After a week-long course on Information Security Management Principles, I am now completely devoid of the ability to think. My mind is something of a blank.
Although my day job is 'security advisor' I specialise in policy, awareness, and physical/procedural security. I will regularly lead out-of-hours security sweeps, the occasional training course, and act as mentor for ISMSs (Information Security Management Systems). However, I wasn't prepared for precisely how much this weeks course would involve the dreaded 'Information Technology' or 'Information Systems' or whatever the hell we're calling it at the moment.
I think it's fair to say that once I'd managed to make the 7 levels of Network Communications (of which there are, bizarrely, only 5) stick in my mind, my cerebral cortex was already so far gone that, medically, I could have been pronounced braindead.
Including walking in to work, I pretty much did 12-hour days all this week. And, of course, there was the absolute pleasure of the exam yesterday. I was the first to finish, but that is no indication whatsoever of how correct my answers were. In a multiple-choice exam, the best method of attack is 1) answer all the questions that you easily know, 2) Go back and spend a little more time on the ones you're not sure about, 3) Guess randomly at the ones you simply can't even begin to understand. Reading some of the questions, I had a look on my face like a dog who's just been shown a card trick.
Results are due next week but, frankly, I'm so far beyond caring I could officially register as a nihilist.
**********************
An unexpected side-effect of all this activity, is that by the time yesterday evening arrived, I was an empty shell. You know that kind of detached, unemotional way that you can sometimes sit there and want nothing more than silence and a complete lack of psychological input? That was me.
There was nothing on the TV, I didn't want to watch a movie, I didn't want to do anything. All of which caused me to feel so incredibly grumpy that I wouldn't have been surprised if my foul mood actually physically manifested itself as a thunderstorm or small earthquake.
Imagine an elderly man whose wife is long since dead. His children don't bother with him now that they have their own families and, in any case, his general demeanour doesn't particularly endear him to them or his grandchildren. He has a dog but, instead of providing some measure of pleasing company, it does nothing more than eat, sleep, bark at stupendously aggravating times, and leave coarse, difficult to remove hairs on his furniture and clothing. Imagine that he has been to the shops, discovered that the supermarket is out of Warburton's Toastie bread, there's an extra ten pence on a box of teabags, and 2 out of the 4 onions he has bought have unpleasant brown discolouration in their centres. Trudging home through a fine drizzle which has soaked into his shoes, dampening his threadbare socks, he arrives indoors, takes off his coat, and removes his shoes and socks. Walking into the living room to have a sit down and eat a small beef paste sandwich, he then proceeds to put his bare foot into a cold, wet coil of faeces that his annoying dog has left in the middle of the carpet. As the excrement squishes between his toes and wriggles its way like four slowly waving flatworms through the gaps, he drops his sandwich in horror and the dog, moving with uncommon speed, pounces upon it, tearing into the soft white bread and licking the beef paste from its hairy chops.
Imagine that. Imagine the man. Consider, if you will, the absolute soul-rending hatred, the crushing sadness, the sheer unadulterated fucking grumpiness. Now multiply that by, let's say, infinity. That's how grumpy I felt yesterday.
I'm a bit better this morning though.
**********************
Lots of ideas for Mortal Remains, still all tumbling through my head, although they have been somewhat sidelined because of the course.
However, in an exciting development, I will be meeting up with Mike, the author of the screenplay, to talk through some of the thoughts I have. Hopefully, we can piece together something resembling a structure, allowing me to carry on with the rewrite.
Nothing else to add at the moment on that subject, but I expect there will be plenty to say by the end of this week.
28 March 2009
15 March 2009
The Horror Marathon Continues
I have a cold which means my nose is running like a tap, I'm aching all over and thoroughly bloody miserable.
On the plus side, I've managed to achieve 'Assassin' status on Burnout: Revenge on the xbox 360, so, you know, swings and roundabouts.
My horror marathon continues, having re-watched 'The Ruins' last night.
Fantastic little film that I really like, partly because it has the balls to create the most ridiculous yet unnerving 'monster' that I've seen in quite some time.
The structure is sound, with some half-decent character development.
Tonight, I shall watch either Blood And Black Lace, one of the Giallo genre of movies, or The Whip And The Body. Both are directed by Mario Bava who, according to a chap on Twitter, includes shots of which Hitchcock would have been proud. Praise indeed.
Either that, or I'll re-watch Mirrors instead. Functional, interesting character development and some nasty shocks. One of the better horror movies of recent times, in my opinion.
By the way, if anyone has any recommendations for good horror films, let me know. All comments gratefully received.
On the plus side, I've managed to achieve 'Assassin' status on Burnout: Revenge on the xbox 360, so, you know, swings and roundabouts.
My horror marathon continues, having re-watched 'The Ruins' last night.
Fantastic little film that I really like, partly because it has the balls to create the most ridiculous yet unnerving 'monster' that I've seen in quite some time.
The structure is sound, with some half-decent character development.
Tonight, I shall watch either Blood And Black Lace, one of the Giallo genre of movies, or The Whip And The Body. Both are directed by Mario Bava who, according to a chap on Twitter, includes shots of which Hitchcock would have been proud. Praise indeed.
Either that, or I'll re-watch Mirrors instead. Functional, interesting character development and some nasty shocks. One of the better horror movies of recent times, in my opinion.
By the way, if anyone has any recommendations for good horror films, let me know. All comments gratefully received.
12 March 2009
Horror, Pirates and Brinner.
I've decided that, in an effort to kick-start the creative centre of my brain, I shall watch at least one horror film per night to get myself mentally in shape for the rigours of rewriting Mortal Remains.
I could go and revisit old favourites like An American Werewolf In London or The Thing, which would certainly be a noble pursuit and one which I won't yet discount, but I feel it's necessary to see what's out there at the moment - what's drawing audiences in (or not, as the case may be).
As a side note, American Werewolf only scores 7.5 on IMDB. What madness is this? I was expecting to see an 8 or 9, not a mealy-mouthed 7.5. At least The Thing gets 8.1. Young people today. Tch.
Last night I sat down to watch The Unborn, directed by David S. Goyer.
Goyer is a strange beast. As a writer, his CV is a roller-coaster ride of impressive highs (Dark City, Blade, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight) and disappointing lows (Kick Boxer 2, Demonic Toys, Blade 2, Blade Trinity, Jumper).
As a director, his modest CV is composed of films that you've either never heard of, or desperately wish that you hadn't (Zig Zag, Blade Trinity and The Invisible).
So, with some trepidation, I sat down to watch The Unborn in the hope that it may teach me a few lessons on the art of the horror film.
Lessons were learnt. Well, as many lessons as you can learn in ten minutes, because that's as far as I got before I flicked it off. Straight away, you're plunged into the story of a woman who is seeing and hearing strange things. Occurrences from her dreams bleed into real life, people act oddly around her. But, because it jumps straight in, you never get a chance to see what her normal life is like pre-madness. There's no light or shade and you don't feel anything for her apart from disinterest.
So, the lesson I learnt was, take a little time to explore your characters. Make them real, funny and three-dimensional. That way, when the horror begins, you have the opportunity to make the audience care that little bit more than they would if you just shoved a parade of catalogue-models in front of their faces and offed them in grisly ways. Mortal Remains is a slasher movie, for sure, but hopefully a slasher movie with some class.
In a desperate bid to salvage something from the evening, I then watched Eden Lake.
This is the directorial debut of James Watkins, writer of My Little Eye and Gone, neither of which I'd seen, but they seemed to be half-decent from the comments I'd read. In fairness, I wasn't expecting anything too exciting.
I was very wrong.
Eden Lake was marvellous fun and hugely disconcerting at the same time. Wonderful casting with the younger actors, among whom I recognised Thomas Turgoose from This Is England.
There are some lovely performances from all concerned and the film drags you in directions you don't want to go, especially the dénouement which some people have found intensely annoying, but I thought was absolutely right.
True, the whole thing could be interpreted as "Daily Mail - The Movie!", presenting a horrifying picture of Britain today, but I certainly didn't recognise that. Yes, there are a small percentage of what are called feral kids roaming the streets, but any more than 10, 20 or 30 years ago? I don't think so.
This film certainly presents a vivid example of a lack of parental control taken to its ultimate conclusion, but it's more a vision of the future than a mirror. Think Soylent Green and Silent Running and their obsession with environmental damage and you're on the right lines with this film and its prediction of our immediate societal future.
In any case, it was enormous fun to watch, ticked a lot of 'horror' boxes, and gave me a few things to think about. I'm very glad I watched it.
*****************
I went to see Watchmen last Friday (which I enjoyed immensely, despite never having read Alan Moore's highly lauded graphic novel) and was reminded of what an enormous rip-off the cinema experience is.
After having bought three tickets online for an astounding £8.35 each, I was also charged £3 for having the sheer audacity to use a credit/debit card. I think that Odeon are the only people I've dealt with online in the last few years that still charge for paying by card. But, of course, since their rapid expansion and the closure of smaller, provincial movie theatres, the monopoly is complete and there is now no other choice than to suckle at their swollen teat for cinematic nourishment.
So, for three people, the total came to approximately £25. Once in the cinema (and after having paid nearly a fiver for a medium soft drink and a very small bag of white chocolate mice) we went to our seats. They were, naturally, 'premium'. "No sitting wedged in uncomfortable, restrictive seats with poor leg-room, for me!" I chortled. We then spent the next two and a half hours wedged in uncomfortable, restrictive seats with poor leg-room. And for only an extra £2 each!
