Blog Tagging Failure

I've been made aware of something called 'blog tagging' that's occurring at the moment.

The rules are very simple indeed.

1) You have to post a song that makes you happy.
2) You tag another blogger - as many as you want, but it has to be at least one.
3) You say at least one thing about each tagged blog that will make the author smile.

Despite my obvious dislike of the human race and its many inadequacies, I think this is rather a nice idea.

I was made aware of it by Piley, whose blog is excellent and was actually responsible for me jumping back into the blogosphere myself - I saw his success and I coveted it! So far, I have been spectacularly unsuccessful in drumming up the large readership and critical plaudits that I desire, but at least it's given me something to do that isn't a) smoking, b) playing the xbox, or c) other (that's wanking, obviously)

I've managed to identify a song that makes me smile, although I should point out that it's more of a nihilistic sneer than actual mirth or 'happiness', but I'm hitting a brick wall as regards finding a blog to champion.

There are only a handful of blogs that I regularly read and most of them already have a popular following. These blogs are linked on the right hand side of this page - have a look at them, they're good. But the trouble is, they're already doing very well and I see little point in providing advertising to bloggers who have book deals, celebrity endorsements or anything of that nature. The only one that really sprang to mind was Piley's blog - but, of course, he's already done the blog tag thing and I can't really just link back to him in some almighty, Internet-based, self-congratulatory circle jerk.

What I really want to do is celebrate a little-known blogger; someone who has a small but loyal following and deserves greater exposure. Trouble is, I don't know anyone like that.

I decided, therefore, to use the 'next blog' function on Blogger and search through random blogs until I found one that I felt would benefit from some advertising.

This proved to be a soul-destroying activity that drained me of any last vestiges of good-humour and humanity that were residing within the dessicated shell of my heart. I trawled through approximately 300 blogs last night and I almost choked on my own bile while doing so.

I've identified several blog types in my travels which I would like to tell you about.

Teen-angst wankery

This genus is comprised of barely pubescent teens who are either whinging incessantly about their current partner, effusively babbling about the Twilight books (I almost called them 'novels' ha ha ha ha! Growl...) or just generally indulging in self-obsessed naval-gazing. Yes, I realise the irony of me complaining about self-obsessed naval-gazing. Shut up.

The worst thing about some of these irritating little shitbags is that they lay a trap on their blog page. After it loads, there are five seconds of blessed silence and then your speakers start blasting out some schmaltzy, vomit-inducing piece of homogenous arse-gravy by Lucie Silvas, Nora Jones or Evanescence. How dare you make Evanescence come out of my laptop! I consider this to be on a par with installing a trojan on my hard drive. Don't infect my ears with your turgid, twee pop-cockery or I shall don an Edward mask, come round to your house and curl out a steaming biscuit on your living room carpet whilst gibbering and high-fiving myself.

Travel Blogs

A number of blogs detail, day by day, a trip, expedition or general mooch around some part of the world. These aren't too bad in that they actually have a logical end to look forward to. Most blogs continue forever no matter how lifelessly dull and insipid they are. Like watching a lame dog haul itself slowly across an infinite expanse of burning, sun-beaten tarmac, all you want to do is raise your heel above its head and put the poor thing out of its misery, but you just keep watching as it inches further and further towards obscurity for eternity.

The travel blogs describe, in laborious detail, every single moment of this person's journey around already well-trodden tourist areas. You are not Phileas fucking Fogg, you are simply the latest in a long line of overfed, over-enthusiastic globe trotters who somehow thinks your travels will by some strange form of osmosis, imbue you with the character and charm that you so sorely lack.

One in particular was from a gentleman who traversed 200 locks in his canal boat. Clearly, his gentle jaunt around the waterways of the UK is of no interest to anyone with a semblance of sanity, but I'm sure your friends, who are doubtless few in number, will be grateful for the opportunity to say, "No, that's OK Roger, we don't need to sit through another seven reels of slides, we've already seen all your photos on the blog. Gosh, is that the time? We really need to head off. Oh, by the way, we're moving but we don't know where. No, we don't have a telephone number to give you. Look, just leave us alone."

Wannabe Photographers

There are a large number of people out there who have had the unique idea of taking 'a photo a day!' and uploading it for the delight of everyone who visits their blog, i.e. nobody at all.

365 photos a year, eh? So you took a photograph every day. Well done you. Sadly, the horrible, deeply unpalatable truth that you're trying so hard to avoid is that nobody cares about your photographs. You will never be famous. The only reason you have a blog with your photos on it is because you no longer have any friends to show them to. They have all been driven away by your sad, tragic obsession. Stop now while you still can. Oh, and just because it's in black and white, that doesn't make it artistically relevant. I could take a birds-eye photo of my latest bowel movement, remove the colour using photoshop and then post it on my blog and it would appear to be 'cool and arty'. That doesn't necessarily mean it is so.

Do us all a favour and convince yourself that your talent is so great you can become a wedding photographer. Then we can all sit back and wait for you to fuck up someone's big day and get beaten to death in a pub car park by a baying mob of angry, drunken neanderthals in cheap suits and thick gold jewellery.

Professionals

Christ above, there are so many of these utter shite-hawks on Blogger that I was genuinely close to angry tears.

This collection of pointless cunts includes NLP Practitioners, Economists, Neuropsychologists and Self-help gurus. They fill the Internet with their over-hyped nonsense until it's bursting at the seams.

I'm reminded of the 'B' Ark in Douglas Adams excellent Hitchhikers trilogy. For those of you unfamiliar with the books, one part of the story involves an alien civilisation, their planet apparently on the brink of destruction, which builds several 'arks': spaceships designed to carry the population away to another planet somewhere so they can start a new life. The 'B' Ark is sent away first, with the others promising to follow. Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, the 'heroes', soon realise, however, that this ark is filled with telephone sanitation technicians, hair dressers and management consultants. There is no planet-wide disaster, the alien race were simply trying to get rid of the most useless third of their population.

Many of these 'Professional' bloggers would be given first class seats on the 'B' Ark.

Let's face it, if you're really a professional in your chosen field, why the suffering fuck haven't you got a website instead of a cheap-arsed, free blog? The obvious answer is that you actually aren't a professional at all, you're simply a pretender.

One person in particular caught my attention when they described themself thus (and this is a direct quote):
"Speaker, Coach, Mentor, Workshop Leader, Purveyor of Possibilities. I've taught hundreds of self-improvement workshops on marriage, parenting, happiness, & limiting beliefs as a Transformational Coach in the US and abroad, for the past 20 years."

Purveyor of possibilities. I don't think I've ever wanted to hunt down and slay someone as much as I do this person. Pray that we never meet, coachy, because I've got a few 'possibilities' of my own that I'd like to work out with you, you insufferable fuck-knuckle.

Thus, my traversing of the blogosphere was something of a disappointment. I've completely failed to find anyone to whom I can give a little free publicity.

Most worryingly of all, the whole episode has caused me to question my own existence. I have a horrible feeling that this blog itself is nothing more than a faux-misanthropic, thirty-something-angst-ridden, Charlie Brooker-lite barrage of rambling rants which are, effectively, nothing more than me saying "Look at me! Look at me! Please laugh at my antics!".

If that's the case, then good.

So, as a favour, can anyone recommend a good blog that I can champion because otherwise I'm simply going to have to tag myself and that would be awfully self-indulgent which, as you all know, is something that I find distasteful. Ahem.

In Memory of Edward Woodward

As a small tribute to the wonderful Edward Woodward who, sadly, passed away today, I'm throwing a few bits of music on the blog.

These tracks are all taken from Paul Giovanni's incredible soundtrack to The Wicker Man.

If you're already familiar with The Wicker Man, you won't want to read me banging on about it. If you're not familiar with it, go and buy it immediately - you won't be disappointed.

Additionally, this post may, potentially, help out a Twitter chum on her radio show. It's the Every Other Monday show and it's on tonight at 9. Listen to it. That's an order.

Here's the music.

Willow's Song.

Corn Riggs

The Landlord's Daughter.

The Maypole Song

Note: Tracks removed to avoid potential copyright claims. Blame the Digital Economy Act.

The Misanthropist's Curse

There has been no update for the last week because, as my Twitter followers will already know from my painfully self-pitying tweets, I've been ill with the flu.

I developed a sore throat on Sunday evening and by Monday morning it felt like I'd eaten a light bulb and washed it down with a tube of facial scrub. It also felt like a nihilistic woodpecker had set up shop in my head and was taking lethargic, disinterested pecks at the inside of my skull.

