A Brief Browsing History of Time

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I forget why but I once searched Amazon for the soap opera actor Dean Gaffney. There weren’t many products on offer. A keyring bearing his face. A printed copy of his Wikipedia page priced at £45. But it was the items listed along the bottom of the screen that really caught my eye.

“Customers who viewed this item also bought…”

There were a number of products for sale but what intrigued me most of all was the box of miniature swastika flags. I wanted to know what the connection between the two was so I clicked the link and my screen was filled with a suggested list of gift ideas for the Nazi in your life.

There were pieces of replica SS jewelry. Swastika decals in a range of sizes. An Aryan blonde wig. And while I couldn’t find a direct connection between Gaffney and the iconography of the far right, it seemed that there was a troubling amount of crossover.

I thought this was funny so I tweeted about it and moved on to the next distraction. It wasn’t until I visited Amazon again that I found cause for concern, discovering that my “recommended” suggestions had been transformed into a solid basis for including me on a government watch list.

They suggested that I buy a replica Iron Cross and armband set. A hardback guide to Nazi regalia. And a canvas clock of the actress Pam St Clement, the hands turning from a bore-hole between her eyes. If I’d discovered a bag in the street that contained these items I’d have assumed they belonged to a serial killer. Or, at best, someone I’d be upset to have sitting next to me on a bus. I was mortified. Who else had access to this information? How far was it going?

And this was just Amazon. What of Google, which I used as my second brain? Throwing it my every random thought. I inspected my recent search history and immediately started to worry.

“Hulk Hogan choke video”

“Bee urination”

“Hilary Swank running”

I thought of the tantalising Buzzfeed sidebar links that I regularly clicked with impunity. The idle curiosity that without context could be treated like an obsession.

“12 Tragic Child Stars”

“32 Incredibly Weird Deaths”

“Top 10 Most Handsome Vampires”

It’d only take one person to stumble upon this information, misinterpret it and create for me a reputational Frankenstein’s monster.

It took weeks of judicious and determinedly innocent browsing but I was eventually able to undo my negative profile and return it to something that would be acceptable to anyone who might stumble upon my laptop. From that point on, I kept my Internet nose clean. Carefully selecting the links I clicked on out of a fear that I might be mistaken for something I wasn’t.

So when I began to receive targeted ads on Twitter offering a cream to relieve anal itching, it was only natural that I wondered how. I’d been so careful. What had I said or clicked on that made me their target audience? The advert itself offered no clues.

“SORE, ITCHY BACKSIDE DRIVING YOU MAD?” it blared in block capitals. “THEN YOU NEED ANALCARE CREAM.”

It was a striking message to say the least, the image beneath it showing three different rear ends. A man’s in baggy jeans, another in business attire and a woman’s wearing candy pink hot pants, each of them clawing between their buttocks. Delving deeper than even a customs officer would dare.

The message was clear: “Whether you’re a stoner, a member of the business elite or a smokin’ hot chick, all of us can fall victim to an itchy bottom.”

While the ad was something of a master class in getting bluntly to the point, it didn’t explain why it had been presented to me. None of these backsides matched mine. I was at a loss. So I began investigating.

I trawled my online purchases. My Google history. Through months of posts on social networks. Looking for triggers. Checking if I’d ever referred to someone as an “asshole” or “irritating”. I looked for butt, bum, arse, ass and rump. Itch. Scratch. Sore. I pondered the packet of Aloe Vera wet-wipes that I’d once added to the online grocery shop. But nothing seemed to tie in. So I turned to the place that I had been curious about since I first noticed the link on the ad; the customer testimonials.

This, more than anywhere, was where I expected to find my answer. Or at least people like me, asking why Analcare had sought them out. But what I found was a world I’d never known existed.

It was like flinging open the doors to a secret society. Or rather, a support group. Pages of people, pouring out their stories about the world of misery that lived in their underwear. It was a secret life revealed. A bathroom life. These people kept their woes from their families and loved ones but they posted them here. Because now, thanks to the miracle of this cream, they were free. And so joyful. So willing to share.

