At last. The moment that Nick Clegg has been praying for for the last few years has finally come to pass. And you'd better believe he's happy about it - even though, by the end, he'll no longer be the leader of the Liberal Democrats.
A little context.
Back in May 2010, no single party received enough seats in parliament to form a government. After some negotiation between the parties, Her Majesty asked David Cameron to form a government in coalition with the Liberal Democrats.
Who then proceeded to allow the Conservatives to fuck the country over.
Raising tuition fees
Introducing the Bedroom Tax
Outsourcing Incapacity Benefit Tests
Privatising the NHS
Destroying Legal Aid
Cutting Council Tax benefits
And, of course,
Austerity
While, of course, being royally fucked over themselves.
So why are they still hanging in there? Surely the right thing to do would be just resign?
Well, they can't. When they signed up for the coalition government, they signed up for the long term. The gamble is this:
Liberal Democrats have never been in government before. Therefore they are not trusted by the voters to run the country. This needs to change.
The party will bide its time. Take the devastating electoral hits which it so richly deserves, and just stay the hell in government.
Because if there was an election right now, things would not go well for the Lib Dems. And at last, at long last, far later than they'd hoped, the moment they've been hanging in there for has arrived.
The Tory party is visibly disintegrating before us. The racists, homophobes, and swivel-eyed loons are already baring their teeth at Cameron. More than half of the parliamentary party voted for an amendment to the Queen's Speech. (To put that in context, this last happened in 1946.)
And that's what the Liberal Democrats need. For the government to collapse because of the Tories fighting among themselves. Then they get to say: "Look. We did it. We stood by our agreements, and we governed."
And then maybe, just maybe, whoever gets the most seats in parliament (but not a majority) will trust them again to cut a new deal come election time. Because they stood by their God-awful deal with the Tories even when they shouldn't have.
(See the links at the top of the page for detail on that.)
And that's the gamble. That the Tories will, once again, tear themselves to shreds over Europe and Equal Rights. That they will just be so crazy that they will turn on their own Prime Minister while in government after scraping by in an election that they didn't gain a majority in.
It's necessary. But not sufficient. There's one more thing that needs to happen before the Liberal Democrats can regain the public trust.
(Once again, see the links above. Do you think one single person who voted Liberal Democrat thought they were voting for any of those things?)
Nick Clegg's one function is to stay in power until the Tories self-destruct. And not for a moment longer.
If they don't self-destruct, his gamble has failed and the Liberal Democrats are dead as a party. The only possible way that they can come back from this is if the Conservatives splinter. Fortunately, UKIP are there, smiling and welcoming with open arms. If the two arms of the Conservative party go to war with each other as Labour did in the 1970s, and the same result occurs...
Then his job is over. No more majority for the Tories after the next election.
And that's when he'll have to go.
Because although what were previously the biggest charges against the Liberal Democrats will have disappeared...
That they're amateurs.
That they have no experience in government.
That they're purely the party of protest.
...Nick Clegg is too tarnished to lead the next election.
(Look again to the links at the top. Think about them for a moment. If they don't fill you with rage yourself, think of how many voters they will have filled with anger, how many Liberal Democrat voters feel betrayed right now.)
He's a smart fellow. I think we'll see a bloodless coup in the Liberal Democrats as soon as it becomes clear when the election is.
If the Tories go boom beforehand, then it'll happen sooner rather than later. Otherwise, I expect him to go three to six months before the next general election.
Probably willingly. If not, then he'll be ejected.
And the new leadership will blame all the bad things on him - whether they were his or not - and point to their experience in government, and the good things they've done there, as to why you should vote for the Liberal Democrats.
Because the only alternative is that he stays on as leader for the next election. After which the Liberal Democrats will have ceased to exist as a political force in this country.
I think he knows this.
I think he's playing for time, hanging on.
I think that he thought this might be a possibility from the very beginning.
But for this to happen, for the Liberal Democrats to be saved, first the Conservatives need to turn upon themselves.
And this week, at last, it looks like the beginning of the end.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Friday, April 19, 2013
An Outing
So, within the last couple of years I've become aware of Sonnet 20.
Yes. I'm behind the times. By approximately 400 years. Deal.
Here's how it goes:
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
So, Billy Shakes there, talking about how men can be sexy sometimes, and isn't that a bit weird?
