Tuesday, 6 December 2016

The cards we are dealt

Christmas is a funny old time of year. All the sentimental adverts, the supermarkets filled with tasty festive fare for the family and folks zipping around buying up gifts for those they love. I always find myself stepping back, kind of feeling like the kid who came to the party but no one asked to join in the games. Perhaps it is because I don't come from the unified sibling-filled family - the one singing carols around the fire. We don't all pile home to Mum and Dad's and sleep in our old rooms, joking about all the Xmases of old. It is something I hope I give my kids...

Anyway, there is something so forced about all the revelry, something as cliched as an Xmas card, that always unsettles me. I can't help but think about those who don't have the husband buying them diamonds, the cherubic kids to wake up with at dawn's crack on Xmas day, those who don't have a roof over their heads, or can't afford to shower their family in gifts.

It is the time of year when so many feel they have failed: their lives not picture postcard perfect, their stockings not full, their mistletoe unused. All that money wasted on pointless gifts and status symbols, makes me wonder - have we forgotten what Xmas is really all about in a sea of designer handbags and cashmere jumpers?

Jaysus the last thing you need is another person jangling a fecking box under your nose, or another charity shoving a wedge of dodgy Xmas cards under you door, but perhaps it is time to think of others, instead of ourselves? (Alongside thinking about all those near and dear of course... I'm not a total Grinch).  I read today that the UK is set for the biggest increase in child poverty in a decade. It is due to increase by a whopping 50% by 2020. This Xmas the number of homeless kids will hit an 8 year high - with over 13,000 sleeping in B&Bs, hostels or temporary shelter. 

Often I think back to conversations I had with desperate people who called Samaritans when I volunteered. The one thing that struck me most of all - was how much people's childhood shaped their lives.  Those first ten years so crucial to forming the people we will become. But if your life is one without love, or food, or shelter, or hope - then what for you?

Years ago I was an associate producer on a project called 'Make it Big,' where SKY TV pledged a million pounds to a youth charity. 10 were nominated and I (along with several other producer/director teams) had to make videos to illustrate what the charities set out to achieve. In the end The Chicken Shed won the money - and all credit to them. They were one of the 3 charities I had filmed, so I should have been thrilled. But there was one charity that absolutely broke my heart. (And apparently James Murdoch's - who watched our video and came in holding the VHS aloft, tears streaming down his cheeks). At the time it was called NCH and was based in Highbury, London. They funded many children's homes and various schools and places for troubled/abused/neglected kids. The work they did was simply incredible. I filmed at a school in Margate for extremely vulnerable kids - who had all faced neglect or abuse/sexual abuse - and used art as therapy. From all the darkness they experienced (and their tales were almost beyond comprehension) through drawing, painting and craft, they unleashed all their hurt, betrayal and anger. The art teacher helped them find a voice, one that had never been heard. I've never met braver people in my life.

One child, who was so badly neglected he couldn't cope with living with a family, walked with a limp from all the injuries he sustained - by those supposed to look after him. His art was brilliant. He was handsome, quiet, shy. He wouldn't look me in the eye, but followed me outside to give me a picture of a china cow he painstakingly had drawn and I brought it home and put on my fridge. It haunted me for years. In fact he still does. I often wonder what happened to him. He was months away from 16 (this was back in 2004) and was due to be moved on from his children's home to a council flat - alone in the world at such a young age. I kept asking the charity workers - what next for him? Who would look out for him? Why wasn't more done for him? Why was he dealt such shitty cards in life?

NCH is now Action for Children and their work is unparalleled at giving vulnerable children a brighter future. If this Xmas you have a spare fiver, or two quid, or whatever you tip the milkman/deliveryboy/binmen then please, please donate. Because not everyone got the great cards you (hopefully) did. Money you donate can really make a difference, and at Xmas, is there anything more heart warming than that?

Festive greetings to y'all. May it be your best one yet. CM x










Tuesday, 20 September 2016

Where did all the grown-up films go?

