That’s right. Five Easy Pieces. Starring Jack Nicholson. Sure, it may not be über-famous – I daresay only a few of you have heard of it – but it’s a haven of cinematic perfection that emerged from a purple period of independent filmmaking. Oh yes it is.

I must have been in my mid-teens when I first saw it. Jack Nicholson was mesmerising, agonised and unfulfilled. Which is exactly how I was at 14. The film is a psychological drama focusing on Nicholson – childhood-musical-prodigy-turned-disaffected-blue-collar-worker-suffering-existential-crisis-exacerbated-by-clam-like-stop-gap-girlfriend (Karen Black). On learning his father is sick he returns home.

It’s great.

Here’s the “famous” cafe scene

Something about 5EP resonates so strongly with me – probably something to do with fathers and sons – that I have always cited it as my favourite film when asked (silly question but at least it’s an answer). When I grew up I robbed a bank and purchased the original poster from the highly exclusive Reel Poster Gallery on Westbourne Grove, fancy London (they frame it for you too, you know).

When I drove into town to collect it I parked up, entered the shop and spent ages eying up an Italian-language poster for Psycho – so long in fact that when I finally returned to my car I found I’d received a parking ticket. So yes, that’s right – the poster cost me even more than the-already extravagant fee. Oh the humanity.

Where is the poster now, Saul Wordsworth?

The poster hangs proudly in my flat, the film close to my heart (does that work? Not sure it does). It’s been digitally remastered (the film, not my heart), touched up (easy now) and generally lavished with love. I recently attended its 40th anniversary re-release on behalf of the good people at Rhythm Circus.

Oh look here’s my review

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Let’s end with a touching scene between Nicholson and his ailing father

Thanks much love.

I sometimes wonder whether I’m too hung up on the past. My blogs are laden with references to my late parents, I’ve written an article in the Guardian about my dad, another about my grandmother (pending with the ed) and campaigned to keep my grandfather’s tool collection alive. Hell, I’ve even waxed nostalgic on the pleasures of childhood Panini stickering.

So what?

Should I try to look forward more than I look back? Mmm, I think not. Not here, anyway. This space is an opportunity to linger, even revel, in bygone days gone bye-bye, to search for meaning and capture tropes and tales that might otherwise be lost and forgotten. I am blessed with a heritage rich enough to fill volumes of biography and it’s well worth revisiting from time to time.

Most of the work I do looks forward – articles and columns and sketches and body art using eels – and has nothing to do with yesteryear. It’s nice to dip my toes in from time to time but ultimate I think I learn from the past not live in it.

Justification over. My conscience is clear. Thank you for indulging me. I love you all (mostly).

So…I recently visited Powys, mid-Wales, and the small village of Llanrhaeadr. This is Llanrhaeadr.

I was accompanied on this trip down memory lane by my faithful assistant Joan. This is Joan.

Llanrhaeadr is where I holidayed as a child. Not once in a while, however. I mean Every Single Holiday. Without Fail. Dad loved to fish the River Tanat (my middle name) and would decamp to Llan for six weeks during the summer. Mum and I would join him for three. Not to mention Easter. And half-terms. Most of my childhood memories involve Llan.

Oh look here’s me as a baby chilling with my dead homies in the graveyard….

…and this is me (left) with the son of a local farmer. He was a gifted child. You wouldn’t necessarily know it from this.

(pls forgive the familyalbumesque quality to this blog, I got scanning one afternoon and couldn’t stop)

These were heady days: boozy dinner parties, stolen kisses, illicit affairs, cars stuck in rivers, incidents, accidents, even heart attacks – and that was just the kids. The evenings were populated by alcoholics, writers, ex-prostitutes, homosexuals, the famed and the fallen. Not that my parents were any of these things but dad in particular had amassed quite a collection of underdog and overdog during his misspent middle years.

As for me, there were plenty of kids in the village to play with, in particular Mungo and Hania whose mother, Jean, was friendly with my parents. Jean was a feisty bohemian redheaded who had moved from London to Llan in the mid 70s.

But more about Jean later.