It's like: there's this bloke, and he looks like a girl, and he's gorgeous, and it's like having a girl that I can actually talk to about bloke things, y'know? It's like having all the good things about girls, and none of the bad things.
And actually: I love him.
But at the end of the day he's got a cock, and that's a bit odd. And I can't do the sex thing, cos that'd weird me out.
But that's fine. Even if we can't do the act, that's not going to change the way I love him.
So. Great poem.
Two things, really.
Thing the first: If you don't think line 13 there is verbing a noun, you're not as good as you think you are.
Thing the second: I identify as bisexual. And if you have a problem with that, you can go fuck yourself.
Yes. I'm behind the times. By approximately 400 years. Deal.
Here's how it goes:
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
So, Billy Shakes there, talking about how men can be sexy sometimes, and isn't that a bit weird?
It's like: there's this bloke, and he looks like a girl, and he's gorgeous, and it's like having a girl that I can actually talk to about bloke things, y'know? It's like having all the good things about girls, and none of the bad things.
And actually: I love him.
But at the end of the day he's got a cock, and that's a bit odd. And I can't do the sex thing, cos that'd weird me out.
But that's fine. Even if we can't do the act, that's not going to change the way I love him.
So. Great poem.
Two things, really.
Thing the first: If you don't think line 13 there is verbing a noun, you're not as good as you think you are.
Thing the second: I identify as bisexual. And if you have a problem with that, you can go fuck yourself.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Three Mournings
I was living in Los Angeles when Ronald Reagan died.
The body was lying in repose in the Presidential Library in Simi Valley, just to the north-west of LA, so I went to see it. I thought: I'll probably never get the chance to pay my respects to such a historical figure again, so I should go there while I can.
The drive took about an hour, and after parking up I stood in a line for several more hours. Eventually we were shuttled into a bus, from whence we joined another line until we came to a little room in which we saw the casket.
Some people cried as they walked past. Some sniffed and held back their tears. Some looked at their lovers or children, and held them tight. Most looked serious, thinking hard about what this man and his life had meant to them.
There wasn't supposed to be any stopping but I asked the guard at the exit if I could stay there in silence for a couple of minutes to pay my respects and he said yes.
So I stood there in silence, contemplating mortality, before moving on.
A hundred thousand of us, standing in line to look at a man in a box. And that's all we are, when our lives finally draw to a close. People in boxes, for a short time. Another collection of atoms, no longer animated, soon to be parted from each other for ever. And what remains of the things we have done in this life are the memories of those who we've touched, the words written about us after we're gone, and the ideas that we've passed on to others.
Last week, I went to Nanna's interment. As I expected, the Christmas of 2011 was the last that we spent together. She was cremated shortly after she died, and on Monday we put her ashes in the ground at last.
We got her a plaque for five years in a suburban cemetery close to where she used to live. They don't sell you the space in a public cemetery. Instead, you rent it for a certain number of years, and then (unless you want to pay more at that point to keep it up for longer) they give you the plaque to take home and do with what you will. And then they replace your notice of remembrance with some other mother's, daughter's, grandmother's, lover's, sister's, wife's.
About a dozen of us were there when the ashes were poured into a small hole in the ground.
It was also the day that Margaret Thatcher died. Most of us found out at the wake.
Today was Baroness Thatcher's funeral. It was a much bigger affair than Nanna's. She was carried up Whitehall in a gun carriage. Her Majesty the Queen attended. The only real difference between it and a state funeral was that everyone would have got the day off for a state funeral. The funeral cost an estimated 10 million pounds, almost all of which was met by the taxpayer.
We paid for Nanna's funeral ourselves, from the estate.
I didn't feel the need to go to Margaret Thatcher's funeral. But I have spent some time reflecting on her death. When she came to power, the Unions were indeed overpowerful. But then came the madness.
Poverty in the UK became higher.
Distribution of wealth became more unequal.
The nation's social housing stock was sold and not replaced, resulting in a housing bubble that has blocked many young people from owning their own houses for more than a decade and is set to get much worse.
I thought about this as the preparations for Baroness Thatcher's funeral continued. About her life, and her death, and the legacy she has left us all.
