The Heminge and Condell memorial, London

I’m a big fan of the Shakespeare story – who was he? Why did the greatest playwright the world has ever known leave virtually nothing to prove he wrote the plays that bear his name? Why did he leave no books when he died? Where did he learn all the information – botanical, historical, international – that crops up in his plays? Could those plays have really been created by a small provincial insurance clerk who ran away to become an actor?

Whatever the true story is, one fact is unassailable: that the man known as Shakespeare didn’t actually write the plays that we have today. That’s not to say those words weren’t primarily his – but if he ever wrote those words down, nothing survives today. Instead, the plays we know today as ‘Shakespeare plays’ are the work of two men who have been largely forgotten: the actors John Heminge and Henry Condell.

I say ‘largely forgotten’, but in the churchyard of St Mary Aldermanbury is a memorial dedicated to both of them – and it’s my favourite memorial in London.

While the bust of Shakespeare sits proudly on top of the memorial, the plaques on the main body are dedicated to Condell and Heminge. The text reads:

To the memory of JOHN HEMINGE and HENRY CONDELL, fellow actors and personal friends of SHAKESPEARE. They lived many years in this parish and are buried here.

To their disinterested affection the world owes all that it calls SHAKESPEARE. They alone collected his dramatic writings, regardless of pecuniary loss and without the hope of any profit, gave them to the world.

THEY THUS MERITED THE GRATITUDE OF MANKIND.

The two were Shakespeare’s co-partners at the Globe theatre in Southwark, and on his death in 1616, “from the accumulated [plays] there of thirty five years, with great labour selected them. No men then living were so competent having acted with him in them for many years, and well knowing his manuscript, they were published in 1623 in Folio, thus giving away their private rights therein. What they did was priceless, for the whole of his manuscripts with almost all those of the dramas of the period have perished.”

There’s no question of an authorship controversy here – why the two men would have freely given away a whole raft of plays they could have claimed as their own (many plays of the time being written by partnerships rather than single named writers) is a noble refutation to the idea Shakespeare was not the sole author.

It’s incredible that if it wasn’t for them, the works of Shakespeare could have been lost to the world forever. Heminge and Condell were the fine thread between us having the work of the world’s greatest writer and it being lost entirely.

How different the world would be if they hadn’t sat down one day, with a pile of dusty papers and half-remembered passages they’d performed a decade before, and thought, “Well, maybe we should try and get the lot of them written down for posterity.”

It starts to make me think of all the great work that’s been lost forever simply because there was no Heminge or Condell around to save it. Everytime someone performs a Shakespeare play, there should be a round of applause at the start for the men who ensured that those words survived.

Richard Bacon on The Thick of It

From http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/comedy/2009/11/richard-bacon-in-the-thick-of-it.shtml - Richard B on his appearance in The Thick Of It. If you want to hear the interview that didn’t get me on The Thick Of It, it’s available on iTunes on my XFM Certificate X podcast number 11. Best interview I’ve ever done.

Oddly, my quote about the film In The Loop made it to the front of the DVD box – my only one I’ve had in about six years. Well, there was one about Transformers being “a good acting movie” that made the poster, but it was a misprint, and should have said “action”, not “acting.” I looked like a right idiot. It’s by no means a good “acting” movie – a genre I’m not sure even exists.

The following is (c) The BBC and Richard Bacon, and all that sort of legal thing.

Richard Bacon writes… In the same week that I interviewed Armando Iannucci on my real 5 Live programme, my closest friend Marc spoke to him on XFM. As huge TV comedy fans in general (and Armando in particular), we met at the weekend to compare notes. I remember him saying, “When Armando’s sitting opposite you, don’t you wish he’d write you in to something?”.

“Ha ha. Ha ha ha…” is how I started my call to Marc a month later. Not only had Armando stuck me in this show but elements of it are inspired by that late night trip to 5 live.

Marc, try harder next time. Perhaps you could try interrupting the interview at regular intervals to say, “coming next, are clowns funny?”. He seemed to like that. Then, towards the end, have a clown in full regalia sit next to him. That’s what I did.

