The Great Twitter Cull

How do you politely dispense with the people you have invited into your life in our social networking age? It’s a tough one.

    

At the start of every New Year, I worry not about resolutions, but about whether I will survive the Simon Cowell MPC (Mobile Phone Cull). At the start of January, my friend of 15 years’ standing changes his number, and every year I wait to see whether I have won a SIFTA (Simon Internet & Fone Telecommunications Award). Apparently, it is as difficult a judging process as anything you would ever see on the X Factor, and I live in terror of being dumped.

    

Did I send too many texts? Did I offer too much advice? Was I too critical? Does he still like me? Did he ever like me? Did he just want good reviews? Oh, dear, lord, just let me know if I have made the final.

   

 I cracked open a bottle of champagne when the text came through. “This is my new number XXXXXXXXXXX. Simon”. I know dozens of Simons, but in the first week of January, there is only one that matters.

   

 “Simon Cowell is now following you on Twitter”. That was the next step. All my New Years rolled into one. I cannot tell you how absurdly excited I was about this (well, not since Stephen Fry followed me on Twitter, and that’s a whole other glorious story). It was like Jesus choosing to oil the feet of Mary whose humble house he visited (well, okay – a bit OTT, but you get my drift). 

This is a man who has changed the face not only of British entertainment, but British television, and I have been a fan and supported him in print and as a friend since day one. He has also cracked it in America – no mean feat. He has also been one of the kindest people not only to me but my family and friends – and all off camera. Not a lot of people know that.

   This week, I had some very nasty Tweets after what was, to me the Follow of All Follows. And I decided to cull the people I follow on Twitter. Not because any of them have done anything particularly wrong, but because for me, there is a danger of Twitter is becoming a bullying playground, and the whole point of social networking was, and is, to be social. That means nice.

    

But setting about my cull was difficult. I have over 3500 followers but was also following close on 3000. That meant that at least half my working day was spent on Twitter, catching up with people whom I would never meet, never wanted to meet and (incredibly! I know - I find it hard to believe, too) never wanted to meet me.

    

The mystery was how I came to be following some of them in the first place. At what point did I think that Asian weddings were worth a follow? Or gay men’s style magazines?

    

I decided to dispense with most of the actors, apart from a few friends. Most of them only ever Tweeted about getting drunk, anyway, and the best actors aren’t even on there (Sir Ian, you survived – it might not even be you, but I wasn’t going to take the risk).

    

Most of the social networking companies who are rivals to my own (SoShall Network Ltd, should you be interested) were out, too.

    

And, I am afraid, so was anyone who said they were, first and foremost, a mother/father/brother/sister/pet lover. Great. Good for you. Then bugger off and do your family stuff and leave Twitter to those of us who are trying to get work.

    

Illness was a tough one. I have followed lots of people who have asked for Retweets about loved ones in need of support. Would I feel guilty about culling them? These went into my virtual “pending” file.

    

For me, social networking is much more than social now: it is a means by which I make connections that might enable me to get work and in which I might enable others to further their careers. I don’t have time to join virtual cafes or Mafia clans, such as we were all so keen (well, some of us) to do in the early days of Facebook.

   

 I want to follow people who have thousands of followers, not three people in the butcher’s shop and pub in Rhyl. And I want someone with well over 6 million followers like Simon Cowell to follow me. 

Call me shallow, if you like. 

I call it social networking growing up and coming of age.

Lindsay Lohan - and Why Rehab Doesn't Work

How long will Lindsay Lohan last in rehab?

It’s the question on everybody’s lips, as the actress prepares to enter rehab for 90 days as part of her plea bargain for allegedly lying about driving a car when drunk.

My guess is she won’t make it.

And for one simple reason.

Rehab doesn’t work.

How many times do people have to re-enter it to get that message? It’s like going to confession: once you absolve yourself of your “sins”, you are free to go out and do the same all over again with a clean slate.

Of course, it is important that people with any kind of addiction that threatens to ruin their own lives and those close to them, get help; of course, it takes courage, and those who choose the path of recovery rather than self-destruction, are to be admired; of course, ultimately, there is greater happiness in being healthy, sober and drug free.