My folks moved there in 1996. It was a short stay. Dad died in ‘98 and mum moved to London. But it was great while it lasted. There was still time to ferry a carload of friends up one weekend and take in the delights of football with the locals, disconcertingly vigorous walks, and a trip to Oswestry’s finest nightclub, BONKERS.

If I recall Matt got lucky with a local lass, though of course it depends on your definition of the word “lucky”.

I hadn’t visited Llanrhaeadr in three years, and Joan has never been. I like to keep my hand in there because a) I love it and b) without putting to fine a point on it my parents are buried there. A month ago we made the journey up, a journey I could do with my eyes closed (and once did).

I fear this is going to be a long one. Go and get yourself a cup of tea.

Are you back?

OK, let’s continue.

Joan and I stayed in the most delightful B&B a couple of miles outside the village. Here we were treated like kings (me) and queens (Joan). Plus there were dogs. Here come the dogs!

This is Sandra

…and here’s Tony

(yes I’ve forgotten their names)

The B&B was on the way to Pistyll Rhyaeadr waterfall, one of the Seven Wonders of Wales.

(the others being Terry Griffiths, Jonathan Davies, Barry John, Dame Bertie Bassett, Martin Amis, The Stereophonics, Dylan Thomas, Ryan Giggs, Richard Burton, Victor Spinetti, Kevin the Gerbil, The Alarm, Katherine Jenkins, Cerys Matthews and Snowdon).

It was set a mile back from the main drag down an unmade road. Anyone who knows me knows my car has seen better days, months, years, even decades. Miraculously it survived multiple journeys up and down this rugged half-path. The constant crashing and wallop fixed my central locking.

Day one we took a stroll up to the waterfall. Joan and I got rained on during our walk. Served us right. Fancy coming to Wales without a brolly. That’s like visiting an art gallery without eyes.

You may recall Pistyll Rhaeadr from such adverts as Timotei (2:39 in – just say if I’m going into too much detail).

Apparently someone once killed themselves by jumping from the top. I wish I’d been there to witness it. Here’s Joan looking windswept and moistened by spray.

We very much enjoyed our tea and cake up at the waterfall, even if it did cost £184.75.

Joan took over 1000 photographs of sheep during this walk. It would a misrepresentation if I did not include at least one.

The next day, after our customary full Welsh and a muck about with the dogs Joan and I embarked upon another walk during which we nearly died. OK we didn’t nearly die but we could have nearly died, nearly.

It called itself a walk for experienced ramblers. I suppose we thought that meant for people who go on and on and on like Joan and me. We parked up in the village of Llandrillo, where we took a leak. I love a highly praised twa-let. Check this out, live from the Llandrillo pissoir.

The walk was 10 miles – so why did it take us nearly six hours? One reason was we finished our meagre water reserves within 90 minutes The sun was high and hot. We were approached by four bulls and nearly died. We got Completely and Utterly Lost for about half an hour, during which Joan threw a tantrum the likes of which tend only to be witnessed on Channel 4’s “Supernanny”. In addition the going was very hard as we scaled Cadair Berwyn, at 3000 feet the highest peak in the Berwyn Mountains.

Nice innit

At the halfway point there was a metal box hidden under a rock. Inside was a visitors’ book for walkers who had made it this far and not died yet. Here’s me writing: “I wish we’d brought more water.”

I won’t linger over The Incident when Joan lost it. Suffice to say we’re both over it now (particularly Joan).

On returning to the village we each bought two drinks, but found that our bodies had readjusted to life without liquid. We were barely thirsty. What a piece of work the human machine.

Already late, we hot-wheeled it back to Llanrhaeadr and suppered with Mave, another of my parents’ friends from the village and someone I regard as a friend in her own right. Mave was on what Joan calls The Smelly during the 70s and 80s. This is her interviewing Kenneth Williams.

Growing up I spent a lot of time at Mave’s beautiful farmhouse. I once passed a whole day loading hay into a heap and diving on it.

We stayed the night at Mave’s.