I learned that prior to her liberation by Analcare, Sue had resorted to finishing off toilet visits by gently swatting her bottom with a washcloth before blowing it dry with a hairdryer. Her story setting the tone for the testimonials. Small examples of distress and private, trial and error-based procedure that were nonetheless fundamentally funny.

See Margaret, for example, who stated. “I will not be buying anything else. Just to have a good night’s sleep is like the next best thing since sliced bread.”

The next best thing, I thought, considering her priorities in order of importance:

No.1: Convenient bread products.

No.2: Relief from the permanent sensation that she was sitting on an ant’s nest.

“I am in Heaven — literally.” She added. Because not for her a death spent drifting on clouds, dozing to the blissful soundtrack of a plucked harp. For Margaret, heaven is a place on earth and involves a tube of cream and a disposable finger condom.

And then there was Alan, who found it so useful on his rear end that he tried it out on the acid burns he’d received while removing bind weed in his garden. And later, on his wife’s mosquito bites.

It was easy to picture her backing away at the suggestion of giving the cream a try.

“Wait, isn’t that the stuff you’ve been wiping on your…?”

On and on they went. Tale after tale of people at their wit’s end, contemplating surgery and even suicide before being saved by Analcare. But after I while I stopped reading. It felt invasive. Like I was peering through someone’s bathroom window and making fun. In any case, I’d read enough to know that none of these stories resonated with me.

So I left the page and logged into Facebook, looking for a diversion. And it was then that I discovered a couple of sidebar ads that weren’t there on my last visit. It seemed that my trip to the testimonials had slotted me into an entirely new demographic.

There was now a link to a dating site offering me the chance to meet hairy men in the Manchester area, an advert for a pair of revolutionary slippers and below it an image of what appeared to be the skinned head of a woman. This transpired to be a silicon Barbie mask that I could purchase, slip over my own head and experience life as a living doll.

And it was here that I experienced one of those moments in life. The ones that offer you a sensation of personal clarity, as if you’ve briefly been granted the power to step out of your body and view yourself as others might see you. And what I saw was a grown man, sitting in front of a computer, worrying about novelty clocks, intimate creams and the notion that someone out there thinks he might get his kicks from wearing a woman’s face. I clearly needed to have a very strong word with myself.

Because the clear and overwhelming evidence is that the Internet doesn’t know what you want or who you are. Not really. It just picks up scraps of information, processes them then tosses things at you in the hope that you’ll be interested. It’s like throwing a stick for a dog and it running back to you carrying a similar stick, a squirrel or maybe a severed arm.

Just a quick look at the search engine results that led people to my blog last year proves the theory. Not a single one of them looking for me. Instead these were desperate pleas for advice that read like Ernest Hemingway 6 word stories.

April 14th: “Rat infestation toilet pipe please help”

December 6th: “incontinence shop Barnsley helplessly incontinent wife”

And then there was the endless parade of disappointed masturbators, searching in vain for very specific forms of pornography that I just could not provide.

“hot f**king with pipe line worker”

“balloon whisk sex”

“six boys do porn wildly with a girl & do toilet on her together. Com”

So I gave up trying to find out why certain adverts sought me out, certain now that Big Brother isn’t building a profile on me. That at least right now, the All Seeing Eye is as myopic Mr Magoo. And once I dropped that anxiety it was liberating. I was free to click wherever I chose. The 25 Funniest Autocorrects of 2011 would no longer have to be a mystery to me. And just as I was not a living doll or secretly plagued by bathroom traumas, I now felt, with a reasonable amount of certainty, that Dean Gaffney was not a Nazi.

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Greater Manchester Fringe Festival 2018

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For the last few years I’ve been largely living my life in accordance with two principles: that almost every situation has the potential to be brilliant and that I should always act upon my curiosity. I will wonder what’s happening around a corner then confidently head down it, hopeful for the best outcome. So, when I was asked to act as a judge for this year’s Greater Manchester Fringe Festival, it felt like I was in the ideal state of mind.

