Freeman

The Language of Opposition- how the Labour Party eats shoots and leaves.

2012-01-23T15:14:00.005Z

Mehdi Hasan's latest piece in the New Statesman about how Labour consistently allow the Tories set the political agenda through the use of language accurately sums up how I've assessed the Labour party since I stopped flirting with the youth wing of the party in my teenage years.

Stephen Timms, shadow employment minister, appeared on the Today programme supporting the government's idea of a benefit cap. Not only is he accepting the targeted right-wing cuts agenda of this most neoliberal of governments, he's treating Ian Duncan Smith's statement that no 'normal' person would oppose the cuts as a statement of fact. Hasan rightly hauls him over the coals for this. After all, there is a raft of evidence to suggest that child poverty will increase, on top of all the other symptoms of malaise gripping the country.

In the 80s, when Thatcher called them socialists, Kinnock and chums looked nervously about them, shrugged and said 'no we're not'.

In 2002 Peter Mandelson claimed 'We are all Thatcherites now'. This was an example of how the Labour Government had adopted Thatcher's model of a 'strong economic policy' - one that had stemmed from her waving of Friedrich Hayek's 'The Constitution of Liberty' about in the late 70s. In only 22 years the Chicago School economics had gone from forces of reaction to cross-party consensus.

Someone, please give the guardian's Neil Clark a tardis...

The truth is that since the 70s the parliament in which the richest in UK society suffered their worst income growth is that of John Major's government. During the last of the Labour governments, between 04/05 - 09/10, the richest income group actually saw their income rise by more than anyone else in society:

IFS 2011

So much for the 'Third Way' then. Turns out it was the 'Same Way'. Certainly the message from Labour now is 'Same Way' and they can't even think of a spinning sound bite to hide it behind. Every time the Conservatives move to the right and claim that they've adopted the centreground of British politics the Labour party dutifully follows.

Timms has every right to be nervous. The poor guy has been stabbed by his own constituents, I'd hate to think what Ed balls said to him after the Today performance. Although Balls himself seems to revert to nervous blinking when faced with an opportunity to attack government policy. Timms even failed to bring up unemployment, which last week rose to its highest level since 1995. As shadow employment secretary that's inexcusable whatever political party you represent - as a Labour front bencher it's ridiculous.

Timms is no stranger to the misuse of English language within the Labour Party though. When not regurgitating Thatcher's rhetoric they've been exemplary at spouting gibberish. He held such glamorous ministerial positions as 'UK competitiveness Minister' and 'Minister for Digital Britain', in which role he allegedly claimed that the 'IP' in IP address stood for intellectual property...

Timms is no fall guy. Neither is appropriately named Balls or media 'darling' Miliband. The whole parliamentary party is at it, and has been since I can remember. Things can only get better? Not if there's absolutely no alternative being offered, they can't...

"One reason I changed the Labour Party is so that we can remain true to our principles." Tony Blair

"Now is not the time for sound-bites. I can feel the hand of history on my shoulder" Tony Blair on the signing of the Good Friday Agreement

2011-10-02T10:35:00.002+01:00

Sov Gott

2011-10-01T20:34:00.003+01:00

As someone who has bouts of insomnia, I know only too well how hard it can be when you can't sleep. Artemis has been, in the last two weeks, somewhat troubled at bedtimes too. Being that she only recently turned two, we've put it down to the onset of the infamous 'terrible twos'. It's always easier to find stock reasons for things - like the responses to the London riots - 'It's poverty' or 'They're just bad eggs' - predetermined explanations that allow you to take predetermined actions.

My predetermined idea of dealing with the 'terrible twos' has always been this:
Don't falter. Don't give in. Ride it through.

Tonight however, Artemis showed me that this plan was as over-simplistic as the stock 'throw all the neds in jail' response that we saw after our society started to crumble this summer. When we've been putting her to bed recently, she's been demanding the bottle of milk we used to give her in bed as a baby. This demanding has got so loud, so vociferous that we've started to worry that the neighbours will think we're killing her. Neither Donna or I are the sort of people likely to give in, and we've both been using different tactics in the battle: sternness, ignoring it, letting her get up again for a taste but then returning her to bed. Tonight though, for no other reason than I'd ran out of options, I just held her, sang, and responded to the high pitched begging with sophisticated reason.

"You can't have a baby's bottle anymore, as Granny said, the babies need them now"
"But I could have a big girls cup..."
"But the big girls cup wouldn't let you lie down. It would spill all over your bed."
"But I just want more milk"
"But, you see, there isn't any way to give you milk in your bed"

After a few repetitions of the word 'please' faded away she told me quite plainly

"It's the dark." Ah.

"What about your night light?"
"It's just purple" she explained.
We had, only this last week, bought her a nightlight from Ikea, a cute ghost face. The first night we'd put it on Temi hadn't caused a fuss, and ridiculously we didn't put two and two together. But she's since learned that this thing goes off after a while. She doesn't trust it anymore.

Feeling like an idiot I offered "I've got an idea! Why don't I put on the hall light. look, it's nice and bright.." and I let the light spill into the room. She immediately pulled the cover over her and started to blow gently into her small harmonica (a new gift from our friend Sarah Middlemiss. She loves it, and I figured sounds less like a murder than the alternative)

I sang a verse more of her night time song.

"Get taller when you're older" she said to me plainly, looking up at my standing figure in the gloom.
"Yes" I said at her little face. "Temi will get taller"
"Temi will get taller and Daddy will get taller"
"No. Daddy will stay the same. Maybe Temi will get taller than Daddy?"
"Yes."

It won't be hard. But this feels profoundly like our first 'deep' conversation, the type of conversation where you are trying to make sense of the world and you think your parents will hold the answers. I felt an indescribable mixture of pride and terrifyingly responsibility, all of a sudden.

The important thing is that, whatever situation we're in, by preparing for a battle we might be missing a much, much bigger picture.

"Father Christmas is coming." She's getting the idea of Christmas then.

"Yes" I reply, "I'd better go and tell him what a good girl you are. Back in a minute." And I leave her to her harmonica, her glowing ghost and some undoubtedly amazing dreams.

The Overcoat

2011-09-22T15:49:00.001+01:00

Well the dust hadn't settled on the amazing experience of performing Gogol's The Overcoat at this year's Fringe before I was swept away with getting married. The bells hadn't stopped ringing on that before I was starting my Journalism retraining. Phew. In fact I'm writing this from University.

Before I talk about any of that I need though to express the incredible amount of pride I have to be associated with The Overcoat, a Finnish production that encapsulated the kind of physical, entertaining ensemble theatre that I saw here in Scotland during Communicado's heyday in the 1990s. The Scottish press took what felt like an age to notice us, but once they started crawling out of the Traverse they took notice, with the Scotsman giving the show 5 stars and the Herald comparing the show to 7:84 classics. The Stage gave Billy Mack, who played the silent hero Akaky MacKaky, their 'best actor' award in their Fringe awards. Billy became the first person ever to win the award twice, and it was great honour to be there.
One of The Stage judges, Natasha Tripney, commented on his performance “Although he’s the character the play is all about, Billy Mack’s role is not a showy one. Mack brings us fully within the experience of a man we might otherwise not be able to understand and empathise with.”
There was a daft picture of us all on the front of the Stage, jubilant at a victory for the little guy.

It doesn't end there though. At the end of November we are to reprise the show at the theatre that employed us: Helsinki’s Ryhmäteatteri. This will be an incredible experience I'm sure, for the show was a smash hit in Finland before Catherine Grosvenor adapted it for Scotland. Come over in November and give us a wave!

Tower of Babylon? Yes please.

2011-07-09T13:37:00.001+01:00

The demise of the News Of The World has been far more entertaining than any of the horrendous mysogynistic sleaze it ever printed. Murdoch's attempts to retain control by shutting down the paper in his own terms seems to have backfired, and now the pressure is on Cameron to show that he's not in bed with News corp. Tony Blair must be sweating too, if any of the deals with government become public. Tabloid hacks, as we've seen, play dirty, and now there's a bunch of them out of a job and pissed off.

Join usss and we can ennnd this destructive conflict

But it seems it doesn't end there. The Socialist Workers Party, desperate for any bit of publicity, are rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of Tommy Sheridan getting an appeal over this, even though they disagree with him over which dead Russian is best. After all, his perjury trial was about evidence he'd given against the News Of the World in the first place. The only problem with that, of course, is that perjury is still perjury, and the fact remains that he was going to a sex club with a News Of the World journalist in the first place. Talk about sleeping with the enemy, that's taking it a wee bit far Tommy...

A far more interesting development is the emergence of the Information Commissioner's Office report 'What price privacy now?' which examines the trade in confidential personal information. The 'operation motorman' investigation identified the following publications as the worst culprits of illegal transactions: 1. Daily Mail 2. Sunday people 3. Mirror 4. Mail on Sunday 5. News of the World. So it turns out the News Of The World had 182 illegal transactions, and the Daily Mail had 952! The horrendous Daily Mail, which would put a story about the 'danger' of asylum seekers on the front page over absolutely anything. The day the zombie outbreak happens, the Daily Mail will be reporting that the infected were economic migrants after a sook at the Nanny state's nip.

