at the beginning of 2018 I decided to write a screenplay about the american poet e e cummings. there is something about his relentless use of lower case letters…but, as the year closes, the screenplay remains (more or less) unwritten. the idea is still wrapped in self-bemusement, procrastination and obfuscation. I need cummings' muse (he may indeed have had many) or I know, someone else will write the story soon and I will one morning spit-out my coffee, when I read the release notices and see the proposed cast list. as someone very wise once said, "there are only two great ideas at any point in time, and someone is already doing yours”*

ok, that's enough lower case for now.

In January, I discovered The Name of the Wind by Patrick Ruthfuss. I completely and utterly devoured that book and the second novel in the series, The Wise Man's Fear. About two thousand pages in a week. At its centre, an enigmatic hero called Kvothe. The story remains one of the single best things I have ever read. The third instalment remains unfinished, or at least unpublished, with the writer keeping his audience holding its breath for Kvothe's fate since 2011. Agony for them and, I am sure, and a nightmare for Rothfuss, who still stoically takes the stage at fan conventions and speaker engagements and helplessly blinks into the middle distance light, as the inevitable question comes, "Patrick, when will Book 3...?"

Much of the early part of the year was spent on Virgin Trains (who subsequently became renamed some bizarre acronym due to losing their license) heading Northwards and Southwards to see my son play rugby league. En-route, I read The Magicians (by Lev Grossman) and it's sequels, equally stunned by how amazingly Narnia-esque and inspiring it was, and then completely befuddled, disappointed and made cross by how terribly awful it became. [Warning - please do not go near the SciFi TV adaptation of the same.] Subsequently, and due to regular spells of over-running engineering works, I have also re-discovered Frank Herbert, Philip K Dick, Isaac Asimov and some strange Chinese Science Fiction that’s kind of weirdly addictive and calming.

Up North, I spent much time in Leeds. I never tire of the Harry Enfield line about the City. "Don't talk to me about sophistication, I've been to Leeds." I have written else where on here about growing up in its poorer City cousin Bradford and how that chip on the shoulder weighed heavy on its proud neighbour and perhaps, still me. I read an announcement that Channel Four is moving to Leeds, after a competition against some other cities. A competition between places - not people, like ‘The Apprentice” I guess, but with more bus route maps and commercial real-estate considerations. Well done Leeds. I have no idea what this means in terms of upping the sophistication levels of Leeds, but it’s a blessing for Yorkshire after so many media jobs were staffed with London based commuting luvvies over in Salford Quays, Manchester. Away from Leeds, I spent time in May in San Francisco, Silicon Valley with work and then recharged with good friends in LA. In San Francisco, a City I struggle to love, I met up for a drink with someone I had not seen for 28 years which was rather cool and made the trip and my mood much better. But not as good as the mood created by a few days by a pool in Rappallo and a trip through the Cinque Terre. Wow, I love Italy. Meanwhile back in Blighty, people I know and love have suddenly and without any warning become 50 years old. Thankfully, I have an enchanted mirror in the loft so I fear not the clock, but hell - what just happened? Fifty years?!

On the theme of sophistication, the new Bridge Theatre, as a venue/bar, was immediately much loved, but the productions have been mixed. Julius Caesar - a Trump themed warning about self-proclaimed demi-gods, power politics and social disintegration, rang loud and true from the off. Subsequent productions were less than fab. My Name is Lucy Barton was two hours too long and I only lasted half an hour of something new but awful by Allan Bennett. Elsewhere and, strangely, more uplifting than Bennett’s play, I did see a 79 year old Ian McKellen carry Cordelia on his back in King Lear. The year was book-ended by the gorgeous and blub-inducing A Christmas Carol at The Old Vic.

I went to C2C again and discovered Ashley McBride, Lukas Nelson and Lanco. I used to feel obliged to go for my daughter. I now rather fear my eagerness to go along is greater than hers. Other music highlights of 2018 are numerous. Spotify now rather handily counts up and tells me exactly what has had the most ear-time in 2018. I will fess up to Animal Kingdom (now defunct?), Icarus, Field Music (Open Here is song of the year), Cherry Ghost's cover of Finally, Gas Coombes, Kacey Musgraves, Beirut, Kurt Vile, Let's Eat Grandma, DIIV, Deerhunter, Hookworms, Sunflower Bean, Razorlight (what a return to form!?) and the completely wonderful Courtney-Marie Andrews, who just gets better and better. On a rockier front, I am still reeling from the news about Rush's Neil Peart, who according to Geddy, has not "just retired from Rush, but retired from drumming". A loss to a noble profession. [See below for another drummer of note]. Wild Beasts from Leeds (see above) also made the town a little less sophisticated and split-up, but leaving us with All The Kings Men - still one of the all time greatest live sing alongs.

Onwards

In September my son stopped playing sport in Yorkshire and began studying at Jiao-Tong University in Shanghai. I’ve been to the City a number of times and enjoyed the place hugely without speaking a word of Mandarin. Now my son haggles over cab prices with the best of them. In October I GOT EXCITED about writing again, but the real-world quickly reared into view and Final Draft remains an expensive luxury application in a dusty desk-top folder, with its improved functionality un-touched. Which is the point at which these essays usually look to the future with some renewed ambition to pick up the pen again. My twitter feed is full of “a page a day is 2 1/2 screen-plays in a year” encouragement nonsense. I remain and perhaps will always be, stunned, amazed and humbled by those who graft and craft stories, write and re-write, then plough through 10 or 20 or 50 drafts before submitting their script and waiting and waiting. I know I should dare re-join them in 2019.

"anyone lived in a pretty how town, with up so many bells floating down…summer, winter, autumn, spring, he danced his didn’t, he danced his did…"

* according the Wikipedia: the cummings’ poem was adapted into a short film by George Lucas, of ahem, Stars Wars fame.

JD

PS. On a MUCH brighter note, if you ever wondered why rock n’ roll has stopped the world from going nuclear in the past 60 years, please do take 30 seconds to watch the sheer unbridled joy, skill, professionalism and commitment of the drummer from The War on Drugs in the mid-section of Under The Pressure, which builds, snaps and rocks up another musical chunk of wonderment for the good people of London. I will leave you with that moment.