Reflections on my Birthday

Everyone who used to give me birthday presents is dead. 

Well, not exactly everyone, but quite a lot of them. That’s the downside of birthdays at this age (I will be 57 tomorrow) - you tend to reflect on the past and all the people who are no longer around to celebrate the occasion with you.

   

But it’s also an age where we have (hopefully) acquired most of the things we ever wanted. Life is no longer defined by possessions or gifts; true value lies elsewhere, in the friends and family who are still around. What I really look forward to is getting together with lovely people over a few drinks and, basically, having a fun-filled evening full of laughter - which it always is. 

   

That’s why my 40th and 50th birthdays stand out. The first, in Soho House, I have always called the happiest day of my life. Although my beloved father had passed away eight years previous, my mother, brother and a ton load of friends shared the night with me in London’s Soho House, the private members’ club that has now mushroomed around the world. One of the first to join, I am now one of the oldest members; that feels weird. I’m tempted to book it for my wake.

   

I had three celebrations for my 50th. I cooked for 60 people in my Cardiff house, held a restaurant dinner for close friends in London, and had a party in my apartment in Paris, where I was living part-time. The last guest fell asleep on the stairs on her way out. Well, I say asleep: she was out cold and couldn’t be shifted. I had to call les pompiers to remove her. They were not impressed. My French wasn’t great, but I knew enough to understand that a man in uniform who spends his days putting out fires and yelling at you is saying something along the lines of “Our job is not to rescue drunken women in stairwells.”

   

Last year, despite my having been in New York just five months, I had managed to acquire around 20 people, none of whom I had known before I arrived in the city, to meet for drinks.  That was terrific, too, and nobody passed out.

   

I’ve never been someone who minds getting older. Why sweat over the things you can’t change? And I would rather be in my 50s than my 20s. Or 30s. My 40s were much better (well, apart from the men, but then no decade has been good on that front), and while the 50s have been a financial nightmare, I’ve done a lot of travelling, experienced the United States, and met a wide variety of people from a non-European culture. That has been, and continues to be, fascinating. What writer wouldn’t enjoy that.

   

I am lucky in that my health is pretty good. My blood pressure is too high, and I get shredded at the top of escalators when when I try to run up them the wrong way, my brain telling me I am still young and sprightly, my knees telling me to sit on the couch and watch telly.

   

I’m still able to exercise, I’m not on any medication, and I haven’t been to a doctor for four years. I’m not sure that my daily, or even hourly trips to Dr Google, who convinces me that I have every disease ever created, is a good alternative, but healthwise, I don’t feel any different from how I did 30+ years ago. 

   

Even The Change passed me by. I sweated a bit on and off for a while in my mid-40s, but that was it. I take natural supplements and have resisted going down the HRT route. There has been no diminishing of interest in the opposite sex (in fact, it’s increased), although obviously there is less interest on their part because they all want younger models. The good news is, though, that ageing men become less capable of servicing those younger models, so serve their own right for rejecting the older woman, I say.

   

I’ve been looking at my baby book that catalogues my first five birthdays. There are lots of “frou frou pants”, whatever they were, and money - lots and lots of money. Where did all that go? And why wasn’t I able to hold on to the skill of acquiring so much?

   

That’s the only thing that age has changed. But at 27, I was sitting in a London Camden Cafe, crying into my cup of tea bought with some of my unemployment benefit, bemoaning my lack of money; today, I sit sobbing over money with a glass of champagne in Five Star Four Seasons hotels. Same story. Better venue. My chosen house of misery has definitely improved with age.

   

So, as I spend the last day of my 56th year contemplating all this, I just want to say that I am so grateful for the people in my life who, despite my problems and stresses, get me through and make it all worthwhile. 

Laughter really is the best medicine. 

And that’s something you’ll never learn from Dr Google. 

Satan, Sin and Social Networking

This has been  stressful week - and it’s only Tuesday. 

