Encouraged by a blossoming interest in site-sensitive theatre (including recent adventures here by Punchdrunk and the Old Vic/Spacey in nearby tunnels) site managers at Waterloo Station have been increasingly open to suggestion regarding cultural interventions on the site. Enter Heritage Arts, who are curating a new Festival called THE VAULT. Producer Tim Wilson is putting together a dynamic programme and has issued a call for interested artists whose work might suit this context (see here for details).

With no power or light in The Furies’ lair, and sounds supplied only by the ghostly rumble of  passing trains, Vault 234 is atmospheric to say the least. We explored the 35m long chamber by the meagre lumins from our mobile phones, unsure what was underfoot. The Vault will be a challenge to rig out and inhabit, but in 8 weeks time the infrastructure will all be in place for what will be an exciting month’s event and an opportunity for Kindle to get a proper run at The Furies in front of fresh, unsuspecting audiences.

THE FURIES will perform at

THE VAULT Festival, Leake St., Waterloo, London SE1

Thursdays to Sundays, 9th til 26th February 2012 (details to be confirmed soon).

The Bawlly has always plied his trade in these parts. As a kid there’d be a sinister edgyness to his arrival. From a back garden you could never quite tell from which street he was calling and it was better to hide or run inside to avoid what felt like a dark presence. Part gypsy-traveller, part kiddy-catcher; grubby-faced, Dickensian ne’er-do-wells sitting atop an old wagon, drawn by a shaggy pit-hoss. In reality these strangers from another time and place were Black Country scrap metal-merchants, aboard a flat-bed truck, but they might as well have been from another country. Their 8mph street-wanderings clearly paid off. I have a vivid memory of dad running out of the house in his bare feet and ‘jamas to apprehend the Bawlly. Then watching, incredulous, as the back-half of a Mark One Mini was man-handled onto the truck, joining fridges, rusty garden swings and dug-up fragments of air-raid shelter.

This week, the sound of the Bawlly signifies the start of austere times. Summer is truly dead. Kids are back to school, the skies have turned grey and there’s a faint rustling of tumbleweed as a lean-looking Autumn stretches before me. A breather is welcome after a busy few months, but it’s now time to cast the net, seek new work opportunities and develop ideas for new projects.

Birmingham Vigil: “The three who died, died nobly. Don’t riot in their name” – video, via The Guardian, 11th Aug ’11

A Peace protest is planned for sunday 14th August, meeting in Summerfield Park, 3pm.

Messages have been coming in from distant friends across the globe, saddened and bewildered at the news images depicting urban Blighty in 2011: Gangs of young looters, seemingly buoyed by a collective mob mentality, ransacking the high streets of our cities and towns, knowing somehow that there is insufficient power on the part of the Police, or anyone, to stop them.

Perhaps, in due course, history will attribute these events to a broader socio-economic crisis prompted by the global financial meltdown and its consequences? But that’s difficult to see as the evidence suggests that the ‘disenfranchised’ are forgoing bread and books and reaching instead for mobile phones, skategear and flatscreen TVs -basically all the consumer stuff that the advertising relentlessly tells them they need to have. Yes, the looting is driven not by frustration but an ideology of greed and opportunism. (Nobody has any money… but the shops are full of stuff, stuff and yet more stuff that people want… and if they don’t want it they’ll know someone else who does.)

Because it’s been demonstrated that the policing has been ineffectual, groups of vigilantes have been appearing on the streets to defend their businesses and their communities (sales of baseball bats are reported to be escalating). Almost inevitably, a tragedy occured last night on the Dudley Road, when 3 Brit-Asian men were ploughed into by a car whilst trying to defend their shops. The ether is then full of suggestion that gangs of men from other cities will travel from here and elsewhere to battle the looters (who have clearly got wind of this and moved on to surprise a different town).

There is a sense of unreality about the whole scenario…like it’s being played out on a stolen Xbox, like it’s a simulated Zombie movie. Apart from the fact, of course, that communities are being trashed, reputations shattered and lives destroyed. Desperate and sad times.

Zoe Williams in The Guardian, attempts to unravel the Psychology of Looting

On July 18, 2011, Heckel bassoon No. 11321-5 was stolen from Gretha Tuls, principal bassoon in CBSO, Birmingham UK in her house.

The bassoon has a light brown colour, has a Dutch leg rest on it( legrest itself wasn’t taken). the keys are nickelplated and the top ring is white.

It contains 2 Heckel crooks as well: CD 2 XL and CC 1 XL. It is carried in a black Marcus Bonna case with the brand name ADAMS on it. ( the bassoon comes apart in 4 pieces in the case)

email: grethatuls@hotmail.com
phone: 00447747315746
dutch phone: 0031629466318

Gretha is my next door neighbour. The burglars were prevented from breaking into our house by quick-witted and vigilant Iris, who spotted them lurking in the back yard. They will have no idea how important the instrument is to Gretha. It’s a pointless theft. If anyone has any information or hears of it being offloaded, please get in touch.
Graeme

Three cardinals and the greatest story ever told.

