Overheard coming from a cubicle at the Electric Ballroom last weekend:
Confidence is a prerequisite for the habitual reader of what is known as… (Marklife!)
Plot disclosure can be mute if you bumble along the route through what is known as… (Marklife!)
You’ve got writer’s envy, always intimidated by my first class posts – but you love every bit of it. (Marklife!)
Who’s that weirdo commenting? You should cut down on your Net-life, mate, get some fresh air! (Marklife!)
CHORUS:
All the comments
So many comments
And they all go “Londonmark,
take us through what is, your Marklife”
Know what I mean?
I get up when I want, except on weekends, when I stay comatose until mid-afternoon. (Marklife!)
I put my trousers on, have a cup of coffee, and I think about going to work. (Marklife!)
I talk to kittens, I sometimes talk to sparrows too. It gives me easy content when I’ve run out of inspiration. (Marklife!)
And then I’m happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge there will always be a post for people to comment on.
CHORUS
Marklife – Marklife!
Marklife – Marklife!
It’s got nothing to do with your desktop publishing system, you know.
Marklife – Marklife!
And it’s not about you Livejournalists who go round and round and round…
Marklife – Marklife!

One summer, the ageing blogger of Darlington Hall embarks on a leisurely holiday that will take him deep into the English countryside and into his past…

Browsing through the secondhand section of Blackwell’s, I came across a novel which I feared had gone out of print. A friend from university had recommended it to me but I had never been able to find it. I had only read it once, after which his copy had suffered when it was used in a bizarre bicycle rage incident on Woodstock Road.

As I held the book in my hands, flicking through the yellowed, mildew cornered pages, I was seized with an unknown urge, a memory of a time which I had never experienced other than through the pages of this almost forgotten book: The Remains of the D.

It’s an intriguing tale, centred on a repressed and uptight blogger whose duty to his site prevents him from enjoying the world around him, something he only realises in hindsight, when his journey to meet a commenter allows him to reflect upon the major events that have occurred throughout his “archives”.

Although there are scenes which are utterly touching – such as when the housekeeper is attempting to see what site he is browsing and he reluctantly admits that it is a romance site – there are also segments of the book when his stoicism in the face of events goes beyond normal human behaviour.

The dustjacket describes the book as “a haunting tale of lost causes and a lost love” and although there is undoubtedly despair – the pain of choices made and choices rued – there is also some levity and amusement to be gained from the touching relationship between the housekeeper and the blogger.

Despite my best efforts to shoplift the book, Blackwell’s shop detective took me to the counter and I paid my £2.20 before collecting my boater, leaving the shop and heading off to read the book by the river with my teddy bear.

In an effort to get out of the house on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon I decided that I’d head up to Highgate village and scour the old bookshops for anything interesting. My shelves already boast a first edition of Laura Chase’s The Blind Assassin, a signed copy of Jack Ryan’s biography of Fleet Admiral William Halsey; Fighting Sailor and a rather beaten, but still readable copy of On the Use of Mirrors in the Game of Chess by Milo Temesvar.
This day however I was to repay my efforts tenfold through a simple misunderstanding about which wines go with which seasonal birds, an altercation between a map of Bulgaria and a preposterous wedding hat that had been secured too tightly to a rather fetching-looking young woman’s head and a handful of used pre-war 5,000 French franc notes. None of which is important of course, what is important is that I found myself in the possession of a leather-bound galley-copy of The Importance of Being Marcus by Oscar Wilde, and not a bad one at that.
I scurried off to the bus stop and sat huddled over the beautiful book, breathing in its age and undog-earing the pages as I found them. There were pencil scribbles in the margins and my suspicions that the galleys had been bound together years later and turned into a book were confirmed when I prised part of the leather off to find a hand-written thanks from Sir Robert Gadling; the publisher.
The Importance of Being Marcus was Oscar’s first draft of what was to become the more well-known play. Major differences include the setting of the first act being changed to Half-Moon St. from Camden Parkway originally, and the characters are less reliant on good fortuned plot contrivancies to get through the convolutions of deceit and misidentity that Oscar subjects them to. Although this did seem to lumber the plot heavily and as such can be forgiven, as ultimately we just wanted Algy and Jack to kiss Cecily and Gwen.
I’m glad the overtly sexual double-entendres about going into the gardens to trim the hedges and eat muffins were removed as they really left me feeling like Oscar was just trying to inject some naughty pre-Benny Hill spirit into the play that wasn’t required. And the bodice-ripping pre-marital four-in-a-bed romp in the third act was guaranteed to leave the audience and actors questioning their motivation for watching and participating respectively.
The publisher’s margin notes included one request that Jack seemed overly obsessed with apologising all the time and saying such terribly genteel things as “gosh” and “rather” a lot and that Oscar should give the man some spine as he came across as a bit of an upper-class twit and maybe just a little bit of a whoopsie but when I got home I slipped the book between Dickens’ Peter Flowerbuck and Marlowe’s The Merrie Comedie of the Redemption of Doctor Faustus and thought nothing more of it.