Surely in the wake of the News Of The World's demise hacks at the Mail and the Mirror group must be sweating, not only because all the power of Murdoch's evil empire be gunning for them, but also because they've been breaking the law too, and the whole thing could implode. As Cameron tries to backtrack ungracefully from his own associations with Murdoch and Coulson, and Milliband tries to shake the shackles off his own party, expect more revelations, swipes and political fallout as more and more people try to save their own skin. Also expect to government to bury a ton of bad news. If it was an episode of The Thick Of It people would think it a bit much... I'll get some popcorn.

In the meantime read Toynbee's column The Emperor Has Lost His Clothes. She's shamefully New Labour, but it's a good read.

Waggle, mama

2011-06-27T11:08:00.000+01:00

Much as I like to bemoan big business and stick it to the man, I'm delighted to hear that Wagamama is to open a branch in Edinburgh. When I used to spend more time in London I loved to visit the south bank Wagamama, because as well as being speedy and affordable it manages what a thousand chinese and thai takeaways fail at, making fresh tasting vegetarian eastern food, and without using msg. I have recently visited the Aberdeen Wagamama, and they impressed me with a 'Summer Roll' starter- noodles and fresh greens with herbs wrapped in rice paper with a dipping sauce to die for, a delicious sweet mint, fresh coriander and chilli dip. Its like a party in your mouth.

On the subject of condiments, our fridge has been relatively bare recently. Marks and Spencer Red Onion and Mint Chutney is pleasant, and be wary of the Chilli Pickle from the same range. Spread thinly. Not because of the heat, but because of the strong flavour.

The PS3 has been as busy as always. When SONY got hacked they took the Playstation Network down for nearly a month, and when it came back online everyone got two free games. I've just finished the first of my freebies, the open world superhero epic Infamous. It was fun, reminding me of the old Spiderman games from the Playstation 1 and 2. And you certainly can't argue with the price. I also purchased Dungeon Siege III, a co-op dungeon crawler. It is enjoyable, but the search for the spiritual successor to Baldur's Gate Dark Alliance goes on. Baldur's Gate : DA remains the optimum dungeon crawl: hack, slash, loot, level up, rinse repeat. It's hard to say why this formula is so satisfying, and why that PS2 classic has never been equalled. Perhaps its the sense that you are constantly being rewarded with new spells and shiny armour. Perhaps its the fact you don't need to engage too much brainpower to get rewarded. Nevertheless, its obvious why I've never ventured into the World Of Warcraft.

I'd end up like this.

Still waiting for more games to come out for the MOVE attachment. The Playstation's answer to the Wii is an impressive piece of technology, more accurate and full of potential. But the games to make use of it are still lacking, and until then videogaming in this house remains a pretty supine activity.

Donna has at least made attempts to get moving, in the form of Vicky Binns' 'Dance It Off', an aerobics video in the traditional sense, in which a soap star follows the orders of a terrifying taskmaster. Binns herself is inoffensive, her choice of hot pants is not.

The dvd comes straight from the 'Bargain Binns', and we have been reliably informed that her weight is back on... What's next then, if we want to be thinner and more attractive for our own wedding? Zumba? MOVE games? A diet solely consisting of summer rolls from Wagamama?

Critically Beige

2011-06-26T12:17:00.002+01:00

You have to love critics. They are so desperate to say something original that they end up all agreeing in an wall of weary predictability. Having just enjoyed Morrissey's brilliant set from Glastonbury on BBC four and wished I'd been there, I checked out what people had written about it online.

'Ponderous' says the Guardian's Alex Needham, who mistakes This Charming Man (probably the most recognisable song from The Smiths catalogue) for William it was Really Nothing. 'Aloof... plodding' are the labels offered by The Independent's Hugh Montgomery, whose apparent cravings for 'unadulterated pop highs' begs the question as to why he was at a Moz gig in the first place. 'Gloomy and Downbeat' says The Telegraph's Bernadette McNulty, who at least admits that she's seen the gig from her sofa. McNulty reaches for the 'Red Button when the glowering of the Smiths’ former front man gets too much'. It seems that the real lethargy here is from the critics themselves, who put as little concentration into writing copy as to witnessing a live music set.

But the more things change, the more they stay the same. This is exactly they type of things written about The Smiths by the literazzi establishment when songs like the terrifying Meat Is Murder was first being performed in the 80s. Luckily the faces of those Glastonbury 20somethings singing along in the rain-lashed crowd in 2011 reveal that now, just like then, young folk don't listen to automatons with pencils when deciding what music to listen to.

But it isn't just music critics who suffer from these peculiarities. If critics of any art form aren't displaying total ignorance to the work they are reviewing, they are going out of their way to show us just how clever they are. If writing 500 words is such a chore, why don't you get a job reviewing mattresses...?

"and if you ever need self-validation, just meet me in the alley by the railway station." as Morrissey sings in his opener, Smiths classic I Want The One I Can't Have.

Watch the set here

Happy birthday blog.

2011-06-19T11:19:00.002+01:00

My blog is officially 2. The only reason I know this is that I've only just realised that I can check stats for it, and looked at them for the first time today. It launched in June 2009, so there we are.

The stats also tell me that the most read post was my labour story 'West Lothian Opium Den', so I'm instantly guilt ridden that I didn't finish it. The second most read post was my discussion on the books we read kids, and auditioning for the Hobbit 'There and Back Again' and third was the story of my Playstation biting the dust 'Blink and You'll Miss It'. My favourite post 'Word Up' was not even in the top ten... ah well.

Don't be fooled though, the top search words tell me exactly why those posts are read by hundreds of people. It's all about the tags. The top keyword is 'War'. So people googling for accounts of frontline combat are being met with... Donna's painful trip to St Johns, Livingston. It's because I compared the first few weeks of having a baby to being on drugs in a warzone. For this reason, people searching for Vietnam are also pointed at my blog. Next up is the search for 'Girl Hobbit Pictures'. I do feel sorry for those deviants looking for fantasy porn that ended up reading about what I like to read Temi at bedtime...

From now on I'll be managing my labels to ensure that only the lowest of the low read this... without resorting to actual nasty content, don't worry. In the meantime here's a hilarious video containing hitler...

Hitch up your roots.

2011-06-18T14:19:00.003+01:00

As I mentioned in my last post Donna and I are going to get hitched in September. We've already been though living together in a shrinking communal space, being apart for stretches of work-related exile, endured living on the poverty line and had a baby, as well as other tests and trials, so marriage should be a dawdle.

The aforementioned poverty hasn't stopped me from blowing all my money on a kilt. I ordered online from Scotweb, who appear to be cheaper than everyone else for getting a tailored kilt in a fabric of your choice. Everything on their site seems reasonably above board, and when I called them it didn't sound like a Chinese sweatshop, so fingers crossed I haven't fallen foul of some internet scam. Having BBC's watchdog cameras at the wedding wouldn't do anything for the romance, and neither of us have the rabid thirst for D-list celebrity status that seems to have infected society.

As a Englishman by birth I feel it would be inappropriate to wear a tartan, so I have opted for a dark green herringbone tweed with a black overcheck. Should look quite nice I think. Being English also means I won't feel obliged to go commando under my kilt, thank god. I'm Scottish enough to wear a kilt, but no so much that I have to follow tradition... huzzah.

We went to the registry office the other day to hand in our marriage papers, and realised how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful city. Getting married in a registry office in some places can be an institutional affair, with Jobseekers or city planners mixing with your guests. Not so here. The entrance is on Parliament Square on the Royal Mile, a stones throw away from the castle. St. Giles High Kirk looks disapprovingly down on the room where we are tying the knot in secular fashion, and guests will be able to spit on the Heart Of Midlothian to ensure that public executions won't upstage the ceremony.

I was embarrassed, in handing over my papers, that I couldn't remember my mothers middle name. Since I have misplaced my birth certificate they had to look up her death records on the computer: Alison Susanna Freeman, died 1988, aged 36.

Roslin Glen '86

Thirty six.

That's how old I am now. Incredible that, in my head, she is still older than me. Stronger, wiser, creatively more prolific and, well, my hero. Seeing this information pop up on that computer screen has made me feel simultaneously like a child again and also old. It makes me think of what her hopes for me might have been, and my hopes for myself. It makes me think of what she had done with her 36 years, and what I have done with mine. In turn, it makes me think of what I hope for my own child, and how much to appreciate my time with her. What is fulfillment, after all? Just a construct?

I'm pretty sure Al wasn't too keen on the idea of marriage, anyway.
I hope she at leasts likes my kilt.

A Bold Step For Man...

2011-06-15T12:09:00.005+01:00

As some of you may have guessed I've developed an interest in Journalism. Typically with my whimsical ideas I tend to have a week or two of thinking about nothing else and then something else comes along to take its place. But not this time. Crazy I know, but I've even applied for a Journalism masters degree, and got in, no less. Provided I can get some help with the fees I'll be heading to Napier University in September, not long after getting married...

I'm sure many of you will be decrying the idea. Journalism, that is. Not Marriage.

