Grumpy With Friends: Bird

Grumpy With Sarah Bird Lewis-Hammond

“I’ve kind of always been on ‘the writing journey’ but not necessarily always been writing. I have an incredibly prolific internal narrator who has spent the last thirty squillion years turning my everyday life into some kind of pseudo-noir half-arsed semiotic analysis of sitting on a bus and going to the shop.”

My friendship with Sarah – or Bird as she is known to her friends – came out of the blue when I was an editor of dance music mag 3D World. Hers was one of the many submissions I received asking to contribute to the magazine. Her first Acid Tongue column was, from memory, well written and came from a very personal place. I emailed to say yeah sure, I like it, but do you want to tone it down at all. I would find out that Bird is an all or nothing person.

The emails continued. A friendship was brewing. Quite a special one. I clearly remember the day the editor sitting across the desk from me asked what I was laughing about this time, and I said “It's this Bird person. I have to meet her.”

We met after countless, rambling, hilarious emails. Turned out I'd been walking past her twice a day; she worked in a pub just around the corner from my office. We went out. We got slaughtered. We laughed a lot. She moved in with The Dreaded One and me for a while. Eventually she continued her travels and went back to the UK and the rest of her life.

Ten years have gone by since that first random email. We've had our ups and downs, had our misunderstandings, have enjoyed a laugh or two. Much has changed in that time. What has remained constant is the essence of Bird. She is an impressive character and a wonderful human being.

You're a busy person, Sarah Bird Lewis-Hammond. What is this interview interrupting right now?

You are interrupting the following: Tweeting for the UK Crowdfunding Association; looking at an initial plan for my second novel; wondering why I’m not working on my first novel; drinking a glass of red wine (something Italian, can’t remember the grape but also not about to get up to check. Oh but my glass is empty. Hang on. Nero D’Avola Frappato.); swooning after a mental few days with an ill and clingy 15 month old; complaining that my tongue hurts; eating a chocolate chip cookie; trying to figure out when to write the renewable energy investment newsletter that needs to be sent to the editor tomorrow when it’s already 10:30pm. Also thinking about knitting an R2D2 outfit for my daughter.

What do you tell people you do when they ask you what you do?

It depends who it is. At the moment I tend to mumble a few things and hope they lose interest. The mumble goes something like this: I was a journalist specialising in environmental issues, then I did an MA in creative writing and then I had a baby. At the moment I’m half-stay-at-home mumming, half-writing for a company that does work around renewable energy investment, and half-finishing my first novel. But I also do stuff like run writing workshops in Brighton and look for a girlfriend for my brother. It’s all a little shambolic right now.

What do people think you do?

Fuck around on Facebook.

What do you actually do?

Fuck around on Facebook and Twitter.

You didn't study journalism or writing in your university years, did you? What did you study?

Non. My undergrad was in maths and I got a well-deserved third. I was shit at it from the beginning so I think I should get an award for sticking it out

Before embarking on this writing journey (does that sound wanky? Writing journey?), where was your career headed? And how happy with your work/life were you at that stage?

After I graduated I got a job building websites and I proper hated it. I was miserable, my career was heading nowhere and I reached a point of near meltdown. Most days were spent in a dissociative state of fury and angst. It took me a while but I realised it was all a little daft and completely avoidable so I jumped on a plane and drunk some buckets on the Koh San Road with other over-privileged whities, sat on some beaches and on top of some mountains and did some Serious Thinking and realised that in my fantasy best future I hung around writing cool stuff and reading cool stuff and talking about both the writing and the reading. Actually making a living out of being a fiction writer seemed completely impractical so I hit upon journalism as an idea. I continued my cliché of a Grand Tour and headed to Sydney, whereupon I stumbled across your sorry arse and you foolishly started paying me to write shit. It transpired that I’m not that great at journalism and making a living out of reading and writing and talking fiction might not be quite so crazy after all so after the world’s most circuitous route I’m gradually heading over that way.

How happy are you now compared to then?

Immeasurably. It’s like different lives. Things are gradually slotting into place and although stuff doesn’t always work out, and the choices I make means things are sometimes tough, I can look back on how miserable I was and know why I can’t compromise on what is most important to me.

For someone with a non-journalistic background, you've had some pretty impressive achievements. Tell us a bit about those achievements and what they have meant to you.

Errr, I dunno if they are impressive to be honest. More luck, good timing and steam-rolling into things without thinking. I started a magazine on a whim because my ex-boss had pissed me off and I saw a gap in the market left by my ex-ex-boss. It was a financial disaster but was bought up at the last minute by the local rag. That gave me the opportunity to do some pretty cool stuff. I started an environment section in that local rag, which at the time was one of the first of its kind and I won an award for that. I didn’t win it because I was a great journalist, I won it because I was the only person doing that particular thing at the time. In subsequent years, when others started picking up on how big green news was getting, I wasn’t even shortlisted. I also started a local award scheme for grassroots environmental achievement, which was wicked fun and really valuable but, again, a financial disaster so it couldn’t carry on which I still think is a real shame. Then I applied for the creative writing MA on a whim because I had a conversation with someone during which we both whinged about how we weren’t writing as much as we want and I thought that was pretty pathetic and wanted to change it. I applied because I wanted to be able to say at least I had tried. It was a surprise that I not only got on the course but won a bursary from a literary agency, so that was all pretty excellent.

In terms of what it’s meant to me, I’m a little on the insecure side and need constant validation, so winning things is like yay! I can carry on! And then not winning things is like no! I need to hide under a duvet and cry! The MA thing has been both the biggest confidence boost and crusher ever. It’s very competitive so getting on it was all yay! I’m actually pretty good at this! But then I was surrounded by these phenomenally talented people which made me all no! I’m really shite at this!

How long have you been an environmentalist?

I wouldn’t really call myself an environmentalist. It’s a default state for anyone who lives on the planet and quite likes it. You wouldn’t call someone who likes breathing and wants to carry on breathing a breathalist, you’d just call them a person. It’s the same thing. I like the environment and want to carry on living in it thanksverymuch.

