tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75712602218304620842024-03-05T02:05:27.446-08:00Dominic J. AllenActor/Writer/RaconteurDominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-68799697157334899562011-04-20T05:02:00.000-07:002011-04-20T05:09:02.693-07:00What are we fighting for?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMZOH98j1UsGPRKOklDVYNj3nul_DYy-CSb4X-PZPv4TjzN_eHrxSu10m8lKCySJ40nowYLhdzlulsd_ksAKcaiXMyPZoQx71BAQasavvWcX41qX6q0PTgRn_19KExwAIrGODlJgQnKM/s1600/Up+Yours.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMZOH98j1UsGPRKOklDVYNj3nul_DYy-CSb4X-PZPv4TjzN_eHrxSu10m8lKCySJ40nowYLhdzlulsd_ksAKcaiXMyPZoQx71BAQasavvWcX41qX6q0PTgRn_19KExwAIrGODlJgQnKM/s320/Up+Yours.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597636526545929858" /></a><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">There are many legends about infamous Winston Churchill put downs. Most of them are, indeed, very witty (“Sir you are drunk,” “Madam, you are ugly but in the morning I will be sober,”, etc., etc.) and, more often than not, they reinforce my long held view that he was a drunk, misogynistic old bastard. Once I've got an opinion on someone I rarely change my mind but occasionally, just occasionally, I'll gain some new insight and a bit of respect. Recently, I gained some respect for the old bulldog for one of his more overlooked quips.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">During the war, so the story goes, he was asked why he did not cut subsidy to the arts to aid the financial burden of the war effort. He responded “Then what are we fighting for?”</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-style: normal">Indeed, what those soldiers, officers, civilians, politicians, citizens, etc. </span><i>were </i><span style="font-style: normal">fighting for was Britain. Make no mistake, Great Britain is not just some geopolitical entity, formed by some accidents of Roman Imperial collapse, mediaeval Royal lineage and the Ordnance Survey boundaries. Great Britain is a cultural entity. It's often forgotten about, because like all cultural entities it is constantly evolving, changing and absorbing other cultures. You can't always pin down exactly what British culture is. This fact is, for me at least, its most enduring beauty.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-style: normal">The Coalition Government (and I'll say Coalition, not Tories, because as far as I'm concerned the Lib Dems ought to be tarred with the same acrid brush) chooses to believe that British culture is in fact English culture, and that English culture consists of some castles, a few paintings and statues you ought to pay to look at and the cricket or the football. They bemoan the loss of </span><i>our </i><span style="font-style: normal">culture to the immigrants. They whine that the youths of today have no interest in their own country. Then they cut the arts because they say it's not as important as medicine, or the army, or policing, proving, once again, that they are missing the point. </span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Yet Mr Churchill seemed to get it just right. He, a Conservative Coalition-leader too, seemed to grasp what British culture means. If a nation's borders are its body, then its culture is its soul. A soul is a living thing; it's not just historical culture. Culture continues to thrive and expand and be participated in. Nowadays British culture consists not only of English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish culture; it has the benefit of Indian, Pakistani, Pan-European, East Asian, American influences, and more besides. It is our greatest national asset, something you cannot put a price on, something that people have died to preserve.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Cutting funding to the arts is a barbaric act. I can understand why people will sigh and say 'if we're cutting healthcare, we ought to cut the arts first' but I'd suggest they're looking at the debate through the wrong end of the telescope. It's not just about funding artists to keep them employed. Artists will always create art, whether they get paid or not; in this respect they're never going to be like doctors, soldiers, policemen. What matters is that money needs to go into the arts to keep it available to every single person in this country. It is not a luxury to engage with your own culture; it is a right. Museums, art galleries, theatres, books, cinemas, concert halls should all be free to attend, otherwise what's the point in being British? What does being British even mean if you've never seen a play by Shakespeare, or seen a film by Alfred Hitchcock, or read a book by Charles Dickens, or listened to Elgar, or read a poem by Robert Burns, or viewed a landscape by Turner?</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Essentially, every one of us has the right to engage with our culture, irrespective of how much money we have. At the end of the day, I'm fighting to maintain a particle, an atom, a minuscule droplet of public spending, the vast rewards of which are not just monetary; they enrich our very souls.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Isn't that worth fighting for?</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-21245371335962632872010-04-13T08:27:00.000-07:002010-04-13T08:31:54.631-07:00Lorca is Dead<p>Lorca is Dead: or a brief history of Surrealism premieres at the York Theatre Royal, from the 5th to the 8th of May 2010.</p><p>It is my new play, produced by Belt Up Theatre, and I would love you to come and see it.</p><p>You can even get involved! Come along in the day and from 5pm you can take part in Surrealist experiments that will directly affect the play itself. It's all very exciting and you can be part of it!</p><p>All you need to do is buy a ticket and turn up.</p><p>For more information, go here: http://www.yorktheatreroyal.co.uk/cgi/events/events.cgi?t=template&a=610</p><p></p><p>I look forward to seeing you soon!</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-71792457624794928202009-12-22T18:19:00.001-08:002009-12-22T18:19:39.473-08:00An ApologyAs any lawyer or politician will tell you, an apology is an admission of guilt. So here it is; an apology. This is my admission of guilt. I'm guilty. I'm a terrible liar. A rotten scoundrel bent on pulling the dreaded, murky, sodden wool of deceit over your little eyes. It was so easy and yet I feel so bad.<br /><br />I promised you I would write on here more. I didn't. I'm a fraud. I can't help it. I'm busy and have nothing worthwhile to say that you can't find out anyway. But that's no excuse, is it? It hardly removes the agonising, gnawing feeling that I have told whopping great heartless fibs to the world for all to see.