- You may question my commitment, After all I haven't been updating this blog on too regular a basis. True. This is no excuse, but I've been paying more attention to my other blog: Sick Kids Save Point, which is a 24-hour videogames marathon I organise to raise money for the Sick Kids Hospital here in Edinburgh. It was organising this event last year that got me interested in raising public discussion, and writing copy regularly.

I recently applied for a job in a gaming magazine as a staff writer. I missed the deadline. Not the best start I'll concede.

- You may point to my less than favourable comments about Journalists in the past. Well, since they seem to be running Scottish Theatre these days, it seems only natural to join them... Maybe in all those years on stage I was really just a frustrated critic. I kid, of course. Who wants to be a critic?

- You may think that giving up an acting profession that has seen me perform with almost every company in Scotland (RIP) a bit hasty, especially so soon after auditioning for the Hobbit. I have no intention of giving up my acting career though.

Indeed this Fringe Festival I'll be performing in 'The Overcoat' at the Pleasance. It's the first time I'll be working with Finnish company Ryhmäteatteri (coordinated by Ace Production) and I'm really looking forward to it.

Billy Mack will star in the Overcoat

If the audition process is anything to go by, coupled with the fact that it is being adapted for Scotland by talented young playwright Catherine Grosvenor, this should be cracking show of japery and political satire. Come and see us 12.25 every day at the Pleasance Dome. All right, plug over.

You'd be right, though, if you saw this new direction as an attempt to wrestle some control back. One reaches a point when waiting to be told what life will have in store isn't good enough. And it certainly doesn't pay the bills. Neither though, will most of my 'whimsical' ideas. The latest one is formation of a Theatre Company that does exclusively Science Fiction. So crazy it might just have legs. To infinity and beyond.

No More Heroes.

2011-03-05T07:37:00.015Z

In the words of Martin Luther King Jr I had a dream, but unlike the big Baptist activist I can't seem to remember mine. I'm not likely to get shot for it either.

I may not remember many of my dreams, but it is incredible how they can still effect the way you feel as you awake. The way the world tastes, so to speak. This morning I woke up with Nigizongena Kanjani by Izingqungqulu Zomhlaba in my head. It's a South African groovy steel-string lament which translates as 'pulling together'.

The overriding feeling I had upon waking was a sense of getting older. Not in the typical fatalistic 'My-body-is-failing, what-is-my-legacy' type way, but more a sense of a retrospective on past dreams and ideals. The image in my head was looking down on a large public protest of working class black South Africans, but I could also remember someone belittling my theatrical heroes and past girlfriends.

Now it's well known that as we get older we become less idealistic, but I would like to think that it hasn't been simply a question of the hand of Chronos at work. My formulative years were spent watching vibrant, revolutionary and entertaining Scottish theatre, The Labour Party fight privitisation and inequality, Nelson Mandela released from prison and the subsequent fall of apartheid, and mass protest and civil disobedience at home brought the short lived Poll Tax to an end. Indeed it could be said that that ultimately led to its architect Maggie Thatcher's 'downfall'. Idealism was en vogue.

Thatcher, though, was playing the long game. It seems she's soon to pop her clogs safe in the knowledge that her legacy is thriving. Ho Hum... The Council Tax campaign also gave rise to the celebrity of Tommy Sheridan, who famously went to prison for not paying. He's back in prison now, although this time its for not telling a court who he's been shagging, which I think sums up the fall of idealism brilliantly. I joined the Scottish Socialist Party when Tommy got elected to the scottish parliament, and left when his crazy antics exposed the ridiculous divisions that always exist in the left. Which dead Russian are you reading? Er, I'm just interested in the post-war british model of public ownership actually.

The only idealism that seems to be thriving in 2011 is the Chicago school of economists ultra-right, survival of the fittest dogma. Gordon Brown felt that he could fit a social concience into that dogma, but failed. Now, under Cameron's 'big society' social concience has been relegated to the realm of the voluntary sector. So we're all supposed to give our free time helping the poor (i.e each other) while we pay our ever increasing taxes to prop up the tax breaks awarded to the multi millionaires who got us into this shit in the first place. Heck even those with the moderate idealism of just wanting a fairer voting system have had their dreams shattered, with the Liberal Democrats seemingly satisfied with playing absolutely no role in government whatsoever apart from to divert people's rage and disappointment away from the Tories. No one to vote for anymore, no wonder no one does it.

What options are left to idealists like myself today? Public protest is ridiculed for being somehow 'disobedient'. Er... Isn't that the point? I heard someone the other day phoning Jeremy Vine complaining that, whilst watching footage of students demonstrating against a rise in tuition fees from £3,335 to £9,000 a year, multimillion-pound cuts to higher education and the risk of universities going bankrupt, he'd noticed that some of the protesters weren't actually students. As if the notion of solidarity is to be frowned upon, or non students are somehow not entitled to be concerned that education is returning a luxury only afforded by the rich again. The last massive collective protest, against military action in Iraq, seemed to fall on deaf ears, and people don't appear to have an appetite for it anymore.

The banks have started paying millions of pounds in bonuses again, and this is supposed to comfort us as a sign of the 'green shoots of recovery'. That's right greedy bastards, reward your own failure. The more this type of nonsense keeps up, and the more that the government take away the parts of our society that look after the weak (i.e 'civilisation') the more likely we'll see some sort of new idealism emerge. And as I watch my little daughter body pop to the 1970s Sesame street pinball theme, I dearly hope the future idealism isn't dangerous or filled with hate.

You can but dream...

The Whole Work/Play Thing..

2011-02-15T12:11:00.006Z

Apart from the obvious lack of financial security, lack of finances of any kind, and long stretches away, being an actor/parent can have other drawbacks. Today for example I have to prepare for an audition whilst being a fulltime parent.

In the past I have put audition songs on tape and listened to them repeatedly on headphones whilst doing housework and keeping Temi out of trouble. Yes, multitasking - c'mon girls, because we're worth it. This 'silent learning' tactic backfired not too long ago when I went to an audition and couldn't actually sing the two songs lodged in my brain. It was the second most humiliating experience of my life..
Listening to things repeatedly in your ear is a fantastic tool for learning lines, but can't replace actual practice, so today I'm trying a new tactic: Preparing pieces that Temi enjoys listening to. this makes for some interesting choices, but Artemis doesn't seem to be tiring of 'Outside, Over There' by Maurice Sendak.
It's actually one of her favourite books. She often mimics Ida's anger at having her sister stolen away by Goblins at the strangest times. 'Ida maaaad' she'll crow, shaking her fist in the air as her turtle, duck and teddy look on. Similarly when she's being put to bed she'll inform us that Ida and her baby sister are sleeping too. It's an odd story, told in a kind of free-form partial verse, but for some reason I think it would work well on stage.
Ach well, at least if this tactic backfires I have an idea for an adaptation...

Willy did it

2011-01-13T13:24:00.005Z

Those that know me will know why my blog's been quiet of late. To those that don't, apologies. The truth is that being involved in a panto over christmas is like living in a bubble. A crazy, half drunken, glitter bubble.

I was in Inverness this Christmas and New Year, giving my best Willy Do-It in Imagine Theatre's production of Beauty And The Beast at Eden Court. As the Buttons-type character I had enormous fun and was able to slot many of my own jokes and ad-libs into the show. I encouraged the audience to do an 80s power ballad fist pump, for example, and worked a different song into every show. While the show itself seemed to be well recieved, I can't deny it was very hard work. Long days with only christmas day and new year's day off, coupled with a long running time meaning almost no time between shows to recupurate, meant that the whole experience was exhausting. I was fortunate enough to be able to stay with good friends, which meant that Donna and Artemis could come up and visit over the christmas week, bringing my lovely dog Pete with them. This didn't mean however that for the rest of the time I didn't miss them terribly. Whenever I spoke to Donna on the oh-so-brief telephone conversations that slot between shows, rehearsing, press calls and food, I could hear Temi in the background speaking new words, playing new games or even expressing herself in new ways. As I've mentioned before in my blog, every day brings something new with her, and I was missing it...

Normally coming out the other end of such a bubble can be a terrible come-down - days seem empty, the people you've been spending 12 hours a day with for seven weeks are gone and the weight starts to pile back on. This year though I was eager to get back. If nothing else, to see Temi's rendition of flashdance. I'm not joking - When donna sings 'She's a maniac, maniac' Artemis does the running dance, a huge cheesy grin on her face. Yes, I worked the song into the show.

There And Back Again

2010-11-02T11:59:00.026Z

I read to Artemis every night. Her favourite books include 'Where The Wild Things Are' by Maurice Sendak and 'The Going to Bed Book' by Sandra Boynton, and she's keen on the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll for some reason. Maybe its the fact that I keep slipping into an Ian McKellen voice when I read it, who knows...

'twas brillig...

I think its important. Being read to was one of the most vital components of my childhood. I remember The Secret Garden, Voyage of the Dawn Treader and Archer's Goon much more vividly than any book I've read myself in the last decade. You lie there and the world of the book comes alive in your head, firing your imagination and giving you unparalleled perspective on the world. At least that's how I remember it. My relationship with Mary Lennox is as complicated and important as any real life one from my adult life.