Odeon appears to have realised that people will happily pay through the nose for a bit more room, an opportunity to stretch out their legs, and some extra padding 'neath the posterior, so they've taken out all the old-style premium seats and crammed in thinner, less-padded ones with only a few inches of leg-room in front, in order to gain as much revenue as possible, and kind of missing the point in the process. "Soon, all your money will be ours, all ours!", they must have shouted, before going off to drink champagne out of a hooker's belly button.
There is also the perennial problem of 'people who talk in the cinema'. I could write pages and pages about the low-life, ignorant, selfish, fuck-nuggets that chatter incessantly during movies, but I suspect this post would fall off the end of the page, wrap around the back and disappear up its own fundament. So, I shall draw a discreet veil over the matter and, instead, point you to this news article. A man, incensed by some bone-heads yapping during a movie, weighed up the options and decided that the only way to resolve the issue was by pulling out a handgun and shooting one of them.
Seems perfectly reasonable to me.
So, I've paid nearly £10 for an uncomfortable seat where I get to listen to peoples conversations, be distracted by the light of their mobile phone screens which clearly don't have an 'off' button, and listen to famished families munch their way through the loudest food money can buy.
The obvious question is, why put yourself through all that when you can download the film and watch it in the comfort of your own home instead?
It's a good question and, apart from the whole "It's illegal" angle, I can't think of a valid reason why not.
But, yet again, this is where the industry keeps getting things wrong. They overcharge. Whether it be music, books, movies, whatever, they charge too damn much. I recently bought an album called Taoist Priests by Hugo Race And The True Spirit on Play.com. Not wanting to wait for it, I plumped for the downloadable version which, once money had changed hands, was on my laptop within a few minutes. Immediate gratification pleases me.
The trouble is, the physical CD is priced at £8.99, but the download version is £7.95. Wait, what? I can have a physical item, CD, jewel case, booklet, delivered to my door for £9, but it's only a pound cheaper if I download a zip file from a server somewhere. How the hell does that work?
As for movies, if I were to buy, for instance, Saw V from Play, it would cost me £11.99. Wait a few months and it'll be £6.99. A few months more and I might pick it up on sale at £3.99. Why in the name of all things holy can't it be sold for, say, a fiver from day one?
If 100 people see it at £11.99, 95% will pass on by. If 100 people see it at £4.99, 50% will buy it*. You do the maths. The trouble is, the entertainment industry doesn't see it that way. I'm reminded of the character Ichikawa in Martin Scorcese's Casino :
"He bet one thousand a hand instead of his usual thirty thousand a hand. But I knew, the trick with whales like Ichikawa was that they can't bet small for long. He didn't think of it as winning ten thousand, he thought of it as losing ninety thousand."
In my opinion, the reason piracy is so prevalent, is that people have opened their eyes and realised that they're paying too much and alternatives are available. If the entertainment industry was to wise up and offer a reasonable product at a reasonable price, they may just find themselves making more money than ever.
* Not actual figures. Made them up. Probably hugely wrong. Don't care.
********************
Tonight, due to a surfeit of sausages and bacon, I shall be having 'Brinner'.
Is there anything more anarchic than eating breakfast foods at dinnertime? I really feel like I'm sticking it to the man.
Rules are made to be broken.
Live your life.
Remove the yoke of oppression from your neck.
Freedom forever!
Oh and, lastly, brinner FTW!
The excitement of impending bacon may have caused temporary insanity...
I could go and revisit old favourites like An American Werewolf In London or The Thing, which would certainly be a noble pursuit and one which I won't yet discount, but I feel it's necessary to see what's out there at the moment - what's drawing audiences in (or not, as the case may be).
As a side note, American Werewolf only scores 7.5 on IMDB. What madness is this? I was expecting to see an 8 or 9, not a mealy-mouthed 7.5. At least The Thing gets 8.1. Young people today. Tch.
Last night I sat down to watch The Unborn, directed by David S. Goyer.
Goyer is a strange beast. As a writer, his CV is a roller-coaster ride of impressive highs (Dark City, Blade, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight) and disappointing lows (Kick Boxer 2, Demonic Toys, Blade 2, Blade Trinity, Jumper).
As a director, his modest CV is composed of films that you've either never heard of, or desperately wish that you hadn't (Zig Zag, Blade Trinity and The Invisible).
So, with some trepidation, I sat down to watch The Unborn in the hope that it may teach me a few lessons on the art of the horror film.
Lessons were learnt. Well, as many lessons as you can learn in ten minutes, because that's as far as I got before I flicked it off. Straight away, you're plunged into the story of a woman who is seeing and hearing strange things. Occurrences from her dreams bleed into real life, people act oddly around her. But, because it jumps straight in, you never get a chance to see what her normal life is like pre-madness. There's no light or shade and you don't feel anything for her apart from disinterest.
So, the lesson I learnt was, take a little time to explore your characters. Make them real, funny and three-dimensional. That way, when the horror begins, you have the opportunity to make the audience care that little bit more than they would if you just shoved a parade of catalogue-models in front of their faces and offed them in grisly ways. Mortal Remains is a slasher movie, for sure, but hopefully a slasher movie with some class.
In a desperate bid to salvage something from the evening, I then watched Eden Lake.
This is the directorial debut of James Watkins, writer of My Little Eye and Gone, neither of which I'd seen, but they seemed to be half-decent from the comments I'd read. In fairness, I wasn't expecting anything too exciting.
I was very wrong.
Eden Lake was marvellous fun and hugely disconcerting at the same time. Wonderful casting with the younger actors, among whom I recognised Thomas Turgoose from This Is England.
There are some lovely performances from all concerned and the film drags you in directions you don't want to go, especially the dénouement which some people have found intensely annoying, but I thought was absolutely right.
True, the whole thing could be interpreted as "Daily Mail - The Movie!", presenting a horrifying picture of Britain today, but I certainly didn't recognise that. Yes, there are a small percentage of what are called feral kids roaming the streets, but any more than 10, 20 or 30 years ago? I don't think so.
This film certainly presents a vivid example of a lack of parental control taken to its ultimate conclusion, but it's more a vision of the future than a mirror. Think Soylent Green and Silent Running and their obsession with environmental damage and you're on the right lines with this film and its prediction of our immediate societal future.
In any case, it was enormous fun to watch, ticked a lot of 'horror' boxes, and gave me a few things to think about. I'm very glad I watched it.
*****************
I went to see Watchmen last Friday (which I enjoyed immensely, despite never having read Alan Moore's highly lauded graphic novel) and was reminded of what an enormous rip-off the cinema experience is.
After having bought three tickets online for an astounding £8.35 each, I was also charged £3 for having the sheer audacity to use a credit/debit card. I think that Odeon are the only people I've dealt with online in the last few years that still charge for paying by card. But, of course, since their rapid expansion and the closure of smaller, provincial movie theatres, the monopoly is complete and there is now no other choice than to suckle at their swollen teat for cinematic nourishment.
So, for three people, the total came to approximately £25. Once in the cinema (and after having paid nearly a fiver for a medium soft drink and a very small bag of white chocolate mice) we went to our seats. They were, naturally, 'premium'. "No sitting wedged in uncomfortable, restrictive seats with poor leg-room, for me!" I chortled. We then spent the next two and a half hours wedged in uncomfortable, restrictive seats with poor leg-room. And for only an extra £2 each!
Odeon appears to have realised that people will happily pay through the nose for a bit more room, an opportunity to stretch out their legs, and some extra padding 'neath the posterior, so they've taken out all the old-style premium seats and crammed in thinner, less-padded ones with only a few inches of leg-room in front, in order to gain as much revenue as possible, and kind of missing the point in the process. "Soon, all your money will be ours, all ours!", they must have shouted, before going off to drink champagne out of a hooker's belly button.
There is also the perennial problem of 'people who talk in the cinema'. I could write pages and pages about the low-life, ignorant, selfish, fuck-nuggets that chatter incessantly during movies, but I suspect this post would fall off the end of the page, wrap around the back and disappear up its own fundament. So, I shall draw a discreet veil over the matter and, instead, point you to this news article. A man, incensed by some bone-heads yapping during a movie, weighed up the options and decided that the only way to resolve the issue was by pulling out a handgun and shooting one of them.
Seems perfectly reasonable to me.
So, I've paid nearly £10 for an uncomfortable seat where I get to listen to peoples conversations, be distracted by the light of their mobile phone screens which clearly don't have an 'off' button, and listen to famished families munch their way through the loudest food money can buy.
The obvious question is, why put yourself through all that when you can download the film and watch it in the comfort of your own home instead?
It's a good question and, apart from the whole "It's illegal" angle, I can't think of a valid reason why not.
But, yet again, this is where the industry keeps getting things wrong. They overcharge. Whether it be music, books, movies, whatever, they charge too damn much. I recently bought an album called Taoist Priests by Hugo Race And The True Spirit on Play.com. Not wanting to wait for it, I plumped for the downloadable version which, once money had changed hands, was on my laptop within a few minutes. Immediate gratification pleases me.
The trouble is, the physical CD is priced at £8.99, but the download version is £7.95. Wait, what? I can have a physical item, CD, jewel case, booklet, delivered to my door for £9, but it's only a pound cheaper if I download a zip file from a server somewhere. How the hell does that work?
As for movies, if I were to buy, for instance, Saw V from Play, it would cost me £11.99. Wait a few months and it'll be £6.99. A few months more and I might pick it up on sale at £3.99. Why in the name of all things holy can't it be sold for, say, a fiver from day one?