I planned my days around the event schedule, catching dozens of shows across Salford and Manchester, rarely fully knowing what I would see and excited about that. I barrelled between 53Two, The International Anthony Burgess Foundation, Salford Arts Theatre and Jimmy’s. Or haunted The Kings Arms in Salford, the beating heart of the festival, flitting between their Theatre and Studio spaces, greedily keen to cram in the greatest number of performances and generally forgetting to eat.

I caught feverish works in progress, like Robin Ince’s brilliantly frenetic ‘Chaos of Delight’ and Ros Ballinger’s ‘Better Than Dying Alone’, an unflinching stand-up show about sex and relationships. I saw Ben Moor’s hilarious and exquisitely-crafted comic lecture ‘Pronoun Trouble’. Rosa Wright’s heartbreakingly funny and startlingly honest bingo-based music and poetry show, ‘Love Calculator’. Quina Chapman’s ‘Fan Girl’, a charming and lovingly-assembled tribute to fan culture. And Marlon’s Solomon’s labour of anger, ‘Conspiracy Theory: A Lizard’s Tale’, a show that rode hilarity, fury and tear-jerking positivity as it delved into the dark and insidious nature of antisemitism. All shows that variously left me reeling and satisfied that my enthusiasm was paying off.

Many of the shows I caught are currently impossible to get tickets for at the Edinburgh Fringe. Like award-winning young comedian Maisie Adam’s effortless and perfectly paced debut show, ‘Vague’ and Damien Warren-Smith’s world class ‘Garry Starr Performs Everything. It would be hard to name a more finely honed hour of physical comedy and I staggered out afterwards, my face and stomach still flinching from the exertion of an hour of concentrated laughter. Immediately evangelical. I Whatsapped a group of my friends as I headed out of the theatre, making them a pledge. “If you come to this show and don’t have an incredible time, I will let you all punch me in the face.”

One evening I took my 12 year daughter along to see ‘Things We Tell The Hours After Midnight’, a mature and powerful piece of theatre written by 16 year old playwright and actor, Libby Hall. As the largely teenage cast took their bows, so brimming with talent, hope and potential, it was tough not be moved. My daughter reached over to me in the darkness and gently wiped away a tear running down my cheek. Knowing that when the house lights went up, it would be straight up mortifying for her to be seen sitting next to a crying middle-aged man. But safely in the car and driving home, she quoted her favourite lines and talked of how inspirational it had been to see what people of her own age could achieve. But that she’d prefer a backstage theatre role, where she wouldn’t have to tolerate the sight of me blubbing like I was sending my firstborn off to war.

Much of the charm of the fringe shows comes from their informal settings. Bob Young’s ‘King Lear (Alone)’ for example, is a powerful and finely-tuned solo interpretation ofthe Shakespeare tragedy. But his wife was equally compelling, chatting with the audience after the show and loudly broadcasting his career highs and lows while he stood on stage, waiting it out, clearly used to this sort of thing. “So, go on. Be honest,” she asked us. “Who fell asleep?” This was a magic I knew I would not experience at the Royal Exchange.

Similarly, I arrived at The Peer Hat for ‘Poezest’ to find a man standing outside, wearing a cocktail dress and a coal-black pageboy wig, his face painted to resemble a raven. He was explaining to two passing middle-aged tourists that they should come back in half an hour to see him portray a psychiatrist in a show about Edgar Allan Poe, in which he was starring alongside the lead singer from Dr and the Medics. What kind of a mind could hear that and not be intrigued?

The opposite is true of The Thermos Museum, which sounds exactly as boring as it isn’t. A captivating, largely improvised touring exhibit, set up throughout the Kings Arms and out into the beer garden, it swept up fascinated passers-by as it moved, essentially forming a conga. But one that, in place of music, was led by the voice of an eccentric man explaining that Thermos flasks were perfectly suited for the transport of both human organs and animal semen. At the end of the tour, I chatted with him in the bar and he revealed his master plan.