Its difficult to pin down exactly when I decided I wanted to become an actor. Being inspired by the amazing visceral physical theatre of Communicado Theatre Company as an impressionable teenager? Sitting next to my first crush in primary 6 and wanting to join in with her theatre games? Going to see the annual Edinburgh Youth Theatre musical at the Fringe as an 8 year old, back when local talent could afford to perform at it, and local audience members could afford to go? Discovering the power of mythology through the vision of George Lucas, before he turned to the dark side?
Before all of that, some of the credit has to go to hearing, from the comfort of my duvet and in the company of Snoopy, Ted and Skelator, The Hobbit for the first time. Here was a little guy from little england going on a big adventure - becoming someone he wasn't, going out of his comfort zone. I loved my food and company but there was no doubt, even back then, that I was aware of my 'Tookish side'.

The life of an actor is a far cry from the misty mountain though. There hasn't been many times in my 14 year career where I've managed to lift my head above the official poverty line. Auditions, like buses, come in flurries of activity where you can be rejected for reasons you will never know. These woes are well documented, but what is less well known is that even when you DO work, it is rare that you get to do the kind of work that took you into the profession in the first place. I'm lucky in that I got to be kidnapped by aliens in a science fiction show, and I got to work with Gerry Mulgrew on one of his physically entertaining shows. But twice in 14 years is not as fulfilling as you'd hope...

You can imagine then how flabbergasted I was to be asked last month to read for the part of Bilbo Baggins in Peter Jackson's new two-film version of The Hobbit. I was given a five page script to learn overnight and the scene was recorded by revered casting director John Hubbard. Of course as you might imagine I threw myself into it, and probably tried a bit too hard - but then anyone would, in my position.

As most of you will know, they cast the wrong Freeman - Martin, who I'm sure was the first choice of Peter Jackson from the beginning given his 'similar' role in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It seems my Jabberwocky rendition will be the closest I get to Sir Ian. I didn't expect the gig really - it would have been unlikely for the job to go to an unknown. But the experience has had a positive psychological effect on me. It's reminded me why I went into acting in the first place, and to concentrate on the things I've achieved that I'm proud of, rather than the months without work or the disappointents of not getting something that didn't inspire me anyway.

As for the future - I'm more determined than ever to make work I'm proud of, whether I end up over hill or under hill. And it starts with tonight's bedtime story.

Autumn in the Links

2010-10-28T09:38:00.002+01:00

Word Up

2010-10-26T11:44:00.008+01:00

Temi is currently speaking a new word every day. Yesterday it was 'banana', which after several multisyllable attempts settled as 'nana. This morning she was chanting it like a mantra, obviously assured that it was going to be involved in her breakfast. Today it is 'watch', which she is saying to her new watch - a present from her granny and currently on her wrist. This will prove to be a useful gift, as neither Donna or I wear one.

I've often thought that your first word says a lot about you as a person. Temi's was 'Pete', the name of our dog. She can only pronounce it 'Dete', in a peculiar high voice and with an exclamation mark always at the end, but I think it shows a need for her to connect with our long suffering pooch. Since the word came before 'mum', 'dad' or 'granny' (still waiting for that one Sally...) they must have bonded over something. It must be quite common for a child's first word to be a pet's name. My brother Stephen used to chase our pet round the garden chanting 'Durdledin' (Terrapin). I think this says a lot about how he turned out - non conventional, creative, and very literate (look at those three syllables in a first word!) Mine however was apparently 'more'. I've no idea what that says about me... ahem.

One of Artemis' favourite words is 'wow', which she applies loudly and liberally to most new things she sees. Don't worry, I haven't been introducing her to World of Warcraft. No, she's just easily impressed, like Kate Bush. When the very hungry caterpillar turns into a butterfly for example (spoilers!), or when you place a big bowl of food in front of her... Never was this more evident than when we took her for her 13 month MMR vaccination. As the health visitor took out the two needles Temi gave a long drawn out 'wow' as if the lady was unwrapping a big bag of sweeties. It may have been misplaced hope, but it was a very effective guilt trip to the poor woman administering the let-down.

Aside from painful injections we have been trying to give her new experiences and getting her out more. Our flat is only a one bedroom and although she waddles several miles a day between her 'book' collection in the bedroom, the excitement of the toilet flushing ('wow') and the dog's food 'bowl', you could hardly describe it as living the good life. Last week we ate out a few times, Donna cringing with embarassment at any shouting from the high chair. We tried out the soft play maelstrom at the local shopping centre where she appeared to forget all about us in her attempt to dive into the 'ball' swamp.

The best trip though possibly was taking her, Pete and our friend's dog Ellie to the Blackford hill Hermitage in what I thought might be the last sunny day of the year. It's an amazing place, one that I went to frequently as a very young child myself, and as such it felt very much like a homecoming. The smell of allotment bonfires, the purple of loosestrife and the sound of a woodpecker suggest more Thomas Hardy country than the rugged Scotia-Victoriana grandeur of Arthur's Seat. The hill itself is the oldest in Edinburgh, 50 million years older than Arthur's Seat in fact, but since Temi was in an over the shoulder sling and my hip was threatening to pop out any minute, we didn't go up. Instead we walked through the forest that surrounds the Braid Burn, letting the dogs chase each other and stopping to pick up every leaf.

'Your granny, my mum, loved trees' I told my daughter. 'She could name every one.'
'Wow' Artemis answered, in a quieter, more reverant tone.

Words exchanged.

Here is a short dictionary of all Temi's known words:

Ball
Banana (pronounced 'nana)
Bob (granny's dog)
Book
Bird
Bottle
Bowl
Button (pronounced butt)
Bye
Cup
Dad
Down
Duck
Hat
Hi
Hot
Moon
Mum
Owl
Pete (pronounced Dete)
Toast
Up
Watch
Wee wee
What?
Wheeee
Wow!
Yes
Yum

I appreciate that that'll be as exciting as reading , well, a dictionary, but its happening so fast I wanted to record it. There are quite a few other words garbled, but I've only entered ones I can be sure of.

Deen Drama

2010-10-15T09:58:00.011+01:00

I was working in Aberdeen yesterday, telling contruction workers how to be safe through the power of theatre. At least, that was the idea. The venue was the Marischal College, which is Aberdonian for 'marshall'. Hitler had planned to use this building as his northern base apparently, such is its imperial grandeur. I wonder if he'd seen how grey and imperious the rest of aberdeen was... maybe he'd have booked pittodrie for one of his speech/parade nights - it would have certainly livened the place up! I don't think the Marischal college has had the heating on since Hitler's time though - for the first time in my life I had to resort to thermals...

The train back was delayed twice, once by the suspicious package left on the platform (Al Qaeda have found out Butteries contain lard perhaps, or some parcelforce worker's arms were a bit tired...) and again by some middle aged thug in a karrimore who, obviously mistaking platform 6N for King's Cross, barged through the crowd aggressively in the manner of a slavering fat lass in the 'reduced chicken rush' at tesco. The train driver, seeing this, sought to have a word with the man, and was rewarded with an attempt to punch him in the face.
'You're not travelling pal' said the driver, and I watched with excitement as the man was removed from the train. I love to see assholes get their comeuppance.

It was a long day, and no manner of Marks and Spencer salads on the train home can prevent total exhaustion. These kind of corporate training gigs are the bread and butter of my career these days, especially as Scottish Theatre seems to be in terminal decline. I'm keen to see what Creative Scotland can provide in terms of new energy and ideas. God knows we need it! I forwarded the following to Cora Bissett, the multi-talented actress who has been nominated as our industry mouthpiece in the forthcoming consulatations:-

-In the past Arts funding in scotland, particularly for theatre and film, seems to have been allergic to the ideas of entertainment or 'a good night out', instead treating drama with a sort of poetic reverence that has resulted in quite introspective and lofty work, often 'issue based'. While I don't want to put down such work, I think Creative Scotland has a great opportunity to engage a whole new generation of people in our dramatic arts. Shows like Sunshine On Leith, and films like Carter Ferguson's Fast Romance show that we can create popular entertaining work that can also move, inspire and engage. In short, we're at our best when we're having fun, not shoegazing.

-As well as the death of many companies in recent years, we've also seen a reduction in the amount of voices heard in Scottish Theatre. Now this might sound like a moan about how little work I've had, but I do think there is a genuine concern that there isn't enough diversity in Scottish Theatre. The NTS is to be applauded for their brave work, but essentially it's the bravery of two people - Vicki Featherstone and John Tiffany, and increasingly their voices are heard above everyone elses. I would love to see more support given to emerging directors, but also to collaborators of all crafts. Why not have seed funding available to actors and writers too? That way anyone with a new and interesting idea can bring collaborators on board?

I'm incredibly proud of 'Heartfelt', the adaptation of Aidan Smith's book about Hibs and Hearts which attracted non-theatregoers and offered a good night out with plenty of laughs, but also told a story of a man's voyage around his father - a story of legacy, passions, Edinburgh. It sold out both years we produced it for Leith Festival. It would be great to have the opportunity to produce work like this more often; I hope Cora can pass on this message to the folks with the pursestrings...

