I suspect I may possibly have had a Proms overload these past few days. Last year I attended around about four concerts. I’ve attended as many in the first week this year.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not being smug about it. Just really did think I ought to make the effort this year given that I spend so much time banging on about to all and sundry. What I fear now is that I’m boring myself even thinking about them. Maybe I need a night off.

I had originally thought I’d write something after every concert but, to be completely honest, by the time I’ve finished attending, travelling home or listening to a gig then ruminating about it I’m pretty much a) sick of the Proms and b) keen to go to sleep.

Consequently, all I’d like to say in reference to the end of the first week of the Proms is that I’ve enjoyed them very much thus far - First night Strauss Festival Prelude, Messiaen organ stuff on Monday and definitely the Vaughan Williams from Prom 10. The cup-of-tea-all-over-my-jeans incident in the bar before the first Prom is now a distant memory. With only sixty-five other concerts to go before the end of the season you’ll all be pleased to hear that I promise not to go on about them too much longer. *

* Unless of course you take a look at my Flickr account. I figure it’s OK for me to obsess about the Proms there.

Yesterday was the first time in a long, long time I had visited the shop however, something brought home to me when I stood in the doorway and marvelled at the surprise new layout of the store.

Gone was the messy magazine area to the left of the sliding front doors. Instead, fresh fruit and vegetables as far as the eye could see. Everything looked clean and new. Excitement beckoned.
Somewhere behind me the voices of two girls in heated conversation jolted me out of my slightly strange sense of new store layout related excitement.

“That Mohammed is boring as fuck. He should have gone. He’s too boring for Big Brother.”
The two girls were, I was sure, passing comment on the same edition of Big Brother I had seen only the night before in which one housemate was evicted hours after another (Dennis) had been removed for “unacceptable behaviour” (spitting in a housemate’s face) towards another housemate (Mohammed).

Without stopping to think, I swung round on the two tenneagers. “Mohammed got spat in the face,” I hissed, “No-one deserves to be spat in the face. It’s a basic human right.”

Their response was immediate, giggling their apologies before nervously acknowledging their agreement.

As I followed them around the store noting the new position of the frozen goods, they didn’t make any further mention of the programme. (Before you comment on it, I realise I should have stopped and thought before I opened my mouth. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions, after all. )

During a 48 hour period, however, in which we have seen a Big Brother contestant allegedly spit in someone’s face, as well as see footage of internationally successful 23 year old artist Amy Winehouse allegedly punch a member of her own audience *, I can’t help thinking there’s much more to be done before news of another murdered teenager becomes an unusual story.

I don’t want to consume news where the key headline is the latest tally of murdered teenagers. It sickens me every time I hear it.

At the risk of further emphasising the fact that I am middle-aged before my time and damaging what ever liberal image I might have succeeded in fostering, I have to use this opportunity to nail my colours to the flag.

I’m a firm believer that the likes of Amy Winehouse and the likes of reality TV contestants have a responsibility to promote a considerably more positive image of their respect for themselves and others than they have done to date.

What is a childhood memory that still haunts you?

Being dropped off at school on what my parents considered was the first day of term, only to discover from the two cleaners working away in one of the classrooms that school started a week later.

My camera returned yesterday. I was terribly pleased.

Many thanks to the old chap up in Norfolk who made things happen in the camera repair department.

I’ve spent today looking over the footage me and Thoroughly Good cameraman Andi shot yesterday for one of a series of BBC Proms related videos I’m working on in my spare time.

There’s an hours worth of footage to chew over - a good half-hour of it quite possibly unusable due to the inevitable challenges presented by there being too little cloud cover and way too much wind.

While the rest of London’s population no doubt basked in the weather yesterday, me and Andi found ourselves having to compromise at nearly every step of the way. That entire process took in the region of five and half hours. I am reliably informed that this is quite normal when getting footage committed to tape.

Filming a script is quite an arduous task. We began at Broadcasting House with a skeleton script. Various opportunities to absorb how television is produced reminds me that finalised scripts are vital in making the filming process goes as smoothly as possible. I should know better than to commit what little pearls of wisdom I do sometimes have to camera relying on my dubious memory. Still, I fear the idea of reading a script out line for line and thus losing the spontaneity of it. If it’s not fun to say then I always reckon its probably not very fun to watch. The resulting experience can sometimes be a disjointed one with bits of monologue recorded here and other bits recorded there. It’s not unheard of to get part-way through the process and worry about whether we’ve actually achieved anything.

