NOT TO BE OR NOT TO BE

(Dedicated to my uncle, Rahul Vanderpump, for his help in my darkest hour)

People often say to me "Dave - why do you write your blog?" and look at me with a sense of desperation.  I sometimes feel there is a further, hidden question they're not asking but in the absence of that, I thought I would explain ...

I really hope to develop this blog into a household name.  A household name that speaks to the very highest standard of housewifery, not limited to but including the bleeding-edge of the art of napkin-folding and how to create a centrepiece that makes your guests weep, openly.

I am also hoping to bring a better understanding of real world issues to my readers.  I am well-placed to do this as a key and active member of the “Two State Solution for Kennington - Oval Action Group”.  I have also been appointed Chair of the “South London Stop Knorks Alliance”.  For those of you that are not aware, allow me to enlighten you.  “Knorks” are just one of a kind of combined cutlery, the most dangerous being this knife-fork combo.  Spife, spork, knork, chork (a fork combined with chopsticks).  It's ridiculous.  Just stop it all.  Now.

So having covered the reasons behind the blog more than satisfactorily, let's move onto my writing style.  Another housewife told me in a moment of drunken sincerity at 3pm cocktails the other day that although she "liked" my blog, she thought it was a little bit “trashy”.  Well, I was more than a little bit disturbed by the suggestion but I decided to just get over it.  Or perhaps I should write “to rise above it”, or even “to gracefully soar skyward, nonchalantly in blissful ignorance”.  That better?  No?  Oh well.  “Revenge is a dish best served cold”, I thought.

I hate to admit it, but this comment really got to me and I decided to take it head-on and upgrade the quality of the “prose” on my site to something a little bit more classy.  It turns out, prose is just a posh word for words.  Sentences.  On a page.  Anyway, I took the plunge and signed up to a five-day residential writing course in the West Country that was recommended to me by some lovely open-toed people I briefly met over a pineapple hedgehog in Brixton.

Will this blog be around in 400 years? - that is the question.
No - that is the answer

Of course, I should have known as I glided out of Kennington in the trusty steed, my ageing silver Audi, that complications would arise on the journey to becoming a better writer.  And I was not wrong.  Three hours after setting out, I was waiting for the AA at Reading services, Westbound on the M4. The silver pony had faltered, freaked out and reared in the fast lane, nearly causing an accident with an M&S food lorry.  I was a little bit shaken, mainly at the thought of being in an accident with an M&S food lorry.  The disruption to their food chain could have had devastating effects on cocktail and dinner parties across the M4 corridor.

“Can’t find anything wrong with it – probably need to take it to an Audi garage”, said the AA man kindly.  “Has it happened before?”

 “It’s happened before”, I said, whispering.  “He gets nervous.  He’s highly strung.  He used to be a race horse but y’know ... he can’t really … y’know.  He’s very misunderstood.  I’m worried Hubby will shoot him if I tell him what’s happened.  Like that poor little pony in Gone With The Wind that throws the little girl off.  Whipped to death it was”.  I rested a loving hand on the bonnet and nodded reverentially.

“Yeah, ok ... so, where've you come from?”, he asked

“Kennington”, I said.

“Where’s that?”, he asked.

“Bit further than Elephant and Castle basically.  It’s up and coming”, I said.

“Ah right, ok.  Is that the SE11 address on here?”, he asked

The “E” of SE11 reverberated in my mind.  So close to SW8 and SW9 and yet so far, I thought.  “Yes”, I said.  “Although it’s all about ‘VNEB’ now which stands for Vauxhall Nine Elms Battersea.  It’s all up and coming and everything.  We used to shun Vauxhall but now they’ve got a Little Waitrose, so …  and the US embassy and all that. We’re just seeing how it goes.  We’re in talks as to what we’re all going to call ourselves.”, I said.  “It’s all up in the air”.

“Right”, he said, backing away slightly.

 “I suggest you turn back.  Your car …”, he stopped himself.  “He’s poorly.  He needs to trot slowly home”, he said.

“I understand”, I said, slightly concerned that the AA thought my Audi A3 2.0 FSi was an actual horse.  I was sad for the little silver steed that used to clop along so nicely.  But rather than just feeling sad, I tried to feel the angst and agony that a serious writer would feel.  I conjured up the feelings of a tortured poet, rivulets of fear and regret flowing through my veins.  The steed’s demise was a terrifying, sad injustice taking shape, similar to that of the horses in Animal Farm that are worked to death and then sold for glue by the nasty piggies.