Today was as close to heaven as I get... I snuck off to watch a movie all by myself: Hell or Highwater, with a brilliant Jeff Bridges and a revelatory Chris Pine. (As an aside, miss it at your peril). As I sat in the darkened room, I felt such comfort. A movie theatre has always been my go-to place at times of upset, loss, disappointment - and also when I am absolutely desperate to see a film. Sadly, that rarely happens these days... Instead of wanting to get to the flicks 3 times a week, it is maybe 3 times a month.

For a while, I put this down to the fact that I have kids and therefor it is infinitely harder to get to a cinema - even though I have a stunning art deco cinema in my town - replete with a bar... But then it dawned on me that there simply aren't the same type of films made these days that I was once so desperate to watch. (In August I manned to see The Shallows and David Brent... and Finding Dory. EXACTLY).

Sure the 70s and 80s were the halcyon days of cinema - but this year when I read an article with the brilliant Jodie Foster in the Times, I was shocked when she commented that a film like 'The Accused' for which she won one or her two Oscars, wouldn't get made these days. Why is this??

An article by Jonathan Dean  (also in the Times) lists the box office top ten in 1993: Jurassic Park, The Fugitive, The Firm, Sleepless in Seattle, Schindler's List and In the Line of Fire in there...  Groundhog Day at number 13. That list is just teaming with memorable films... Last year, the list is largely re-makes or sequels or kid's films... and how in the world is Ant Man at number 14? Around Jan/Feb we get a quick fix of brilliant films: The Revenant, Room, Spotlight and then..... nada. Bar the odd gem like Hell or Highwater, or Sing Street - nothing. The only other memorable film I have seen this year is Mustang - and that was a Turkish film with a whiff of the brilliant Virgin Suicides about it...

What is Sophia Coppola doing now? Peter Weir (who made 3 of my fav films), Curtis Hanson? Sodenbergh? I find David O'Russell overrated (sorry - I thought Bradley Cooper went from crazy to normal with no turning point in Silver Linings, I hated Joy and found American Hustle bloated -  plus I've never forgotten that Clooney punched him for treating an extra badly... and he made Amy Adams cry on AH - to the point Christian Bale had to intervene and call him an asshole...) and Todd Hayne's Carol was a case of style over substance...

So where are the: In the Bedroom, LA Confidential,  Swingers, Fatal Attraction, Being John Malkovich, Dead Man Walking, Leaving Las Vegas, Rosemary's Baby, Almost Famous, Tootsie, Footloose, Flashdance, American Werewolf in London, After Hours, Witness, Moonstruck, Stand By Me, The Big Chill, Dead Poets, Silence of the Lambs, American Beauty, Little Children, Clerks, Good Will Hunting, Out of Sight, Thelma and Louise, Goodfellas, Rushmore, My Own Private Idaho, JFK,  Sideways, You can Count on Me, Memento, Se7en, Brokeback Mountain, Eternal Sunshine, Boogie Nights etc. etc. etc. ???

WHERE ARE THEY? Is it just bloody Marvel characters ad infinitum?? According to Dean's article, 71 comic book based films are in the works. SIGH.

I preferred Robert Downey Junior in Two Girls and a Guy than in any of his Iron Man formulaic hits.... because I am not a 12 year old boy... Obviously these type of Blockbuster films have an audience and I don't dispute the necessity of such films to bring butts on seats and cash flowing in - but what I do resent is that these are the only type of films getting made... Do the studios and indies think that we have dumbed down? That people over 30 only venture to the cinema with their sprogs in tow? That we need CGI and loud explosions to be enthralled? I just need a good script...

I am desperate to have lists of films that I urgently need to watch.... Like the time I cycled in the rain to see Crash, or made my husband drive for 50 mins and pay twice what I usually do to see the excellent Whiplash. (Yes that was only a couple of years ago - but it falls into the Oscar handful of great films). I want to come home and hand my babysitter the £30 I pay her and think - that film? Totally worth it. 

But that SO rarely happens. I remember the good old days of boring colleagues with my endless talk on such beauties as Drive - filled with enthusiasm to finally see something adult, engaging and downright memorable.