But the problem with rehab is that it is based on the AA 12 Steps programme that hasn’t changed since its inception in 1939. While science, medicine and technology – heck, human beings, too - have come a long way since the war, the AA solution is one of 12 steps set in stone.

Ninety five per cent of people who attend AA leave within the first year. Five per cent of people suffering from any disease recover spontaneously; so it could be said that those who claim AA has worked for them (and they do claim to have a “disease”) might well have recovered anyway. That would give AA a zero success rate.

The 12 Step programme has, at its core, the belief that a human being is powerless and in need of reliance upon a “higher power” to get by. That power is invariably God – go to a group sometime and watch the beatific smiles as individuals praise Jesus’s part in their lives. Personally, I’m not sure about asking for help with alcohol addiction from a guy whose party trick was turning water into wine, but it obviously works for some people.

The organisation gets around this (it’s a new tack they’ve taken in the light of the growth of atheism) by saying that the higher power might be within yourself - in which case, change the clause. But they won’t. Because it is a programme based upon fear.

AA does not take into account the enormous amount of research that has been carried out into the nature of addiction since 1939. Nor does it take into account human psychology and a rapidly changing society. It lumps everyone together into one homogenous group – everyone is equal. That might help some, but it doesn’t help everyone. All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.

In the AA groups I researched, I sat listening to people who, under the influence of drugs or alcohol, had taken to speeding cars and tried to run down their relatives. I heard stories of terrible attacks on loved ones. I was told to try to find common ground, but there just wasn’t any. But the belief is that once you are on the slippery slope (the common ground), this is where you will end up; such stories are therefore not just sharing moments, they are meant to serve as a warning. For me, it was like being at an evangelical prayer meeting and not believing in God.

I made no secret of the fact, some years ago, that I cut down on drinking, and I would be a liar if I said that I have not, on occasion since, drunk more than I know is good for me. I never said I was going to give up completely, and nor would I want to; but in exploring ways that helped me change my drinking habits, I found many other possibilities out there that just don’t get talked about because of our society’s continued reliance on AA as the Be all and End all solution to all addiction problems.

Finding out why and when you are most at risk of drinking (I have no idea about other drugs) too much is the key - and spotting those triggers and learning how not to respond to them. It’s not always easy, because these things are embedded in our DNA and catch us unawares. I recently attended an event at which I knew just one person and all the feelings of insecurity and rejection flooded back from when I first moved to London and downing the free drinks helped me through the night. Suddenly, I was 23 again. This time, though, I didn’t use alcohol to get by – there is nothing like Californian wine, free or not, to send you to the water tray.

I also used to drink because I was bored, and I have never been someone who deals well with boredom or bores (of which there are many drunken ones). I also drank because I was lonely. Sometimes, I still am. But now, I go for a run or phone a friend and, I have to say, social networking has been a godsend in helping me – and many others – feel less isolated in the world.

There are many books now that offer ideas about how to control drinking. I have never been someone who drinks to get drunk (that just happened to be a bi-product) and if there is no decent wine in the house, I am not someone who hits the cooking sherry. I have three cupboards full of spirits and have never had a drop of any one of them. It’s not the alcohol I like; I like wine and the people I share it with. But, like many others, I keep an eye on my units.

In addition to some great books on the market, there are many other recovery programmes - SMART (Self Management and Recovery Training) is terrific and a real alternative to AA. I just wish that it had the same publicity. Without the inherent guilt trip and feelings of powerlessness that AA tends to induce, it focuses on the strength of the individual, and what one’s “self” can do in the healing process.

I really hope that Lindsay Lohan gets her act together, because the way things are going, this play has just one ending, and it isn’t a happy one.

But rehab hasn’t worked for her before and I very much doubt it will this time.

Twelve steps?

The first one should be finding an alternative.

One that actually works.

Chariots of Fire in Cardiff

“You can stick your f*****g chariot up your arse . . . “ 

You know it’s going well for Wales when the singing starts. 

Max Boyce’s Hymns and Arias to celebrate the Welsh, and the alternate Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, to rub salt into the wounds of the English. And there will have been many hoarse voices on Saturday night following mighty renditions of both. I just wish I’d been there, but a mess-up in my scheduling put me on the other side of the world.