Because I was awake at 4am, I arrived at work for 7 and dealt with a couple of things that really couldn't wait. By 9.30am, I was feeling absolutely terrible so left via Sainsbury's for some essential supplies.

This involved preparing a shopping list that an Alaskan survivalist would consider appropriate for an apocalyptic event: tins of soup, paracetamol, long-life milk, fruit juice, etc. Browsing the pharmacy section, I decided to treat myself to a bottle of Night Nurse.

Now I should point out that I've never had Night Nurse before. In fact, all I know about it is that, apparently, it can make you drowsy and you should refrain from operating heavy machinery. I've never operated heavy machinery before and, if everything goes according to plan career-wise, I hopefully never will. Additionally, at that particular point, 'drowsy' was proving to be a real selling point for me - the thought of guzzling several large mouthfuls of the stuff and then falling into bed for 12 hours was extraordinarily tempting. Night Nurse had, in my fevered imagination, become some sort of magical oblivion-bestowing elixir, a cross between Absinthe and Morphine. I had to have it.

It turns out, surprisingly, that you can't buy Night Nurse straight off the shelf. Instead, you have to speak to one of the Sainsbury's Pharmacy staff and ask them for it whereupon they engage you in a worrying round of questions and answers to determine whether or not you're allowed to have it.

"Are you currently taking any medication?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No."
"No blood-pressure medication?"
"Not yet. Continue asking me pointless questions and it may be a distinct possibility that some form of blood-pressure reduction will be required in the not too distant future but, right now, no."
"Nothing paracetamol-based?"
"No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Can I please have the medicine or would you like me to stand in the baked goods aisle and piss into a milk bottle first?" (I didn't say that, obviously)

Eventually, after a short lecture in which I was told that Night Nurse contains paracetamol and, accordingly, shouldn't be taken with any other paracetamol-based medication, for instance blood-pressure tablets which contain paracetamol, or Lemsip which also contains paracetamol or, obviously, paracetamol tablets, I had 1) one of those strange moments where a word completely loses its meaning and it's like you're hearing it for the first time (pa-ra-see-ta-molll - wow man, that's like, amazing) and 2) a bottle of Night Nurse.

Clutching the bottle of green potion to my chest, I shuffled away from the pharmacy, paid for my other goods and got a taxi home.

It is with enormous regret that I must tell you that was the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. I've spent the rest of my time sleeping badly at night, sleeping badly during the day, rubbing the skin around my nostrils raw with a campaign of sustained mucus-expelling and generally moaning grumpily at the walls of my empty flat.

This, you see, is one of the few downsides to being single. Most of the time it's absolutely wonderful. I can come home early from work, change immediately into my pajamas, eat cold macaroni cheese straight from the tin with a dirty spoon whilst watching a movie on the laptop, and I don't have anyone berating me for being a slovenly lummox.

If I so choose, I can wake up on a Saturday morning, completely forgo showering, and spend the entire day padding barefoot from room to room, alternating between the Internet, the xbox and the fridge.

I often hear single men bemoaning their situation and wishing they had a person to share their life. Usually they're pining for someone to snuggle up with on the sofa while watching TV; a person to chat to about their problems or their day at work; someone they can go for long autumnal, leaf-kicking walks with; or a companion to share the good times and the bad. Occasionally, they'll tell the truth and just admit that they're gagging for a blowjob, but usually they try to dress it up with romance and candles and ice cream and hugs.

Now, personally I find all of that more than a little bewildering. If I'm curled up on the sofa watching TV, the last thing I want is someone wittering away next to me asking stupid questions and making stultifyingly banal observations:

"Who's that man? Is he the one that ran the woman over?"
"Shhh."
"I'm only asking a question. Is he the man that ran her over earlier?"
"Yes, just watch it."
"I am watching it! I just wanted to know if that's the same man."
"Yes. Yes it is."
"So why did he do that then?"
"How the bloody hell should I know? You know as much as I do, for the love of Christ! I don't have some incredible mediumistic ability that allows me to prophesy the ending of the film! I haven't got a well-thumbed copy of the screenplay folded up in my back pocket! The only reason I know as much as I do is because I've been concentrating on the movie rather than blathering on about what happened to Cheryl in the office this week and whether or not we should buy those new towels you saw because they're 50% off in the sale and would really contrast well with the fucking carpet!"
"Well there's no need to get angry."
"Get out and never come back."

As for autumnal walks, I have never ever understood people who peer out of the window, observe a miserable overcast sky heavy with storm-clouds, litter skittering around the pavement like an excitable yorkshire terrier, and chirpily suggest getting dressed in thick clothing so that they can go for a stroll around a leaf-strewn, muddy park.

Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you want to do that? What possible benefit will you gain from shuffling around in foliage-camouflaged dogshit, a penetrating Siberian gale blasting at your exposed cheeks, ears and nose until your face feels like it's been pressed into a bag of frozen peas for half an hour? It's a stupid thing to do and anyone who takes part in it should be lambasted and ridiculed for their idiotic behaviour.

We, as a species, do not need to aimlessly wander around outside in the bitter cold. Why do you think we invented houses, central heating and steaming mugs of tea?

So the usual trappings and enticements that one would expect from a relationship hold no interest for me whatsoever. What I do miss, however, is having someone to look after me when I'm ill.

Laying in bed, nose streaming, head pounding, voice like a hung-over Dalek, is not a pleasant experience at the best of times. Doing it alone is even worse.

When I'm ill, I want to be in a position where I can demand things!

"Ohhhhhhh...(cough).....ohhhhhhhh.......can I have a Lemsip? My throat (hack) is really sore. And I need (snuffle) some more tissues. And can you (hawk) change the DVD please? I can't move (snivel)."

One of the few pleasures to be derived from a period of illness is a brief glimpse into the world of the Edwardian gentleman - a world of finger-snapping and brusque orders; whisker-stroking and demands for attention. For an all too fleeting spell, one is waited on hand and foot and it's bloody wonderful.

But, alas, as a single man, there is nobody to plump my pillow, carefully dab my glistening brow, or refill my glass of fruit juice.

Such tasks must I carry out myself, sniffling and whining, body racked with pain, pitiful groans echoing emptily around the sparse, cold flat. A tragic, hunched figure shuffling through the kitchen like a sad, doe-eyed spectre.

This, my friends, is the misanthropists curse - to suffer alone, unloved, disregarded and ignored.

On the bright side, I don't have to share any of my ice cream so, you know, swings and roundabouts.

The Stupidity of Me

I had an interesting day of manly pursuits yesterday, the events of which ultimately led me to seriously consider calling the police so that I could be rescued from a piece of plastic.

After a long, stressful week, I decided to achieve something in my non-work life, so formulated a plan of attack. This would involve 1) a haircut, 2) applying fresh sealant to the edge of the bath, 3) buying a bicycle, and 4) going for a ride on said bicycle. I was partially successful.

1) The Haircut
I went to my local barbershop at 7:45, wanting to get there before it opened at 8 and, thus, avoid the inevitable queue of hairy-eared old men in three-piece suits who seemingly get up at 4 am just so they can their day out of the way as quickly as possible. As a side note, this seems like a good plan and I might follow their lead. At that rate, I could be back in bed, smothered by the somnolent folds of my duvet by six in the evening, basking in a miasma of warm flatulence.

Unfortunately, there were already two early birds standing outside the shop and as there are only two barbers, I knew I'd have to wait. In a way this didn't overly bother me as I do gain a strange pleasure from allowing my eyes to wander around the barbershop and drink in the curious detail: the black and white pictures of elaborate, ridiculously crafted hairstyles which always seem to be far outside the reach of the barbers abilities; the bulbous bottles of multi-coloured hair tonics, aftershaves and potions; and, of course, the unique sight of a cardboard sheet of styptic pencils. Such are the delights of a barbershop - a strange, arcane collection of ephemera that you won't see in modern, faux-chic hairstylists. It's like wandering into a shop from a Harry Potter book.

After flicking through a 'Stuff' magazine and coveting many, many items, I was called to the chair and went through the usual routine of discussing 'topical items of interest'. This consisted of moaning about the amount of fireworks that people are letting off, grumbling about the fact that "it should be one day only, fireworks night, but it's been going on for two bloody weeks", and muttering about where people are finding the money considering we're in a recession/economic slump/depression. I came out twice as grumpy as when I went in. It was brilliant.

Indeed, I feel very much at home in the barbers. It's a place where grumpy men can sit in the total absence of females and moan ineffectively about what's wrong with the world. Sadly, there are one or two people who take this in an unpleasant direction and start ranting about "asylum seekers", which leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It's entirely possible to be a curmudgeonly git without resorting to xenophobia and casual racism, but some don't realise it. Such people fail to recognise proper barbershop etiquette.