We have no end of acting talent - we have brilliant writers - female directors gagging to get work - and in a male dominated industry, the best we can come up with is - Thor?

I miss going to the cinema. But most of all I miss wanting to go there... Please, can things change?








Tuesday, 30 August 2016

Every summer has it's own story...

I'll be honest, 2016 hasn't been one of my favourite years - Brexit, Prince dying, a bad knee wound and a never ending winter, made it feel like I was wading through treacle for any joy. But finally, summer rolled around and this year - as usual - I packed it with adventures to fill the kids' days and also provide me with some much needed change of scenery.

First up I discovered my fav TV show of this year and now the summer seems unthinkable without the wonder and joy of Stranger Things. Little Eleven brought out every maternal bone in my body. A total gem. Miss it at your peril - on Neflix now.


Then came a trip away with a family - they had the villa next door. We walked across lava fields in craters which the sea had once filled - picked up lizards and shells... We swam in crystal waters, ate delicious prawns and sipped beers and rose all day long. It was bliss. 





After a quick pitstop home I headed to my motherland... and had three of my favourite weeks of the year. Yes, I had to write, but in between, I caught up with friends and family, swam in the sea, and enjoyed my nightly (with children catching Pokemon) walks along here (ending with a swift Shortcross gin in Pier 36... would have been rude not to...)




We also did a tonne of rock pooling.....



                                                                             


There were old schoolmate meet ups... (ladies aren't you glad I kept those letters you wrote back in '91??)

And I got amongst the brilliant Open House Festival that is run yearly in Bangor. In only it's second season - it still managed to be packed with foodie, theatre, music and drinks events all through August. Flicking through the programme I decided the quirkier the better so...  First up was Big Telly's wonderful improvised play on The Faerie Thorn... a bewitching yarn with life lessons for all. Hilarious and bizarre, with a Q and A with the author afterwards... Go see when it hits theatres next year... 

The following week I headed over to a gin tasting session at Fealty's bar where I discovered Hoxtons gin (you sip with cranberry to compliment the coconut and grapefruit flavours) and converted to The Botanist - an amazing gin... My gin partner in crime had a train to catch to Dublin the next morning - amazingly she made it. Hats off to you Patricia... 






Unbelievably in Ireland the sun shone and my kids went off each day from 10-4 to play tennis at my old club. They loved it... I wandered around lost in nostalgia, remembering my days there as a glass collector and barmaid... Meanwhile, my mother is moving house so she handed me a huge bag - in it had every letter I'd ever received until I was 21... There were my old vinyl records, photos, wedding dress, school uniform and postcards, stickers, keepsakes from a lifetime ago... Where the hell did 20 plus years go? 

I sneaked my son into his first 15 film - a rite of passage. All went well apart from the Durex advert and a trailer for a creepy horror called 'Lights out.' Thankfully we were both entertained by a super tanned and ripped Blake Lively avoiding being eaten by a great white shark.. and we still managed to get on our wetsuits and get in the sea when we all went off to Donegal...


Yes, that is me doing a handstand...

We stayed at the glorious country house hotel Rathmullan - where there is no better breakfast in Ireland and everything is discreetly put on your room - which feels like you are drinking free dark and stormies, until you get the bill and nearly pass out.



We started a new tradition - Ridge and Rounders. Bring a bottle of fine red wine, plastic cups, a bat and stumps, and race around like a lunatic, stopping for a red wine warmer and then a dip in the freezing sea. Nothing beats it.


Rathmullan is easily one of the highlights of the year. It is one of the few hotels I have stayed at with kids, where when it rains, you almost feel relieved. You can jump in the indoor pool or sink into the sofas by the fire and eat cream tea scones with tea. The kids run feral (all good until the bar rings you asking you to collect them.... eek) and you spend your days salty, sandy and smiling. I'm always devastated to leave - but the waistband of my jeans less so. 


And it wasn't just me who had fun.... the kids had a ball....





There is no greater joy than catching a teensy crab... (special thanks to Ella McClelland for these beautiful photographs - she has an eye that one...) 



