Spring (May Have) Sprung
24 Feb
In many parts of the world, there are signs that spring is arriving. Despite the fact that on February 2, Punxsutawney Phil predicted that there will be six more weeks of winter, I’ve never trusted groundhogs (and they know why). The crocuses peeking out of my window boxes are telling me otherwise.
Of course, the thing about the weather is that basically we know fuck all about it. Fancy pants weather men and girls can make all the predictions they want, but it’s really more dumb luck when they get it right. And when you throw into the mix the effects of climate change, we pretty much have no idea what the weather will be even later this afternoon, let alone tomorrow or a fortnight from now.
But both the calendar and the temperatures have been hinting that soon it shall be spring. This is good news for most of us. While March can mean wind and rain, the fact that it is usually the month where the green begins to return to our world means that we will generally feel more chipper and spritely.
The vision of flowers emerging from the cold ground is really a sight to see. If you weren’t clever enough to get your gardener to plant spring bulbs last autumn, shame on you. You must do better.
If by the time you read this, the weather has turned again, don’t despair. I promise at some point it definitely will be spring and the Earth will at least appear to be a more pleasant place.
The Show Shall Go On
19 Feb
“Agatha! The Musical” is good to go—roles have been cast and rehearsals begin next week. The week of auditions was exciting and surprising, as I’m sure you’ve read about in the local papers, but it has paid off dividends. We had applicants from all over the world, and the competition was literally brutal. However, the producers were unable to find a lead actress for the Agatha role: some actresses were beautiful but fell apart in the more cerebral scenes. Others could pull off the complexities of the character but were flawed in their physicality. In the end, I’m afraid that the director decided that the only woman in the world who could be convincingly Agatha Whitt-Wellington is Agatha Whitt-Wellington herself so it looks like, for the first time in oh so many years, I’ll be treading the boards again.
Sadly, though I am a woman of many talents, singing is not one of them, so we’ve had to drop the “musical” aspect of the play. Unfortunately, our PR committee’s enthusiasm means we are already in possession of two thousand t-shirts bearing the “Agatha! The Musical” logo so we’ve got to stick with the current title. Therefore, we’ve set up an urgent Anti-Litigation Committee to head off any possible problems. Anyone with a background working with the CAP Code is asked to contact Bernard at the Village Hall as soon as possible.
Samuel Richardson said, “Calamity is the test of integrity.” Despite our slightly tricky beginning, I know our show will go on and be the theatrical triumph I’ve threatened it would be.
The World Is A Stage, But The Play Is Badly Cast; This One Won’t Be
6 Jan
Very exciting news! After much negotiation, the local Amateur Dramatic Society has finally secured the rights to the story of my life. Auditions for this much-anticipated production will be in mid-February, so you’re welcome, aspiring actors, for the thoughtful heads up from me. You’ve now got a few weeks to prepare for the role of a lifetime.
MAJOR ROLES TO BE CAST:
Agatha Whitt-Wellington: witty, gorgeous, sophisticated, ageless, seductive but not distastefully so
Mother: brash, loud, unsupportive (complete plucking of eyebrows required)
Father: non-speaking role
Granny “Boots” Wellington: trouser-wearing
Headmaster: diminutive, unaware of how to behave in the presence of genius
Daphne d’Ebriété: elderly, wise, drunk in all scenes
Rupert Stanley Quim: elderly, stumpy, confused
Baron Von Schwarzen Wurst: debonair, accent of unknown origin
HRH Prince William: pre-hair loss
Christopher: good-looking, dependent (some nudity required)
Alice Wintergarden: jealous but ultimately harmless
MINOR ROLES TO BE CAST:
Lovers #1-45
Admirers #1-22
Arresting Officers #1-4
Doctor
Jeremy Irons
Competition will be tough: this is an important production and an incredible opportunity to be a part of the life of an amazing woman (that’s not vanity but the words of the judge who ruled on the intellectual property rights case).
