Bonding with the Saint

The other day someone asked what were my plans for the weekend. "I'm going to see Roger Moore," I said.

"Oh, has he made a new film, then?"

"No, I'm going to see him. You know, himself."

Well, that can be a bit of a conversation stopper. I mean, Sir Roger (to give him his proper title) is something of a British institution, and especially for people of around my age who were brought up – nay, educated, almost – by programmes such as The Saint and, later, The Persuaders.

In fact, in the 1960s UK television had loads of law-enforcement dramas. Or maybe I should call them programmes where "good versus evil" was the basic premise. I may have gone to two Christian junior schools, where Biblical stories were used to shape our perception of what's good and, more to the point, what's not, but I must say that these TV shows had every bit as much an effect on my future development as the odd parable or two. And it must have worked. After all, so far I've not turned into a criminal, and for this fact I have to thank Roger Moore for playing Simon Templar, aka The Saint, also Brett Sinclair in The Persuaders, and then James Bond in what was to become the longest continually-running film series of all time.

Moore was there at some key stages in my early development – not all of them, of course. I mean, my parents had some input, whatever my school teachers claimed. Let me see ... yes, one Sunday afternoon they put a film on television, The Sins of Rachel Cade. The heroine had a bit of a shock when Roger unexpectedly turned up, but she wasn't half as shocked as I was because up until that point I'd had no idea that Simon Templar wasn't actually real, that he was played by an actor who could appear in other stuff. I was very young at the time, but it was a moment of realisation.

And in late 2015, Roger Moore was doing one of his An Evening with Sir Roger Moore appearances, sitting on stage in a theatre, chatting away with the lucky sod who got to write his biography.

The setup was rather like the last time I saw him on television, on Mariella's Book Show (formerly The Book Show on the Sky Arts channel) where the poor bloke was sitting in an armchair, talking about his latest book (probably Bond on Bond (2012)) and recounting one or two of his much-loved anecdotes about being an actor. I say "poor bloke" because, for some reason, when The Book Show was rehashed as Mariella Frostrup's own outing, it wasn't only the balance of content that went peculiar: the clean book-ish set was traded in for something like a small living room, with an armchair and cramped sofa, the type that you would want to inspect before sitting down. Just in case.

Anyhow, there was a similar setup (minus the claustrophobic set and doubtful furniture) on stage at the Harrogate Theatre – where, incidentally, Roger had appeared with Arthur Lowe in 1949. "Back by popular demand," his biographer, Gareth Owen, joked.

Some of the material I'd previously read in his book My Word is My Bond, but there's nothing to beat actually hearing the stories from the man himself. He knows how to tell them (by this time I think he's had plenty of practice), and when he's name-dropping (well, when you've led a life like his, it would be damned near impossible not to do so) he does all the voices; his impressions are just about faultless and his Tony Curtis is absolutely superb. Yet he tends to play down his own acting abilities. So yes, his self-deprecating style is well-polished and a pleasure to listen to.

Of course, Moore is best known for being James Bond from 1973-1985, and a record seven films (where the official Eon Productions' films are concerned), and he explained why he wanted to make the character his own as opposed to a copy of that played by the first Bond actor Sean Connery.

There were two or three highlights: silly things, really, I suppose, but these were the tingles along the spine moments: when he said the immortal phrase "Bond, James Bond"; when he explained about the magnetic watch that was used to unzip a woman's dress – presented complete with film clip; when he said "Simon Templar" and a halo appeared above his head – yes, it really did! I mean, that meant so much to me as a young child, and I wonder if he realises just how influential he was in helping to raise a generation of telly-watching kids who didn't grow up to be "wrong-uns".