Funerals are for the living, the us, the left-behind. A funeral marks a transition between life and death, but not for the person who is gone. They don't care. They don't come back.
Many years ago there used to be a tradition in this country called Rough Music. A ritual humiliation for those who have violated the standards of the community. No physical harm was done, but a message was sent that what they had done was wrong. A banging of pots, a shaking of pans, a rattling and a shouting and a caterwauling and a making of noise to let the wrongdoer know that They. Have. Done. Wrong.
The funeral for Baroness Thatcher began at 11am today. The people there were silent in their respect for the dead, and I would not take that away from them. I took no pleasure in the death of an old woman, and her family and friends deserve the time to pay their respects, and be alone with their grief. A funeral service is a time for quiet reflection and for mourning the dead.
But she did wrong. Not to one, or to several, but to many. A grievous wrong and one which has yet to be put right. Wrong to the people of this still-United Kingdom, and wrong to the country itself. Not to admit that would be to ignore the totality of the person.
At two minutes to eleven, I took a pot and saucepan into my garden and began to bang on it.
I didn't hear anyone else make rough music to mark her passing. That doesn't matter. I didn't go to make a noise for her, or for her policies, or for the state of the country today. But because a funeral is a time for reflection upon the deeds and character of the dead by the living, I did it for me.
So I stood there in noise, contemplating mortality, before moving on.
The body was lying in repose in the Presidential Library in Simi Valley, just to the north-west of LA, so I went to see it. I thought: I'll probably never get the chance to pay my respects to such a historical figure again, so I should go there while I can.
The drive took about an hour, and after parking up I stood in a line for several more hours. Eventually we were shuttled into a bus, from whence we joined another line until we came to a little room in which we saw the casket.
Some people cried as they walked past. Some sniffed and held back their tears. Some looked at their lovers or children, and held them tight. Most looked serious, thinking hard about what this man and his life had meant to them.
There wasn't supposed to be any stopping but I asked the guard at the exit if I could stay there in silence for a couple of minutes to pay my respects and he said yes.
So I stood there in silence, contemplating mortality, before moving on.
A hundred thousand of us, standing in line to look at a man in a box. And that's all we are, when our lives finally draw to a close. People in boxes, for a short time. Another collection of atoms, no longer animated, soon to be parted from each other for ever. And what remains of the things we have done in this life are the memories of those who we've touched, the words written about us after we're gone, and the ideas that we've passed on to others.
Last week, I went to Nanna's interment. As I expected, the Christmas of 2011 was the last that we spent together. She was cremated shortly after she died, and on Monday we put her ashes in the ground at last.
We got her a plaque for five years in a suburban cemetery close to where she used to live. They don't sell you the space in a public cemetery. Instead, you rent it for a certain number of years, and then (unless you want to pay more at that point to keep it up for longer) they give you the plaque to take home and do with what you will. And then they replace your notice of remembrance with some other mother's, daughter's, grandmother's, lover's, sister's, wife's.
About a dozen of us were there when the ashes were poured into a small hole in the ground.
It was also the day that Margaret Thatcher died. Most of us found out at the wake.
Today was Baroness Thatcher's funeral. It was a much bigger affair than Nanna's. She was carried up Whitehall in a gun carriage. Her Majesty the Queen attended. The only real difference between it and a state funeral was that everyone would have got the day off for a state funeral. The funeral cost an estimated 10 million pounds, almost all of which was met by the taxpayer.
We paid for Nanna's funeral ourselves, from the estate.
I didn't feel the need to go to Margaret Thatcher's funeral. But I have spent some time reflecting on her death. When she came to power, the Unions were indeed overpowerful. But then came the madness.
Poverty in the UK became higher.
Distribution of wealth became more unequal.
The nation's social housing stock was sold and not replaced, resulting in a housing bubble that has blocked many young people from owning their own houses for more than a decade and is set to get much worse.
I thought about this as the preparations for Baroness Thatcher's funeral continued. About her life, and her death, and the legacy she has left us all.
Funerals are for the living, the us, the left-behind. A funeral marks a transition between life and death, but not for the person who is gone. They don't care. They don't come back.
Many years ago there used to be a tradition in this country called Rough Music. A ritual humiliation for those who have violated the standards of the community. No physical harm was done, but a message was sent that what they had done was wrong. A banging of pots, a shaking of pans, a rattling and a shouting and a caterwauling and a making of noise to let the wrongdoer know that They. Have. Done. Wrong.