A broken camera-phone and a struggling car.

the usual chaos and crisis management

the budget festivities and the carefully executed control of expectations;

the postcard winter landscapes and scuppered family travel-plans;

the boiler that’s packed up with 2 days to go

heart-warming offerings;

someone’s discarded sample bottle asleep on the snow

and an arguing couple in a supermarket car-park - ”Why did ya jump out the fookin’ window, ya spaz?!” she cries

the surprising animal ejaculations through a wall at teatime

the scratching of a kitchen visitor in the dead of night.

The lingering shadows of various 2010 disappointments

and the spectre of more ahead…

and the memories of many fantastic moments

from a mad, troubled, crazy, beautiful, adventurous, carefree and at times will-sapping year of extremes.

There is a tired face in the mirror, telling me I need to finish this chapter. Let go.

… then I stumble across it on ITV3. I’m trying to remember the sequence of events but it’s been years. I’m shocked by the revelation of defendant Tom’s shooting and I’m on the edge of my seat when the children of Atticus Finch are stopped, attacked, then saved in the woods. I know I’m gonna crack… and sure enough when Boo appears behind the door and the little girl says his name…. I crumple, just like every time.

There’s a flood. And the Festive TV has barely started.

Merry Christmas everyone. Merry Christmas xxx

It started with a flurry of what I can only describe as abusive texts (some with violent and threatening language) and a series of silent calls. I started answering these calls, but there was never a response. I then tried to ignore the calls, though there were several per day. An e-mail arrived to this site, laden with bile. From the broken English and unfamiliar syntax I deduced that the ‘abuser’ was not a UK-native. The texts referred to a third party, known to me, but rarely seen in person. I was being used/encouraged to pass on the hatred to this third party, who themselves had blocked all channels of communication with the ‘abuser’. Somehow I had been identified as a link and the ‘abuser’ was berating me for the ‘stupidity’ of publishing my personal info on the net. This felt like a kind of terrorism. Try as I might to ignore or be unaffected by the ‘abuse’, it started to gnaw at me. Would this person do violence against me or to those close to me? This unknown threat was the worst. I knew that soon enough I would have to report it all to the police and block the ‘abuser’s’ number, maybe change all of my security settings, my passwords, etc. First, though, I would gather sufficient evidence to damn the ‘abuser’.

Then something odd happened. The ‘abuser’ left a garbled rant on my answerphone. The unknown ‘It’ was now a ‘She’. A young-sounding She. The terrorist had a profile that took me by surprise. What’s more, She sounded angry, troubled, damaged and …vulnerable.

The next evening my phone rang again. It was the ‘abuser’. Instead of switching the phone off I unwittingly answered… and into the silence I spluttered a plea – to end the torture that she was ultimately placing upon herself. Telling her how utterly pointless and vain her attempts had been – not just because I no longer have contact with the third party, but because whatever hurt she was feeling, however wronged by the third party she had been, her dark energy and hatred would only ever come back to haunt and harm her. I told her that She deserved better; that She needed to set herself free from her campaign of terror. I blabbered on for what seemed like an age, until, out of the silence I felt the shell crack and the sound of her crying overwhelmed my own voice.

We talked and talked, and then some. Two hours maybe. She explained herself, her hurt. She was honest, open and apologetic. It was a relief to find a warm human being behind the shield of anger. I don’t doubt that she herself has been wronged.  I want to make sure she’s ok – but I know, given what has passed, that we must draw a line on our communication. She told me expressly that she wouldn’t ‘bother’ me again. We left it at that.

My phone, however, wants a life of its own. It won’t behave itself. It deletes numbers from the front end of the alphabet, so my sister Al disappears on a regular basis and (annoyingly) my phone has twice this week called the person still listed in my phone as ‘abuser’, which can only be more confusing for her (I will get rid of the listing as it now seems inappropriate). I think She will read this blog entry, and I hope She will understand that I have her best interests at heart by writing this. I wish her well and I hope She is able to rid herself of the torment which has driven her to seek out the third party, because She deserves better than that.

A couple of days ago I received a text from another mysterious, unknown number;

A: Hi mate, hope all is ok, would b good to catch up soon

[There weren't enough clues in the message. I had no idea who it was]

Me: Hi there, thanks for message. Unfortunately my phone must’ve deleted you by accident so I can’t tell who you are! reveal yourself, mystery pal!

A: Andy Lee

Now, Andy is my oldest friend and the closest I got to a having a brother whilst growing up. Hooray! I have his number back in my phone. We arrange a rendezvous – our first since his recent marriage. There’s much to catch up on.