When I was a kid, and I fancied being an actor when I grew up, one of my mother's friends told me that Roger Moore had begun his career by modelling knitting patterns. I mean, as if! Now, it runs in my mind that at the time I didn't think this was much of an acting break, but my wife has recently acquired this little number, probably one of the patterns that Sir Roger showed us in Harrogate:

I remember, back in 1974, when I applied to his agent to interview him for our school magazine. Yes, I know what you're thinking, a school magazine. The agency was called London Management and was run by Lew Grade, Mr Big of television (no pun intended; Bond fans will know what I mean). I didn't even get a reply, when all they needed to tell me was that currently Mr Moore was out of the country on location swallowing a golden bullet charm from the navel of an exotic dancer in Beirut. Or maybe it was Pinewood. Oh well.

So it was forty-one years later that finally I got to see the man himself and put a question to him, which just goes to show that some things come to those who wait.

+ + +

My next book, All Creatures Great and Famous, will be published before Christmas 2015. It tells the stories of some of my behind-the-scenes exploits while interviewing celebrities, mostly during my early days in the 1970s. It's a short book and will be cheap from Amazon and free elsewhere.

For Your Ears Only

So there we were, having afternoon tea in the world-famous Pump Room in Bath, taking delight in the refined Georgian elegance, its unhurried atmosphere and the excellent service. I mean, it's just one of those places from where everything in the world can feel almost ... okay. Know what I mean? So nothing's perfect, but having left behind Yorkshire's constant drizzle and simply chilling out in such acceptable surroundings was very agreeable – and I don't use adverbs lightly. 

To my right was a highly-polished grand piano, at which the pianist was doing an excellent job performing what in the US is termed "elevator music". Yes, someone spends years and countless hours practising every day – and not just playing the notes and getting them in the right order, but also refining the tone, the touch, the way the fingers contact with the keys to make that unmistakable sound, a marvel of creative interpretation that is every bit as unique as a fingerprint. A grand piano is, after all, a mechanical instrument and isn't as forgiving as a plastic electronic keyboard.

So all of that effort goes into the performance. And it matters not whether it's for a concert or being used to accompany people scoffing buns.

 

Yet it's taken for granted by many people.

But not by me. I've been there; I've done that. I've eaten semiquavers for breakfast (cheese and onion flavour) and had my fingers smacked by a fascist ruler-wielding piano teacher, so I appreciate live performances – yes, even in a tea room, and certainly in the best tea room in the world.

The classical piece ended and the pianist began the next number. As soon as he began, I could have named that tune in three. The left hand harmony confirmed my surprise: it was the title music of For Your Eyes Only, which just happens to be my favourite Roger Moore James Bond film. Wow!

He played all of it, with feeling and expression, and I was sensing a little hesitation as he wondered if he could get away with his choice here, in this most prestigious of tea joints.

It went rather quiet at our table because all four of us are Bond fans, and to hear this theme played live on piano was a new experience. When he finished, we applauded. The tea- and coffee-drinking fraternity around us fell silent, obviously wondering if they had missed something, which of course they had. I gave the pianist a thumbs up, which he returned, then he went into a medley of other Bond themes; he didn't need any further encouragement. Nobody Does it Better (from The Spy Who Loved Me), Live and Let Die, and You Only Live Twice flowed faultlessly from the stage. It was brilliant – maybe you'd guessed? And all to accompany people having afternoon tea, which seems such a waste and yet, had that not been the case, we never would have witnessed that performance.

We met him afterwards; his name is Jools Scott, accomplished musician and composer. You can listen to some of his music on his website here.

Yeah, the best afternoon tea ever. And speaking of James Bond, please see my next post, Bonding with the Saint.

RECALLING RADAR

Doesn't time pass quickly? I mean, it was 10 years ago when we were staying in Suffolk and watching the BBC's Restoration programme. This was an unusual format show in which British heritage buildings, some of which had been granted listed status, but all of which were in danger of being lost and needing help, were presented to the public for them to vote for. The series' winner would receive a grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund to enable remedial and restorative work to be carried out to stop it falling into further disrepair.