Football fans who are beginning to suffer withdrawal effects now that Euro 2004 has ended have only a few weeks to pretend to be interested in other sports until the new season begins. And as the BBC’s flagship football programme has secured the rights to show Premiership highlights next season, it’s hello to a new-look, spruced-up, relaunched broadcast: Match of the D.

Former England and Leicester City striker Gary Lineker will be replaced in the role of lead presenter by Acerbia D, whom BBC Sport executives are reported to have described as “cheaper”. BBC director of sport Peter Salmon said: “We are delighted to be able to show Premier League highlights on Match of the D, and when Peter Reid turned us down, we could think of no-one less qualified than Acerbia to present the show.”

“He has discussed the format of the new show with the producers extremely carefully and along with Alan Hansen and Gordon Strachan in the studio, he captures the English essence of the Premiership perfectly. We will be trialling new innovations such as the PunCam from the first show and it’s something we’re all very excited about.”

Rival broadcaster ITV1 were understood to be less than happy at the capture of Acerbia’s signature on a three-year deal to present the highlights package. Brian Barwick, head of ITV sport, refused to go on record but was seen in the North London area conducting a stop-and-search operation on all squirrels across several postcodes in an attempt to locate the new anchorman.

Club managers and professional footballers alike have been unanimous in their praise for the revamped show and its presenter. Sir Alex Ferguson described him as “who?”, Sir Bobby Robson confused him with Shola Ameobi, Arsène Wenger went on record to say that “I have never seen Acerbia in my life”, and Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich has offered the BBC £25 million plus Joe Cole for Acerbia D’s services in midfield.

A couple of years ago now I was working in an advertising agency in Chelsea, well, it was really in Battersea, but we claimed it was waterfront Chelsea property because that was more likely to impress clients. We had a diverse portfolio of clients and I would occasionally have to put down pen and pencil on a lingerie campaign to pick up marker pen and whiteboard for a children’s nicotine patches brainstorm session.
You may have heard of or even participated in a focus group. We’d take a product that we were being asked to advertise, present it to a cross-section of the public to gauge what the target audience was likely to be and then pour all our efforts into selling that product to that part of the population. That’s why Ribena doesn’t advertise to teenagers and Tampax doesn’t advertise to men. Simple common sense really.
It was towards the end of my time at the agency that I was tasked with selling an independent TV show. A production company in the UK had acquired default rights to a show that had worked extremely well in the US during the 80’s and wanted our help working out demographic research and coming up with some posters and teaser campaigns. We readily accepted, and took delivery of the pilot showreel the next day for an internal focus group.
The screen showed static, then black. Then a test card, followed by sepia images of ornate Camden drinking establishments. A cheery tune melodiously stroked the images, firing up deep nostalgic feelings about enjoying a pint with your friends. The unknown actor’s names faded in and out and the credits finished on a shot of a bespectacled gentleman with a goattee holding up a sign that said “Newcastle United Wins!” at which point I worried that we were about to watch a science fiction show, despite the disclaimer that it was based on a genuine venue.
Over the next half hour we were introduced to a variety of far-fetched and ludicrously fictitious characters in an update of what I came to realise was something of a classic formula. There was the rollicking Scots barman and his ditzy blonde colleague, trading banter with a plethora of stereotypical characters who never seemed to leave the bar including a leery lad-ette who would quaff pints and talk football with her weedy writer brother.
And yet, I stood there in my executive power suit, with my ponytail and perfectly manicured nails, toying with the sleek sliver of mobile phone and company car keys in my pocket and felt like such a fraud. These people had real chemistry, they weren’t impressed by the size of each other’s expense accounts or which supermodel they’d be taking home that night.
They’d found a place where they could take a break from all their worries and their troubles were all the same. I vowed there and then that I’d renounce my flash lifestyle and do my best to track down that little establishment in Camden. More than anything I wanted to cease my superficial and shallow existence. I wanted to become scruffy, I wanted to be able to wear jeans and sleep in my clothes in a doorway, stinking of cigarettes and alcohol. More than anything I wanted to find a place where everyone could know my name.
And I owe it all to Cheers: The Next Generation.