<br /><br />The fact of the matter is: I can't write on here more. I'm too lazy. And stubborn. But mostly lazy. So I'm afraid I can't promise anything this time. Except I'll try not to lie to you again. Unless I have to. But if I do because I have to it will be to protect you from something with my love; the suffocating love of an overcompensating parent. You are my little kittens and I'll protect you. And if the best way to protect you little kittens is to wrap you in a bin bag and throw you in the river with a brick, then so be it. I'll do whatever it takes!Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-33230208375834757372009-09-10T13:47:00.000-07:002009-09-10T13:48:22.370-07:00A Story (With Words)Being faced with a keyboard is one of the most terrifying and most exciting points in my day. You look at it: its potential, its words, its indifferent jumble of letters, its arbitrary arrangement, see how your fingers fit across it, spanning in one hand half the English language. And it looks at you; cold, indifferent, a sneer. What is one to do when faced with such a belligerent challenge? Write? I daren’t.<br /><br />Yet the need to tame this terrible beast is great. Words must be forged. It can be futile for all I care – an impotent and thoroughly pointless exercise. This. Stabbing at keys to string the words together just to know that I cannot be bested by a set of plastic squares emblazoned with a humourless font. Nor can its stalwart ally, the blank word document, sway me either. Both will perish beneath my nimble stubby fingers as I regurgitate words from my vocabulary in a mechanical, automatic flurry of linguistic vomit.<br /><br />Then disaster strikes. Inspiration evaporates like a bead of sweat in the desert. My vocabulary dwindles to less and less words. Have I used them all already? Suddenly I’m groping for a synonym, unable to catch my breath, and any attempt at looking up alternatives in Word yields only antonyms and a bitter remorse. Words cease.<br /><br /><br /><br />So, is it finished? Was there more? Or is that all there is? If there are no more words, there are no more words. But is that completion? That depends on one’s outlook, I suppose. Is the glass half empty or half full; half-complete or half-incomplete. Sense leaves entirely now in this void where words shouldn’t be and now are. Is this part of the former, or an addendum? Should it be a footnote? The fact that it isn’t tells us something. So, the thing could not have been complete because this commentary was required. Or is this as fundamental as the original treatise? More so? Perhaps. Perhaps it is this, with which we are now engaged, that was the real meat and drink of the exercise. The rest merely foreplay to titillate one’s grammar… I can not say at this juncture. Maybe there will be no other juncture to do so. And we shall never know. Unless we were to look back upon where we have come. To read back. As dangerous as starting in the first place. Don’t you think?Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-77112537041338245642009-09-08T15:58:00.000-07:002009-09-08T16:06:39.529-07:00The Return of the Native<p>It has been quite a while since I last posted on here and maybe I've been taking it all too lightly. Lately, I have been reading numerous blogs and, as we all know, it's something that if you take seriously enough reaps innumerate rewards. So here's a commitment: to write on here more.</p><p>Naturally, a lot of it will end up being pretty mundane, given that nothing much ever happens. I mean, in the grand scheme of things. Obviously, if aliens invade then fair enough but lots of more experienced bloggers will probably blog about it first. And then the world will end.</p><p>Anyway, with the return to the blog comes the return from Edinburgh. A successful month for Belt Up all told. We garnered some very nice reviews in some very important publications (Guardian, et al) and we even got a visit from Neil Gaiman. Having returned, we are now settling into our new York residence (that's a new residence in York, not a New York residence) and you can expect our involvement with the city to blossom in the coming year. I hope so, anyway.</p><p>I have started writing a new play and I'm even toying with the idea for a novel. I'm only slightly put off by how long it's been since I wrote any prose; I tried whilst in Edinburgh and found it to be bloody difficult. You have to spend so much time actually writing before anything happens. At least with a play by the time you've finished a sentence somebody has <em>said</em> something. Worth a shot, anyway.</p><p>No doubt I will keep you all posted on my progress.</p><p></p><p>Good night.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-76201902760031408952009-07-05T04:16:00.000-07:002009-07-05T04:23:46.731-07:00To Crown My Thoughts With Acts<p>I gave myself a talking to the other day. I said "Dominic, you've finished your degree now."</p><p>"Yes," I said. I did alright too - got a 2.1 with minimal effort. It would have been a first if I'd been allowed to do straight english because, as it turns out, I got a first for the literature segment of my joint honours. The linguistics dragged it down.</p><p>"So," I said, "What are you going to do now?"</p><p>"Well there's Edinburgh, and then stuff after that will probably crop up."</p><p>"Yes but what else?"</p><p>'Oh shit,' I suddenly thought, 'He's absolutely right. There's still so much to get done!'</p><p></p><p>So, I made some resolutions, giving myself till next summer to have made some good progress on:</p><p>1. Learn a musical instrument (probably fiddle and get better at piano).</p><p>2. Brush up my French.</p><p>3. Get my Russian up to the standard of my French.</p><p>4. Travel somewhere cheap and interesting - the Faroe isles?</p><p>5. Secure some funding for writing, etc.</p><p></p><p>All reasonable things to aim for that better me as a human being. Can't say fairer than that really can you? To avoid procratination is the key, of course: </p><p>"To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done."</p><p>Macbeth, Act IV sc i</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-5284474010153345872009-06-09T02:17:00.000-07:002009-06-09T02:24:26.289-07:00Lost Boys<p>Oh sweet, oh darling Peter</p><p>Your tender, youthful eyes</p><p>Are creasing beneath the orb</p><p>Where tears collect. The prize</p><p> </p><p>You almost grasped but lost,</p><p>Let slip; who is to blame</p><p>For the bitter salt-sting now?</p><p>All your laurels, all your fame</p><p> </p><p>They have forgot, or ignored</p><p>Or failed to see. They care</p><p>Only for youth, not monuments</p><p>Of your age. Not fair. Not fair</p><p> </p><p>But true. Never Never-Never Land</p><p>Any more. Just your dusty toys</p><p>They now ignore; your lost Lost Boys.