One of the entrants was the World War 2 Radar transmitter station at Bawdsey, close to the Suffolk coast. This was the site of the world's first operational radar station, essentially enabling the detection of enemy aircraft approaching from far away, as well as their height, which was very important. It also meant they were able to identify friendly aircraft. So we went round there to see what there was in the way of visitor attractions.

Well, this was the beginning of the campaign so it wasn't surprising that there was nothing for us to see. Instead we travelled on to Bawdsey Quay, passing A4 notices in windows urging people to cast their vote on the TV show, and we settled down amongst families playing on the shallow beach, and watched the boats bobbing in the water in the afternoon sun, with the ghostly silhouette of Old Felixstowe seemingly hovering in the haze on the far side of the estuary. I distinctly remember there was a strange, yet welcoming, timelessness; maybe an echo of times past. Beautiful.

Unlike many of the other entrants—buildings with classical facades, towers, houses, theatres and so on—Bawdsey Radar wasn't pretty to look at; basically, it was a concrete building with crumbling corners, sections slipping away exposing its rusting steel reinforcements. It was a utilitarian box. And, despite the importance of its function in those days of the war, the integral role it played in winning the Battle of Britain, and becoming a model for a chain of radar stations around the British coast and so helping to achieve victory ... it didn't win. Instead it came 4th, thus denying it any of the funding so desperately needed for its survival.

Exactly 10 years later, we were back in Suffolk, with the very same people in our group, and learnt that Bawdsey had organised just 11 open days during 2014. Having recently received help from the Heritage Lottery Fund (about 9 years after first being on TV), the Bawdsey Radar Transmitter Room was on display, furnished with information boards supplied by the British Museum, exhibits of some of the equipment, a mock-up scene of operators, a fantastic model of a transmitter tower made by a schoolboy, and more.

In one room was a 17-minute video of Gwen Arnold, one of Bawdsey's radar girls, with her precise and vivid recollections from those days. She began working at Bawdsey in 1943 and was featured in the 2010 series of BBC's Coast. Her book Radar Days was published in 2000. 

The building was a mass of visitors, each with an appreciation for what this little place did when the nation was under attack, sharing a sense of indignation that such an artefact could be discarded, unappreciated, unloved. Outside the rain was pouring down, yet the centre's volunteers were out directing the parking cars, or showing where the old transmitter towers once stood, telling the stories to those who would listen—and there were plenty of us.

These people were superb, friendly, knowledgeable, and quite happily (who wouldn't be?) wearing branded clothing with the very appropriate "First in the Field" embroidered logo. The low-key shop wasn't filled with a few relevant items and bulked-out with (what the retail trade terms as) market-stall swag; oh no, the merchandise here was specific and relevant. The lady running the "shop" (it was really a single table, but with the stock expertly arranged) was proud to tell us that the Bawdsey tea towel was made locally. We're going to frame ours, by the way. When we left, the sopping wet volunteer in the car park thanked us personally and we moved on to take advantage of the special offer tea and coffee that had been organised with a local cafe at Bawdsey Quay. One example of caring not only about the exhibits but also about the visitors. (I'm a bit of an expert on scones, by the way, and the jam that was being served in the cafe was home-made, which made the day that extra bit special.)

And here's my point: the concrete building that was once the working transmitter block ... granted it's hardly the subject for a picture postcard and is certainly a non-contender for a chocolate box lid, but is so much more than it appears; it is where people worked during those uncertain times, where they did a highly-specialised job, where their training and expertise meant the difference between life and death, where the briefest loss of concentration could mean devastation. Like any good literature, it's all about people, and that's what Bawdsey has in abundance—those from the past who helped Britain and its allies achieve victory, and those in the present who, thanks to their hard work that has resulted in much-needed funding, can now ensure that the fascinating story of radar cannot be forgotten.

Here's a link to the site: www.bawdseyradar.org.uk

 

Whitby—a source of inspiration

It was 1989 when I first went to Whitby. When at school loads of the other kids used to boast about going there on holiday, but for some reason my parents drove straight past on the way to Scotland. So when, as an adult, with a young family of my own, we found ourselves house-sitting for my in-laws who lived further down the coast, we decided to pay it a visit.