2) Applying fresh sealant to the bath
It has taken me several months to actually go to the shop and buy the necessary sealant. It will now sit in a drawer, probably until next summer, when I shall eventually apply it hurriedly and amateurishly. Then, a couple of days later, I will recognise what a poor job I made of it and decide to redo it at some point. Thus the whole terrible cycle of failure perpetuates itself.

3) Buying a bicycle
I've put on weight. I need to lose it. I rarely leave the house apart from when I'm at work.
Cogitating on these seemingly insoluble problems, I eventually decided that what I really needed to do was buy a bicycle. The walk to work only takes me 15-20 minutes, but I figured that if I did it by bicycle, it would save me 10 minutes in the morning and another ten in the evening, and would also lead to me being able to go out for cycle rides in the crisp winter air. As a happy by-product of this physical exertion, I would lose weight. It seemed like a capital idea, so I went to my local bike emporium.

I won't bother going into detail except to say that I bought 1 bicycle, 1 rear light, 1 front light, 1 bicycle lock, and 1 puncture repair kit. The owner told me to come back in half an hour during which time he would adjust the bike to my height, affix the pedals and do general bikey things. Frankly, I don't know what the hell he was doing, but I nodded sagely and agreed that there were clearly many tasks he needed to perform before I could leave with my item. I went for a walk, returned and left with my purchases.

It took me about 5 minutes to get home from the shop, during which several things occurred:

1) I realised that the handlebars were too low and I was hunched over my vehicle like a gorilla riding a tiny motorbike in some bleak Eastern European circus

2) The plastic pedals on my bike were so cheap and badly constructed, that one of them actually split when I was only halfway up the road. There's "wear and tear" and then there's "cheap, badly-made shit".

3) The saddle seemed to have been built by a sadistic, disaffected child in a Bangkok sweatshop who's sole purpose in life was to make everyone else in the world as uncomfortable and miserable as he was. Previously, I'd been led to believe that the hardest substance known to man was diamonds. At 36 years of age, I've discovered that it is, in fact, bicycle saddles.

4) The shop had forgotten to give me the bike lock I'd paid for

5) I am so horrendously unfit that it would be laughable if it wasn't so utterly pathetic. To see a grown man wheezing and swerving around on the road is never a nice thing. Unless, of course, it's someone else in which case it's hilarious.

I got home and, weary beyond the capacity for rational thought, pretty much flung the bicycle into the back garden, went upstairs, sat down and drank a glass of red wine with shaking hands.

Later, after I'd regrouped, I returned to the shop with the bike where the lovely chap there gave me the lock I'd paid for, installed metal pedals at no extra cost, and sold me a saddle that wasn't designed specifically to flatten my arse into a slab of cold, dead ham. He also informed me that some extension pole things were coming in next week that could be used to raise the handlebars further. I was hoping that I'd be able to ride this item that I'd bought, but clearly one can't expect fucking miracles.

Although the bicycle shop man was very pleasant indeed and didn't try to unnecessarily sell me things I clearly didn't need, I do hanker after the days when you could go to a shop, purchase something, take it home and be immediately happy with it. Why is that such a difficult thing to do? This is the second weekend in a row that I've gone out, bought something and then had to take it straight back to the shop. Do other people have these problems, or does the universe reserve them solely for me? Is this some sort of punishment for my hatred of people? Is it karma?

Sadly, the universe had one more trick up its sleeve as I found later that evening.

The bicycle lock came affixed to a sturdy piece of cardboard, and was held in place with a small black cable tie.

The cable tie somehow found its way onto my computer desk and thus I found myself watching a film on the laptop and absent-mindedly fiddling with the small piece of plastic.

As I watched the movie, the cable tie was toyed with, first between my fingers, then between my thumbs. The cable tie then made its way onto my thumb, where I slid it backwards and forwards, unthinking, like someone fidgeting with a gold ring.

Suddenly, I found that I'd pulled the loose end and the cable tie was fixed firmly around the width of my thumb and wouldn't come off. I proceeded to give it my full attention.

Taking a craft knife in my fingers, I slid the blade under the cable tie but the angle was slightly wrong so I adjusted the tie a little bit. Unfortunately, in a moment of quite stupendous idiocy, I did this by grasping the loose end and pulling. The cable tie tightened by at least 5 notches, cutting right into the flesh of my digit. I now couldn't even get the blade of the craft knife underneath it without cutting myself. At this point, I started to panic.

Obviously, it's never a good thing when you have a problem of this nature to resolve. The shame of having done something so stupid is enough to contend with. When you proceed to make the matter significantly worse by introducing injury-related urgency into the equation, you're not really helping anyone.

My thumb was turning blue and starting to feel very cold and numb. Suddenly, I remember seeing a video on the Internet in which you cold unlock a cable tie using a needle (I watch a lot of crap on the Internet, yes. However, in this case, I felt absolutely justified. Knowledge is power.)

I took a needle and inserted it into the cable tie so that I could pull it apart. It didn't work. I tried several more positions until, finally, I found 'the sweet spot' and, excited by my inevitable success, managed to jab the needle directly into the flesh of my thumb. Bellowing like an enraged moose, I removed the needle and reconsidered my position.

By this point, all manner of thoughts were cascading through my perspiring skull. Would I have to call the fire brigade? They have equipment for cutting open car wrecks, surely they could help me with this? Actually, what about the police? Do they still use handcuffs or have they, as witnessed on another Internet video somewhere, moved over into the realm of the cable tie? If they put them on people, they must have a method for getting them off. Alternatively, I could always call for an ambulance. Surely they have to deal with this sort of moronic activity every day, don't they?

In the end, I decided that the shame would just be too much. I'd rather lose my thumb than be escorted from my flat, in full view of the neighbours, to have a three inch piece of plastic removed from my swollen appendage.

I remember being vaguely pleased that at least I'd placed it on my thumb and not, in a moment of extraordinary boredom, my penis (men do strange things when they're alone and restless). If that had been the case then, basically, I would have had to kill myself, no questions. I would have remained there until at least Monday lunchtime when, due to my non-appearance at work, someone would have undoubtedly called the police to break in. Thus, in a moment worthy of David Carradine, I would be found, slumped in my chair, garroted penis exposed to the world, blood-slicked craft knife in hand, throat neatly sliced open. Observing my mutilated genitals, one policeman would shake his head and mutter "Jesus fucking Christ. What's wrong with people?" whilst another vomited noisily into his hand.

Fortunately, it was just my thumb, so that didn't happen.

Eventually, I managed to free the cable tie by snipping away at it with a pair of nail-clippers, and all was right with the world.

Still, I couldn't help feeling very foolish indeed, like a curious cat with its head stuck in an empty tin can, bumbling around and knocking into the walls. This is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices - boredom and a staggering lack of foresight always kick in and, within minutes, I can find myself in perilous situations of such startling complexity that Jigsaw from the 'Saw' movies would shake his head and say, "Bloody hell, mate, that's fucked up."

On the plus side, I did manage to send a couple of tweets about my ordeal which elicited several amused retweets, but not much in the way of actual help. This is how you know who your friends are...

When Dogs Attack!

Today, as I trudged through the permeating Essex drizzle of a soul-destroying Wednesday morning, ennui wrapped around my soul and dragging me down like a brass diving suit, I was nearly savaged by a dog.

The owner, a stocky, oriental-looking fellow who I thought resembled "4th Gang Member" from every Hollywood gangster film ever made, had elected not to follow the standard convention of putting a collar and lead on the dog, choosing instead to let it run rampant around the streets, slavering and snapping at innocent passers-by.

Coat dripping with rain, man-bag slung diagonally across me, I just wanted to get to work with the minimum of fuss and spend the day trudging ceaselessly towards the sweet release of death. Instead, I had to deal with Triad-Boy and Cujo.

As the dog came running towards me, eyes fiery with hatred and blood lust, I immediately sensed it didn't want to "just say hello" but had other more nefarious plans coursing through its thick melon of a skull.

The owner shouted something at the dog like, "Oi!" but the animal, virtually smacking his lips by this point, disregarded his master's command and continued to approach, claws clicking on the wet concrete.

As the dog got within a foot of me, I froze, hoping that he might become confused and suddenly think "Well goodness me, there was I thinking that I'd seen a delicious, bipedal morsel just ripe for some early morning nomming, and it seems I was quite incorrect in this regard! In my haste to sink my teeth into a delicious stranger, I appear to have mistaken this impressively hewn statue of what must surely be a Greek God with a bedraggled member of the public. In all honesty, I feel slightly stupid for making this extremely basic, easily avoided error of judgement."

