time we’ll ever speak. Now your father’s dead, I’m not your Godfather anymore.” So far he’s stuck by it. Uncompromising motherfucker. I completely understand that. Shame though really. I think me now would get on well with him then. Despite that last call being nothing short of abject cowardice.

I used to go spend complicated adolescent summers in his psychedelic hunting shooting fishing range in Augusta when dad was still alive. He was “making a man out of me” which apparently involved throwing people into water, catching fish without bait, sleeping outdoors and survival of the fittest.

He had some prototype inflatable boots back in the ’90s when I was a Christian and the world was unbreakable. “You can walk on water.” He said. “Go try them out. Make sure you strap in tight. Go put them on at the end of the dock. Go walk on water like Jesus.” He had a jetty. A house on a lake in Maine and a load of boats.

I went and put them on as he said, obedient little Al and these big rubber boots. The straps were very involved so I didn’t strap in for a first go. Not that obedient. But I was 16. Fat Christian 16 year old Al with long hair and two large inflatable boots. One on each foot. On water.

Two steps and I fell flat on my face into the lake. Mouthful of water, shock of the fall. Happily my default to major shit has always been peace. I can freak out at minnows but always peace out at sharks. So when I realised I was upside down with my feet in huge inflatable boots and a mouth full of water, I stopped trying to right myself, instead carefully removed one of the boots with the last of my breath, thanking God I wasn’t strapped. I came up sideways, got my desperate breath back and then got the other lethal boot off. Never again, I swore, as I hauled myself and boots back on the jetty.

When I got back in and told Peter I’d gone face first and almost drowned, he said “Why didn’t you strap yourself in properly?”

I’d like to hang out with him now, the absolute bastard. He was a dear friend of my dad. I’m an adult now (of sorts) and I can see with evolved eyes. He might try to shoot me in the face and make it look like an accident. But someone sent me a Vice article about the old fucker recently and it read like a description of many of my mates.

If I can’t see my dad I can at least try for my asshole Godfather one more time. Based on the article, we’d be friends. Based on the experience of Christian confused teenage Al he’d drown me as soon as look at me. Based on my own approach to difficulty, bring it. I’m a very different human being now, although still respectful to that part of me back then. Peter might be already dying somewhere. I suspect he’s not though. Vital fucker. Made out of beef. Terrified of “stick shift” cars though. Thoroughly American. I miss him and his Hemingway approach to art. He recently made “Jesus fishing lures” as an art project.

 

“Have an apple. We eat apples like horses here,” is the first thing he says to me. I don’t want an apple. We’re surrounded by apples. We are in a swanky hotel room full of apples in Knightsbridge and he’s a TV producer, but he’s fully clothed. He’s talking about the show he’s making in London, brainstorming ideas with two other producers and a fixer who’s a friend of mine. I’m the driver. He’s taken a shine to me. He likes my socks.

His brain is going twenty to the dozen. He’s created a show that has run and run, and now his budgets are so lavish he can stay in beautiful hotels, have all the apples he can munch, employ amazing humans, and buy the crown jewels should he desire. He’s still going round the world with the show though, keeping his finger on the pulse.  “I’ve been round the world thirty times or more.” He tells me. “I’ve met a lot of crazy people.” He’s off to Amsterdam now. Then Uganda. “What’s the food like in Uganda?” I ask him. “Breakfast,” he says. “I only eat breakfast and pasta. But these fucking hotels in London – nobody should charge that much for breakfast. How does anyone live in this city? It’s a joke. And I’ve been everywhere.”

We get in the lift and he immediately hits on the stranger in it, proving his own cliché. He must be in his seventies and he’s still on location because it keeps him active. Keeps his mind working. He just stays in better hotels now and has more apples and a driver. I’d do the same, without the apples. “I imagine the first few years you were fired up with the travel and the change but now you’ve seen so much you barely know where you are anymore”, I impulsively comment. My reward is a 1,000 yard stare and a barely perceptible nod. I’d do his job for a couple of years, sure thing, hell yeah, apples or no apples. But 17 years on the hoof? Hoo-eee. “I hate those malarone, they make your kidneys hurt. They make you crazy. I’d sooner have malaria. I had it once already. It’s not so bad.” says his associate.