If 100 people see it at £11.99, 95% will pass on by. If 100 people see it at £4.99, 50% will buy it*. You do the maths. The trouble is, the entertainment industry doesn't see it that way. I'm reminded of the character Ichikawa in Martin Scorcese's Casino :
"He bet one thousand a hand instead of his usual thirty thousand a hand. But I knew, the trick with whales like Ichikawa was that they can't bet small for long. He didn't think of it as winning ten thousand, he thought of it as losing ninety thousand."
In my opinion, the reason piracy is so prevalent, is that people have opened their eyes and realised that they're paying too much and alternatives are available. If the entertainment industry was to wise up and offer a reasonable product at a reasonable price, they may just find themselves making more money than ever.
* Not actual figures. Made them up. Probably hugely wrong. Don't care.
********************
Tonight, due to a surfeit of sausages and bacon, I shall be having 'Brinner'.
Is there anything more anarchic than eating breakfast foods at dinnertime? I really feel like I'm sticking it to the man.
Rules are made to be broken.
Live your life.
Remove the yoke of oppression from your neck.
Freedom forever!
Oh and, lastly, brinner FTW!
The excitement of impending bacon may have caused temporary insanity...
8 March 2009
A small update
I haven't updated the blog for a little while now. The reasons are two-fold.
Firstly, I've been very busy with work. In the last few weeks I've been away to Nottingham, Birmingham and Lincoln. Lots of travelling, lots of things to do. This has resulted in little free time.
Secondly, I just couldn't be bothered. Not a major problem, I feel, as nobody reads this anyway. Curse you all and your callous indifference.
Progress on 'Mortal Remains' has been slow, as I continue to throw ideas around in my head on how to make it work better than it does currently.
I think one of the main difficulties is that I don't really watch that many horror films so, as a result, my knowledge of the genre is somewhat limited.
Most horror films follow a pretty simple formula and there isn't a huge amount of room for interesting things like character development or depth. Unfortunately, these are the things that interest me the most.
However, I still aim to complete the rewrite. More actual writing required. Must...start...to...write...
Firstly, I've been very busy with work. In the last few weeks I've been away to Nottingham, Birmingham and Lincoln. Lots of travelling, lots of things to do. This has resulted in little free time.
Secondly, I just couldn't be bothered. Not a major problem, I feel, as nobody reads this anyway. Curse you all and your callous indifference.
Progress on 'Mortal Remains' has been slow, as I continue to throw ideas around in my head on how to make it work better than it does currently.
I think one of the main difficulties is that I don't really watch that many horror films so, as a result, my knowledge of the genre is somewhat limited.
Most horror films follow a pretty simple formula and there isn't a huge amount of room for interesting things like character development or depth. Unfortunately, these are the things that interest me the most.
However, I still aim to complete the rewrite. More actual writing required. Must...start...to...write...
19 February 2009
Talvin Singh, Shoutcast and Media Monkey.
Currently listening to some Talvin Singh, courtesy of Spotify.
Not sure what to make of Spotify yet. I tend to like music applications that present me with random stuff that I wouldn't have otherwise known about. From what I can tell, it doesn't do that. But then I haven't read the instructions for it yet, so maybe I'm talking arse.
I have, however, been very much enjoying some online streaming radio stations courtesy of Shoutcast. In particular, a station called WFMU, recommended to me by a splendid chap on Twitter called RupertG.
If you have the time, I recommend that you download a piece of software called MediaMonkey , then have a look at Shoutcast and see what it has to offer. There are much worse ways of wasting a few hours.
That's it really, I don't have anything else to say at present.
Cheerio.
Not sure what to make of Spotify yet. I tend to like music applications that present me with random stuff that I wouldn't have otherwise known about. From what I can tell, it doesn't do that. But then I haven't read the instructions for it yet, so maybe I'm talking arse.
I have, however, been very much enjoying some online streaming radio stations courtesy of Shoutcast. In particular, a station called WFMU, recommended to me by a splendid chap on Twitter called RupertG.
If you have the time, I recommend that you download a piece of software called MediaMonkey , then have a look at Shoutcast and see what it has to offer. There are much worse ways of wasting a few hours.
That's it really, I don't have anything else to say at present.
Cheerio.
13 February 2009
Write Club, Teddy Says, and the birth of The Gentlemen's Club
About six years ago, while working in an office, I found out that someone a few desks away wrote film screenplays. His name was, and indeed still is, Simon.
In conversation, Simon informed me that he and a few friends were shortly going to be starting a writing club, primarily for fun, and that I should come along. The rules of the writing club were as follows:
1. Every fortnight, the members of the club would meet up.
2. During the meeting, two envelopes would be produced, one containing a wide variety of 'locations' written on scraps of paper, the other containing an equally wide variety of 'MacGuffins', also on scraps of paper.
3. A piece of paper would be drawn from each envelope, creating a random location and random MacGuffin.
4. Each member of the group would then have precisely one week to write a script using these two pieces of information, no more than ten pages in length.
5. Each script would be submitted to the organiser who would then distribute them all amongst the other members.
6. Each member would read that week's scripts and then assign a first, second and third place to the best three.
7. This would continue for ten weeks.
8. The ten winning scripts would then be re-read and voted on one last time.
9. The script with the highest number of votes would be named the winner.
10. The winning script would be produced and directed by one member of the group with access to professional quality filming and editing equipment.
The name of this group of disparate writers was 'Write Club'. I hated the name immediately, but went along with the idea because it seemed like rather a jolly jape.
On one occasion, the location chosen from the envelope was 'a car park' and the MacGuffin was 'a teddy bear'. I submitted an entry entitled 'Teddy Says', and was fortunate enough to be voted that week's winner.
When ten rounds had been completed and we had to choose an ultimate winner, Teddy Says was voted as the best overall and, in accordance with the original scope of the club, would be filmed.
After a series of false starts, Teddy Says went into production. Actors were cast, a location found, and props purchased.
Sadly, there were technical difficulties (mostly caused by the sound-guy who, so I'm told, did an atrocious job) and the footage was unusable. Apparently, a rough cut exists somewhere but I've never seen it.
Thus it was that Teddy Says died an unpleasant death, never to be seen again.
However, it did mean that I became friends with Simon and Mike, two other members of Write Club. It was obvious from reading each other's scripts that we had a number of similarities in style that were pleasing, and a number of dissimilarities which complemented each other nicely.
So, although Teddy Says never happened, something very much more important and valuable came out of the whole exercise: we decided to start working together on a full-length screenplay. I shall soon be explaining how we managed to write an entire screenplay between three of us, whilst maintaining a consistent voice. There will also be the full, unexpurgated tale of how The Gentlemen's Club was born, lived and died, all in a couple of years.
For any budding writers out there, I strongly suggest that you involve yourself in some sort of writing club. It can be a fantastic way to meet new people and practice your craft. More importantly, a little competition amongst like-minded people can be a wonderful way to get the creative juices flowing.
For those of you who are curious, I've uploaded the Teddy Says short script, just for the hell of it. Please bear in mind that I've just re-read it for the first time in about 4 years and it's made me cringe. There are many, many things that I'd love to change about it, but that would be cheating wouldn't it?
So, for your reading pleasure, here's the link to the Teddy Says PDF.
In conversation, Simon informed me that he and a few friends were shortly going to be starting a writing club, primarily for fun, and that I should come along. The rules of the writing club were as follows:
1. Every fortnight, the members of the club would meet up.
2. During the meeting, two envelopes would be produced, one containing a wide variety of 'locations' written on scraps of paper, the other containing an equally wide variety of 'MacGuffins', also on scraps of paper.
3. A piece of paper would be drawn from each envelope, creating a random location and random MacGuffin.
4. Each member of the group would then have precisely one week to write a script using these two pieces of information, no more than ten pages in length.
5. Each script would be submitted to the organiser who would then distribute them all amongst the other members.
6. Each member would read that week's scripts and then assign a first, second and third place to the best three.
7. This would continue for ten weeks.
8. The ten winning scripts would then be re-read and voted on one last time.
9. The script with the highest number of votes would be named the winner.
10. The winning script would be produced and directed by one member of the group with access to professional quality filming and editing equipment.
The name of this group of disparate writers was 'Write Club'. I hated the name immediately, but went along with the idea because it seemed like rather a jolly jape.
On one occasion, the location chosen from the envelope was 'a car park' and the MacGuffin was 'a teddy bear'. I submitted an entry entitled 'Teddy Says', and was fortunate enough to be voted that week's winner.
When ten rounds had been completed and we had to choose an ultimate winner, Teddy Says was voted as the best overall and, in accordance with the original scope of the club, would be filmed.
After a series of false starts, Teddy Says went into production. Actors were cast, a location found, and props purchased.
Sadly, there were technical difficulties (mostly caused by the sound-guy who, so I'm told, did an atrocious job) and the footage was unusable. Apparently, a rough cut exists somewhere but I've never seen it.
Thus it was that Teddy Says died an unpleasant death, never to be seen again.
However, it did mean that I became friends with Simon and Mike, two other members of Write Club. It was obvious from reading each other's scripts that we had a number of similarities in style that were pleasing, and a number of dissimilarities which complemented each other nicely.
So, although Teddy Says never happened, something very much more important and valuable came out of the whole exercise: we decided to start working together on a full-length screenplay. I shall soon be explaining how we managed to write an entire screenplay between three of us, whilst maintaining a consistent voice. There will also be the full, unexpurgated tale of how The Gentlemen's Club was born, lived and died, all in a couple of years.
