Writing a daily blog which is occasionally picked up by the Huffington Post has two effects.
People want to be mentioned and simultaneously sometimes exactly the same people do not want to be mentioned.
Performers, in particular, are keen for publicity.
People have started to tell me highly personal things which they never told me before and preceding their stories with: “You must not publish this in your blog, but…”
Then they start telling me the most amazingly personal details about themselves and other people which are often so sexually detailed and/or self-incriminating that I can’t, in all conscience, print or even hint at what they have told me.
It can be very frustrating.
It is as if it gives them the thrill and catharsis of self-exposure with none of the normally inherent dangers.
For me, it is just frustrating.
And people also want to ‘have a go’ at other people via my blog.
Last week, a comedian was desperate to slag off another comedian via my blog and someone else was insistent that, if I mentioned someone in a story they gave me, the adjective “evil” had to be added in front of that person’s name, even though I have never met the man and he may be a terribly nice chap.
“It is not libel. He can’t deny he’s evil,” I was told.
Well, I think he probably can. And so can his lawyers and his friends with the baseball bats. I have enough people and incompetent companies I want to slag off myself without adding other people’s bête noires to my list.
(By the way, I removed all reference to the “evil” man so, no, you cannot guess who it is by re-reading last week’s blogs.)
All this is particularly galling if you wake up with absolutely no idea what to blog about.
I went to a party last night where there was a three-year-old boy who was the spitting image of comedian Michael McIntyre.
His mother (the child’s mother, not Michael McIntyre’s mother) is currently reading Michael McIntyre’s autobiography.
That is slightly odd, but not enough for a blog, is it?
But, you see, it is still not enough. I have not seen the show.
Someone else at the party had recently been made redundant by the BBC but, before he left, they put him on a £5,000 TV director’s course.
That is a very BBC thing. But it is not really fascinating enough, is it? Nor unusual.
Until yesterday, I had not fully bathed for a week, because there were stitches in my neck and at the top of my left leg/groin and I was told not to get the areas wet. The stitches were from a minor operation a week ago, to remove two bobbly growths on my skin. I blogged about it before. So I can’t really blog about it again.
The Irish nurse at the hospital yesterday asked, after I had spoken just two sentences: “Are you Scottish?”
This was gratifying because although, yes, I am Scottish, I have an English accent. I never tried to lose the Scots accent; it just got worn away into a Scots-Essex-East London-Home Counties mess of an accent from nowhere.
Before yesterday’s Irish nurse, the only two people who had ever immediately twigged I am Scottish were the genuinely very lovely Scots singer Isla St Clair and a Cockney tea-lady at Thames Television, no doubt equally lovely in her own way.
“A cup of tea, please,” I said.
“Cor, you’re Scottish, ain’t ya?” she replied.
Obviously, I mis-quote her accent for effect.
The tea-lady, not Isla St Clair.
I am at the end of my tether.
I am going to have to watch a DVD about the art of farting which Mr Methane sent me and which I told him I would take a look at.
You can rarely go wrong with a fart blog.
But not today. Not today.
Tonight, I am going to see a show at the RAF Club in London.
I have high hopes of a more worthy blog tomorrow.
Today’s blog – the one you have surprisingly and admirably just finished reading – will, I feel, not be picked up by the Huffington Post.