I took Lisa to The Shipwreck for dinner last night, where we repeated our trick of refusing to leave any establishment until we're outnumbered at least 2 to 1 by staff members standing by the door coughing and looking at their watches. I was hoping to get the meal free, due to the fact that I've been plugging the place on my website links page for the past year, but bizarrely they seemed to expect me to pay for my food just like any common person would. It was almost as if they had no idea who I was.

We walked back around Shotley Point in complete darkness, and managed to avoid falling into the sea, which was something of an achievement as I'd really let myself go and consumed a total of two, count them, TWO alcoholic drinks that evening, so naturally I was a bit shaky on my feet. It was all I could do to stop myself singing Sinatra songs and telling Lisa she's my best mate.

And that's it really. Which is what happens when you slob around in your pyjamas until 6pm.

The last thing I saw at the Ipswich Regent was 'Art' last October, so clearly anything would be an improvement, but despite that, I have to say Derren Brown was excellent last night. Being Master Magic, the Magician's Son, I was able to see through Mr Brown's opening trick, and then successfully perform it for Lisa in my living room when we got home, which left her utterly convinced of my psychologically manipulative powers. Until I revealed how it was done. At which point she used a word I couldn't possibly repeat here.

But from the opening trick onwards, I was totally impressed by Derren Brown. He's the consummate showman, and 90% of the evening was nothing short of stunning. Sadly Lisa and I failed to get onstage, more due to luck than anything else - Derren's method of choosing volunteers consisted of chucking a frisbee into the audience every five minutes, the recipient of which found themselves part of the entertainment, like it or not. Lisa's tactics involved sinking down into her seat every time a frisbee was about to be launched, fending off a panic attack each time one came within ten yards, and claiming she had a serious medical condition which prohibited the use of her legs.

It was a fantastic show anyway, but I'm cursing my decision not to be listed in the Ipswich phone book, as Derren has apparently learnt the whole thing off by heart, and can give you your phone number and address the moment you state your surname and initial. Which surely isn't possible. As Derren himself said, "everything you've seen here tonight is real, but nothing is based in reality".

But in other news...

I made another successful visit to the south coast yesterday, and was introduced to three new people, two of whom were over three years old, and one of whom was ill. Personally I felt the meeting was a success, but I'm reserving judgement until reports are in from all sides.

I also made the aquaintance of 'floppy headed bear', a high quality craft item made (almost entirely) by Lisa in her school days. Which was obviously quite a long time ago. He's worn well. Even if he doesn't have a nose.

I left Brighton with TWO packets of Polos this time, which I feel was symbolic of my growing popularity. Another couple of months and I'll be accepting them by the crate.

Having returned to the safety of Shotley Gate, Lisa attempted to broaden my musical horizons by playing me her Duran Duran CD (not that she's stuck in the 80s or anything), and introducing me to Terry Hall, who sounds more like a community centre than a popstar to me. But he does come up with his own album sleeves, and sounds like The Lightning Seeds, so I gave him a cautious thumbs up.

At 3am I kindly gave Lisa a lecture on music theory, chord construction, and key signatures, which I'm sure she appreciated. As of course did my neighbours, when I got out my guitar and started playing They Might Be Giants in the middle of the night.

We're off to see Derren Brown tonight. Lisa's going up on stage to be hypnotised and generally manipulated. She doesn't know it yet, but that's why it's going to be such a nice suprise when I volunteer her. She'll thank me for it later.

I've received a detailed two page 'reader's report' on 'Be Worth It' from the Soho Theatre & Writers Centre in London. Once again, it singularly fails to include a promise of vast sums of money and a two year residency at the theatre (which was probably an oversight), but it did feature the following positive comments...

"This play has a very strong theatrical concept"

"makes for an interesting and engaging drama"

"the language is consistently strong and natural"

"This play has a clever and dramatically interesting construction"

"The writer makes some great play out of Helen's flirting with Russell"

"This play has the potential to be a successful and dramatic exploration of modern themes and values"

Marvellous. Unfortunately...

"I am worried that the sheer volume of subjects tackled makes this area of the play sound more like a lecture or presentation of the writer's own ideas than a believable human drama"

"The ending left me feeling disappointed"

"Pauline is lacking any real direction and journey of her own"

"it feels like it needs one more meaty draft to draw the characters out and fulfil the great concept"

And finally, my personal favourite...

"I think Adam is too articulate"

Fantastic. You try to write one character with a bit of intelligence and wisdom, and what happens - he's TOO ARTICULATE. Good grief. I knew I should have made him say "D'oh" more often.

Well it's been two weeks, so I'm off down to Brighton again to abuse my professional position as webmaster by fraternising with one of my blog posters.

