“A writer writes!” That was a quote from a great film with Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito called ‘Throw Momma From the Train’. Billy Crystal is teaching an adult writing class and Danny DeVito’s character – Owen I believe – is a student. Owen lives at home with his tyrannical mother and as I remember it (forgive me, it’s been an age since I saw it) he convinces himself that Billy Crystal will help him to bump her off.

I was thinking about that quote this morning during the early part of my mammoth train journey from London to Aberdeen. I told myself that I would write most of the way up thereby helping to pass the time and not wasting it drinking hugely overpriced cans of Carling Black Label. A writer writes. Now it may sound fairly obvious but it really struck a chord with me. I’ve recently finished reading Roger Moore’s excellent biography ‘My Word is My Bond’. A similar line from when Roger was learning his trade was that unless you’re acting, you’re not really an actor.

I like to tread the boards as often as I can. I’m appearing in the BBC1 drama Hope Springs at the moment but as yet I have nothing else lined up. An actor acts and a writer writes. Most careers in the arts give precious little opportunity to be fussy. Take the jobs that come your way and make the very best of them. One of the reasons I write this blog is to keep myself writing. Some days there are pages and pages of nonsense simply queuing up to be heard while other days it’s more of a struggle. I believe Bob Dylan said much the same thing about song writing. On those days I have to dig a little deeper in order create something I’m happy with. Reread it over and over, looking for the opportunity to put in a funny story or observation.

I guess the point is that irrespective of what we do – or say that we do – we have to it, and do it to the very best of our ability. Otherwise we’d all be introducing ourselves along the lines of “Hi, I’m Gavin and I used to be an actor.”

Well what a tremendous night’s entertainment. After a couple of weeks racing around London, underground, over ground and generally Wombling free, I was more than ready for a good night out. The decision was made to take in a meal followed by a West End show and tickets were booked, as with most things these day, online through Lastminute.com. Can I just point out that I have, or possibly had, or did have, or might still possibly own shares in Lastminute.com. I jumped on the dot com bandwagon shortly before everyone else jumped off. It was something akin to being on a seesaw with a rather portly gentleman and then having your partner unexpectedly disappear. Everyone knows how much that hurts….. and where.

Anyway, as a part owner of the company (to the tune of £130) I was obviously looking for a first rate service. We ended up with dinner and tickets to see the Jersey Boys. It came to twenty eight quid all in which, in my book, is a pretty darn good deal. Dinner was served up at Ruby Blue, a smart little place off Leicester Square. We arrived late – fashionably so I might add – and so didn’t have a great amount of time to spend. Despite our somewhat tardy timekeeping, the restaurant managed to serve up three extremely good meals, and a bottle of vino, in literally minutes flat. I can only assume that someone else must have ordered them, before realising the time and bidding a hasty retreat. If the food was good, then paying for it afterwards was even better. After mopping up my gravy with the last of the bread, we simply got up and walked out, flashing our dinner vouchers in the general direction of the till as we went. It felt so wrong and yet, somehow, incredibly liberating, all at the same time.

Suitably fed and watered, we then dashed to the Theatre. Well, I say dashed, picked our way nimbly would be a more accurate description. Dashing anywhere around Leicester square is of course impossible. We managed to take our seats shortly before the 7:30pm kick-off. For those of you unfamiliar with the Jersey Boys musical, let me enlighten you. It traces the story of Frankie Valli’s rise to fame with his Band, the Four Seasons. Like many, I knew practically nothing about the band, short of being able to hum a few bars of 'Cheri'. It amazes me how people can simply take a story like that and write a musical around it. I suppose the score was pretty much done for them but even so. 'Cheri', I later found out, was in fact their first hit and was written by Bob Gaudio on the way to the bands first demo recording session. The fact that he didn’t even have any proper words for it makes for an even better story, not to mention priceless pub quiz material. The story, like many of that ilk, is one of drama, love, sadness, booze, drugs, money, sharp suites, four-part harmonies and of course music. Lots of it, coupled with an ever changing set. Floors disappearing, walls appearing, things falling from the roof; the show is constantly in motion. And intertwined with all those spinning drum kits and fluorescent signs, is a cast of near super-human actors. They were absolutely stunning, and not once did they miss a beat or hit a bum note. I suppose if you’re a regular to the West End theatre scene, exceptional talent is something you come to expect from a cast. Personally, to see so many people with that much ability on one stage was a real privilege. The performance gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘tight’, and of course just about every number they played has been etched into the memory after years of radio and television airplay.

