Hello my dears, sorry once again for the break in transmission. Let's blame about 20% of it on (in variable proportion) the sunshine, the moonlight, and the good times -- I'm sick of Michael Jackson always letting them off and allowing the full weight of his j'accuse (what's left of it) to fall on the boogie, which was plainly always the scapegoat, as Mr Jackson of all people should know only too well; and maybe 30% of it on these busy busy times, two shows open (though one for only an hour or so) and any number of microdeadlines and interim malconveniences to swat away with my velvet glove.
And then the remaining 50% of the blame -- perfectly half, so as to not force anyone's resignation, though if Hazel Blears wishes to fall on her sword I'm enough of a gentleman not to impede for a second her autopenetration, especially as I suppose one will never otherwise come so close to seeing the death of Yukio Mishima reenacted by the funny next door neighbour from No Place Like Home* -- can be allocated to my own mimsiness. O! how squalid. Yup, I've been mimsy. I have; no no, it's kind of you to speak in my defence, but it's true. I've been fudgeheaded. I've started a new post not once not twice but three times, and then let it wither on the vine AS IT WERE.
The problem, frankly, has been this. I keep a notepad on my desk with little notes of things I might like to refer to in my next post -- the solo career of Bob Mould, say, or the state of homeoteleuton in contemporary American poetry, or how much better I am at making theatre than everyone else -- and since my last substantial post the current page of notes has become so overrun with urgent and important topics that I've mostly been losing heart after the first half hour or so. I just can't turn back the tide: as Michael Flanders would have had it: I'm a Cnut, a-Cnuther Cnut...
Worse still, it's not the agenda itself that defeats me, daunting and bothersome though it may be. It's the awful anguished knowledge of my own unstemmable prolixity, the superabundance of what Alison Croggon sweetly calls my logorrhea ("incoherent talkativeness that occurs in certain kinds of mental illness," says Wikipedia, and who can doubt it?), the ghastly consequence of which is that what ought to be a two-line reference to Charles in Charge or the Great Reform Act of 1832 will tend to balloon up like Augustus Gloop on hydrocortisone. This may seem (to some) like a harmless affectation, but be assured that if my house ever catches fire they'll break in to find my charred and lifeless body glued to the phone and they'll play back the recording of my 999 call and there I'll be going: "Well now, my dears, not to put too fine a point on it, I find myself confronted with a most unwelcome predicament concerning a conflagratory incursion into a region of my domicile where, frankly, no such incident should strictly be occurring, cough hack cough gasp expire." And then they'll laugh gaily and quite right too.
So now look. Something must be done. And what I'm proposing, simply, is this. Shorter posts, more often. One thing at a time. (Ideally.) More pictures. Less flummery and, in the fullness of time, less foo. This is (let's say) all part of the Thompson's makeover I was intimating a time or two ago, in which I hope to be able to host some content by other persons, and maybe from time to time to post my own creative work here. Interviews, too, on occasion -- starting in the next couple of days with what I hope will be a welcome account of my recent conversation with Tim Miller. (I'm enjoying the transcription process enormously, though my typing skills are lagging behind rather.) And, at long last, a thorough update of the links list.
Anyway, that's the plan. Starting tomorrow and aiming for something new almost every day (while I'm in town and online, at any rate). Let's try it for a bit and see how it goes. If you hate it, I'm sure we can reinstate the überguff.
[I just Googled 'überguff' and am dismayed to find that two other people have used it before me. Also, Google wants to know if I meant 'Berghoff', the superior cookware manufacturers. Typical me, typical me, typical me, I started something, and now I'm not too sure.]
* I'd be most grateful to hear from anybody who clicks on this and, as a result of viewing the linked image, finds themselves, as I now do, in the wildly unfamiliar position of quite wanting to fuck Martin Clunes. Ta.