Fat Pigeons

I was living in Los Angeles when Ronald Reagan died.

The body was lying in repose in the Presidential Library in Simi Valley, just to the north-west of LA, so I went to see it. I thought: I’ll probably never get the chance to pay my respects to such a historical figure again, so I should go there while I can.

The drive took about an hour, and after parking up I stood in a line for several more hours. Eventually we were shuttled into a bus, from whence we joined another line until we came to a little room in which we saw the casket.

Some people cried as they walked past. Some sniffed and held back their tears. Some looked at their lovers or children, and held them tight. Most looked serious, thinking hard about what this man and his life had meant to them.

There wasn’t supposed to be any stopping but I asked the guard at the exit if I could stay there in silence for a couple of minutes to pay my respects and he said yes.

So I stood there in silence, contemplating mortality, before moving on.

A hundred thousand of us, standing in line to look at a man in a box. And that’s all we are, when our lives finally draw to a close. People in boxes, for a short time. Another collection of atoms, no longer animated, soon to be parted from each other for ever. And what remains of the things we have done in this life are the memories of those who we’ve touched, the words written about us after we’re gone, and the ideas that we’ve passed on to others.

Last week, I went to Nanna’s interment. As I expected, the Christmas of 2011 was the last that we spent together. She was cremated shortly after she died, and on Monday we put her ashes in the ground at last.

We got her a plaque for five years in a suburban cemetery close to where she used to live. They don’t sell you the space in a public cemetery. Instead, you rent it for a certain number of years, and then (unless you want to pay more at that point to keep it up for longer) they give you the plaque to take home and do with what you will. And then they replace your notice of remembrance with some other mother’s, daughter’s, grandmother’s, lover’s, sister’s, wife’s.

About a dozen of us were there when the ashes were poured into a small hole in the ground.

It was also the day that Margaret Thatcher died. Most of us found out at the wake.

Today was Baroness Thatcher’s funeral. It was a much bigger affair than Nanna’s. She was carried up Whitehall in a gun carriage. Her Majesty the Queen attended. The only real difference between it and a state funeral was that everyone would have got the day off for a state funeral. The funeral cost an estimated 10 million pounds, almost all of which was met by the taxpayer.

We paid for Nanna’s funeral ourselves, from the estate.

I didn’t feel the need to go to Margaret Thatcher’s funeral. But I have spent some time reflecting on her death. When she came to power, the Unions were indeed overpowerful. But then came the madness.

Poverty in the UK became higher.

Distribution of wealth became more unequal.

The nation’s social housing stock was sold and not replaced, resulting in a housing bubble that has blocked many young people from owning their own houses for more than a decade and is set to get much worse.

I thought about this as the preparations for Baroness Thatcher’s funeral continued. About her life, and her death, and the legacy she has left us all.

Funerals are for the living, the us, the left-behind. A funeral marks a transition between life and death, but not for the person who is gone. They don’t care. They don’t come back.

Many years ago there used to be a tradition in this country called Rough Music. A ritual humiliation for those who have violated the standards of the community. No physical harm was done, but a message was sent that what they had done was wrong. A banging of pots, a shaking of pans, a rattling and a shouting and a caterwauling and a making of noise to let the wrongdoer know that They. Have. Done. Wrong.

The funeral for Baroness Thatcher began at 11am today. The people there were silent in their respect for the dead, and I would not take that away from them. I took no pleasure in the death of an old woman, and her family and friends deserve the time to pay their respects, and be alone with their grief. A funeral service is a time for quiet reflection and for mourning the dead.

But she did wrong. Not to one, or to several, but to many. A grievous wrong and one which has yet to be put right. Wrong to the people of this still-United Kingdom, and wrong to the country itself. Not to admit that would be to ignore the totality of the person.

At two minutes to eleven, I took a pot and saucepan into my garden and began to bang on it.

I didn’t hear anyone else make rough music to mark her passing. That doesn’t matter. I didn’t go to make a noise for her, or for her policies, or for the state of the country today. But because a funeral is a time for reflection upon the deeds and character of the dead by the living, I did it for me.