The funeral for Baroness Thatcher began at 11am today. The people there were silent in their respect for the dead, and I would not take that away from them. I took no pleasure in the death of an old woman, and her family and friends deserve the time to pay their respects, and be alone with their grief. A funeral service is a time for quiet reflection and for mourning the dead.
But she did wrong. Not to one, or to several, but to many. A grievous wrong and one which has yet to be put right. Wrong to the people of this still-United Kingdom, and wrong to the country itself. Not to admit that would be to ignore the totality of the person.
At two minutes to eleven, I took a pot and saucepan into my garden and began to bang on it.
I didn't hear anyone else make rough music to mark her passing. That doesn't matter. I didn't go to make a noise for her, or for her policies, or for the state of the country today. But because a funeral is a time for reflection upon the deeds and character of the dead by the living, I did it for me.
So I stood there in noise, contemplating mortality, before moving on.
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Just So Good
This production will be at LOST Theatre on the Wandsworth Road, and will feature returning cast from previous productions, so you know you're getting the good stuff.
Still not convinced? Why not read some of the five-star reviews from our Edinburgh Festival production of the show.
(We made a profit. At Edinburgh. I may never get tired of telling people that.)
The production runs from the 2nd to the 14th of April 2013 at 3pm. Tickets cost £10 for adults and £8 for concessions (plus booking fees) and are available to buy now online or by calling the Box Office on 0844 847 1680.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Snow Business
If you're in the UK, odds are it's been snowing near you for the last day or two.
So yesterday, the lovely Mr James Moran challenged you to make stuff with snow. A short film. Some photography. Whatevs. Because it's going to make whatever you do look much more expensive and lovelier.
I'm at my parents' this weekend, so I thought: What can I do with an iPhone and their computer, in a day, with what- and whoever is at hand?
So I made this:
I had a rough idea of the story, and just filmed it in the back and front gardens on the phone.
I didn't want to do anything difficult, so figured the easiest thing to do was just grab the shots I needed, and then record a voiceover afterwards.
(That's my niece Jenna, by the way, who happened to be in the kitchen and said yes when I asked for some help. If she hadn't said yes I'd've tried roping my parents in. If that hadn't worked I'd've done something that only needed me to be in it.)
Took about an hour to get the shots, which were then moved across to the computer and slapped together in sequence using iMovie. I then banged some sound effects (also from iMovie) on the top, and wrote the voiceover to fit the length of the edited footage. Jenna then recorded the voiceover on the built-in microphone on the computer. Three takes until we'd got the timing right, and done.
So, there you go. Nothing fancy-schmancy, but a story with a beginning, middle, and end. All done in four hours with what I happened to have lying around.
Two things I regret. But as art is never finished, only abandoned, I'm going to leave them both there.
The first is is that I got the credits mixed up, so for two credits the name is on the left and the role on the right, while on the last credit it's reversed. That's going to bug me every time I see it now.
The second is that I think I may have been too ambitious with the monster at the end. Fur CGI like that on a low budget is always going to look a bit unrealistic.
There's still snow on the ground. It's still the weekend. Why not look around the house, see what you've got, and go and make a short film?
So yesterday, the lovely Mr James Moran challenged you to make stuff with snow. A short film. Some photography. Whatevs. Because it's going to make whatever you do look much more expensive and lovelier.
I'm at my parents' this weekend, so I thought: What can I do with an iPhone and their computer, in a day, with what- and whoever is at hand?
So I made this:
I had a rough idea of the story, and just filmed it in the back and front gardens on the phone.
I didn't want to do anything difficult, so figured the easiest thing to do was just grab the shots I needed, and then record a voiceover afterwards.
(That's my niece Jenna, by the way, who happened to be in the kitchen and said yes when I asked for some help. If she hadn't said yes I'd've tried roping my parents in. If that hadn't worked I'd've done something that only needed me to be in it.)
Took about an hour to get the shots, which were then moved across to the computer and slapped together in sequence using iMovie. I then banged some sound effects (also from iMovie) on the top, and wrote the voiceover to fit the length of the edited footage. Jenna then recorded the voiceover on the built-in microphone on the computer. Three takes until we'd got the timing right, and done.
