tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73303092605849187572024-03-27T02:24:33.469-07:00The Mango Orchard blogThe Mango Orchard blog describes the trials and challenges of turning a book into a Best Seller.Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-91205272681623627952011-10-21T05:00:00.000-07:002011-10-21T05:00:30.968-07:00I've moved!Thanks for stopping by. I have recently started a new blog, which has all the entries from this one, plus much more.<br />
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I will no longer be posting on this site, so please come over to: <a href="http://robinbayley.wordpress.com/">http://robinbayley.wordpress.com/</a><br />
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See you there!<br />
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RobinRobin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-20896166250600750042011-07-29T04:32:00.000-07:002011-08-01T04:17:12.862-07:00A-ha! Norwich here I come<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I am getting up slowly. My aim is to have a leisurely breakfast with the newspaper propped up against the toast rack before catching the 11.30 to Norwich, where I am due to appear at Writers’ Centre Norwich’s <a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/yoursummerreads.aspx">Summer Reads</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The phone rings. It’s a producer at BBC Radio Oxford, asking if <a href="http://bbc.in/otfpph">Jo Thoenes</a> can interview me for a programme about genealogy. I readily agree; I appeared on her show when I was at the Oxford Literature Festival in March and I was very impressed with her. I am booked in for a telephone interview in half an hour. I glance at the microwave clock. I realise that I have no time for a leisurely anything; I need to be showered and ready to leave before Jo calls back. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjB6yD9Nixfqy-kQjSydm37LcRSLWTw-J1WRmC7mquzsocf1yDP2wQMb7u3K6GEiyaZdm6bg0VzEiJu9t24a1G8VEaa3mxgLwYKtYEuMMncaXekvq2Hlvm6WNjedADuqauFo1WithPbJE/s1600/Jo+Theones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjB6yD9Nixfqy-kQjSydm37LcRSLWTw-J1WRmC7mquzsocf1yDP2wQMb7u3K6GEiyaZdm6bg0VzEiJu9t24a1G8VEaa3mxgLwYKtYEuMMncaXekvq2Hlvm6WNjedADuqauFo1WithPbJE/s1600/Jo+Theones.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jo Thoenes</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Shaving, I really should have learned by now, is one thing you should not do in a hurry. As well as remove my stubble, I also manage to slice the end of my nose. I have no idea how I have managed to achieve this wound, but it’s certainly very real; my nose is throbbing and blood is trickling into the sink. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">When the phone rings, I am sitting on the sofa, leaning forward to avoid staining my shirt, with a piece of toilet paper stuck to the drying blood on the end of my nose. Jo and I have a quick chat and then launch straight into the interview. I’m in mid-flow and suddenly my nose starts bleeding again. I realise I am beginning to lose the thread of what I am saying. I want to explain that for me, the most important of the family historian’s art, is oral testimony, but I am now trying to dab a drop of blood from the carpet, and the word “testimony” has completely escaped me. “Oral…err,” I grab another tissue. “Oral… um… ” I don’t guess what the second word may be in case my Tourette’s tendencies get the better of me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Jo somehow manages to divert my attention from my nose and back to answering her questions but I can’t think that mine is the most illuminating interview she will conduct today. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOiC-suTJQovpntSVeStn6m79MBoSVhymiXtgzdgd48-u5fsTeruenU0Q1Xf3f6768pJSONJ9XyYaCmoDYP4hjCADxPMUbMIoanli2BqsieL8QszRkmRm9hbvgtbWEfB5Z6prhDNeKhE/s1600/alan-partridge-with+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOiC-suTJQovpntSVeStn6m79MBoSVhymiXtgzdgd48-u5fsTeruenU0Q1Xf3f6768pJSONJ9XyYaCmoDYP4hjCADxPMUbMIoanli2BqsieL8QszRkmRm9hbvgtbWEfB5Z6prhDNeKhE/s1600/alan-partridge-with+mug.jpg" /></a>A few hours later, my nose has stopped bleeding and I am being interviewed again, this time by <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/norfolk/hi/tv_and_radio/newsid_8154000/8154490.stm">Stephen Bumfrey</a> at BBC Radio Norwich. It suddenly strikes me as I sit in this Norwich radio studio and that I am having a very Alan Partridge-esque day. I’m even staying in a Travelodge. All I need now is to have a fight with a trouser press.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">After the interview, Sam Ruddock from <a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/generalreader/yoursummerreads.aspx">Writers’ Centre Norwich</a> escorts me round the bookshops in the centre of Norwich, all of which are pleasingly well-stocked with copies of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.themangoorchard.com/">The Mango Orchard</a></i>, and some even have it in their window displays.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUd8DjFGzkyXi1FMKVo4SvgEX7KEl7xDXU7nEfX7ytvnO9KVosf-2VfsjvmzuYHkiI504McqAegAF1X0wmjacLv5R_Gy5-FQWjPmoTnCyQtxwGG_U41qPjdjWmnigSopLO3j04p8xFXE/s1600/Norwich+Waterstone%2527s+window+display.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUd8DjFGzkyXi1FMKVo4SvgEX7KEl7xDXU7nEfX7ytvnO9KVosf-2VfsjvmzuYHkiI504McqAegAF1X0wmjacLv5R_Gy5-FQWjPmoTnCyQtxwGG_U41qPjdjWmnigSopLO3j04p8xFXE/s200/Norwich+Waterstone%2527s+window+display.JPG" width="163" /></a>I am delighted to be part of Summer Reads. It’s a reading campaign Writers’ Centre Norwich organises with Norfolk Libraries. I am very proud to be part of the line-up of excellent books: Joseph O’Conner’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.josephoconnorauthor.com/">Ghost Light</a></i>, Simon Armitage’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Simon">Seeing Stars</a></i>, Evie Wyld’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Evie">After the Fire<span style="font-style: normal;">, A Still Small Voice</span></a></i>, <span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Andrey"><strong><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; color: windowtext; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Andrey Kurkov</span></strong></a></b></span><span class="apple-style-span">’s</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Andrey"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Good Angel Of Death</i></a></span></em><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> and </span><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Katie"><strong><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; color: windowtext; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Katie Kitamura</span></strong></a></b></span><span class="apple-style-span">’s </span><em><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.writerscentrenorwich.org.uk/reader/interestliterature/yoursummerreads.aspx#Katie"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Longshot</i></a></span></em><span class="apple-style-span">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTqeBeORPLdpzj-0TAJeRLZSsgjeB4nfgSVfzwbUuGKSKwa1hyphenhyphenbEPC5iTBMnWVeiZAj5rFvh6kqHX_vGaxeN_-zhAObNy3vazS5UwsMJZpQTlgt1shIV6e3Uu9C1MkU_8wnotlu1i2Uo/s1600/Norwich+talk+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTqeBeORPLdpzj-0TAJeRLZSsgjeB4nfgSVfzwbUuGKSKwa1hyphenhyphenbEPC5iTBMnWVeiZAj5rFvh6kqHX_vGaxeN_-zhAObNy3vazS5UwsMJZpQTlgt1shIV6e3Uu9C1MkU_8wnotlu1i2Uo/s200/Norwich+talk+1.JPG" width="192" /></a><span class="apple-style-span">I have half an hour to return to the Travelodge and get changed for my talk at the fabulous Millennium Library. The attendance is good, the audience are generous listeners and ask wise questions (which thankfully didn’t include “What’s that gash at the end of your nose”) and buy a good number of books. Thanks to Sam, Katy and all at Writers’ Centre Norwich for including me in Summer Reads, and for organising it so well. I hope to have another book for you soon.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-27930747817594934692011-07-14T07:48:00.000-07:002011-07-14T07:48:49.857-07:00A Letter from Mexico<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday, I experienced a minor miracle. It didn’t involve any would-be saints, Andy Murray winning a tennis match, or even David Blaine. It concerned a letter sent from Mexico.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The person who sent it didn’t have my address, so she sent it to someone who might. They didn’t have it either but sent it to somewhere I had lived, and the person now living there, redirected the letter to my present home. Some three weeks after the envelope left Mexico, I managed to snatch it away from the dog before it was chewed to bits (another minor miracle) and opened it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LbXKiLXLYgWGmg_T-G2smFBoJEu_Hfxwlf5M2wzE2CcsQz_mq0r6WasobGtQmzI_YO7IXzglEJVtbMwSpM2eKXEQdD58zMNyO_K2yCtrTKBDJvfMFjxz8NECVRqHRdS2f_TqWn_n0_Y/s1600/Nina+in+Bellavista.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LbXKiLXLYgWGmg_T-G2smFBoJEu_Hfxwlf5M2wzE2CcsQz_mq0r6WasobGtQmzI_YO7IXzglEJVtbMwSpM2eKXEQdD58zMNyO_K2yCtrTKBDJvfMFjxz8NECVRqHRdS2f_TqWn_n0_Y/s320/Nina+in+Bellavista.jpg" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a lovely letter, from a lady called Nina, who, having read The Mango Orchard, journeyed over 800 kilometres from her home in Mexico City to have her photo taken in front of the Bellavista factory, a place which plays an important role in the book.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nina’s father, like my great grandfather, had set out from England for Mexico to work in the cotton industry, but unlike my ancestor, he stayed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u1ze7fadcXThVQf4dD8_HDOONAKdRFa3wiA2zRewCfSdzkfXuIPlXZOzpRSUBkbiJwxN4z0b4BgdS1VeVTeU6q-Wwnds7e2E88he3HwzaJIbqer0zLmyn9TfNZPdbxTQ21eDpEbhqr8/s1600/Nina+with+Juan+Ca%25C3%25B1as.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u1ze7fadcXThVQf4dD8_HDOONAKdRFa3wiA2zRewCfSdzkfXuIPlXZOzpRSUBkbiJwxN4z0b4BgdS1VeVTeU6q-Wwnds7e2E88he3HwzaJIbqer0zLmyn9TfNZPdbxTQ21eDpEbhqr8/s200/Nina+with+Juan+Ca%25C3%25B1as.