The first script meeting was exciting. It had a fallen-down-the-rabbit-hole feel to it. Not only was I watching Peter Capaldi bring Malcolm Tucker to life in front of me but these fictional characters (that I love) were using my name. Oh my God I’m talking to Peter Mannion. And Terri. They’re real. I can touch them (I didn’t).

The toys in the toy cupboard had come to life.

I remember ringing a friend afterwards and saying I’d have been no less excited if somebody had given me a part in Fawlty Towers (actually that friend was Marc, felt like rubbing chilli salt into his jealousy wound).

Having never done any acting, I have nothing to compare this experience to – but the process was fascinating.

The first draft the cast saw was the fifth one. Everyone initially read word for word what was on the page. The next day we returned, only this time the script was more of a guide. Armando and the other writers took notes as everyone improvised (this meant I could hold sustained conversations with them when they were in character. Boss. I once did some thing similar with Jon Culshaw’s Dale Winton impression in a pub. He didn’t like it. I did).

The final script incorporated some of those adlibs and the process, as scripted, then looser, was repeated in front of the cameras.

Armando is very calm and laid back as he directs. All the cast are delightful. I spent so long interviewing Rebecca Front and Roger Alam (Murray and Mannion) that it became indistinguishable from a real radio programme.

Peter Capaldi is warm, mild mannered, courteous and charming. You really couldn’t accuse him of playing himself. Unlikely anyone would send him a c*** cake.

In the scene where he bollocks my producer he came up with different terms of abuse for every take. Funny every time. Astonishing to watch.

And as with every episode of The Thick of It there’s an awful lot of decent material that didn’t make it: one of my favourite lines in the script involved Mannion and Phil talking about a “shit sandwich” and the reaction one might have upon tasting it. If anyone involved in the compilation of the DVD extras is reading this, please include it. Thanks.

For the record (grandly implying that anyone cares) my favourite characters are Terri and Glenn. Give them a spin off. But for God’s sake, make it better than Joey.

I Heart The Thames

On the bridge going from Embankment tube to the South Bank.

Cafe Classique, Colindale

It’s long gone now, but here’s a photo I took of Cafe Classique in Colindale. Just outside the tube station and next to the dedicated Airfix model shop, it was the only place near the British Library’s newspaper archive where you could get something for lunch.

The women’s shoes nailed to the sign might put some people off, but if that didn’t work, they’d also plastered porn all over the customer toilets. The people who owned it never seemed very happy serving, took orders and money begrudgingly and suspiciously, and there was always the sense that maybe the women who worked there were also on the game. The academics and writers who’d come out for a break in their research would always look terrified when you came in, and they’d always eat quickly and get out as soon as possible – there was a constant sense of tension and fear that the owners seemed to actively encourage.

For entirely explicable reasons, Cafe Classique ended up closing down a couple of years later. I took this photo quite early on, but as the months and seasons passed, the shoes started to get incredibly tatty – covered in bird shit, torn up, faded in the sun, puckered by the rain. It became the most melancholy looking shopfront you’d ever seen in your life.

It always reminded me of that scene in Mike Leigh’s Life is Sweet, where Timothy Spall opens up a restaurant that has too many themes going on at once, and serves dishes like liver in lager. It’s an attempt at panache that overreaches, entirely misses and ends up being excruitiating. And Cafe Classique – I mean, look at the women’s shoes nailed to the front. What were they thinking? It’s not like you’d look at a pair of pink high heels and think “Oooh, classy.” It’s like some kind of serial killer’s grisly trophy display. You might as well have put scalps up there, or necklaces of teeth.

The British Newspaper Library moved to Birmingham a while back – I used to like it in the wilds of Colindale, totally cast adrift in a landscape that it didn’t belong in. It was also closer if I wanted to go and spend the day there. That’s more the thing I’m annoyed about it moving to bloody Birmingham. Who’s bright idea was that?