The next day we attended a funeral. It was Jean’s. I was extremely fond of Jean and was hoping that despite her illness we could visit her during our trip, but she died a week before we arrived. Instead I will remember her for her joie de vivre, her sense of mischief, the fact that she once picked all the lychee out of a fruit salad (middle class horrors no.67) and the way she took me in one evening when I was up in Wales after dad died, trying to clear my parents’ house and in a bit of a tiz. Here are Jean and Hania.

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The following day we drove onto Criccieth in North Wales. There we lunched with Ifor and Bill, friends of my dad’s from his Lost Weekend in the valley during the 50s and 60s (NOTE: Bill is a woman. She never liked her real name which I am forbidden from revealing here). Ifor and Bill were also constant fixtures from my childhood and like everyone I’ve mention so far, I’m very fond of them too.

Oh look, here they are!

We had planned to visit the disused gamekeeper’s cottage dad had lived in on his own during the early 60s, but we ran out of time.

Here are a couple of pictures of it from a previous visit. I was genuinely astonished how far it was from civilisation, especially considering my dad a) couldn’t drive b) had no money c) hated walking d) was a bit fat.

From there we drove up to Manchester and stayed the night with Jo’s family. It’s always a pleasure to see Jo’s mum and dad, plus brother and sisters and crazy loon dog, Poppy.

We left the next morning. This is Jo’s dad, clearly concerned about the roadworthiness of my car and thus the life expectancy of his daughter.

If you are still reading, dear reader, you have done remarkably well. Go on, treat yourself. Have another cup of tea.

With love,
Me, Saul

We are gathered here today to observe a short blog (yes, another one). In fact there’s barely any writing in this one, mainly on account of my having removed the tips of my fingers in an effort to commit a succession of top secret robberies whilst avoiding detection.

I will write soon about a recent enjoyable yet emotional trip to Wales. For now, despite being flat out with deadlineupondeadline, I thought I’d break off temporarily to post this – which really made me smile for some utter reason (as we say in my family).

One glove x

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I’m going away for a few days but will be back next week with tales of my adventures.

This is me, pre-adventures.

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Told it was short.

See ya x

Or at least it began as a World Cup blog…

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I first become interested in football at junior school but it wasn’t until 1982, when I was nine, that my love blossomed. This was the year of “España 82″, the Panini sticker album that accompanied the 1982 World Cup. I was hooked – on the stickers, that is. Most days I would pester my parents for cash, hurtle down Park Mount, burst into S & K Hills and buy two packets of cards (I called them “packitas” for some reason), all in the vain hope of finding Trevor Francis.

An image of each and every one of those cards remains pointlessly emblazened on my tiny mind to this day. Still, I defy anyone who collected these stickers (and at my school everyone did) not to be transported back to more innocent times when presented with images such as these:

The playground was awash with rumours – “Is it true there are only 500 Glen Hoddles?”, “Steve from the year below says a full album is worth £1000″, “There’s a newsagent in Southdown that’s shifting them half price…”.

I was obsessed with filling my book and carried it with me to school every day, along with an old cigar box full of swaps. One lunchtime I found Chris van Littum peeling stickers out of my album. I grassed him up to the dinner ladies. Sobbing, he tried to give back the ones he’d just nicked which were by now a mess and had lost their stickiness. “No Christopher, keep them,” I said, adding censoriously, “Just don’t do it again.” If I recall, the cunt went on to nick a quarter of cola cubes from my tent at Cuffley Camp.

I was down to my last two – Trevor Francis (England) and Marius Trésor (France). I found Trevor in a packet of stickers. Now I only needed the resolute French defender to complete my album which, now nearly full, weighed three times what it had at the start.

News filtered through: Pamela Ronk had Trésor. This presented a problem. One, she was a girl and two, she smelt of piss. Bravely putting aside these issues I sidled over at lunchtime and acted blasé. “I hear you’ve got Trésor,” I said, nonchalantly leaning up against a wall. “Maybe,” she replied. “What’s it worth – you got the Brazil badge?” Now badges were a thing of rare beauty – gleaming, shiny and seemingly made of real metal, they were worth double what a player was. In the case of Brazil’s, quadruple.

I gave it to her. “Here you go,” she said and handed me the card of a man once cited by Pelé as one of the 100 greatest living footballers. “Thanks,” I said, but I felt empty. That was it. Finito. I’d filled my album.