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nina with Juan Cañas, curator of the museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I have received many very kind e-mails and letters from people who have read The Mango Orchard, and wanted to share the memories that the book provoked. As far as I know, Nina is the first person to travel so far to have her picture taken. I am very touched, thank you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-28930586267634293332011-06-29T04:33:00.000-07:002011-06-29T04:33:51.157-07:00Taking my time with Robert Elms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Y_6sUMzSFF_XpW69-g0I0R2XLsTpCzMEqxCdnkWAsR9LdMiBbcU0JMe1D3q2XcbSva03nRS4ZxJ2ZGIt4azghnrlxtI8MJ8i4EoKEOtt51tK8vVWiNM2QcGFQadjJq8iwGL5mDeo_g/s1600/_45854014_robertelms3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Y_6sUMzSFF_XpW69-g0I0R2XLsTpCzMEqxCdnkWAsR9LdMiBbcU0JMe1D3q2XcbSva03nRS4ZxJ2ZGIt4azghnrlxtI8MJ8i4EoKEOtt51tK8vVWiNM2QcGFQadjJq8iwGL5mDeo_g/s200/_45854014_robertelms3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I arrive at Broadcasting House to appear on Robert Elms’ BBC London programme twenty minutes early; I didn’t want to turn up late and breathless and pant into the microphone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I sign in at the security desk, sit and flick through the BBC staff magazine, Ariel. BBC reception areas seem to have been designed to give the impression that no licence fee money what so ever has been wasted on such frippery as comfortable chairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A young man with spiky hair and a heavy leather jacket appears at the security gates to take me up to the studio. He is about to speak when a man in a pork pie hat charges through the sliding doors. He is panting, red in the face, and cursing the inefficiencies of the Victoria Line. “I’ve just run all the way from Oxford f*cking Circus,” he says, and kneels in front of the water cooler and drinks several cups. I notice his hand is trembling. I decide against pointing out that the tube station is only about 100 yards away, or the fact that I had managed my own tube journey without a hitch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvanzMWnjweG6quq3rnG8Xpa0LgrAFaWAlu9OCkPIeMj7kKNtyy2QS_C0PnPxZvG4Qj-apohMCSKXQ08-RGWKGZieJESpLUcvseYhKXNVkaAm4Dn4bdwD51zdbeLqig1Qg_Xb1pvbghE/s1600/London+Underground+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvanzMWnjweG6quq3rnG8Xpa0LgrAFaWAlu9OCkPIeMj7kKNtyy2QS_C0PnPxZvG4Qj-apohMCSKXQ08-RGWKGZieJESpLUcvseYhKXNVkaAm4Dn4bdwD51zdbeLqig1Qg_Xb1pvbghE/s200/London+Underground+logo.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Still breathing heavily, the man in the pork pie hat accompanies us to the studio floor. As soon as the lift doors open, he barges out and runs straight into the studio. I sit in the waiting area, and listen on the wall-mounted speakers to his continuing complaints about the short comings of the underground system, this time without the cuss words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I had been told that I would be on-air just after 11, for about half an hour, but it’s 11.20 before I am called into the studio. I am introduced to Robert Elms and he tells me about his travels in Mexico as I am placed in front of a microphone on the other side of a padded desk from him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The theme for the programme today is genealogy, and I am here to talk about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.themangoorchard.com/">The Mango Orchard</a></i> as an example of a genealogical search which culminates in a remarkable discovery. I’ve been interviewed enough now to be able to tell the story about how I travelled in the footsteps of my great grandfather and discovered the Mexican village in which he had left over three hundred descendants, in several different ways. Today, Robert is getting the family history-themed, half hour version.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I am mystified <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when, only two minutes into my interview, Robert starts signalling for to me to make my answers shorter and snappier. What is he thinking? We’ve got thirty minutes to fill! The interview is almost over before I realise that, perhaps because of the late arrival of the man in the pork pie hat, I only have ten minutes. Or I had ten minutes. Suddenly it’s over and I am out in the street again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I walk to Oxford Circus station and get stuck on the Victoria Line</span></span>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-18944005391596567372011-05-25T07:40:00.000-07:002011-06-06T07:49:22.363-07:00Battling with Stupidity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">Last week, I was told by a doctor that I was suffering from “non-specific post-viral fatigue”. As well as utter exhaustion, the main symptom has been one of feeling a bit stupid, like a hangover when you’ve not been drinking. I have to confess that none of friends have noticed any difference.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHgpBc37s5ThgKmRBNG7hqBrYQwizjMHfLNNak-NoDSuqxgUBZGd2d8c0tvI0GHFewNoHU462DMNsvquEBDjU5_Srr3ix9j8KJkkFH_QXNyKmFmiAFTvNEtTcqk2DXzbGYZo5kPGgHk4E/s1600/DSC_1184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHgpBc37s5ThgKmRBNG7hqBrYQwizjMHfLNNak-NoDSuqxgUBZGd2d8c0tvI0GHFewNoHU462DMNsvquEBDjU5_Srr3ix9j8KJkkFH_QXNyKmFmiAFTvNEtTcqk2DXzbGYZo5kPGgHk4E/s200/DSC_1184.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">Feeling hungover is not necessarily such a problem. Sure, it makes writing a bit slower, but I can generally function. At the weekend though, I am due to appear at <a href="http://www.cowbridgebookfestival.com/">Cowbridge Book Festival</a> to talk about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.themangoorchard.com/">The Mango Orchard</a></i>. If I am to avoid the audience slow-hand clapping like the one Tony Blair suffered from at the hands of the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/june/7/newsid_2499000/2499641.stm">WI</a>, I have to have my wits about me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">I go to collect my train tickets from Paddington station. I pocket the tickets and go to buy some lunch. With one eye on the clock, I do a quick circuit of M&S and then shuffle slowly forward, mind in neutral, in the long queue waiting to pay. The lady at the checkout has a cheery round face and sing-song accent. She tells me how much I owe. I look in my wallet. My credit card has gone. I must have left it in the ticket machine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">After trying and failing to find the number of my credit card company – the number is, of course, written on the back of the card – I go into the ticket office to see if it has been handed in. Amazingly, it has. (Bless you, whoever you were.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJi0sDxEzc9Jwbc6A_B2ykwOJdEZKj48t99niF3X-5JRhZQmgVIF2QD0B5CS_6I4_H_qHufSaPG-J_EzvV4Itc4SsRwYGvlgI9gjKfaFOZigQqOngmVzT7rjT8PMNRfxuO3VpVBwRByg/s1600/DSC_1192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilJi0sDxEzc9Jwbc6A_B2ykwOJdEZKj48t99niF3X-5JRhZQmgVIF2QD0B5CS_6I4_H_qHufSaPG-J_EzvV4Itc4SsRwYGvlgI9gjKfaFOZigQqOngmVzT7rjT8PMNRfxuO3VpVBwRByg/s200/DSC_1192.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">I now have my credit card, but I still haven’t had my lunch. Feeling exhausted, a little stupid and hungry, is not a good combination. I have less than ten minutes to find something to eat and get on the train. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">I again rush around the aisles of M&S and then stand in the long, slow-moving queue. Again, I am served by the woman with a sing-song voice. She doesn’t seem to remember me, despite the fact that the last time she saw me, ten minutes before, I had cursed loudly, suddenly dropped my shopping basket and run out of the store.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">I find my train seat and sit down. I get out my paper, open my lunch, and spill it all over my one clean pair of trousers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">At Cardiff station, I wander down the platform, conscious of the dark stain in my crotch, and am greeted by my hosts, the local writer, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Miss-Shirley-Bassey-John-Williams/dp/1847249752/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1306331895&sr=1-1">John Williams</a>, and his wife Charlotte, also an acclaimed novelist. They live in a lovely, book-filled house over-looking a park. We sit in their conservatory as the sunlight fades and I feel myself relax. There’s something about being out of London that enables me to switch off more than I ever can in the capital.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjEsshF8qULUv02My2VJ62dQ0sTMc6nQW6g6zA0hShOydZspYLeRy8TyBN5f3HiTblpBhrYWamsT67eW6_yLuZSoK_4wKvavD8O2pCpQHW5kjrNTooo99Yh55NofhhKabUJOqU7gfbLM/s1600/IMG_0483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjEsshF8qULUv02My2VJ62dQ0sTMc6nQW6g6zA0hShOydZspYLeRy8TyBN5f3HiTblpBhrYWamsT67eW6_yLuZSoK_4wKvavD8O2pCpQHW5kjrNTooo99Yh55NofhhKabUJOqU7gfbLM/s200/IMG_0483.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signing a book for my beloved Godmother, who came to the talk</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;">I sleep soundly, but wake early as I am to be collected and taken to the festival at 9.30. I’m still feeling a bit stupid, but there’s nothing like a live audience to wake you up. I had worried I might forget my own name, but the talk goes well and the questions really make me think. As I write this, I am desperately trying to remember what their brilliant questions were… but I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit stupid again…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-67421014239587196892011-04-19T06:10:00.000-07:002011-04-19T06:10:00.442-07:00The Mango Orchard Paperback launch party<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf84n8Ph4bCMxoUTaZ7JAa5L-U6YkZuolbYpBkZJJ6JH85ybHIT24_lyvXoFElX3HK9y-EmKX5qatj0FUaeeDBQw5cids8lULpYHnbryq83NRZBjrdCuPAwRvlGhCzLJuB4_mOr5dJoHQ/s1600/PICT0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf84n8Ph4bCMxoUTaZ7JAa5L-U6YkZuolbYpBkZJJ6JH85ybHIT24_lyvXoFElX3HK9y-EmKX5qatj0FUaeeDBQw5cids8lULpYHnbryq83NRZBjrdCuPAwRvlGhCzLJuB4_mOr5dJoHQ/s200/PICT0051.JPG" width="200" /></a>I am deeply indebted to the <a href="http://www.visitmexico.org.uk/">Mexican Tourist Board</a> and the Mexican embassy who organised, and paid for, a press reception for the launch of The Mango Orchard paperback last week. Press, travel industry leaders, diplomats and VIPs gathered in the cool basement bar of the new <a href="http://www.wahaca.co.uk/html/1_restaurant4.html">Wahaca Soho</a> restaurant on Wardour Street for delicious canapés and truly lethal (but very moreish) tequila cocktails.