David Bowie is Ace

Last Saturday night was the weekend closest to the 5th November, and after a long and thoroughly boring series of pedestrian and moronic events, I was picking up my mobile phone from a stranger’s house in St John’s Wood. All the train lines to anywhere near her house were being worked on, so I ended up having to walk for a few hours in the dark there and back - at least on Bonfire Night, it’s hardly a lonely time to be tramping the streets.

After about an hour, my mind had turned from how nice it was to be wandering to making a mental list of really boring things I needed to pick up – like some A4 file folders and something to keep my hair from going all fluffy like a baby bird. As I walking down Eton Avenue into Belsize Park (the nearest ruddy tube), I saw a box on the floor full of A4 file folders, which someone had written “Free!” on the front of. Great! All I had to find was a box of hair wax, and this trip would have paid for itself. Even if it was payment I’d accepted in files and hair-wax.

Anyway, I picked out the first two folders from the box (I think it’s bad form to rummage if something’s free – you take what’s nearest and move on, people) and quickly popped them into my bag. I felt like a gold prospector who’d slightly lowered his expectations.

When I got home, I noticed one had some writing on the inside. While the card dividers (bonus!) had the kind of tags you’d expect, like ‘HSBC’ and ‘Joint A/C’, written on them, the inside of the folder was a big tribute to David Bowie, c.1976.

There’s so many things about this I love – the slightly wonky imagining of Bowie’s song-titles, like ‘Zizzy Stardust’, ‘Gene Gennie’ and ‘Honky Dorl’  that hint the owner of the folder might not have been as familiar with Bowie as he wanted to make out. I love the way the owner, on the other side of the file, has tried signing how he thinks Bowie might sign, and under one of the attempts, he’s added “is ace.”

And most of all I love a bit of non-Bowie graffiti on the back cover that reads “Kim + Dave – 6 months, 2 weeks, 6 days.” I really hope that it’s their joint back account, and when they’re not filing away all their HSBC statements, they occasionally put on The Man Who Sold The World and snog.

In case you’re wondering, I needed the file for my BBC 6 Music notes, for the show that Richard Bacon and I are doing in December. You’ve got to love serendipity.

Batmeat!

Things back in 2000 were very different from today. Back then, if you saw something that amused you, you couldn’t point a fancy phone at it and immortalise it – you had to use a film camera, then put it in an envelope, write a cheque out and pay to have it developed. You had to choose your amusing photos carefully.

And even when it came back, you didn’t immediately post it on some vain, self-obsessed blog. No, you left it in a box for nine years doing absolutely nothing and being shared with no one. God, I hate 2000.

This is a Batman meat product – an officially licenced one, the money-hungry DC Comics idiots! – which I saw in 2000 in Safeway, laughed at, bought, took home, opened, photographed and then fed straight to the dog. You try telling today’s young generation that’s how things used to work , well…they’d laugh in your face. And then pull their hoods up and stab you.

So after nine years in a box, here’s a photo I took of some Bat-meat in 2000. It’s almost like I somehow knew the one thing we’d need in the future would be more images of nonsense.

Maybe I should have called this ‘Bat-ham.’ Or ‘Gotham.’ No, I was right to go with Batmeat.

Richard Bacon on BBC 5 Live – Live from his house

This Monday, Richard Bacon’s BBC Radio 5 Live show came live from his house in Belsize Park. It was to celebrate an anniversary – of what, you’ll either know or you won’t, but if you don’t, it’s not going to be me who tells you.

Set up in his living room, I was on-air in the role of the Presenter’s Friend – and there were moments that had an almost dream-like quality.

Sitting in Richard’s lounge next to Chris Evans, opposite philosopher Alain De Botton and Britain’s Got Talent finalists Stavros Flatley, and watching an oompah band perform Britney Spears’ Toxic at half past midnight is undoubtedly an unrepeatable moment in life.

And what a lovely photo to end with (taken by Richard’s sister-in-law Kirsty) of guests Danny Wallace and Alex Zane, whose expressions really sum up the sheer enjoyment of the night. I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun doing a radio show than I did doing this one.