Having said that, it was probably around 2003 – 2004 when I started thinking about ‘the environment’ in less abstract terms. I had seen a lot of human impact in otherwise wild places and also started writing for a local hippie magazine. I wrote an article about carbon offsetting and although it’s not really a practical solution the lateral thinking really caught my attention. It built from there and I got a bit hooked on the science of the solutions. Human imagination at its best.

It kind of goes in phases to be honest. Right now I’m not so interested in doing my recycling and I’ve just got a new car which I love so I’m not exactly the model greenie, but I’m really into the potential of renewable energy and next-gen finance to drive it forward. I’m also really interested in the way we represent climate change in media and literature and the way our written culture impacts on the social and political discourse.

Among my friends I have a couple who absolutely deny that humanity is having any significant impact on climate change. What would you say to those people?

Nothing. I’ve got more interesting conversations to have with more interesting people.

I’m not a campaigner but if I was I would direct my campaign to where the most impact can be made, and that certainly isn’t wasting energy shouting at people who aren’t going to change their minds.

What shape do you think humanity is in right now. Any hope for us?

Things are a little wobbly around the edges, and some days it certainly seems as though we’re heading straight towards some kind of epic implosion but it’s also a very interesting time. Human imagination is genuinely awe-inspiring. At the moment, I spend a lot of time researching the expansion of renewable energy capacity and output. There is a lot of positivity that isn’t reported because We’re All Going To Die is a much better headline. Unsubsidised solar and wind power are now cheaper than subsidised gas and coal in some parts of the world. That’s big news. I mean, that is proper massive. While there are plenty of other serious issues, I think cracking clean, cheap, renewable energy is the key so I’m in an optimistic phase right now. If nothing else, we’ll beat it by sheer force of numbers. I mean, wiping out 10 billion of us fuckers is gonna be a tough job.

How long have you written fiction? Did you dream of being a fiction writer as a kid?

My turn to wank! No wait. My turn to sound wanky. I’ve kind of always been on ‘the writing journey’ but not necessarily always been writing. I have an incredibly prolific internal narrator who has spent the last thirty squillion years turning my everyday life into some kind of pseudo-noir half-arsed semiotic analysis of sitting on a bus and going to the shop. It’s only really been in the last ten years that I started seriously putting it down in pixels.

Somewhere I’ve got a few stories I wrote as a teenager, there are a few diaries and notebooks kicking around. As a kid I think I wanted to be a research chemist and then a waitress and then a computer programmer and then a dinosaur. I didn’t dream of being a fiction writer but I was a big reader and remember getting to the end of books and thinking ‘I’m totally going to do one of those one day’.

So when did you start taking fiction writing seriously?

I think it was about 2002 or 2003 when I finally sat down and wrote a story that I didn’t think was awful. Before then I knew what it was I wanted to do but really struggled to put a shape to it, if that made any sense, so I spent a lot of time writing very long and wistful emails to people that somehow sated the hunger but without providing any actual nutrition. I kept all the emails in the same way I’ve got all my dairies and notebooks but stupid Yahoo deleted them a couple of years ago. It was devastating.

And where are you at now with fiction?

Frustrated. I feel like I’ve been working on this novel forever and I just want to get it finished and published and have a couple of people read it and tell me what they think and then move on to the next thing. But also elated, it’s now part of my life in a way that really was only a dream a few years ago.

Can you tell us anything about the novel?

It’s the story of a young woman whose terminally ill, estranged step-father asks for her help getting to a suicide clinic in Europe. There’s some shit about bridges and flowers too.

You're furthering your education, aren't you. Or doing something university-ie? Something to do with something I'll never have anything to do with. (I don't even know how to spell PHD). What's happening there?

Ummm nowt at the moment. I want to study the way climate change is represented in contemporary fiction and the way that feeds back into the popular culture on the subject, and whether our rampant anthropocentrism is actually the key to behaviour change. But there are many complexities involved in going back to uni at this particular juncture.

Why do that when you can just, you know, write?

Two reasons: Firstly, because I can’t just write. I have to make a living as well. Realistically, I’m not going to make a living out of writing fiction, but I could make a living out of writing fiction and lecturing about fiction and writing the occasional overwrought academic paper.

Secondly, because it’s really all part of the same thing. The more I know about stuff the better writer I am.

Tell us about family life and what impact it is having on your writing endeavours.

Being a mum is pretty much the best thing ever but I am fucking knackered from the minute I wake up to the minute I go to bed. In one respect having a kid has been very positive for my writing because it’s forced me into a strict routine and made me focus on my goals, but in another respect it’s been a bit crap as I’m fucking knackered all the time. It’s also very motivating in that I want my daughter to think I’m awesome, which means I have to make myself awesome.

What's your favourite Edie moment so far?

It’s all been pretty cool (mostly). Just watching someone start from scratch and figure stuff out is incredibly compelling. If I had to pick one thing it would probably be a few weeks before Christmas when she had just learn to walk. We went to a cafe by the ice rink with some friends and Edie was running around grinning at random people, squealing at the little penguins that kids use to hold them up on the ice. It was all very festive and lovely but that wasn’t what was so great, it was the first time she wasn’t a little baby anymore and while that was sad in its own way it also felt full of a glorious potential.

Your favourite Toby moment?

It’s all been pretty cool (mostly). There’s so many times he’s made me laugh till I thought I was going to die. And just being a family is great. Also he made me a cup of tea the other day that was particularly delish.

Writing-wise, what are your goals for the next 12 months, five years, 10 years?

I’ve only got one goal at the moment and that’s to finish my novel by September of this year. Nothing else really exists at the moment.

How confident are you in achieving that goal?

Meh. I am riddled with insecurity but with a completely idealistic undercurrent of absolute certainty that everything will fall into place. So, you know, it will either happen or not, and either way I’ll be right.

You must have times of doubt. What keeps you going through those times?