“My goal really is to lose money on this,” he said, pausing to grab the attention of the barman. “Would you like a drink?”

After a while, the number of shows I was catching began to have an effect on my thinking. Wolfing down dinner on a bench in St Anne’s Square, I found myself chatting with an old man named Raymond, who began telling me his life story. Of growing up in Prestwich, caring for his ailing mother, his homelessness and subsequent appearance in a Sherlock Holmes movie. Listening to him talk, I couldn’t stop my brain from assembling a potted review. “A compelling one man show but often unfocussed and distracted. Three stars.”

Heading into the Kings one night I noticed a woman showing people into the cellar.

“Ooh, what’s happening down there?” I asked.

“A play about the complex relationship between two reunited ex-cons. We can squeeze you in.”

“Brilliant!”

Five minutes later I was settling down on a tiny folding chair to watch ‘This Wide Night’. Two dozen of us sitting in the bowels of a pub, so convincingly transformed into a gloomy bedsit that watching the performance felt less like being a part of an audience and more like a peeping tom collective, staring through the window and into someone else’s fascinating life.

Not that every show was perfect, of course but even then there was often something to enjoy. Arriving for one event I was asked by a performer if I’d mind being renamed Barbara then handed a pad of stage directions so that I could act as her prompt. In another show, I watched a poet drinking a whole bottle of wine on stage and confronting the audience, so completely involving them that, by the end, everyone in the room was an active participant in the show. The line between artist and audience completely blurred. These were experiences that you cannot plan for so become special in their own right.

Midway through the festival, I asked my boss for time off so that I could catch a 1:30pm performance of ‘Janet’ at the Kings Arms, leading to the sort of conversation that had become typical by that point. “It’s a puppet show,” I told her. “But with a lump of dough.”

So, how was it?” she asked me the next day.

“Fantastic!” I said, trying to sum it up as best I could. “A water jug had sex with a bag of flour, they had a dough baby and in the end we all got to eat her as sandwiches.”

Bloody hell” she said.

“I know! Then after that we went to see this brilliant comedy duo called Norris and Parker, who were sex witches.”

She looked at me for a few seconds then spoke. “Are you still drunk?”

“No, but I’m planning a works night out for next July and you’re all coming.

Because I shouldn’t be the only one in my office who sees this stuff. Who gets to witness events like ‘One Man Bond’, where a man breathlessly performs condensed versions of every James Bond film with so much commitment and enthusiasm that you wonder if he might actually die. To watch a play that will make your heart rise in your chest and choke back tears until you realise that everyone else is crying too. Or to laugh so hard that you worry your face will remain fixed in a permanent resting grin, like The Joker. Or Professor Brian Cox. These are the things to see. The risks everyone can and should take. Because,for a month each year, the fringe is a gift to the region, ensuring that there is always something potentially brilliant around the corner. That every theatre, function room and bar involved could contain the funniest, most heart-breaking, transformative and wonderful thing you have ever seen. And to find out if that’s the case, all you need to be is curious.

The Real Story on Evidently Radio

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On June 2nd, Nija Dala-Small and I will be appearing on Evidently Radio to play some tunes, read stories and discuss our upcoming The Real Story:LIVE! event on June 23rd, headlined by Amy Liptrot.

You can catch the show here at 8pm (after which it will be archived) and find out more details about Evidently, their regular poetry night in Salford and details about their forthcoming appearance at Guy Garvey’s Meltdown Festival here.

Update: You can hear the show over on Mixcloud here.

 

 

 

 

The Coast

The shortest story I’ve ever written. And possibly the darkest. Published over at The Drabble.

