Rob – Page 8 – EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

A Little Light Reading To Kick off 2025

I mentioned last week that my involvement in Dingtown’s longest-running writing group Reading Writers (other groups are available—we have no problem with competition) has deepened this year as I amble gently into the role of elder statesman. I’m prouder than ever of our merry band, and the quality of work I see in our monthly manuscript nights and competition entries fills me with warmth and pride.

I’m not a stand-back member by any means, regularly getting stuck into presentations, event management and entries for our twice-yearly themed competitions. But, my friends, there is a complication, one which I couldn’t really vouchsafe for any other aspect of my life.

I think I’m getting too good at this. I have regularly been a prize winner, but in 2024 I won top billing for both the spring and summer contests.

Immediate clarifications required. RW competitions are overseen by a judge from outside the group, and submitted anonymously. There’s never been any accusation of rigging or undue influence—what would be the point? It’s about the work, not the glittering prizes on offer. I’m not desperate enough for a £20 Amazon voucher to risk my integrity and reputation.

This puts me in a bit of a difficult position. The sporting thing to do, surely, would be to withdraw, at least temporarily. If I do, then I can already hear the derisive jeers of ‘gee thanks for giving us mere mortals a chance, oh mighty wordsmith!’ Damned if I do etc etc. I’ve got until March to figure out what to do. I guess I could write a story and hold it in reserve in case we need an entry to make up the numbers—actually, that might be worse.

Here are the two prize-winning stories what I wrote in 2024. I’m very proud of both. For context, the prompt for The Interstice was a set of photos ‘found’ on an old SD card by judge Damon Wakes of the abandoned Childs Hall at Reading University. Rotting urban infrastructure, which informed the mood of the piece. Hercule came from Julie Cohen’s theme of ‘talking parrots’. I don’t think I need to elaborate further.

I hope you enjoy them. Heads up: The Interstice is a horror story, which includes imagery some readers may find disturbing. Hercule was performed by yr humble etc as part of the 2024 Reading Writers Autumn Competition evening with sub-‘Allo ‘Allo French accents, which those present may have found offensive.

The Interstice

Hercule

One last thing, which I’ll shout about again closer to the time. Reading Museum is currently running an exhibition called Art Stories in the John Majeski Gallery, which teams recent acquisitions to the collection with short pieces from local authors. Reading Writers is very strongly represented, and I’m in the mix too.

On February 1st, some of the writers and artists involved in the project will be meeting each other and anyone who fancies coming along. There will be readings. There may be emotions. It should be a fun afternoon. 2 till 4 pm. Say you’ll come.

I’ll Outro with one of my most-played tracks of 2024, which also serves as a reminder of new Swipery next week. Yep, we’re right back to it.

See you next Saturday, thrill-seekers.

The Excuses And Half Truths Annual Yearly Report 2024

I take my responsibility to the stakeholders of Excuses And Half Truths very seriously. Whether a long time member of The Readership, a recipient of the email newsletter or one of the pleasing influx of new folk wandering in for a snoop and a sniff around, you are always welcome. But you also, I understand, have a certain level of expectation. I would fail in my duties as owner/operator if I were not as open and transparent about the goods and services we offer as possible.

Therefore, I am delighted to open proceedings on the 2024 Excuses And Half Truths Annual Yearly Report—a review of the last 365 days in Rob And Clare, and a long-standing tradition since (check notes) 2023. We hope you will find, on close study of the following extensive overview, that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer the most comprehensive insight into the life and world of Rob Wickings on the entire interwub. Other alternatives are available, but I am confident in judging them poorly. They just don’t have the inside sources and exclusive information that I do.

The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 39

By the time you read this, my work year will be done, and the first of our Christmas Pilgramages will be be underway. Between Essex and Warwickshire, with a pit stop back in the Ding, it’s hardly going to be the most restful of breaks. But a break it shall be, which is the most important thing. A chance to focus on the core life elements—family, friends, food and oh go on then let’s try that Christmas Negroni recipe.

Next week, we are delighted to offer up the 2024 Yearly Annual Report, which as stakeholders in this enterprise I trust you’ll find of interest. I hope you will agree that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer value, service and an agreeable user experience. As ever, our Complaints Warthog is available to receive any negative comments and deliver a robust and tusk-heavy response.

This week: how to make a living as a creative, how the internet is no longer fit for purpose and the strange tale of the little king.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

Another Friday the 13th

At the Reading Writers Winter Social this week, a conclusion was reached – we are in the December doldrums. Consider: it’s been nothing but Christmas since the first of November. You can see the pinched tension in the eyes of every retail worker following six solid weeks of Now That’s What I Call Christmas playing at heavy rotation level on the store stereo. This week is peak works do, making it nearly impossible to pop out for an impromptu bite to eat or quick pint without a crush and a twenty minute wait at the bar. And we’re still two weeks away from the main event. It’s not surprising we’re all suffering from shell shock.