Thanks to a vile Tweet that started to do the rounds on Twitter, courtesy of hacking, I’ve spent most of the time since Sunday in tears. I’m not about to top myself, but I can quite understand how young people, bullied in the cyberspace, do. Luckily, I am of an age where I know that all things pass, and I again feel blessed by my friends and family, who have been so kind and supportive. But to a young person, I can understand that it might feel like the end of the world because, briefly, that’s what it felt like to me. 

I felt violated, hated, the lowest of the low - even though there was not an atom of truth in what was written. I can’t blame the people who reprinted it - their accounts have clearly been hacked; but someone, somewhere, originated the first Tweet, and the speed with which it went viral was deeply distressing. Even more disturbing has been Twitter’s silence on the matter, despite my having reported every single Tweet, blocked the people, and, for a couple of days, closed down my account.

   

It’s the feeling of helplessness that is the worst. As my friend Judge Alex Ferrer pointed out, it’s the downside of social networking: anyone can put anything out there and there is nothing you can do about it. 

   

Yes, my first call (well, e-mail) was to the Judge (always have a Judge on speed mail!), whose calm voice of reason managed to stem the flow of tears. When I started to tell others what had happened, the support was overwhelming. My Facebook page quickly filled up with friends and even strangers expressing their anger at my having been upset. It was again a salutary reminder of the value of friendship - and the upside of social networking.

   

I’ve also realised - as I increasingly do, with advancing years - how incredibly naive I am about people and the darker side of human nature. I am genuinely at a loss to understand why anyone would want to harm their fellow beings. Some may find that a contradiction, given that I make my living as a TV “critic”, but even in that sphere, it is never my intention to cause hurt. 

At the end of the day, I love TV with a passion and only ever want the best of it, and for it. I have no doubt that there are people who have found some of the things I have written to be hurtful. But take someone like Simon Cowell. He can take criticism on the chin, admit when he is wrong, and he listens to critics because he fundamentally knows that we are all on the same side. 

   

Judge Alex has undoubtedly seen the worst of human nature when, on the Bench, he presided over some of the most vile criminal cases known to mankind (The movie Pain and Gain was based on the notorious Sun Gym case). I’ve been lucky enough in life to know mostly good, honest, kind (literally, man-kind) people which is why, when something bad happens, it feels so ghastly. I just don’t get it. 

Why can’t everyone just be nice? 

I always come back to the nature verse nurture debate (it’s why Blood Brothers is one of my favourite musicals). Are people born bad, or do their social circumstances make them so? Is there such a thing as “pure evil”? I suspect that people’s inability to understand the concept of evil was what initially brought about a belief in the Devil. 

In the absence of understanding, one creates mythical figures on whom to project seeming logic (God being another of those figures - but let’s not go there today, as I already hear the sound of self-combusting. Having said that, it makes me laugh that so many people who believe in God don’t believe in the Devil. I call it selective reasoning. But like I said: let’s not go there today. Okay . . . but do watch Ricky Gervais’s The Invention of Lying, which is one of the most extraordinarily profound things you will ever see about the nature of belief. Now I’ll stop).

   

But back to people. Isn’t laughter the thing we all love most in life (I’ll leave sex aside for the moment, as that one might open not only a can of worms, but a veritable worm farm. Several, probably)? This year, I have seen many people go through so much - their own illnesses, the death of their children, separation and divorce - all of it desperately painful and agonising to witness. What’s a pathetic troll compared to the realities of living?

   

I spent yesterday in the company of my dear friend, Walter, whom I have known for well over 30 years. We met when I was doing my Master’s Degree at Lancaster University in 1983. He was with his Irish partner Liam at the time,  and after Liam’s performance at the Duke’s Theatre, Walter said: “We must meet for breakfast tomorrow!” I thought it was the most glamorous thing I had ever heard.

   

We spent the afternoon laughing non-stop, reminiscing about old times, including a seance we once did where we allegedly got Beethoven. He “said” that he was playing his music through an 18 year old pianist called Hildegarde Schultz, who lived on the Rheinstrasse in Vienna. We recalled that we spent quite a few hours on the phone afterwards, trying to track her down. I caught out old Ludwig, though, when I asked: “If you’re Beethoven, how come you can hear us?” He replied that he had an interpreter. I kid you not. 