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By Adam Farrer

On the day my family moved to the Yorkshire coast, my mother and I took a walk along the cliffs and spotted a woman standing on the edge, staring out to sea, gripping the handles of an empty wheelchair. We laughed about it together, at the notion of her having tipped someone into the water.

Three days later, we learned that an old man had been found washed up on the beach, naked but for a single sock on his left foot. We never reported what we’d seen. New in town, we didn’t want to ruffle any feathers.

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Year 1

Mum

This is a photo of my mother pole-dancing at Hull Pride in August. There are several things you may notice while looking at it. The muscular couple in the centre perhaps. Or maybe the woman in her underwear on the right, her handbag clamped between her thighs. But one thing I think is immediately clear; that my mum does not give a shit.

Mum

Here she is again, look. The blonde, front row left. Not giving a shit during the audition stages of Britain’s Got Talent 2015 with her burlesque troupe, The Ruby Red Performers. While watching this broadcast  I learned that she knew how to twirl a set of nipple-tassels in opposite directions. Also that she owned a set of nipple tassels.

Mum

And here she is not giving a shit while riding a scooter across the stage during the live semi-finals of Britain’s Got Talent. This despite the fact that, seconds later, the blasting caps on her bra would cause her bosoms to explode in front of an estimated viewing audience of 10 million.

I could go on but I fear I’m labouring the point, which just to be absolutely clear, is that my mum does not give a shit. What’s more, she never has. At least as long as I’ve known her. Whether that hasn’t always been the case, I’m not sure. All I know is that for the past 39 years she has been immune to stage fright. Doesn’t fear hecklers or criticism. Could not give a Christmas fig about negative reviews or cruel comment. She does what she enjoys, refusing to let anyone else’s sour-faced opinion stop her. And what she enjoys is entertaining people.

I know this because I have spent my life watching her on stage and witnessing the enthusiastic reactions she receives. In pantomimes, flitting around the stage in glittery wings as fairy Godmothers. In plays and cabaret. Singing and dancing. Or, on occasion, standing in front of Simon Cowell while wearing her undercrackers. If something requires charisma and confidence she’ll give it a try and she’ll generally ace it. Because she is fearless.

“I don’t know why,” she’ll tell me. “I’m just not bothered about what anyone else thinks.”

This is an attitude I’ve always admired in her and wanted for myself. Sadly, along with hazel eyes and the ability to hold my drink, it was not something I inherited from her. In its place I have a mortifying aversion to being the centre of attention.

Now, you might think that being the centre of attention is exactly what I might want. After all, I write indulgently self-focused non-fiction on a blog where there is a photo of me on every page. And I guess I do want attention but that doesn’t stop me fearing it. Because, unlike my mother, I’ve always been bothered about what people think. Always hated being stared at. Never keen on being the focal point.

As a child I would scream and run from the room each year when my family sang me Happy Birthday. And unlike my siblings, I refused to be involved in mum’s passion for amateur dramatics. My sister was convinced by her to dress as a flying monkey for a production of The Wizard of Oz (and later to join the Ruby Reds, that’s her in the BGT audition photo, 2nd right). Likewise my brother ended up performing a solo rendition of “Where is Love?” on the town hall stage. But I was a complete disappointment in that regard. My best effort would be to sing old time music hall songs and even then only in our living room and with a blanket over my head. I have never been anyone’s idea of a born performer.

But last year, from somewhere, I found a pinch of my mother’s confidence. Not much, just enough to make me say yes to the offer of reading one of my stories at a spoken word event promoted by The Real Story in January. I told myself it would be good for me, taking the line that nothing worthwhile is easy. What it ended up being was traumatic.

Weeks of anticipation and mounting stress seemed to have steadily whisked my guts into a soup, which sloshed around in my calves while I stood on the stage, feeling distanced from myself. Wondering if the words coming out of my mouth were words at all. Afterwards I had to take other people’s word for it that I hadn’t just been standing there for 10 minutes mawp-mawping  like an adult in a Peanuts cartoon. But I’d got through it and once the sickness had died away I realised that I liked performing slightly more than I hated it. The thrill of getting a laugh when I’d hoped for one. And God, if I’m being honest here, the validation of a crowd. It wasn’t bad. So I read at another night. And another. And another etc. I learned from them all.