You can hear the whole show here on the BBC’s iPlayer, but it’ll be taken off within the week….

Veglio’s at Tottenham Court Road station

Walking to work last week on a bright, clear morning, I came up from the Northern Line to find that Tottenham Court Road station had been knocked down. It’s part of the block that used to house the Astoria on one side and the Metro club on the other, demolished to make way for the new Crosslink rail system.

The demolition revealed a long-covered sign for a restaurant: Veglio and Co’s Cafe. A common enough Italian name, it’s enjoying a brief moment in the sun with the demolition of numbers 1-15 Oxford Street.

The Hitler Oak

In 2007, despite local protest, an oak tree in the grounds of a school in Hendon, North London, was chopped down.

It was a local landmark, stood fifty feet tall, and had been given to the school by a gold-medal winning Olympian seventy years before. Riddled with a fungal infection, there was concern that one of the branches might fall off and injure a child. The school caretaker said that “if we hadn’t brought the tree down this year, it would have come down with the wind next year.” The stump was turned into a round table for the children to use at playtime.

And although it’s just a stump, it retains the name it’s had since being planted in 1936: the Hitler Oak.

Every athlete who won a gold medal in the 1936 Berlin Olympics was given an oak sapling personally by Adolf Hitler. His hope was that eighteen-inch tall German oaks would be planted all across the planet, where they would take root and grow strong.

The one planted at Hendon School was won by a former pupil Harold Whitlock, who won the 50-kilometre walk, and who chose to plant it at his former school, rather than in his back garden, in case he ever moved house.

Whitlock’s fellow British athlete, the rower Jack Beresford (whose victory over a heavily-favoured German sculling team made Hitler storm off the platform he’d been watching the race from) did the same thing, planting his tree in the grounds of Bedford school, but it was cut down to make way for new sports facilities and a theatre some years back.

Of the 130 oaks that Hitler dispensed, many have disappeared without trace – but some survive across the world, still growing, their legacy largely forgotten. Jesse Owens’ tree still thrives in pride of place at James Rhodes High School in Cleveland, Ohio.

Whitlock’s was the last of the British Hitler oaks, but his son Ross told the Observer: ”I’m fairly relaxed about it. We’ve got a couple of saplings here growing from acorns that fell from the tree. Maybe we could give one of those to the school and it would be ‘Son of Hitler Oak’.”

Nothing interests me more than these sort of strange historical stories. Nothing. It combines two things I loathe – fascism and sports – and transcends them both. Magic.

The Worst Strip Bar Name Ever

I’m not a connoisseur of strip clubs by any means – I’ve twice been to Stringfellows under duress, and came away both times with fistfuls of stories of my own awkwardness and discomfort that I still tell years and years later – but I saw this one in Edinburgh and it took my breath away. The unique and implicit combination of women dancing, serial murderers and dead bodies being carried through the streets at night by two men makes for the most uncomfortable business proposition I’ve ever seen. Whoever came up with it should be on some sort of register.

Nice to see they’ve also used the image most associated with Marilyn Monroe – another strong woman who was never taken advantage of by men, and who didn’t end up dead before her time. Oh…hang on. 

It reminded me that there was a chalk board on the front of a nasty looking pub in King’s Cross that I used to pass in the early hours of the morning when I was working on a radio breakfast show. They used to have strippers on throughout the afternoon and night, and one of the many boards that covered the doors and windows to block out the view of passers-by boasted “Jacks on the hour, every hour.” I thought it must mean they had blokes on, which sort of went against the rest of what the boards were offering – bit odd to mix the two, you’d think you’d go with one or the other to maximise your profits. But ‘Jacks’ turned out to be a bit of rhyming slang – Jack the Ripper, stripper.

If you call women that, you too should be on the same register as the man who named Edinburgh’s Burke and Hare Stripbar.

If you’re keen to read about Edinburgh’s most celebrated Resurrection Men and serial murderers Burke and Hare, hey! Wikipedia is still up and running here.