They think of everything in the afterlife.

   

Which brings me back to the God question . . . on another day. 

   

Halloween Horror

I’ve never got the fascination with Halloween. 

When I was growing up, the greatest excitement on October 31st was semi-drowning in a bucket of water while trying to pull an apple out with your teeth. 

That was it. Party over.

    

It was only when I moved to the US that I realised what I had been missing out on. My local Williams-Sonoma store in Beverly Hills started stocking up on Pumpkin Carving Kits at the end of summer. I’d never before been in contact with a pumpkin, let alone something to turn it into a work of art. It wasn’t that my parents were mean; they were just a bit slow on the uptake when it came to essentials for festivities. 

We were always, for example, the last people Christmas shopping for sprouts at 5pm on Christmas Eve (I still am, by the way). My Jack o’ Lantern was always a turnip, not a pumpkin, because the latter sold out at least a week before we needed them (I recall one year when even the turnips had run out; I think we had to make do with a plump carrot that year).

   

In Los Angeles, people start turning their lawns into Halloween Festivals round about September 1st. Skeletons, ghouls, fluffy white stuff, pumpkins, candles - everything guaranteed to terrify a small child goes on display, and for what purpose I have never been able to fathom.

   

A notice came around in my building last week asking whether I wanted to be included in the Trick or Treat festivities carried out by the complex’s little people. Not unless they never want to be reunited with their parents again and eke out their remaining days under my floorboards, I said. Politely.

   

I put it down to the fact that I was born on November 5th. In the UK, that is the day that celebrates (or commemorates, depending on which side of the political fence you are sitting) Guy Fawkes’s unsuccessful attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605. He was a Catholic. That may or may not be relevant - depending on which side of the religious fence you are sitting.

   

Every year, children came to my birthday party armed with (and I mean this literally) explosives. Sometimes, I got a present, too, but the bigger the box of explosives, the smaller the present. After everyone sang Happy Birthday and I blew out my candles on the cake, everyone retired to the garden to watch the explosives display. 

Except me. 

I always stayed inside, hiding under the dining table or behind a chair until it was all over. I hated fireworks then and, to this day, I still do. They make me cry. To me, it’s the loneliest sound in the world.

   

I suppose I equate Halloween with that time of year. I’ve never been able to be near anyone wearing a mask; my dislike of beards is probably because I genuinely have a fear of being close to anything with its face covered. I would need to be accompanied by paramedics if I were to attend a masked ball; my mother once had to carry me out of the circus when a clown approached me for a friendly chat. I had hysterics in Paris Disneyland when a mouse came within nibbling distance. 

And I was 43 at the time. 

   

So, tonight, I am staying in. I’ve just had to turn off Strictly Come Dancing on BBC1 because they are doing a Halloween theme, and I never thought I’d run screaming from BBC presenter Jeremy Vine. 

   

What’s to like about something that celebrates everything that is horrible? That preys upon our greatest fears about the unknown? That transforms people into hideous incarnations of grossness?

   

Bizarrely, it is a celebration - the first day of Allhfallowide - that takes place on the eve of the Western Christian feast of All Hallows’ Day. In my book, that’s just a posh way of saying “Another Excuse for Christians to Get Rat-Arsed Day".

   

Apparently, we’re not supposed to eat meat today, but we’re at liberty to light candles on the graves of the dead. 

Go figure.

   

So, a very happy Halloween to you all. I’m keeping all my doors locked, eating all the candy I have (sorry, kiddies), and watching back to back Law and Order: SVU (again).

   

Come November 5th, I might emerge. 

Drinks are on you.

   

   

    

Health is Bad for your Health

I suddenly became very weepy this morning. 

For no reason whatsoever. 