If I’m writing and I’ve spent more than thirty minutes thinking I’m writing a big pile of shit I’ll walk away and come back to it later. If I still think it’s shit a few days later it gets sent to the great Word document in the sky. I once asked Ali Smith (who I totally adore) the same question and she shrugged and said “You just have to ignore it”. It seemed so clear cut for her, and for some reason that really enabled me to be better at ignoring the doubt. You have to be stubborn otherwise nothing ever gets done, and you have to think about it as a job. No other occupation would allow you to swoon at your laptop for three weeks. There are deadlines and they have to be met.

Toby is also fantastic when I’m full of drama about how terrible it all is. He’s a creative type too so he really gets the necessity of the occasional flap and always has the right thing to say.

You'll probably hate this question, but creatively, who are some of your biggest inspirations?

I hate this question. The minute anyone asks me I suddenly forget EVERYTHING. I guess my main source of cultural input is text-based: books, articles, blogs, etc. I’m not a huge consumer of music or visual arts because I think I’m probably dead on the inside. At the moment I’m really into magical realism in a Salman Rushdie kind of way, and also realism that seems very magical in a Colum McCann kind of way. In terms of storylines I get a lot of ideas from real life, things people tell me, situations that arise. I’m a chronic asker of “what if?” and a perpetual creator of drama, although I try to keep that mostly to my fiction these days. In general I have quite visual ideas of how I want things to sound when they’re read and how I want them to make people feel, which I guess doesn’t really make a huge amount of sense.

What advice would you give to a younger you? You pick the age.

Stop being a twat. Age < 30

What was the last thing that made you LOL?

Someone I know posted some conspiracy thing on Facebook about why the Pope resigned, and it stated as a well known fact that the Queen regularly makes human sacrifices at Balmoral.

Now that you have finished these questions, what are you about to do?

Go to bed. Cold sheets are the best.

Grumpy With Friends

Well as it turns out, 2013 has gotten off to a pretty weird-arsed start. I've realised that the quiet, outsider me is still very much there. All that's happened is over time I've managed to find (they have found me) some really good people who I'm relaxed with and that brings out the confident version of me. I've been reminded that there are emotionally retarded, irrational people out there and that they can make things unpleasant simply because they view the world in a very self-centred way. My friends, my good friends, are generous, caring, intelligent people. I love them dearly and have new-found appreciation of them. I miss them and look forward to seeing them again. (My Nadia and my Cuff buddy are visiting for Maitreya in a few weeks... bring it on).

I recently said to one friend, fuck humans, I'm going back to being a recluse. Typical of the things I used to say. She said the things that a true friend would say, and of course I was only half joking. I am genuinely not very interested in making new friends... in fact that's probably always been the case; I have always felt my friends have found me because I don't go looking.

Having said that, out at a day party in the park yesterday, The Dreaded One and I lay out our plush red blanket and settled in for a day of just us with other people who knew each other. We're pretty good at spending loads of time together so all was cool. But someone came over and said hello, gave us a hug, brought her things over to sit with us. Clearly we had met before but I was rusty. It was one of those situations where you've forgotten details and it's obvious and these days I don't bother with tricks, I just asked what her name was and soon we were talking. Confident me made a reappearance and she was laughing and telling us we had really good stories. She seemed genuine and funny and spoke only of positive things about other people. I admire and respect that in a person. A friend of hers joined us, then more friends and soon there was quite a group of us. And they were all cool and funny and interesting. The music was pumping, I danced, people on the dancefloor talked to me and there was no nonsense. This was what life was about. Joy. Kindness. Laughter. Meeting good people. Music. Dancing.

Which brings me to my new project. As I haven't told you, Tsunami mag/website has folded and my Grumpy column is no more. It must be approaching 10 years now so it's not been a bad run. Gutted, yes, I was; I'll fess up here and say that many times, writing that column brought me out of really dark moods, possibly actual depression. And for so long I got to tell people that I have my own humour column, which was good for my self esteem. No more. But I think of that little saying, don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened. It was a fun ride. And I do need to compile The Book Of Grumpy.

Meantime, I'm doing something called Grumpy With Friends. I woke up last Sunday with the thought that fuck me I know a lot of creative people. I'm lucky enough to interview people like Nick Ravenswood and Imogen Kelly (as well as all the really famous people I've done over the years - put interview into the search box if you're interested), but I personally know some really good DJs, music producers, actors, writers, globe trotting hair dressers, film makers, pixies, fashion designers... why don't I interview them? They have equally interesting stories to tell as the ones with higher profiles.

So that's what I'm going to do. It's just for this blog and it's just for fun, but they get to tell their stories, I get to do what I enjoy so much (engage with these creative types) and hopefully it will make for some good reading. It makes me happy to do this kind of thing. The response, when I put it out there, was pretty solid, and I think once the ball gets rolling, others will be interested.

Grumpy With Friends, it's going to be fun.

It's a Dream, You Idiot

Grumpy - It's a Dream, You Idiot.

Last night I had a dream. I was hanging out with an old friend. Not old in age – she's younger than I am, but we've been friends for a long time. We're buddies. Mates. We do the kind of things buddies and mates do together. We phone each other up when we feel like a bit of a chat. Sometimes we go to the movies or out for drinks and talk shit. You know the kind of person. We all have them. They're easy to hang out with. They've known you for long enough that they've decided that your foibles are worth putting up with because you're a good egg. And you think they're a pretty good egg too. (Is that a thing? 'Good egg'? Do people say that or have I just made it up? It sounds like a thing. Must look it up...)

I don't recall exactly what my friend and I were doing in the dream, but I was quite shocked when she started rubbing herself suggestively against me. It was just not something I ever expected her to do... I'm going to have to give her a name, but not a girl's name in case I give her identity away or give someone else the wrong idea that it was them... let's call her Egg.

“Egg! What in the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm feeling you up, Grumpy. Feels nice, huh? You wanna fool around?”

I moved away. “No. We can't fool around. It's us. We're mates.”