This evening I return home from Bristol, expecting a call from Kindle’s Jess regarding PILOT. Soon enough, my phone receives a text, but it’s from yet another unknown number;

B: Guess who? X

Me: ? I know not! Put me out of my misery.

B: Jess:L!

Me: Aha! Time for a chat?

B: yuppp! (:, What you doing?

[I'm watching a documentary about the Falklands War, whilst e-mailing, whilst drinking cold tea. It's too complicated to text such banale crap, so I call the number, which goes unanswered]

B: What u ring me for babe?, x

[That's odd. Familiar though I am with Kindle Jess, "babe" is not what I expect from her]

Me: I think I called the wrong Jess. And that you texted the wrong me. Graeme

B: What  :s

Me: Who do you think I am, Jess?

B: What do u mean :s?

Me: What is my name? Seriously.

B: Alex ? :s

Me: No. You have the wrong number. I’m sorry. I’m Graeme

B: Not atal :L, cus uv jus gave me it stop pissint about :L! And when I txt you, ur fb pic comes up babe x

[I call the number again. She picks up and answers "Hey" in a warm tone."Hello", I say, "Do you recognise my voice?" - silence - "No, I thought not. My name's Graeme, not Alex. I don't know where you are, but I'm in Birmingham. He's clearly given you a wrong number... Sorry." There's an empty, gawping vacuum over the line. The sound of deep mistrust....  After a few seconds the phone goes dead. Then another text...]

B: Quite obv you, I kno a opperated chat when I hear one

[I'm tempted to reply with a "what-eva" but I'm not going to take the bait. Does she think that this whole thing has been a ruse to trap her? It's been surreal and confusing - :s - and I'm wondering what my phone will generate next? I was just trying to be helpful, to be friendly, but I'm left feeling a bit unclean - like I got sucked into an abusive txt relationship, given a false moniker (Alex) by my unruly phone.

It’s with a strange co-incidence that these events occur while I’ve been working on some audio pieces that address narratives through the medium of Voicemail. I’ve been guesting in workshops at Bournville School, where Head of Drama/Media Karen is developing an experimental sound tech performance with her students and I’m also teaching the current Performance 2 module at Bristol University, where we’re exploring audio-journeys and echo-location. Phones are featuring prominently: Conventionally banished from theatre projects, they may just get the upper hand in this one.

From someone else’s garden (and the conveniently placed allotment patch just yards from the back gate) I harvest sufficient for a wholesome feast – apples, pears, raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries, tomatoes (several varieties), cucumber, courgettes, onions, chillies, spinach, spuds, carrots, turnips, beetroot, beans. Half of them end up in a roasting tin. I reacquaint myself with the sound of The Smiths on someone else’s Hi-Fi. I cook a fine-tasting cake in someone else’s oven. Harvest-time is the best time of year, surely? I’m reminded of my beloved Nanny Rose and the cornucopia of delights that would emerge from her back-garden (much to be processed as jam, chutney or wine) and I’m also reminded of the fact that for the past 3 months I haven’t once found time to visit the Bournville allotment that I tend with Lisa TC.

Whereof thou hast not sown, how canst thou reap with a clear conscience? Bah! Waste no want not. The crops need dispensing and are mighty delicious besides. We scoff and chill, before bathing in someone else’s bath and enjoying the comforts of their bed. Just so long as everything is back in its place when Daddy, Mommy and Baby Bear return on friday….

And until then, some local sightseeing; including the remarkable TRAIL O’ TURDS. In honour of its Philip Larkin connection, Hull has initiated Larkin25, a City-wide infestation of giant toads (pronounce it ‘turds’ for a stab at the unique local inflexion) inspired by the Poet’s ‘Toads’ and ‘Toads Revisited’

Toads

Why should I let the toad work

Squat on my life?

Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork

And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils

With its sickening poison -

Just for paying a few bills!

That’s out of proportion.

Lots of folk live on their wits:

Lecturers, lispers,

Losels, loblolly-men, louts-

They don’t end as paupers;

Lots of folk live up lanes

With fires in a bucket,

Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-

they seem to like it.

Their nippers have got bare feet,

Their unspeakable wives

Are skinny as whippets – and yet

No one actually starves.

Ah, were I courageous enough

To shout Stuff your pension!

But I know, all too well, that’s the stuff

That dreams are made on:

For something sufficiently toad-like

Squats in me, too;

Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,

And cold as snow,

And will never allow me to blarney

My way of getting

The fame and the girl and the money

All at one sitting.

I don’t say, one bodies the other

One’s spiritual truth;

But I do say it’s hard to lose either,

When you have both.

by Philip Larkin, from The Less Deceived (1954)

And here I am, eating the windfalls. The Three Bears are my friends. Perhaps it is the Toad, though, that I have spent a lifetime avoiding?