Unfortunately, I think I overestimated this particular beast's reasoning faculties. Instead, he ploughed on regardless, leaping up, mouth wide, and planting his front paws on my thigh.

It seemed like an eternity, but was less than a second. We regarded each other, hunter and prey, he with demonic malice, I with trouser-fouling terror. Although I couldn't smell it, I imagined that his breath reeked of rotten meat and cigarette butts that he'd snuffled off the ground, like a truffle-seeking, rage-pig. In all honesty, my breath probably smelt much the same, if not worse, so I deemed it unfair to criticise him on this minor point of personal hygiene.

At that moment, just as the dog was about to rend the flesh from my body, the owner shouted "Don't even think about it!".

This bemused me slightly.

First, the statement would presuppose that the dog had some elaborate thought process going on. I'm fairly confident that this slavering hell-hound had no subtle modus operandi or carefully reasoned rationale behind his actions other than a pretty fundamental aspiration to "KILL THE MAN".

Second, what kind of thing is that to say to a bloody dog? Personally, I might have chosen, "No!" said very sternly whilst administering a series of violent kicks to the genitalia. Alternatively, I might have bellowed, "Come here!" while staring menacingly and flexing a broken car aerial between my clenched fists. But no, 4th Gang Member chose the bizarre "Don't even think about it" as his opening gambit in what was obviously a mighty power struggle that had been ongoing for some months.

Amazingly, however, it actually worked. The dog stopped, teeth bared, claws digging into my leg, and fixed me with a malevolent gaze which seemed to say, "You win today, fuckface, but I'll be back, don't you worry. Keep looking over your shoulder you tubby bitch."

And with that, he hopped back to the ground and stalked away, shoulders rolling like a silverback gorilla.

The owner curtly threw a "Sorry mate" in my direction and carried on walking, possibly late for a drug deal or something involving a quantity of illegal firearms.

I continued on my way to work, slightly shaken and deep in thought.

And then the awful, crushing realisation hit me - I had come very close to being successfully mauled! I might have needed a rabies injection, or reconstructive surgery! I might even have required a state of the art prosthetic hand capable of crushing steel bars like bread sticks, impressing all those around me who would say in awed whispers, "Who is that man?", receiving the reply, "That's Dan, the man with the iron fist."

Men would want to be me, women would want to be with me. Finally, my life would have turned around and I wouldn't be a massive loser anymore. Everyone would know my name and utter it in hushed tones. I would never have to buy another drink for the rest of my days. Whilst walking down the street, people would nod respectfully. I would be 'The Man'.

But, of course, it didn't happen. The dog was successfully lured away and I continued my journey. Another opportunity for greatness snatched away.

I briefly considered pursuing the dog and pushing a disposable lighter up its bottom in a bid to anger it into violent retribution but, looking back up the road, I could see neither it nor its owner.

Arriving at work, I conjectured that, tragically, this failed attack was probably going to be the highlight of my day.

I was right.

EDIT: Just re-read this today. Nearly a 1000 words on not being bitten by a dog. Hopefully, if I'm not bitten by a dog again tomorrow and for the next six months, I should have enough material for a book by the summer. Woo and yay for pointless bloggery!

Do The Job

I should point out that I have a hidden agenda with regard to this blog post. I won't reveal what that is until the end, because I want you to discover this little bit of magic for yourself. For now, read on, oh faithful blog-reading-person.

There's a band doing the rounds at the moment who've been lauded as 'one to watch' by various people, websites, magazines and dictatorships.

'They' are absolutely right - you should watch out for this band because I think they're going to hit big time.

Stop reading, right now, and watch this:



Good, wasn't it? That, my pretend friends, was Baddies and they, if I may use a common parlance much beloved by Essex folk and @lebrini (who, it appears, is now my literary agent) are "the shit".

Formed in 2007, Baddies have been variously described as an amalgam of (deep breath) Talking Heads, Blur, Manic Street Preachers, Kaiser Chiefs, Queens of the Stone Age, Rocket from the Crypt, The Futureheads, and so many others that it would bore me to type their names.

Suffice to say, Baddies are pretty damn good.

I saw them live in Southend and, to be absolutely honest, didn't enjoy the gig hugely. I'm a little old-fashioned when it comes to live music: I like to hear an album first, grow to love the songs, and then whoop like a chimpanzee when I hear those same songs performed live. With Baddies it was the other way round - I heard them live, couldn't make much sense of it, and walked away none the wiser.

However, they have now released their first album entitled 'Do The Job'. The title is a reference to the absolutely superb film 'Sexy Beast' starring Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (in a career topping performance as Don Logan).

For me, their status was cemented in my mind when I was able to find a pre-release version of their album on a warez site, for illegal download. When you hit the illegal download sites, you've arrived. Being a man of strong ethics and robust moral fibre, I immediately procured it and threw it on my MP3 player.

Christ above, what an album.

Let me present another track for you so you can judge for yourself how amazing it is:



That's my favourite track. Amazing, eh?

Baddies were originally a group of guys working for E-On, the power company. This led to a tongue-in-cheek nickname of The Kings Of E-On but, mercifully, it was nothing more than an in-joke and they persevered with their current nomenclature.

Once the album was released, I purchased a legitimate copy and it's barely been out of my CD player since.

I'm not an expert on music. I can't wax lyrical about a particular track and name its influences. Fuck, I can't even think of appropriate musical terms to use. All I can say is, as someone who just likes music and doesn't give a rat's anus where it came from, this album is fucking magic.

One more track before I finish:



Amazing. I love these guys, and I love the fact they had the balls to give up their jobs, pool their resources and go on tour, trying desperately to break through against the odds and be something a bit special. I wish I had their cajones.

If you enjoy reading my blog posts and appreciate my pointless ranting, please do me one favour in return: gather together £8 and buy the Baddies album. I regard it as an investment. You will gain more than £8 worth of pleasure in the repeated listenings you will undoubtedly enjoy.

Oh, and to clarify my hidden agenda, I used to work with and share a flat with the bass player, Danny Rowton. He's a great bloke (I, sadly, was a shit flatmate and we lost contact for a while - entirely my fault because I'm a huge cock-monkey and degenerate loser) and I really am extraordinarily proud of what he's achieved. This motherfucker has worked hard for his music and it's so good to see him getting some success.

Good luck Danny. Good luck Baddies.

And as for the rest of you - "you're just going to have to turn this opportunity yes". Buy the album. Do the job.

An anonymous comment

A while back, I wrote a blog post about the entirely avoidable death of an infant because her parents chose to use homeopathy instead of proper medical treatment.

A comment arrived today from 'Anonymous' (sad that this person decided to hide behind anonymity rather than reveal their name) which said the following:

in the US, allopathic (western) medical treatment--proper treatment--is the third largest cause of death behind heart disease and cancer. This as reported by the Journal of the American Medical Association, nonetheless. What makes me sad is that nobody brings these failures out one-by-one for public examination, just the cases where *other* forms of treatment fail. It's massively hypocritical.

The term that immediately caused alarm bells to ring was 'allopathic'. This is a term invented by Samuel Hahnemann, father of homeopathy, to describe conventional medicine. This causes me to surmise that the person leaving the comment is an avid supporter of homeopathy, otherwise they wouldn't use such a term.

The second thing that struck me, was the claim itself that medical treatment in the US is the third largest cause of death. Something about it didn't ring entirely true and I was disinclined to believe it.

However, as a sceptic, I never form an opinion on something until I've had an opportunity to examine the evidence. This, sadly, is a trait that you will not find in many homeopaths.

I researched the quoted article and guess what? 'Anonymous' was absolutely right.

It rocked me back on my heels a little bit, to tell you the truth. But such is the nature of scepticism and rationality - when you find out you're wrong about something, you look into it, learn from it and incorporate it.

In 2000, the Journal of the American Medical Association published a study by Dr. Barbara Starfield in which she discussed the state of the American health-care system and made comparisons to other countries, namely Australia, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden and the UK.

Without doubt, the most sobering conclusion the report offers is that after heart disease and cancer, the third largest cause of death in America is iatrogenic damage. Or, in other words, ill-health or adverse effects resulting from medical treatment.

That is an absolutely astounding and tragic finding.

So what could possibly cause this? How has conventional medicine failed us so badly?

The answer is that it hasn't, no matter what 'Anonymous' may want us to think.