“Mates can fool around. C'mon. Haven't you ever thought about us doing it? I have.”

Her arms were like tentacles, all over me. It was insane. What the hell did she think she was doing? There had absolutely never been any indication that this kind of thing was going to happen. Ever. We've been really, really drunk together and been on benders but had never done anything remotely resembling what was going on here. This was really shocking. What was she thinking?

“Come on Egg. Stop it. This is ridiculous. Stop it. Stop it! Get off me!”

“Stop being silly, Grumpy. It's not ridiculous – it's sexy. Here, give me your hand and -”

She totally made me feel her breasts, and although not altogether unpleasant it was just so utterly, utterly wrong. We're both in relationships... what was The Dreaded One going to say when she found out that Egg made me touch her on the boobs?

I realised with a kind of horror that it was more like Egg was feeling my hands with her breasts, and I was kind of paralysed, just unable to move properly away. Not only that but Egg was really getting into it.

It was the most awful thing ever. We were going to get into so much trouble if anyone found out... and yet... nice boobies...

“NononononononononononononostopitEggstopitatonceverybadthingswillhappen... your arse feels really nice, btw...”

“Mmm... mmmmmmm... touch me here, Grrrrrumpy. Ooh yeah, that feels so hot...”

“Seriously, no. This is so wrong. If The Dreaded -”

I was cut of by what can only be described as a voice-over. A very commanding voice came over a kind of dream PA system and said, “It's a dream, you idiot.”

I looked around in confusion. “What?”

“I said it's a dream, you idiot. Just go for it.”

I thought for a moment. The voice, which sounded quite a lot like my voice, was making a very good point. This was a dream. This wasn't really Egg, it was dream Egg. And this wasn't real me, it was dream me. And this wasn't real sex, it was drea-

Suddenly Batman was bitch-slapping Robbin and saying, “We fucking get it!”

And then Grumpy and Egg... that is, dream Grumpy and dream Egg were totally getting it on. And it was hot. Egg was sensational. And I'm happy to say that I was really, really good.

“See?” Egg said afterwards. “How fun was that? We should totally do it again sometime. We could do it every night... every night... night... night...”

Then I woke up and felt very odd. Such a vivid dream. Egg and I... we did it. And it was really good. And perfectly okay because we can't help what happens in our dreams, right? And there would be no repercussions. Not even if we did it every night.

I trudged upstairs and flicked the lappy on, thinking that the voice-over bit was pretty damned funny. I had to share this with Facebook.

And suddenly there were repercussions.

The Dreaded One was not impressed. “It's a bit creepy, isn't it?”

“Creepy?” I repeated, hurt. “It's funny. Hehe... the voice-over saying it's a dream, you idiot.”

“But what's it going to be like when you see Egg – and I don't want to know who Egg is, by the way. All the girls are going to want to know who it is and...”

I palmed the air. “All right. All right. I'll delete it. It's good material but I won't use it on Facebook.”

“Good. Very sensible of you.”

“I'm a very sensible man. We'll just keep this between you and me.”

Grumpy is freelance writer and dream lover Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com)

The Rape Of Lucrece, Camille O'Sullivan, Review

(Photo from The Guardian, UK)

The Rape Of Lucrece

By William Shakespeare.

Performed by Camille O'Sullivan and Feargal Murray.

Directed by Elizabeth Freestone.

MTC until Feb 10.

It's Shakespeare, Jim, but not as we know it. Or, it's Camille O'Sullivan, Jim, but not as we know her.

Okay, so there's more truth in the former than the latter. This is Shakespeare, but it's a lesser known work, a very long, tragic poem. It was not written for the stage and was not written as music and song. And yet...

And it is Camille O'Sullivan, just not the unpredictable wild cat of cabaret that we're used to. But it is the dark Camille who sometimes turns her brooding gaze and devastatingly, powerfully, emotional voice upon us.

The story is legendary and partly historical, although it's debatable how much of Shakespeare's version is accurate. Lucrece is the chaste wife of Roman nobleman Collatine who is raped by the king's son Tarquin when he hears of her purity and decides to put it to the test. Devastated by the act, Lucrece kills herself, in doing so bringing about the fall of the Roman royal family and the establishment of the Roman republic.

It's a big story. It's a long poem. But this Royal Shakespeare Company production has it pared back to around an hour and a half with the emphasis not so much on the political as the personal. Here, we get an insight into the mindset of rapist Tarquin and victim Lucrece, both played impressively by Camille O'Sullivan. The result is unsettling (Tarquin is portrayed with a degree of sympathy, regretting his crime) and unrelentingly compelling.

Where this reviewer went along as a fan of Shakespeare, I went along as a fan of Camille. In reality, this is a perfect match. Murray and O'Sullivan have done a fine job of turning the Bard's words, at times, into contemporary-sounding songs. I guess the text lends itself to song so well due to the rhythm of the prose, which is not to take credit away from the two musical collaborators on stage; they have done an impressive job.

But for me it's the performance that shines. Poetic recital gives way to to song, Camille inhabits these two extreme opposites, and when she unleashes that raw emotion... well, it's breath-taking stuff. You don't doubt for a second that she is feeling the emotion she is conveying because you feel it too; the standing ovation was not unwarranted.

It was nice to see Camille return to the stage as the applause broke out and smile and scratch the air with her cat claws. I look forward to seeing humour in her next show, but I wouldn't have missed this one for anything.

 Go to Australian Stage for my recent interview with Camille.

It's A Dream, You Idiot

I just had a dream in which a friend was hitting on me, was really pushing for sex. I was refusing because it would be wrong - we're both in relationships. But she kept pushing (literally) and I kept saying no and moving away (even though part of me thought it would be shitloads of fun).

Then a voiceover came on and said, "It's a dream, you idiot. Go for it."

I said oh yeah, you're right. So I went for it. We really got into it. I... erm... went down on my friend and she had the most amazing, long and loud orgasm. It was quite beautiful and as sexy as it gets.