For any budding writers out there, I strongly suggest that you involve yourself in some sort of writing club. It can be a fantastic way to meet new people and practice your craft. More importantly, a little competition amongst like-minded people can be a wonderful way to get the creative juices flowing.
For those of you who are curious, I've uploaded the Teddy Says short script, just for the hell of it. Please bear in mind that I've just re-read it for the first time in about 4 years and it's made me cringe. There are many, many things that I'd love to change about it, but that would be cheating wouldn't it?
So, for your reading pleasure, here's the link to the Teddy Says PDF.
Twitter, strangers on a train, and Peter Serafinowicz.
I'm new to Twitter and haven't quite become comfortable with it yet. It confuses me greatly, and here's why.
Stephen Fry, the Twitter poster-boy, makes a comment like "Home. Fast falls the eventide and so forth. Time for a little voddie in the bathtub" and many thousands of people instantly read this via PC, laptop, mobile, etc, and are INTERESTED in hearing it.
Why?
A man who many of them will never meet, has announced that he's going to have a drink and a bath, they're pleased to received this nugget of information via the technology of their choice, and I DON'T KNOW WHY!
What is of even more concern, is that I'm a follower of Fry's tweets and I was also interested. What's happening? Since when did a stranger's life become something to read about in 140-character segments?
I don't understand Twitter. I don't understand what it's for, or why it's so bloody addictive. I demand explanations.
Strangely, I was on the train to Nottingham on Wednesday afternoon, and sent out a tweet saying, "Cattle class train from St Pancras to Nottingham. Dirty, scruffy and perfectly unpleasant. I miss 1st class."
Checking my phone about ten minutes later, I'd received the following reply from a complete stranger, "Rablenkov I am on the same train - A23 - the guy with the laptop setup -"
Several thoughts tumbled through my mind in rapid succession: 1) Is this some sort of chat-up line? Have I stumbled into the sordid world of same-sex Twitter dating?, 2) No, obviously not, the guy is just doing what Twitter's all about - social networking, and finally, 3) Will he suggest meeting up for a coffee and a chat?
At first, I was greatly concerned by this new development but, after a few messages back and forth, we went our separate ways and the universe returned to normal, slightly shaken but otherwise unharmed.
It was an exceedingly odd experience. Furthermore, I couldn't help thinking that if the poor chap had been sitting directly opposite me and suddenly said, "How are you? Having a good day?", I may well have yelped, fumbled in my jacket pocket for a can of pepper spray and shouted "Somebody help me, I'm being engaged in friendly conversation against my will!"
That's the odd thing about Twitter - you'll happily chat to someone or tell a group of random strangers what you're doing right at that moment, but if a living, breathing, sitting-in-front-of-you person tries to talk to you in real life, you're rather more likely to engage them in a bout of fisticuffs than a conversation.
I'm sure there's some deeper point behind all this, but for the life of me I can't think what it is. Far too busy having fun drinking this brandy.
On an unrelated note, I saw the excellent Peter Serafinowicz at St. Pancras station on Wednesday, with his wife Sarah Alexander. For a brief moment, I contemplated approaching him and saying something along the lines of "I'm a huge fan of yours. Just wanted to say hi", but then I realised that it would make me look like a massive cock.
I walked away instead, self-respect intact, not feeling like a complete and utter spanner.
Other things have happened over the last couple of days, but most of it has been so mediocre that even a healthy dose of outrage and 'humour' couldn't save it from being crushingly tedious.
My next post shall be about writing.
Stephen Fry, the Twitter poster-boy, makes a comment like "Home. Fast falls the eventide and so forth. Time for a little voddie in the bathtub" and many thousands of people instantly read this via PC, laptop, mobile, etc, and are INTERESTED in hearing it.
Why?
A man who many of them will never meet, has announced that he's going to have a drink and a bath, they're pleased to received this nugget of information via the technology of their choice, and I DON'T KNOW WHY!
What is of even more concern, is that I'm a follower of Fry's tweets and I was also interested. What's happening? Since when did a stranger's life become something to read about in 140-character segments?
I don't understand Twitter. I don't understand what it's for, or why it's so bloody addictive. I demand explanations.
Strangely, I was on the train to Nottingham on Wednesday afternoon, and sent out a tweet saying, "Cattle class train from St Pancras to Nottingham. Dirty, scruffy and perfectly unpleasant. I miss 1st class."
Checking my phone about ten minutes later, I'd received the following reply from a complete stranger, "Rablenkov I am on the same train - A23 - the guy with the laptop setup -"
Several thoughts tumbled through my mind in rapid succession: 1) Is this some sort of chat-up line? Have I stumbled into the sordid world of same-sex Twitter dating?, 2) No, obviously not, the guy is just doing what Twitter's all about - social networking, and finally, 3) Will he suggest meeting up for a coffee and a chat?
At first, I was greatly concerned by this new development but, after a few messages back and forth, we went our separate ways and the universe returned to normal, slightly shaken but otherwise unharmed.
It was an exceedingly odd experience. Furthermore, I couldn't help thinking that if the poor chap had been sitting directly opposite me and suddenly said, "How are you? Having a good day?", I may well have yelped, fumbled in my jacket pocket for a can of pepper spray and shouted "Somebody help me, I'm being engaged in friendly conversation against my will!"
That's the odd thing about Twitter - you'll happily chat to someone or tell a group of random strangers what you're doing right at that moment, but if a living, breathing, sitting-in-front-of-you person tries to talk to you in real life, you're rather more likely to engage them in a bout of fisticuffs than a conversation.
I'm sure there's some deeper point behind all this, but for the life of me I can't think what it is. Far too busy having fun drinking this brandy.
On an unrelated note, I saw the excellent Peter Serafinowicz at St. Pancras station on Wednesday, with his wife Sarah Alexander. For a brief moment, I contemplated approaching him and saying something along the lines of "I'm a huge fan of yours. Just wanted to say hi", but then I realised that it would make me look like a massive cock.
I walked away instead, self-respect intact, not feeling like a complete and utter spanner.
Other things have happened over the last couple of days, but most of it has been so mediocre that even a healthy dose of outrage and 'humour' couldn't save it from being crushingly tedious.
My next post shall be about writing.
12 February 2009
Ideas, ideas, lots of ideas.
This is being written on my G1 phone, so will contain none of the usual whizzbangery that has been my stock in trade since, well, about two posts ago.
I've had a few ideas tumbling around in my head the last day or two. These have now solidified into some pending action.
I shall be spending my next few posts talking about how The Gentlemen's Club script came to be., and how it came to not be. It shall be a tale of touching innocence and crass stupidity. Stay tuned.
It's now snowing in Nottingham and I continue to be without proper net access. It's immensely frustrating. Thank goodness for this phone which allows me to experience the goodness of the web in miniature, headache-inducing form.
Back home tomorrow night, thank Jebus. Looking forward to a large brandy, some proper coffee and indoor smoking.
I am a man of simple pleasures.
Also, there shall be talk of how myself, Simon and Mike came to form a writing partnership.
Oh, in this blog are such delights...
I've had a few ideas tumbling around in my head the last day or two. These have now solidified into some pending action.
I shall be spending my next few posts talking about how The Gentlemen's Club script came to be., and how it came to not be. It shall be a tale of touching innocence and crass stupidity. Stay tuned.
It's now snowing in Nottingham and I continue to be without proper net access. It's immensely frustrating. Thank goodness for this phone which allows me to experience the goodness of the web in miniature, headache-inducing form.
Back home tomorrow night, thank Jebus. Looking forward to a large brandy, some proper coffee and indoor smoking.
I am a man of simple pleasures.
Also, there shall be talk of how myself, Simon and Mike came to form a writing partnership.
Oh, in this blog are such delights...
9 February 2009
The House At The Edge Of The Woods
Via the magic of e-mail, I now have in my possession the full script of The House At The Edge Of The Woods (what on Earth was Mike thinking when he gave it that title?)
Additionally, he has furnished me with an alternate opening that he couldn't make work, and a couple of previous versions of the script back when it was called 'Mortal Remains'. (Actually, I think I might go back to that title, is has a certain ring to it.)
This means that I can now immerse myself in the script in all its various forms, find out what works and what doesn't, do a bit of mixing and matching, and insert my own take on the entire thing.
I'm actually rather excited about it. It feels good to be embarking on a writing project once again.
In a brief e-mail conversation with Mike, we've decided that once this collaboration is complete, we'll have a chat about working together on a couple more projects, one called "Malzburg's Last Theorem" and another simply entitled "A".
"Malzburg's Last Theorem" is an intriguing concept which I won't go into just yet, but it has shades of William Peter Blatty's "The Ninth Configuration". I think it has enormous potential.
"A" is a different kettle of fish entirely. If I recall correctly (because we originally discussed it some time ago) it deals with the concept of isolation. At one time, I was doing research into the phenomenon of acute social withdrawal which, in Japan, has been given the name Hikikomori.
Again, I think this has the potential to be something rather special.
But, for now, I must warm up my writing muscles with some rather lighter fayre. Thus, I immerse myself in the world of teen horror. With a twist...
On a separate note, I've been thinking lately about The Gentlemen's Club. At present, it's languishing on a couple of hard-drives somewhere, unloved and unwanted. We should really put our minds to sending it out there again.