For one thing, the criticism in the article was focused entirely on the American health-care system. It did not focus on worldwide health-care, it did not focus on conventional medical techniques, it looked solely at how medicine is operating in the U.S. Let's briefly look at that now.

In the U.S. their health-care system is largely for-profit in nature. Corporations, Health Maintenance Organisations and pharmaceutical companies exist to make a profit. Indeed, they are legally required to maximise their profits for shareholders. What is the best way to achieve this?

Well, you increase sales and reduce costs. It's as simple as that.

In the American health-care system, you reduce costs by providing lower quality service. At the same time, you increase your sales by selling more drugs and performing more expensive, and potentially unnecessary, technical treatments. These increase your income vastly.

The problem in America is not the huge amount of medical knowledge being drawn upon, or the incredibly effective treatments available, it's the fact that companies are administering all of this with the sole intent of making as much money as possible. If the shareholders are happy, everyone's happy - except for the patients.

In the U.S. it's not necessarily about what is best for the patient, it's about what's best for the profit margins.

So you see, what 'Anonymous' has sought to do is present an article criticising the American health-care system in a light that will make it seem that conventional medicine is 'broken'. At the same time, they claim that homeopathy is being unfairly singled out for criticism.

Frankly, that's a disingenuous and very weak argument. Let's call a straw man a straw man.

Conventional medicine works. The problem is, sometimes, in the administration of it. That means the issue is not with the medicine, but with the companies running the system.

Homeopathy was singled out in my blog post for one reason and one reason only - it does not work as advertised.

Homeopathy is no better in clinical trials than placebo. There is no magic in your water. There is no memory of the active ingredient that has been diluted into extinction. Your
bottle of liquid or handful of pills contains nothing of value whatsoever.

To try and compare homeopathy with conventional medicine is like comparing apples with oranges - one works and one doesn't.

I can't be trusted to do anything...

On occasion, I write blog posts dealing with my screenwriting. These posts are, invariably, not at all amusing, nor are they meant to be - I leave the amusing stuff for when I'm ranting about inane nonsense. When I'm writing about screenplays, another side of me comes out. You could call it the sensible, rational side, but I couldn't possibly comment.

But I am concerned that it makes for a rather changeable and, at times, stilted blog.

I briefly considered creating another blog just to write about, well, writing. I then realised that would be a ridiculous idea as 1) I barely have enough readers to keep one blog going, let alone two, and 2) having a couple of blogs on the go at once would be a ludicrously egotistical move - quite frankly, I'm nowhere near important enough to be spouting my nonsense from two places at once. Therefore, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with the mix 'n' match aspect for now.

So, on to writey news.

I met up with Mike last night, author of Mortal Remains which I've been banging on about for a while here and here and in other posts too.

Mike had read my redraft of his screenplay and we had a good chat about it over a few pints of delicious beer. There were parts that he really liked and parts that he wasn't so keen on, which is entirely to be expected with these things.

However, over the course of a couple of hours, something quite astounding occurred.

We discovered that I'd made an almighty fuck-up with my script rewrite.

Essentially, what I'd done (and this was quite unconscious) was to take an idea that had been formenting in my head for a while and graft it onto Mike's screenplay. In essence, the location that I'd placed the protagonists in was a character all in itself - one with a history, a gravitas, a presence. The location was the main character.

When Frank (the bad guy) was introduced into the equation, it felt somehow wrong, like an intrusion. He arrived on the scene, with his sharp, witty dialogue, and it felt slightly at odds with what I'd written up to that point. I continued anyway, hoping that it'd be sorted out along the line with another draft. I now realise that this was my subconscious saying "You know he doesn't belong there, don't you? You've created something entirely new and interesting, and now Frank's being crowbarred in".

I should probably listen to my subconscious more often.

After another pint and some more conversation, myself and Mike came to the conclusion that I'd smashed together two very good ideas into one screenplay, but they both needed the appropriate amount of breathing room. Basically, this script wasn't big enough for both of them.

So, it looks like we're now back at square one with regard to Mike's script, and also at square one with a brand new screenplay that I'm going to write.

It was a very interesting conversation and there is certainly no ill will between myself and Mike as a result of this. In fact, he's expressed an interest in working with me on the new script as well as Mortal Remains.

It's strange how the writing process works out sometimes.

The moral of the story is: never ask me to do you a favour. You may end up with twice the problem you started with...

Join Me

Danny Wallace is doing OK for himself.

You may have heard of him, possibly seen one of his TV programmes, or even read one of his very entertaining books.

He likes to be nice, pleasant, friendly and altruistic. He embarks on what are described as 'stupid boy projects', much to the bewilderment of those around him, seeking to make the world a better place. Let's take a look at some of these projects in detail:

Join Me

Wallace decides, after attending the funeral of his great uncle Gallus, to follow in his relative's footsteps and start some sort of commune. Placing an advertisement in Loot, he soon gets enquiries from curious members of the public, wanting to join him but with no real understanding of what for.

This book is meant to be uplifting and show that all people are, at heart, good and kind. It seeks to hold a mirror up to society and present us as considerate, cheerful folk who really want to be as helpful and generous as possible.

This is, of course, utter balls.

All it shows is that if you put a vague advert in a free paper, you're guaranteed to find scores of bored, disaffected idiots who will willingly join together in a desperate bid to introduce some excitement into their pointless, inconsequential lives. The fact that the outcome of this repulsively banal granfalloot is a scheme entitled 'Random Acts of Kindness' fills me with dread and causes me to pine even more than I usually do for a 30-kilometre wide meteorite to plunge into the surface of the planet, destroying all the morons in one go.

Join me? No, I think not. I'd rather sandpaper my genitals and douse them liberally with organic Red Wine vinegar, while eating the contents of a medical-waste bin, thank you.

Random Acts of Kindness (365 ways to make the world a nicer place)

In this slim tome, Wallace suggests many ways in which you can be nice to people. The question that he never asks is 'Why in the name of all things holy would I want to do that?'.

The world is filled with despair, misery and abject horror. That pleases me greatly.

I enjoy nothing more than sitting, alone, in my flat, picking at the lining of my threadbare armchair and gulping down cheap own-brand vodka, while chuckling wheezily at small children falling into stinging nettles on You've Been Framed. Why would I want to ruin that by doing something pleasant for someone and, God forbid, feeling 'nice'?

Read this quote from an anonymous reviewer on Amazon: "I defy anyone to read this book & not want to go out & help strangers! A top notch, A grade, tip top, super dooper, slice of fried gold of a book which I'd recommend to anyone & everyone!"

Jesus Christ, I'd love to meet the person who wrote that insipid, childish shit and kick their teeth in. Then I'd take a lump hammer, position the teeth, root-first, on their forehead and pound their own molars into a giant exclamation mark, as they seem to love them so bloody much. "Hey! Look! A giant exclamation mark! Cool, huh!?!"

Yes Man

This book is the worst offender of all.

While on a bus, Wallace is addressed by a 'mysterious stranger' who, clearly under the influence of some mind-altering drug, tells him he should "Say 'yes' more".

Any normal human being would recoil in horror at a fellow passenger engaging them in conversation on public transport, reaching instinctively for their phone so as to call the police and report what is obviously an escaped lunatic. However, Wallace being the most credulous man on the planet, takes this tossed-away comment from a transient, interfering maniac and turns it into some sort of mantra.

He decides that from now on he will say Yes to everything. Thus begins a series of stultifyingly dull 'adventures' in which he engages in a selection of tedious encounters and ill-conceived actions. He learns nothing and achieves even less.

The reason I hate this book is because I bought it at Heathrow Airport on the way to a holiday with my brother touring Thailand and Cambodia. Trust me, the last thing you want before you arrive in The Land of Ladyboys and deep-fried insects, is to read a book that brainwashes you into saying Yes to everything. I still have nightmares.

You may have seen a pattern emerging within these brief summations of Wallace's work. His books are, without exception, all about being bored and trying to find magic and meaning in the simple act of interacting with people.

Utter nonsense.

Who wants to interact with people? In fact, who wants to 'interact' at all? It's a stupid word which I classify as meaningless management-speak on a par with 'liaise', 'engage' and 'work closely with'.

So, as an antidote to this frighteningly popular middle-class trend of 'being nice', I've decided to start my own club.

It's called the 'fuck you' club and the rules are very simple.

1) You must maintain, at all times, a sour expression of utter disdain. I find a combination of unbridled scorn and barely-concealed disgust to be a particularly pleasing mix.

2) If you find yourself in a situation where you can help someone, don't. Turn around and walk away. Even better, stand there, laugh in their faces, revel in their misfortune, then walk away.