So I stood there in noise, contemplating mortality, before moving on.

I’m pleased to be able to say that my wee theatre company will be reviving our production of The Just So Stories this Easter.

This production will be at LOST Theatre on the Wandsworth Road, and will feature returning cast from previous productions, so you know you’re getting the good stuff.

Still not convinced? Why not read some of the five-star reviews from our Edinburgh Festival production of the show.

(We made a profit. At Edinburgh. I may never get tired of telling people that.)

The production runs from the 2nd to the 14th of April 2013 at 3pm. Tickets cost £10 for adults and £8 for concessions (plus booking fees) and are available to buy now online or by calling the Box Office on 0844 847 1680.

If you’re in the UK, odds are it’s been snowing near you for the last day or two.

So yesterday, the lovely Mr James Moran challenged you to make stuff with snow. A short film. Some photography. Whatevs. Because it’s going to make whatever you do look much more expensive and lovelier.

I’m at my parents’ this weekend, so I thought: What can I do with an iPhone and their computer, in a day, with what- and whoever is at hand?

So I made this:

I had a rough idea of the story, and just filmed it in the back and front gardens on the phone.

I didn’t want to do anything difficult, so figured the easiest thing to do was just grab the shots I needed, and then record a voiceover afterwards.

(That’s my niece Jenna, by the way, who happened to be in the kitchen and said yes when I asked for some help. If she hadn’t said yes I’d’ve tried roping my parents in. If that hadn’t worked I’d’ve done something that only needed me to be in it.)

Took about an hour to get the shots, which were then moved across to the computer and slapped together in sequence using iMovie. I then banged some sound effects (also from iMovie) on the top, and wrote the voiceover to fit the length of the edited footage. Jenna then recorded the voiceover on the built-in microphone on the computer. Three takes until we’d got the timing right, and done.

So, there you go. Nothing fancy-schmancy, but a story with a beginning, middle, and end. All done in four hours with what I happened to have lying around.

Two things I regret. But as art is never finished, only abandoned, I’m going to leave them both there.

The first is is that I got the credits mixed up, so for two credits the name is on the left and the role on the right, while on the last credit it’s reversed. That’s going to bug me every time I see it now.

The second is that I think I may have been too ambitious with the monster at the end. Fur CGI like that on a low budget is always going to look a bit unrealistic.

There’s still snow on the ground. It’s still the weekend. Why not look around the house, see what you’ve got, and go and make a short film?

Red Table Theatre are offering a workshop on found-object storytelling.

If you’ve seen any of our children’s shows, you’ll know that a lot of our theatre work has been based on storytelling using common or garden items to create characters, set, and environment. The way in which the objects are used is formed during rehearsals.

Well, m’brother Rafe, who directed said shows, is offering a one-day hands-on workshop based on the techniques we use. Suitable for actors, directors, writers, and teachers who’d like to know more about devising with found objects, and how they can use this in their own work.

If you’re interested, the workshop takes place on Saturday 8 December from 10am to 6pm at Theatre Delicatessen, 35 Marylebone High Street W1U and costs £35.00. It’s a full day of practical devising, and participants will be invited to bring several objects with them to use during the day.

If you’re interested, drop an email to kelly.golding@redtabletheatre.com and she’ll be able to tell you more about what the day involves.

Well, this makes me very happy indeed.

No sooner do I mention that I’m about to be published in a book, than I get published in a book. Only a different one. And faster.

I’ve written a piece for the Actors’ Yearbook 2013, available now, all about Open Book Theatre and why it’s particularly important and useful for Fringe Companies. The Actors’ Yearbook is as important for those working in the theatre as the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook is for, well, writers and artists.

Do check it out if you get the chance.

Well, I’ve just heard the fantastic news that the film has been shortlisted, and will be shown in cinemas around the UK for the next year. Which is particularly good, because a) the film is brilliant and b) Tom and Simon are both top blokes who deserve wider exposure.