But we didn't go further because suddenly there were other people in the room, and although they seemed to be taking all this nudity and sex in their stride and not judging us, we knew that even if it was a dream there were still limitations. The door swung open and people were walking past, glancing in but walking on by.

So we got dressed and my friend kissed me and told me next time it was my turn. We basically made a date for next time.

And I woke up feeling pretty fucking odd.

Rainbow 2013, Maitreya 2013, Grumpy And The Katana Of Friendship, Camille O'Sullivan and Imogen Kelly.

Got back yesterday from Rainbow Serpent 2013, which came close to not happening. Photos are here.

The festival was as good as ever. Well maybe not. Less friends there due to the Eclipse Festival in Cairns earlier which chewed up the funds and time off for many people. Camped with some good people, and frustratingly didn't find some people I wanted to camp with. I joked about not catching up with them for the entire weekend, and that's exactly what happened in the end. Bumped into so many randoms and old friends, but not these new friends. Not for the whole weekend.

Still, can't complain about four days of dancing and decadence in the sunshine. I still live for this kind of stuff. Maitreya festival in early March for a delayed birthday party for The Dreaded One and me. Good friends are coming down from Sydney... sweeeeet.

Speaking of friends, here is my new Grumpy column in Tsunami Mag about Friendship. Or one friendship. A not quite friendship. It's called Grumpy And The Katana Of Friendship, and I'm pretty happy with it. I think it's pretty funny. And as always, it's a completely true story... well almost completely true story. Embellished is a nice word, isn't it?

Also, seeing Camille O'Sullivan again tomorrow night, this time in something completely different. Interview I did with her is here.  I think I'm the only writer to not have used the word 'chanteuse' in the story. I'm also doing something with Imogen Kelly, Australia's burlesque queen of the wold (officially) shortly and am hoping seeing her at The Spiegeltent in a few weeks.

And finally for this post, how exciting! Prime Minister Gillard has just called the next election date! Thrilled?

Nope. Whatever.

Do read Grumpy And The Katana Of Friendship if you feel like a smile. I can't give a rat's arse about Australian politics.

2013. Bring it

Here is this. It's a link to Tsunami Mag. New Grumpy column is up. I'm kind of amused by the fact that I used to be a sub-category in the Columns drop box, but there are currently no other columns, so now Grumpy is a drop box of its own. I am in a category all of my own.

So, 2013, eh? Wonder what's going to happen. Wonder what new adventures are about to unfold. I feel pretty sure stuff will unfold. Maybe it will completely unravel.

Weird start to the year. I'm off to a wedding this weekend. Haven't been to a wedding in years. I hate the bloody things, but sometimes when the person is special enough you have to make the supreme sacrifice.

But it's in Stanwell, just near Wollongong, just south of Sydney, and there are bushfires everywhere. I'm really hoping for an uneventful drive up there, and for a wonderful event. It's the marriage of my long-time friend Chloe and the man of her dreams Toby. I met Chloe through the most fleeting of circumstances years ago. It was the most random of encounters in a club so long ago. A rambling club conversation in which something happened because when she finally said she was going to go I hesitated, knew that if she went she'd probably be engulfed by the world, and I asked for her number. I explained that I have never asked anyone for their number in a club, and she said she didn't normally give her number to strangers in clubs, but she gave me her number.

I'll add here that my eyes were wiggling at the time and I couldn't type anything into my phone and had to hand the phone to her (there is much more to this story, obv) and it was her chance to give me a wrong number. We said goodbye. I wasn't convinced we'd ever see each other again.

We got in touch. We made plans to meet again. We met again. We became friends. We have stayed friends.

It's fair to say we've been through a lot in the intervening 10 or more years. I've watched a remarkable person become even more remarkable. Not once in all these years have I been angry with her... maybe a couple of small things, but really, nothing. I've felt nothing but like, then love, then admiration.

And gratitude for the way things have worked out. We might not have been at the same club that same night. She may not have spotted me in the crowd and made her presence known. We might not have enjoyed talking and I might not have asked for her number. I fucked up typing her name in and handed her the phone, where I could have attempted the number too and gotten it wrong. She might have left and we might not have seen each other again.

But here we are so many years after that fleeting encounter and I - who doesn't do weddings - am excited at the prospect of driving up to spend the weekend with her. She deserves the best and in Toby I think she has done well.Great guy.

Oh - and I almost wasn't going to go. It was all getting a bit complicated with getting time off work, acommodation etc and I sent her a message asking how much trouble I would be in if I didn't go. My dislike of weddings is pretty well-known.

She didn't reply.

I phoned her a few days ago and the first thing she said was "When are you guys arriving?" This amused me. Seems we were going afterall. Found out a lot of guests are camping, so that was acommodation sorted. I was also told we could stay the night at Chloe's place after meeting for drinks in the afternoon, and this was the clincher; I had been thinking I wouldn't get to spend any time with her. But I get to hang with her the night before. All is good. I know this is going to be a beautiful weekend.

This is a very good start to the year.

Some Things That I Have Done That Are Not An Accurate Reflection Of My Character

GRUMPY OUT OF CHARACTER

On the weekend, at a crowded street festival, I did yet another thing completely out of character. A guy was walking along just in front of me. He briefly looked at his little son walking just behind, and put out his hand in a clear indication that he expected the little boy to take his hand. He looked up and ahead again and did not see that the boy was still walking along but had not seen his father's hand. He was interested in other things. So I put my own hand out and this complete stranger and I walked along holding hands.

We made it a lot further along without the guy realising than I thought we would. Somewhere between 30 seconds and a minute, the guy actually gently squeezed my hand, a sign of fatherly affection. What was going on here? Did the little boy have exceptionally large hands? Were mine much smaller and child-like than I realised.

Needless to say that by the time the guy turned to look at where his son's face should be, then quickly up an my own face, I was just about pissing myself with silent laughter. Making eye contact, I lost my shit entirely.

“I don't believe you actually did that,” The Dreaded One told me in what would normally be admonishment but this time was a kind of dumbfounded amusement.