The great thing about living in a village is the way we all love and support each other, living in a constant state of bliss and harmony, and no one has a bad word to say about a fellow resident.

The other great thing is the stirling comedy work being done on a regular basis by contributors to the letters page of 'The Shotley Noticeboard', a local publication which comes out six times a year, and frequently runs to as many as four pages.

I remember with fondness the letter from an individual who stated that she'd moved to Shotley Gate just two weeks earlier, and was already writing to complain about local dog owners, and the fact that people were so much nicer where she lived before. That's what I call fitting in.

But I digress. The last issue of The Shotley Noticeboard featured a letter from Linda Tonkin, a local resident who wanted to politely complain about the parking problems caused by parents who needlessly pick up their children by car from Shotley Primary School. I actually agree with Linda, but the difference of course is that I'd never put my name to a letter in The Shotley Noticeboard. Not that anyone would actually take the trouble to launch a personal attack on Linda in the next issue. Oh no, not at all.

Well maybe just a bit. The latest issue has dropped through my letterbox this lunchtime (meaning that the people who deliver it weren't attending the May Fair at the village hall. They should be ashamed of themselves. I might write to the Shotley Noticeboard about them), and it features one of the finest comedy letters of recent months. Sadly the name of the author is not supplied, which is a great shame, because it's rare to see humour written this well. The letter begins:

"Dear Sir,
I am writing in response to the letter from Linda Tonkin in the March/April issue. Whilst I agree wholeheartedly with Linda's valid comments of parking outside school, I would like to point out that ***** ******* also causes many problems for drivers..."

Now clearly we have one of Linda's "wholehearted" supporters here. However, you may have noticed that I've blanked out two words in the above extract. So come with me now and play "Guess the Issue"!! The question, dear readers, is...

Alongside the valid issue of parking outside school, what is the OTHER main source of problems for local drivers?

Think carefully now. Could it be the inappropriate speed limits? Farm vehicles on the roads? Loose livestock? Drunks driving home from Shotley Sailing Club? (I'm talking hypothetically there).

You'll kick yourself. No, the answer is far more obvious. Ladies and gentlemen, the biggest hazard facing the Shotley motorist, is...

[fanfare please]

LINDA HERSELF!!!!!

Well at least according to the author of this letter. Let's enjoy some more of this wisdom...

"... I would like to point out that Linda herself also causes many problems for drivers, especially on the winding road to school. There are many impatient drivers who I have witnessed on many occasions, overtaking Linda's trike on blind corners. I do not think that she realises the problems that she causes especially when she cycles alongside her daughter. I must also voice my concern about the occasion recently when I encountered Linda on her trike with her daughter in the basket at the back and neither of them were wearing a cycle helmet."

Well I say lock her up. Either that, or make her use a car like everyone else. If you get there early Linda, you can bag one of the best spots on the zig-zag lines by the school gates.

And another thing, does Linda have a very large basket, or a very small daughter? You have to wonder.

But still, with great comedy, you need a great punchline. And this contributor did not disappoint. Having "agreed wholeheartedly" with Linda, by portraying her as the biggest threat to the British motorist since the fuel crisis of 2000, the author of this letter finishes with these immortal words:

"This is not an attack on Linda."

That's almost worth a round of applause.

Tomorrow is the annual May Fair at Shotley Village Hall. Among the usual attractions such as tombola, cake stall and bouncy castle, this year the organisers are advertising the addition of a "greasy pole".

Call me old-fashioned, but I can't help feeling that if you've booked Lech Walesa, you should show a bit more respect for the man.

[I apologise for the quality of that joke. But hey, it's the weekend, news is thin on the ground.]

What was I saying on Monday about never having had a play rejected in my life..?

This morning has brought a letter from the Royal Court, informing me that "after careful consideration" (yeah right), they've decided not to offer me a multi-million pound contract to stage 'Be Worth It' after all. Their carefully considered opinion is as follows:

"We enjoyed reading the script, and found it energetically written with a neat idea. At the same time, we felt there is scope for tightening the narrative through subtext and dramatic action, as it tends to become conversational and unfocused."

A NEAT IDEA????? If I'd put that in the script, they'd have told me to avoid Americanisms. Still it's nice to know it's so energetically written. That must be why I had to eat so many bagels while I was writing it.

And may I apologise to Jen for telling her on Saturday that the good thing about writing plays is that you don't have to insert tedious action scenes just for the sake of it. Clearly you do if you want to get on at the Royal Court.

Conversational I agree with - it's supposed to be - but unfocused?? Blimey. They should've been here with me for three months surrounded by bits of paper as far as the eye can see, trying to fit that play together like a jigsaw puzzle, and making sure every scene came in right on cue, lasted an exact number of pages, and made a specific point. I would've LOVED to do a bit of unfocused rambling.

