Tonight in Cheltenham Town Hall I managed to cope a little better with the "Clair de Lune" part of the show. It still added an extra frisson to it all, but I pushed onwards and I didn't get close to actually crying. That is why I have the reputation of being a hard mo-fo in Cheltenham where they call me "The Robot", yet just down the road in Bristol I am "The Over-emotional Cry-Baby". This is the way reputations are made.
I had spent the night back home in Cheddar and went out for an enjoyable run around the reservoir in the sun this morning. I have done this run many times in the last 25 or so years, but I considered today that I probably won't be doing it too many more times. I am not back in Cheddar all that often and I am now 44 years old. The knees can't hold out forever. This might even be the last time I trudge around it. Although I suppose if we got the go ahead for Gorgeous and we filmed it here (as I am assuming and hoping will be the case) then I might be spending more time here). It'd be strange to come and spend more than a few days at a time in my home town. But not unpleasant. I loved the fresh air and the green hills around me and the smiling faces of the other joggers and dog walkers I passed. Living in the countryside increasingly seems like a pleasant option. This really is the year when I became old isn't it?
But I was pleased with how comfortable the run was. It augurs well for the half marathon in October. I only ran about three miles today, but did so with ease. I am not dead yet (if reading this after I am dead, please do not chuckle sardonically at the irony).
Good to see that despite the hive mind of Twitter feeling that the world was falling apart on the day of the foam pie, that the foam pie did not dominate the newspapers today (or really even yesterday - it was obviously mentioned, but so was everything else) and that the fall out from the parliamentary commitment is not just flecks of shaving foam, but people questioning the testimony of Murdoch Junior at least. There's still a lot more to come I think. And I am glad Murdoch Sr got partly hit by a pie. I still think it's good. Even if everyone else is still flapping about it.
Also in the news was the death of
artist Lucian Freud who, to be honest, in my ignorance I assumed had died about forty years ago. Yes, I know, I am an idiot. I think it's partly because I thought all the old, crazy named Freuds had died out when lovely old Clement left us and now it was the age of the young normal named, not quite as brainy Freuds like Emma and Esther. But also usually great artists are dead and I think of them as not being recognised in their lifetime, only once they've snuffed it, but that's mainly because the only artist I know anything about at all is Van Gogh. And that's only cos he was in Dr Who that time (script-edited by Emma Freud - spooky).
But whilst Van Gogh only sold one painting in his life-time for one pence old money, and it was only once he'd gone and couldn't draw any more pictures (yes, draw) that the ones he'd done, plus his collages, were worth millions, Freud's paintings were going for 20 odd million when he was still alive. What an amazing position to be in. He could essentially win the lottery on a week by week basis. Just had to churn out another grotesque picture of a naked fat person or the Queen and take it down the market and ker-ching. At the very least I'd be like Picasso (hey I know another artist) and pay for all my dinners with sketches. I could try that with comedy sketches actually - do a funny satirical skit about John Majors or something and hope that the waiters will laugh so much that they'll let me off paying. Worth a try.
But if your paintings have to be worth millions for your doodles to work as luncheon vouchers, then any joke I can do in a restaurant will be like a coupon with a cash value of 0.000001p. I will have to continue to work for a living for now.
Just in case you missed it I did an extra
audio blog yesterday.
Also, here's my latest
newsletter.