3) There is no 3. Everything you need to know is covered in the first 2 points. It's a very basic philosophy.

Someone's bag has torn and they've dropped their shopping?
Fuck you. You should have packed it more carefully at the supermarket.

An elderly woman has dropped her key and it's fallen down a sewer grate?
Fuck you. Not my problem, granny. Tie it to a piece of string next time, you grizzled harridan.

A tearful child has just witnessed their cat being flattened by the mighty wheels of a passing articulated lorry?
Meh. Nothing lasts forever, everything ends. All good things disappear in time like the flavour of a meal, the memory of a kiss, or the blissful caress of a lover. Existential angst, pervading melancholy and painful reverie will haunt you for the rest of your days. Get used to it, kid. Oh, and fuck you.

There is one final thing about the 'fuck you' club that it's very important to observe. There is no membership. You can't join my 'fuck you' club. If you try, I will merely observe rule 2 and say "Fuck you, start your own club".

Thus will there be a myriad of 'fuck you' clubs, each comprising a single, miserable, hatred-filled individual. There will be no meetings and you will not receive a newsletter - unless, of course, you decide to create one that you proceed to e-mail to yourself and read bitterly whilst sipping a cup of cheap instant coffee and eating a garibaldi, commonly regarded as "the devil's biscuit". Frankly, that would just be weird and possibly symptomatic of some underlying psychological condition that requires urgent attention. Don't write a newsletter.

So, that's the 'fuck you' club. I consider it my gift to mankind.

Reasons to become a hermit, #1

I have, over the course of the last few years, become ever more disillusioned with humanity as a whole. People are generally a bad idea. They are loud, boorish, ignorant, stupid show-offs and not the sort of thing that any right-minded individual would have anything to do with.

So it is that I've been cultivating a deep-seated mistrust of society, shunning human contact wherever possible and working hard on my ultimate dream which is to never have to deal with another human being for the rest of my natural life.

The events of this evening have done little to disabuse me of the above notions, nor dissuade me from my goal.

Let me explain. This is what should have happened this evening:

1) Leave work.
2) Go and have something pleasant to eat in town.
3) Meet my flick buddy (similar to a fuck buddy, except instead of sleeping together you go to the cinema) and see 'Moon' at the Odeon.

Even for a curmudgeonly, sour-faced bastard like me, an evening such as that would be something to look forward to and cherish.

Sadly, things never quite work out the way you want them to.

I left work at 7 and wandered into the high street. We are fortunate enough in Southend to have a cornucopia of restaurants and eateries to choose from, each serving a splendid array of cuisines. Gastronomically, we are blessed with an embarrassment of riches.

French, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, Thai, Indian, Portuguese, Moroccan, Sri Lankan - all of these are available in the Southend area.

It is with some shame then that I have to admit I went for the easy option. So I wouldn't sit in the cinema reeking of garlic or other delicious foodstuffs, I decided to go to Frankie and Benny's for something simple.

Now, the last time I went to Frankie and Benny's in Southend was about 2-3 years ago with my father and his partner. They ordered fish and chips, if memory serves, and I chose a steak. My specific order was "the steak, medium-rare, with a jacket potato and sour cream". Immediately, the disinterested waitress informed me that I couldn't have sour cream with the jacket potato. Instead, I would have to order the 'jacket potato with sour cream' from another part of the menu.

"Won't I then have two jacket potatoes though?", I asked, slightly bewildered.

"No," she replied, chewing gum, "I can write down 'no jacket' on your steak order."

I mulled this over.

"So," I ventured, "will the steak cost less because a major part of the dish is missing?"

She continued masticating her gum for a few seconds before fixing me with a steely glare that was, impossibly, both hate-filled and indifferent all at the same time.

"No. You'll still have to pay the full price."

By now, I was intrigued as to whether she might, at some point in the conversation, remember I was the customer and that a reasonably integral part of her job description was to give me what I wanted (within the bounds of reason) as my satisfaction was directly linked to the amount of gratuity she was likely to receive.

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"How about," I carefully explained, "I order the steak, medium-rare, and the jacket potato, and you just give me a side-dish of sour cream which I can apply to the jacket potato myself, thus completely bypassing this apparently insurmountable complication?"

She stopped munching on her gum and eyed me suspiciously, as one might regard someone who has just offered you a boiled sweet, opened their trouser pocket wide, and invited you to reach in and help yourself.

A moment passed.

"Yeah, OK", she said, scribbled in her notepad, and was gone.

Pleased that we'd been able to discuss the matter like adults and reach a mutually beneficial solution, I sat back and waited for my delicious repast.

30 minutes later, the food arrived. My medium-rare steak had been cooked well-done, the field mushroom on my plate had, apparently, been slow-cooked in the deep-fat fryer and sucked up approximately a third of a litre of vegetable oil in the process, and the diaphanous paper cup balanced precariously next to my jacket potato contained a generous dollop of mayonnaise, not sour cream.

Barely containing my anger, I proceeded to try and gain the attention of a member of the waiting staff (and this is genuinely no exaggeration) for about 20 minutes, before finally giving up and staring balefully at the rapidly emptying plates of delicious fayre in front of my father and his other half.

I swore never to return.

So, tonight, I made the fatal mistake of assuming that things must have improved somewhat at Frankie and Benny's and perhaps I should give them another opportunity.

I ordered this:

Tender salmon, fresh red pepper and mozzarella cheese fishcakes.
Fresh rocket and Italian hard cheese garnish (Italian hard cheese? Is it possible to describe an item of food and make it sound less appetising?)
Your choice of herb potatoes, house fries or a jacket.
Tartare sauce on the side.

What I received was this:

Frozen, mass-produced fishcakes, fresh from the deep-fat fryer.
Wilted rocket leaves with no Italian hard cheese.
A dry jacket potato with no butter.
Tartare sauce in the ubiquitous paper cup.

The rocket leaves looked as if they'd been nuked in the microwave for 30 seconds and then drizzled with cooking oil - the last time I saw something so limp, greasy and unappealing was when I had the misfortune to mistakenly watch an episode of Supermarket Sweep - and the jacket potato was so dry that I was afraid to breathe on it in case the contents blew away like a puff of talcum powder from the bottom of a flatulent infant. The fishcakes, in all fairness, were actually edible.

After toying disconsolately with the potato for a few minutes, I decided, like Marlon Brando, that the judicial application of some butter might improve things. Thus, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to attract the attention of the waitress who seemed to be doing little more than passing between tables at the far end of the restaurant, eyes resolutely glued to the floor lest one of those pesky customers actually require something and drag her away from the infinitely more important task of chatting to the kitchen staff.

Eventually, I managed to collar the manageress and ask for some butter with which to introduce some much-needed moisture to my dessicated jacket potato. She disappeared for a moment and then brought back two sticks of butter in yet another of those damn paper cups. Unfortunately, the butter had been in the fridge and was so hard that I feared if I exerted too much pressure, the knife would shatter in my hand and propel shrapnel at my eyes.

Iced dairy products and cold talcum powder are not a good combination and, rather than a pleasing medley of yummy jacket potato and delicious melted butter, I was left with something that resembled the yellowing, curdled ejaculate of a elderly greyhound.

Finally, after another few minutes, I put down my scratched cutlery, grabbed my bag and walked up to the waitress asking for the bill.

I took care to explain that my meal was largely inedible and didn't contain the ingredients listed on the menu, so she called the manageress over and they had a brief, whispered discussion about what to do. After some frenzied tapping at the till from the manageress, she handed me the bill saying, "I've taken 50% off your meal."

"Well that's handy," I replied, "because I only ate 50% of it. It was one of the worst meals I've ever had."

She turned and walked away without another word and, weary from hunger, I pathetically handed over my debit card. Yes, yes, I should have insisted that the entire cost was taken off the bill, but I was fast approaching the point where, if I'd given vent to my anger, I may well have ended up doing something regrettable, and possibly illegal, involving an un-buttered corn on the cob and one of the manageress' orifices.

All I wanted was a nice meal. Instead, I received a heaping platter of bitter disappointment.

Welcome to Schmucksville, population: me.

And, relax...

Finally, the Mortal Remains script rewrite is finished.

6 months of work (well, 5 months of thinking about it, 1 month of feverishly typing like a lunatic) has gone into this so I hope that Mike, the screenwriter, likes it.

I've decided not to do a second draft for a few reasons:
1) because I've only just finished the first draft I don't want to jump back into it straight away,
2) if Mike doesn't like what I've done to his script then a re-draft would be wasted effort, and
3) I'm sick and tired of these sodding characters.