After the holidays, I may be willing to give interviews to actors who would like to “get inside my head.” These will be by appointment-only; interested young men should send photographs and be prepared to run lines, if you know what I mean.
Thank You, Driver, For Getting Me Here
3 NovIf you’re like me, you probably grew up admiring lion tamers. Like Superman, lion tamers’ incredible talents, fantastic costumes and determination to do good for humanity are inspirational and sexually intriguing. Unfortunately, we all learn as we age that neither Superman nor lion tamers exist in the real world.
However, there are stylish, altruistic hard workers who walk among us. We see them everyday but rarely do we take a moment to either notice or appreciate them. They are bus drivers.
Hey, hey, hey now, Agatha (I hear you saying). Hay is for horses (I hear my elocution tutor saying). Please hear me out.
Often you’ll see in the editorial pages of the tabloids complaints about the buses: the stink of piss, the teenagers’ noise, the slight delays that on occasion may occur. These are simply hooey. Take it from a frequent rider (yes, I ride the bus, what of it?)—our public transport system is champion and it is due primarily to the humble and skilful bus driver.
Every single day in England, men (and I’ll admit a few women) risk their lives for our safety. Plenty of people bitch (excuse my French) but how many of you can manoeuvre that much steel and human cargo through the dangerous streets of our country? Let’s not forget that the average English street is barely wider than the average English bus. Once when I was on the Number 41 into the city, our bus driver managed to squeeze by an illegally parked Vauxhall Nova, passing the wing mirror with literally just an inch to spare. He neither blinked nor broke a sweat. That’s power.
Bus drivers must maintain this cool through other stresses, very often from the passengers they devote their lives to. We might be frustrated with other riders’ noise, confusion or lack of correct change, but these poor chaps have to deal with it for hours on end and they’re not allowed to slap or swear at any of them. They are also our guardians while we ride: I remember so clearly the day a fight broke out over the front seat on the Shopper Hopper and within seconds, the driver jumped from his seat, disarmed the attacker and quickly citizen-arrested him. Not impressive enough for you? I should add that during that same trip, our driver also performed cardiopulmonary resuscitation on an old dear, led us all in a sing-song and still managed to get us to the Supercentre right on time.
There are very few heroes left in the world today, but for me, bus drivers come closest to being modern day lion tamers. I just wish more wore hats. And carried whips.
Inspiration and Sage Advice for Budding Scribes
26 AugI am often asked for tips on “making it in the writing biz.” I am always, of course, too happy to offer inspiration and help to those readers who see me as their hero.
Unfortunately, though, becoming a good writer is quite honestly not really something the average person can do. Good writers are born, not made. So my first tip to would-be authors is to ensure that your ancestors’ breeding stock is of the highest caliber, that your inheritance is substantial and that your family name alone will guarantee that publishers will fall over themselves to take a look at your work.
Once you’ve done that, the sky is your oyster. You will need to write, write, write. If you want this to be your vocation, you must commit to actually doing it. A cobbler spends eight hours a day cobbling, a writer must do the same. The profession is called writing for a reason so be prepared to write until you are blue in the hands. Even with my huge back catalog, I still pull my chair up to the desk and watch Christopher type for as many hours a day as I’ve had hot dinners. I do this without complaint: I accept that, as a wordsmith, this is my cross to bear.
Assuming you have already studied my own books, I would suggest that you not really waste more time in reading others’. Most of what is published today is shite, and writers don’t have the time to be dealing in shite. Be aware of the classics, of course, so that you can participate fully in literary conversations. But don’t let anyone influence you. Doing so is in the most questionable taste. Just this morning when I opened my post, I found a request for my criticism on the work of twenty-year-old poet. I turned the page to see a sonnet beginning “My mistress’ eyes are like a cinnamon bun” and immediately stopped reading. Above everything, you must be original or you will be destined for the bin, where I confess that poem now resides.