Having recently reverted to my Twenties lament of “I am short, fat and ugly”, I’ve been living a very healthy lifestyle of late: meditating twice a day, drinking my healthy green shakes, going to the gym, walking, swimming, taking time to read, making sure I take time off from work to enjoy friends. None of it has helped with my sleeping, though (not to mention the short, fat and ugliness), and I think I’m just exhausted with fitness. 

   

I keep a daily book of my morning weight and blood pressure, meditation time (20 minutes), everything I eat and drink, the seeds and powders that go into my shakes, my morning vitamins . . . and, before you know it, it’s time to go to the gym. A walk of 1.3 miles to Chelsea Piers.

   

There, between machines, I catalogue my calories and miles per hour and length of time spent on each exercise. Then, I walk home, write down the statistics in my book, do my evening meditation, take my evening vitamins, cook my supper, write down what I’ve had, do my evening meditation, relax in front of the telly, and retire to bed. Exhausted (Oh, yes, I forgot. I work, too).

   

Except I can never sleep. I’ve never been a great sleeper, even as a baby when, even then, I think I had a terror of what I might be missing. I haven’t been out for a week (apart from to the gym) and think that my new lifestyle might be turning me into a bit of a recluse. What if someone buys me a drink that is over the 125 mls I occasionally allow myself? I daren’t risk the adventure.

   

Which is possibly why, this morning, I just started crying. I started to read up on depression that can be related to both meditation and exercise. I already knew of the former. When I learned Transcendental Meditation many years ago, my calming Alpha waves made me so spaced out I nearly got myself killed crossing a road after a session. I then became so severely depressed, they had to cut my meditating time, as I was clearly delving way too deep into my psyche. 

   

There is a theory that over-exercising can induce depression, too. While it boosts serotonin, which brings about positivity, some believe that coming down from that high can send you plummeting to the emotional depths you were trying to escape in the first place, in much the same way that coming down from a drugs high can do.

   

The truth is probably much more simple. We are physical, emotional and spiritual beings who cannot but help react to our surroundings and the people in them, conscious or otherwise. We want to love and be loved; we not only have our needs, but we like to be needed; no matter what our social status, we have basic primal emotions that are all part of the one basic need, which is to survive.

   

Despite our apparent surface differences, we have more in common than we know, and it probably boils down to this: we want to protect ourselves and our loved ones. We choose many different ways to do that (I am not, for example, going to rob a bank), but survival is all.

   

Survival is also about control and, when one feels that life is out of control, there are any number of things people turn to that might give them at least a semblance of control or, at best, the illusion of it.

   

I’ve never been into the chemical drugs scene (I was once offered speed and turned it down on the grounds I thought I was being asked to run a very fast marathon. Not joking. I was very young), but I’m suspecting that ultra health is my drug of choice.

   

As a child, I spent most of my pocket money on Here’s Health magazines and the vitamins it recommended. I have exercised my entire life and never not been a member of a gym (although I know many people who can say that and they have never been to one). I’ve always looked to being the best that I can be, physically and mentally (give or take the odd bottle of Chianti, obviously).

   

But: Oh, sleep, where art thou? Because, no matter what I do, I can’t capture that one thing that everyone tells you is the key to good health. I dread going to bed. I dread sleep. I hate every minute I am not conscious. I hate my dreams in which I am always buying houses I can’t afford (a bit like real life in that, actually) or travelling in vehicles that won’t take off or land. I fear every moment I am not in control.

   

And there you have it. 

Maybe, at the end of the day, that’s the fear we all have: the dread of losing control just manifests itself in different ways, socially, politically, personally, whatever. This morning, I just lost control. 

But tears dry. 

Life moves on. 

And so, for today, I’ll just go along with the words of the song: “You've got to laugh a little, cry a little/Before the clouds roll by a little.”

   

And at the risk of going a little too soppy sitting alongside my Kleenex, this much I know: The sun’ll come out . . . 

Tomorrow.

   

The Badge of Pomposity

Pomposity. 

YAY! Finally, I have made it to an age when the young call me pompous. My adult rehabilitation is complete.