And so... after a 5 weeks we are back here.. to sunny England, and a flurry of school uniforms to sort out and a to do list as long as my arm... All ready for that back-to -school feeling. Except, I'm not really ready to let go of summer yet. I cried when I left Ireland... Home is... home. The people, the seafood, the great gin... (I thank you Muriels - the best bar I know)...


Most of all I miss the sea. I forgot how important it is to me, to be near it. To breathe in the sea and air and breathe out all the stresses of life... When my kids are grown, when their schooling ends, I will return for good. No question. 






PS To Katy and Fergus and the Pokemon walks, Team McC in Rathmullan, V and Nat for the dinners, Carly for the coffee (and James for being cute) to Fealty's for the liquor and Patricia for the craic, for the chat after 25 years with my fav teacher Mr Cinnamond, the wonderful week in Lanza with the Porthouse massive, for the best lunch of my year with you Al, and for the gossip the MCB ladies.... Most of all thanks to my Mum for letting us rabble descend on you... Summer 2016 may just be my best yet. 








Friday, 1 July 2016

The world has gone mad part two: Love Island

Admittedly, I do not watch reality shows. Not because they aren't enthralling, hilarious, scandalous and entertaining - but because I don't have enough time to do anything these days - and often reality TV only seems to highlight everything that is wrong with our society.

Case in point: I read today that a couple had sex on a show called 'Love Island.' In full view of their fellow contestants, who all share the same room. Incredibly, the guy had already had sex that week with another contestant in the same bed. (One can only hope he bothered to change the sheets between girls but is doubtful). With girl two it was dark, but no doubt the sounds of their activities would have alerted their bedroom buddies as to what was going on - and the cameras on the TV show are able to see through the dark - giving all their families, friends and colleagues a glimpse at their most intimate moments. Alarmingly, during his previous encounter, the fellow housemates had 'rate' their performance as they shagged.

HOW IS THIS ACCEPTABLE TELEVISION?

Now, I'm no prude. I will also confess that my guilty pleasure was Celebrity Love Island, back in 2006. I was feeding my newborn son at ungodly hours and the shenanigans of these muppet D list (or Z list) celebs in a luxury beachy resort kept me entertained. Even then, Rebecca Loose - or Loos or whatever she was called - famed for having an 'alleged' affair with David Beckham, had the decency to go to a toilet cubicle to get frisky with human sperm bank Callum Best. (Known for... er... well nothing but sleeping with starlets I think and always having a tan). She even had the sense to un-mic herself - obviously a pro at such illicit stolen moments. At the time it was scandalous. Well until she appeared on another show and masturbated a pig (they were running a farm obviously). I didn't catch this momentous piece of TV but at the time I remember thinking that we were stooping to an all time low with such 'entertainment.'

I had hoped the reality TV bubble would burst when it got to Big Brother 75 or whatever - I mean how many wannabe tragic 'I'm crazy meeeee' types could we dig up?

But when I read the double standards of some beauty queen being de-throned because she got frisky on TV (same show Love Island - or maybe should be called 'Peep show Island') but the guy is seen as stud, it makes me realise how the old double standards for men and women still exists.

But that's another issue. What concerns me is my kids are growing up in a world where it is deemed acceptable to screen people having sex - and also that there are people willing to do this. Who in no way seem to care about their future job prospects, relationships, families, or the fact that this footage will HAUNT THEM FOREVER.

I don't obviously watch this trash - I'm not judging those who do. I am judging ITV2 and any programme makers who seem to think this is what the British public want to watch; because the thought process will be - let's go bigger and better and wilder to attract more viewers and hype and column inches. What next I fear....

Recently I found an old Elle magazine dated in 1992. In it Vanessa Paradis is talking about wanting to have many kids, Tess Daly is a model and mercifully silent, Colin Firth has just landed a big role as John McCarthy in a new drama called 'Hostages.' It was the year BBC's Elderado was launched, Blind Date was still the riskiest show on TV and we all fell in love with the brand new show 'the Big Breakfast.' In those days, without the infinite amount of channels to choose from - the 4 we had didn't have to up the stakes to make headline worthy TV.  Blind Date simply relied on humour and innuendo and ran for 18 series.