So now what?

This was my first experience of the anti-climax of reaching ones goals – and in that moment vowed never to reach one again.

But holy shit on a bike I digress. I was supposed to be discussing my love of the World Cup, not nostalgia-ing it up about Panini. I’ll have to pen a follow-up. For now, this:

Separated at birth

Fabio Capello

Beaker

Also Separated at Birth

Dirk Kuyt

A rubber finger puppet

What happened next Saul?

Funny you should ask me that, doctor. I tried to get into the 1983 First Division album but couldn’t hack it. After the marathon of Espana 82 I just wasn’t up for the challenge. So that was the end of my sticker collecting.

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Spain 82 was a great World Cup though, particularly as it was my first. Abiding memories include Harold Schumacher nearly decapitating Patrick Battiston…

…Brazil’s classic game with Italy where they lost 3-2 (Why do Brazilian footballers only have one name? Does everyone in Brazil only have one name?)…

…and Marco Tardelli’s memorable celebration after scoring in the final.

Back of the net.

A-buh-bye,

Saul

It’s a beautiful day here in London: the sun is shee-aye-ning, the tits are beating the pigeons to the birdfeed on the balcony, and the World Cup – and World Cup ball – are in full swing, reminding me of the pleasures of working from home.

Could there be a better time to write a brief description of my recent trip to Singapore to attend the wedding of an old friend? In a word, “certainly not”.

Greg hails from the tiny village of Billinge near St Helens. I don’t know if everyone from Billinge is a grumpy cunt, but Greg is. He is also one of the funniest blokes I’ve ever had the good fortune to share a packet of Royals with.

Greg and I were at university together. Along with our friend Riaz we’d attend lecture (the singular was deliberate), consume pizza at the canteen and spend Friday afternoons in the pub. Looking back I believe all of us, particularly me, were highly punchable during those long sessions. I was lucky to get away with only one minor assault whilst at uni. You should have seen the other guy (he was fine).

Whilst in Singapore I took a number of grainy photos with my puny camera phone. Here’s Greg and Riaz on the balcony of my hotel room.

(Riaz won’t thank me for sharing a pic of him wearing glasses but it serves him right for being too good looking the rest of the time in fact it’s true to say that as a wing man at university he continually undermined me ladies would smile and shake my hand then fall on the floor crying and kiss Riaz’s shoes)

Greg has lived in Singapore since 1997. Long way, Singapore. Two-thirds round the world, in fact – or one and one third if you go the other way.

After umming and ahhing for months I confirmed my attendance four days prior the wedding. This meant effing up their table plans. I called Greg. He seemed nonplussed. Afterwards I received a text. It just said, “Chicken or fish?”

I’ve visited Singapore before and it feels familiar. My father was stationed there briefly during the war and the residue of Empire reminds me of him (he was born in India). However, if you’re not into shopping there’s about as much to do as there is in the quiet Lincolnshire village of Addlethorpe. Obviously that’s a total lie, but it’s a tiny place, and rather limited.

(this feels unnecessary but in case you didn’t realise, that’s not Singapore)

New Title to Break Things Up

I arrived the night before the Big Day and five of us went out for Greg’s mini-stag. It was great to hook up with Greg as well as marvel at the fact that Riaz was greyer than ever, thereby potentially lessening his appeal to what are commonly termed ‘the laydees’.

I don’t think I’d be giving too much away if I said that that night and the following morning R and I wrote R’s best man speech together. Riaz is a busy man, plus he’s too good looking to write his own material.

The ceremony and reception were being held at the Raffles Hotel. Somewhat perversely, after travelling 12,000 miles and staying only 300 yards away, I was late for the do. It was a grand do, too. Here are Greg and his new wife Shimin serving tea to their elders – an old Chinese wedding tradition.

After heckling Riaz’s speech we headed to a bar for extended chats and wittering. Here’s a message from Riaz to all the laydees of the world (including his wife).