Of course, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, this is old news for us December babies. We are sadly doomed to play second fiddle to everyone else’s good time. That’s if we’re even considered at all. I have dark memories of birthday drinks where a tiny minority (and on one particularly bleak occasion, no-one) showed up. So much for your special day. And folks wonder why I get grumpy at this time of year.

And this is just the background to the sad truth about every birthday, which becomes ever more apparent once you hit your half-century. You start to hear the clock ticking in lockstep with the creak of your bones and the twangs and clunks coming out of your muscles. One step closer to the grave. Here’s a card and a ten pound TK Maxx voucher. Happy bloody merry.

Oh look, this makes me sound like Scrooge on steroids. I know I’m not the only one who struggles at this time of the season for whatever reason, and melancholy in December is hard-wired into us as the weather turns and the nights overtake the days. But I have to be honest, forced jollity never sits well with me. I don’t look good in a Santa hat and have a low tolerance for carols.

But I am also happy to let others get their jingle on. I internalise my humbug. And of course there are brighter spots. After all, I love Cheeselets and Christmas Pud and day-drinking. Seasonal survival tactics mean leaning into the stuff I enjoy, and away from Whamageddon and dreadful jumpers and the tired argument about whether Die Hard is a Yuletide movie. No thanks. Pour me another port, pass the Celebrations and put Bad Santa on.

Would I feel differently about the whole situation if I was a June baby? I don’t think so. Although I enjoy the excuse to cocoon (I still have yet to receive a reasonable explanation for why winter hibernation is not an option) I prefer warmth and sunshine and greenery. When TLC and I were first married, we’d regularly go on winter sun holidays to the Canary Islands and Ibiza. I miss that. Gintonics on a sunny balcony overlooking the sea in February? Dozing by the pool with a good book while the storms lash at jolly old England hundreds of miles away? Come on, what’s not to love?

But you have to play with the hand you’re dealt, and mine is a hard thirteen. So I’m refusing to mope or gloom this year. Plans are in place. We’re spending the birthday night in a hotel, enjoying a nice meal, and seeing the lights in That London. Cocktails will be ordered. Sure, it’ll be busy. Yes, it’ll be expensive. But it’ll be me and my very love, finding the joy in our own quiet way. And what could be more Christmassy than that? Look, it could be worse. I could be like my sis-in-law Sarah or pal Kate – a Christmas Day or New Year’s Eve baby. Now that really would suck.

Sorry, both. But I will be there for your celebrations. We children of the dark times have to stick together.

To finish, let’s play the only Christmas song which accurately portrays my feelings about this time of year. It’s become traditional to have it as the Outro for the last post before X-Day, but let’s move things forward a week or so. .

See you next Saturday for the last Swipe of the year!

The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 38

I have started getting into the habit of waking well before the morning alarm goes off, think ‘oh well, no point in staying put’ and dragging my sorry ass into the shower. When the alarm is set for half five in the morning this can feel like I’m starting my day in the middle of the night.

On Friday I was going through the usual start-up sequence—20 past 5, Storm Darragh thumping at the windows, just about to fall out from under the duvet, when C rolled over, slung her arm around me and pulled me back. It was entirely subconscious. She doesn’t remember doing it. But it gave me the ten minutes I didn’t know were necessary, drifting sweetly in the warm embrace of my very love. When I finally extricated myself, I felt thoroughly rested, utterly content, ready for what would be a challenging morning at the coal face. Those ten minutes of simple contact gave me the strength I needed.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 37

Pity the December baby. Born in the darkest month, doomed to have their birthday forever superseded by all that Christmas nonsense. It’s impossible to book anywhere for a nice meal out, you end up with a shared birthday/X-Day gift, and there’s the general feel that your special day just isn’t that—well, special. My extended clan of friends and family has many Sagittarians in its ranks, including a Christmas Day and a New Year’s Eve child. Honestly, it sucks. This festive season, spare a thought and a little love for the December babies in your life. They didn’t choose to be born this way.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

Time, Shepherd’s Pie and more excuses.

This week I’m going to be a bit looser, a bit more personal in my approach to the newsletter. For one thing, I’ve been attempting a social life, so not had much time to trawl for links. For another–well, it’s good to mix things up sometimes. Grab a cuppa and a slice of cake and let me tell you about my week.

The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 36

I feel strangely hopeful. Tango Clown has done exactly as expected. He’s filling the most important roles in government with nutcases and incompetants, not realising the slender margins he has in the legislature. There will be chaos in store, but the real harm he could potentially do will be bogged down and choked as the inevitable grandstanding and bloviating turn into internal civil war.

There’s an old Chinese curse—may you gain everything you wish for.