“Are you ok?”, said the AA man.

“Yep – slow lane, got it.  Cheers”, I said.

I channelled the remaining raw emotion into the realisation that I couldn’t turn back to Kennington and continue with my trashy prose.  My two followers needed something better.  I pretended to get in the car and drive East in case the AA man saw me, but we didn't take the next exit and turn round.  We soldiered on into the setting sun, West, West and West yet more, not exceeding forty miles per hour.  About eight and a half hours later, the roads began to narrow.  Four lanes to two, two to one, tarmac to dirt.  Finally, I had arrived at Hickery-Nook Writing Club, a thatched building with thick, white walls and no evidence of phone or wifi.

Not surprisingly, I was the last to arrive and was apologetic as I joined a room full of people finishing their dinner, all immediately welcoming and friendly.  There were captains of industry, young, brilliant students, play-writers and directors, a lady from Singapore and LA at the same time, a poet from The Valleys (the place, not the show).  There was even a bionic man.  Bi-lingual, tri-lingual, multi-lingual, from all four corners of the world, there was not a housewife in sight.  Nor a spirit-based drink, for that matter.  Savages.

But wait. I suddenly realised that there must be real, published writers here.  I had read about the tutors.  They were people who had exchanged written words for actual, real money.  When I asked to be introduced to them, I was amazed.  They looked like normal people.  One of them was even American although not from LA, but I’ll let that pass.  She had two children and a BMW and everything.  They were both dressed and spoke normally, not like something from Lark Rise to Candleford and Prejudice.  I was shocked.

“Dave Vanderpump”, I said, inexplicably rolling the “r” and bowing dramatically – much lower than I thought I could.  “I am honoured to meet you, your honours”.

They looked at each other and then at me.  For writers, they seemed a bit stuck on the dialogue front.

“You don’t have to call us Your Honour”, said the woman, smiling, “But I do love your pseudo name”.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but these people were not to be questioned.  They were the people that could teach me how to sharpen my blog to a literary masterpiece and so I drew a veil over the conversation and headed off to find the wine.

Looking around the room, the thick walls were lined with books that I was confident I hadn't read.  Apart from flicking through a Harold Robbins to the good bits, I had read almost nothing.  People were reading, discussing and critiquing.  Settling myself at a large oak table behind a glass of rasping red, I tried to fit in by resting my right index finger on my bottom lip in a thought-provoking way, reading something high-brow.

“What are you reading?”, asked the lady from Singapore and LA at the same time.

“Oh – it’s called ‘The Week’?”, I said.  “It’s like a short story based on the papers.  It’s everything you need to know about everything that matters”.

“Oh, sounds interesting”, she said.

“Yup, yup, yup”, I said.  “I read it every week”

“Have you prepared something to read tomorrow morning?”, she asked.

“Oh yes, of course!!”, I said, nearly biting the rim off the glass as I knocked it back right down to the sediment. 

As she continued reading her chunky novel with small writing, I couldn't get past the paragraph of prose I was reading which summarised the red-tops.  I was suddenly choking on a panic.  “Oh my God - I'm in deep shit.  In the countryside.  I’m in a deep pile of manure!”.

“I’ve come here by mistake, I have to go”, I said, jumping up and making my apologies, dashing back to the steed.  Fumbling the keys in the dark, I tried to start him.  But the braying of the starter motor was the steed speaking to me.  “No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o”, he said.  He was trying to tell me something.  He was telling me that I must go on.  Like a scene from Lord of the Rings (only thankfully, not nearly as long and with fewer forests), I had to go on.  It was my destiny, my duty.

There was nothing else for it. I would have to become a writer that very evening. I would have to tirelessly crack the boards of my small, pine-panelled room into the night.  I would have to resist the temptation to collapse into my single bed with a sponge duvet (actually not that difficult to resist), but instead, create the most amazing, beautiful, torrents of prose, like sweet, sweet music.  Staccato, portato, staccatissimo and marcato.