(Christ that’s disgusting but I’m leaving it in, sorry if you lost your lunch)

And here’s a picture of Greg and his new wife. I never realised until now that Greg was in The Simpsons:

Greg

Barney from the Simpsons

At the end of the night myself, Riaz and a few others found an outdoor food hall and splattered our wedding shirts with spicy noodle broth. The next day a small group assembled at the Long Bar in the Raffles. Here’s Greg fiddling with his SLR.

And that, lady and gentlefriends, is this. I pottered about for the remaining two days, spent a bit of time with some other English friends, hung out with Riaz and his family, then flew home. Four night. Three days. A truly flying visit. Except the flying was agony. Air France, via Paris, including a transfer from Charles de Gaulle to Orly. What a false economy that turned out to be.

One last pic of the happy couple.

A-buh-bye

This blog is about Stephen Fry. If you don’t like Stephen Fry you have come to the wrong place. Oh – and you’re a loser.

Give me an S

Stephen Fry: a modern day Oscar Wilde who has nothing to declare but his genius and aversion to dancing, a highly likeable man generously dispensing wisdom and humour, a manic depressive who has done all he can to reduce the stigma of mental illness and a corruscatingly brilliant comedian who has enriched our lives across four decades with his sketch writing (the ground-breaking ‘A Bit of Fry and Laurie’ inspired my own home-made comedy tape, ‘A Bit of Matt and Wordy’, made with my friend, er, Matt). On top of that he’s a columnist (apparently Robert Webb clung to ‘Paperweight’, Fry’s collection of Independent columns, like it was a yum-yum blanket. I too thinks it’s stellar), novelist (I’ve just started ‘The Liar’ nearly twenty years after buying it) and autobiographer (every sentence of the affecting ‘Moab is my Washpot’ is a joy).

Plus there’s his acting, directing, documentary making, QI-ing, blessays, podgrams and tweets.

(Stephen at home with his mother next year)

What a man for all seasons, polymath, cottage industry and above all, giver Mr Fry is. It’s the liberality with his talent that so impresses. I am sure all generations have their own Misters Stephen Fry (Noel Coward, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Miller, Adrian Chiles). I’d be surprised, though, if many/any brought us quite so much and with such good grace and affability. We are blessed indeed to coincide with a being of such pulsating talent and generosity of spirit on this tiny planet we call erf.

In short I think he’s ace. Hell, I even wrote a column about him for the Metro.

Yet just when I thought he didn’t have time for anything else (and it seems clear to me that MSF has devised a proton-dividing wotsit that doubles the hours in the day either that or he doesn’t sleep much in fact I know he doesn’t he’s an insomniac), I stumbled upon a video that surpassed my expectations.

So here goes: Stephen Fry on how to live:

Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be dealing mainly in visual aids…

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Joan and I recently visited Marrakech. This is Joan.

This is by no means representative of where we stayed.

Man selling fruit and spices in the market

Man selling teeth in the market. We didn’t ask where he got them. After we took this he asked for money. Joan panicked and gave him enough to live on for two years.

The market. Sadly we didn’t take any showing the food stalls where you can eat an entire sheep’s head for only 40p – though on close inspection you should be able to make out a man charming a snake.

Me after I got caught speeding on our way to the Atlas Mountains.

The Atlas Mountains

Joan at a cafe in the mountains where we ate a delicious lamb tagine and possibly contracted the squits.

Me at a cafe in the mountains where we ate a delicious lamb tagine and possibly contracted the squits.

Five cats (maybe they gave us the squits)

Nearly the end of Marrakech. My favourite picture. Should be the dust jacket for a novel.

Joan deciding what won’t give her the squits.

That’s the end of Marrakach.

Have just realised this is exactly the same as someone showing you their holiday snaps. In which case I should really lay on sticks with cheese and pineapple. Can’t though, internet innit.

Here’s a reunion of university friends in Leicester. I’m flanked by Stu (l) and Tom (r).

Joan – herself being flanked by Sarah (l) and Kat (r).

Much to Joan’s chagrin I misjudged the quality of hotel we were staying at.

En route back to London we stopped in at the Museum of St Albans to see my grandfather’s tool exhibition, possibly for the last time (see previous blog)

Joan kept swearing so was placed in the stocks

That’s it.

Oh, you’re not there…