Everything falls apart.

2010-10-06T20:33:00.006+01:00

My PS3 was returned with a muckle big hole in the side. So while 'fixing it' the Total Console Repair technician obviously lost his cool and poked it repeatedly with his screwdriver, like some hoodie stabbing his Nan. Ach well, after swapping out hard drives several times and de-fragging the hard drive file system (not as fun as it sounds) the old girl is up and running again. Disgruntled with the look of the thing, I sent the above photograph to the repair company and they've promised to 'replace the casing'. Sounds expensive, glad I'm not paying for that one..

Maybe I souldn't be grumbling. After all, the richest people in the universe are telling us we should tighten our belts. Britian needs to "Earn our living" says George Osbourne, who lives on a 4 million pounds trust fund, and uses his Chancellor of the Exchequer wages for tipping his staff. Or something. We can afford to replace Trident, but forget about boots and armour for troops, let alone a postal service, any nurses policeman or teachers, or a well-fair state. Go on yerselves, CamMoron and the Eton Rifles. First jobs are great eh? Earn some extra pocket money, keep yourself busy, create an underclass, ruin the country. Plus its more fun than a paper round.

Game Over, Yogi

2010-10-04T11:25:00.007+01:00

John Hughes has left Hibs under a 'mutual consent' cloud. Apparently mid table mediocrity isn't good enough for the Hibs board, so they've decided to cut their losses with Yogi, a man who is so committed to the club it's actually quite scary. In the current climate there really isn't a wealth of managerial talent to choose from as a replacement, so it seems responsible to throw my hat into the ring.

Seriously, I'd make a good Hibs manager. I can handle a press conference without reffering to the 'game of two halfs' cliche book. I have more syllables in my name than Mick McCarthy can pronounce. I'm hungry, ambitious and available. Who cares that I'm not from a football background? It worked for 'the Special One' - he was a translator in Spain before getting into management. Similarly I once worked at Easter Road as a Ladbrokes bookie. You could argue that knowing the odds is a bigger part of the Hibs job than what languages you can speak. I also wrote and performed 'Heartfelt', the adaptation of Aidan Smith's book which was performed in the Famous Five stand. 'Know thy Enemy' as Sun Tzu would say... oh, and like Mourinho I've also worn mascara for my job.

Now I would treat football management much in the same way as Lieutenant William Gorman manages his troops in the film Aliens. Everything done by the book. I would tell the team to 'fall back, hold down a surpressing fire' at Ibrox, and Deeks Riordan would tell me I 'always was an asshole'. 'How many football games have you been involved in?' Colin Nish would ask me. 'Two.' I'd reply 'Including this one' but like Gorman I have plenty experience in the simulator. Why, I managed four seasons at Hibs in Championship Manager on my PSP. My radical policies included full training days, never signing a player over 26 and keeping the wage bill down. We finished fourth in the SPL, and continued to have a long run in Europe the following season, entering the Europa League group stages. What other manager available in Scotland can boast that on their CV?

Who's available? Jimmy Calderwood once managed abroad, you can tell by his 'tan', but Aberdeen's forays into Europe were almost as head-in-the-hands embarassing as Hibernians. Jim Duffy got us relegated. Franck Sauzee was ruined by the club. Only John Robertson has had a good record with taking a club into the group stages of Europa, assualt charges on fellow managers et al. The only thing is it is Robbo, and he did it with Hearts. That would be akin to Bin Laden running for president. The clear choice for the board then is another chubby hobbit - me.

Flab Fighters

2010-09-28T14:02:00.005+01:00

Back in May it was revealed that men actually gain baby weight during the latter stages of pregnancy too. An online marketing company revealed that men snack more and drink more beer in apprehension of a sprog arriving, and this habit can continue through the babies first year. Well I hate to be categorised but this has been true for me.

Of course, you don't binge drink with a wee one in tow, despite the increasing amount of pubs with 'play areas' round here - (There are number of swedish-owned pubs in Leith that welcome babies and toddlers. I suppose they can be quite entertaining after several pints of continental lager...). Seriously though, you wouldn't want to be inebriated in charge of a toddling child. At a time where every edge is a hazard they take a sudden interest in anything hot, sharp or electrical. You have to be ON.

What this does mean though is that as soon as the little darling rests her head on the pillow you do find yourself reaching for a tinny or two and some Dead Space. (well, Neverwinter Nights for me at the moment while I wait for the Royal Mail to find my poorly ps3...)

This has, despite the daily prospect of 4 flights of stairs carrying a buggy, left me the heaviest I've ever been. With a return to panto this christmas at Eden Court, I need to get into shape, and quickly. So, off to the Leith Victoria swim centre I went. This is the kind of gym I like - the kind of gym where you are more likely to worry if the guy on the abs machine is going to keel over, rather than judge you on the make of your sports socks. Where the words 'body' and 'fascist' will never appear in the same sentence. People here have been told to come by their doctor, not their stylist.

Imagine my surprise then when I was confronted by the 'membership manager' - a 14 year old in a tracksuit - who proceeded to try and sell me various packages, classes in 'Ab Attack' and golf membership. Now usually I'm no sucker for sales patter, but I've got about 6 weeks to stop looking like an out of date mushroom. So a membership is what I walked out with. Yikes, better actually go then....

Today I don't feel too sore. This could be a bad sign however. It could mean that I'm so out of shape that this is going to take a few days for my muscles to go 'hang on a freakin minute'. I'll keep you posted.

Blink And You'll Miss It

2010-09-23T12:36:00.011+01:00

Anyone who is as obsessive about their Playstation 3 as much as I am (symptoms include switching it on even when you are too tired to play, and googling games that aren't due to be out for over a year) fears one thing more than anything else: The infamous Yellow Light of Death...

This ominous sounding phenomenon is in fact a technical fault causing the machine to suddenly shut down. Forever. It is apparently more common on the older launch models, such as mine. There was even a conspiracy theory ridden episode of Watchdog on it about a year ago, where they tried to compare the fault with the unbelievably high failure rate of the xbox 360 - known more riskily as the 'Red Ring Of Death'. Electronic devices these days, it seems, are not built to last. The theory is that the Yellow Light fault happens when the machine overheats, and the cheap soldering on the CPU cracks. Or something. Or maybe the hamster dies because someone's been playing too much warhawk.... Whatever the reason, I religiously hoovered out the vents on the machine, and even bought an air duster for it, waiting for this day to come. Yes, the Yellow Light of Death now shines for me.

I had just watched a They Might Be Giants dvd with Artemis and the machine beeped at me, flashed its little light and said sayonara. I scrabbled over, Gollum-like, hissing 'my preciousssss' and tried to switch it back on. 'Think again' it beeped back at me. I wasn't entirely sure that I'd seen any yellow in the light, just an angry blinking red one, so like any good IT technician I tried switching it off and on several times, eventually pressing my eye as close as possible to the light. Yes, there it was - a cheeky glimpse of yellow. Noooo.

In these type of situations the desperate man reaches for the vast unreliable database that is the internets, and I was no different. Luckily though my fear of the evil Yellow Light meant that I was a little more prepared than most. I'd read about it, researched various homebrew 'fixing' methods and even gone as far as to take out breakdown cover. So I called the insurance company, who in turn put me in touch with a company called 'Total Console Repair'. Quick research on them revealed that they are located on the south coast of Dorset. So my precious will be couriered all the way to the land of my birth for emergency resuscitation it seems. That doesn't sound too quick though does it?... I can't be too upset, I guess. After all, I suspected it was coming. The old girl has had over three years of HEAVY use, and I'm amazed that it lasted the full 24 hours of my video games marathon for the Edinburgh Sick Kids Hospital in August, Sick Kids Save Point. (over 7k raised now don't you know)

The dilemma remained however: what about Temi's favourite dvd 'Here Come The 123s' by They Might Be Giants - A wonderful collection of songs about numbers with amusing videos involving philisophical puppets. The disc was a present from our dear Stateside friends Robert, Sarah and their son Jack (a peer of Temi) and it was still in the machine... Now I'm sure Total Console Repair are a reputable company, but I sure as hell wasn't going to trust them to treat those dancing puppets with the importance that my daughter does. 'There's Only One Everything' after all - some westcountry engineer isn't going to know that nine bowls of soup are vital in maintaining correspondence with the Aliens that are due to join us for lunch, or that the only way to get rid of an infestation of sevens is to feed them cake...

I didn't trust myself to get the disc out by invading the machine without somehow ruining it. My previous internet research however had uncovered a rather unorthodox method of getting the old girl back on her feet, at least long enough to get the disc out, and maybe if I was lucky back up my game saves. This involved wrapping the ps3 in a towel and blasting a hairdryer into the back vents to basically 'cook' the machine. Seriously. Apparently this method remelts the cracked soldering and can 'fix' the console. Now obviously this is insane, and despite the various assurances on internet forums about how it 'works ever time' I took it easy, just gently blowing the hot air in from a distance for much less than the 10-15 minutes suggested. (I did it for 5) Lets face it, if you had a hairdyer that could solder you'd have some pretty interesting hairstyles... But I'm amazed to say it worked. The machine switched on for about 4 seconds and I was able to rescue Temi's dvd unscathed.