So that was it; a thoroughly enjoyable evening. I left the theatre humming, clicking my fingers and desperate for another couple of those sausages they served me at dinner.

I’ve been spending this week visiting my sister in London. Living as I do in Aberdeen, it’s a good day’s march to get to the big city. It involves an uncharacteristically early bus ride into town, a weary trudge down Union Street, stopping at whatever coffee bean grinding emporium is currently in favour, followed by eight hours in the company of National Express Trains. Providing your seat is pre-booked and the toilets work, the journey itself can be quite a pleasant one. It can even be done without having to change trains which, if you happen to be travelling with an assortment of power tools (don’t ask) is a real bonus.

On the face of it, train travel should be enjoyable. There’s no map reading to speak of, falling asleep is actively encouraged, as is drinking and there’s absolutely no chance of having to change a wheel in a busy lay-by in the rain. Given all this then, why is it I still find myself constantly on edge. The answer is simple – passengers! Travelling by train presents the constant worry that I am about to be set upon by idiots, thugs, drunkards, megalomaniacs or those terrifying people who are just that little bit too friendly. Irrespective of whether any of the above people actually turn up, I’m unable to relax, even if the journey is to last a buttock-numbing eight hours.

The characters present on my most recent sojourn were, in fact, slightly less extreme than I had anticipated. The first gentleman I was seated next to was not long out of his teenage years. He carried, like many about us, a rucksack and a copy of that morning’s newspaper. Everything seemed perfectly normal until about fifteen minutes into the journey, when my neighbour decided that it was time for some light refreshment. From the bag he proceeded to remove, an empty Lucozade bottle, a two litre bottle of Sprite and an enormous bottle of Southern Comfort. For the next two hours he happily mixed himself a selection of cocktails of varying strengths until, on reaching his stop, he disembarked somewhat less steadily that he’d arrived.

No sooner had the trainee bartender left, than a grey suited businessman joined us. He positioned himself next to the window, opened his briefcase and pulled out a plain manila file. I must admit I didn’t really pay much attention to him until I noticed that he was enjoying the contents of his folder in both landscape, as well as portrait aspect. Viewed through the window's reflection I couldn’t read the articles too well but the pictures looked fine. The following station brought the arrival of the, now obligatory, Hen Party. It was at this point that the businessman decided to pop his top shelf facts and figures away and get on with some real work. The throng of ladies was unfortunately everything you’d expect…. and more.

The only other excitement to speak of was the announcement that the trolley service had run out of sandwiches somewhere around Newcastle. Attempts were made to take on extra stock at York, however only six rounds of cheese and tomato could be found. I arrived into London relatively unscathed and on time. It was however raining, but i doubt National Express Trains give refunds for that.

I think if I'm honest, I've always seen myself as a writer. Admittedly, it wasn't always the fanciful, post modernist, ultra contemporary, yet slightly edgy and forthright scribe to the masses; but a writer nonetheless. Last year, I was lucky enough to be able to take a sabbatical from my day job. I thought that I'd use the time in order to, quote, find myself, unquote. Now some would say that, given my track record, I'd struggle to find myself with both hands and a flashlight and that is quite possibly true. However, undeterred, I opted to have a jolly good go anyway.

I thought that given enough time, coupled with the absence of both the nine-to-five drudge and the necessity of having to wear any clothes, I'd come up with something pretty darn amazing. As it was, I found myself writing poetry. Not particularly good poetry mind. Daft little limericks mainly, but poetry all the same. Such classics as...