</p><p> </p><p>D.J.A</p><p>08/06/09</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-39199014235492587242009-04-24T01:36:00.000-07:002009-04-24T01:44:24.809-07:00Podcast Forthcoming<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy3f3hhehNo9eSelSu9okbVh00UAV9EepOPSaPaJlV4IpWldMCOKXacmB2YwJ0bmtds-zvfWJHJddrQUkoTVwExfucsyrrQBO_-ZmHb-sO00PrP3OI_gHED5Tsb_Q05sD8rfA1a4LFSM/s1600-h/Helmsley,+Committee+and+Easter+09+587.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy3f3hhehNo9eSelSu9okbVh00UAV9EepOPSaPaJlV4IpWldMCOKXacmB2YwJ0bmtds-zvfWJHJddrQUkoTVwExfucsyrrQBO_-ZmHb-sO00PrP3OI_gHED5Tsb_Q05sD8rfA1a4LFSM/s320/Helmsley,+Committee+and+Easter+09+587.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328175746105203970" /></a><br /><p>Some good news. Hopefully from Monday 27th April you will be able to listen to a sketch show podcast that Chris Stokes and I will have completed comprising Boycott Deathtrap sketches we have done.</p><p>If you're familiar with our work, I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear that it contains some brand new material - a good sign of things to come!</p><p></p><p>I also now provide a headshot service and with results like this (left) you can't possibly be missed by potential agents and directors.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-50413166366403376972009-04-19T05:50:00.000-07:002009-04-19T05:52:20.380-07:00BBEF #3 - The New Cool Tool<p>Gentle readers,</p><p>You will notice to the right is a new gadget I have added to make the job of the British Blogspot Expeditionary Force a wee bit easier. The images scroll from one blog to the next. Click upon them and you will be transported.</p><p>You can try it too! Find an image that sparks your interest and click away. Feel free to construct your own BBEF report on what you find. Remember to sneer.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-89671472303128804832009-04-06T11:15:00.001-07:002009-04-06T11:15:22.372-07:00I'm A Martyr, Get Me Crucified!<div class=Section1> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Ok, so here’s the pitch:<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>We take twelve celebrities with some sort of chip on their shoulder about something. Ideally, they’ll be z-list celebrities that everybody’s forgotten about who are desperate to be remembered for something more worthwhile than, for example, ‘Finders, Keepers’ and ‘Fun House’. Actually, Pat Sharpe and Neil Buchanana would be perfect contenders!<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Then – it gets better! They’ll be competing against different classical civilisations to be martyred. These civilisations will be built in suitably unpopulated locations like Shetland and <st1:place w:st="on">Guernsey</st1:place>, as true to history as we can. They’ll then be populated by historians and actors who have read up on the background of their particular society. The contenders will then go about, stirring up trouble in the name of their preferred <i><span style='font-style:italic'>raison d’etre.</span></i> We can even get top celebs as special guests to play famous figures from history. So, let’s take our budding CITV presenters as a simulated example.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CONTENDER: Pat Sharpe<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>MORAL STANCE: Tepid<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>SOAP BOX TOPIC: “We should give more money to endangered butterflies.”<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CLASSICAL CIVILISATION HE’S UP AGAINST: Phoenicians.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>THEIR BEEF IS: “We fackin’ hate them fackin’ butterflies!”<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>THEIR PREFERRED METHOD OF EXECUTION: Offering the victim as a sexual vessel for the sea-beasts of Dagon (one of their attested 1<sup>st</sup> millennium gods).<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CURRENT RULER: Ahiram, Phoencian King of <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Byblos</st1:place></st1:City> (to be played by Richard O’Brien).<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CONTENDER: Neil Buchanana<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>MORAL STANCE: Vehement<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>SOAP BOX TOPIC: “We should enslave little ethnic kids.”<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CLASSICAL CIVILISATION HE’S UP AGAINST: The Achaemenid Persian Empire.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>THEIR BEEF IS: Zoroastrianism (their state religion) forbids slavery.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>THEIR PREFERRED METHOD OF EXECUTION: Split your nutsack open and watch you bleed to death.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>CURRENT RULER: Emperor Cyrus II The Great (to be played by Jasper Carrot)<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>I’ve no doubt you’re all as excited about this as I am. I suggest you get scribbling to the Beeb and Channel 4 AT ONCE and lobby them to pick up this innovative and exceptionally educational show.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p></span></font></p> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span lang=EN-GB style='font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> </div> Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-31942499062457493352009-04-04T10:36:00.000-07:002009-04-04T10:39:19.170-07:00Martin: A gaseous boyThere was a boy called Martin<br />Whose skills were high in fartin'<br />He would fart out rhymes<br />With limerick chimes<br />But they would always end up being disappointingly unlimerickesque at the end.Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-21512233349357445002009-03-28T20:18:00.000-07:002009-03-28T20:28:39.298-07:00This Easter<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wLkPt4Uf5eC5X-lY8OdUihIfNb1HSuZBQZZAEi6BiDITbKvjfK5euVsM889pm1ee86sdGm6dW3x2kdCUxUyvUxfCdiN333xG0Ci2myE3YV6fJkmbZl5MQTAF3ikTGX1J-IB2BIeOzyg/s1600-h/LeontesParanoid.jpg">Easter is a time for many things. Mostly chocolate but, also, relaxation. This Easter in particular, I'm relaxing more than ever. The effects on my complexion, health and mental wellbeing can be readily seen.<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wLkPt4Uf5eC5X-lY8OdUihIfNb1HSuZBQZZAEi6BiDITbKvjfK5euVsM889pm1ee86sdGm6dW3x2kdCUxUyvUxfCdiN333xG0Ci2myE3YV6fJkmbZl5MQTAF3ikTGX1J-IB2BIeOzyg/s320/LeontesParanoid.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318445227945214594" /></a><br /></p><p>Needless to say, I'm feeling proper tip top at the moment. My sleeping patterns have dramatically changed, somewhat to my detriment and I have this insatiable thirst that - no matter how much Tropicana I down - I simply cannot quench.