Cheeto Wig is about to reap all he has sown.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 35

The day after, either through luck or some sort of divine prescience, TLC and I had booked a couple of days off work. It would have been tempting to spend the time staring bleakly at walls or screaming into pillows. Instead, we’d planned to do a bit of decorating. This turned out to be the best decision we could have made. Two days deep-cleaning and painting the kitchen was a mindful, healing activity, taking a room apart and remaking it as a cleaner, nicer place in which to be. It kept us off social media and news feeds, but above all left us feeling much more positive. Change is inevitable, whether for bad or good, and things happen in cycles. Eventually, the kitchen will always need a good clean-down and a fresh lick of paint, and things will feel all the better for it.

Today, we start on the conservatory. The great work continues.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

London Film Festival 2024: a survivors report

In a change to our regular programming, Excuses And Half Truths is delighted to welcome Ryan Morris back to the fold. He brings us a special report on the 2024 London Film Festival, and what it takes to survive the madness of one of the biggest gatherings of film-makers and fans in the world…

It’s 8:20am on a Wednesday morning. I’m sat in Picturehouse Central’s lavish Screen One, matcha latte in hand, blissfully unaware that the first film I’ll be watching at the 2024 London Film Festival will involve a man having his penis cut off and refrigerated. As I stumble out of the cinema some 98 minutes later, still in a daze from the frenetic blast of French cinema I’ve subjected myself to before the clock has even struck ten, I wonder to myself – “Would I rather be at work right now?”

The answer, of course, a resounding “No”. LFF 2024, here I come.

Noemie Merlant’s The Balconettes was the first of thirty films I saw in the cinema over the next eleven days, a whirlwind of fancy red carpets, sleepy early morning trains, movie-induced tears, movie-induced yawns and the occasional mad dash to a cinema on the other side of the Thames. People think of film festivals as something of a static affair in which you spend the whole time sitting down. Tell that to my Fitness app — it clocked an average of 18,500 steps a day.

Having the Press & Industry pass gave me access to screenings away from the public eye, a chance to see the kind of films that’ll never make it to your local multiplex. Apocalyptic musical comedy/drama about the last surviving family on Earth, anyone? These were the bulk of my films this year, based almost entirely at the retro-fitted Picturehouse Central by Piccadilly. It’s a warm and welcoming place, a cinema mostly frequented by the more passionate of film fans and given an even further jolt of energy when filled by a festival crowd.

All of my four-film days – of which there were, aptly, four – were mostly spent here, often with only half an hour to digest a gritty and contemplative Portuguese-Scottish drama about the systemic failings of immigration before sitting down for a gentle comedy about a man being left to single-handedly look after his and all of his friends’ elderly mothers when they jet off to a Pride event without him. These half hour breaks commonly involved a very brisk walk to a Leon around the corner, with their monthly membership giving us five free barista made drinks per day – a lifesaver in every sense of the word. I’m all for supporting the independents, and boy did I find a croissant or two to prove that to myself, but it’s hard to turn down a deal that good. Ryan needs his film fuel.

The other side of the festival is the public screenings, reasonably priced until you step onto the nightly red carpet gala premieres. Star-studded events both on and off the stage (I’ve seen Edgar Wright in the crowd so often at these he feels like a cousin at this point), this is the side of LFF that hits the headlines – and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t my favourite. It feels like a reward for the early starts and the long days, to walk the red carpet with names like Angelina Jolie and Andrew Garfield, and have them introduce their films before they premiere. If the endless barrage of the P&I screenings is a testament to one’s commitment to cinema, the galas feel like a celebration of just how loved cinema truly is.

And then day eight came – the day I hit the wall. It was the fourth and final of my four-film days starting with 7am trains into London, and at the risk of sounding ungrateful for an experience I truly do adore every year, this was when I started to flag. I’d seen fifteen films in the past 72 hours and was facing a five hour gap before sitting down for the sixteenth. Even with a close friend I attend the festival with keeping me company, this next film felt like a chore. It was the Surprise Film, so we didn’t even know what we were in for. The unimaginable threat of the Robbie Williams CGI monkey biopic felt like a guillotine blade quivering over our necks.

But then came the suggestion – ice cream? On a cold October night, ice cream? It’s a mad idea but it might just work. We galloped off to Anita Gelato between Soho and The Strand for a three scoop tub of coconut, almond & white chocolate. And do you know what? The sugar and fat saved the day. Suddenly film sixteen didn’t feel like such a chore. It turned out to be a comedy, too. Thank the Lord.

The last four days are when the festival quietens down. The early trains push back to late morning, and the trips to Leon become leisurely walks rather than breakneck runs. This is probably how days out to the cinema are supposed to be enjoyed, but I’ll be damned if I let that stop me. After thirty films in eleven days, spread between eight screens across three venues, I caught the sleepy last train home from Paddington and revelled in the fact there was nothing new in the cinema I wanted to see that coming week.

I’m writing this a mere nine days after the festival ended, and I now have five cinema tickets saved in my Apple wallet for the next seven days. Time to relaunch that Leon subscription.

Ryan’s prolific review output is available on Letterboxd, which includes his views on the many, many films watched during the LFF.