Clutching quickly-emptying bottles of wine from the Pinot Grigio region, I laughed, I cried and laughed again on the journey of self-discovery.  By candlelight I was Eliot, Chaucer and Woolf all rolled into one, scratching with Woolf’s little pencil.  I was Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Lawrence until my laptop was filled to overflowing.  Then suddenly, I was all the best bits of all the Brontes with a side of Eliot, carving scriptures with a nail into the pine panelling.  It wasn’t graffiti, honestly, people would request this room specifically hereafter.  By just after 4am I was Hemingway, Austen and Rowling, writing amazing tales of wizards in bonnets and empire-waisted frocks.  I combined, rewrote, condensed, refined.  Finally, as the sun lit yet another leaden, literary sky, I pressed print.  I was tired but I was proud.  So terribly proud.

“Morning!”, I chirped, as we sat down for our reading, suddenly realising there was a hangover in the post.  We were all sitting in a circle, learning to become writers but I hid my smugness well.  They didn’t know what nocturnal feats I had already achieved.  What treasures of literacy lurked on the pages in front of me.

But as everyone read in turn and last night’s wine clamped and pinched my brain, I was immediately aware that the pile of manure I was in was significantly larger than I had first thought.  It was so large that everywhere to the horizon was nearly all, exclusively manure. There were trees in the distance but they were just made of straw with manure hanging off like leaves. The clouds in the sky, they were all … well, they were just fluffy pieces of manure floating past.

These people effortlessly read about feelings, emotions, trials and tribulations.  They read fascinating stories, both short and long.  Plays and novellas, poems and vignettes. The bionic man printed out a dozen pages of flowing prose that brought a tear to the eye.  Every single one had me on the edge of my seat.  Then, through my hangover which was ripening like a giant stinking lily, I heard the tutor say “Next – Dave … Dave Vanderpump, please – go ahead and read your piece”.

I started reading my “piece” (that’s a writer’s term for some words on a page), mumbling downwards, stuttering, wishing I had some mints and a teleporter.  The people next to me probably wished I had some mints and a teleporter, too.  Afterwards, there was a stunned silence that seemed to last about twenty minutes.  I had their attention but I wasn’t sure it was for the right reasons.

“Do go on”, said the tutor.

“Oh, well, that's it really”, I said.

“Oh … oh I see”, he said.  “So the man you write about … he shoots himself. Why?”

“Oh … um … it’s because he didn’t like working in the bank but I didn’t get to that bit.  Time got ahead of me”, I said.

 “I see”, he said.  “The thing is, three lines about a man from Dubai who shoots himself for no particular reason.  It’s not really a story, but it’s a good start.  And writing seems important to you”.

“Right, right, right”, I said, nodding repetitively and writing “add story” in the margin of my “piece”.

Undeterred, I decided to show them all what I was definitely good at and that evening, a sumptuous dinner followed several martinis served with my signature cheese straws.  Everyone was raving about them, the Welsh poet moved to tears by their crispness.  “As crisp as a Monster Munch yet as velvety as a piece of changeable taffeta”, he wrote.  Amazing.  Although even I knew he'd nicked the changeable taffeta part.  Everyone’s sponge bedding had been replaced by goose-down encased with heavily-starched Frette linen and there was a turn-down service at about 7pm.

The following few days involved workshops and tutorials which taught me that writing is all about being yourself and having your own voice.  It’s about being true to yourself and about being real.  So, I’m afraid you’re stuck with this housewife for the moment.  But at least you can be assured of one thing – and that's the fact that Dave Vanderpump is totally, totally real.

I’d like to finish with a poem which was written last year by Gillian Clarke for JOHN LEWIS to celebrate the Cardiff’s branch third anniversary.  I bet it was one hell of a party.

"Home" by Gillian Clarke

Evening, home after hours away,
I catch my room out, dreaming,
in a doze at the end of the day,
surprised by blue dusk at the window,
white cups and dishes gleaming,
my chair, my rug, electricity's glow.

This room and I want music, lamplight,
a good book, fresh tea steaming.
Across the evening city home is waking,
in semis, terraced streets, estates,
in quiet suburbs, silence breaking
with TV, kettles, radio,

as one by one the windows light
till every tower-block's an Advent calendar,
countdown to winter and the longest night.

Yeah, I didn’t think it was the end either but hey - that’s poetry.  And these days they don’t have to rhyme either so come on - get writing.

DVP