   

Having joined two journalism “support” (Ha!) sites on Facebook and been nothing other than kind, generous and helpful in my suggestions, stories and advice, the tide has turned. It had been a while coming, and I had already been surprised by the levels of aggression when people asked for advice, I took the time to give it, and then others joined in the thread to disagree aggressively with what I said (including one man who got very heated in the “learned” vs “learnt” debate (that was half an hour I’ll never get back). Caring and sharing it sometimes ain’t.

   

The swearing and blaspheming was so rife on one day, I thought it might be construed by some to be offensive. I deigned to suggest that, in the marketplace where potential employers are operating, people should refrain from using the F word or blaspheming, as some people might be sensitive to such things.

   

The worst abuse, however, came from women, and I came under attack both from people I know and complete strangers. When I added fuel to the fire by suggesting that their language and attitude might be the reason some of them were struggling to find work (the Groundhog Day of complaints out there), the sound of self-combustion – emotional and verbal - was laughable. If, in my opinion, they were scuppering their chances of getting work through swearing, they were now on a suicide mission to linguistic wasteland. 

I decided to leave both sites, as the “debate” (I use the word loosely) escalated and turned nasty. Life really is too short and I genuinely do not have the time or energy to deal with people whose only form of defence is another form of attack. Besides, I had articles to write. And money to earn.

   

I have nothing against swearing per se; I have been known to drop the odd expletive myself - as, indeed, have many of my colleagues and editors, who do so in the workplace (although personally, I would avoid it there, too); but it’s different when you are presenting yourself to others and looking to be employed; I’m sorry, but different rules apply. 

Much as you may like wearing a T-shirt and jeans around the house, you wouldn’t dress like that for an interview. If I am looking for a front of house receptionist for a five star hotel, I wouldn’t choose someone with facial piercings. If I am employing a construction worker, I wouldn’t choose someone who wants to turn up to work in a three piece suit and tie. If I am employing a wordsmith, I choose someone who uses language to the best of their ability, not a lazy person with a shallow word box who resorts to expletives when the going gets tough. 

For me, social networking is the same: you are in the public sphere, so you act accordingly. Fine, if you don’t want to do that, but if you are on sites where you are trying to get work, surely you put your best wares on display.

   

Just in case I was out of touch with modern thought, I’ve asked a lot of people (writers, editors, sub-editors) for their opinion, including many of the women on these sites. Privately, without exception, they all agreed with me, but didn’t want to be seen commenting on the page – which reinforces my main point: that one behaves differently on social networking from how one does in private.

   

The language/swearing issue is an interesting one. If it is so socially acceptable, everyone would be doing it - in print, on TV, in every social situation; but they’re not. It certainly has its place. A Paul Abbott drama without swearing would be laughable; a newscaster telling us that there’s another effing war in the Middle East would land them the sack.

   

Keith Waterhouse was a good friend of mine, and one of the greatest and most successful writers of his generation. Privately, Keith swore regularly and it never offended me. There was also what some would call “colourful” language in his plays – all of it justified in its context. But there was never, ever a swear word in his journalism - for one simple reason: he knew his marketplace, and you cut your cloth accordingly.

   

One response on Facebook pointed out to me that “We are all adults”; my response would be “Well, stop acting like children.” Yes, it’s true, you can say what you like and how you choose to say it, as it’s a free country and you are, officially an adult, despite evidence to the contrary; but this is still missing the point. 

On pages/sites/anywhere where you are looking to be employed and presenting yourself to people who can potentially give you work, it is detrimental, as a writer, to advertise your linguistic retardation. If you can’t at least try to understand that, you are missing not only one of the fundamentals of good journalism, but of life.

   

If that makes me pompous, I embrace my new status with alacrity. 

And anyone who doesn’t like it can simply Go . . . F . . . Find themselves someone who gives a damn.

  

   

Sexing by Numbers - Who's Counting?

How many times have you had sex? 

How many times have you had sex with each person? 

These questions have been uppermost in my mind this week after reading a couple of news stories in which people state, specifically, how many times they have shared bodily fluids.