I have never missed the 90s more... 

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

The world has gone a little bit Kanye

I went to bed on Thursday night pretty happy - I'd just had the most amazing weekend/ 4 days of my entire year (a brilliant 25th school reunion and a fab dinner/theatre evening with an amazing writer/hero/showrunner and her lovely sons) and this had lifted a somewhat hideous year to new heights. Plus I'd just had prosecco with a good chum and through my buzzy boozy mist I assumed all would be well with the world.

Then I woke up.

I spent Friday in a daze, just stunned by what had happened. Outside school my kids' headmistress looked gutted, as did any other sane rational, educated friend I met. Could Brexit have changed my opinion on people? After all, we are all entitled to our opinion. After all, we are a democracy and voted as such.

BUT. Two days later chatting to some people who voted leave (I only know 4 in total who did) and they shuddered at the thought of Boris and Trump in cahoots. I wanted to scream at them 'YOU VOTED FOR THIS YOU MORONS' - did people not think it through? Did they not see the list of people suggesting that leave was a good plan and think 'Hmmm Putin, Trump and Boris....' maybe it isn't such a good idea after all.

Now as 2 million regret their decision, the country is in meltdown, Cameron has resigned, Labour are in turmoil, the pound slumps, house prices dip and everyone scratches their heads and no one has any clue what to do next I look around, filled with anger thinking, 'why???'

I know deep down that a person's politics is not the sum total of who they are. My own father voted to leave - and I had to hang up on his the other day because he clearly hadn't thought it all through - but thankfully is not a racist twat who fears that migrants are taking his jobs and NHS hospital bed... I know that I should just smile and be like - good for you, you voted - you won. Good job! But I can't. I'm still too gutted. Too ashamed at what my country has become - what we look like to Europe and beyond. Too sad that my kids cannot now work in 27 different countries, that europeans in UK are facing hate crimes, that the narrow minded bigots have won the day.

As I reach for the Irish passport applications, I am hopeful that no one will invoke article 50. I am hopeful this is all one giant shambles soon to be reversed. That the country will make more sense than the Kanye twitter rant it now resembles. It can't get much worse.... or can it?

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Class of '91

A rash of pictures were posted on Facebook, many of the class of 1991 squeezed into their finest formal dresses and stiff tuxes. Nostalgia kicked in and before we knew it there was talk of a 25 year reunion. Initially there was much enthusiasm and promises of attending. But as the day drew nearer, some folk dropped out, others were understandably busy and most of those I still keep in touch with declined to go.

So I debated it - should I buy some flights, set plans in stone? Or would I take the line many spouted, 'I see those I want to see, have kept in touch with my close friends, so why bother going?' But the more I thought it through - the more my gut yelled out 'Just GO!' 

Yeah, I still see a fair few from my school days - in fact I made the best friends of my life there - but to swerve a reunion because 'if you haven't seen them in 25 years then why bother now' somewhat missed the point... You go because you remember the laugh you had in second year chemistry with S or the sneaky fags you smoked on route to squash/rowing with H... The bus journey home with J and secret crush you had on X...  You go to see if anyone has changed and if so how? You go because at least 7 if not more are no longer walking on this planet and so you are a lucky one... you are still here. You go because the organisers are old buddies who have put so much energy and time into gathering the masses and you want to support them. You go because there is something magical in meeting someone after 25 years and realising how much you missed them. You go because so many of these people knew you at your most YOU and still love you. You go because life is short and jaysus where did 25 years disappear?

You go because you were so damn lucky to know so many great, generous, funny, warm people who 25 years on are still exactly that. Of course in a year of 270, there are folk you barely remember, or never even knew. There are many who you wished were there who didn't show up. There is never enough time to get around everyone and hear their stories, filling in the years... 

But one thing I never expected - was to see so much joy. Everyone smiling and hugging and just so pleased to be there. There was no boasting or bragging, or evil looks of the 'you ruined my life when I was 13'; there was no animosity or hidden resentments rising to the surface after the seventh pint... There was just a room of tipsy happy folk dancing to 80s and 90s tunes and remembering just how good we all had it... It was like 25 years had never happened. 