   

There is nothing like a spectacular Welsh win on the rugby field to bring out the “hiraeth” – the longing for one’s homeland – in me.

   

On Saturday morning, at 10am, in the King’s Head in Santa Monica in LA (currently seven hours behind the UK until the start of British summertime), you couldn’t move for the red shirts. There were a few English scattered there, too, and they became most identifiable by their groans when their team gave away yet another penalty, messed up a pass, or dropped the ball. Which was often.

   

In contrast, Wales were controlled, disciplined, fiery, and the best they have been since they became the darlings of the 2011 Rugby World Cup.

   

Until the UK smoking ban, I was never a huge fan of British pubs, and they are still not my favourite watering holes. They are generally places people go with the specific intention of getting drunk or getting tanked up to move on to another venue, where their aim is to be unconscious by 2am. They are places where people talk bollocks for hours at a time, convinced, with each new glass, that they are achieving depths of Socratic insight. They are places where male customers talk to female bar staff as if they are pieces of meat (and think scrag end rather then rump steak).

   

But on a rugby international day, over 5000 miles away from home and Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium, where Saturday’s Six Nations clincher took place, there was no other place to be in LA other than the King’s Head.

   

It’s an Irish bar that does really good food and where you can have your “ ‘alf an’ ‘alf” – half chips, half rice – that we so love with our curry in Wales. The staff are great, and it is popular both with locals and visitors. Heck, I even saw David Beckham in there with his children.

   

None of us could quite believe Saturday’s win, as at the start of the game we had all predicted a very close match that would probably end with England winning the Championship, if not the Grand Slam.

   

Then, as Wales raced away with it, I heard a woman say: ”I really wish I was in Cardiff now.”

   

And I did, too. I used to have front row, front stand, halfway line seats in the Millennium Stadium, and with three seasons in “Jaci’s Box” – the hospitality box I hired at Cardiff Blues in the old Arms Park next door - it was one of the happiest and most fun times of my life. 

I have several hundred T-shirts bearing the phrase “I’ve been in Jaci’s Box” left over. Someone suggested that I donate them to help out with clothing next time a natural disaster hits a distant part of the world. I am not sure. The sight of a serious ITN reporter commenting on sobbing, hungry children, while they lurk in the background in their “I’ve been in Jaci’s Box” T-shirts might not be the best incentive to bring those charitable donations rolling in. Maybe I’ll put them on e-Bay instead.

   

Yes, it’s always rugby international days at the Millennium Stadium that reinforce my roots. And then I remember the grey, the rain and the cold of Wales, and California beckons again.

   

There are enough Welsh here for us to start a splinter country, though. A couple of weeks back, half of Cardiff seemed to be on Hollywood Boulevard to see the Richard Burton star being laid. Welsh actors do very well here, and Matthew Rhys is currently wowing audiences with his performance in The Americans, for which he is hotly tipped to pick up several awards.

   

The world has become smaller for a generation used to travel, and when I feel homesick, I always remember that the UK is only half a day’s travel away.

   

Compare that to an England defeat at Cardiff, where 80 minutes can seem like a week.

   

Now it’s being asked whether Wales are capable of winning the 2015 Rugby World Cup, which is being held in . . . England. 

Now that would be a very sweet chariot indeed.   

     

Clearing of the Mist

I needed this. 

Long periods of time spent just in front of the computer, doing what I do best. 

Writing, revising, reading, re-reading . . . While the sound of the Pacific hitting the shore plays in the background. One morning, a gentle, pale white break, and a sun struggling to light the day on the foam; today, an angry effort as waves try to make themselves heard. 

But always, for me, the most calming sound in the world.

    

This is a part of LA with which I am not familiar. Having lived only in Beverly Hills and 30^th in Santa Monica, I know only street life and the handful of bars and restaurants that became my regular haunts. I regularly went to West Hollywood when I lived here, too, but found it too congested. I still do.

    

And while I think this oasis of calm between Venice Beach and Marina del Rey would not suit me full time (I really don’t want to have to drive around here, and the buses are less regular in this part of town), I welcome this period of calm to re-group. My friends have given me their spectacular place while they are back in the UK for ten days, and they will never know how much it means to me.