</p><p></p><p>Apart from that, I'm pretty damn fine actually. I shall be spending the time away from work travelling, seeing friends and writing this damn play. Every written thing, it seems, is a joy and a burden.</p><p>I also intend to keep blogging more often.</p><p>I intend to but, of course, I won't.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-85213706210244980232009-01-08T12:11:00.000-08:002009-01-08T12:24:02.061-08:00Time to start burning some books<p>I ambled through WH Smiths today. Bear in mind there is a recession on.</p><p></p><p>In these economically critical times, we surely need to be economical. With food, with fuel and, I would say, with paper. And time. And public interest.</p><p>Therefore I cannot, under any circumstances, tolerate a biography of the Archibishop of Canterbury gracing our shelves in favour of something worthwhile. Nobody gives a cocking shit about what he's done in his boring life. I'll tell you the big twist. I shall. I shall tell you the surprise ending. The big exciting finale. You know what it is? He becomes the Archbishop of Canterbury. That's it. That's it! THAT IS IT!</p><p>NOBODY CARES!</p><p>The sheer hypocrisy of the Church to call for traditional values and then have their leader, their shepherd, pouting his lips on the front cover of a book that's on the same shelf as the Jade Goody Story and Look At Me: I'm That Telly Chef Who Swears All The Time And Now I Advertise Gin Because My Ratings Fell Through The Floor Because Every Cookery Program I Do Has To Rely Not Upon Whether Or Not People Want To Cook My Recipes At Home But Rather To See How Angry I Get In The Course Of Half An Hour.</p><p>This is the most vulgar and sweaty modern bastion of charlatanism.</p><p>When I thought I could not be incensed further, I noticed the categorisation. They had put Rowan's Rule in with the Bible, Koran and Torah. Also in there was an advice guide to clergy who have to talk to homosexuals. It had a list in it describing the different homosexualities you can get. According to the Anglican Church ANY VIOLENT ACT CONSTITUTES HOMOSEXUALITY. What? What the fuck? No. No that's wrong. That's offensive to homosexuals who are, on the whole in my experience, very mild people and also offensive to violent homophobes who pride themselves on their ability to avert accusations of homosexuality with their ability to hit people.</p><p>And then, oh then, the icing on the cake of contempt: I could not find a poetry/plays section in WH Smith - no - but I COULD find a "Tragic True Life Stories" section. This is all those books about kids who maybe got smacked once and then wrote the most preposterous lies about their parents feeding them bleach and putting them in kennels so they can make some money off the morons who buy this drivel. This means that according to WH Smith's standards (and the leisure pound of the average British citizen) these flimsy stories are of more worth than Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Miller, Pinter, Tennessee Williams, Milton, Marlowe, et al.</p><p>Obviously they are not. Obviously WH Smith's are wrong.</p><p>I will endeavour to prove it to them. Post-haste!</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-69545671317580762652008-12-20T20:54:00.000-08:002008-12-20T21:11:51.608-08:00The Ballad of Mary Morebroom<p>He was wanted in the Board Room</p><p>And that was all he knew</p><p>And so he arrived most promptly</p><p>At twenty-four minutes to two.</p><p> </p><p>He strode up to the receptionist</p><p>(A woman with slight breasts)</p><p>Who shook her earringed head and said</p><p>"I'm sorry - first there's tests."</p><p> </p><p>She grabbed the small man by the throat</p><p>And squeezed till he turned blue</p><p>And then she grabbed him by the scrote</p><p>And checked for one and two.</p><p> </p><p>Sure enough he was replete</p><p>With testes by the score</p><p>For then she counted three, then six</p><p>And more and more and more</p><p> </p><p>"Thirty-seven balls in all!"</p><p>The beaming man did holler</p><p>And kissed the woman on the lips</p><p>Which made her full of choler</p><p> </p><p>For those lips were not upon her face</p><p>They were between her legs</p><p>Her thrush-battered vag is what he tastes</p><p>Plus the residue in her kegs.</p><p> </p><p>Alas, the small man never found</p><p>His way into the Board Room</p><p>Instead the meeting was foregone</p><p>For the moists of Mary Morebroom</p><p> </p><p>But Mary Morebroom was enraged</p><p>She tried to punish what he did</p><p>But failed to grab his arm, you see,</p><p>For the small man was a flid.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-69608075908284762612008-12-02T05:50:00.000-08:002008-12-02T07:00:16.058-08:00Listen 'Ear: The Chris Stokes Biography (Chapter One)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">Chapter One:</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">Massive Ears</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></strong></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Christopher Stokes was born, in a hospital, with massive ears. His parents, Gary and 'Scrabble' Jan Stokes were offered a great deal of money for the film rights, but turned them down.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Christopher grew, with exception to his ears, which remained at the adult size (of an African Elephant) throughout his life. They were massive.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">One of Stokes' early talents was self-depreciation, spreading the cost of his asset across the span of several years. This brought much humour to the playground and classroom, as Stokes would lampoon himself, flapping his ears, soaring up to twelve metres in the air and, ultimately, earning him the nickname 'Jodrell Bank'.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">A lonesome child, Stokes spent much of his prepubescent youth in the company of a small weevil he nicknamed 'Dave'. The weevil grew, feeding off Stokes' playground success, and eventually devolved into David Harper.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">For some years, they were the best of friends, out of necessity rather than choice. Stokes led an otherwise solitary existence near the A5.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Until one day...</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">His sister was born from the same womb by the same seed yet turned out wrong. It would be many years before the unnatural nature of the spawn was realised but this Satanic creature brought with her the opportunity that would give Christopher Stokes a real backbone. An opportunity to acquaint themselves with possibly the most important man in the history of the 20th and 21st Centuries respectively.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Dominic John Allen befriended the sister of Stokes and in so doing befriended Stokes himself. It was to be a friendship based on mutual distrust, repudiation and despair. But it was much better than having to talk to the weevil.