In the short journey to Heathrow we cover Russia, Grenfell, Silver service catering, economics, British politics, the legacy of colonialism. He’s constantly insightful. He is a mega rich libertarian and he has indeed seen much of the world, even if a fair amount was through tinted windows. “We have to let the money trickle down. We can’t only spend it on breakfast in stupid hotels.” He assures me. I like him. At Heathrow he tells me “Make sure you’re here for the shoot. I want you here for the shoot.” “Of course,” I lie. If there’s an acting job I’m taking that instead. But in the current environment I’ll take driving an eccentric millionaire in a Range Rover over another bloody golf tournament.

Once he’s at the airport I join the team that are location scouting. “He’s a nice guy,” I say. “Oh really? He was nice to you?” Seems I got lucky.

We spend the rest of the day walking around central London looking at rooms in the vicinity of Eros. Never once does anyone ask about price. Money is no object.

And thank God for that. They want me back tomorrow.. A couple of days work like this and the photos are covered, plus some of the bills. I just needed to wait for the sunshine and the apples start blossoming.

This is the day I’ve been looking for. All it takes is the sun to shine. Glory.

I’m in a cross town bus, going to Hampstead with a little overnight bag. Off to see a friend. Her ex is coming to get some of his stuff, and return some of hers. I don’t think he’s going to show up to be frank. He’s pretty self involved so it wouldn’t occur to him that she’ll spend all the hours of sunlight inside waiting in case he comes. I’m coming just in case he does bother to appear and then gets violent. He won’t. He’s a bully, but like all bullies he’s also a coward.

This is beautiful, looking out of the windows at a city surprised by the sunshine. Everyone is hot in too many layers. We’ve been conditioned to mistrust the weather. Putting on shorts at this time of year is a sure-fire way of guaranteeing a thunderstorm. But for now I can properly believe that the corner has been turned and we’re out of the woods until autumn. We’re not. But I’ve got this optimism problem. And I’m sticking with it.

I did some pretend virtual reality swordfighting today in a studio under Poland Street. A commercial casting. I’m trying to raise the money to get my shop front in order so it’s easier for my agent to pitch me for the work I want to be doing. This weather is helping me come out of the little spiritual hole I’m in. Lack of funds affects my mood more profoundly than it ought to. So I’m hoping the universe will throw some nicely paid acting work my way soon. It’s not like I haven’t been working hard the last fifteen years. But perhaps I could’ve been working smarter.

I wrote my first commercial writing pitch yesterday. I find it easier to pitch for writing because my heart isn’t tangled up in doing it. Although I’ve got “The Garden of Eden” on my lap (Hemingway’s last) and if the world was full of money I’d go to Spain, walk from Salamanca to Santiago di Compostela with my mother’s holy water, and write the Quixotic novel that I’ve been cooking for the last year or so. Then I’d make sure I played the part in the film adaptation once it’s a bestseller.

You see what a difference the sunshine makes??!! It’s why I need to jink my life so I can spend January and February in sunshine. Half a day of sunlight and I’m back to dreaming bright and big. What have I been doing hiding in a hole? Onwards for glory!!

I’m secretly hoping this nasty little man shows up and returns the stuff he took, as I’d like a walk on Hampstead Heath. Meantime back to my notepad…

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He came, and was quietly respectful of the shitstorm his unkindness had catalysed. I had nothing to say to him but thankfully I didn’t have to stop him punching. And my friend and I went on the heath as the day turned. I was giving Hex the snake a bath when I booked a last minute dayjob near my flat, so now I’m rushing home on another crosstown bus to get some shuteye. God bless the 24. God bless my friend. She’s finally got rid of that self-important asshat. Better by far with a snake.

Many years ago I went to Wales to stay with my girlfriend’s father. He had a lovely house but more than half of it was filled with boxes. Crap that had accumulated over decades. Things with cash value. Things with aesthetic value. Things with no value at all. Things. We had a casual conversation about making pasta, and he said “I’ve got a pasta maker!” Then he vanished into the room full of boxes and rummaged around for ages before emerging triumphantly with said pasta maker. She and I had both hoped we might be able to make him understand how much of his space he was wasting by filling half of his home with boxes, but there he was, demonstrably making pasta with a pasta machine he surely never used before or since. But that evening it was justification for a lifetime of hoarding.