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a humbling reminder that Mexicans are the world’s most generous hosts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gracias compañeros! <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6tphuttj87LJHXG0VvUeZbcuueZUA3RzsT2xRx5PK5e1jMYVZJH0pq6n4eWwSfiXTbPdFQ7T1P79ASdaM9iIxAFG_ahg4wo7z3s-dZZMnGgoh9lkOvDJ7X5fQhfktuSY-0mW28oukVM/s1600/Pablo+pic+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6tphuttj87LJHXG0VvUeZbcuueZUA3RzsT2xRx5PK5e1jMYVZJH0pq6n4eWwSfiXTbPdFQ7T1P79ASdaM9iIxAFG_ahg4wo7z3s-dZZMnGgoh9lkOvDJ7X5fQhfktuSY-0mW28oukVM/s320/Pablo+pic+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-20769843274935136112011-04-13T06:30:00.000-07:002011-04-13T06:30:14.555-07:00For Those About to Rock… a Cup of Gin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A Report from behind the scenes at the Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fMDHDYvn0Xq0btRKLp9tDNdLjgTP_JciMU6JZOO6_bDblBNE4BA-M76x-emmyoSozA7WHgLYWaF7x2I7_2lD3GwyqUF-zIcKztmXR2B-6t_6ugHH7Bj5vRZGfyH_U37MqjA_eX33-vM/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fMDHDYvn0Xq0btRKLp9tDNdLjgTP_JciMU6JZOO6_bDblBNE4BA-M76x-emmyoSozA7WHgLYWaF7x2I7_2lD3GwyqUF-zIcKztmXR2B-6t_6ugHH7Bj5vRZGfyH_U37MqjA_eX33-vM/s200/IMG_0299.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">If the Hay Literary Festival is the book world’s Glastonbury, then Oxford is its Reading. It’s simply huge. Over a ten day period, three hundred writers talk about their work in theatres, halls, oak-panelled rooms and marquees.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">As a writer appearing at the festival, it means I find myself chatting with travel writer Hugh Thomson, former BBC correspondent Sarah Mukherjee and legendary novelist Edna O’Brien; having lunch with David Starkey, or passing the time of day with Alan Yentob. If you will allow me to continue my musical analogy for a moment, I imagine like this is what X-Factor’s Olly Murs might feel like if he ever found himself rubbing shoulders back stage with Leonard Cohen and Van Morrison.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoYcsw5a9vX_r8DSdJYsO5sOBif3G-UFAV_Ggxwnr5UaaLzHwondWWOPV9Pw0EYFIOo1Gli1c93L1hCgYpAfpPMyQat_dSEq8p_uklJpuhB-ittiSe60cSdBNS0UJbtd-4z9SJ4WI8Dk/s1600/Olly-Murs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoYcsw5a9vX_r8DSdJYsO5sOBif3G-UFAV_Ggxwnr5UaaLzHwondWWOPV9Pw0EYFIOo1Gli1c93L1hCgYpAfpPMyQat_dSEq8p_uklJpuhB-ittiSe60cSdBNS0UJbtd-4z9SJ4WI8Dk/s200/Olly-Murs.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I first see Edna O’Brien when I enter the Green Room. She is sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, bright sunlight back-lighting her hair, giving it the appearance of a halo. I had left my bag by her chair and I am about to collect it when she stops me with an extended hand. “Are you here to interview me?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“No,” I reply, wishing I was. “But would you like a cup of tea?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“My dear,” she says, touching my elbow, “That’s just what I want. They only offered me gin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I had been offered gin too “for Dutch courage”, and in a tea cup “so no one will know.” Edna and I agree that facing an audience half cut is not a good idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Just before my talk is due to begin, I am asked to sign a book that has been signed by all the writers at the festival. The signature before mine is that of Ron Moody, he has drawn the figure of Fagin – a role that helped to make his name. I sign. No one will be able to read that, I think, so I draw a Mexican sombrero to give a clue. I am feeling quite pleased with it, until Edna points out that it looks like a traffic cone in a puddle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76BMdqnI8EgtHLtNwPxRCYTLhwdvlNyT_xXxM-I7-bASPNJA0H3aQvocg0Bl2B8a_g-JAnhwFh233-zJHqOEW0kh8E_8B6d5-d-p1w4LLSlqJvBrnhxMzRMRaMc3KVDEFmKHDBvhJLB0/s1600/Mexican+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76BMdqnI8EgtHLtNwPxRCYTLhwdvlNyT_xXxM-I7-bASPNJA0H3aQvocg0Bl2B8a_g-JAnhwFh233-zJHqOEW0kh8E_8B6d5-d-p1w4LLSlqJvBrnhxMzRMRaMc3KVDEFmKHDBvhJLB0/s200/Mexican+hat.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It’s then straight into the talk. It takes place in one of the oak-panelled chambers just off the main quad. The audience listens attentively, asks intelligent questions, and then buys a pleasing quantity of books.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">From there I go to the main tent to give my second talk, to a different audience about exactly the same thing. This talk is sponsored by Highland Park whisky. The concept is for the audience to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sample</i> their whisky, while they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sample</i> some readings. Clever, eh?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I generally try to start each talk with a joke or something that relates to the event. I wrack my brains, and the only link I can think to connect whisky with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mango Orchard</i> is that my great grandfather’s father drank too much of it and died of dropsy. Perhaps this is not the kind of thing I should mention.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwmTVRajNSXl9OTPVWejfqWFPkiLyo3Iw8pPHXvAIEWvjN1KxP71g2kn89NxA1qDpDtKKGNMDicrcd_bPAK0KVk6fDSeEF3eDqrufga7V7M7hFGQGZTpoVCHRsdH87kzjRA-Z9TICnPSw/s1600/IMG_0358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwmTVRajNSXl9OTPVWejfqWFPkiLyo3Iw8pPHXvAIEWvjN1KxP71g2kn89NxA1qDpDtKKGNMDicrcd_bPAK0KVk6fDSeEF3eDqrufga7V7M7hFGQGZTpoVCHRsdH87kzjRA-Z9TICnPSw/s200/IMG_0358.JPG" width="143" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">As I am waiting to be introduced, there’s an announcement for the beginning of an event with Terry Jones. At a stroke, I lose almost my entire audience. I start anyway, and bit by bit, the seats begin to fill. Eventually the crowd spills out beyond the entrance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Afterwards, a man approaches me. He congratulates me on the book and tells me how much he enjoyed my talk. He moves closer and says, conspiratorially, “Could you do me a really big favour?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Sure,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my pen to sign his book.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Could you possibly use your influence to get me another wee dram?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-22058658543306231032011-04-07T01:46:00.000-07:002011-04-07T01:46:41.379-07:00Early morning panic - it's launch day!<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I live opposite a pub. It’s a posh gastro pub – the kind of place that offers braised llama loin with a lemon and tarragon reduction, and charges the price of my book (£7.99) for a cup of frothy coffee. There’s generally a combination of yummy mummies, dog walkers and confused tourists sitting outside. I like this, as it allows me to imagine, just for the moment it takes me to walk past it on my way to the tube, that I live in a chic café society.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The only downside to where I live is that the ingredients to said pretentious menu seem to arrive at odd hours throughout the night. It is for that reason that I have been awake since the small hours; that and the sudden launch day panic and fretting about all I have to do in the next few days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Today I have to be in Oxford by 2pm to be interviewed by <span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/oxford/hi/tv_and_radio/newsid_8136000/8136620.stm">Jo Thoenes</a></span> of <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/oxford/hi/tv_and_radio/newsid_8136000/8136760.stm">BBC Radio Oxford</a> to talk about the book and my appearance at the <a href="http://www.oxfordliteraryfestival.com/">Oxford Literary Festival</a> on Sunday. I also have two other press interviews and have an article to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The last two articles I wrote are on sale today: <a href="http://www.familyhistorymonthly.com/">Family History Monthly</a> and <a href="http://www.family-tree.co.uk/this-month-ftm.html">Family Tree magazine</a>. It was tricky to write two completely different articles to similar audiences about the same subject, but I’m pleased with the result. Both issued look really good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I had better get on. There’s a press reception to attend to as well…<o:p></o:p></span></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-54371417748085042542011-03-30T09:59:00.000-07:002011-03-31T10:22:13.845-07:00Essex Book Festival<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwOYCkInuE7dihg4X07ltVzSg8wxL78L3yml5KVxV4Qz5ccrx-AK9hsYqGk-xuNJr_VuQZ4heZU0MgmEwHsbRrwT86SPdaKP1IT_X4wapLuphcmM5hfPBIQ8YvAzkmJsevRVGa0WKqDE/s1600/Poster+for+Essex+Book+Festival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwOYCkInuE7dihg4X07ltVzSg8wxL78L3yml5KVxV4Qz5ccrx-AK9hsYqGk-xuNJr_VuQZ4heZU0MgmEwHsbRrwT86SPdaKP1IT_X4wapLuphcmM5hfPBIQ8YvAzkmJsevRVGa0WKqDE/s200/Poster+for+Essex+Book+Festival.jpg" width="142" /></a>For the second time in two days, I find myself on the train heading from Liverpool Street station towards Essex. Today, I’m going to Prettygate Library in Colchester, to speak at the <a href="http://askchris.essexcc.gov.uk/ebf/default.asp">Essex Book Festival</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had allowed enough time to walk from the station, but when I arrive in Colchester, and I see the spitting grey sky, I jump into a cab. I arrive at the venue half an hour early so I while away the time in the nearby pub. The Jefferson Starship song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We Built This City on Rock and Roll</i> is playing on a loop on the jukebox, to about four regulars.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sylvia, the library supervisor, welcomes me. She introduces me to Karen, the Audience Development Officer (what a wonderful title!) and the rest of the staff. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks for your Tweet,” Sylvia says as she takes my coat. “And we heard you on <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p00fk24j/Steve_Scruton_29_03_2011/">Radio Essex</a> as well. We had a few people phone up after they heard you.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTd8SX2j6pVyVKgYbqCwfFt_TCBWVyvCJ4rUIHc7P7A2TiQ13Qt8JZ-nS7djzE89RZ-ZeCMFctNkLiwBFAscfL8Wi00FmTEwulsQYSptHA9J8W3gA39TUwYS4jP6BVriUIYwVrEEMdt3c/s1600/Just+like+that.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTd8SX2j6pVyVKgYbqCwfFt_TCBWVyvCJ4rUIHc7P7A2TiQ13Qt8JZ-nS7djzE89RZ-ZeCMFctNkLiwBFAscfL8Wi00FmTEwulsQYSptHA9J8W3gA39TUwYS4jP6BVriUIYwVrEEMdt3c/s200/Just+like+that.JPG" width="173" /></a>She takes me up to the staff room which looks out on to the car park. It is empty. I look up at the sky. It’s still grey and spitting. Will anyone come?