   

 It’s hard to get silence and stillness these days. At my home back in Cardiff, three sets of neighbours have had building work going on for nearly a year. My dear friends in Hollywood put me up out here, but I had to move out because there is a celebrity having a house built close by, and I swear Beirut at the height of its troubles was quieter.

    

Living in hotels is a nightmare – which part of the “Do not disturb” sign on the door do staff not understand when they come knocking to ask if I want my mini-bar refilled? Living in a hotel where they try to charge you $6 per tea-bag (get it sorted, Thompson group) is even worse.

    

So now, I am in heaven. I am working on a script that I am developing with a TV company and finishing my book (writing, not reading). The phone doesn’t ring and I rarely have to call anyone. Every time I look out of the window, a painting stares back at me: a Hopper single figure, caught in a moment of contemplation; a Turner water colour; a blank canvas, even, just waiting for the next person to paint their story upon it.

   

It’s a grey, cloudy day at the beach today, but still those waves: always the promise of renewal, tide after tide. 

And I am thinking that this is the most content and calm I have been in a long, long time.

Twin Towns - Cardiff and Miami (yes, really)

I am not good living out of a suitcase. My suitcase is bigger than I am. In fact, I am thinking of dispensing with my clothes and living in said suitcase to save on rent.

    

I have been desperate to get a place back in LA, not only because of the suitcase issue but because I just love the city. The fact that everywhere you go, people are talking about TV and film; the great service in almost every restaurant and bar; the terrific bus service (people still laugh at me, but it’s mega cheap and regular, and the drivers are a darn sight nicer than the taxi drivers - and, more to the point, know where they are going); the weather – it’s my kind of town (as the song goes).

    

But it’s impossible to find an apartment that is exactly right. I took one of my landlords (who charged me a fortune for a place that was mediocre, at best) to court last year (and won), so nice as anyone seems at the outset, it can still turn sour. In my experience, it is better to go with a company, even if you have to pay a little above the odds and compromise a little on space. But at least, unlike private landlords, a company is professional and doesn’t try to do you over when you leave.

    

So while I’ve been looking, it’s been suitcase time, and I also returned to Miami for Britweek Visits Miami. The annual LA Britweek event (now two weeks), set up by UK TV producer Nigel Lythgoe and ex-diplomat Bob Peirce and his wife Sharron, has been running for seven years. This was its first showing out of California and a jolly time was had by all.

    

There are apparently plans afoot to twin Miami with my local home city of Cardiff in South Wales. Miami is fairly hot for most of the year; Cardiff is the second wettest city in the UK. We have the M4 and the Severn Bridge that carries people with ease from England into Wales; Miami is a congestion of taxis in a tortoise marathon, and if you want to get anywhere, you should have set out yesterday.

   

 Cardiff has the Millennium Stadium and rugby; Miami, Marlins Park and baseball (and if you want to get there in a hurry, you should have set off last week). Cardiff has the River Taff on its doorstep; Miami has the Atlantic Ocean. 

You can’t get a drink in Miami after 2am (and most places, apart from nighclubs, are wiping down tables before midnight; Cardiff was recently names the drinking capital of Europe (as the packed police cells and A & E on a Saturday night bear witness).

    

Yes, it’s easy to see why, given how much the two cities have in common, they should be paired.

  

I actually hope it comes off. Justin Jones, who with his wife Taima pulled off Britweek in Miami, is Welsh. Many local businesses participated in particular events, while some big businesses from other parts of the US sponsored others. And I even got to have my picture taken with Lennox Lewis, who was a guest speaker at the opening gala. He’s a big boy.

    

My trip back to LA was not without incident. Having been somehow downgraded on American Airlines, I found myself hemmed in next to an enormous woman from Virginia who might even have been Virginia, such was her bulk. Her knitting needles were already clacking away at a jumper clearly intended for her 60 stone niece, and the eight gallon carton of Pepsi was sitting precariously on the tiny table between us. Her leg, which was about the size of Gibralter, was up on the dashboard in front of us.