I think they must have believed Adam when he says in Act Two: "We're talking about nothing, and using it as cover for some good conversation". Of course, there's a subtext there, but you can't expect a top London theatre to pick up on that.

But obviously I appreciate constructive criticism and I'm not bitter.

I've just discovered I'm being talked about on the official Aqualung message board. This is kind of scary. Although someone from Houston refers to me as "PhilGardner.com", so that should be enough to throw people off the scent.

But still, I've already had three hits since yesterday evening as a result of this, so I think I'm going to forget the secret in the poet's heart, and aim my site at young music fans instead. After all, I'm barely out of my twenties, and I'm a close personal friend of Matt and Ben Hales. No really, I am.

Well ok, I'm not. But Lisa said my version of 'Brighter Than Sunshine' is better than the original. It's true, she did.

That was just before she said that drunk people would appreciate my singing.

Can I just say, if anyone hears reports of a dodgy character seen wandering around Christchurch Park in Ipswich this afternoon with a camera and a notepad, hiding in the bushes near the war memorial and taking photos of trees, it WAS me, but my motives were entirely innocent I swear.

I've just discovered what a good education I had. It turns out I'm in possession of a piece of information which is being sought by English Literature students the world over. Yes people, I know the secret in the poet's heart.

The very last line of the play 'Candida' by George Bernard Shaw is a stage direction which reads:

"They embrace. But they do not know the secret in the poet's heart."

One of theatre's more pointless stage directions, I'm sure you'll agree. Particularly as most people don't seem to have a clue what it means.

Personally I couldn't care less about any secret - you should just be glad you've reached the end of a Shaw play, and get the hell out of there - but others disagree. And having been forced to study 'Candida' at A-level 13 years ago (mostly against my will, it has to be said), I was expected to take an interest in such a secret. This was the pre-internet era, meaning we had to use old-fashioned contraptions called books, but fortunately the fine English scholar who led my class, Mr G Jones (nickname: Bunter), possessed a number of ancient English Literature tomes from a bygone age, and having studied them on our behalf, was able to reveal said secret. So we all went home happy.

All these years later, I naturally assumed this was the kind of information easily available on the world wide web. And I knew people were looking for it, because in the past year I've had about half a dozen website hits via Google, from people searching for the phrase "secret in the poet's heart" and the word "Candida". Which takes them to... a certain page on my website. Which singularly fails to reveal the secret.

Having had yet another of these hits this morning, I decided to search Google myself and found to my surprise that there only appear to be eight websites in the world which feature that phrase. And I'm number six. More surprising still, is that none of the other seven appear to reveal the secret either. One, a page entirely devoted to 'Candida', even states:

"The secret in the poet's heart? Many people have suggested many possibilities. Frankly, I don't know."

So that's helpful.

What this means of course, is that if I reveal the secret here, my blog will have the distinction of being the only site on the world wide web to contain this information, and will instantly become a magnet for literary scholars the world over. That's if it isn't already.

So here goes. Sit up straight everyone.

The secret in the poet's heart is that Candida is not worth the winning.

Let me just repeat that for the search engines...

In George Bernard Shaw's play 'Candida', the secret in the poet's heart, as mentioned in the final stage direction, is that Candida is not worth the winning.

Right, that ought to do it. Yes, I know, it's not very interesting. But then we're talking about a Shaw play here, so what do you expect. Basically Candida is a bitch on wheels, and having spent the entire play trying to win her heart, Marchbanks, the weedy poet, fails in his quest and Candida chooses to stay with her husband. But what the experience has taught young Eugene is that in fact Candida was never worth fighting for in the first place. Partly, I suspect, because it dawns on him that she's named after a yeast infection (but don't quote me on that), though mainly because he realises that Candida is the kind of moo-cow from hell that should be avoided at all costs. She's actually not the perfect gal he previously thought, and a life with her would be a life of downtrodden submission under the thumb of a mothering dominatrix.

Which some men would pay good money for. But not Eugene. He's apparently lost, but his secret is that he knows he's won. Morell has ended up with a prize not worth winning.

This blog is such an education isn't it. I should be charging for stuff like this.

Incidentally, I've been meaning to mention it, but in case anyone's wondering, I've finally moved into the 21st century (4 years after it started) and set up an RSS feed for this blog. Which I'm sure requires no explanation. At least I hope it doesn't, because frankly I don't have a clue what it means. Unless there are any girls reading this, in which case I understand completely. And I'm good at football too.

Basically RSS stands for 'Really Stoopid Syndication' (probably), and it means my blog can now be syndicated worldwide via Atom-enabled feed readers and downloadable newsreading client software of many different kinds. No really, it's true. Apparently I can also be picked up on 'handheld devices', though whether that includes the kind of handheld devices I once saw in Marie's bathroom, I'm not sure.