Some nights were wonderful. Others okay. A couple were truly appalling. Exercises in public failure where embarrassment hissed and spat inside me. Underscored my insecurities in fierce lines. But no one died. Apart from me. And then only on stage, so not really. I carry those experiences with me, where they persist like small stacks of bones. Never rotting away. Ever-present. Reminding me how awful things could be but also that, in the grand of scheme of things, that’s not very awful at all. And I found that the more I read on stage, the more comfortable I got and the less my anxiety owned me.

Throughout last year I read at a lot of spoken word nights and saw many people like me. Sensitive, ticking characters gambling with their own scraps of confidence. Squirming under spotlights that were not built with them in mind, their voices cracked and nervous as they apologised before reading. Sheets of A4 paper fluttering in their hands as if they were trying to demonstrate the beating wings of a poorly constructed origami bird. Some of these people read once and were never seen again. Others returned and grew, becoming performers that I’ve been anxious about having to follow on stage. And they’d been afforded this thanks to the nurturing nature of Manchester’s live literature scene.

Since last January I’ve read at many spoken word nights. For Bad Language, First Draft, Tales of Whatever, Speak Easy, Verbose and The Real Story. And at each event I have found supportive, constructive and inspiring people. A community that is not necessarily there to decorate people with praise but is certainly not there to destroy anyone. Only wanting the best from everyone who steps up to the mic. And for that I’m more grateful than I can really say.

From pushing myself to take that first step I’ve had the confidence to take further risks, which while not always ending in anything like victory have at least had value. I’ve sent my stories off to publishers and had my share of rejections but also my first successful book submission. I’ve been interviewed on the radio. Had one of my stories published on a podcast and picked up a regular paid magazine column. I also joined The Real Story, a group that supports emerging non-fiction writers in the northwest and gave me the opportunity to read in the first place and set my ball rolling. None of this is particularly earth-shattering by most people’s standards. I don’t consider myself to be a success. But as a socially defective periphery-dweller with crippling performance anxiety and low self-esteem, I’m cautiously proud of myself.

I’ve long accepted  that I will never have my mother’s courage and fearlessness. I will always find performing nerve-wracking. And I will never stop fretting about what people think. But I have learned that sometimes taking risks can be enough to change your life and that it doesn’t always hurt to give a shit.

The Long Route

Nan dabbed a tear from her cheek with a handkerchief and leaned in to my mother.

“Janet, have a look at my eye,” she said, teasing down her watery lower lid with the tip of her finger. “I think I’ve got a weeping rectum.”

This was one of the many things we loved about Nan. The way words fell from her lips. Her malapropisms and misrepeated sayings. So my mother didn’t correct her. Instead she stifled a laugh and advised her to visit her doctor.

This troubled me. Because I could picture the imminent misunderstanding in his office.

Nan repeating her error. Her trusting nature stopping her from questioning his request for her to remove her underwear. But despite a lifelong confidence in medical professionals I could imagine her thinking, as he asked her to bend over and raise her dress, that he seemed to be taking the long route.

Evidently on FAB Radio

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(Update: The show, which was a joy to do, can be found on Evidently’s Mixcloud page.)

On August 13th at 8pm the brilliant Kate Feld and I will be on FAB Radio’s spoken word show Evidently, promoting the next The Real Story LIVE event. We’ll be discussing the event with presenters Ella Gainsborough and Kieren King as well as reading a couple of stories and introducing some songs that we’ve found inspiring.

When they’re not presenting their radio show, Ella and Kieren also run the Evidently  poetry night every 2nd Monday in The Eagle Inn, Salford. You can find details about it here. If you like live poetry, pubs and/or Salford then it’s really the night for you. If you’re one of those people who’s scared of going out in Salford at night, don’t be. Salford is probably more afraid of you than you are of Salford.