Completely out of character, and yet somehow strangely familiar.

Like the time at the self-checkout at the supermarket when we'd finished scanning all the things with barcodes and I grabbed a potato and tried to scan it. Again and again, with more frustration each time. I looked over my shoulder at the helper and shrugged and made a face, like what's the deal with this potato? Is it broken or something?

“Please don't make him come over,” The Dreaded One said, eyes closed, slight shake of the head.

“Awesome,” I replied. “He's coming over."

In pure Apu from The Quickie Mart, the man asked, “Excuse me sir but is there a problem?”

Somehow, I dead-panned it. Still scanning the potato I told him, “This potato. It won't scan. Everything else went through fine but the potato? Not happening.”

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. "See? Nothing."

“Sir, it is not necessary or indeed possible to scan the potato. With the potato, you simply...”

He explained the procedure for dealing with potatoes in a very professional manner which carried just the hint of amusement, like he knew damn well he was dealing with a smart-arse rather than a moron. I was barely holding it together. The Dreaded One was smirking and shaking her head silently. A couple at the next register was giggling.

Again, so out of character.

Like the time my publisher boss asked me (an editor at the time) to join him in a meeting with the designers. One the way to the meeting, he got called to the phone. In the meeting room were the designers with the only available chair being the one at the head of the table with my boss' things spread out. I paused, then sat down in this chair. The meeting hadn't really stopped, it just carried along sounding very meetingy.

When my boss entered the room I remember thinking that a normal person would apologise, stand up and give their boss their chair back. But suddenly I wanted to see what would happen if I just ignored the guy. I stayed seated, resisting the urge to fiddle idly with his things, but considering it. The meeting kept rolling along. My boss cleared his throat, hovered for a bit, then left the room. I imagine he told others what had happened and how he just didn't understand why I would do such a thing. I can also imagine what their reaction would have been.

Again, it's just not the kind of thing I do.

Or the time I scored the DJ spot for me and The Dreaded One, long before we had a clue about mixing. At a party, as a joke, a friend told a promoter on the lookout for new DJ names that we could DJ. The promoter approached us.

“Someone told me you guys can mix.”

“We are awesome mixers,” I replied with confidence.

“Really? That is what I heard.”

“Love mixing. Nothing like it. It's my favourite thing, mixing.” I cocked my head to the side so that my right ear was resting on my right shoulder, then I did a really tight mix on my air decks.

The Dreaded One was looking at me like she didn't know who I was.

“Would you like to play at my next party?”

“That would be fantastic. We'd love to.”

“So I should book it in then?”

“Book us in. Thank you. Thank you so much.

As the promoter walked away, the Dreaded One looked at me and said, “What did you just get us into?”

What I got us into was a very steep learning curve, and a pretty satisfying first DJ gig.

But yet again, this simply is not the kind of thing someone like me does. Just ask me – I should know.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He is a man of characters.

Another Two Shadows

Two Shadows  
On the road,
Two friends,
One love,
One sunny afternoon.

Grumpy & The Num Num Plumber

GRUMPY NUM NUM

The Dreaded One and I have moved into our new home after two months of travel and one month of couch surfing. It's wonderful to be surrounded by our things again. After doing our condition report on the state of the apartment, we booked a plumber to come in and sort out a couple of problems with two taps.

The Dreaded One took the call from the plumber. He asked when we could be home to meet him. I said I could be home at 3pm any day of the week. He said the traffic is too bad at that time of the day and that he could only make it at 10 o'clock, just for a quick inspection to find out what parts would be need to fix the problems.

“AM or PM?” The Dreaded One asked. It was PM. Not ideal... in fact pretty damned odd, in hindsight, but if that's what it took to get the job done, so be it.

10 O'clock the following night, the intercom buzzes. A little guy who sounds very much like the Peter Sellers character in The Party (birdie num-num) asks if The Dreaded One is here. “No she isn't,” I reply and wait for him to introduce himself.

And this is where the relationship goes into its downward spiral.

Peter Sellers clears his throat and announces with a grand flourish in his tone, “I am here to inspect the building.”

I stare at the image of the guy on the little screen. He doesn't look like he's getting into the bemused silence I'm sending to him.

“You're what?” I finally say.

“I am here to inspect the building,” he num nums grandly again.

No introduction. No mention of which company he is from. Suddenly I do not like him one little bit.

“You mean you are here to look at the taps.”

“Yes, that is correct, num num.”

I buzz him in. When I open the door to my apartment, he marches right on in, straight past the first bathroom towards the living area, a man with purpose.

“Excuse me – where do you think you are going?”

“Where is the birdie num num bathroom?”

“It's here. You just walked right past it.”

The tap has a rod that you pull out to switch the water flow from the bathtub to the shower, with the problem being that the pressure has to be permanently high or the water cuts from the shower back to the tap, thus wasting too much water. Peter Sellers does not seem to need to bother himself with such details. He drops to his knees, turns the tap on high and tugs at the switch. Water gushes first from the tap, then from the shower, then from the tap, then from the shower. The man is pretty wet pretty quickly. I fold my arms and shake my head as I watch.

“Erm...” he says eventually. “Can you please show me how to operate this device.?”

“You must be joking. You don't know how to work the tap? I'm absolutely not going to show a plumber how to turn a tap on.”

“But I just need you to tell me how the device is -”

“What kind of plumber doesn't know -”

“But I am not the birdie num num plumber. I am just a contractor, and if you would be so kind as to show me how to operate the device...”

“It just gets better and better... if you can't even figure out how to work the tap, how are you going to tell the plumber what the problem is?”

A drop of water quivers on the end of his nose as he num nums a bit more, but I silence him and tell him to come through to the kitchen to look at the other tap. This one simply wobbles about when you turn it on and off. My hopes are not high.

Again, Peter Sellers looks like such minor details are insignificant trivia best to be avoided. He grips the tap like he's choking a spitting cobra that is about to attack him. I have no idea what he hopes to achieve.