    

It was all too much. Too big. Too much. Too in my face. Too overwhelming for my five foot stature. And I had a massive claustrophic panic attack and almost passed out. The plane was full, so moving to the better seat where I belonged was not an option. Getting off appeared to be the only one. Ground staff were called, but I was told I would have to be on stand-by on any other flight (which would have been a whole lot of other stress). The captain came to see me and asked if I was afraid of flying. No. I do it all the time. Was I on any meds? No. Are you sure you’re not on any meds? NO!

    

He explained that he didn’t want to have to land somewhere mid-flight to get me off, and I told him that this was precisely why I was bringing it up before the doors closed.

    

Anyway, Virginia and her continent of sweater kindly moved to the window seat and I spent a calm flight back to LA in her aisle seat, from where I watched All About Eve and Hitchcock, starring Anthony Hopkins in the lead.

    

I love the way his accent keeps slipping into his native Welsh – I will never be able to think of Psy-kaw in quite the same way again. 

Come the great twinning programme with Cardiff, they’ll all be speaking like that in Miami by Christmas.

  

  

  

Mama Mia-mi - Part One

SOUTH BEACH - JANUARY 2013

No mice, no lice, no spice. 

All the plays on the title of the TV show Miami Vice I had been hoping to adopt in writing about Miami Beach, came to nothing.

   

Miami Gripes was the best that I could do. And there were so many. Oh, so many. The dreadful music, the rudeness, the darkness, the service, the dirt, the runners, the cyclists, the internet connection, the rip-off merchants, the motorists, the shouting . . .

   

I could go on. And will. But let’s start with the positive. The Atlantic Ocean: a perfect aqua: white waves meeting equally white sand and an empty beach before breakfast.

   

And now back to the gripes. Because, once you have taken in the beauty of the ocean, what you are left with is Ibiza on Sea.

   

I had gone to Miami to escape the January winter in Cardiff, and friends offered me a good deal on their apartment. Having fixed up to write a travel piece, too, along with the host of my favourite US TV show, Judge Alex, it was almost cheaper to go to Miami than to heat my Cardiff house for the month.

   

But I quickly discovered that Miami Beach is right up/down there (depending on your viewpoint) with the least sophisticated parts of the Spanish coastline.

   

If I didn’t get killed there, it was entirely likely that I would have turned killer. There was just too much hair, and women tossing their manes with absurd regularity, seemingly intent on taking out one of my eyes in their efforts to invade my personal space and take it for themselves. First comes the hair, then the lit cigarette, brandished with equal carelessness. I had a choice between either being follicled to death, or burnt.

   

And another thing . . . They’re all gay (well, it seemed that way)! Now, I have nothing against gays, male or female; loads of my friends are gay. In fact, most of my friends are gay. And while I have zilch interest in finding a partner, a little flirtation doesn’t go amiss. In South Beach, this was about as likely as a mole getting a suntan. 

I was definitely the only non-gay in the village. On board the Virgin flight over, I had stood at the bar next to two men and tried to make conversation, but they had eyes only for the two men on the opposite side, who had eyes only for each other. We were joined by two women who, I quickly discovered, had been an item for two years. Suddenly, I regretted boarding a flight to  Miami.

  

“What did you expect?” friends asked, with incredulity, when I returned. “It’s Miami.” Yes, I knew that. But I was expecting beefy coppers, muscled personal trainers . . . Not that gays can’t be either, but I’m a sucker for what I see on the telly.

   

Then there were the people who I never knew were gay or not, because they were too busy trying to kill me as they jogged along the boardwalk. Those that weren’t jogging were whizzing by on upright two-wheelers; others were on bikes. The boardwalk is apparently the empire of the outdoor enthusiast, and you risked your life if you paused to look at the ocean. I could see my autopsy report already: “Killed in the path of oncoming jogger”.

   

So why, in March, did I find myself back in the place I swore never to go again? 

It's coming up in part two very shortly, when I have recovered from the trauma of my pre-take-off, claustrophobic panic attack on the American Airlines flight back to LA. 

Long story. But let's just say: don't put a five foot tall Welsh woman next to an 84 stone Virginian knitting a sweater for her 60 stone daughter, drinking from an eight gallon cup of Pepsi and blocking your entrance to the inflatable slide (which she would burst anyway)  with her leg.

Like I said. All in part two.