Recovering (as were we all) from the 80s' recession, there were surprisingly few empty shops, I remember, compared with similar towns in West Yorkshire, whose high streets were punctuated with To Let signs and Closing Down Sale notices.

Yes, Whitby, with its harbour crowded with trawlers and other fishing boats, and its trademark smell of fish mingled with the sea air, was a town where I felt I could be at home, and many times during the winter Saturdays we would set off on the one hundred mile trip and spend the day wandering along the streets, walking along the cliff top to look down on the harbour and the famous piers in the shape of pincers. (Petrol was much cheaper back then.)

A few weeks ago I found a 23-year-old video that my wife took of me running two-at-a-time up the 199 steps. I had no idea she had done that, so imagine my surprise at finding it after all that time.

We also spent many hours in the Whitby Bookshop on Church Street, in the old part of the town. That's where, 20 years ago, we took our children to meet the author Robin Jarvis, who was amazing to talk to, and we'll never forget it.

And late afternoon we would drive down to Robin Hood's Bay, where the shops would still be open, and especially the second-hand bookshops, of which, in those days, there were many. Yes, the narrow streets and passageways, with light spilling out from the cottages and shop windows. Atmospheric or what? It's no wonder these appear as the streets of my fictional village Wyke Bay.

And, of course, we have ties with the books written by Leo Walmsley, who lived there. The republished Walmsley books actually begin their new leases of life in this very room.

So thinking about the connections we have with Whitby and surrounding district, I suppose it's not surprising that I set one of my books in the area.

As mentioned in a previous post, we were there in late February to get some more footage for the Flither Lass video trailer. By that time, all of the research was completed, but it was still useful for gathering sources of extra information regarding things in the story, to include on the website, such as the ganseys—the woollen pullovers, each with its distinctive pattern that would identify the village that a fisherman came from. We found the source of further practical information in a wool and crafts' emporium called Bobbins, on Chapel Street, just along from Whitby Bookshop.

The day before returning home, having walked the 8 miles to Whitby along the old cinder track, we thought we had earned these freshly-baked scones at Marie Antoinette's—and guess where that is? Correct, Church Street!

A Drunken Druid's View: Review of Graham Higson's "Flither Lass"

A Drunken Druid's View: Review of Graham Higson's "Flither Lass": "Flither Lass" by Graham Higson is a fast paced story set during World War 1. This is the tale of Amy Trott who after losing her ...

One Pair of Feet

No, it's not the book by Monica Dickens, but my way of describing what happened when we returned to Robin Hood's Bay in February. Okay, this is not so much what happened as what we needed.

We'd been there in early December to film a book trailer for Flither Lass. We got savage waves, seaweed, cliff edges, caves and narrow, winding streets. But, as is often the case (especially when the storyboarding has gaps), we didn't get everything; in particular a pair of young woman's bare feet and lower legs. Such feet, running across the beach and rocks and splashing in the pools, would add that extra something to the film, which, incidentally, would last no longer than 90 seconds.

We didn't know anyone with such ... er, attributes, and the thought of simply asking some sundry person who might be enjoying themselves in Robin Hood's Bay sort of filled me with dread. I mean, you can't simply go up to someone and ask them if you can film their feet, can you? And especially if they are bare...? Of course you can't, especially in this country where offences are so easily perpetrated these days, even in all innocence.

So what would we do? Could we persuade some young woman – and one with hard-looking feet (and without painted nails because that didn't happen in 1915), attached to sturdy legs with strong calf muscles – to get them out for the promise of immortality in a YouTube video? I remember the days when that sort of thing had currency value, but times have changed.

So there we were. We wanted cold, dark clouds, frigid conditions. We got blue sky and sun-glistened bladderwrack on the rocks. At least that could be edited out in post-production. But where could we get the feet and legs? There were plenty of people about, some walking dogs, others walking children, pushing prams, walking with each other. The tide was coming in, and odd little groups were finding themselves trapped by streams cutting into the sand, swirling and getting deeper by the second.