I understand the psychological root of hoarding. If I had a pasta maker, I would know that currently I could never justify the expense of buying one. So if my daughter and her goofy boyfriend wondered how pasta is made and I’d sent the thing to a charity shop I’d have a momentary regret at not being able to provide. But that’s all it would be. Momentary regret.

But  she and I said to each other at the time – that possibility is not worth sacrificing so much space for. “You see? If I didn’t have all those boxes I’d never have found the pasta maker.” “You don’t need the boxes, dad.” When he dies, if he hasn’t already, based on what I know of my ex-girlfriend’s way, those boxes will be slung into a skip. Done. Maybe at the bottom of one of them is the golden egg that hatches the goose.

But. Right now where I’m sitting I can see: a polystyrene bust of my head wearing a ladies summer hat.

My childhood sweet jar, empty. An almost completely empty thing of aftershave. Two beautiful unframed prints by my cousin, rolled up on top of my “tuck box”. Loads of unused and unloved cookbooks. An old pewter tankard full of pens. A small affectionate cat with pointy ears. Two pairs of headphones. An unused surround sound system. A yoga mat. Bike cleaner. Super sweet cherry brandy. Poetry. Passports. Bills. Wires. Junk junk junk.

I would never miss half of this stuff. Right now I’m trying to get some money, because I have all this time and all these crazy plans, hopes and dreams. My flat is full of junk and dreams. They’re in competition.

My attic is packed – my life is packed – with crap that I’ve been carrying since everybody died and the money collapsed.

I can only sell or get rid of stuff that is incontrovertibly mine. Stuff that is owned by my brothers and I that I’d love to sell and split I find myself unable to because of their inertia. I can’t do it for myself but it takes a week to get a straight answer about anything from my nearest brother and I won’t make the decisions alone.

Maybe it’s time to start…

The city is flooded at the moment. Persistent overnight rainfall, and still this biting cold. Spring keeps valiantly popping up to get slapped back down like a whack-a-mole. All the news is dark. Even April Fools Day news was lost because stories far more outlandish than spaghetti trees are disseminated online every day of the year and passed off as truth. We are consistently lied to so blatantly that we forget that lies can sometimes be written without the intent of manipulating opinion. Just for a joke. Tell that to the people shouting “Fake news” at The Onion like they’ve worked it out.

No work today. I’ve been trying to kick my brother out from whichever hole he’s hiding in. And at home I’ve been attempting to maintain the new house rule: Leave it the same or better. I’ve been working out a plan of action with the expensive Jersey lawyers. And I’ve sent a few – (too few) – invoices. The highlight of my day was going for a freshmint tea. Yep. That was the only time I left the house.

Sprig of mint in a glass. Add warm water. “That’ll be three quid twenty please mate.” Service charge 12% added. It wasn’t my round but it still hurt my head. Artists are not supposed to live in this town. People that think £25 is a good price for a yoga class should live in this town. Which is why artists MUST live in this town – so they can teach the yoga classes.

I need to finish the steps to get this flat Airbnb-ish so I can use other people’s spending power to augment my own. Obviously a West End job would cut it too. But while I wait I’d still like to make my home lovely and experiment with renting it to Chelsea Flower Show types.

I’ll need a power shower. I’ll need a carpet that isn’t covered in ancient wine stains and generations of dust. I’ll need a new bed frame. I can probably get away without the carpet until I’ve raised the cash for it by renting. So that’s all and it’s quite manageable.

Going in for a commercial casting on Thursday that will bankroll the shower and maybe give me a chance to visit dad’s grave – (he’s in Switzerland and that’s where it’s shooting.) Commercial castings are a crap-shoot, but I still have a surprisingly good hit rate (one of my commercials won an award dahling) so I’ll allow myself to hope towards it. The fee keeps dropping for the work, but the work is pleasant and usually efficient and you frequently get to travel.