All I can do now is wait, going quickly cold turkey on my addiction. I mean hobby. I've already dusted off the old Playstation 2...

Sauceocalypse

2010-09-09T09:23:00.005+01:00

There are in my opinion four items any modern kitchen should not be without: Ketchup, Brown Sauce, a hot sauce and some sort of chutney or pickle. I realised yesterday that I am currently with out three of these. Of course, we have several chutneys as always. Branston regular and smooth (try with scrambled eggs), some home made green tomato marmalade and half a jar of sweetcorn and red pepper relish.

But there is a distinct lack of the basic sauces in our cupboard, and for this I should be turfed out of sauceville. Yesterday I used up the last of my 'Iguana XXX', a Habanero pepper sauce from the Half Moon Bay Trading company. This a tasty sauce. Not as 'damn hot' as stated on the bottle, as is often the case. My only criticism is that it is quite thick and lumpy which means it tends to come out of the bottle in clumps. This is only minor however, as some dishes actually benefit from such liberally applied heat. In my mind you can't go wrong with green tabasco - mild, versatile and extremely tasty.

The ketchup we have is the last remnants of an asda smartprice bottle. This is to be avoided at all costs. Ketchup is a finely balanced condiment, and although many cheap ketchups have their place when trying to disguise badly cooked fried goods, this is not one I'd recommend.

A cheap Brown sauce is much more versatile, and you're safe with the equivelent asda smartprice bottle. Ours however is long past the 'water it down with a wee bit white vinegar' stage. Its just gone, and I need to get over it, pull myself together, and get a new bottle. Growing up in Edinburgh gives you a taste for a vinegar-heavy brown sauce, due to the unique version we smother our chips with here, and as a result my brown sauce of choice is Daddies. However you can't deny the quality of HP - its worth the extra pennies.

Price is a problem these days though, even poundland's pound bottles are conspiciously small. You'll get the equivelent size for cheaper elsewhere. As condiments seem to be moving into the luxury item bracket again don't be fooled. Those top four are essential.

There's Only ONE Everything.

2010-09-06T09:23:00.022+01:00

Here I am at the end of a year which has to be among the most memorable and momentous of my life. It was certainly the most momentous year in the life of Artemis Grace McGlynn Freeman, being that it is her only one...

I apologise in advance for any cliche making an appearance here - as a parent you catch yourself listing them with alarming regularity. 'She's so clever', 'I don't remember what it was like before she came along', 'isn't that just adorable' and other sickening gushes have tripped off our lips. We do, however, try to keep these type of displays to oursleves, because we can remember all too clearly how nauseating they can be to non parents.
Before we had Temi we were bombarded by cliches:-

-'Just you wait, you'll never get any time to yourselves again.' This one is a nonsense, and implies that a child is a bleating demanding ball and chain that never sleeps. We have been lucky with Temi in that for most of the year she has had considerable naps during the day. This has had a knock on effect in that she's been pretty jolly for most of her waking hours. Don't get me wrong, there are tough times and challenges, especially once they learn how to fake cry. But I had anticipated having to give up my Playstation, or never getting to watch Match of the Day again, which was just silly.

-'Get as much sleep as you can, because once the baby's here you'll not sleep again.' But there are different kinds of sleep deprivation. Donna's lack of sleep while pregnant was worse than anything we've encountered since. At least with a sleepless baby you can share the burden by doing it in shifts. (How single parents do it I'll never know. They are heroic.) The first 6 weeks were the toughest, with Artemis suffering from some very bad trapped wind. She would wake every couple of hours with an almighty need to fart. At that point she was sleeping in a moses basket which I would keep in the front room and stay up till about 4 am. Then I would take her through to the bedroom and let Donna do the morning shift. Now she will tend to sleep till about 5 or 6, but because we are still in our one bedroom flat (that's another story) the noises she makes in the night do interrupt our sleep patterns.

-'Enjoy it while you can, they grow up so fast. Next thing you'll know she'll be leaving home.' Not strictly true either. Although it is incredible how quickly a child develops language, motor skills and a personality, this year has been long and full of amazing experiences. Perhaps time just flies by quicker when you're an undervalued actor waiting for the phone to ring, I don't know... A more accurate cliche is 'Every day brings a new joy', because there hasn't been a day in the last 365 in which Temi hasn't come up with something new and entertaining.

There are cliches we have been avoiding though. Mainly the colour PINK. Walking into any high street clothing store or supermarket for baby clothes is a depressing sight. To the right - rack after rack of lurid pink and sparkles, pictures of simpering princesses and wide eyed non threatening animals. To the left- The same racks but with only powder blue and navy, the smallest combat trousers you've ever seen, pictures of dinosaurs destroying things and mischievous monkeys. She gets a bib with 'Daddy's favourite princess', he gets one with 'Nothing but trouble'. I'd rather not be prescribed the personality of my child, thank you very much. I'm sure Temi will grow up to appreciate the odd puppy dogs tail, as well as any sugar and spice on offer.I actually believe that there is something far more sinister about the pink obsession though. Girls should be sweet and nice and be looked after. Their role models are disney princesses whose only aspirations are to get married and live happily ever after. Coupled with the only (sadly) remaining mainstream legacy of feminism - that women have just as much right as men to vomit into the Lothian Road gutter at 3am before staggering off to sleep with a stranger, or 'girl power' as it was rebranded - this social conditioning has created a generation of girls who aspire to be the best of both: a kept princess who gets to have her fun, also know as the 'Glamour model' 'Reality TV star' or 'It girl'.

Now I don't think I'm going to be a pushy parent with unrealistic expectations. Artemis can make whatever she wants with her life. She can be a street sweeper, a mathematician or even a Tory if she wants, but I want her to be able to have aspirations. I want her to be able to pursue her own happiness without the need for a rich husband, seedy photographer, high waisted music producer or other patriarchal benefactor. I know this seems a long way from dressing her in pink, but I don't want them to get their claws in early.

Anyway, enough of the pseudo feminism, back to Temi. We had her first birthday party on Saturday. My guardian Lynn hosted due to the fact that she lots of lovely space for guests and a gaggle of small children. It was a great afternoon, even if I was never really able to relax. Donna's sisters Deborah and Stacey brought Temi's cousins along and we had other friends with kids there too. Which brings me to our last cliche of the day:
-'First Birthdays aren't for the kids, they're for the adults' I was a bit apprehensive about how Temi would take to all those kids at once, but she seemed to relish every moment. I would say she had the best time out of all of us. She even took to soaking up the applause when the cake came out, milking it for encores like some old ham on the stage. Oh dear...

She is so clever though, isn't she...?

Massive election....

2010-05-07T09:49:00.007+01:00

So it's a hung parliament. But is it well hung?

What a depressing result for everyone. Balls weren't licked, Brown largely smeared, Cameron looking constipated. What a load of shit.
What is most staggering is the Labour vote in Scotland. I can't believe all these people flocking to vote Labour after the last 13 years of betrayal. They could pin a red rosette on a monkey in a hitler uniform and the Scots would turn out to vote for him. (or her)

Commentators are talking about it being an 'anti-tory' vote among voters who remember Thatcher. But they're all maggie's children. That's what is so depressing. What does Labour have to do to lose support up here? 2 Wars, privatisation of our schools and hospitals, tax breaks for the rich, renewal of Trident, dentention of refugees. A slurry of corruption, sleaze and spin doctoring. And still the sheep turn out in there droves because 'they're not the Tories'. Yeah. Only in the spelling.

Silver lining: Greens have a westmister seat, and nick griffin shafted..

Crossing Jordan

2009-10-23T21:57:00.005+01:00

Those of you who are expecting the second installment of my labour story will have to wait I'm afraid. As you've gathered it's quite an epic so I'm still working on it.

Last night Temi slept for 10 hours uninterrupted. Now I do not say this as a form of boasting because we really have had a tough time with trying to establish a routine and getting her down at night. I tend to do the night shift, feeding her expressed breast milk, and Donna takes over early in the morning. In the middle there is usually about 2 or 3 hours where Donna and I can share a bed.

Anyway, you can imagine how jubilant we felt this morning, and we decided to celebrate with lunch at Pizza Express, courtesy of a 2 for 10 pound voucher. Although Artemis tends to be knocked out as soon as you put her in the sling, and stay that way for the duration, I was still pretty worried that we would become the very people we used to sneer at - the 'how cute is our kid when they scream in public?' brigade. Thankfully the place was full of babies. This is probably the first time I have felt such relief at this. Remarkably she slept throughout, and despite the fact I placed a napkin over her head she still managed to get some black pepper, 2 crumbs and a small sliver of olive on her head. Donna also pointed out that I bore some resemblance to the late Michael Jackson at a balcony.