I was one of the marooned, along with two young women. The rest of the team was on the other side. I was trapped only because I'd wandered off, thinking about the next book. The two women looked into the deepening water. This was similar, but nowhere near as treacherous, as the situation that the book's heroine, Amy, finds herself in. There was no way they would get across to the other side without taking off their shoes – which is exactly what they did.

I told them why I was there – to film legs and feet. One of them rolled up her trousers and did a sailor's hornpipe dance. "You can use me, if you like," she laughed.

I couldn't believe it. There was just one condition, though: she wanted us to use a clapperboard; it was a childhood dream of hers. Luckily, we had one with us, even if it was on the other side of what was fast becoming a widening lagoon.

But we did it! We got the feet and the legs. And, after all that trouble (my feet got wet too), the shot won't last ten seconds...

Flither Lass is due in March 2014.

LAST TANGO in HALIFAX

By heck, but British screen drama just gets better, don’t you think? I watch a lot for its entertainment value, and also because I appreciate the way the writers make it work. Writers can learn a lot by watching how the masters do it. This last couple of months or so we’ve been treated to such gems as Peaky Blinders, The Paradise, The Tunnel, the individual plays in the series Drama Matters on Sky Living, and Last Tango in Halifax – which is what I want to talk about.

– In fact, quite a lot of people are talking about this right now. The viewing figures for episode 2 of the current (second) series were 7.42 million (BARB w/e 24 November 2013). I can remember a time when programme viewing figures went as high as 18 million and beyond, but you have to bear in mind that in those days there were only three channels, so Last Tango’s figures are fantastic.

The writer Sally Wainwright was born in Huddersfield and has lived in Halifax, like me, but that is where the similarities end. She’s great at creating characters, and says that she writes about the type of people she knows, which makes her a great observer, giving her creations eccentricities, making them different, adding a touch of daring, nudging the boundaries of what is considered normal, whilst retaining credibility. Whether we like to admit or not, we are fascinated by other people, no doubt as we try to find some meaning in life. And this is how Sally does it: she takes ordinary people, gives them a quirk or two (or three), and then gradually lets the audience in on it by teasing and allowing the story to develop around these foibles or strengths.

In addition Sally is also writing major parts for older actors; these are not cameos or minor role prop-ups (as I call them), but big, juicy parts. This has given Derek Jacobi (Alan), who usually plays popes and kings, the rare opportunity to play a working-class Yorkshireman, and actress Anne Reid (Celia) the opportunity to play a character with such inner conflicts and bigoted attitudes, who finds herself being educated by her fiancé.

Into the mix add the alchemy between the characters as typified by the chemistry between Alan and Celia, and the real-life chemistry that exists between Anne Reid and Sara Lancashire. Then there’s the attention and involvement from the producer Karen Lewis, who is on set at all times, and which makes such a difference to the production. The quality of the cast adds yet another ingredient and reminds us that Red Production Company has invested heavily in this project – and I’m not talking mere money here – due, I feel, to the quality of the writing. Sally Wainwright has an original voice, and for me she is up there with the likes of Kay Mellor, Jimmy McGovern, Anthony Horowitz, Lynda La Plante.

Sally doesn’t have problems writing dialogue, but instead agonises over story. I don’t think she needs to worry, although I can appreciate that the odd fright or two are part and parcel of the writing process and helps with honing the final draft into the finished article. She is an expert. Think: Unforgiven (2009), At Home with the Braithwaites (2000), and one of my favourites The Amazing Mrs Pritchard (2006). Oh, and not forgetting Scott & Bailey (2011). Romantic comedy isn’t her only speciality, as we can see from this list. There is also The Last Witch that was one of Sky Living’s Drama Matters plays mentioned above. In 2014 there will be Happy Valley, also filmed in the Halifax area, and this – and I’m quoting the producer, here – is a cross between Juliet Bravo and Fargo.