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Karen comes up to collect me, and she has a smile on her face. I take comfort from this. As Audience Development Officer, I figure she wouldn’t be smiling if she hadn’t managed to develop a decent audience. Indeed, when we come down the stairs, I see that the library is full.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Karen’s job of developing the audience, I see, is not limited to getting them to come, she also acts as compere. “I think we have some of the local book group here,” she says, and the whole of the front row cheers. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The highlight of many talks is often the Q&A session; today is no exception. All the questions are intelligent and thought-provoking. One man tells me how much the book had meant to him because of his own family story which, in different circumstance, had also taken him to Mexico. There is real emotion in his tale, and I’m not the only one to be brushing away a tear. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8DisVk4Fm4f_b5COvpri2YUFuU5PeRvOhGmpIkfoLWMGnLLh12i9xBgrlH5z5aPxHJmH1YroYqJnwZL3YEBtzYO8AohFRJsqLodFVUhW33H1MuwjfCoo_Dbti838ay-_bTC2keqQEuw/s1600/6.+Pablo+replacing+a+tyre+on+the+yellow+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8DisVk4Fm4f_b5COvpri2YUFuU5PeRvOhGmpIkfoLWMGnLLh12i9xBgrlH5z5aPxHJmH1YroYqJnwZL3YEBtzYO8AohFRJsqLodFVUhW33H1MuwjfCoo_Dbti838ay-_bTC2keqQEuw/s200/6.+Pablo+replacing+a+tyre+on+the+yellow+car.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pedro</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Back to London and I go straight to the premiere of the Colombian film, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1426374/">Los Viajes del Viento</a></i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wind Journeys</i>, screened as a fund-raiser for <a href="http://www.friendsofcolombia.co.uk/">Friends of Colombia for Social Aid</a>. The film is stunning. I particularly appreciate it because the Colombian landscape is extraordinary and reminds me of the journey I did through Colombia with my friend Pedro (chapter 3 in The Mango Orchard) to La Guajira at the northern tip of South America.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I arrive home and check my e-mails. For the first time in nearly a year, I have a mail from… Pedro.<o:p></o:p></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-24365006417926550212011-03-29T11:49:00.000-07:002011-03-29T11:49:57.688-07:00From Proud Father to Drug-Dealing Pimp in Three Easy Steps<div class="MsoNormal">The final weeks before birth is I gather, the most tiring and tiresome period of pregnancy. You don’t sleep well and can never get comfortable. It reminds me of the old Joan Rivers joke: “I was screaming ‘get this damn thing out of me!’. Nine months earlier I was screaming the exact same thing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbUn_ECqt2CwP1DOQ2ts3hzWjWilDrOz1pJbJb7_qrVNME_c5pzEElonFUQWKifyRYACZc6ccgw8bIAsKjusUb9PmZfKiE55WzlW5-ZZ4t1KlznbtSgszIH1EUSkDXrwTs9bTpt1JMOI/s1600/Paperback+arrives.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbUn_ECqt2CwP1DOQ2ts3hzWjWilDrOz1pJbJb7_qrVNME_c5pzEElonFUQWKifyRYACZc6ccgw8bIAsKjusUb9PmZfKiE55WzlW5-ZZ4t1KlznbtSgszIH1EUSkDXrwTs9bTpt1JMOI/s200/Paperback+arrives.JPG" width="200" /></a>Women, especially mothers, tend to give me short shrift when I compare the publication of a book to having a baby. But after weeks of anxious waiting, and at least one false alarm, this morning the little bundle carrying the paperback (yes, with photos) finally arrives.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I rip open the box and there it is at last. I don’t have time to spend much quality time with my new arrival though, as I realise I am running late for my appearance on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p008b66t">Steve Scruton</a> show on BBC Radio Essex. I run to the tube, hoping someone will notice the book I am brandishing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDe10y-38XCw_pOLa0aF1BR2SoY4jTjRrpLWG5FtAjlfFfJhoCf_UZXyLrSLeBE4DkuFpr7wnhF0laM4lHVhnhccAYSd1asQzpV6U65RI_kxfuDBoviRRZgVRAUugXEVJ23zFcL5sdFdk/s1600/steve_scruton150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDe10y-38XCw_pOLa0aF1BR2SoY4jTjRrpLWG5FtAjlfFfJhoCf_UZXyLrSLeBE4DkuFpr7wnhF0laM4lHVhnhccAYSd1asQzpV6U65RI_kxfuDBoviRRZgVRAUugXEVJ23zFcL5sdFdk/s200/steve_scruton150.jpg" width="157" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Radio BBC Essex is in a white-walled building in a leafy part of Chelmsford. From the outside, if it weren’t for the BBC livery, it could be a posh dentist’s surgery. I walk into the studio as Steve is in the middle of a link. I sit down and squint at the wall-mounted TV screen showing BBC 24. The images are of men riding in the back of pick-ups carrying rocket-launchers. I read the caption at the bottom of the screen: “Lady Gaga.” That doesn’t make much sense, but I have poor eyesight, and I’m dyslexic, so I’m used to reading things that no one else sees. I look again, and see it says “Libya”. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQ3fq_viC0353c_Y6c3lcyEzr6qGej3-zp3NMjeLeh8h5saSNyReDlvoJFVS70_iuBVzTcByK9qro0IGDyQbhZ85unQ3Xk6PVlRXuf4t9k-kip2ksIIC30OJXycd2-KrCF8UZ9VPH8mc/s1600/lady+gaga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQ3fq_viC0353c_Y6c3lcyEzr6qGej3-zp3NMjeLeh8h5saSNyReDlvoJFVS70_iuBVzTcByK9qro0IGDyQbhZ85unQ3Xk6PVlRXuf4t9k-kip2ksIIC30OJXycd2-KrCF8UZ9VPH8mc/s200/lady+gaga.jpg" width="121" /></a>Steve finishes his link and leans across a desk of microphones to shake my hand. I like him immediately – open and friendly. “Thanks for the <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/RobinKBayley">Tweet </a>from the train,” he says. I’m always amazed that anyone reads them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The interview begins and before I know it, I find myself telling the story about how I nearly became a drug-dealing pimp in Colombia. This was probably not the kind of story Steve had in mind when he booked me, but we have a good chat and he very generously gives my appearance at the <a href="http://askchris.essexcc.gov.uk/ebf/Search.asp">Essex Book Festival</a> a good plug, and makes admiring noises – live on air – about my new pride and joy. <o:p></o:p></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-31795308274859207282011-03-22T05:53:00.000-07:002011-03-22T05:53:51.267-07:00Transvestites and National Treasures<div class="MsoNormal">A big thank you to everyone who came to hear me speak at <a href="http://www.wayswithwords.co.uk/festivals/the-lake-district-23">Words by the Water</a> last week, especially to Maggie and her book group, who suggested the festival to me in the first place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-p4MmkOd_sn-mB5q6VWEjezCPZQ2-Uel14OgZJrTaDwyVBhBSQ_dfgcr_-3NUqEk-l1JlexAdFGqCQ-svI0-y1_3PKY8Qvt_eB254LXEM7d2F8gXVmguNxbYyqoIpAKT5oLM8Cfju0fs/s1600/Keswick+ad+boards.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-p4MmkOd_sn-mB5q6VWEjezCPZQ2-Uel14OgZJrTaDwyVBhBSQ_dfgcr_-3NUqEk-l1JlexAdFGqCQ-svI0-y1_3PKY8Qvt_eB254LXEM7d2F8gXVmguNxbYyqoIpAKT5oLM8Cfju0fs/s200/Keswick+ad+boards.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had fully intended to tweet in between readings, but had forgotten that the Lake District is almost entirely a mobile free zone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was apparently a weak signal next to the lake, a few hundred yards from the theatre, but it was raining stair rods most of the time, and when it wasn’t, it was too cold for me to have any practical use of my fingers, so the update has had to wait until now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTWU8aR1AAUe2nkNwf0GhvPFVAIt7ogEEiGY_vMDf95OtcKu8Oy_3lnYAz2FDYtfmfFTSFUKhuWFT2Hy6DeTQxZPQiZc6RJSdDnxyodrf_PhyfG0GoUDl88UCMTHptfiiswsG9-7uj-8/s1600/Gadaffi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTWU8aR1AAUe2nkNwf0GhvPFVAIt7ogEEiGY_vMDf95OtcKu8Oy_3lnYAz2FDYtfmfFTSFUKhuWFT2Hy6DeTQxZPQiZc6RJSdDnxyodrf_PhyfG0GoUDl88UCMTHptfiiswsG9-7uj-8/s200/Gadaffi.jpg" width="200" /></a>Someone described Words by the Water as being in like “an interactive <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/">Radio 4</a>”. Indeed, Melvyn Bragg was there and I attended some wonderful talks by the likes of Peter Hennessy, Roy Hattersley <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and Jean Baggott. I also got to meet the brilliant John Gray and Ted Nield and had been promised an introduction to John Simpson, but Muammar Gaddafi had other ideas. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During my stay there I learned that there is only one lake in the Lake District (Bassenthwaite, all the others are officially “waters”, “tarns”, “meres” or reservoirs) and that David Lloyd-George sired over 50 illegitimate children in Carnarvon alone. I learned that in the 1950s, Britain’s nuclear deterrent depended on AA phone boxes and the Prime Minister’s driver having some loose change. I also discovered that JG Ballard refused to invest any money and kept everything he ever earned in his current account. I was told by a highly respected broadcaster and national treasure (who shall remain nameless) that he keeps fit by running up and down stairs… in the nude.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also in attendance most days at the festival was six-foot-something Welsh drag artist, who spent her days walking grandly through the theatre foyer claiming to be “the world’s first female baritone”, and trying to lure people up to the Sky Arts den to ‘see her arias’.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9.0pt;">Ps: Thanks to Jo-anne for her media advice!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-42922488639758667642011-03-16T04:53:00.000-07:002011-03-16T04:53:11.363-07:00Comic Relief in Carlisle<div class="MsoNormal">In The Lanes shopping centre in the centre of Carlisle, there’s a camera pointing at a booth specially erected for people to tell jokes for Comic Relief. A little boy with spiky hair is being urged by his friends to tell a joke. It looks like he has several in mind. He smirks to the camera: “What did the elephant say when he stubbed his toe?” He pauses for effect, and shouts, “Shit!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His friends shriek with laughter. The camera operator smiles as rolls his eyes. Another bit of footage that they won’t be able to play out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m here to be interviewed by the BBC Radio Cumbria legend, Gordon Swindlehurst, to promote my appearance at the Words by the Water Festival. Being a native of Lancashire and having lived in Mexico for a time, Gordon is the ideal person to talk to about The Mango Orchard. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC_rfqMhFaqhMFphgvv3W5W9RNz6Vtcf65lO9tGmEwGFU9WwDCD0wrWjbTLKb9k9GOG1Na75XdnZ0e_0ZgIQMXewRYNhhyQ5_YAn7TJDwNORkERVnXujfSqDqOidSt2nDaJX4px1P1ME/s1600/IMG_1081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC_rfqMhFaqhMFphgvv3W5W9RNz6Vtcf65lO9tGmEwGFU9WwDCD0wrWjbTLKb9k9GOG1Na75XdnZ0e_0ZgIQMXewRYNhhyQ5_YAn7TJDwNORkERVnXujfSqDqOidSt2nDaJX4px1P1ME/s200/IMG_1081.jpg" width="200" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had expected a massive bank of record decks and mixing desks, but thinking about it, that’s probably because the last outside broadcast I attended was a Simon Bates Radio 1 Roadshow, in about 1985. Things have obviously moved on. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gordon wears a pair of headphones and wanders around with a microphone with the casualness of someone chatting on a mobile. A woman from the local café delivers him a pasty and he gives a wink of thanks and continues to talk away.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As he takes a break for the news, a couple of women laden with bags of heavy shopping, approach him. “You must know some jokes,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh no,” replies one. “Only my husband.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Someone in the studio plays Day Tripper by the Beatles. I sit down next to Gordon and prepare for the interview. I notice that he has two sheets of paper on his clip board. On one I can see my name and a summary of The Mango Orchard. On the other sheet, the word “Duck” is written on the top.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UpAhxb2jCLwAbEHxEZELqI9IF1hAVgzIlM1odBIkfLAyL0WTFqb5302K0vqHNKma50R2EiHbSI6EyV2Nw5YWEx_ByRoyXd9w0qsPZtukGo8qIyf_CN1-RMAr4YCoMYAa7OmcZptv-k4/s1600/IMG_1079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UpAhxb2jCLwAbEHxEZELqI9IF1hAVgzIlM1odBIkfLAyL0WTFqb5302K0vqHNKma50R2EiHbSI6EyV2Nw5YWEx_ByRoyXd9w0qsPZtukGo8qIyf_CN1-RMAr4YCoMYAa7OmcZptv-k4/s200/IMG_1079.jpg" width="183" /></a>“What’s that all about?” I ask him just before the red light comes on. “You’ll see,” he says, enigmatically and then, in the space of 15 seconds, manages to link together some news about lager prices with some concept about a virtual pub, while some vaguely duck-like sound effects play in the background.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just as he deftly segues from this surreal monologue to introduce me and my book, a pneumatic drill starts up and a hailstorm begins to hammer down on the roof above us. Gordon, a true pro, carries on regardless and we have a great chat. Like all good broadcasters, he has the ability to make an interview seem like a chat in a pub. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interview over, I am encouraged to tell a Mexican-themed joke in the Comic Relief booth. I can’t think of one, so I opt for: “What’s green and sits in the corner? A naughty frog.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another joke that I’ll be surprised if they want to play out …<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">PS: Thanks to Adam for the photos</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-40580161845088493042010-12-16T08:38:00.000-08:002010-12-16T08:38:38.760-08:00Great grandparents of the Caribbean<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">I arrive in Manchester to film a short documentary for the BBC about the story told in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mango Orchard</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">. I hadn’t prepared for the night time dagger-like icy wind that rushes in to the carriage when I open the train door at Piccadilly station.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCHAazQOHFRycW1XqUez37KxWB_dXjf-SfkvLetj-9gIu7E01lIgqVVuf83uppj6HQ1TDVtUNBOYSpjsRKIZFAuag5CTzbX0BwMnuObop0jbnxNC-PK7u-wUm8VC9f01G55kTuFvkykY/s1600/IMG_0104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCHAazQOHFRycW1XqUez37KxWB_dXjf-SfkvLetj-9gIu7E01lIgqVVuf83uppj6HQ1TDVtUNBOYSpjsRKIZFAuag5CTzbX0BwMnuObop0jbnxNC-PK7u-wUm8VC9f01G55kTuFvkykY/s200/IMG_0104.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In the morning I am collected from my hotel by the person due to interview me, Judy, who happens to be an old friend of mine. She remembers my complaint about the lack of a hospitality suite when I have previously been on the BBC and very sweetly picks me up from my hotel with a bag full of fresh fruit, which of course, I don’t touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She drives me to Helmshore Mill, a working mill and museum, where we join the rest of the crew and I’m introduced to Christine Taylor, a local historian, invited to add some expertise on the area where my great grandfather grew up. I have lots of questions for her but every time I ask anything, Ged the producer stifles the conversation; he wants to capture my reactions to what she’s saying on film. It takes time to set up the shot, organise the lighting and microphones. I’m standing with Christine in front of a trestle table, on which are arranged photographs of Tottington in days of yore. I begin to leaf through them but am again told to wait until the cameras are running.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We talk about the weather.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The team is ready and just as the record light lights up on the camera, Ged says, “By the way, Christine has a surprise for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I have no idea what this surprise may be, but as I spent years<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>investigating my great grandfather’s story, I can’t believe that anyone has managed to uncover any document I haven’t yet seen, so I brace myself, ready to feign amazement. The camera is zooming in on me and I’m beginning to feel self-conscious. I realise that my face has frozen into a most unconvincing smile and as I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands I wedge one into my back pocket. This must look very camp but I hold the pose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Christine hands me two sheets of paper. “I found a letter your great grandfather wrote on his way to Mexico.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“What?!” I no longer have to pretend to be amazed. I am overwhelmed. I spent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">months</i> looking for this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I read the letter, and forget that cameras are aimed at me. I read about the storms he endured – just as I had imagined – but then I see where he wrote the letter: Jamaica. What the hell was he doing in Jamaica?? And it’s not just Jamaica. He describes going for a drive along the side of the abandoned Panama Canal project “hundreds of railway waggons and scores of engines rotting away…” He talks about passing though the Virgin Isles and Haiti, where “the natives worship a god called Omar, and it is a common thing for mothers to eat their babies as a sacrifice to this god.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not for the first time, my great grandfather has dumbfounded me. His journey to Mexico didn’t take five weeks, as I had understood; it took over seven months! What was he doing? Did he leave scores of other secret families scattered around the Caribbean? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Maybe I should pop over and have a look.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirT-a0oaCnSfLKqT04uFoD856eEChCmQLTr4UUi2k65QfSpSGo-Hx_yV7bkAyy5zu_v5EVN0VcKv6l4grICLXh7-blnWV6-WoRj8dV_xDXIKkFudVoyybOPvq66m9s473IH1I6s_L5AB4/s1600/beach_caribbean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirT-a0oaCnSfLKqT04uFoD856eEChCmQLTr4UUi2k65QfSpSGo-Hx_yV7bkAyy5zu_v5EVN0VcKv6l4grICLXh7-blnWV6-WoRj8dV_xDXIKkFudVoyybOPvq66m9s473IH1I6s_L5AB4/s200/beach_caribbean.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The filming continues at a handful of other north Manchester locations. Judy and I are filmed walking around the mill in Tottington where my great grandfather worked. The mill is now a carpet factory and there’s little evidence of the mill that there once was. Forklift trucks with enormous, spikes on the front like jousting sticks, speed around carrying roles of carpet from one end of the factory to another. I have rarely been in a factory before. It is deafening. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">How do I feel? Judy wants to know. It’s always a tricky one to answer. I’m not sure. I mutter something about my great grandfather and Judy is nodding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“That sounded like a close,” says Ged. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“That sounded like a close to me,” confirms the cameraman. I am not sure what I’ve just said. To find out, I guess I’ll have to tune in in the New Year when it is screened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-90105595049111728432010-11-02T07:44:00.000-07:002010-11-02T07:44:19.989-07:00Robbie Williams, Gary Barlow and me... the truth<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My friend Claire sends me a text message. ‘I’ve just heard the new Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow single on the radio,’ she says, ‘And they’ve nicked the opening line from your book.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I go on-line to listen to the song and read the lyrics. I’ve never tried to do this before, and I’m amazed how easy it is. Within 30 seconds of having received the text I am watching the video; an Americana Brokeback bromance gone sour and patched up within the four minutes and twenty three seconds it takes them to sing the song. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrr-rRyTgkTAXMAbNE24h0jmmgkmAv1f8424NA7PPyfY7GfXGAo8o1yC-T7tdZI5-gVMyHT2pVepuKTOQtykndLOA3PVBOsGOvYhRikccVpwaKOuPCRcPgYGUHZNho-CrHr4EL0F5XluE/s1600/gary-barlow-and-robbie-williams-pic-getty-1555272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrr-rRyTgkTAXMAbNE24h0jmmgkmAv1f8424NA7PPyfY7GfXGAo8o1yC-T7tdZI5-gVMyHT2pVepuKTOQtykndLOA3PVBOsGOvYhRikccVpwaKOuPCRcPgYGUHZNho-CrHr4EL0F5XluE/s200/gary-barlow-and-robbie-williams-pic-getty-1555272.