Friday, August 12, 2005

Lost Vagueness

I'm at the end of a week off work - with another to come. Having a fortnight off work is luxury - I've been exceptionally fried recently, so I'm hoping this will get my Foo back. It's maybe not the most relaxing leave ever, as I have a website to build, a strategy document to finish for a friend, and spent the first three days of the week preaching the future to the great and good of UK TV drama.

Well, when I say preaching, I really mean standing in a rather well-appointed diningroom in Soho House, waving small shiny boxes at a variety of TV bigwigs, whilst physically shaking with terror. It didn't help that one of the people I had to convince about the changing way that people consume telly and narrative stories was Gareth Neame, who would last have known me as the slightly mad secretary in the office next door. As it was, he said hello, and then wandered off to talk to someone more interesting; let's hope he doesn't remember. Or was filled with terror that the young turks are at the gate, or something. After all, I had been for a drink with his ex-secretary the previous week, who is now head of development at a film company, completely changing their business practices, and being invited to parties on Paul Allen's yacht at Cannes. Besides which, frankly, mad armwaving girl in Soho House looks like abject failure.

The other of the terrible PA trio is also a head of development, and has just finished her first screenplay.

Must. Try. Harder.

Life does have a way of changing in odd ways though, and I'm hoping an upcoming change of job will also help to blast me out of my rut. As ever, the sides are particularly steep and slippery at the moment, as I find myself in a proper relationship. Does anyne else find that the fact of having another friendly body around the place seems to sap their will to do anything remotely constructive with their time? And just when I was looking forward to a year or two of creative singledom, too.

And so to my current situation. I am sitting in a rather untidy livingroom in a small flat in Brighton. The cricket - the cricket - is burbling away on the tv in the corner, and my boyfriend - my boyfriend - is noodling around sorting out camping equipment somewhere in the environs. We're off to Lost Vagueness, a weekend festival of... well, I'm not sure. But it does involve dressing up, some of my favourite new friends, and dressing up. Ah, the dressing up.

This moring was spent running around Brigton like loons, collecting random items of clothing like power-ups in an early platformer. Our booty consists of:

A Vintage sheepskin Flying Jacket
A pair of beige combat trousers
A pair of Khaki Shorts
A Dinner Jacket
A Tweed Riding Jacket
A German Army Peaked Cap
A Shirt, White, Mens, RN *
A pair of Russian Goggles
A Leather flying Helmet
A Scarlet Bow Tie

So, yes, the holiday has begun, we're off to endulge our love of dressing up like eeediots in a field (with GIN! Rah!) and I'm very much looking forward to it. Keep your eyes on the flickr stream for pictures of us making tits of ourselves on monday...

* An observation; all military clothing is labelled as if by taxonomists.


Skip said...

No matter how scared you were of them... they were probably more scared of you...

And how can you be a failure if you're intimidating these folks?

Broadband Ian said...

My Gareth Neame story:

He was my first on-camera interview for the Spooks 2 DVD releases, the morning after two of the cast had, post-commentaries, taken me pubbing and a clubbing on an entirely empty stomach.

I therefore interviewed Gareth in a closed hotel room with 2 800W lights:

a) Stinking of alcohol
b) Smelling of somebody else's fags
c) Wondering vaguely where I'd lost my Oyster card rather than what I should be asking him
d) Wondering that if I did chuck up all over him as was seeming to about to be the case, how many seconds would elapse between the eruption and the sequence appearing on the Interweb.

But I survived, Gareth was a lovely chap, and the day worked out.

So the lesson for if you're meeting one of British TV's most important figures: get pissed off your face the night before.