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was at this point in his life that Christopher fell in love. He fell in love with a small pebble, which he named 'Pebble'. She was glamorous, for sure, but she was a pebble.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Sex was torrid. Threading a pebble into the glans of his penis and subsequently removing it again was an agony that Christopher endured out of love. A sort of stupid, misplaced love that only someone of such collosal ignorance could be capable of.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">With the development of his sexual organs, and the transition through puberty, Christopher became aware of his own worthlessness. He turned to drink. In one day, he could consume over twenty-seven litres of pomegranate juice or Dr. Pepper (tm). His early flourishing in the field of Scrabble (tm) was cut ruthlessly short by the efforts of his competitive mother: five time gold heavyweight Scrabble (tm) black belt shogun, the aptly named 'Scrabble Jan'.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">Christopher began to despair that he would never find his true calling in life. His other friends had found them oh so well. Allen was the darling of church group theatre, Harper had found his place in the fast food industry. Stokes, it seemed, was doomed to a life of pebble aided masturbation and over consumption.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">But all that was about to change...</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>[Stay tuned for Chapter 2]</em></span></div>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-1960198350186127842008-11-07T08:47:00.000-08:002008-11-07T08:55:41.096-08:00Chris Stokes: Liar?The answer, I'm afraid, is yes.<br /><br />With the election of Barack Obama in the US and Gok Wan coming out in support of an X Factor contestant, the media's eyes have been conveniently pointed away from Mr. Stokes, comedian, as he commits one of the most grievous atrocities yours truly has ever had the stomach to witness.<br /><br />If you look at his blog here (http://chrisstokes.blogspot.com) you will note his every-day-in-November challenge. A noble quest, me thoughtst, given I can barely manage to blog once a month but oh no no ha ha brew ha no. The woolen veil of deceit has been pulled over your eyes and now you stumble around as he guffaws in his lie-encrusted shadows.<br /><br />He has set up his blog to post things on a time release! They have already been written. All his thoughts, pre-conceived. He even anticipated the US election results! He's a conniving little pig of a man. A liar. A thief. A cheat.<br /><br />I urge you to bombard him with e-abuse.<br /><br />The turd.Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-58789330675554695502008-09-26T16:01:00.000-07:002008-09-26T17:31:27.536-07:00BBEF #2: Dissent and Rust<p>Brothers, sisters, lepers and friends, the British Blogspot Expeditionary Force got a bit bogged down on this last excursion, as we were so thoroughly engaged by the first blog we came across, we decided to stay there for a while.</p><p><a href="http://repentandtrust.blogspot.com/">'Repent and Trust'</a></p><p>offers readers an opportunity to indulge themselves in an exciting fantasy adventure set in a pseudo-mythical world populated by generals, kings, shepherds and historians. The premise is that players roll a dice, nominally a d20, to emulate actions such as attacks, defences, leaps and the execution of skills. As they succeed in more and more encounters, they gain experience which can cause skills to be honed as levels increase.</p><p>The site lists some of the common adversaries you can expect to meet; notably Muslims, Atheists and Democrats. The expectation is these people will have to be slain by your powers of public address. The initial video we come across demonstrates someone attempting this but, as we can see, they are evidently of a very low level. Possibly a neophyte, if you will.</p><p>But their campaign at Virginia Tech labours on. At one point they are joined by a Canadian, which is another sort of Colonial to an American - one who has sullied his or her English blood with the French rather than the Dutch. He complains that people in Canada are not gullible enough to read his pamphlets of lies. This is naturally because they have retained British authority long enough to have some sense beaten into them. He finds that the tenants of Virginia Tech are susceptible enough, however, even though some of them plan to reincarnate over and over again in order to vote for Obama. Not that far fetched, of course. Bush's supporters <em>must</em><strong> </strong>have done the same thing.</p><p>However, the Canadian is a welcome relief from Dorothy's near-sightedness. It appears she thinks the Bible was written by men. Fair enough. It probably was. Except for the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, of course, but I'm led to believe that might be a bit controversial. Anywho, she goes on to say that were this grounds for discrediting the Bible, we would also have to discredit Shakespeare, Darwin and the Declaration of Independence, having all been written by men.</p><p>Not so, Dorothy. If you could think for a second about your ridiculous tiny-brained comment you will see the gaping hole of your flimsy argument. Shakespeare cannot be discredited because he's not passing his plays off as facts. They are fiction. He writes it as fiction. We accept it as fiction. It is fiction. Therefore there is no need to discredit it as false because it is, in its nature, false. It tells lies to show truth. It cannot be discredited.</p><p>Next, Darwin. Darwin was codifying and transcribing an observation about the manner in which species originate, adapt and speciate. A scientific principle as fundamental as evolution cannot be discredited because that's not how science works. Hypotheses are stated, evidence is collated, conclusions are drawn and the theory develops. It evolves. So, even if you 'discredited' Darwin, the potential of the theory would still exist. Therefore what he has written cannot be discredited.</p><p>Finally, the Declaration of Independence. Again, it is not stating something as true or not true but rather is a political act. How can you discredit a political act? It must have happened, because the United States exists. If you discredit it as false, what does that prove? It proves that something else must have happened to form a tangible basis for government strong enough for the British Administration to recognise as capable of drawing approval from a mandate of British American Colonists and, in so doing, culminate in a conflict over the matter that is eventually fought, debated, negotiated between both parties and resolved. As no such evidence exists for such an alternative basis for autonomous American government, the Declaration cannot be discredited.