In the meantime, I'm considering putting a few choice excerpts from it on this blog. Not quite a serialisation, but just enough for people to get a flavour of it.
I'll cogitate on the idea for a bit longer.
Additionally, he has furnished me with an alternate opening that he couldn't make work, and a couple of previous versions of the script back when it was called 'Mortal Remains'. (Actually, I think I might go back to that title, is has a certain ring to it.)
This means that I can now immerse myself in the script in all its various forms, find out what works and what doesn't, do a bit of mixing and matching, and insert my own take on the entire thing.
I'm actually rather excited about it. It feels good to be embarking on a writing project once again.
In a brief e-mail conversation with Mike, we've decided that once this collaboration is complete, we'll have a chat about working together on a couple more projects, one called "Malzburg's Last Theorem" and another simply entitled "A".
"Malzburg's Last Theorem" is an intriguing concept which I won't go into just yet, but it has shades of William Peter Blatty's "The Ninth Configuration". I think it has enormous potential.
"A" is a different kettle of fish entirely. If I recall correctly (because we originally discussed it some time ago) it deals with the concept of isolation. At one time, I was doing research into the phenomenon of acute social withdrawal which, in Japan, has been given the name Hikikomori.
Again, I think this has the potential to be something rather special.
But, for now, I must warm up my writing muscles with some rather lighter fayre. Thus, I immerse myself in the world of teen horror. With a twist...
On a separate note, I've been thinking lately about The Gentlemen's Club. At present, it's languishing on a couple of hard-drives somewhere, unloved and unwanted. We should really put our minds to sending it out there again.
In the meantime, I'm considering putting a few choice excerpts from it on this blog. Not quite a serialisation, but just enough for people to get a flavour of it.
I'll cogitate on the idea for a bit longer.
7 February 2009
A missed opportunity.
I've just spent the best part of an hour reading back through some of my previous posts, removing the occasional ill-considered line here and there, and completely deleting some posts to either protect the innocent or hide my shame.
Annoyingly, two technological marvels that I proposed in December 2004 and May 2006 respectively have both now been produced, and I've received no credit whatsoever.
In one post, I spoke about the artificial flavouring of cigarettes and how this could be a very good thing. These are now being made, kind of, by The Electronic Cigarette Company. You too can enjoy a soothing nicotine hit with the flavour of coconut, chocolate, vanilla, cherry or a number of other varieties.
In another post, I conceived of a piece of software called Drunksense which would prevent you from making idiotic drunken blog posts in the middle of the night. The following application has been written for the Android platform: "DrunkBlocker for the Google Android Phone is an application that can block phone numbers to keep you from calling the wrong person at the wrong time. If you do not want to call the wrong person when you are drunk, this is for you!"
Although the link between my original ideas and the finished products are somewhat tenuous, I demand royalties.
Annoyingly, two technological marvels that I proposed in December 2004 and May 2006 respectively have both now been produced, and I've received no credit whatsoever.
In one post, I spoke about the artificial flavouring of cigarettes and how this could be a very good thing. These are now being made, kind of, by The Electronic Cigarette Company. You too can enjoy a soothing nicotine hit with the flavour of coconut, chocolate, vanilla, cherry or a number of other varieties.
In another post, I conceived of a piece of software called Drunksense which would prevent you from making idiotic drunken blog posts in the middle of the night. The following application has been written for the Android platform: "DrunkBlocker for the Google Android Phone is an application that can block phone numbers to keep you from calling the wrong person at the wrong time. If you do not want to call the wrong person when you are drunk, this is for you!"
Although the link between my original ideas and the finished products are somewhat tenuous, I demand royalties.
How to beat writers block, the Warren Ellis way.
Ever since The Gentlemen's Club and it's torturous rise to obscurity, I've had a bit of a problem writing.
I have, over the last couple of years, embarked on a few different projects, most of which involved much researching, reading, note-taking and the like, but very little in the way of actual writing. Procrastination became my constant companion.
Indeed, this was summed up nicely by some research I was doing for someone else's script, on the psychological effects of space travel. As mentioned here, studies have shown that people "begin confinement with every intention of engaging in creative activities such as writing, completing a project, or accomplishing some serious reading. These worthwhile goals rarely are achieved, or even attempted. Instead, most hours of confinement are spent in time-marking activities such as solitaire".
I am living proof, if such was needed, of the veracity of the above statement, having become a devoted prisoner of Stumbleupon, which I love and detest in almost equal measure, and an expert on all manner of online games.
All the while, I gaily cantered about researching a large number of topics, scribbling notes furiously, and steadfastly refusing to accept that I simply wasn't able to write anymore.
That was until I came across a YouTube video of Warren Ellis answering a question about writer's block. In it he says, "Writer's block? I've heard of this. This is when a writer cannot write, yes? That's the one? Then that person isn't a writer anymore, is he? I'm sorry but the job is getting up in the morning and fucking writing. If you get up in the morning and you can't write then you're something else, obviously. Common sense right? You're a gardener or someone who watches television. You're that guy who scratches his arse for a living."
Sage words which rather rocked me back on my heels. In a wonderful moment of Damascene revelation, I realised that I simply wasn't a writer! It was fantastic.
Suddenly, I was torn free from the shackles of writer's block. I was unable to actually write anything, but it no longer bothered me. After all, I'm clearly not a writer.
Of course, this allowed me to devote rather more time to Stumbling, playing games, smoking and drinking vodka, so it was undoubtedly a good thing, right?
A few weeks back, I was given a hardcopy of a horror script penned by Mike Burry, one of the co-authors of The Gentlemen's Club. It was a generic teen horror called The House At The Edge Of The Woods.
I read it and immediately saw ways in which it could be improved - mostly in relation to the dialogue. But, of course, to make such changes I would have to be a writer. And I'm not.
But, the pages kept turning in my head, and little bits of dialogue kept popping in there. Eventually, I sat down to make some notes for improvement, and suddenly found myself opening up the document and rewriting it. In two and a half hours, I'd rewritten the final 20 pages.
This was duly presented to Mike who was very pleased with the results and asked me, over a few pints of Speckled Hen, whether I'd be interested in doing a rewrite of the entire thing.
I agreed.
So, there we have it. I am now a writer once again. At least I will be when Mike returns from holiday and sends me the damn thing via e-mail.
Warren Ellis was right. If you can't write, you ain't a writer. If you can, you are. There is no writers block; there is no middle ground. You either do it or you don't.
I am, once again, invigorated and enthused, and looking forward to getting my teeth into The House At The Edge Of The Woods.
The first thing I plan to do is change the bloody title.
I have, over the last couple of years, embarked on a few different projects, most of which involved much researching, reading, note-taking and the like, but very little in the way of actual writing. Procrastination became my constant companion.
Indeed, this was summed up nicely by some research I was doing for someone else's script, on the psychological effects of space travel. As mentioned here, studies have shown that people "begin confinement with every intention of engaging in creative activities such as writing, completing a project, or accomplishing some serious reading. These worthwhile goals rarely are achieved, or even attempted. Instead, most hours of confinement are spent in time-marking activities such as solitaire".
I am living proof, if such was needed, of the veracity of the above statement, having become a devoted prisoner of Stumbleupon, which I love and detest in almost equal measure, and an expert on all manner of online games.
All the while, I gaily cantered about researching a large number of topics, scribbling notes furiously, and steadfastly refusing to accept that I simply wasn't able to write anymore.
That was until I came across a YouTube video of Warren Ellis answering a question about writer's block. In it he says, "Writer's block? I've heard of this. This is when a writer cannot write, yes? That's the one? Then that person isn't a writer anymore, is he? I'm sorry but the job is getting up in the morning and fucking writing. If you get up in the morning and you can't write then you're something else, obviously. Common sense right? You're a gardener or someone who watches television. You're that guy who scratches his arse for a living."
Sage words which rather rocked me back on my heels. In a wonderful moment of Damascene revelation, I realised that I simply wasn't a writer! It was fantastic.
Suddenly, I was torn free from the shackles of writer's block. I was unable to actually write anything, but it no longer bothered me. After all, I'm clearly not a writer.
Of course, this allowed me to devote rather more time to Stumbling, playing games, smoking and drinking vodka, so it was undoubtedly a good thing, right?
A few weeks back, I was given a hardcopy of a horror script penned by Mike Burry, one of the co-authors of The Gentlemen's Club. It was a generic teen horror called The House At The Edge Of The Woods.
I read it and immediately saw ways in which it could be improved - mostly in relation to the dialogue. But, of course, to make such changes I would have to be a writer. And I'm not.
But, the pages kept turning in my head, and little bits of dialogue kept popping in there. Eventually, I sat down to make some notes for improvement, and suddenly found myself opening up the document and rewriting it. In two and a half hours, I'd rewritten the final 20 pages.
This was duly presented to Mike who was very pleased with the results and asked me, over a few pints of Speckled Hen, whether I'd be interested in doing a rewrite of the entire thing.
I agreed.
So, there we have it. I am now a writer once again. At least I will be when Mike returns from holiday and sends me the damn thing via e-mail.
Warren Ellis was right. If you can't write, you ain't a writer. If you can, you are. There is no writers block; there is no middle ground. You either do it or you don't.
I am, once again, invigorated and enthused, and looking forward to getting my teeth into The House At The Edge Of The Woods.
The first thing I plan to do is change the bloody title.
31 January 2009
Confession
Father forgive me for I have sinned. It has been over a year and a half since my last confession.