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The song is okay, but the opening line is stunning: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">Well there’s three versions of this story mine, yours and then the truth” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I turn to page three, line eight and nine of The Mango Orchard:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“There are three versions of every story: my version, your version and the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They are virtually identical, apart from the fact that the line in The Mango Orchard is grammatically correct. My version was also released into the public domain over six months before the Robbie and Gary single came in to being. I post the observation on Facebook and Twitter. The responses come in thick and fast, most along the lines of “sue the bastards”. I even get some offers to help me to do just that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I don’t profess to be any legal expert – Igglepiggle from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the Night Garden</i> could probably be more reasonably expected to form a coherent legal opinion than me – but I’m pretty sure that taking two multimillionaire pop stars to court over a line which I copied from a conversation with my grandmother 35 years ago is probably not the right way to go.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCw_qO9hMO4cs1MtrOFvUXNhwv1-lkKbnq4Ai6j4pp5YzbbQB5NI019HzEiBXDvEMZIiU6PBc3bb6DtyPtWb82TsSgZSuP7FvIz7LW7S9wq_A0bkDOhpT3o1iP8EQM_Ql0fASf2rnL3Is/s1600/rOBBIE+AND+gARY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCw_qO9hMO4cs1MtrOFvUXNhwv1-lkKbnq4Ai6j4pp5YzbbQB5NI019HzEiBXDvEMZIiU6PBc3bb6DtyPtWb82TsSgZSuP7FvIz7LW7S9wq_A0bkDOhpT3o1iP8EQM_Ql0fASf2rnL3Is/s200/rOBBIE+AND+gARY.jpg" width="149" /></a><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I opt for trying to exact some PR advantage from the “coincidence”. I phone Robbie’s management company. A very well-spoken lady answers. I explain the situation and I can sense her hackles rising until I say that I’m not looking to take any legal action, I’m just interested to know if either Gary or Robbie have read my book, and if they haven’t, maybe they’d like to (and be photographed reading it). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘Well they are together at the moment, as they are promoting the single,’ she says. ‘Send me an e-mail with the details and I’ll forward it to them. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I send the mail and wait. And wait. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A week goes by and I haven’t heard anything, so I phone up. Again, a very well-spoken voice answers my call. I ask for to speak to Sarah and am told that she is in a meeting so I explain to the well-spoken voice about the similarity of the line in the song to my book, and say I am interested to know if either of the two singers has read The Mango Orchard. She asks me for my details and says Sarah will call me back the moment she returns from her meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘Thank you very much,’ I say, ‘and can you give me your name?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There is a pause and hear panic. Then very meekly she says, ‘Sarah...’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There are three versions of every story; mine, yours and ‘they’re in a meeting’.</span></span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></span></span>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-13503337045176803082010-07-08T04:14:00.000-07:002010-07-08T04:16:26.512-07:00The Great Social Quandary<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">First of all, an apology to all those people to whom I promised I would write regularly during my recent trip to Mexico. Initially I was just enjoying the holiday; for the first time in several years, I was not spending every waking moment trying to carve copy out of what I saw round me, and then, after a few weeks of not doing very much, the only thing of interest that was going on was something which I couldn’t talk about. Still can’t. Maybe I’ll explain in a few weeks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Apart from kicking back and doing very little with the sun on my face, the main purpose of being in Mexico was to visit the family, and take The Mango Orchard home. The family held the book like a newborn. Their faces shone with excitement and pride. And then they flicked through the book to see what I had said about them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The BBC took advantage of my trip by giving me a camera to film some scenes for a documentary, due to be aired later in the year. They asked me to film some typical Mexican scenes, as well as me talking with the family, and visiting the cotton mills where my great grandfather worked... and from where the initial sprouts of rebellion that became the Mexican Revolution began.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a few weeks with the family, I went on a road trip around the country, often finding myself in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cotos Privados</i> – gated communities with identical houses, arranged round swimming pools, pristine lawns and 24 hour security. These places are safe, that’s why people like them. Children play in the street, doors remain unlocked, but I couldn’t help feeling I was on the set for the Truman Show.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Chcb6sFfAlOBsmUWOMzv1kMGCAf_mrnnHWk5hC-hJkSlDPSIbOacpR0dsp8jr6aYVVTwZAXT8b5-1xQV7OaCR-Z1rF9X-DWVObMKrY7kuzo0aHL2ex-wUM02a8F_Vuv29TJStllR_aE/s1600/DSCF0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Chcb6sFfAlOBsmUWOMzv1kMGCAf_mrnnHWk5hC-hJkSlDPSIbOacpR0dsp8jr6aYVVTwZAXT8b5-1xQV7OaCR-Z1rF9X-DWVObMKrY7kuzo0aHL2ex-wUM02a8F_Vuv29TJStllR_aE/s320/DSCF0190.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Staying in these new, posh estates gave rise to the Great Dilemma. Not about whether or not it is morally right to have great swathes of urban space from which the general public cannot enter. No, something of much greater importance: this is the ultimate social quandary... about toilet paper. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">In most bathrooms around Mexico, and indeed of all Latin America, next to the toilet is a wastepaper basket. Everyone knows not to throw paper (or anything else) in to the loo. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">But surely the people who had built these state-of-the-art houses in which I was staying had bothered to install modern plumbing, no? It’s not a question you can easily ask, though. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">You are suddenly faced with a predicament: what would be more embarrassing, to be responsible for blocking the pipes with paper they weren’t designed for and flooding the house with raw sewage, or to put your soiled toilet paper in a bin normally used for cotton buds and empty shampoo bottles? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s a question I pondered long and hard. I generally felt that flooding the house with raw sewage would be marginally less embarrassing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Any thoughts?</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-36478816705253170172010-05-27T19:40:00.000-07:002010-05-29T05:43:25.998-07:00Speaking to Mexico from my roof<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day does not begin well. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">When I stumble out of bed I get a sharp, stabbing pain in my lower back. It’s a familiar pain which afflicts me every six months or so, and over the years has kept several osteopaths, chiropractors and acupuncturists in gravy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The most painful part is always getting dressed. I hop around my bedroom, swearing loudly for about ten minutes, trying to get my trousers on. What I really want to do is swallow handfuls of strong pain-killers and go back to bed but I have to get up. I have things to do. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I rub in some deep heat cream and hobble to the bank to order my travellers’ cheques for my trip to Mexico next week, and then hobble back in time to be interviewed over the phone by the Manchester Evening News. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Interview over, I set about tidying the flat in preparation for the arrival of a film crew from Televisa, Mexican’s biggest TV network. And just in case they want some tea, I pop out to the shops to buy some milk. I have never known any Mexican to drink tea, but you never know. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The rushing to the shop and bending over to pick things off the floor does my back no favours. I swallow some pills and rub in more deep heat cream. I realise the flat is beginning to smell like a rugby changing room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s five minutes until Televisa are due to arrive and I remember I need to send a text to someone I am due to meet this evening. But where is my phone? I looking on my desk and in the kitchen, I pat my pockets, look in the jacket that I wore to the bank. It’s not there. I call my number from the landline so I can track it down. It goes straight to voice mail. That’s what happens when someone steals your phone: they take out the SIM card so they can sell the handset. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I swear again. And again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s now 3pm. The Mexicans are due to be here, but I need my phone so I can concentrate on my interview. If I have left it at the shop, the sooner I get there, the more likely I am to find it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My mobile is not at the shop. That must meant that unless I dropped it on my way to or back, my neighbours, the ones I have only seen once, when I asked them not to make so much noise in the mornings, must have broken in to my flat and stolen it. The bastards.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">When I get back, there is a Mexican film crew standing at my front door, looking at their watches. I lead them upstairs and try to forget about the phone. It’s my first interview in Spanish, and I am a little apprehensive; in any interview one needs to be pithy and concise. That’s tricky enough in English, much more so in a second language. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We are standing on the roof terrace and I am talking into a Televisa microphone that the journalist is holding towards me. I try to imagine my Mexican aunts and uncles eating their breakfast sometime next week, and what their reactions will be when I suddenly appear on the screen. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ay, mira, es Robiiiin!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After the interview they film me sitting at my desk pretending to be fascinated by what’s on my computer screen, looking through the photos of Mexico, and finally, of me walking out of the door with my rucksack, pretending to go to the airport. The pain my rucksack gives me when I sling it over my shoulder for the camera does not bode well for my trip to Mexico.