</p><p>The Bible, however, can. It asserts facts as truth. An asserted fact is fallible. It is fallible because it is asserted, not proven. Once an acceptance of truth based on this asserted fact is established we have a situation where if the Bible is discredited, it will collapse the belief system of anyone who buys into it. That is still feasible, unlike trying to find a non-existent temporally extant trigger for war or dismantle a scientifically proven fact. So therefore, the Bible is discreditable, provided we can find basis for suggesting that not everything in it is true. An unproven fact, if you will. </p><p>Turns out there are plenty. For instance, how is it that Jesus was able to pray in the Synagogue when at that particular time in Judea only married Jews were allowed to do that? He must have been married.</p><p>Or, another - the New Testament, largely originally written in Aramague, has been translated from translations of translations to get into English. If we trace it back we discover that when Jesus walked on the water, the original verb 'to walk on' in Aramague can also be interpreted as 'walked by', 'walked near' and 'swam', given the context. Interesting that, isn't it?</p><p>Finally, one final fact - the Bible was written by a man named Keith Harpoole. He was from Kidderminster in Worcestershire, born in 1893, the son of a haberdasher. In 1919, at the age of 26, he began writing the Holy Bible. He wrote much of it himself, but drew heavily on the Torah and parts of the Qu'ran. Writer's block and a strange palsy of the wrist prevented him from writing between 1923 and 1925 and then between 1939 and 1945 he, naturally, had to care for a cow that had become shellshocked, creating another hiatus in the writing process. Finally in 1949, the Bible was completed. He sent many of the early drafts to his public school boyhood lover, Walter E. S. K. Blenkmore, by then living in the United States in Delaware. Many of Blenkmore's advised revisions exist in today's modern editions. Famously in one draft, he deleted two hundred and seventy-three uses of the word 'gooch' and a further fifty-three uses of the phrase 'heavy-set red vaginal discharge'.</p><p>So, in that respect, Dorothy, you're quite right. The Bible was written by men. <a href="http://men.recon.com/">Gay men</a>.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-9196330897266183182008-09-25T04:49:00.000-07:002008-09-25T05:02:22.753-07:00A Dictionary of Sgrabble #2 - 'Reprobatic'<p><strong>Reprobatic, <em>adj.</em></strong></p><p><strong>1. </strong>Referring to someone or something or somewhere that is a reprobate in its nature AND in its physicality.</p><p><strong>2. </strong>An act of professional gymnastics where an acrobat outperforms an immediate predecessor in an adjudicated competition by performing the exact same moves, throws, catches, landings and deportments better, <em>e.g. '<a href="http://supergymnast.blogspot.com/2008/07/famous-gymnast-blaine-wilson.html">Blaine Wilson</a> executed an absolutely <strong>reprobatic</strong></em><em> coup there, didn't he, your ladyship, Liberal Democrat Baroness Shirley Williams.'</em></p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-66029911676185169062008-09-25T04:38:00.000-07:002008-09-25T04:47:42.562-07:00World Wide Waste #001 - william-shakespeare.org.uk<p>I am sick to the high, back teeth with pathetic purposeless excuses for the way the English language has changed and continues to change.</p><p>Take a quick gander at this parasitic website:</p><p><a href="http://www.william-shakespeare.org.uk/">http://www.william-shakespeare.org.uk/</a></p><p>Only don't! It's awful! Not only does it defile the name of the Bard by riddling it with pop-ups and commerical booby-traps, it tells lies! LIES!</p><p>On one page it panders to the simpering idiotic generation-x reprobatic morons (who infest mainstream education and waylay the truly gifted and intelligent) by excusing the fact that Shakespeare wrote in Elizabethan English. It goes so far as to explain that what seems like non-Standard English to us, was Standard English to him. Bollocks! There was no 'Standard' English then. Dialect differences alone could render communities incommunicable.</p><p>It then goes on to spout more trite glibettes: Shakespeare had less words than us. What? Nonsense! If he had less words to use than us, then surely every word of his would still be in common usage. Linguistic evolution relies on vocabulary systems being streamlined. Morphology simplifies, the language standardises, words get dumped. Not the other way around!</p><p>I think it made me most cross because that paltry nonsense was offered up as an excuse. "Please forgive Mr. Shakespeare," they hoot, "he didn't know any better."</p><p>Rubbish! Shakespeare was a genius! If they can't be bothered to work at it a little bit or go and see some Shakespeare then they don't deserve to take pleasure in the breadth of his insight and imagination.</p><p>Send them to the wall! TO THE WALL!</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-8576997915406158772008-09-18T03:21:00.000-07:002008-09-18T03:40:16.666-07:00Nothing is but what is not it is is not, isn't it?<p>A whisper in the darkness</p><p>A scrabble for the light</p><p>And on it came and there I saw</p><p>A Honda motorbike.</p><p> </p><p>"Why this?" said I</p><p>In mid-sleep drear</p><p>But came there no reply.</p><p>And all at once, and once and all</p><p>I thought I might just die.</p><p> </p><p>For the motorbike</p><p>It revved and reared</p><p>It drove at me with fury!</p><p>For from within my sheets I peered</p><p>And saw the driver - Ian Dury!</p><p> </p><p>"Polio has done its worst,"</p><p>He said with ghostly anguish,</p><p>"And now I come to mow you down</p><p>Unless unto me you furnish</p><p> </p><p>A silver baton</p><p>Light as air</p><p>Tempestuous as thunder."</p><p>And I knew precisely what he meant:</p><p> </p><p>A stick I stole at seventeen</p><p>Made out of astral beauty</p><p>Capable of cosmic sounds,</p><p>Most treasured of my booty.</p><p> </p><p>"Wait, please wait, you spastic prick!"</p><p>I hollered in the darkness</p><p>And held aloft the rhythm stick</p><p>From the depths of my pyjamas.</p><p> </p><p>And Ian Dury quickly up</p><p>And snatched my prize possession</p><p>And off he went in dark and mist</p><p>To join the ghost procession.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-11529930642731314712008-09-17T16:05:00.000-07:002008-09-17T16:30:53.584-07:00The British Blogspot Expeditionary Force (BBEF) #1<p>So what are we?