Not that it really matters. There was only ever a limited, rather muted readership for my blog and I seriously doubt that anybody's life has been any the poorer for my lack of tedious, uninspiring, tawdry ramblings.
But, having said that, it is time for me to return! Hurrah and hurroo.
I won't bother with the usual "so what's been happening?" nonsense, as it really would be very boring indeed. Suffice to say, I am still single, still in the same job, still struggling with the usual existential problems.
Instead, I will explain how I am here today.
For the last three weeks, a trip to the pub has been planned. My boss, bless him, arranged a visit to a local hostelry so we could all sup, chat and generally have a wonderful time. It was planned for payday. I looked forward to it.
Come the big day, I arrived at the pub, spent four hours there drinking a pint of ale and three large vodka's, and eventually came to the conclusion that I wasn't going to to get at all drunk. Don't you hate that? When you're in good company, with copious boozage, but are completely unable to actually get drunk.
Five o'clock arrived and I decided to cut my losses and leave. With a brief visit to the supermarket for sustenance, I arrived at home, ate a sandwich, surfed the net for half an hour and then promptly went to bed. For the first time in ages I was starting to feel depressed. Not the normal, "God I'm bored" depressed, but the worrying chemical-imbalance, bi-polar depressed. This concerned me greatly as I've been clear of it for some months now.
I awoke at 2 a.m. refreshed and eager to consume the bottle of vodka that I bought in Sainsburys.
So, I find myself here at 5 a.m. slightly tipsy, but far from drunk.
There will be more blogness coming soon but, for now, this is merely a brief visitation to what once was my online psychotherapeutic outlet.
Not that it really matters. There was only ever a limited, rather muted readership for my blog and I seriously doubt that anybody's life has been any the poorer for my lack of tedious, uninspiring, tawdry ramblings.
But, having said that, it is time for me to return! Hurrah and hurroo.
I won't bother with the usual "so what's been happening?" nonsense, as it really would be very boring indeed. Suffice to say, I am still single, still in the same job, still struggling with the usual existential problems.
Instead, I will explain how I am here today.
For the last three weeks, a trip to the pub has been planned. My boss, bless him, arranged a visit to a local hostelry so we could all sup, chat and generally have a wonderful time. It was planned for payday. I looked forward to it.
Come the big day, I arrived at the pub, spent four hours there drinking a pint of ale and three large vodka's, and eventually came to the conclusion that I wasn't going to to get at all drunk. Don't you hate that? When you're in good company, with copious boozage, but are completely unable to actually get drunk.
Five o'clock arrived and I decided to cut my losses and leave. With a brief visit to the supermarket for sustenance, I arrived at home, ate a sandwich, surfed the net for half an hour and then promptly went to bed. For the first time in ages I was starting to feel depressed. Not the normal, "God I'm bored" depressed, but the worrying chemical-imbalance, bi-polar depressed. This concerned me greatly as I've been clear of it for some months now.
I awoke at 2 a.m. refreshed and eager to consume the bottle of vodka that I bought in Sainsburys.
So, I find myself here at 5 a.m. slightly tipsy, but far from drunk.
There will be more blogness coming soon but, for now, this is merely a brief visitation to what once was my online psychotherapeutic outlet.
2 May 2007
The Gentlemen's Club is now closed for business...
Today, I received an e-mail from the film Director who had taken out a 2-year option on the 'Gentlemen's Club' script.
It looks like it ain't happening and has been dropped from their slate.
A disappointing day.
It looks like it ain't happening and has been dropped from their slate.
A disappointing day.
5 February 2007
So, what's been happening then...
I'm in a blogging mood today. Don't know why, don't particularly care. That's the beauty of the internet - it can't be explained, caged or...a third thing. If I think of the third thing I'll edit this later.
So, what have I been up to?
I am currently enjoying the extreme discomfort of 'the ex' due to events that unfolded last night which, out of respect for her, I will not go in to. Suffice to say - I actually won! For once I was the victor! Of course, this will not last. Such is the way of things between men and women. We are destined to lose every argument, every discussion, every difference of opinion. For women, there is no "we'll agree to disagree", there is simply 'winning'. And they're bloody good at it. So, for now, I am wallowing in my self-righteousness. As I said, it won't last.
It's half past midnight and I'm wide awake, low on cigarettes and short of booze. Never a good thing. I'm also listening to a downloaded song by Charlotte Hatherley. She's great.
So, for those of you who could give a rat's arse, here is the current update.
Work: Utter crap. Fed up with it.
Love life: Ha ha ha.
Writing: Having arrived at the decision that myself, Mike and Simon will not work together on another script at this time (see here for details of our last venture: http://www.zenfilms.com/GC/index.htm) I'm now working on a solo project. I've decided to resurrect my Art Forger script. I'm pretty fired up about it, although I'm taking it slowly so as not to become disillusioned too much when it doesn't work out the way I want it to on the first draft. Such is the life of 'the writer'.
Apart from that, everything is pretty much the same as it was six months ago. And the six months before that.
I'm positive about the future, which is slightly worrying. Whenever everything seems to be trotting along reasonably well, you can guarantee that's when it'll go horribly wrong.
So, what have I been up to?
I am currently enjoying the extreme discomfort of 'the ex' due to events that unfolded last night which, out of respect for her, I will not go in to. Suffice to say - I actually won! For once I was the victor! Of course, this will not last. Such is the way of things between men and women. We are destined to lose every argument, every discussion, every difference of opinion. For women, there is no "we'll agree to disagree", there is simply 'winning'. And they're bloody good at it. So, for now, I am wallowing in my self-righteousness. As I said, it won't last.
It's half past midnight and I'm wide awake, low on cigarettes and short of booze. Never a good thing. I'm also listening to a downloaded song by Charlotte Hatherley. She's great.
So, for those of you who could give a rat's arse, here is the current update.
Work: Utter crap. Fed up with it.
Love life: Ha ha ha.
Writing: Having arrived at the decision that myself, Mike and Simon will not work together on another script at this time (see here for details of our last venture: http://www.zenfilms.com/GC/index.htm) I'm now working on a solo project. I've decided to resurrect my Art Forger script. I'm pretty fired up about it, although I'm taking it slowly so as not to become disillusioned too much when it doesn't work out the way I want it to on the first draft. Such is the life of 'the writer'.
Apart from that, everything is pretty much the same as it was six months ago. And the six months before that.
I'm positive about the future, which is slightly worrying. Whenever everything seems to be trotting along reasonably well, you can guarantee that's when it'll go horribly wrong.
21 November 2006
I have made a comic strip
Verily, I bring you goodness. Enjoy.
My comic strip - http://www.monkeydyne.com/rmcs/opencomic.phtml?rowid=102791
Make your own - http://www.monkeydyne.com/rmcs/buildmeat.html
Yes, I am bored almost beyond human endurance. But putting the 'C' word in a comic strip has filled my black little heart with joy.
My comic strip - http://www.monkeydyne.com/rmcs/opencomic.phtml?rowid=102791
Make your own - http://www.monkeydyne.com/rmcs/buildmeat.html
Yes, I am bored almost beyond human endurance. But putting the 'C' word in a comic strip has filled my black little heart with joy.
29 October 2006
Doing Nothing
I have decided to do nothing.
At first glance, this may seem like a rather straightforward decision to make and an easily achievable goal. After all, you would think that doing nothing merely involves the sustained and protracted absence of doing something.
You would be both wrong and a naive simpleton. The reality is infinitely more complex than it would first appear.
To truly do nothing is to embrace a philosophical position rooted largely in the fundamental concept of nihilism.
Consider for a moment the widely held perception of doing nothing. To most, this would involve, perhaps, sitting in an armchair staring at the wall.
You are, of course, not 'doing nothing'. You are doing something. You are sitting in an armchair staring at the wall.
Say we remove the armchair from this equation and instead lay on the floor with our eyes closed. You are no longer sitting in an armchair. You are no longer staring at the wall.
Are you doing nothing?
No. You are lying on the floor. And you are also keeping your eyes closed.
We can see that this is not going to work on a conscious level.
What about the suspension of conscious thought? Would a temporary cessation of higher brain functionality result in the subject adopting, to all intents and purposes, a state of mental and spiritual inactivity, and accordingly achieving the much sought after state of 'doing nothing'?
Of course it bloody wouldn't. Our brain keeps our lungs operating, our heart pumps blood around our body. Random thoughts and ideas scatter through our synapses, snapping and crackling like a bowl of rice-based breakfast cereal.
It is, in essence, extremely difficult to do 'nothing'.
Having given the matter some thought, I had come to the initial, potentially naive, conclusion that the only way we can truly do nothing is to be dead. To cease to exist.
However, by ceasing to exist, we no longer have the capacity to make a free choice. So, therefore, it is not a measured and considered determination on our part to do nothing, but rather an unconditional mandate. Death equals nothing. It does not equal 'doing nothing'.
Truly, doing nothing is not as easy as it appears to the uninitiated.
I'm going to start small. I'm not doing the washing up.
At first glance, this may seem like a rather straightforward decision to make and an easily achievable goal. After all, you would think that doing nothing merely involves the sustained and protracted absence of doing something.
You would be both wrong and a naive simpleton. The reality is infinitely more complex than it would first appear.
To truly do nothing is to embrace a philosophical position rooted largely in the fundamental concept of nihilism.
Consider for a moment the widely held perception of doing nothing. To most, this would involve, perhaps, sitting in an armchair staring at the wall.
You are, of course, not 'doing nothing'. You are doing something. You are sitting in an armchair staring at the wall.