“It moves back and forth,” he informs me.

“Yes. It moves back and forth. It is not supposed to move back and forth.”

“Are you quite sure it is not supposed to move back and forth?”

I take him into the second bathroom adjacent to the kitchen where the taps are the same design. “These are the same taps. They do not move back and forth.”

He lunges for the spout with both hands and with some effort forces the tap from side to side.

“But it moves back and forth if you do this.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you think... why do you... why... why... I think you'd better go now. I'm getting reeeally cranky and I don't like getting cranky this late at night.”

On the way past the first bathroom he num nums up again, telling me that in his considered opinion the entire tap unit needs to be replaced because he believes the problem is with the washer, yes indeed it is the washer. I slam the door behind him.

I still have a pressure problem and a tap that moves back and forth.

And no idea when Num Numpty The Plumber is going to return.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). If you don't know what all this birdie num num stuff was about, hire a copy of Peter Sellers' classic comedy The Party. It's funnier than a plumber who can't turn a tap on.

50 Shades Of Thorpe

Ian Thorpe, can you possibly be any more pathetically self-absorbed? There are people with real problems and you whine about your pseudo alcohol problems and your depression and your... oh really. Please. Just shut up. I'm sure your poorly written book will do well, just like 50 Shades has done well.

Because the masses know awesome, don't they. And your book is awesome.

Awesome!

Missing Betty Boop

Missing Betty Boop

I missed you today, Betty Boop.

I miss your darkness

Spilling into the light,

I miss the glimpses of light

In your darkness,

I miss the conversations

That gave birth to Rueben Jane

(Who you never got to know),

I miss our times together,

The shared confessions

And the feeling that maybe it will be all right.

I miss that day in the park -

Do you remember that day?

That perfect day

When we stole a stranger's laughter?

I missed you today, Betty Boop.

Nude Grumpy

New Grumpy column up on Tsunami Mag (in case you missed it). It contains nudity, which might be why The Big Issue said it was not suitable for them. Or maybe it's just not funny. I think it's funny. I didn't think it was funny at the time (yes, it's a true story, like all of my Grumpies)... okay, I thought it was a little bit funny at the time. In a caught-with-your-pants-completely-off kind of way. It was squirmy funny. It was oh-fuck-this-is-so-not-funny funny. It was funny-if-it-happened-to-someone-else funny.

But still not appropriate for The Big Issue. I think that mag wants funny but with something a little heart-warming or life-affirming at its core, which is good because I like that stuff. So it's back to the drawing board.

Cue thinking music...

(Am in a much better frame of mind when I posted this link a couple of posts ago. Things are turning).

Happy People

I like this guy. He sits on our dash and keeps us company on our road trips. This shot was taken on the way back from the Regrowth Festival 2012 near Braidwood just a couple of weeks ago. Wonderful festival and gathering of friends.

Some photos are here. There was so much happiness flying about that I neglected to take more photos. Many good people here. Wish I'd captured all of my friends who were there... alas. And wish one or two people who are on the other side of the world could have been there. Again, alas.

Am aching like a bitch after moving furniture and stuff into our new home in Collingwood. Must sleep. Have a stressful lunch meeting tomorrow.

Nighty night.

Naked Grumpy

Here is my latest Grumpy column for Tsunami. Bit of a woopsie in that I offered an edited version to another mag and now I have to tell them they can't have it. Oh well, will just have to come up with something else.

Not writing much at the moment because life is a bit of a mess and I haven't been in the right frame of mind. We still haven't found a home which means we've been living out of the same bags now for three months. It's getting to be a bit not fun. There are two places we really hope to be getting this week... well one of them. One is in Collingwood, just off Smith Street, close to lots of restaurants, bars and pubs. The other is in Brunswick East, looking out over bush by Merri Creek, I think. It's really peaceful, the balcony looks into the bush and soaks up birdcall. We'll be happy with either lifestyle. There is lots of apeal in the Brunswick place and living close to ceres and getting on our bikes to get around, but equally the handy hedonism of Collingwood is appealing and fits right in with our lifestyle.

Either way, I hope to be not relying on the charity of friends for very much longer. As wonderful as they are and as appreciated as they are, we really need our own place. I just want to be able to hang my clothes up and know where everything is without having to rummage.

We left friends in Yarraville yesterday (I still find it funny to be using all these Melbourne names instead of Sydney names) and as we left Northcote, the car broke down, fully loaded with all of our stuff. The RACV (not NRMA) guy said he was baffled, and I was so glad I wasn't driving because the Error 05 thing would have been too hard to deal with. We had the car towed around the corner to a mechanic, then we went to a favourite bar called Kelvin's where we sat in front of the fire, drank wine and waited for another friend to pick us up. As far as breakdowns go, this was a good one, especially given that were had driven to Braidwood for a dance festival the week before. The car could have died in the middle of nowhere but was considerate enough to wait until we were in civilisation.

And so here e are in West Heidelberg... quite strange. This is really not our kind of place. I appreciate the hell out of the fact that our friend picked us up and that we have a place to stay, but it's such a strange suburb. For one thing, it really is The Burbs. For another thing, no one seems to care about their home. It's like everyone just thinks, "Narp - can't be arsed." We even went to Northland shopping centre and it was the same. It's like it has a dress code that says "Anyone entering Northland must look like they just got out of bed."

It's a weird part of the world. Mind you, so are Collingwood and Brunswick. But at least that's good weird. I need some good weird, and soon. Cross your fingers and say chookas for us that we get one of these places in the next couple of days.

Oh yeah - and filling out those fucking rental application forms... nothing is straightforward with me. Nothing about me fits neatly into any category. It's so frustrating. I didn't have a job for the first couple of applications (I have a part time one now), my next of kin situation is not normal (I've been writing down my cuff buddy Christine as the person to notify in case of emergency... man, after last weekend I miss her so much), I have no regular income, we don't have a current address... I just feel like chaos personified.

I am a loose cannon.