Tomorrow I shall print out and bind three copies of the script - one for me, one for Mike and one for Simon, our co-writer friend whose comments are always welcome on projects like these. Hopefully, we'll all meet up at some point in a week or two for a chat about it and I'll find out if I've done Mike's original idea justice. Frankly, there's an awful lot of new material in there for a simple rewrite, and Mike may feel that the script has strayed too far from his vision. We shall see.

Of course, this begs the question, "What next?". The answer is, "I don't know."

I have a few ideas floating around for full-length screenplays, but don't know if I'm ready to attack them yet.

One, called 'Provenance', is a story about an art forger, based very loosely on the life of the incomparable Eric Hebborn, another is based, again very loosely, on the tale of The Wandering Jew.

Alternatively, I was talking to Mike about creating a 10-minute short script which he might consider directing. I've had a lot of ideas for that lately, so perhaps that should be the next project.

Ah well, at least this one's finished now and I can sit back and relax, albeit temporarily.

Apologies for lack of 'funnies' today, I'm too knackered.

A complete waste of time

Watch this.



Looks pretty damn good, doesn't it?

In this age of Transformers 2, The Fast and the Furious 4, and Indiana Jones and the Fucking Kingdom of the Fucking Crystal Skull, it has become a rare and unusual pleasure to see a trailer which actually arouses your interest to the point that, for a brief foolish second, you seriously consider spending a tenner to sit in a dark, sweat-perfumed room with a clutch of braying chimps, watching as they fumble alternately with sugary treats and spray-tanned breasts while texting on their mobile phones despite clear instructions to TURN THE BASTARD THINGS OFF BEFORE THE FILM STARTS.

Thus it was that, breathless and filled with some perverse, oddly discomforting emotion that I can only imagine must have been what normal people call "joyful anticipation", my fingers nimbly brought me to the website of Odeon Cinemas, the largest chain of movie theatres in the UK. Feverishly, I looked at the listings.

GI Joe
GI Joe 3D
Ice Age 3
Ice Age 3 3D
G Force
G Force 3D

To my disappointment, it was becoming painfully apparent that my local Odeon were not showing Moon. "Joyful anticipation" ebbing, I decided to see which cinemas Odeon WERE showing the movie at.

Choosing 'Moon' on their irritatingly awkward website, I discovered that out of 108 potential cinemas in the Odeon franchise, only 8 of them were showing the film I wanted to see, and 6 of those were in London.

Now, I have nothing whatsoever against London, quite the opposite in fact. I find it to be a fantastic city full of wondrous exotica like 24-hour convenience stores, kebabs in wraps instead of pitta bread, and people who don't look like they've loped out of the green room at a taping of the Jeremy Kyle show and are about to start a fight with their own reflection because it 'looked at them funny'. London, in short, is great.

But, I quickly totted up the cost and soon realised that it was prohibitively expensive. £20 for the train, £10 for the cinema ticket, £10 for the inevitable alcoholic beverages, £5 for a taxi back from the station. "This film's gonna cost me a bloody nifty, you rubbish!" I exclaimed at the Odeon website, suddenly coming across all 'estuary' in my impotent rage.

Feeling my dander rising, I decided that there was little I could do except e-mail the Odeon and ask for, nay DEMAND, an explanation of why they weren't going to show this film. Sort of. Here's what I sent:

Could you please advise me if there are any plans to show 'Moon' at the Southend Odeon?

I'm extremely interested in seeing this film but, sadly, your company is only showing it at 8 cinemas out of 108 nationwide, none of which are close enough for me to easily, or cheaply, get to.

Thank you in advance.

To their credit, they responded pretty quickly, saying:

Please accept our apologies that we have not been able to screen the type of films you would prefer. Unfortunately, the range of films is not always within our control - it depends on the number of prints made available for use in the UK. Typically, blockbusters are released with over 600 prints however specialised films (such as "Moon") are only released with 50 prints for the whole of the UK. This makes it very difficult to obtain prints for some of our cinemas as the film distributors prefer to allocate these prints to special art-house cinemas as they will get higher attendance levels than at typical multiplexes.

However, we have our "Directors Chair" screenings allow us to show specialised films a few weeks after their general release. The details of the Directors Chair season is available by clicking on the Directors Chair logo in the “Now Showing” section, or going to

http://www.odeon.co.uk/fanatic/directors-chair/

and selecting your local ODEON from the list.

Now, the Odeon group is the largest cinema chain in Europe but, apparently, they're unable to request additional prints of movies? Surely to Christ if anyone can request an additional, say, 50 prints it would be the Odeon?

I was left unconvinced by this message from them so found the contact details of the UK film distributor, which is Sony Pictures Entertainment Worldwide Acquisitions Group. That's rather a long name, so I'm going to abbreviate it to TWATS.

I sent TWATS an e-mail on 17th August which contained the following:

I am very disappointed that I was unable to watch this movie on the big screen, but would like to understand a little more about how distribution of such 'specialised' movies works. Accordingly, I would be hugely grateful if you could clarify a few issues for me:

1) Were only 50 prints of the movie released to the UK?
2) Why weren't further prints made available?
3) How many prints did Odeon Cinemas actually request?
4) Given that Odeon Cinemas are the largest cinema chain in the UK, if they had requested more prints would they have been provided?
5) Do you operate a policy of designating more prints for art-house cinemas?

As mentioned above, I would be extremely grateful for a response to these queries.

Many thanks to you in advance for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest opportunity.

It would be pertinent to clarify that, at this point, I was expecting to receive a reply answering my questions and thus enabling me to either 1) realise that Sony are twats, 2) realise that Odeon are twats, or 3) realise that I'm a twat with no real comprehension of how film distribution operates. The smart money was on option 3, but I was hopeful for either of the other two.

I waited, expectantly, for TWATS to contact me.

And then I waited some more.

Finally, after a prolonged period of waiting, I waited slightly longer then got bored and decided to e-mail them again, this time on 7th September:

I sent the query below on 17th August. To date, I have received no reply.

I'm sure that this is merely an oversight and not representative of Sony's customer service as a whole. Accordingly, I look forward to receiving a reply.

I then waited again, feeling that The Great Film Distribution Scandal I was about to uncover was slipping away from me. Thoughts of a Pullitzer Prize in investigative journalism gave way to more simple desires - like just wanting to watch a film that wasn't in 3D or designed for a roomful of people with a combined IQ of 6.

Finally, on 1st October, a staggering two months after my original e-mail to Sony, I received...precisely fuck all. Clearly, TWATS couldn't be arsed to respond to me.

I sent them one final e-mail later that day:

As you will see from the e-mails below, I wrote to you back in August with an enquiry regarding UK film distribution for the movie 'Moon'.

Despite a follow-up e-mail, I have not received the courtesy of a reply to any of my communications.

As a Sony customer who owns a number of your products, I'm extremely disappointed at Sony's apparently cavalier attitude to customer service.

It is with regret that I will now be taking my custom elsewhere in future, and will also be recommending that my friends do the same.

Clearly, Sony isn't interested in engaging with its customers. I consider that to be very sad.

I clicked 'send' with a smugly condescending shake of the head and went about my day.

Odeon at least had the common courtesy to send me a response even if I did consider the contents to be a bit iffy. But as for Sony, not a word. Apparently, when you're a company that big, you don't need to worry about the desires of an ordinary customer. The shite-hawks.

My journey was at an end. I wouldn't be able to see 'Moon' on the big screen because of several reasons:

1) Odeon only seem to show films that are going to make them a huge profit. Of course, I understand that's why one operates a business - to make money - but if that's their business model, maybe they should revisit their tagline "Fantatical about film" and change it to something more appropriate like "Give us your money and fuck off."

2) On the basis of my personal experience, Sony are complete TWATS. I can only assume that they are also TWATS when it comes to the business of film distribution so, accordingly, the reason I couldn't see 'Moon' was because, and I can't stress this enough, Sony are TWATS.

3) I'm unfortunate enough to live in Essex. It is highly unlikely that any film designed to titilate the cerebrum will ever be shown here. Just give us something we can gaze at while we toss popcorn into our gaping mouth-holes, vaguely wondering if there might be time for a quick fight after the film finishes.

So, to sum up:

Disappointment #1 - I can't see Moon.

Disappointment #2 - My desire to uncover a film distribution conspiracy is buggered up by Sony refusing to communicate with me.

Disappointment #3 - my local Odeon are now showing 'Moon' on Tuesday evening as part of their Director's Chair screenings, meaning that although I now get to see the movie on the big screen, all of the e-mails have been a complete waste of time, and this blog post is now completely redundant.