Say we remove the armchair from this equation and instead lay on the floor with our eyes closed. You are no longer sitting in an armchair. You are no longer staring at the wall.
Are you doing nothing?
No. You are lying on the floor. And you are also keeping your eyes closed.
We can see that this is not going to work on a conscious level.
What about the suspension of conscious thought? Would a temporary cessation of higher brain functionality result in the subject adopting, to all intents and purposes, a state of mental and spiritual inactivity, and accordingly achieving the much sought after state of 'doing nothing'?
Of course it bloody wouldn't. Our brain keeps our lungs operating, our heart pumps blood around our body. Random thoughts and ideas scatter through our synapses, snapping and crackling like a bowl of rice-based breakfast cereal.
It is, in essence, extremely difficult to do 'nothing'.
Having given the matter some thought, I had come to the initial, potentially naive, conclusion that the only way we can truly do nothing is to be dead. To cease to exist.
However, by ceasing to exist, we no longer have the capacity to make a free choice. So, therefore, it is not a measured and considered determination on our part to do nothing, but rather an unconditional mandate. Death equals nothing. It does not equal 'doing nothing'.
Truly, doing nothing is not as easy as it appears to the uninitiated.
I'm going to start small. I'm not doing the washing up.
29 September 2006
Chapter 4 - The Arrival
The plane touches down gently at Bangkok airport at 7 a.m. Back home in England, it is Midnight which means we have been travelling, all told, for 18 hours. Six thousand miles. I didn't realise it was that far. In fact, another few thousand miles and I'd be in Australia which appears to be a hop, skip and jump on the map. Obviously, I won't be going to Australia. Mostly because I don't like Australians, but that's another story.
We get out at the airport and I retrieve my cigarettes. Almost 20 hours without smoking and I suddenly realise that my craving for tobacco has completely disappeared. For a moment I consider quitting. Just throw them away, you don't need them. No more coughing, no more random, terrifying chest pains, no more drunken missions to the 24-hour garage at 3 in the morning. Be free! Kill the beast! Toss the monkey from your back!
I suddenly remember that cigarettes here are a fifth of the price of those in the UK and decide it would be a terrible waste not to avail myself of such a bargain. Chuckling and shaking my head as the cigarette monkey wheezily clambers back up onto my shoulders once more, I light up. Bliss.
An hour and a half taxi-ride later, during which I sleep fitfully, we arrive in Pattaya.
My brother suggested we spend a week here for rest and relaxation before doing a little travelling. He warned me that there was an element of prostitution here in some of the bars, so I was prepared for it.
I think it's fair to say that he slightly undersold the position.
Pattaya is, pretty much, prosititute central. The place is heaving with them. I thought perhaps it was confined to a few seedy bars but, as ever, I was badly wrong. Very badly wrong. So badly wrong that I doubt whether I could have been any more wrong. Badly.
In actual fact, it's something of the opposite of my initial belief. There are a few bars that aren't prostitute watering holes, and these are generally filled with men that have picked up a lady somewhere else and decided to take her to somewhere a little more refined.
It's a culture shock.
But, more importantly, the drink is cheap, the food is good - although I'm eating on average 1 small meal a day because it's too hot here - and I could be at work. But I'm not. I'm 6,000 miles away from work and bills and everything that usually makes my life a misery. So, what is there to be miserable about?
Oh, one more thing. Every time I walk past a bar, there is a chorus of young women, all leaning towards me and shouting "Hello, sexy man! Hello!".
The women here have excellent taste and I applaud them for it.
We get out at the airport and I retrieve my cigarettes. Almost 20 hours without smoking and I suddenly realise that my craving for tobacco has completely disappeared. For a moment I consider quitting. Just throw them away, you don't need them. No more coughing, no more random, terrifying chest pains, no more drunken missions to the 24-hour garage at 3 in the morning. Be free! Kill the beast! Toss the monkey from your back!
I suddenly remember that cigarettes here are a fifth of the price of those in the UK and decide it would be a terrible waste not to avail myself of such a bargain. Chuckling and shaking my head as the cigarette monkey wheezily clambers back up onto my shoulders once more, I light up. Bliss.
An hour and a half taxi-ride later, during which I sleep fitfully, we arrive in Pattaya.
My brother suggested we spend a week here for rest and relaxation before doing a little travelling. He warned me that there was an element of prostitution here in some of the bars, so I was prepared for it.
I think it's fair to say that he slightly undersold the position.
Pattaya is, pretty much, prosititute central. The place is heaving with them. I thought perhaps it was confined to a few seedy bars but, as ever, I was badly wrong. Very badly wrong. So badly wrong that I doubt whether I could have been any more wrong. Badly.
In actual fact, it's something of the opposite of my initial belief. There are a few bars that aren't prostitute watering holes, and these are generally filled with men that have picked up a lady somewhere else and decided to take her to somewhere a little more refined.
It's a culture shock.
But, more importantly, the drink is cheap, the food is good - although I'm eating on average 1 small meal a day because it's too hot here - and I could be at work. But I'm not. I'm 6,000 miles away from work and bills and everything that usually makes my life a misery. So, what is there to be miserable about?
Oh, one more thing. Every time I walk past a bar, there is a chorus of young women, all leaning towards me and shouting "Hello, sexy man! Hello!".
The women here have excellent taste and I applaud them for it.
24 September 2006
Chapter 3 - The Journey Still Continues
Friday 22nd September.
Having given the matter much consideration, I decide that even if I sell my flat, the cost of actually living on this plane would be prohibitively expensive. If the stewardess was to warm to me a little, I might reconsider, but I suspect our love affair is doomed as she appears to hold me with the same regard as a fresh dog turd on her living room carpet.
I console myself by drinking a vodka and watching Mission Impossible 3 on the TV. I've been waiting four hours to watch it as I didn't want to be interrupted by offers of food and beverages.
The strange thing about air travel is the way that they take care of the passengers. You're seated, shown a safety video, served drinks, given a meal, and then the cabin crew disappear never to be seen again, leaving you to fend for yourself for the rest of the flight. After two hours, some of the passengers had formed into packs and were foraging for food like feral cats. At one point, a gang war broke out near the rear of the plane when two rival factions each laid claim to an abandoned packet of cheese cocktail biscuits that had been discovered on the floor.
But I digress.
We're told to fasten our safety belts and stow our TV screens as the plane is about to land in Doha, thus ensuring that I miss the last 15 minutes of Mission Impossible 3.
Unfortunately, our flight is late so we have to run to make our transfer. This means that we don't have time for a much needed cigarette. We scurry dolefully past the smoking room, cursing under our breath.
The flight from Doha to Bangkok is essentially the same as the previous one in content, with the exception of the wonderful leg room. On this plane, my knees are jammed against the back of the seat in front, and I sit pondering on the likelihood of deep vein thrombosis occurring.
On the plus side, they give us each a small bag containing an eye mask, ear plugs, travel toothbrush and socks. The zip on mine breaks immediately and I'm forced to tear a hole in the material with my teeth in order to get to the goodies inside. Once liberated from their fabric prison, much of their mysterious magic dissipates and I'm left feeling unsatisfied and vaguely curious as to why I was so filled with anticipation mere moments earlier.
Give a man a mystery and he will be entralled. Once the mystery is gone, so is the desire. Thus, was it ever so...
Curiously, we're flying against the rotation of the Earth, so despite having only travelled for severn hours, it is now the middle of the night.
As we fly over India, I look out of the window and witness the most incredible thunderstorm occurring beneath us and far into the distance. I tap away at the control panel and the sound of Beethoven fills my ears as I watch the lightning.
The majesty of Beethoven's music coupled with the awe-inspiring beauty of watching the clouds light up from inside like huge, glowing piles of fluffy mashed potatoes, is absolutely stunning. For some time, I'm speechless at the sight before me.
Everyone else on the plane is asleep so, for a short while, this incredible show, this display of nature's raw, unbridled power, this utterly breathtaking spectacle is for me and me alone. I sit, alone in the universe save for my thoughts and the flashing sky around me, and I realise that the price of the flight had been worth it for this simple, wonderful, indescribable moment alone.
Then I watch 'Poseidon' on the flat screen TV and start to wonder if I can ask for some money back...
Having given the matter much consideration, I decide that even if I sell my flat, the cost of actually living on this plane would be prohibitively expensive. If the stewardess was to warm to me a little, I might reconsider, but I suspect our love affair is doomed as she appears to hold me with the same regard as a fresh dog turd on her living room carpet.
I console myself by drinking a vodka and watching Mission Impossible 3 on the TV. I've been waiting four hours to watch it as I didn't want to be interrupted by offers of food and beverages.
The strange thing about air travel is the way that they take care of the passengers. You're seated, shown a safety video, served drinks, given a meal, and then the cabin crew disappear never to be seen again, leaving you to fend for yourself for the rest of the flight. After two hours, some of the passengers had formed into packs and were foraging for food like feral cats. At one point, a gang war broke out near the rear of the plane when two rival factions each laid claim to an abandoned packet of cheese cocktail biscuits that had been discovered on the floor.
But I digress.
We're told to fasten our safety belts and stow our TV screens as the plane is about to land in Doha, thus ensuring that I miss the last 15 minutes of Mission Impossible 3.
Unfortunately, our flight is late so we have to run to make our transfer. This means that we don't have time for a much needed cigarette. We scurry dolefully past the smoking room, cursing under our breath.