I would say there’s a damn good chance it will be brilliant.

My one thousand a day

– and that's not vegetables.

When I read that author Sarah Waters aims to write 1,000 words a day I thought, I'll have a go at that! and indeed managed – but it lasted only a day and then over a week went by during which the total word count was well below the desired daily rate. She also explained, in graphic terms, how difficult it can be. Now I know how she feels.

I can tell you that the next book is coming along nicely. Now, I only say that about a project when I can see that the end will come, which isn't the same as being able to see the light at the end of the tunnel; that's still a way off. But the story is over half way there. That's the first draft I'm talking about. There's still loads to do after that (and some of it can be trickier than writing the story).

So I'm training myself to get the 1,000 words a day. Sarah says it helps her to inch the book forwards. It might not sound like many, but maybe it's because there's a great temptation to make every single word the right word – as if this is the last draft and no further revisions will be allowed.

James Joyce, so they say, took his time writing each sentence. I don't know if what I'm going to say now had any bearing on why he wanted to get it right first time, but we should remember that in the early days (and not so long ago), whatever you typed was immediately there on the paper. There was no backspace or delete key. If you reached the end of your manuscript, then found that you'd missed a bit, or lost a bit, or something was wrong that affected everything that came afterwards, then you had to go back and type it again. While publishers accepted inserted pages, such as 15, then 15a, 15b, then 16, and so on, it was unlikely that first-time authors would be allowed such concessions. Manuscripts had to be submitted looking rather pristine. Maybe that was why Joyce wanted to get the write right the first time. Perhaps he didn't like re-typing. Or maybe not.

However, the secret of good writing is rewriting. So I will continue to strive for the thousand (and squirm when I think about Stephen King's 10 pages a day) and see how it all shapes up at the revision stage.

And I'll try not to get too hung up on the numbers. Wish me luck.

IT'S TRUE – Oak Seer is free!

But only for 2 days: October 31st and November 1st 2013 are the promotion days chosen to enable readers to get a copy of Oak Seer completely free of charge.

Of course, it doesn't matter if you don't have a dedicated Kindle reader because Amazon has prepared Kindle apps for Androids, iPhones, iPads and computers, so there's no excuse.

One thing working in this book's favour is that the title has not been used before, so simply typing "oak seer" in the Amazon search box will find it for you. Or you could simply click here.

Because Amazon's time settings are American-based, if it doesn't show up as free, please keep trying. The offer will end on 1st November at midnight Pacific Standard Time, so it should end in the UK at around 8 a.m. Saturday the 2nd.

MAKING THE IMPERSONAL PERSONAL

There are still plenty of hard copies of books being sold (or maybe that should be "soft" where paperbacks are concerned). Thankfully. Don't get me wrong—I appreciate that digitization is expanding the availability of good reading. And I remember not so many years ago when there were fears that reading books was falling in popularity. Well, that is no longer a problem, and the recent interest in Kindles, Nooks, and apps on smartphones and tablets just shows that reading literature will be here for some time to come.

But it occurred to me a few weeks ago that a digital version of a book cannot be signed like a physical copy can. I remember back to 1994 when my wife and two young children went to an author's book signing in Whitby. There, Robin Jarvis, author of the Deptford Mice books, and the Whitby Witches trilogy, was sitting, happily talking to his fans, some of who had travelled many miles just to meet him and get their books signed. (He also signed books that they already owned, that they may have bought elsewhere; it wasn't essential that you had bought it at that very shop. Top marks to the Whitby Bookshop!)

But how would you get a personalized copy of, say, a Kindle edition?

I have just signed up with Authorgraph—a way of digitally signing an eBook. Well, not quite. What happens is that, providing that your chosen book is listed on authorgraph.com, you can request the author to send you an authorgraph. What you receive is a downloadable PDF file of the book cover, with the author's message and signature beneath. Brilliant stuff!