   

First, it was the wife of the UK’s Jeremy Kyle, Carla, who was reported to have had sex 20 times with polo player James Carr at his Ascot home when Jeremy was away filming in the US. For those of you who don’t know, Jeremy is the UK’s answer to Jerry Springer, a very good presenter on mainstream TV (although occasionally prone to what I would call bullying) and quite a hottie (well, a hottie by ITV standards). Carla is reported to have enjoyed a smoking break outside her home with Mr Carr, after which he led her inside etc. etc. (I thought people lit up after sex – is lighting up before a new thing? Or am I just behind the times?).

   

Now, there’s another story in the news: a schoolboy who was seduced by “disgraced teaching assistant” Caroline Berriman, claims to have had sex 50 times with her, when she was 30 and him 15.

   

I’m not going to pass judgement on either situation, but I’m fascinated by the specifics of the numbers. How many people actually count, let alone remember? Pretty much everyone can recall their first time, and I suspect most can also remember their first time with a new partner. But after you’ve listened to them banging on about themselves (I’m thinking about men here), don’t you just get on with it whenever you choose and forget the time codes? 

Sex is difficult enough to negotiate, both emotionally and physically (not to mention the post-coital laundry), without having to bring maths into the equation.

   

I already have a strangely prurient interest in these stories: such as, what was the 11^th time like, Mr Carr? Did you keep a notebook full of polo statistics and, after riding your horse in a match, put something in the margin along the lines of  “Later that day: another great ride”? 

   

I’d be interested in seeing Jeremy’s diary for this period, too, because he, on national television, confessed to not having had sex with his wife for a very long time. Now this sum, I find easier to deal with, because, if you’re not getting it, you can always remember the last time. It’s all the counting between the first and last times that I’m struggling with.

   

I can, for example, remember my first kiss. It was at a schoolfriend’s party and with a boy called Wyndham. I remember he was wearing a bottle green V-necked sweater and had brown-rimmed National Health glasses. I was 13. I can also remember the first time anyone saw my breasts – so terrified was I, as an innocent in South Wales, they could hear my screams in England. 

More recently, I remember the last time I kissed someone (who shall remain nameless). But as for all the kisses and liaisons in between, who’s counting? As I grow older, most of the time I can’t even remember where my tongue is, let alone where it’s been (I’m regretting not having gone to the pub last Saturday to see Wales beat England in the Rugby World Cup, though, because Welsh men can’t keep their tongues in their mouths after spectacular wins).

   

Speaking as a woman in relation to men, what do we really remember after sex? Not always the guy’s name, that’s for sure, so why would you record the notch on the bedpost? Here’s a list of what I remember (all things relate to the man’s actions, not mine, by the way):-

1.     Snoring.

2.     Farting.

3.     Stealing the duvet.

4.     Breaking the door handle in the rush to escape (just me, then? He never paid for the repair, either).

5.     No wine to keep me drunk enough to keep fancying them for the next 40 minutes (at most).

6.     No milk in the fridge for a cup of tea in the morning.

7.     The car registration number (just me, again?).

8.      The registration number of the next car, when car number one is traded in (there’s a pattern emerging here, I can tell. For those of you interested: TB0 440H, followed by MUH 853P).

9.     Choking.

10.  Three licks, followed by the words “My tongue’s tired.”

11.  No licks at all.

12.  Waiting for the early morning wake-up call that all the books tell you guys have, when they are already suited up and looking for the car keys to drive to work.

13.  Texts from ex-girlfriends.

14.  The decreasing content level in the baby oil bottle at the side of the bed (advice: mark it with a Biro when you leave, girls).

15.  The bailiffs arriving to take away the bed you are sleeping in.

16.  The police arriving to take away the guy you are sleeping with.

17.  The ex-girlfriend arriving with an axe to chop up the bed and the guy.

18.  Getting rid of him so that you can catch up with Law and Order: SVU on the DVR.

19.  Wondering what on Earth you were thinking the night before.

20.  Another reason why I am never drinking again.

And that’s just for starters. The nice ones. Wait until I get going on the guys I didn’t like.