Typically this audition is on the only day of day job work I’ve got this week, and the daily shoot fee is just shy of the wage I suspect I’ll have to forfeit in order to attend the audition. But I know where my priorities lie. I always have. “I am in blood stepped in so far, that go back were as tedious as go o’er.” So, wish me luck I guess. Meanwhile I’ll tidy the kitchen and go to bed early.

Dinner at friends and too much wine. I’ve been playing with the idea of getting back on the wagon recently but then there’s an open bottle of Barolo and who am I to argue with that? I should probably have more self control. But it’s Easter Monday.

A year ago today I was in the New Forest thinking I was falling in love. Now I’m back in the rut, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to afford this month, I haven’t had an audition for ages. I’m fed up of being on the verge of stuff. Yes there’s money just a bit of money away. These blocks blocks blocks. I’m trying to break them down but I’m so fed up of obstruction after obstruction. I’d like to be in love again. I’d like the freedom of a little money. I’d like the self esteem of a job. I’d like I’d like I’d like. Want want want. Poor little Chelsea boy. Where’s my quinoa?

I’ve booked headshots for April 24th with my agent’s choice. I can’t afford them. I’ve just booked them and I’m trusting the universe because actually I can find work that pays if I look. It’s not as if I’m unemployable. I’m just stubborn and I want acting work.

They’re not talismanic, new headshots, but at least I don’t have blepharitis anymore so my eyelids won’t be red. And I’ll shave my beard. New start etc. “My, how young you look.” Headshots get sent to the people who decide who they want to see for parts. My current beardy shots are a bit too terrorist for the fact that I’m a soft spoken man with a comedic sensitivity.

Something is stopping me from getting auditions. Probably bad luck and unfavorable numbers. If I get in the room it usually goes well, so anything I can do to raise the chances of walking through that door…

Sorry, world. I’m pissed and pissed off. This is a vent. With this phone I can only write chronologically so it just comes out as it comes and I’m not editing. I want to get this scheduled so I can play Backgammon.

I’m on the sofa with Lyndon and Tanya right now. Tristan is smoking on the balcony. The evening is burning into late warmth and the view from this flat is gorgeous. I’ve had a beautiful meal in great company. Last night I went for drinks and company with two unutterably delightful beings. My life is so rich, and yet still I want more. I’ve opened the space for some amazing people. I have to accept that the way things are is just the way things are. And keep looking for the opportunity to effect positive change.

Macbeth gathers pace, Beowulf is back soon, there’s stuff in the pipeline. Wherever we are is called here, and we must treat it as a powerful stranger…

Happy Easter! This really is the rebirth time but it feels like everything is blocked. It always rains in April so what the hell, but the cold is still clinging on. About time we had a proper winter, perhaps… But did it have to happen in spring? Damn I hate the cold.

The Sam Wanamaker Playhouse inside The Globe building operates in all weathers, this shit included.

I have wanted to see something there for a while. I first experienced it performing what they call a “Read not Dead”. That’s where a little performed Jacobean play is staged for an audience of academics. It’s part of the Globe Education program and I can see how it would be useful to the academics. Performance is so completely different to theory. These verse plays, borne from a time where the oral tradition was losing traction because of the printing press – they are not meant to be studied on paper, they must be heard. They are spoken events. The word “here/hear” is a perfect example. Spoken it means both. But the printing press came and the compositor has to make a choice, even though the writer says “I mean both.” So it’s very helpful to the fusty academic types to heere these “lesser” plays performed. You can’t easily sustain a run of an obscure Jacobean play unless it’s got Famousy mcFamous in it and even then you’ll struggle. Better off for producers to do whatever’s on the GCSE syllabus yaaaawn. Which is why Read not Dead exists.

Anyway, the playhouse is filled with candles when there’s a “proper” show on. I went to see Vivaldi’s Four Seasons with a chamber orchestra and some puppeteer friends. I saw the candles, and occasionally the puppets. I only paid a tenner, you see. My view was… well I could see the orchestra. There were some attractively designed benches, and some people puppets beautifully animated but mostly out of sight. And the top of my friend’s head making me all too aware of the passage of time.