Finally, I’ve no doubt many a fool has already suggested that you “write what you know.” Though pithy, this recommendation is worthless. Please take a moment to consider this advice from Miss Agatha Whitt-Wellington: look around your room, look at yourself in the mirror, look at the faces of your friends and family. My guess is that after this quick assessment of your life, you’ll realise that “what you know” is hardly worth knowing, let alone writing or reading about. A writer must be honest and I am trying to be honest with you now. Your life is boring and would not make a good book. Don’t be fooled by encouraging spouses, supportive friends or doctors unwilling to diagnose you as delusional.
Writing is a ruthless business so prepare yourself for rejection. Even I myself have had pieces rejected and it is difficult. There’s no denying that. But if you are as dedicated and as talented a writer as possible, you just may find success. It can happen. And if it doesn’t, there are other things out there for you, I am sure. Life is a journey, and we must all make our own paths. If writing is the path for you, trust the process and your talent will clear the way of potholes, stray tacks and rodent carcasses. If it turns out that your path is not as creative, don’t fear, for we will all end up dead and alone eventually, darlings.
Now get to work!
Take A Little Trip And See
6 AugMy great uncle once stated that “The well-traveled person is a friend of mine,” and, although this statement was serving as his sole defense against accusations of soliciting a prostitute, I believe it to be a maxim that can benefit all of us.
For the well-traveled person has experienced much of the world and therefore lives a richer, wiser life. I know this is true for myself (you can read about some of my adventures in my three-volume series Agatha Goes Elsewhere).
Of course, not everyone has the resources to travel the world as I or my uncle’s whores have done. However, let us not forget that the world starts right outside our own doorsteps, and everyday we have the opportunity to make a journey of our day-to-day lives.
Earlier this week, I recommended that Christopher go on a mini-odyssey himself and, despite his early protestations, he admitted that the excursion was profitable. By simply changing his attitude and looking with new eyes at the path that leads from my house to the corner shop, he saw two kittens playing in the sun, heard just how much love the two teenagers in the alley apparently have for each other and found a discarded 50p coin. Perhaps more valuable than all of these experiences, he realised how happy fresh tonic water to add to her gin made his employer and this is a life lesson he can carry with him for the rest of his days.
If you ever do get the chance to travel to another land, I wholeheartedly recommend it. You become wiser and more cosmopolitan, and it’s also hilarious to hear people talk funny. However, even if your wanderings only extend to a five mile radius, with an open-minded attitude, you can truly see our world.
Joy: How The Fishes in The Deep Blue Sea Found It
14 JunThis song is the musical representation of that feeling so many of us long for: complete and utter joy. Why is it so difficult to find? Because what no one tells you is to be really joyful, you need to be pig ignorant.
Think about the phrase “bundle of joy”: why do we use it to describe newborns? Because when parents first meet their infant, they are completely ignorant to the hell that is soon to follow. They hold the little creature in their arms, gaze into its vacant eyes, count its stupid little toes, and feel pure happiness. Twelve years later when they’re summoned for a court appearance, it’s unlikely that their child’s attack on that elderly gentleman with a limp is bringing much joy to their now desperate lives.
As understandably satisfied as I am with my own life, I confess that my moments of joy can be limited. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I feel many things (awe, wonderment, reluctant sexual arousal), but joy is not one of them. This is because I am not ignorant of all that’s gone in to making me the woman I am. The knowledge of the pain and struggles of my life means that I, unlike the young man at three houses down apparently, cannot experience the ecstasy of joy just by gazing at my person.
Take a moment to reflect on the people who seem most joyful, and you will find they are undoubtedly quite ignorant. But don’t get confused: this does not mean that you have to be a total idiot to feel joy. The etymology of the word “ignorant” comes from the Latin ignoritsi, meaning “like a kitten’s brain,” and I am certainly not hating on kittens. Kittens are clever at many ways (mice killing) yet ignorant of others (chaos theory). This explains why cats look rather solemn when stalking prey, but purr like fools when they see a photograph of Henri Poincaré. By deliberately choosing to not understand that some orbits are not forever increasing nor approaching a fixed point, kittens find joy in dynamical systems.
