The Excuses And Half Truths Annual Report 2023
And lo, it came to pass the days known as Betwixtmas fell upon the land. The people were filled with dolor and langour, picking listlessly at food prepared days before, gradually becoming as one with their sofas, eyes wide but unseeing as yet another rerun of that Only Fools And Horses Christmas special with the hilarious Batman bit unspools on the telly.
Woe and alas, even yr humble author was afflicted with the inability to recognise the passage of time, and so it was late in the week before he realised he should get his lazy arse off his armchair and grubby mitts out of the tin of Quality Street, lest his beloved Readership be deprived of the high quality bloggertainment on which they had become so dependent.
Greetings, then, from the library at Littlecote House in Berkshire, the venue for this year’s overview of Events What Has Happened. TLC and I have retreated to this bucolic country retreat to break up that Betwixtmas feeling and get some gentle relaxitude into our aching raddled corpuses. As Storm Gerrit rattles the 500 year-old rafters, we’re indulging in all the tea and cake we can cram into our feed holes, braving the weather after the rain passes to bimble in the surrounding woodlands.
Let us, while musing on the choice between fruit and cheese scone, Darjeeling or Orange Pekoe, take a moment to look back on 2023. I’m sure you have your memories, good and ill. Here are mine.
In Rob’s Writing Life, progress was made, although forward momentum was a little slower than Rob promised himself 365 days previously. The year began with a successful public launch of the Reading Writers short story collection The Three B’s. It was a project begun in lockdown, which resulted in an award for Best Group Anthology from NAWG: The National Association Of Writing Groups. It took us until the Covid closedowns were fully in the rear view mirror before we could push the book properly. The gathering at Reading’s iconic Tutu’s Ethiopian Table was truly joyful, and a packed room enjoyed readings, eatings and drinkings until the sun went down. Well, it was January, after all.
Reading Writers kept me on my toes through the year, with two seasonal competitions, an Exquisite Corpse event in the summer and, in a massive push outside my comfort zone, I hosted a day-long event at Excuses Mansions for five aspiring novelists. This was a big deal—to say I was nervous is like saying Boris Johnson wasn’t a very good Prime Minister. The day was, I think, I hope, a success. Everyone involved is still talking to me, anyway.
As a knock-on effect, the old half-built novel I resurrected to have something to talk about for the event became my 2023 Nanowrimo project. I’m less belligerent about pushing to 50K nowadays, using the month instead to work the kinks out of good ideas from the archive. If I can make solid progress on a novel-length story, I’m happy.
I promised you a couple of tales, so here are my entries for the spring and autumn Reading Writers compos, both of which placed amongst the prize winners. Hope you enjoy.
The View From The Looking Glass
Travel this year was again restricted to the UK, by joint agreement. The notion of airports and flights leaves me a little unsettled. An international flight is so much hard work. When there are still so many beautiful places to enjoy in this country, it seems absurd to waste time and energy elsewhere.
A key, if accidental factor in our trips this year was that old-fashioned English sea-side vibe. A November jaunt to Whitstable offered a rain-swept day in Margate (the Turner Contemporary is worth a look, as is the Anthony Gormley figure at low tide) while a week in Lincolnshire in the summer found us on the soft, wide sands of Skegness. More on that here, if you missed it.
And of course, we had to head up to our beloved Northumberland, land of sweet air and soft light. We spent a week in Warkworth, just up the coast from the cosy little port of Amble. It was wonderful—the food was a delight, with some gloriously fresh fish on offer, while we lucked out massively with the weather. The sea, of course, was stupidly cold, but the sun came down like a benediction. Northumberland is becoming better known as a holiday destination, to which I confess some conflicted feelings. The area deserves every success and a ton of money, but it’s ours, godsdammit.
The east coast offered up some of the greatest food experiences of the year. The Fish Shack in Amble, favoured by those Hairy Bikers, was relaxed but righteous, the port-side location accentuating the freshness of every plateful. We were lucky to snag a table at the Whitstable Oyster Company (I guess going in November made things a little easier) which again was rustic but extremely serious about the food. I even had the titular bivalves as a starter, for the first time in twenty-nine years. Casino-style, of course, with bacon, garlic and breadcrumbs. You can yap about how they have to be inhaled raw all you like. I know my gag reaction, and I know how any attempt to eat uncooked seafood will end.
Away from the coast, we were ridiculously late to the table (considering it’s a twenty minute walk away and my name is up on the wall as part of their Kickstarter massive) but finally made a trip to Clay’s Kitchen and Bar, Reading’s best Indian restaurant. Argue if you like. You’ll be wrong. Every bite of our meal was a transport of delight, big flavours delivered with flair and style in a room which shows no hint of its history as a Wetherspoon’s. Look, if it’s good enough for the likes of Jay Rayner of The Observer, Grace Dent at The Guardian and Tom Parker-Bowles in The Mail, I think you’ll find something nice to eat. Have the biryani, though. You can’t go wrong with the biryani.
You notice there’s been no mention of favourite books, films, music or telly. The way I see it, if you’re a regular reader, you’ll have a good idea of the media I’ve enjoyed in 2023. If you’re not—why would you be remotely interested? I should, though, remind you of the moment I got to dance on the West End stage, a major high point.
There were dramas this year, of course. I won’t go into huge details about family matters but there were rather more scary moments where loved ones spent time in hospital than I would have wanted. These were, I guess, jabby little reminders on how time, in passing, has a knack of taking your knees out from under you. Drive-by momento moris. I mean, that really big nasty birthday is coming up on me in a couple of years. Which, realistically, puts yer boi firmly in the last third of his time with you all—assuming I’m drive-by free.
Ah, this is the time of year when you feel the wind of the passage of time, chilly and sharp and cutting through to the bone. I’m a December baby, and I think we children of winter feel that cold breeze more acutely than most. These are dark days in every sense of the word, and the fake jollity of Tesco Value Saturnalia (those Xtians really know how to screw up a proper winter festival) never really helps my mood. However, I remain hopeful of joy as the new year rolls around, and can never stay gloomy for too long. I make a lousy goth.
Towards 2024, then. Some exciting stuff happening. A major milepost, twenty years in the making. Big events, thirty years a-brewin’. TLC and I are plannin’ and wishin’ and hopin’. I’d love to take you all with us on this thrilling new phase, however virtual your presence may be.
See you next Saturday for the first chapter in Volume Two of The Swipe. For now, let’s turn our backs on the dark and our faces to the sun. Let’s see what’s out there.