Donna is anxious to lose the so-called 'flesh apron' that follows the type of delivery she had (watch this space for details) so the slap up feast had to be counterbalanced with some brisk walking. We walked along the shore to the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. Now, we used to love this place because of its failure - the rows of empty units, the perpetual motion of the unstained chrome-lined escalators. It had the distinctly apocalyptic air which appeals to any british sci-fi fan. Not so these days though. It has both a Starbucks and a Costa. Today my way into GAME was blocked by metal barriers, the sole purpose of which was to herd shapeless pink clad children, resplendent in hooker's make-up and ugg boots. You could tell which girls were of primary school age because they didn't have a sneer permanently on their face... Jordan was signing copies of her new 'book' in Waterstones. This is apparently her tenth, again written by ghost writer Rebecca Farnworth... Each child was gripping a white tome with a picture of Jordan wearing something fluffy.

Now this an altogether less appealing armageddon; one in which little girls aspire to be a washed up glamour model with a failed marriage and a insatiable lust for column inches, silicone implants and cold hard cash. Katie Price, as she likes to be called by women, is 'quite intelligent' apparently. Her manipulation of the media suggests a savvy she doesn't show when she's getting her tits out for the boys... Hm, perhaps, but when your intelligence is used for blind greed and to piss on the ashes of feminism, surely that doesn't make it a redeeming feature?

As I attempted to move the barrier slightly so I could squeeze into GAME, the miniature harradins hissed their disapproval and cursed me as if I was somehow jumping the queue. I held Artemis a little closer, fearful for the world she is entering. I really hope she can aspire to something, anything. That she won't look up to people who are succesful for achieving nothing. Then I looked at the Borderlands box for comfort. Split screen co-op...mmmm... achieve nothing you say?

Ach well, at least these lost children might have sat down to watch 'Question Time' last night. The BBC should be applauded for finally staging a show where people got passionate about politics, 8 million people tuned in, and a Nazi got exposed as a inarticulate bigot. Huzzah!

Jordan stood in the general election of 2001. She promised free breast implants and nudist beaches, and a ban on parking tickets. Still, it's 'Perestroika' compared to the BNP's manifesto.

The West Lothian Opium Den

2009-10-14T13:51:00.012+01:00

Donna, whilst breasfeeding, has flicked over the channel to discover 'Streetcrime UK'
"It just doesn't have the same appeal anymore" she mutters, but then titters as a motorcycle thief falls arse over tit. When the TV is this bad, my thoughts turn to my neglected blog...

Well, it's been 7 weeks since the last posting, and of course many of you will have thought that this blog had terminated as quickly as it had been initiated. Not so, readers. As playwright Douglas Maxwell said, the first few weeks of the life of a human being is an experience akin to Vietnam. And he meant the war, not the middle class teenage identity-searching backpacking trip.

Yes, as well as not knowing what day it is, Donna and I really have felt as though we are on drugs in a war zone. Wheras the Vietcong used the cover of trees and the harsh environment as their smokescreen, Artemis uses the power of being very small and cute.

But before I go into our experiences of parenthood, and how it has made us grow as human beings and tacticians, I must tell you all about the gruelling ordeal know as 'labour'. It is definitely called that for a reason...

22nd August. 2.45 am. Donna leaps out of bed clutching at herself and runs to the toilet. She stays there for about 15 minutes. It crosses my mind that perhaps her waters have broken, but we had been eating so many hot curries to encourage movement in the womb area that I think perhaps getting dressed is a bit premature.

2.55 am. Donna returns to bed with eyes like saucers. They will remain like this for the next 2 days.
"I think my waters have broken" she says. You think... "My waters have broken" she confims. She thinks she's having contractions. I point out that the advice in the notes is to contact Triage as soon as the waters break, and we do so. The Edinburgh Royal Informary ask us to come in for monitoring, despite the low contractions, and I call a local taxi to take us there. The taxi driver doesn't seem in the least bit worried that there is a potentially leaking woman in the back seat. He knows more than we do, obviously. At this point Donna realises that she is definitely having contractions. I phone my friend Malcolm to ask him to go down to our house and sit with the dog, who is outraged at being left at this time, and is no doubt waking the neighbours as we pull up to the Iron clad monster that is the RIE. Malcolm sounds sleepy.

3.30am. After waiting what seems like an eternity in the foyer, a woman straps Donna into a monitoring machine that shows the babies heartbeat as fine and her contractions as piddly. She tells us to go back home and come back at 7 at night. We look at each other with a 'that's AGES away. It'll come before that' look.
"How will I know if I have to come in before that?" Donna asks. The lady smiles wryly and tells us that we'll know.
"You'll be bent over in agony" she says "and the contractions will be on top of each other." We hope it doesn't come to that, mainly because the RIE is miles away from anywhere, out of town, with the only bus route taking us through the tramwork ruined city centre and out the other side, and taxi fares expensive (as we'd just discovered). Why did they build a hospital in an inconvenient place? On top of an abandoned mine shaft? With a severe lack of space and beds? Because it would have cost the private company that runs it too much to do it sensibly, that's why. Anyway, I feel bad as we wait for the taxi home in the dark main foyer of the hospital because I've got Malcolm out of his bed and down to our house in the cold witching hour just to dog sit for an hour. When I phone him to tell him, he hasn't even left yet. In fact, he sounds like he just went back to sleep. Donna is outraged. I feel a bit less guilty. We're home by about 5.30 and go back to bed.
Advice to prospective birth partners 1 - you'll probably go back and forth to the hospital several times, so if you can get hold of a car.

9.00am. We get up and have toast. Donna's contractions are noticably stronger, and by the time I get back from walking the dog at about half ten she's on that birthing ball with a fearful look on her face, to go with the saucer eyes. This expression would grow over the next 28 hours. The contractions get stronger and stronger and although they are not consistent in their timing, they are definitely only about a minute and a half apart on average. I phone Triage again for advice. "We definitely need you to come in" says the voice on the other end of the phone "BUT... we're closed actually. Can you get to Livingston?" I tell her we don't have a car, but this doesn't seem to guilt trip her into suddenly finding room at the Inn, or even a manger replete with hay and a sheep. Resigned to a trip to West Lothian, I begin phoning round all the people I can think of who have a car, whilst trying to maintain an air of calm for Donna's benefit. Only she would be able to tell you if I managed to maintain it for the next 26 hours...

11.00am. Jane Rubens drives us to the hospital. We avoid town because of the aforementioned tramworks. Edinburgh is impossible to drive through at the moment. But the alternate route is also peppered with roadworks and diversions, and Ferry road has never felt so uneven. At this point I remember that the last time I'd been in a car with Jane she had inexplicably veered across the road in a moment of distraction, dizziness or melancholy. I decide not to tell Donna this. Donna though is in considerable pain at this point and is looking rather woozy. My guardian Lynn calls 'to see if everything's ok' but in classic fashion only manages to raise the stakes by nervously asking "She is going to make it to the hospital isn't she?"

12.00pm. We arrive at St John's Hospital Livingston.

The car park at maternity has a barrier down and several traffic cones barricading the entrance. There is a sign that says 'this car park is temporarily closed.' I jump out and move the cones. At this a gentleman in a NHS van behind me rolls his window down and informs me that I can't park in there. That the car park is closed.
"My partner is in labour" I inform him "She's having it."
"But you can't go in there."
" Piss off" I offer the jobsworthy prick, and kick the remaining traffic cone aside. I press the intercom and barrier raises without question. I glance back triumpantly at the van man. He looks scared of me.
We go into the Labour ward and Donna is kneeling against anything she can and breathing heavily. Imagine our horror when the midwife inspects her to find that she is only dilated 1 centimetre!

"You're in for the long haul"

Normally they would send us home, but we are given special dispensation because we have come all the way from Leith with no car. Thank gods, because Donna was in so much pain I really don't know what I would have done in the subsequent hours.

" Walk about" they tell us. "Keep mobile."

They offer gas and air, which Donna grabs at like a kid with someone elses ice cream. She seems less than impressed with it's effectiveness, and when the midwife is out of the room I give it a go. It makes me feel lightheaded and I have to suppress giggles.
Advice to prospective birth partners 2 - don't laugh when your loved one is in agony.
There is a room down the corridor filled with beanbags and a TV. We spend the afternoon in there with Donna faceplanting a cushion. She props herself against the back of a chair with a frozen grimace. It is about now that I begin to feel a bit useless. We had pre - agreed that I wouldn't be saying 'do you want a massage babe?' but some hair stroking was appreciated. When someone is that uncomfortable they don't always want to be touched.
Advice to prospective birth partners 3 - Be their damn slave, pretend to be calm and don't take the initiative. You are not in charge here, with good reason.

7.00pm. Our midwife finishes her shift. Donna is only about 2 centimetres dilated so there is a general air of insanity. Her parting advice is:
"take some Morphine, you've a long way to go." Donna shakes her head.
"I don't want to use all my drugs up now." She groans. By this point she is sucking on the gas and air like an edwardian despot in an opium den. We return to the TV room, to not watch some more. X-Factor starts, the first episode of a new season, but even the most mentally ill of the dissolutioned auditionees can't distract Donna from the pain. This gives me a fair idea of the scale that she's already at, so I join the medical staff in pushing the hard drugs. Donna agrees and we return to the labour suite. She is hooked up to mointoring machines and Donna is put on a drip for fluids. There is also a inducement drug being pumped into her, alegedly. This appears to have no effect and the Boss midwife comes in, takes the drip out and realises that the ultra thin tube entered into donna's vein has doubled back on itself. ew. Then, as the darkness falls, the morphine is admistered.