But still, the Atom feed can be found under the link to the left. The one which cries 'Syndicate Me' in a needy voice. Just so you know.

Well I've finally succumbed to the pressure of certain people (Lisa) who are determined to ruin my record of never having had a play rejected in my life (unless you count Shotley Drama Group, who prefer to just ignore me for 15 months and hope I'll get the message), and I'm submitting 'Internet Cafe' to the International Playwriting Festival at the Warehouse Theatre.

Which has meant an entire weekend of work, largely due to the fact that I prefer my screenplay to my original play, and was therefore keen to work the two main extra scenes from the film version into the stage version. It's all very technical, and involves a lot of eye strain, eating Pringles, and cursing at Microsoft Word, but after two days of stress I now have the definitive version of 'Internet Cafe', which features all the swearing of the film version, but without the exotic location shots.

Interestingly, the Warehouse Theatre casually and caringly state that "any play offered for production elsewhere before the judges' decision is announced will be disqualified", which is very lovely of them. So I wonder how they'll feel if the shadowy Leigh returns with his Bedfordshire film company, and makes a definite decision to shoot 'Internet Cafe' this summer. I think I'll just forget to mention it. And besides, the screenplay still contains at least half a dozen extra lines of dialogue, so essentially they're two entirely different scripts. I'm sure they'll understand.

Right, well I'm all theatred out, and it's a bank holiday, so I'm off to eat chocolate cookies with my niece.

I think my position as Shotley Gate's resident playwright is under threat. Next month's 'Shotley Open Gardens' event is (for some reason) being advertised in the local community magazine by means of a short piece of drama. The author has modestly decided to leave his/her name off the script, so I can't give credit where credit is so obviously due, but it's a quality piece of work, with very few spelling mistakes, and it's only partially about toilets, so I present it here now for all to enjoy...

Freda: Are you opening your garden Fred?
Fred: Opening my garden Freda?

[We're off to a strong start. Sorry, I shouldn't interrupt.]

Freda: Don't tell me you haven't seen all those adverts and entry forms asking Shotley gardeners to open their gardens 19th and 20th June?
Fred: Oh yes, I've seen them but my garden is just... ordinary, flowers n' tatters n' things... it's not Heligan nor Highgrove.

[I think tatters are potatoes. I could be wrong.]

Freda: No, but it is a Shotley garden Fred and grows good food and nice flowers, exactly what this is about, opening your garden can be a means of raising funds for a toilet at Shotley Church.

[Hurrah!]

Fred: But I don't often get to church Freda! By the time I have done Aunt Flo's garden on a Saturday, I've only got Sunday for my own then it's off to work again.
Freda: Oh, I know Fred, but a toilet doesn't just benefit Sunday worshippers, many times I have been asked by baptismal and wedding guests. Where is your toilet? I have seen you in church on such occasions!

[So Fred's often seen at weddings and baptisms on a Saturday. Isn't he meant to be doing Aunt Flo's garden? I'm struggling to follow this plot.]

Fred: Oh alright then Freda, you win! Now just remind me about those entry forms.

[Blimey, he's easily persuaded.]

Freda: Shotley Post Offices have them or you can ask someone to bring you a form from Church. Fill in the informtion [sic] asked for and your name will be printed in the 'Shotley Open Gardens' programme and, what is more, you will be entered into a draw! Atco-Bosch donated a hedgecutter; Tesco have given a £20 commnity [sic] voucher, By Pass Nurseries also gave us a voucher and Thompson and Morgan a pack of their famous seeds; they said just ring for one if you would like our catalogue. Take your form to Norman, I mean Mr Bugg "Mersing" Shotley. On the Saturday try to find time to slip down to the Church and have a plough lunch; Mr and Mrs Patel have very generously offered to provide the food items for it.
Fred: Really? Well that is very kind. Does that mean I don't have to pay?
Freda: It means you have yet another opportunity to help raise funds for that much needed toilet.

[I'll take that as a "no" then.]

Freda: Perhaps you'll spread the word Fred, I think there'll be morning coffee and afternoon tea too.
Fred: Righto Freda, I best tackle those weeds. Now where did I leave my hoe?

Er... it seems to end there. But what a marvellous piece of drama. And I particularly like the subtext at the end. Fred, who clearly lacks any kind of backbone, and has just allowed himself to be pushed around by a woman who frankly couldn't care less about him never attending church on a Sunday and is only interested in his money, resolves to change - using the 'tackling weeds' metaphor to signal his intentions. And then he calls Freda a 'ho'.

You wait three weeks for a Cretan postcard, and what do you get? Donkeys with big ears. It's not a patch on the Texan Buckaroos I was kind enough to send back from Dallas.



But obviously I'm very grateful.