This is why you will on occasion stumble across a topic on which I am not an expert on. These examples of my own ignorance are often the very things which bring me the most joy. I do not totally understand how jazz music or fruit pastilles are made, and therefore I can find joy in both. The same goes for black tar heroin. There is no shame in being ignorant of some things in this world; it’s all about pro-actively choosing which subjects are important to understand, even if that means sacrificing one’s own personal jubilation.
Given that the song was released in 1970, I am willing to excuse those hippies who believed that it was Jeremiah’s wine that made Three Dog Night so joyful. However, a less flower-powered analysis of the above lyrics highlights my very point—the line “never understood a single word he said” holds the key. Knowledge can be power, but sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Something Funny For Your Money
18 Mar
I’ve never really understood the cynicism around Comic Relief and Red Nose Day.
Maybe this is because I grew up in America where charity telethons’ goal was twofold: to encourage you to donate money and to drive you to the brink of insanity. The most famous, of course, is the Jerry Lewis MDA Supershow, which features said Jerry Lewis (bad enough) and lots of people you don’t recognise, thought had died a decade before or actively despise singing and dancing on stage in front of a big band for twenty-two hours straight. Because the telethon dominates Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, millions of children who otherwise would never consider bullying begin resenting disabled kids whom they blame for ruining their last weekend before the school year starts.
Comic Relief, though, is different, and I’d like to address the naysayers now.
A lot of people are nasty about rich celebrities going on about helping poor people. In fact, I remember the day Richard Curtis first pitched the idea of Comic Relief to me over lunch. He said, “Agatha, I was thinking about getting celebrities together to do a charity event—I’m thinking Sting, Madonna, U2, singing on stage while the public phones in with donations.” I said to him, “Dickie, let’s face it, Bono’s small change alone could solve all of the world’s problems. If you want the public to be able to forget that, you’ve got to make people laugh.”
And Comic Relief does that. I’m sure we’ve all got our favourites—Alan Partridge, Ricky Gervais and Robert Webb spring to my mind. Of course, not everything works: sometimes Paul Daniels can’t milk Eddie the Eagle’s elbow, sometimes Ruby Wax sings and sometimes Jeremy Clarkson’s face appears on screen. But overall, there’s quite a bit there that is cleverly funny.
In contrast, the video reports from the places Comic Relief supports are not funny, but aren’t supposed to be. They are generally quite moving and informative. When I hear people complain about the short films, I want to kick them in the shins (and, when I can, I do). The purpose of those videos is to help us feel the despair of those suffering. Jamie Oliver in Africa should be painful to watch and it consistently is. If you really hate these clips so much, donate enough money and there will be nothing left to film.
Lastly, Comic Relief celebrates not just the humour of the professional funny people, but the average person as well. Seriously, how can we hold anything against the institution which catapulted the bath of baked beans into our consciousness? Is there anything funnier than a person sitting in a bath of baked beans? The answer is no.
I am doing my part. You should do yours. On Red Nose Day, don’t be unpleasant. Donate your fiver.
Very Good Gentlemen
7 DecI was going to post a rather long and thought-provoking assessment of the imminent collapse of the euro. But fuck that, did you see what happened in Adelaide?
Don't you just melt when men embrace each other publicly?
A wise man once said, “Cricket civilizes people and creates good gentlemen.” Okay, it was Robert Mugabe, but on this account, he was right. Harold Pinter once said, “I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth—certainly greater than sex, although sex isn’t too bad either,” and he too was spot on.
A Proud Man Celebrating
A Big Baby Crying
England have won the second test of the 2010 Ashes. They won. By an innings. At one point, three wickets were taken in four deliveries.
Never have eleven men made me so happy over such a short period of time (okay, once before, but we won’t go into that). I am very proud of the lads. I only wish I could have been there to show them just how proud (and by proud, I do mean aroused) I am. I shall fall to sleep now dreaming of each and every one of them, wood in hand, showing me their talents at the crease.
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Everyone Needs an Algonquin 
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