</p><p>You've read this far so I'll tell you. I'll tell you what we are. We are the British Blogspot Expeditionary Force. My name is Dominic J. Allen, and I am in charge. I am the Major General or possibly Generalissimo, if you will.</p><p>My mission: to plunge myself into the reaches of the unknown and report back in digestible chunks.</p><p>My mode of transport: the little button at the top left that says next blog.</p><p>Destination: Unknown.</p><p></p><p>So, without much further ado, I give to you my first spate of findings. If you should so wish, you may approach the journalage as a sort of blogger's digest. I'm sure that name is copyright somewhere though. So think of it like that but different. Think of it as THE BRITISH BLOGSPOT EXPEDITIONARY FORCE!</p><p></p><p>BBEF - #001 - </p><p>The first blog we hit is '<a href="http://franofre4.blogspot.com/">Fashion y Flash</a>'. This blog is profoundly visual, presumably because when text is used it utilises some fanciful or, as yet, unkown language. Distinctly unique is its use of only the female image to symbolise elements such as 'Regresion' and that equally famous psychological phenomenon 'Submundo'.</p><p>The first image nurses a baby that isn't there. Perhaps some sort of post-miscarriage depression. The second sniffs her own armpit longingly. What is there here but failure and solitude? Only ones own body odours.</p><p>The next picture, a face is engulfed by long white tentacles. Lovecraft. Cthulhu. Doom. The eyes roll backwards into the brainless skull. All is mis-spent navigation classes at the Academy.</p><p>Then a naked woman in a well. Contorted with her own insane lusts.</p><p>An invader. Asian-fashioned ladyselle in a barn. East meets West to create Iraq. Polemic. Political. L'Esprit de vie de Junta.</p><p>Next: a woman ties her shoelaces without looking at them. She looks at you. She realises the lack of logic but takes no heed.</p><p>Finally, a girl on an indoor swing looks behind her. Is distracted from her play article that does not exist in the real world. She looks. Have they said something. A lover? A lover would be silent. If it were true love. Or perhaps not. Perhaps her life is one big sham. Hence, an indoor swing. Society has lied to her about what is acceptable and what is not to turn her into a laughing stock. She becomes 'anima'. Hence, 'Regresion'.</p><p>BBEF Review: 6/10... 8/10 if you are not an homosexualist</p><p></p><p></p><p>The next destination is <a href="http://ngidding.blogspot.com/">'Work now, Play later'.</a></p><p>Let us dissect:</p><p>We are treaterised to artworkings made by an headless man. The horseman? No.</p><p>The works are too manifest to analyse individually. When viewed as a cache or the many being an entourage to the few and the one, a deep-seated anxiety and paranoia is betrayed at the heart of the headless host. He is perhaps Iberian, perhaps Latino. Perhaps both. Or neither.</p><p>Something in the colours. Something in the colours. It kept coming through on the radio but the radio wasn't on, so I turned it round from square. Nothing. Nothing now. Not even static hum.</p><p>So we scroll deeper and deeper into the psyche of the mind without a box. Labor day weekend. Bicycles and Bradley's. Salt and Pepper. Archduke and Duchess. King and Queen. Left and East.</p><p>Deeper.</p><p>Legend. Myth. He had been posting photos instead of words because he's lazy. His own conviction. Or hers. Without a head. A shame. A real shame.</p><p>A captive woman in a box of captor things. They presumably impede her into submission. She looks displeased with her newfound incarceration. Perhaps she'll perish.</p><p>The rest is all flying dogs and basketball played wrong.</p><p>All in all, an exciting visual, yet mentally stimulating romp, through the mind of a headless Spaniard.</p><p>BBEF Review: 7.5/10</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-57987390195305432002008-09-16T08:46:00.000-07:002008-09-16T09:02:09.450-07:00A Dictionary of Sgrabble #1<p><strong>Ependeturous, <em>adj</em></strong></p><p><strong>1. </strong>An addition at the end of something else. </p><p> <strong>a. </strong><em>Lit. </em>The addition to an article not written by the original author(s). Most often on an interactive journal, online blog or act of Exquisite Corpse. In the case of the lattermost it will refer to the final entry.</p><p><strong>Related forms: </strong>Ependeturously <em>(adv), </em>ependeturial <em>(adj. rare), </em>ependetement <em>(noun).</em></p><p><strong>Known usage:</strong></p><p>First known usage is by <strong>Dominic J. Allen </strong>signing off an ependeturous ependetement on a cohort's (<a href="http://chrisstokes.blogspot.com/2008/09/attempt-at-morning-papers-and-post.html">Christopher Stokes) blog</a>:</p><p><em>"Yours ependeturously,</em></p><p><em>Dominic J. Allen</em></p><p><em>Actor/Writer/Raconteur"</em></p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-26570182485823334902008-09-16T07:59:00.000-07:002008-09-16T08:12:28.749-07:00An Old Case of the Writer's Block<p>I am blocked.</p><p>Blocked like so many drains in New Orleans.</p><p>I'm not quite sure what to do about it other than write things. Unimportant things of no consequence. Like this. Just to get myself flowing, so to speak.</p><p>It's not working.</p><p>I'm supposed to be writing two plays. Neither are happening. Blocked, like I say. Blockety blocked blocked blocked.</p><p>But then I got a bit inspired. Started writing a short film. Was going well. Really well. I thought, by gosh, at this rate I could I have it finished by this afternoon. That was three days ago. And the two policemen have got no further with their enquiry at all. Andre Breton is trying to organise the Surrealists and Pitcairn is still standing around in Lexington, trying to understand why everyone's started brawling.</p><p>Ad nauseum.</p><p>Ad infinitum!</p><p>Tch.</p><p>Might have a cup of tea. That usually helps.</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-23893393840669428812008-09-15T13:24:00.000-07:002008-09-15T14:00:15.711-07:00Hypothetical Lecture Tour 1: An Address to the U.S. House of Representatives I Was Never Asked to Give and So Never Gave<p>As an outspoken spokesman for women's rights, a lot of people come to me asking why I'm not having an operation to adapt my gender. The reasons are manifest, much like your destiny here in the United States.</p><p>[Pause for laughter]</p><p>Indeed, many have said quite rabidly that I should really be a spokeswoman if I'm to accurately represent the plight of women sincerely to the public and, also, the private. Some have cited my record of domestic violence in the Guinness Book as argument against my status as a spokesman in this particular field. Others have preferred to list my myriad supposedly backwards looking approaches to taming the female such as my recent demand for female chastity belts forced on to all mini-ladies at the age of the first period. Or, as I prefer, full stop.