So, there you go. Nothing fancy-schmancy, but a story with a beginning, middle, and end. All done in four hours with what I happened to have lying around.
Two things I regret. But as art is never finished, only abandoned, I'm going to leave them both there.
The first is is that I got the credits mixed up, so for two credits the name is on the left and the role on the right, while on the last credit it's reversed. That's going to bug me every time I see it now.
The second is that I think I may have been too ambitious with the monster at the end. Fur CGI like that on a low budget is always going to look a bit unrealistic.
There's still snow on the ground. It's still the weekend. Why not look around the house, see what you've got, and go and make a short film?
Monday, December 03, 2012
Found
Red Table Theatre are offering a workshop on found-object storytelling.
If you've seen any of our children's shows, you'll know that a lot of our theatre work has been based on storytelling using common or garden items to create characters, set, and environment. The way in which the objects are used is formed during rehearsals.
Well, m'brother Rafe, who directed said shows, is offering a one-day hands-on workshop based on the techniques we use. Suitable for actors, directors, writers, and teachers who'd like to know more about devising with found objects, and how they can use this in their own work.
If you're interested, the workshop takes place on Saturday 8 December from 10am to 6pm at Theatre Delicatessen, 35 Marylebone High Street W1U and costs £35.00. It's a full day of practical devising, and participants will be invited to bring several objects with them to use during the day.
If you're interested, drop an email to kelly.golding@redtabletheatre.com and she'll be able to tell you more about what the day involves.
If you've seen any of our children's shows, you'll know that a lot of our theatre work has been based on storytelling using common or garden items to create characters, set, and environment. The way in which the objects are used is formed during rehearsals.
Well, m'brother Rafe, who directed said shows, is offering a one-day hands-on workshop based on the techniques we use. Suitable for actors, directors, writers, and teachers who'd like to know more about devising with found objects, and how they can use this in their own work.
If you're interested, the workshop takes place on Saturday 8 December from 10am to 6pm at Theatre Delicatessen, 35 Marylebone High Street W1U and costs £35.00. It's a full day of practical devising, and participants will be invited to bring several objects with them to use during the day.
If you're interested, drop an email to kelly.golding@redtabletheatre.com and she'll be able to tell you more about what the day involves.
Saturday, November 03, 2012
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Me. In a different book! Sooner!
No sooner do I mention that I'm about to be published in a book, than I get published in a book. Only a different one. And faster.
I've written a piece for the Actors' Yearbook 2013, available now, all about Open Book Theatre and why it's particularly important and useful for Fringe Companies. The Actors' Yearbook is as important for those working in the theatre as the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook is for, well, writers and artists.
Do check it out if you get the chance.
Friday, September 14, 2012
The Plotters
A couple of months ago I worked on a film called The Plotters by the Guerrier Brothers for the Virgin Media Shorts Competition. And let me tell you, my running was exceptional.
Well, I've just heard the fantastic news that the film has been shortlisted, and will be shown in cinemas around the UK for the next year. Which is particularly good, because a) the film is brilliant and b) Tom and Simon are both top blokes who deserve wider exposure.
"But Piers," I hear you cry "I rarely visit the cinema these days due to the expense! Also, how would I know when it was on?"
Never fear, my made-up friend! If you can't wait until then, you can watch The Plotters online.
If you particularly like it, you can even vote for it on the Virgin Media Shorts facebook page or by tweeting "The Plotters #VMShortsVote" on your Twitter account, which will help determine the runner-up prize.
Not that they're not going to win the grand prize anyway, but, well, it couldn't hurt now, could it?
Other shortlisted films are available.
Friday, September 07, 2012
Me. In a book!
(Yes, Robert Smith? is indeed he of the standard SIZR model of Zombie Infection fame.)
Outside In aims to give new perspectives on all of the classic stories, each by a different writer. And in all sorts of different ways. To give you an idea, here's a flavour from the press release: "I've had mock-angry letters to the BBC, transcripts of council meetings, even a recipe. There are flow charts, maps, TV scripts, timelines, Shakespearean plays… and, of course, intensely passionate and vocal opinions about the entirety of Doctor Who."
Pre-orders should be available from the end of September. More details to follow!
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