Hair and there and back again.

 I have been quiet for the last few weeks, and with good reason.

It is not my place to voice protest on matters legal, but I have to say my experimental theatre company is no more. I cannot go into details, but it will have to suffice to say Brighton Sea World, Dairy Lee Cheeses and the makers of Sellotape have caused my silence this last few weeks.

The production of Neptune, Lord Of The Sea (an impromptu work by the writer Milton Vomain) was, ill thought out in retrospect, casting as it did three sea lions in the main roles of Henry, Vanessa and Lord Kitchener. They had little respect for artistic direction, save for when a tuna fish was offered on a stick. It was like working with Sarah Jessica Parker. By the third act people were leaving, some were wretching and others were giving statements to the Police.

Authoritarian regimes such as the one we currently live in delight in stifling new and dangerous work. Take for instance my great friend Peter Rojay, whose seminal (and as it turned out final) work 'Oblivion Spaghetti' got almost no coverage at all. Simona Clows' answer to the much-hyped Vagina monologues 'Shouting titties' was closed down during the intermission and Rachael Bovertons' drama about womens' boxing, 'Fisting Females', met with entirely an unappreciative audience.

But enough of that. Onto pastures new. A phone call this morning from Aldersons' Hair Pastry, who make what is apparently the worlds' only hair based pudding. This product is, according to the website and literature, amazing. A bald man can expect results in under three days of use, by simply wearing their pudding on his head. The pictures they sent merely served to back up the claim, with a man sporting a rather fetching merange. Now, I know a merange is not strictly a pudding, it's more a sweet dessert, but, according to the people who know these things, 'who cares'.

The invention itself dates back some 3 months, when, after a particularly heavy works do, the inventor discovered that if he wore pudding on any part of his anatomy, it would immediately burst forth the most luxurious pelt of hair. It is true that he was particularly bushy to begin with, but this is just coincidence. Soon, the wheels were in motion, plans were made, Dragons invested, and the whole world awaited the publicity.

One of the good things about hair products is that they don't require any sort of rigorous testing by those awful science-types. They botch about with things with their test tubes and bunsen burners and make all sorts of claims which have no bearing on the actual product. Either it's not a proper product or it's just a con or it's killed most of the test group. They always have some sort of quibble. It's this sort of paltry bickering which has destroyed many careers, I feel sure. Just because something is poorly made or spontaneously combusts when not in a complete inert vacuum doesn't make it a bad product. It just makes it differently good.

There's also the fact that to get anything done, not only in theatre but in other spheres, you have to know the right people. If you don't have the connections, forget it. For example, when Lord Of The Rings was being cast in New Zealand, I was very anxious to get in on the action. I don't know much about Tolkien, but I was fully prepared to be the Lord or at a push one of the Rings. Not even a reply. How about Hancock, the reluctant hero? Nothing. I even applied to be an extra in The Archers, but my offer fell on deaf ears.

But I have come up with some ideas which could have made me. Take the iPod. When the music player first hit the market, I was the only person who, with a little thought, decided there was a market for a head cleaner. Electric cars were mooted, who was it who declared to have a viable extension lead? Yours truly. Fish in a cup. Marzipan which tasted like cheese. Self-wearing shoes. A device which combed your hair while you sleep. All mine. All never to be invested or shown the slightest interest in. Although again, to be fair, the last one was just a man called Derek.

I sometimes think, as a society, we would be much better if we didn't give so much to our friends. Which is why I have none. Not one. And it's deliberate. Oh, the people I know know me well enough to know I don't need anyone. I am entirely self-reliant and that's the way I think more people should be. They respect that by never calling, remembering Christmas or birthdays and crossing the street when they see me. Some have respected me so much they have left the country. It hasn't always been that way.

When I was ten I had a friend, Brian Clue. We spent most of our time together, doing the things all boys do at that age. Gadding about in dresses and impersonating farm animals.Brian was particuarly good at doing a 'speckled Faced Sheep'. I myself excelled at 'Dairy Shorthorn', and between us we provided the sound effects for many a play which required such animals. Our partnership fermented, developed from animal sounds to writing. We wrote searing indictments on society and the justice system, also sitcoms. We would sit in Brians' Fathers' Study and hammer out a plot for a judge who is compromised by a liason with a younger man; torn between his duty and his passion. Or three men stuck with a baby for a weekend.

But then Brian discovered girls. I suspect they were attracted initially because of his livestock mimicry. After all, every tom, Dick or Harry had a guitar. Only Brian could convincingly disturb a Shepherd. Anyway, excuses started coming thick and fast. Brian could no longer wrestle with the contraventions to the British Justice system, he would no longer be willing to give more than a fleeting thought to a single Mother forced into dangerous work through economic need, and he certainly didn't have much time left over for considering Three Gents and an Infant. And it showed. Work would come back, and written instead of a startlingly sharp speech about the futility of the common man against the system, it would say 'Brian Loves Harriet'. I couldn't stretch that out for 90 minutes plus intermission. Something had to give.

I cornered him outside the back of a record shop by the bins. I demanded to know what was going on. He told me he and Harriet were together now and if I didn't like it, I knew what I could do. I didn't know what I could do. But he insisted I did. I think the gist was 'go away'. I did indeed, go away. But I wasn't about to be defeated by a girl.

I sat up for three nights plotting and scheming. Papers, maps and ideas lay strewn around me. I didn't wash, I didn't eat, I didn't drink, I focussed my entire mind and body on revenge. I'd read somewhere if you focus every sinew of your being, what you want will come to pass. And I focussed like mad until my pants really started to chaff. I assumed that was the cut off point. Which, given the state of my pants, was ironic.

My plan for revenge on this harridan, this psiren, this femme fatale was complete. Never before nor since have I dedicated so much of my energies into a revenge plot. But I poured them into this one. Revenge is a waste of time, but the satisfaction I felt was so delicious. When I emerged from my room, my Father simply inquired if I had finished masturbating.

Brian spoke to me rarely after that. When I say rarely, I mean not at all. The FBI had managed to prove Harriet had not been on the grassy knoll in Dallas in 1963, and she'd not been selling hooky moon rocks to diplomats. If anything I had made their relationship stronger. But was I getting any thanks? No.

So anyway, the Hair Pastry people want me to be the new voice of Hair Pastry. Let me put you right; I do not do this because I use Hair Pastry, but I believe in the product. I have seen the good it can do, and so has my bank manager.

I look forward to this new venture.