</p><p>[Pause for laughter]</p><p>How refreshing it is then to come to a country where my ideas are not perceived so backwards as they are forwards. How refreshing it is then to come to a country where women are not married, but purchased. Not loved, but owned.</p><p>In my long career as a journalist, spokesmodel, author, actor, raconteur, celebrity chef, amphibian, deep sea diver, record breaker, athlete, arable land farmer, nudist, rapist, presenter and newscaster, I have had many wives, precious few of them of an ethnic persuasion. How refreshing it is then to come to a country where ethnics are not persuaded but are told.</p><p>[Pause for a mixture of laughter/moderate patriotic applause]</p><p>That is why I implore you now, with dismay in my voice and socks in my shoes, to rise up in your offices, stir yourselves among the public and drum up support for McCain. Too long has the rest of the world feared a non-Anglo Saxon reaching the presidential seat. At least with McCain we choose the lesser of two evils, with his Celtic bones and Gaelic eyes. At least with McCain our children will be safe from international paedophiles - you may think you will never fall victim to such a one as them. But you are wrong.</p><p>You may think you are too old. You are not flavoursome enough for them. But you are wrong. You may think they would prefer to prey on your children and your children's children. But you are wrong. They will come in the night. They will snatch you and your children through their bedroom windows, plying you with snozzcumbers, and the JFK is no longer here to give you nice dreams.</p><p>[Pause for earnest applause]</p><p>But there is still hope! These megalithic paedophiles and bar-burning women do not herald the end of the civilised West on their silken trumpets - far from it. They herald a warning. A warning to us all. The time has come to you as politicians to no longer be men of words, word man, but men of action - action man. Beat the women back into the pantry. Burn the paedophiles in a laboratory crucible back down to their correct size through the precipitation of their water content. Lead your people into a golden age of rampant, mindless, thoughtless, breathless, headless, useless xenophobia and money-grabbing oil-sipping. In the name of God the father, son and holy goat, Vote McCain.</p><p>For a superior chip.</p><p>[Pause for fervent applause. Some whistling. Approx 7 mins]</p><p>Thank you.</p><p>[Exit podium to your right. Smile at the camera left and forwards. Exit via nearest door. Not broom cupboard on immediate right.]</p>Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7571260221830462084.post-60986163651277465432006-02-25T10:06:00.000-08:002009-04-19T05:16:45.665-07:00Gunning The Curtain<span style="font-family:courier new;">I have recently been in some mild turmoil over the future of British theatre and, rather selfishly perhaps, the future for British playwrights in our native land.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span><br /><span >Perhaps I'm worrying for nothing, but it seems to me and to many others in the business that the only plays that are getting put on centrally are either foreign or revivals whereas the provinces, slightly more daring though some may be, are generally relying on repetitive tours of The Best of the Eagles and amateur productions of Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals. Hardly what I, and other artistic snobs, consider to be real theatre. Those provincial houses that do produce tend to lead nowhere now, whereas once a transfer to the West End was almost always on the cards. Now there needs to be a clear runaway financial success before penny-pinching 'producers' will sit up and take notice.</span><br /><br />And that right there is the problem. The plague of commercialism. Commercialism works for a lot of things - cinema, for example, because cinema is a popular convention that requirtes oodles of money to support. It does not, in my opinion, do anything for theatre - other than keeping the Mousetrap and Andrew Lloyd Webber in business. I think we all know the world would be better without Andrew Lloyd Webber's contribution to the theatre. Why has commercialism done this to the theatre? Why? Opera has managed to avoid it, but only by being viciously elitist. It seems to me that the theatre is being treated more and more like cinema, when it's not cinema. Cinema is big and bold and expensive. Theatre should be intimate, generally, and all about the art of it, rather than it's presentation. What it lacks in technical wizardry and awe-inspiring feats of the visual it ought to make up for in sheer craft and talent. But, alas, nowadays it does not. I largely blame modern 'producers'. These people have no interest in actual theatre. Typically they have money that they want to invest so they'll stick it in a theatre, force that theatre not to take risks and then they can also pretend they are cultured when, frankly, they're not. If we could just ensure the people in charge of theatres - the men with the money - had passion and courage for the art of the theatre. Then we'd see more varied plays, more exciting productions - who knows, it may make people once again interested in theatre, bringing in revenue other than old ladies who want to see yet another clairvoyant evening or night of 'entertainment' with Dominic Kirwan. It might give provincial theatres a new lease of life and make the high and mighty West End sit up and - pardon the pun - get its act together.<br /><br />What I propose then is a new approach to theatre management. This is just an idea at the moment - I would need some kind of syndicate of playwrights or eccentric, rich, theatre-obsessed financial backers to make it reality - but what if one was to buy a theatre and adopt a laissez-faire approach to the finances. Let people put what they want on, when they want. The bare minimum is taken off ticket prices for the most basic maintenance of the actual building, and the rest goes straight to the artists. No vetting of content or censorship of subject matter. No elitism. No sort of traditional artistic director, who filters through the programme only what will sell to the public. Rather an artistic director who's only prejudice is against poor quality and the status quo. In short, a revolution - a return to the theatre of dreams. Let us give rebirth to post-war theatre and sire a new generation of Pinters, Ortons, Mamets, Albees and Stoppards. Let us give back to the theatre what we have denied it - freedom. In return, you can guarantee that theatre will take back the audiences that tv, cinema and Andrew Lloyd Webber have stolen if only she can have room enough to breathe.Dominic J Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10730626164195749608noreply@blogger.com0