For a tenner I was very happy. I saw the musicians play. That was beautiful constantly. Plus I understood that the puppets had a pretty shit time mostly. Occasionally it was easy in puppetworld. They did a lot of swimming or flying, which I could witness. There were also butterflies, a nice cat and black things that might have been depression. And it all went full circle, just like life, really.

Then we stopped by the Tate modern, where some lunatic literally clocked himself in every hour for a whole year in 1981, and took an hourly photo, even through the nights when he was sleeping – he woke hourly. A whole year. The photos are all lined up round a wall. Thousands of them.

It’s a testament to how ridiculously stubborn a human being can be. He must have sacrificed so much life for his obsession. I understand that. I am writing minimum 500 words daily no matter what mood I’m in or what damage it does. It’s 2.45am right now. This whole blog process has become almost insurmountably difficult now I’m not only fighting technology but also now watching my words. I don’t really know why I’m doing it anymore. I’m losing faith. I’m just keeping on because I’m too stubborn to stop.

I’ve started to have bad things come from this blog. That was never the plan.

The rain is smashing my window . The clock is past 3. Fuck it I’m posting again and I’m not going over and trying to edit again on this phone because it’s basically impossible. Goodnight. Zzzz rain zzzz

Chocolate can make you feel better. We’ve all been there. Sitting on the sofa shoveling handfuls of it into our faces watching people fall in love on the telly. Don’t try to deny it. I saw you.

Why does it make us happy? Ok, yeah, sugar, sure. Anyone that’s ever met a Mormon knows that sugar makes you happy in a kind of full on wired bouncy bouncy “oh my god my cheeks are gonna burst” way. But also there’s cacao. “That’s the same as cocoa right?” you say as another vegan explodes in a shower of kale. Don’t say it! We need our vegans intact. They’re helping us realise the extent to which we’re messing everything up. Cacao is kind of not the same as cocoa because it isn’t the same, right. Yeah. Look I’m just writing this crap. I’m no expert. (A quick look on Google says it’s cold pressed, so “raw” which is the most expensive 3 letter foodjective.)

Cacao – in its purest form – has been used in ceremony for 4000 years . Obviously before it gets to our Easter eggs as chocolate it has been genetically modified by Nestlé to have three heads and then been used to bludgeon a baby seal to death in front of its mother. But the Aztecs and Olmecs and other varied denizens of the South American rainforests (before they were palm oil plantations full of cows and murderers) – they used the stuff in ritual. Because it makes you happy. And opens your heart.

It’s a full moon in Libra. (Here he goes again with the astrological crap. He’s only just finished trying to make cocoa sound like medicine.) But yeah. Maybe there’s something in all this. It’s older than most of the crap we trust, like Murdoch, that guy in the pub with the shining eyes, Trevor Noah, Tarot cards, BBC Weather. I like old things.

So assuming that this isn’t all just hooey – (my usual approach to things that most people think is all hooey) – what’s with the cacao and the moon today, Al?

Well I took my shoes and socks off and had some cold cacao in a room with about 50 people to mark the blue moon. I’m Libra and it’s a Libra moon. Cacao makes sense at Easter time with all the chocolate. And you’ve probably had me on ritual before but I’ll reiterate: We need more of it. Especially if we are going to keep defining ourselves in opposition to religion. I lay on a yoga mat with a mug from my childhood. My dad let me choose it for myself in Liptons before the Isle of Man broke and let shit like Tesco and Macdonalds come over. I was glad to use it, and had a nice little inner journey in a dark room full of strangers, thinking about stuff to change. Then a few people started hitting drums and we all danced. I wasn’t the only man in the room. There were at least 5 of us. And it was a good little ceremony, entirely harmless, happy, positive and free of the ooglyboogly as long as you’re willing to accept a cup of cold cacao as a medicine or sacrament. If you’ve seen how I behave around a glass of vintage port you’ll know that I am very happy to attribute significance to stuff in a glass.

I’m home now, under the cat, after a bank holiday Saturday night in Hackney. I feel great and I’ve only had a cup of chacalott. It’s only just gone midnight and I think I’m happy to wind down. Clearly the ceremony already had an effect… As far as I’m concerned, a lovely Saturday night.