“But Piers,” I hear you cry “I rarely visit the cinema these days due to the expense! Also, how would I know when it was on?”

Never fear, my made-up friend! If you can’t wait until then, you can watch The Plotters online.

If you particularly like it, you can even vote for it on the Virgin Media Shorts facebook page or by tweeting “The Plotters #VMShortsVote” on your Twitter account, which will help determine the runner-up prize.

Not that they’re not going to win the grand prize anyway, but, well, it couldn’t hurt now, could it?

Other shortlisted films are available.

I’ve got a piece published in Outside In, a new book edited by Robert Smith?. This is actually going to be the first time something I’ve written’s been in a book, so I’m rather chuffed about this.

(Yes, Robert Smith? is indeed he of the standard SIZR model of Zombie Infection fame.)

Outside In aims to give new perspectives on all of the classic stories, each by a different writer. And in all sorts of different ways. To give you an idea, here’s a flavour from the press release: “I’ve had mock-angry letters to the BBC, transcripts of council meetings, even a recipe. There are flow charts, maps, TV scripts, timelines, Shakespearean plays… and, of course, intensely passionate and vocal opinions about the entirety of Doctor Who.”

Pre-orders should be available from the end of September. More details to follow!

So you might have noticed that I use Twitter a lot.

For those of you who don’t, it’s a way of staying in touch while on the move. Bite-sized chunks of content, 140 characters per tweet.

Originally, there was no way to “call out” to another user, and your messages would just be broadcast to everyone following you. If you wanted to speak to someone privately, you’d send a Direct Message (DM) – so if you tweet “D piersb Hello Piers!” then only you and I will be able to see that message.

What a DM doesn’t allow, of course, is for you to speak about me to everyone in a way that identifies me as the person in the conversation in a unique way. People soon picked up on this, though, and invented a solution: the @ tag (pronounced at tag).

An @ tag is basically your Twitter username with an ampersat in front of it. Thus, @piersb is my @ tag. So if I was speaking about you, I’d use your @ tag, naming you as a unique individual (because each Twitter username is unique), and meaning that everyone following my twitterstream would know who I was talking about.

@ tags caught on because they’re unique identifiers. Soon they became so useful that Twitter upgraded its clients in order to pull out your @ tags into a mention stream. So when anyone is speaking about or to you in public, you’d know about it and be able to join in the conversation.

Now, the problem with this is if I want to talk about you without it necessarily popping up in your mention stream. This happens a lot on Twitter with people working in TV. If you want to say that my show is terrible, then you might say “I hate @piersb’s writing! It sucks and he is the suckinator!” The @ tag uniquely identifies me, but unfortunately also brings it to my attention by dropping it straight into my mention stream.

It’s the equivalent of every pub conversation about you anywhere in the world suddenly being piped into your living room through a giant set of speakers. Uncomfortable, and not very nice.

So I’d like to propose a solution. The & tag (pronounced and tag). It’s exactly the same as an @ tag – it uniquely identifies you in the conversation, but doesn’t automatically announce the fact that you’re being talked about. Because you’re uniquely identified, anyone who wants to go and check out your twitterstream can, but without you being automatically notified of anyone talking about you.

The @ tag keeps its original purpose of alerting you to a conversation involving you, while the & tag means that people can speak about you behind your back. (Obviously, if you want to hear what people are saying about you, you’d simply search on your & tag – but you wouldn’t have to be told about it if you didn’t want to.)

So if you want to talk about me on Twitter, I’ll be there at &piersb.

I’m not going to Edinburgh this year, but several friends are. You should go and see them. They’re very good.

Under Your Feet, 2:05pm, 4-25 August, Venue 148.

Elise Harris tells you about the things under your feet. Some of what she tells you may even be true.

Sex, Lyres and Audiotape, 8:35pm, 13-18 August, Venue 39.

Clare Goodall brings the past to life using Harps, Lyres and other ancient instruments including the Battle Shawm (!). Directed by m’brother Rafe Beckley and produced by Kelly Golding.