The flight from Doha to Bangkok is essentially the same as the previous one in content, with the exception of the wonderful leg room. On this plane, my knees are jammed against the back of the seat in front, and I sit pondering on the likelihood of deep vein thrombosis occurring.
On the plus side, they give us each a small bag containing an eye mask, ear plugs, travel toothbrush and socks. The zip on mine breaks immediately and I'm forced to tear a hole in the material with my teeth in order to get to the goodies inside. Once liberated from their fabric prison, much of their mysterious magic dissipates and I'm left feeling unsatisfied and vaguely curious as to why I was so filled with anticipation mere moments earlier.
Give a man a mystery and he will be entralled. Once the mystery is gone, so is the desire. Thus, was it ever so...
Curiously, we're flying against the rotation of the Earth, so despite having only travelled for severn hours, it is now the middle of the night.
As we fly over India, I look out of the window and witness the most incredible thunderstorm occurring beneath us and far into the distance. I tap away at the control panel and the sound of Beethoven fills my ears as I watch the lightning.
The majesty of Beethoven's music coupled with the awe-inspiring beauty of watching the clouds light up from inside like huge, glowing piles of fluffy mashed potatoes, is absolutely stunning. For some time, I'm speechless at the sight before me.
Everyone else on the plane is asleep so, for a short while, this incredible show, this display of nature's raw, unbridled power, this utterly breathtaking spectacle is for me and me alone. I sit, alone in the universe save for my thoughts and the flashing sky around me, and I realise that the price of the flight had been worth it for this simple, wonderful, indescribable moment alone.
Then I watch 'Poseidon' on the flat screen TV and start to wonder if I can ask for some money back...
Chapter 2 - The Journey Continues
Friday 22nd September.
At 9 a.m. I find myself sitting in the bar at Gatwick Airport, washing down two painkillers with a glass of vodka and coke, and smoking what will be my last cigarette in 20 hours. At this stage, I don't know it will be my last cigarette. If I did, I might have torn off the filter, hidden it my pocket and sucked it during the flight.
My brother is drinking a pint of lager and chain-smoking my cigarettes because he's "got to get some later". This will become a regular theme throughout the holiday.
His eyes are red and swollen due, mostly, to a long term eye infection but certainly not helped by three enormous joints and sizeable lump of cannabis-laced chocolate that he consumed in the van on the way here. Fortunately, Mark the driver was not in the same state. He only smoked two.
I stared the devil in the eyes on that journey, let me tell you.
Two hours later, we're on the plane. It is, without doubt, the best journey I've ever had. We're seated by the emergency door so have enough room that we could lay on the floor and make snow-angels if we so desired. We also have flat screen TV's that swivel out from the side of the seat, with a small control pad that offers you a choice of over 100 movies, countless TV programmes, music on demand, games and in-flight information including a satellite-type picture showing the position of the plane in relation to the rest of the world. This is everything I have ever wanted in life. The cabin crew bring you food and alcohol; blankets and pillows. If I could smoke here, I'd move in.
The air stewardess who tends to our every whim is, quite simply, beautiful. She has something of a middle eastern look about her. Dark - almost black - eyes, a strong yet cute nose, that fine, fluffy baby-hair at the top of her forehead. I must have her.
She walks past and I smile. She returns my gormless grin with a look that is a curious mixture of barely-concealed loathing and cheerful professionalism. Her forced smile seems to say "the muscles of my face have moved into this position which vaguely approximates happiness as that is what I'm trained to do. However, smile at me again and my composure may well falter to the point that I find myself blankly stabbing you in the eyes with a plastic tea stirrer. Think it over, tubby."
I look back at my TV screen.
At 9 a.m. I find myself sitting in the bar at Gatwick Airport, washing down two painkillers with a glass of vodka and coke, and smoking what will be my last cigarette in 20 hours. At this stage, I don't know it will be my last cigarette. If I did, I might have torn off the filter, hidden it my pocket and sucked it during the flight.
My brother is drinking a pint of lager and chain-smoking my cigarettes because he's "got to get some later". This will become a regular theme throughout the holiday.
His eyes are red and swollen due, mostly, to a long term eye infection but certainly not helped by three enormous joints and sizeable lump of cannabis-laced chocolate that he consumed in the van on the way here. Fortunately, Mark the driver was not in the same state. He only smoked two.
I stared the devil in the eyes on that journey, let me tell you.
Two hours later, we're on the plane. It is, without doubt, the best journey I've ever had. We're seated by the emergency door so have enough room that we could lay on the floor and make snow-angels if we so desired. We also have flat screen TV's that swivel out from the side of the seat, with a small control pad that offers you a choice of over 100 movies, countless TV programmes, music on demand, games and in-flight information including a satellite-type picture showing the position of the plane in relation to the rest of the world. This is everything I have ever wanted in life. The cabin crew bring you food and alcohol; blankets and pillows. If I could smoke here, I'd move in.
The air stewardess who tends to our every whim is, quite simply, beautiful. She has something of a middle eastern look about her. Dark - almost black - eyes, a strong yet cute nose, that fine, fluffy baby-hair at the top of her forehead. I must have her.
She walks past and I smile. She returns my gormless grin with a look that is a curious mixture of barely-concealed loathing and cheerful professionalism. Her forced smile seems to say "the muscles of my face have moved into this position which vaguely approximates happiness as that is what I'm trained to do. However, smile at me again and my composure may well falter to the point that I find myself blankly stabbing you in the eyes with a plastic tea stirrer. Think it over, tubby."
I look back at my TV screen.
Chapter 1 - The Journey Begins
Friday 22nd September.
The seasoned traveller knows that when embarking on a long journey to a far-flung country, it's important to follow several basic rules to ensure everything goes as smoothly as possible:
1. Check your documentation and currency.
2. Check you've packed everything you need.
3. Recheck your documentation and currency.
4. Recheck you've packed everything you need.
5. Repeat steps 1 to 4. Twice.
6. Get an early night.
Thus it was that I awoke at 3 a.m. on the day of my flight in three inches of ice-cold bathwater, the distinct taste of Bacardi still present in my mouth. Vague memories swept in and out of my consciousness of drinking in the pub with my ex, drinking at her sister's house, drinking at home then, finally, feeling ill and deciding that sleeping in a bath of cold water would ease my mounting nausea. I'm happy to report that it worked. I then went to bed.
At 4.30 a.m. I woke again, drank some water and did my packing. Shorts - check. Underwear - check. T-shirts - check. Everything else I needed I would be wearing or have stuffed in my pockets. Sadly, and the actual details of the event remain shrouded in mystery, my t-shirts never actually made it from the bed to the rucksack. I discovered this after 20 hours of travelling. I almost wept. Drunkeness will do that to you.
Which leads me onto my hangover, or rather, lack of one. After consuming as much as I did the previous evening, you have to pay the piper - and he will accept nothing less than pitiful whimpering, the kind of hand tremors that a cocktail waiter would be envious of, and a skin pallour which suggests that if you're not already dead, it really is only a matter of time.
I had none of these symptoms. Which, of course, meant only one thing. I was still drunk and the hangover was yet to come. Little did I know that I was to experience its full might whilst bouncing around in the back of a rusty, barely-roadworthy van, sitting on a crudely constructed wooden bench draped with an evil-smelling carpet, wreathed in cigarette smoke and wondering at what point the inevitable crash would occur and my short, relatively dull life.
What I also did not know is that the aforementioned would not occur in Thailand, but in the back of my brother's van, speeding down the motorway at 7 in the morning. The less said about that journey the better...
The seasoned traveller knows that when embarking on a long journey to a far-flung country, it's important to follow several basic rules to ensure everything goes as smoothly as possible:
1. Check your documentation and currency.
2. Check you've packed everything you need.
3. Recheck your documentation and currency.
4. Recheck you've packed everything you need.
5. Repeat steps 1 to 4. Twice.
6. Get an early night.
Thus it was that I awoke at 3 a.m. on the day of my flight in three inches of ice-cold bathwater, the distinct taste of Bacardi still present in my mouth. Vague memories swept in and out of my consciousness of drinking in the pub with my ex, drinking at her sister's house, drinking at home then, finally, feeling ill and deciding that sleeping in a bath of cold water would ease my mounting nausea. I'm happy to report that it worked. I then went to bed.
At 4.30 a.m. I woke again, drank some water and did my packing. Shorts - check. Underwear - check. T-shirts - check. Everything else I needed I would be wearing or have stuffed in my pockets. Sadly, and the actual details of the event remain shrouded in mystery, my t-shirts never actually made it from the bed to the rucksack. I discovered this after 20 hours of travelling. I almost wept. Drunkeness will do that to you.
Which leads me onto my hangover, or rather, lack of one. After consuming as much as I did the previous evening, you have to pay the piper - and he will accept nothing less than pitiful whimpering, the kind of hand tremors that a cocktail waiter would be envious of, and a skin pallour which suggests that if you're not already dead, it really is only a matter of time.
I had none of these symptoms. Which, of course, meant only one thing. I was still drunk and the hangover was yet to come. Little did I know that I was to experience its full might whilst bouncing around in the back of a rusty, barely-roadworthy van, sitting on a crudely constructed wooden bench draped with an evil-smelling carpet, wreathed in cigarette smoke and wondering at what point the inevitable crash would occur and my short, relatively dull life.
What I also did not know is that the aforementioned would not occur in Thailand, but in the back of my brother's van, speeding down the motorway at 7 in the morning. The less said about that journey the better...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)