Sod it, I'm going to publish it anyway.

Oh, and did I mention that Sony are TWATS?

*Needless to say, my opinions of Sony and Odeon are precisely that - opinions. I'm sure they're lovely in real life and wouldn't dream of suing a blogger who only has about 3 readers anyway, and the fact that I've had to put this clarification into my blog post is in no way meant to suggest that they're the sort of companies that would partake in such actions, especially not attempting to curtail our much valued freedoms of speech although it would be rather nice to see them go to court and try to prove they are not twats*

*By the way, I've just noticed that this blog post is very sweary. Bad language is never an acceptable substitute for humour. I think we've all learned a valuable lesson today. Think on.*

Do this. Do it now.

In the interests of scientific experimentation, I've been playing around with a few choice beverages recently. One is a classic that, sadly, has been appropriated by the Bacardi chaps in an effort to boost sales of their particular product, while the other is a rather forgotten cocktail that many won't have heard of. I'll deal with the forgotten cocktail in another post.

The first is that beverage much beloved of Ernest Hemingway and, for those of you who prefer their references to be less literary, Brian the dog from Family Guy.

Yes, folks, it's the Mojito. Don't stop reading just yet - bear with me.

Cuban in origin, it's roots have been lost in the mists of time. Some say it is similar to a drink called La Draque, created in honour of Sir Francis Drake, others that it was an invention by the African slaves working in the sugar cane fields. Wherever it came from, it's a most splendid drink indeed.

I first tried a Mojito in a Cuban Bar and Restaurant at Kings Cross, London. I was an immediate convert and, fortunately, was in the company of a couple of young ladies who were being bought copious drinks by amorous gentlemen, heady with rum and rumba. As they weren't Mojito lovers, they kept placing the glistening tumblers of minty, limey elixir on the table in front of me. It was a marvellous evening and my love affair with the Mojito had begun.

For several years, I've pursued the Mojito around the country. Whenever I go away for business and an establishment has the Mojito on its menu, I've ordered one. However, this has been a rather disappointing quest thus far. At one restaurant in Nottingham, I was informed that they couldn't make me a Mojito because the ice machine was broken and they didn't have any "mint syrup". That was a lucky escape, both for me and them. It's entirely possible that, if they'd had it available, I would have grabbed the bottle of mint syrup and inserted into them with a flourish of the wrist and a might roar of "Cuba Libre!" whilst leaping, shirtless, from table to table, hooting like an enraged ape.

At, of all places, a Frankie and Benny's in Cambridge, I ordered a Mojito which, when it arrived, didn't taste quite right. I subsequently learned that the barman, presumably some sort of 'care in the community' work placement, had neglected to add the lime. And the sugar. Only five ingredients, yet this inconceivably gormless cock-monkey forgot to add two of them. Unbelievable. It was only sheer willpower that prevented me from kicking him so hard that he was propelled into the heart of the sun.

I could name other disastrous Mojito encounters but, instead, I will simply say that I've been seeking that initial wondrous experience for a long time and simply hadn't found it.

Until a few weeks ago, after a significant amount of research.

After work one Friday, I went to the supermarket and bought myself the raw ingredients so that I could return home and create my own Mojito. Here, for your pleasure, is the recipe I used.

First, you need to make a simple syrup in advance. This is staggeringly easy to do. Just take two cupfuls (a teacup will do) of white sugar and dump them in a saucepan. Then take two cupfuls of water and dump those in the pan too. Put the heat on and gently bring the water to a simmer, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Take it off the heat and let it cool down. There's your simple syrup. Put it in the fridge or something.

Now for the recipe:

Ingredients
40ml rum (if you can, get hold of some Havana Club rum. If not, Bacardi will do. I'm not a purist)
30ml freshly squeezed lime juice (if you can't be bothered to squeeze your own limes, simply buy a bottle of processed lime juice - I believe JIF manufacture it - shake several drops into your eyes and then fuck off. Just squeeze some limes, you pleb.)
15ml simple syrup
8 mint leaves
Ice
Soda water

Get a long-ish glass and put the lime juice, syrup and mint leaves into it. Gently 'muddle' the leaves with the lime and syrup. Now, to 'muddle' means that you're gently bashing the mint leaves so that they release their delicious oils into the liquid. Don't tear the leaves, don't smash them into oblivion, just gently bruise them. You can buy a 'muddler' which is a little wooden implement, or you can use a pestle. Alternatively, use the end of a rolling pin. Basically, use your imagination and stop relying on other people to solve all your problems for you.

Once you've completed your muddling, take a handful of crushed ice and pop it into the glass. If you only have ice cubes, a clean tea-towel and a rolling pin are your friends here. Alternatively, smash the ice with the bottom of a saucepan.

Chuck in your rum, then top the whole thing up with soda water.

Give it a little mix and then drink the bugger.

A well-made mojito, my friends, is a thing of joy. Fresh, tasty and incredibly moreish.

Ignore the fact that it has now become horribly 'fashionable'. Most of the mojito's you'll see in pubs and clubs are shockingly bad, thrown-together affairs that disrespectfully fling faeces into the face of the genuine article.

And remember, please drink responsibly. If you drink more than 20 Mojito's in a single sitting, you may be visited by Satan.

Death pays a visit

I just saw my own death.

Not in a metaphorical sense, but quite literally.

I was having a dream, the full details of which I will not bore you with. It involved a taxi journey, and it was night-time.

The taxi stopped and myself and my fellow passenger got out. He asked the driver to wait for a moment. We said our goodbyes (handshake, man-hug) and then the taxi driver decided he was bored of waiting and started to drive away - with my bag still in the car.

Shouting, I ran to the back of the cab, pulled the door open and got in. I proceeded to give the taxi-driver a mouthful of abuse whereupon he picked up my bag from the passenger seat and threw it at me - I caught it in my lap.

I uttered a coarse parting shot at which point the taxi-driver opened his glove-box, grabbed something and threw it at me. I caught it - an automatic reaction.

When I looked down at what he'd thrown me, it took me a moment to realise what it was - a gun.

Instantly, with awful clarity, I knew why he'd done it. It was so he could claim self-defence.

Immediately, I looked up to see he had another gun in his hand, pointed directly at me. He pulled the trigger, I heard the bang and felt the bullet hit my chest like a punch to the ribs.

I sat there, shocked, still holding the decoy gun he'd tossed at me, my ears ringing with the sound of the shot in the confined space.

At that point, I woke up.

It was the most extraordinarily vivid dream I can ever remember having. I felt that bullet slam into me. I heard the high-pitched whine in my head, an after effect of the loud noise in the confines of the taxi.

It's now 3:42 a.m. and I'm wide awake, still reeling mentally from it.

I'd like to sign off with some witty comment about the dangers of eating a cheese sandwich before bed (which I did) but am still too shaken.

Apologies for the disjointed nature of this post.

A most productive day indeed

Today has been fantastic.

As detailed here way back in April, I'm currently working on a script-rewrite.

Mortal Remains (as it is still currently called, but I fully expect I will cheekily change the title very soon) has been on my radar for quite some time. Of course, by 'on my radar' what I really mean is I've thought about it, made a few notes, but spectacularly failed to do very much in the way of writing.

Unfortunately, with writing, the mood needs to take me. Sometimes it can seem like such a major journey, such an insurmountable object, that I'm hesitant to begin it.

Thus, over the course of the last 6 months I've managed to write about ten pages and bugger all else. I have, rather obviously, not communicated this failure to Mike - the author of the screenplay - and instead given him vague reassurances that work is progressing at a steady rate. Indeed, that's not really a lie if you consider, as I do, that consistently doing nothing is an accurate definition of 'a steady rate'.

In reality, I haven't actually been doing nothing, I've been mulling it all over. The whole thing has been slowly churning in my mind, forming, disintegrating, reforming, and generally melding together in a clever, writery, thinky way. At least that's what I'm convincing myself has happened.

Today, finally, something clicked in my mind and said to me "OK, you can start now".

Thus, I find myself having written 40 pages over the course of the day. Some of it, without doubt, is utter tripe and I shall callously delete it whilst shaking my head and chortling at my own ineptitude. But a lot of it is very good indeed.

While I'm undoubtedly pleased that it's all coming together at long last, the main reason I'm brimming with childish glee is because I've had a bloody fantastic time today. I rather lost my writing mojo for a while, so it was great to be artistically tumescent once more.

Oh, and I know that Mike semi-regularly checks this blog for news of progress on his script, so I thought it'd be a nice idea to give him something to read for a change.

More bloggery coming soon, once I've thought about it and made a lot of notes...