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Some tips about applying for an Arts Council grant in England.

Last night’s marvellously useful session at Oxford’s Old Fire Station ( #OFS) was with Will Young, producer of Snowflake, the play Mike Bartlett has written specially for the OFS.  Young is an experienced producer who is also under contract to the Arts Council so his contribution was of value to those wanting to learn more about promoting a play as well as learning how the funding arm of the Arts Council works. Interestingly, the budget for Snowflake ran to £50.000 with the Arts Council grant amounting to £15.000, a tidy sum which will allow the play to run for two weeks, unusually long for a theatre as small as the Old Fire Station.

Below are a few paraphrased pieces of advice given by Young on how to apply for an Arts Council grant.

Read carefully what the Arts Council is looking for. It can take three days to fill in the application form so factor this in when applying. Submitting early will allow you adjust your application and resubmit if it is rejected.

The Arts Council gets something like 100,000 applications a year so brevity is the name of the game.

Make it easy reading by using  bullet points and sub-headings. Think of your application as a project so say clearly who will it reach, who will it benefit etc. Be specific. Focus on the project rather than on your own glittering theatrical career.

Finally, the best advice of the session:  ask a friend to read through your application. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes. If it does, then shave off the offending minute or two.

You can get preliminary advice from  the Arts Council on 0161 934  4317


Let me know if you find this useful. I’m on:


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A slow Saturday afternoon in the pub

It was a slow Saturday afternoon, no cricket, no football, no rugby. I sat up at the bar, in the corner, reading the paper.

I heard her before I saw her – the tapping of heels on the wood floor. She parked up on a bar stool , crossed her legs and within minutes was surrounded by five or six men who hadn’t been there before. The banter came and she dealt with it, giving as good as she got.

“There you are,” said Joe, putting the plate in front of her. “ The house special,  toasted cheese sandwich. And I washed my hands before I made it an all.”

She demolished the sandwich and asked for another. The men drifted away. I waited till she was on her own before making a move, with a  smile and a nod to start off.”

You’re great with the sandwiches,” I said.

I wondered what she did. A cabaret singer maybe or a torch singer in one of those new faux French places in town.

“ I work in the bar down the street. This is my tea break.”

She set to work on the next sandwich then looked up.

“ You’re  judging me,” she said.

“I’m not. I’m filled with admiration. Two cheese sandwiches in as many minutes.”

” I was starving. I’m on a diet. No this shite no that shite.”

“And I’m jealous.”

“What of?”

“You’re only in here two minutes and you’re surrounded by men.”

She shook her head and bit into the last corner of the sandwich:  “You’re still judging me.”

“ I’m not.”

“ You are.” And then she delivered her coup de grace: “ You’re judging me with your eyes.”

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I’m a heroine only in my dreams

So I was walking along the road this morning straight into the rain, trying to get a bit of speed up  and thus mislead the walking app on my phone into thinking I always walk at that speed, when in the distance, some two traffic lights away a blue light showed up coming towards me. Police or ambulance? Ambulance. I looked back up the road to see if there was any sign of an accident but the road was empty. Nothing.

Then, as the ambulance drew level, I tripped and fell. Down. The ambulance stopped and the driver leaned out the window but before he could say anything, I waved him on.” Don’t stop for me,” I called out, “I’ll be ok.”

He nodded and carried on.  Painfully, I got to my feet and started to hobble along, slowly at first but as the road was empty and no one to witness my plight, I picked up pace.

Reader, none of this happened. There was no ambulance. I didn’t fall. I just imagined the whole thing in order to lessen the boredom of the morning walk. Sometimes I witness a car crash and am  the first on the phone to call 999 and give the person directions so precise that I am complimented for my powers of observation.

Tomorrow, it’ll be something else but I’ll be ready. Heroines always are.


Filed under Alan Bennett, balsam, poplars, Regents Park, traditions, Books, boredom, daydreaming, Radio, Uncategorized, walking

Katherine Whitehorn, journalist

When I moved to London from  Dublin, Katherine Whitehorn represented what  I saw as the glitzy, literary London scene. She  was witty, audacious and down to earth  in a clever sort of way. There were other women journalists  who were  also great to read but she was top dog and unopposed queen of bedsitter land.

I remember a story she told about herself when leaving a rather staid women’s magazine. Her f inal contribution to the  handicraft section of the paper – which she just managed to get past  the internal censor – was a suggestion to the readers: ” Why not knit yourself a little Dutch Cap this winter.”

It was terrible to learn that she had advanced Alzheimers. The loss is ours.


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Tomorrow is the pre-christian celebration of fertility. Big in Ireland as it is a Celtic tradition and quite big in Oxford where it is called May Morning. Lots of comely maidens and supposedly randy males gathering their nuts in May.

Best place to be at 6am is on Magdalen Bridge to hear the college choristers sing an ode to May dating back to the time of Henry Vlll. Great time for subversion and creating mayhem. Do it.

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Winnie Mandela – what happened when I met her in Soweto.

I worked  as an election observer for the first democratic elections in South Africa and was based in Burgersdorp in the eastern Cape.

I went to Soweto to visit the small one storey house she and Madiba had lived in. It is now a sort of museum. While I was poking around letters and ANC posters etc a door opened and Winnioie entered accomanied by a small group of Chinese men, possibly a delegation from  the  Communist Party. Possibly.

I melted into the background before offering to take a photo of Winnie and her visitors –  it beng the day before selfies etc. To be honest, knowing her reputation for being a somewhat forcefull woman, I was slightly intimidated by her. However, she smiled  and asked: ” Don’t you want to be photographed with me?”

I thought of  the many friends  and co-workers who disapproved of Winnie for a variety of reasons, people both black and white.

Nevertheless I put those thoughts to one side and accepted her invitation. I was influenced by a friend, Frankie,  who together with her husband ran the anti apartheid group in Ireland and who stuck with it throughout those terrrible years of Madiba’s incarceration. When people criticised and shunned Winnie, Frankie pointed out that Winnie too had suffered during those years – imprisonment, solitary confinement ( 400 days) , relocated to different faraway towns, threats to her children, reimprisonment. And still she kept stong and faithful to the ANC. And so I had my photo taken with her and when  she put her arm round me it was strong as a steel.

Next blog is about the first sitting of the first  democratic parliament of South Africa. Winnie was there. So was Madiba, Joe Slovo and other stars of the struggle.

It’s all in my book: Journeys of a Lifetime.




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Remembering a visit to Barbuda

One of my books – Journeys of a Lifetime –  contains a description of a visit I made to Barbuda. Here’s what I wrote in  2004

” Barbuda is a flat sand-coloured leaf loating on a pool of blue. Water laps its edges amd the wind, whistling across its desolate  landscape, makes me feel uneasy and unsafe, fearful that at any moment a wave may flow  across the whole island and engulf it….      Barbuda bangs and clangs  like a ship buffeted by winds  that seem to strike it from every direction…”

Later, I called in to the rum  shop and had a stiff drink.



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