Having said that there were a few firm ideas of exactly how everything would be shot. First there was the angle for the narrator, then another take for one half of a dialogue, the responses in that dialogue and, finally, the asides. Recording that dialogue is quite surreal. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve recorded the same line over and over again. Such repitition does sometimes take some of the joy out of the process.

We were filming using a Sony Z1 with a external mic and, from time to time, a clip mic too recording everything to mini DV tapes.

It’s an easy piece of kit to use which makes the seemingly spontaneous style of delivery slightly easier to achieve.

The key process in transforming what at the moment appears as a never-ending series of failed takes is most definitely in the edit. It’s then the feeling of intense anxiety I always experience before, during and directly after a shoot finally begins to subside.

Of course, when the edit has been finalised then there’s the sign-off to get through - this brings all sorts of related tension to the fore - but I’ll get to that stage as and when. Baby steps first.

Big Brother housemate Mohammed celebrated his birthday yesterday with the help of this birthday cake.

Total fool. Total total fool.

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Submitted by littleduckling.

An old friend who frequently dons his Devil’s Advocate outfit repeated one supposedly “in touch” commentator recently who’d reckoned blogging was for those who wanted friends but had none. It was these same people who rubbed their hands together with glee when the opportunity arose to engage with a virtual friend, but who feared the moment when a real one appeared in front of them.

My friend doesn’t understand. Those who criticise know even less. Blogging is, for me at least, an intensely personal experience. It’s one which taps into all my inner desires and dreams whilst doing battle with my inner critic all at the same time.

Blogging offers me freedom to write whenever I want, about anything I choose without fear of recrimination. My justification is simple. I’m doing it for me.

I don’t have an editor to convince, or a sub-editor to fear. All I have is myself to please. When my fingers rest on the laptop keys I know I’m entirely connected with what’s going on inside me. There isn’t anyone telling me it’s wrong or it doesn’t scan right or “that won’t appeal to the audience”. The moment I load up the posting form I know the blogging process is for me.

That’s not to say I have free reign. I can’t just post expletives all over the page. Where’s the joy in that? I don’t want to embarrass, humiliate or antagonise others or myself, for that matter. Neither do I want to spread lies. Ultimately, I want to be true to myself.

I have my own set of Thoroughly Good standards and guidelines to adhere to, you see. They’re tough guidelines too. Don’t ask me to document them (I had considered it on here but frankly it’s way too much work. Just keep reading. I figure you could tell me what they are someday.) They’re the kind of rules and regulations which can and have kept me awake at night for hours on end. It’s not unheard of for me to power up the computer at three o’clock in the morning - not to post things you understand, more to remove things.

It may be really straightforward to publish and may not involve other people grinding an idea down, but there is still my own sense of responsibility. Sometimes being so responsible to ones self can be the most restrictive thing of all.

By blogging I’m able to remind myself that I can do the thing I love. I may not get paid to create things, but at least I can create things. Where blogging is concerned, the glass is always half full, you see.

Yet there’s an inevitable downside to the whole thing. As my confidence grows so too the desire to reach out to people I don’t know. Little by little, there’s a need that grows inside me. I want people to read this. I want people to enjoy it or appreciate it. I want to hear from people. Yeah, I know it sounds like bollocks, but that’s what blogging is about. Before you know where you are you’re telling the truth like you’re in the therapist’s chair.

I know people laugh. I know people scorn. It’s not proper writing. It’s only proper writing if you’re being paid and if you’re writing for a specific audience in mind. You’ll never succeed as a writer if you can’t write for your audience.

Those people are wrong. Blogging is about writing for an audience you don’t know and, if you’re really lucky, slowly getting to know that audience too. It’s a slow, painful process, but if like me you write it and read it and enjoy it then you’re sure to find the blogging bug difficult to shift.

What are your first thoughts upon waking?
(Question submitted by Vox user Cher Cabula.)

“Jesus Christ. Have I overslept?”