I'm beyond glad I went. Most of all I'm pleased so many folk are well and happy - life hasn't knocked all the youth and chutzpah and enthusiasm from them. They still shone. Roll on 2021. Wouldn't miss it for the world. 

Sunday, 1 May 2016

Good Grief



The whole week, my stomach had churned with fear and paranoia and some kind of unresolved stress. I'd been writing a script and convinced myself that it would end badly - I'd get pulled off the draft, that I'm out of my depth, that I'm just a big old fake. Hell, maybe I had PMT thrown into the mix - but since my hysterectomy, these days I don't have periods to solve the query of 'why am I behaving so crazily?' I swear to god, it was like I knew it wasn't going to end well. I just had this bad feeling, this impending sense of doom.

Then, standing on a freezing cricket pitch, at 6:08pm,  having just dropped my son off after our worst row ever - I got a text from my friend Thea, saying 'have you seen this, I think it's a hoax.' It was a link to a newspaper article. I caught sight of the headline and just froze. Her text was followed by Facebook messages and phone calls, did I know the news? Prince was dead.

It was like the world stopped. Time stopped. I just couldn't begin to accept this news, take it in, process it in any way. I stumbled to my local pub, hoping alcohol would numb my sense of loss - feeling faintly ridiculous that I was so traumatised by his untimely death. Because, how is it possible that one can be so devastated about the loss of someone one has never met?

It's hard to put into words for those who don't understand. See with me, if you asked anyone to sum up the loves of my life that aren't my family and mates - really, it's 3: Movies, Halloween and Prince.
All 3 have brought me untold joy - but only one was/is my hero. I loved him for 32 years - and in so many ways he inspired me, in so many ways he saved me.

Those who don't have huge passions in life - save that of making bucks - aren't gonna get it. Because a passion in life - a true passion - is never about ££££. It's about the sheer buzz that it gives you. How happy it makes you feel. Likewise those with cosy cheery upbringings are never gonna know what it is like to feel saved by music - to feel less alone when you hear a song that sounds like it has been written for you alone. All through my life, Prince was with me every step of the way - and the pinnacle of all of that was getting to hear him live. Man, it was such an electric experience - mainly because he loved performing so much - it was like nothing on earth. I'm gutted beyond words that I'll never hear him again jam to Let's go Crazy, or tease us with Hot Thing or lead us melodically to Paisley Park. That I'll never see him get off to his own brilliant music.

Losing him, is a loss to the world musically, and a loss to me simply because that little bit of joy - the anticipation of playing the 'where is he playing tonight' game has gone. The maze we all went through to get tickets, to queue for hours, to show our devotion. All gone. Of course, we have his music - his incredible legacy - and perhaps much more will be unveiled as his Vault is opened... But the world suddenly feels less bright, life feels more finite, time feels more precious.

I don't give a fuck about anyone who judges me for my grief and my sense of loss. How dare anyone tell you how to feel. With grief - there is no right or wrong. You just are.

I take comfort in knowing so many others felt exactly as I did - not least that so many revered musicians such as Pearl Jam, The Stones, Elton John, Springsteen, Madonna, Stevie Wonder, Lenny Kravitz and the remaining Beatles all commented that he was the greatest performer that they had ever seen, greatest guitarist - with Justin Timberlake stating a fact - that day, 21st April 2016 we lost the world's greatest living musician. Some fan groups I'm a member of all shared bootlegs and interviews and articles and what not - that has made the last week more bearable, and one of discovery - finding out so much about the most private man in pop.

Babble asked me to write something, which I did after a sleepless night, at 5am the next day. A week on and I'm still sad, but I'm grateful that I saw him 5 times including his last ever UK gig - where he was energetic and youthful and brilliant as he was 20 years ago...

He wasn't just a celebrity to me. He felt like a buddy, a companion who understood when everyone else did not. He was one of the greatest loves of my life. Even though I never met him, I'll miss him forever.