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I now have to sort out my stolen phone. I spend over an hour cancelling and replacing the SIM card and convincing the insurance company to give me a new handset. They eventually agree, but say they can’t deliver it straight away. I won’t receive it until July. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s 5.30pm now and I remember I am meant to be meeting someone at 6pm. Her number is of course on my phone which has been stolen and the SIM cancelled. I send her a mail, hoping to reach her before she leaves the office. My laptop has gone into hibernation mode and as I wait for it to warm up, I move some papers. And my mobile phone falls on the desk. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-71658785998175472892010-05-22T03:42:00.000-07:002010-05-22T03:42:22.315-07:00Speaking to the nation from a cupboard under the stairs<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My taxi pulls up to the gate at BBC TV Centre. The security guard asks the driver who he is there to see. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to where I am sitting. The back windows must be tinted because the security man peers through the driver’s open window to look at me. From the look of disappointment on his face, he had been hoping for someone famous. He checks his list, and the car is allowed through and I walk into the grand art deco entrance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I am due to be taken to the 5Live studio. A producer is to meet and prepare me for the interview which will take place “down the line” to the Stephen Nolan programme in Manchester. For some reason, the receptionist insists that the producer doesn’t work there, and escorts me to a tiny studio under the stairs beneath the reception of Television Centre.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">There are no producers to be seen. This can’t be right. “No problem,” says the receptionist, “It will all work fine, as long as this light is on here,” indicating the power switch on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It is the hottest day of the year and there is no air-conditioning. I undo a couple of shirt buttons and gulp some water as I look around. The “studio” resembles a store room more than a place from which one can broadcast to the nation. The new government may well whine about excessive spending at the BBC, but I can assure them that there has not been any excessive spending here. There are two pairs of headphones on the coffee-stained table, one of them is in several pieces, the other has wires escaping from some unstuck gaffer tape. I sit on the chair and sink so low I can barely rest my chin on the desk top. I reach for the headphones, which I have to hold in place so they don’t slip off my head, and wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Nothing happens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Sweat is dripping off me now. The interview is meant to begin any moment and I have doubts that anyone knows I’m here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I am about to return to reception and demand to speak to a producer when lights begin to flash on the console in front of me and I can hear the disembodied voice of a producer in Manchester, sounding as if he is leading a séance. “Robin, are you there?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Before I know it, I am speaking to Stephen Nolan and we begin the interview. It’s probably available on iPlayer somewhere, but I wouldn’t encourage anyone to listen to it. Stephen was very good, but his interviewee was not at his best. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I notice my shirt is soaking wet when I stagger back up the stairs. I turn my phone back on and see I have several messages from London-based 5Live producers, no doubt speaking from plush, air-conditioned studios, wondering where on earth I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-55803699061036473012010-05-21T07:49:00.000-07:002010-05-21T07:50:03.659-07:00A sleepy reflection on the week<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s Friday afternoon and it’s time to reflect on the week. I think the achievement of which I am most proud is managing to sleep through the chainsaw of the tree surgeon working in the next door garden. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I did work up in a blind panic though, thinking I had also managed to sleep through the taxi due to take me to the BBC at 7.30. Fortunately, I now realise that I have another four hours to fully wake up. The taxi is to take me to record an interview for the Stephen Nolan show on BBC 5Live, which will be played out tonight, tomorrow or Sunday. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbGkSCsOt_UFEIgsPcLHJ_ItNs4axmvpLjmpelzemAzE9M_sKerbIKMaxhdqbWNC6CmsmjWEEJPAwGGJ5L3pzD8Mj_phuo91i5H2hoWQjFcZo9vIKt2R66h1D72Zb1JdcjIGq3GhoATc/s1600/article+lo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbGkSCsOt_UFEIgsPcLHJ_ItNs4axmvpLjmpelzemAzE9M_sKerbIKMaxhdqbWNC6CmsmjWEEJPAwGGJ5L3pzD8Mj_phuo91i5H2hoWQjFcZo9vIKt2R66h1D72Zb1JdcjIGq3GhoATc/s320/article+lo.jpg" /></a>Unless I fall asleep again (and you never know), you can listen to the interview on <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0070jd4">http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0070jd4</a> .</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Tuesday there was a really well-written article in The Times by Helen Rumbelow. I noted that she seemed to suggest I have commitment issues, though...</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-3665272711363328682010-05-13T22:05:00.000-07:002010-05-18T11:08:36.972-07:00Summer Party<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have been invited to my publishers’ summer party. The invite, which arrives in a calligraphy-written envelope, evokes the type of “Dahling! Love your dress! Mwaa, mwaa” soirée at which my friends seem to assume all writers spend their evenings. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Shortly before I leave the house, I call to check the dress code. This turns out to be a good move, the dress code is very strict, and I dig out some clothes I wore in the days when I had a job to go to. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I arrive and I am ushered through to a Georgian drawing room and given a sticker with my name on. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I mingle. Momentarily, it feels like I am walking into the playground on my first day at school and I am the only person who doesn’t know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everyone</i> else. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then I realise I do know some people, even if they don’t know me. Sebastian Faulks is the first person I notice, predictably surrounded by an adoring crowd. Then I spot Ross Kemp – I think I have only ever seen him in is Extras and the Labour Party election broadcast, in which he was very convincing, but has he written a book? I decide not to ask him this question. He looks pretty hard.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I see another bloke built like an armour-plated Hummer. He has a tree trunk neck and slightly cauliflower ear. I assume he must be a rugby player, here to promote his memoir. I watch him move fluidly through the multitude, trying to work out where I have seen him before. He collects a glass of champagne from a waitress and returns to a petite woman encircled by a group of people. Then I realise who he is when I recognise the woman he is cuddling: the publishing sensation Katie Price. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Trevor, my publisher, sees me and introduces me to a glamorous lady from the Daily Mail with sparkly eye-liner. She tells me about her book, about “William Harry”. I have never heard of the man, but don’t want to reveal my ignorance and so nod and ask what angle she has taken. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It’s not until she talks about Kate Middleton that I realise she said “William and Harry”. Even I know who they are. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-22214634733260526772010-05-11T09:49:00.000-07:002010-05-11T09:49:52.667-07:00Non-pulp non-fiction<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwx1dkO7G6SeZD6eo-V17JYC9d0T-t2N4jHCUqJCQsTtsQCT5zwXG3nT8JuWoYlS7BnrevkOWXfH-h5ftwq3ZEs4hvAk-hnOlMdd2ZhdzCcP7UxeaviS9VaDJZvK-2tToUM_u0O-l5h8/s1600/Independent+Review+11.5.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwx1dkO7G6SeZD6eo-V17JYC9d0T-t2N4jHCUqJCQsTtsQCT5zwXG3nT8JuWoYlS7BnrevkOWXfH-h5ftwq3ZEs4hvAk-hnOlMdd2ZhdzCcP7UxeaviS9VaDJZvK-2tToUM_u0O-l5h8/s320/Independent+Review+11.5.10.jpg" /></a>I was woken this morning by a text from my friend Luke. He was calling me Tarantino Bayley. I had no idea what he was talking about until I bought a copy of The Independent: <a href="http://bit.ly/aaxFUN">http://bit.ly/aaxFUN</a> </div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-73055079563166623652010-05-05T22:19:00.000-07:002010-05-10T08:22:12.176-07:00Press and Biscuits<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am up early. A journalist and photographer from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Times</i> are due this morning and the flat is a tip. I also realise that I have no biscuits to offer them. Or milk, or tea, or coffee. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">While I am out, my agent calls me to tell me that a radio station, having seen an article about the book in a newspaper, is interested interviewing me about the film version of the book. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Fine,” I say, not really concentrating as I try to decide between All Butter Flapjacks or Luxury Chocolate Chip Cookies.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I go for the Flapjacks and fret all the way back to the house whether I have made the right choice. I am plumping up cushions, and wondering whether I should pop out for the Chocolate Chips when the journalist arrives. I take her coat and offer her a cup of tea or coffee and hope the biscuits are acceptable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just a glass of water, thanks,” she says as she gets out her notepad and Dictaphone. I knew I should have gone for the Chocolate Chips. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The Dictaphone is as big as an old mobile phone and squeaks as the spools turn. Somehow, I find this reassuring. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am impressed by the thoroughness of her interrogation. She drills down deep on the parallels between my great grandfather and me, and our attitudes to relationships, family and commitment. Afterwards I feel like I have been on the psychiatrist’s couch and just hope that my answers make good copy. Being interviewed in the press is a bit like being in an exam; you never really have any idea how you have done until the results are published. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Shortly after she leaves, the photographer arrives. I was hoping for a coterie of make-up and wardrobe assistants, and that I would get a whole season’s worth of free clothing, but it’s not that type of shoot, apparently. It’s just the photographer and me. He photos me on the roof terrace, the landing and the stairs. “Stair wells often have good light,” he says. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">As he is setting up the last shot, the researcher from BBC Tees phones to make sure I’m okay to be interviewed for the primetime show. I say I am and go back face the camera.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">An hour later and I am on the phone, listening to BBC Tees. I am staring out of the window, my mind drifting. Suddenly, I’m on. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And we’re now joined by the writer of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mango Orchard</i>, which is about to be made into a Hollywood feature film.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have to answer briefly, and positively, about the movie which is far from being finalised. I talk about the conversations, rather than the inconclusive nature of them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why do you think your book will make a good film?” she asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I tell the story. I talk about the tales my grandma told me as a boy, about the bandits and the bags of silver and the narrow escape from the Mexican Revolution. Then I talk about my journey, about how I tracked down the small village near a small town near Guadalajara... Over five minutes as gone and I haven’t heard a word from the interviewer. Is she still there? I carry on talking about the factory where my great grandfather worked, about my newly-found uncle who greeted me... I still haven’t heard a thing and I wonder whether it is more pathetic to be speaking to a dead telephone line, or to say “Hello? You there?” in the middle of a live broadcast.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Finally she interrupts me. “Who would you like to play you in the film?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“James McAvoy,” I say. I <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">like </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Martin Compston</span>, who recently starred in The Disappearance of Alice Creed, but I momentarily forget his name.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I hang up and open the packet of All Butter Flapjacks. </span></span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-3459060344943272192010-04-23T06:16:00.000-07:002010-04-23T06:16:02.699-07:00Chatting for the first time<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Last week I did something I have never done before. And it being the first time, I was abit rubbish at it. I was a chat virgin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I have had one-to-one chats on Facebook but until last week, when I was invited to chat to individual readers and reading groups around the country, was the first time I had been involved in a mass-chat. I’m fairly sure that’s not the right terminology and saying “mass-chat” is a bit like your dad talking about musical combos or the hit parade, but hey, you know what I mean.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I logged on to the site <a href="http://www.rchatrandom.co.uk/archive.asp?sessionid=42">http://www.rchatrandom.co.uk/archive.asp?sessionid=42</a>. Nothing. I waited some more, and still nothing happened. The moderator sent me a text saying that there was a glitch. Questions began to appear: Was I still in a relationship with Juanita? What were my motivations for writing the book? How did I keep track of the conversations contained in the book?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">All I could do was sit and look at the screen and watch the questions build up: was I s<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">urprised at the large number of relatives you found in Mexico?</span> Would I like to give a talk on the book at Words by the Water at Keswick?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">After about fifteen minutes, the screen finally flickered to life and then I had to write as fast as I could to try and answer all the questions before the clock ticked down. It was like being in an exam, but with nice questions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">After an hour, time was up. The screen went blank and I having spent an hour typing to furiously to people all over the country, I found myself alone in a dark room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I got up and made something to eat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-60062801281683439322010-04-15T09:27:00.000-07:002010-04-16T05:29:24.809-07:00Reading at Hampstead Waterstones<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day of the reading in Hampstead arrives. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I receive a flurry of e-mails from friends who are Arsenal fans, making their excuses. It’s the local derby, they’re sure that I understand. I have long learned that one can’t fight football. My 40<sup>th</sup> birthday was the day that England played Portugal in the quarter final of the 2006 World Cup. Love me as they do, I knew there was no chance of getting more than a smattering of anti-football friends to attend any party that night.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Tonight though, I have no choice. I agreed to talk about my book a long time ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I enjoy talking about my book; it’s certainly easier than writing it. My only fear is that no one will turn up. I dread speaking to rows of empty seats. It used to happen sometimes when, in my TV days, I used to fly to conferences obscure parts of Eastern Europe to talk about my TV channel. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I once travelled for seven hours to attend a film festival in Czech Republic. When I arrived, the organiser, a corpulent man with a thick moustache and permed hair, said that he wanted me to host a press conference. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">No one had said anything about a press conference. I couldn’t think who would be interested in listening to me give a press briefing when I had nothing to announce, but he insisted that local press would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fascinated</i> to hear from me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He led me into a lecture theatre, where there were three people sat at the back. One of them, I discovered later, was the organiser’s wife, another, was lost and walked out as soon as I began to talk. The other woman was, she insisted, a journalist.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I talked about my TV channel for about ten minutes, until I could think of nothing more to say, then I asked if anyone had any questions. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The one journalist put up her hand, and asked if I could help her. I said I would try. “My TV hasn’t worked for months,” she said. “Do you know where I can get it fixed?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I arrive at Waterstones in Hampstead, where I see three people and about 35 empty seats. My heart sinks. I am led upstairs to the staff room, a spacious room with a sofa and large coffee table, on which are two bottles of kosher wine. The charming girl who is charged with looking after me offers me a glass, and tells me tales of previous speakers – some of whom are household names – and how much they had to drink before, during and after their talk.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">She leads me back downstairs. I have a feeling of dread and prepare to tell rows of empty seats all about my journey in the footsteps of my great grandfather.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">There are three empty seats at the front. All the rest are taken. As I begin my talk, more people arrive, then more. Two extra rows are added as I speak. Having spent five years writing this book, it is pleasing in the extreme that people are interested to hear what I have to say about the experience. The questions are plentiful and intelligent.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then we all go to the pub. </div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-354546644364789252010-04-09T23:12:00.000-07:002010-04-14T03:15:29.746-07:00Better out than in<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It turns out that it wasn’t a hangover, or brain cancer. I go to see the dentist who tells me I have a “mischievous wisdom tooth”, and pulls it out. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I now have a disconcertingly large hole in my mouth, but my headache has gone. Looks like I’ll make Wednesday’s reading after all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330309260584918757.post-51006553515922590402010-04-07T17:26:00.000-07:002010-04-13T04:27:53.179-07:00Will I live long enough to give my talk?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Four days after my big night out and the hangover is no better. I’m dizzy, my brain feels like it has been replaced by candyfloss, clamped with a vice and muffled with a tea-cosy. My thought processes are slow, and a long way from my mouth – not a good day to be talking to the press. Today it has been women’s and genealogy magazines, and the regional newspapers in the North Yorkshire.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I go for a walk to the newsagent to clear my head. I buy the Ham & High to look at the interview I gave to promote my talk at <a href="http://bit.ly/info/9niK1s">Hampstead Waterstones</a> on 14<sup>th</sup> April<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">. </span></span>The interview is not there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I write to the interviewer and am told the piece was filed to late and will appear next week, a day after my appearance at Waterstones.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have a lie down but can’t sleep; my head is too painful. I convince myself that I have a brain tumour, and wonder if I will live long enough to give my talk. </div>Robin Bayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07662033510773846895noreply@blogger.com0