Anyway. The Dreaded One is outside now doing gardening things with the people we are staying with. The garden is a big project. And although I don't like gardening (for a start - what does one wear when gardening?) I should go out there and chip in. All I want to do (now that I've started) is keep writing. I want to write about last weekend at Regrowth with so many wonderful friends. I want to write about how i had very strong feelings about my Sydney friends and wondered when we move cities, what are we really leaving? The city or the friends?

I have a friend who likes to hold my hand when we are together. Over time, I had forgotten how much I enjoy her company. There are so few people we bump into that we have that instant connection with. I love this human. But distance and time separates and we do forget. Time wears down the brilliance of these wonderful and important chance encounters with strangers who become friends.

It's life and it's how it goes, but it's really, really nice to be reminded. I hung out with Christine for the weekend (along with so many other cool friends), and it reminded me not only of how lucky I am to have her in my life, but how lucky I am to have all the others in my life as well.

I am very lucky indeed. And if you have good friends in your life, so are you. Remember your friends.

And now, I should go out and help my friend with this gardening stuff, whatever that is.

Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale At The Sydney Opera House

Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale

By Lee Bemrose

Not very long ago, British comedian Sanderson Jones had a dream of performing at the iconic Sydney Opera House. He was relatively unknown at the time and came up with the idea of selling tickets to his show by hand, in doing so getting to know his audience personally. His show, Comedy Sale, has been successful in the UK and now in Australia, most recently with a sell-out gig at The Melbourne Comedy Festival, along with a string of weekly appearances.

And now he is indeed about to perform at The Sydney Opera House. Meantime, he's hitting the streets of Sydney, selling tickets and getting to know his audience. But don't expect to find tickets to this unusual (and very funny) show in the usual places; track him down on Facebook, follow him on Twitter or log onto comedysale.com

Sales can be a tough job, yet you choose to personally sell tickets to your show... why, Sanderson, why?

It was technique born out of necessity. I wasn’t famous, had no buzz and needed to get people in my show. Then I discovered two things: 1) Doing a show to people you’ve met before produces a uniquely convivial atmosphere. 2) I was really good at selling tickets. Two years later I’m getting ready to play the Sydney Opera House. It is weird.

For the uninitiated, give us a quick rundown of the nature of your show.

I sell every ticket to my show by hand. That way I get to meet everyone and customise the show to the crowd. In order to customise it I go online, find out funny things about my guests and weave it into the show. Long forgotten Bebo pages are a bloody goldmine.

What's the ratio of sales of people who approach you to cold calling?

About 80/20. Though I wish more people just came up to me. One woman did that yesterday. It was aces. Her name was Shannon and I’d bumped into her in Adelaide, then Melbourne and finally they can come. That is awesome.

Do you have a spiel or technique when you approach strangers in the street to sell tickets to them?

Yes, I do. I have a very well honed script that ascertains whether they’re free, makes me sound great and convinces them to hand over their money on the street.

How do you pick your targets?

People who like Venn diagrams have a certain look about them. Those are my guys. Oh, and if I see someone in a science t-shirt, they’re mine.

Have you ever had any odd or awkward encounters selling your tickets?

Rarely. It generally involves one drunken tool going “Jesus! Jesus! You look like Jesus. Can I touch your beard?”

Any violent encounters?

No. Whenever I realise someone is an idiot I walk away with my flyer, and then they can’t get a ticket. My audience has precisely zero dickheads.

Any romantic encounters?

I met my girlfriend when I gave her a flyer on the street.

At the time of writing these questions I think you had sold more than 100 tickets for your Opera House gig. Do you start the internet-stalking phase of the operation immediately or just focus on the sales part until you've sold out?

As I write this I have another word document open with people’s names, websites and other internet tidbits written down. The information gathering has begun.

It must be fun searching people on the internet and on Facebook. Some might suggest that Comedy Sale is just a way of legitimising an otherwise slightly suspect activity. Your thoughts?

As one of the world’s few professional Facebook stalkers I wholeheartedly encourage the pursuit. Like photos of potential dates from years ago, befriend people you hate just troll their news feed and, of course, look at profiles of your exes as often as possible.

Is there any audience participation in the show? Have you ever managed to get someone up on stage when they really, really, really, really didn't want to go up on stage?

The person who least wanted to go up on stage, Lee, was you and, eventually, through the power of mass peer pressure you got on stage and you ended up throwing a cream pie in my face. I reckon we ended one all. That Melbourne show had the most people on stage because it was proper old theatre and had lots of room for dicking about. The elf in a lion costume fellating the woodsman, being serenaded by a Belgian beatboxer with Jazz trumpet accompaniment, while a deer hopped in the background was a highlight.

You are obviously a people person. Tell us about the get-togethers you arrange outside of your shows.

The whole point of these shows is to try to create truly one off experiences. So I try to do everything possible to make that happen. On Sunday September 23^rd I’m having an afternoon of barefoot bowls at the Petersham Bowls Club so the audience can get to know each other. I want them to be as excited about the show as I am.

How do you feel about performing at The Sydney Opera House?

It’s unbelievable. I started selling tickets by hand just as a way of getting people into my show. I had no idea I would end up on the grandest stage of all.

I noticed on your website your bit of Melbourne bashing when you moved to Sydney, an obvious attempt to garner goodwill in your new host city. Not that us Melburnians care at all in bashing that superficial, shiny bauble of a city with its inflated prices, its wankiness, its egostistic inhabitants preening themselves on their beaches so that they're the best looking shark food money can buy... with its vacuum of creativity and its nauseating air of too-busy-on-the-treadmill-to-give-you-the-time-of-day-ness... erm... how have you found Sydney so far?

Of all my time in Australia I have spent 95% of it in Melbourne. I love cafes, men with beards and girls with tattoos. I expected to hate Sydney and Sydneysiders, and that hasn’t really happened. I’ve been blown away by the harbour, the Opera House and the weather.

Finish this sentence: Come to Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale gig at The Sydney Opera house...

Because it will be the greatest show in the history of matter.