10.30pm. Now the edwardian despot moves to a much more entertaining phase. She still sucks on the gas and air, but in a more laconic distant way. She tells me to go and rest. This is the last sensible thing she says for some time. I'll post the rest of the story soon. Keep posted!

Welcome to the world Artemis

2009-08-26T09:02:00.003+01:00

I hereby present our daughter Artemis Grace Mcglynn-Freeman, born at 12.22pm Sunday 23rd August 2009 by C-Section. This was after a gruelling 35 hour labour, which I will post about in full when I get a chance. In the meantime Donna is recovering at St Johns hospital in Livingston (we were sent there because Edinburgh Royal was full..) both her and Artemis are well and I'm obviously on cloud 9! She is a Leo, apparently, for those that care about such things. More later!

Auto formatting

2009-08-21T18:26:00.003+01:00

It has come to my attention, whilst re reading my entries, that blogspot automatically puts only one space after a full stop, as opposed to the correct two. Now I've noticed it, it's doing my frackin' head in. Any suggestions on how to fix this which doesn't involve mucking about with dreary html would be welcomed.

Week 41 + 3

2009-08-21T13:16:00.002+01:00

In the big Mutha womb. 'Baby' is relaxing and doing absolutley nothing of interest.

Bump bouncing & Blondie

2009-08-21T12:52:00.008+01:00

We got the small trampoline out today. Who needs the self indulgence of the Festival when you've got one of these bad boys??

Donna had bought this thing in a moment of online-shopping-madness during early pregnancy. You know those moments when you buy a small book or cd on amazon, or bid for something on ebay, and it unleashes the pj-wearing materialist monster within. Several hours later you're browsing things you would NEVER consider in a store. (You wouldn't even go into the store in the first place...)

Anyway, Donna bought this on ebay and was then terrified that to use it would damage the baby in some way, so it stayed stuffed behind the wardrobe. The moral outrage on the mumsnet forums would have been too much. In actuality the baby was more likely to get pissed off than damaged, but it was an excuse not to use it. (The baby was probably pissed off anyway, due to the loud northumbrian pipe music I was pumping into that bump, followed by Blondie's greatest hits. Hopefully more 'Pretty Baby' than 'Fade Away and Radiate'...)

After I had bounced on the thing for the duration of 'Puppet On A String' by Sandie Shaw (great bouncing tune, sorry neighbours) Donna had a quick go. It was so quick, however, that I didn't get a picture - sorry readers.

Now it lies abandoned, between Donna and warhawk. She did point out that it was the same colour as the bouncing ball. 'Maybe in our new house, the gym will be chrome' she pondered.
'If we polish it up, we'll be able to see our reflections wherever we look' I offered.
It will be interesting to see if the desire to get rid of the bump translates into Madonna-like body fascism. Lets hope not.

A Sweeping Smile

2009-08-19T10:16:00.005+01:00

Here is Donna smiling after a stranger reached about inside her with a rubber glove. Who would have thought it? Yes, we went for a progress report with the midwife who assured us that this was not a phantom pregnancy, and as if to prove this she actually touched the babies head. She could not, however confirm whether it had hair or not (her words).

When she offered Donna a cervical sweep Donna looked at me as if to say 'time for you to leave now'. As I grabbed my coat the midwife asked 'You are going to be there at the birth?'. Ugh how embarassing- I probably looked like that sort of husband who looks forward to wetting the babies head more than stroking it. Anyway she obviously saw Donna's reddening cheeks so pulled over the curtain to split the difference. The fact that there was a baby there at all is proof enough that I've seen her fandango before... Anyway, apparently it wasn't as much of an ordeal as had been warned, and Donna was so relaxed I could have sworn I heard a wee fart (she assures me that this was the noise of the gloves going on..).

Everything seems fine, if nothing happens this week she'll be induced. It's good to have a deadline because over the last couple of days it has felt like we'll be stuck in this uncomfortable purgatory forever.

Some advice for other prospective fathers - when in a room with your partner and medical professionals keep your mouth shut. I'm always worried that Donna doesn't tell them everything so I chip in with questions and things. Not always welcomed. Today the midwife asked if she'd been feeling anything - I said 'You were tingling last night weren't you?'
Donna's tut was followed by the curt reply 'I wouldn't exactly describe it as tingling Tom!' There was an awkward moment of silence... So, remember that your partner's body is undergoing wierd stuff that you will never understand. Even if you get a sex change. Isn't nature cruel? (Actually not to us really, but hey, we have shorter life expectancy...)

Street Crime hasn't started yet, so Donna's watching 'Baby Time' in which some Americans feel smug about their 'diaper technique'. I doubt she'll be wildly punching the air over this one... I'll keep you posted.

August condiments and games

2009-08-18T12:34:00.006+01:00

Before the baby takes over everything for a while I thought I'd share what other things have been catching my attention.

As well as the usual supply of Branston and Marmite, this month's condiments have included

-a spicy home made chutney I produced with Onion and cider. It's pretty tangy and there's an after kick, but it goes very well with hard cheeses and crackers.

-Branston have a beetroot pickle which is too sweet to be versatile, but nice with a stronger cheese

-Although I've had it since April, I can't recommend this mustard enough. It is a challenge to eat, and your partner won't thank you for its strong garlic chilli and mustard overtones, but it's so damn tasty! Plus it will last you a fair bit because you only need a smidge..

I've been playing the PS3 a bit too. It's not just getting the gaming in while I still can, Donna has found warhawk a welcome diversion from being massive too. It's incredible that the game is still so busy online after 18 months since release. I guess pwning noobs never gets old. the annoying thing is that we don't seem to be able to host the size of games we used to. Discussions on the PSforums seem to indicate that this is quite common as well. Perhaps the servers are being wound down. I've also been playing:

-Fat Princess. This PSN multiplayer title is chaotic and was plagued with problems at launch, most of which seem to have been ironed out with the recent patch. It's not everyone's cup of tea but I find it really fun. It'll remain to be seen whether it has the longevity of Warhawk and others though. The outraged feminists that decried the concept have given up flaming it too - maybe it's a flash-in-the-pan phenomenon. What I do like though is that unless players work together the game doesn't work. It demands teamwork, which is a bit different.

-FIFA09. The hype surrounding the return of the football season has found me picking this back up for a kickabout. With Hibs getting a result on saturday, albeit against a weakened team from paisley, the sporting optimism has been enough to see me dust off FIFA and play a few league games. I've avoided the national side though, for obvious reasons...
Will I get the upcoming FIFA10? Probably not straight away. I'll have no time to play it anyway!

-Tomb Raider Underworld. All this waiting around has meant I've picked this back up. At least one can vent their frustrations at Lara Croft as she inexplicably steps of a pecipice, or swings into a solid wall. That's what Lara's for, right? Jeez this game is glitchy, albeit pretty.

Police brutality

2009-08-18T12:14:00.005+01:00

Donna lept from her bouncing ball and punched the air. Yes, punched the air with glee when her weeks of watching 'Street Crime UK' finally paid off with a genuine act of police brutality. Her eyes wild with excitement, she re-enacted the scene of a policeman kicking a drunks legs from under him, telling me of the event in great detail.

Could this be the adrenelin rush she needs to provoke labour? It certainly seems to have spurned her on to actually get dressed today...

And on the Seventh Day...

2009-08-18T11:03:00.003+01:00

Well, the baby is now overdue a week, and it has emerged that this tunisian lady is expecting 12 babies. At once. Surely some of them won't make it. It really is a case of IVF gone wrong... is it totally hypocritical to point out the world's overpopulation?... Probably.
I pointed out to Donna that at least there wasn't 12 in there, but it was cold comfort really. She's getting bigger by the day now, and is pretty uncomfortable.

What does a prospective dad do in this situation? Er... not much actually. I've been making supportive noises but generally staying out of the firing line, and not making any fat jokes. Thank gods for the dog, whose general attention seeking behaviour has kept Donna relatively cheery, saving me from potential murderous grumpiness...

We're both going a bit stir crazy. You work yourselves up to the due date and then everything goes on hold.

-We made a massive internet grocery shop to tide us over the first few weeks of a newborn, but we've eaten it all waiting for the wee tyke to arrive.

-We inexplicably decided that the baby was waiting for us to finish watching Battlestar Galactica box sets, but now we've completed all four series, and the credits have rolled on the epic finale. Still nothing.

-We've had several hot curries, but the only thing to emerge is noxious fumes...

-I've been told that reflexology is the answer, but really indiscriminate prodding of Donna's feet and ankles hasn't produced the instant water-breaking results one fantasise about...

-Donna's birthing ball bouncing action has become quicker and more manic. An angry bounce is an amusing sight, but laughing is inappropriate.

The bottom line is that this baby is happy where it is... last friday we had a scan to analyse the fluid in there, or something. Anyway it all seemed fine, perhaps the midwife tomorrow will have further guidance. Donna intends to act as miserable as possible so that they might offer to induce... (no acting required).

I'll post further news as and when.