I love the freezy, frosty snow
The way it sets my face a glow
My rosy cheeks and cozy toes
Tingly fingers, icy nose
Knocking knees and chilly bum
Tied of snow now roll on sun

or the ever delightful.....

On reflection Bob’s collection wasn’t all that strange,
Plastic dog pooh, postage stamps and thirty pounds in change.
When people come he takes it out and talks about each bit,
The copper coins, the penny blacks and thirty pounds of... plastic dog pooh.

and of course who can forget...

Puff pant, puff pant,
Peddle peddle, weee.
Puff pant, puff pant,
Brake… BRAKE… EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Ah! such happy memories. I have a million others you'll be delighted to know, some even stretch beyond a single verse but sadly are no less ridiculous. When blogging times are hard I may be forced to roll out a few more. Writers do that I've heard, although it's often more in the form of pulling out a 200,000 word manuscript from under the bed, dusting it off and presenting it to their ever grateful agent. Can you imagine the look of unbridled delight on the face of my agent when, after months of pleading, he finally gets:

My sister's, best friend's, brother's pet
Part Crocodile, part marmoset
The other part he’s not quite sure
Despite the terrifying roar.

My sister's, best friend's, mum and dad
Bought the pet for their young lad
He fed it milk and sauerkraut
And twice a day he took it out.

But soon the neighbours all complained
They said the pet was not well trained
It ate whatever they left out
Preferring clothes to sauerkraut.

And so my sister's, best friend's, brother
Was told to trade it for another
But just as everybody feared
He’s now got something REALLY weird.

Like all good things, my sabbatical ended all too soon. I've since tried a number of other styles and genres but am yet to find the one that truly works for me. Who knows, maybe regular, literary confession to you may help.

I'm sure, like many new writers and publishers, bloggers and blaggers, chancers, duckers and divers not to mention overly effusive procrastinators, there's a mighty strange mix of emotions at work as one prepares to divulge the contents of one's mind. To open up to the populous in general and begin that all consuming stream of consciousness that, I have been reliably informed, constitutes a blog. Well yes it's true. There is a fair mix of emotions on the boil right now. It's a fact that some of them do indeed relate to a deep seated insecurity about one's own ability to write anything worthwhile. What, after all, would be the point of putting anything down if it bore about as much relevance to the common man - no, sorry, too condescending - the man on the street, as my old neighbour's views on the US electoral process. That particular worry will, I'm sure, pass. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, we're reliably told, and so surely it must be that interest works in much the same way. One man's meat being another man's reconstituted vegetable protein.

So yes, I'm fairly sure that worries over whether anyone will consider wasting ten minutes of their life, chewing through the gristle and wobbly bits of my weekly blog pie will pass. But emotions can be so cruel, can't they dear reader? No sooner have I fought so gallantly and so bravely to overcome worries of content, than I am suddenly stricken with angst over my unfathomable nemesis - punctuation. Punctuation for me has always been a complete mystery. I could, with a fair degree of confidence, place a full stop in more or less the right place in a sentence. Much beyond that, however, and I'm shooting in the dark. Certainly, semi-colon, colon and apostrophe territory is a barren wilderness indeed. The badlands, where cloaked and scathing individuals roam the tundra armed with nought but the sharpness of their minds, looking to catch the unwary.... in parenthesis.

Good punctuation, and indeed spelling for that matter, are of course genetic. There is a punctuation gene. It's been very well documented and it looks like an exclamation mark apparently. I don't have it, although parts of my rather minimalist family tree do. Other lesser known genes include the queuing gene, the tidying up gene and of course the cooking gene, but I digress. Beset with worry over content, spelling and punctuation, not to mention the techno-fear related to the setting up of the site in the first place, and it's a wonder I got as far as I did. It is for this precise reason that I intend to finish here and take stock. The fact that my feet also hurt and I have a blister coming from assembling too much flat pack furniture, is doubtless also a contributing factor.