After attending and enjoying Rufus Wainwright and Kate McGarrigle’s performance at the Royal Festival Hall last month, I was wandering around the South Bank, wondering what other shows I might be able to take in to exploit more fully London’s cultural richness. I came across a flyer for a new season at the RSC and was surprised to find that they were staging one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known works, Acerbia and Pixopatra. I didn’t recall this as part of the Shakespearian canon and was lucky enough to find the following plot summary online:
Following Caesar’s assassination, Acerbia, Londonmarkus Caesar and Petedotnuus are the joint rulers of the known world. Acerbia, however, is captivated by Queen Pixopatra, and is neglecting his military responsibilities to spend time with her at her court in Archway, where they live a life of luxury and self-indulgence. This scandal is now the talk of Camden and has created a dangerous rift between Acerbia and young Londonmarkus Caesar.
The power of the triumvirate is being challenged and Acerbia is forced to return to Camden and resume his responsibilities. When it is suggested that he should cement the alliance with Londonmarkus by marrying his sister, Acerbia agrees. His friend and comrade-in-arms Enobobbieus, however, predicts that Acerbia will not be able to break with Pixopatra. Back in Archway, the news of Acerbia’s marriage sends Pixopatra into a jealous tirade.
On the brink of war, Acerbia and Londonmarkus make peace and celebrate the treaty with a picnic on faraway Primrose Hill. Shortly afterwards, however, Acerbia learns that not only has Londonmarkus commenced battle, but he has also spoken scornfully of Acerbia in public and has had Petedotnuus imprisoned on dubious carpentry charges. Acerbia sends Londonmarkus’ sister back to negotiate with her brother while he returns secretly to Archway.
News arrives in Camden that Acerbia and Pixopatra have crowned themselves king and queen in Archway. Acerbia’s desertion of Londonmarkus’ sister is the final straw. Londonmarkus declares war on Archway, whose forces lose a major sea-battle when Acerbia deserts to follow Pixopatra’s fleeing ship. Acerbia is consumed with shame and despair. However, hearing that Londonmarkus has offered to make a secret treaty with Pixopatra he rouses himself for a second, victorious battle.
On the eve of the third battle, Acerbia’s soldiers are nervous and fear bad omens. In the event, his fleet surrenders and Acerbia, in his fury, accuses Pixopatra of betraying him to Londonmarkus. She retreats from him and sends a false report that she is dead. On hearing this, Acerbia attempts suicide and is brought to Pixopatra’s monument to die in her arms. Rather than be captured and enslaved by the Camdenites, Pixopatra also kills herself, using a poisonous snake brought to her concealed in a some rolls of film. With all his enemies eliminated, Londonmarkus returns victorious to Camden.
Interesting, I thought to myself, and such a compelling victor. I tried to book tickets only to find that the three-seat venue had been booked solid for months and that the box office was not hopeful that I would be able to get any returns. eBay proved equally fruitless, and I can only hope that someday this wonderful play will be restaged.