In case you’re curious about what Kate and I sound like before the show, you can hear Kate reading her excellent short story ‘Max and Bird’ on the latest edition of the Tapes and Tales podcast (I bloody love Tapes and Tales). And, if you like, you can also listen to me on this YouTube video, reading out commuters’ negative tweets about Metrolink.

A Full Hour

“You can’t wear that.”

I was aware that I was speaking out of turn. That Gordon was my boss and that I shouldn’t have challenged him. But some situations require you to take a stand. In this instance over the t-shirt he’d had printed and was planning to wear to a pirate-themed event funded by one of our suppliers.

He’d been so pleased when he’d shown me. So proud of his work. The front bore our camera shop’s logo, festooned with clip art cutlasses and Jolly Rogers. On the back he’d listed the photographic services our store offered, tweaked with a pirate theme and written in a quilled font across a foxed, yellowed scroll.

1 hour rape

4 hour murder

24 hour pillage

“You just can’t.” I persisted.

“Why?” he replied, deflated. Worryingly oblivious.

“Because it says you provide rape. For a full hour.”

“Within the hour,” he said briskly. “We print photos within the hour.”

“But this says rape!”

“Oh, everyone will get the joke,” he said. “They have a great sense of humour at these events.” He paused to consider my opinion. “I mean, 24hr rape I’d understand…”

Herons

d51ba50d3c9048f2f2053ac79bba457aThe cleaners were chatting in the staff kitchen this morning.

“Alan something,” One of them said, trying to recall the name of a deceased local barber. “Brilliant. Only charged £3. Didn’t believe in hairspray.”

“What did he use?” her colleague asked.

“Air freshener.”

They always spoke like this. In dryly amusing fragments. Snippets and sighs. As if their exchanges were determined efforts in efficiency. But when I walked in on their conversation the other morning it seemed especially concise.

The three of them were sitting around a table, each speaking in turn. The first with a note of victory, as if she’d just successfully answered a quiz question. The second like she’d just failed to answer the same question. And the third as though she was confirming the answer.

“Ah! Herons.”

“Oh! Herons.”

“Yes. Herons.”

I waited for more. Some context. But they all sat back in contented silence. Staring into space. No more needing to be said.

The quiet was heavy and compressing. I fought a sudden, rising desire to speak. A desperate, tick-like compulsion. I stirred my mug of tea and bit my lip. The clock hit 8am.

“Right,” One of them said, slapping her knees then getting to her feet with a soft grunt. The others followed suit and the three of them left the room.

I waited for the door to fully close behind them before releasing the word like a long held breath.

“Herons.”

The Real Story: Live with Michael Symmons Roberts

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On August 19th I’ll be reading a new essay at the The Real Story‘s third regular live event, headlined by highly respected Forward, Costa and Whitbread Prize-winning poet Michael Symmons Roberts. The Real Story is a group run by Kate Feld and Nija Dalal-Small, dedicated to publishing works of creative nonfiction.

The first public reading I ever did was at The Real Story’s inaugural live event back in January. Until that point the closest I’d come to spoken word performances were the PowerPoint presentations I was obliged to do at work. Cold, ugly affairs that required me to point at charts and parrot business non-words while my soul turned black and leaked into my shoes. In short, these presentations made me feel that public speaking was only slightly preferable to being shot at.

Writing and reading for The Real Story changed that belief, transforming me from a shy man who didn’t dare show his work to anyone into a shy man who now regularly stands on spoken word stages reading his private thoughts to strangers while shaking as if subjected to his own personal earthquake. Small but significant progress.

As well as Michael Symmons Roberts and myself, Kate and Nija will be reading, as will novelist Marli Roode and my good friend Nick Thompson. It’ll be a good time. These events are always a good time. There will be no PowerPoint.

p.s. Entry is free/donation-based. Like buying a Radiohead album.