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.
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...
16 July 2006
How ironic
When I explained that I was going on sabbatical, I stated that Benny C would be taking over the reigns for a while.
However, he has clearly lost interest and decided that he can't be bothered.
On the one hand, it's disappointing, especially as I gave him the appropriate permissions and thought he might make a valuable contribution. However, on the other hand, perhaps his disappointing lack of posts is his attempt at irony.
See, maybe he isn't the Northern monkey we all thought he was.
Right, back to that sabbatical...
However, he has clearly lost interest and decided that he can't be bothered.
On the one hand, it's disappointing, especially as I gave him the appropriate permissions and thought he might make a valuable contribution. However, on the other hand, perhaps his disappointing lack of posts is his attempt at irony.
See, maybe he isn't the Northern monkey we all thought he was.
Right, back to that sabbatical...
24 May 2006
Things that have amused me
1) Guy Goma. Due to an almost amusing misunderstanding, a man who was simply turning up for a job interview accidentally got picked up at reception, made up, and thrown in front of a camera to participate on the BBC news. Clicky link: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4774429.stm
It's good.
2) Morning Glory. Very wrong. Very funny. If you are easily offended, do not clicky. http://www.mgcomics.net/
3) Themanwhofellasleep. Amusing. Clicky on Sad Jokes. http://www.themanwhofellasleep.com/
It's good.
2) Morning Glory. Very wrong. Very funny. If you are easily offended, do not clicky. http://www.mgcomics.net/
3) Themanwhofellasleep. Amusing. Clicky on Sad Jokes. http://www.themanwhofellasleep.com/
23 May 2006
18 May 2006
Sabbatical, headaches and facial recognition.
First things first - I'm leaving the blog for a while. I received some feedback from someone recently who claimed that I seemed to be "bitter". Although I don't necessarily agree with that, I did re-read some of my posts and have realised that, well, I ain't as funny as I used to be.
This blog was always meant to represent a kind of heightened reality, sort of like Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm, where I could breathe life into a alternate version of myself and exaggerate certain elements of my life. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened lately. Instead, I've been maudlin and unamusing. It's been like watching a car crash as I've slowly spiralled into 'breakdown'. Nobody wants to see that, least of all me. So, I'm going on sabbatical. I may be back, I may not. We'll see.
In the meantime, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Benny C. Yeah, he isn't as funny as me, but he's just a youngster. One day he may cease to be my Padawan learner and become a Master.
I've been off work for the last few days with a sore throat, aching muscles, a blocked up nose, and a headache that has been constant for approximately 72 hours. I may kill something soon. So, apologies for not being amusing or entertaining.
Before I go, one last thing. Check this out: http://www.myheritage.com/FP/Company/face_recognition.php?s=1&u=g0&lang=EN&restore&category=1
You have to sign up with your e-mail address, but it's all kosher.
Upload a photograph of yourself and the website conducts a comparison with over 3,200 well known people, then gives you a list of those that you most closely resemble.
I uploaded two photos and found that I was a combination of the following:
Sean Penn - 67%
WB Yeats - 58%
Sting - 50%
Jude Law - 50%
Emilio Estevez - 48%
Charles Manson - 48%
Groucho Mark - 47%
So, if asked on an Internet chatroom, I shall claim that I'm a cross between Jude Law and Sean Penn, with a soupcon of Charlie Manson thrown in. If that doesn't get them interested, nothing will.
Bye.
This blog was always meant to represent a kind of heightened reality, sort of like Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm, where I could breathe life into a alternate version of myself and exaggerate certain elements of my life. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened lately. Instead, I've been maudlin and unamusing. It's been like watching a car crash as I've slowly spiralled into 'breakdown'. Nobody wants to see that, least of all me. So, I'm going on sabbatical. I may be back, I may not. We'll see.
In the meantime, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Benny C. Yeah, he isn't as funny as me, but he's just a youngster. One day he may cease to be my Padawan learner and become a Master.
I've been off work for the last few days with a sore throat, aching muscles, a blocked up nose, and a headache that has been constant for approximately 72 hours. I may kill something soon. So, apologies for not being amusing or entertaining.
Before I go, one last thing. Check this out: http://www.myheritage.com/FP/Company/face_recognition.php?s=1&u=g0&lang=EN&restore&category=1
You have to sign up with your e-mail address, but it's all kosher.
Upload a photograph of yourself and the website conducts a comparison with over 3,200 well known people, then gives you a list of those that you most closely resemble.
I uploaded two photos and found that I was a combination of the following:
Sean Penn - 67%
WB Yeats - 58%
Sting - 50%
Jude Law - 50%
Emilio Estevez - 48%
Charles Manson - 48%
Groucho Mark - 47%
So, if asked on an Internet chatroom, I shall claim that I'm a cross between Jude Law and Sean Penn, with a soupcon of Charlie Manson thrown in. If that doesn't get them interested, nothing will.
Bye.
10 May 2006
DrunkSense
Regular readers (both of you) may remember that I wrote a post a while back on the excellent product Pawsense. Linkage here: http://blogeternaldisappointment.blogspot.com/2004/12/microwaves-and-cats.html
Re-reading some of my recent posts, some of which were melancholically tapped out whilst I was 'much disguised in drink', I have decided to invent something called 'DrunkSense'.
Drunksense (tm) is a piece of software which you can run on your PC as a background application and if at any point you arrive home as pissed as a lemur and decide that you want to share your pain with the world, it will detect the agonisingly slow key depressions, whilst conducting an internal log of how many times you press the backspace key to delete your repeated spelling mistakes, and lock you out.
If you attempt to resume your drunken ramblings, the PC will play 'I Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)' until you're reduced to pitiful, sobbing tears, whereupon you shambolically stumble off to bed and collapse, fully clothed, into the covers. It's a kind of audial Mace.
Thus, when you awake the following morning, you don't have to gingerly log in to your blog to a) witness the self-pitying torrent of spleen you have vented on to the World Wide Internet and b) cringe when you realise how many people have already read it and are dolefully shaking their heads and wondering how long it'll be before you finally cave in and deliberately drown yourself in a sinkful of dirty dishes.
I think it's a winner.
Re-reading some of my recent posts, some of which were melancholically tapped out whilst I was 'much disguised in drink', I have decided to invent something called 'DrunkSense'.
Drunksense (tm) is a piece of software which you can run on your PC as a background application and if at any point you arrive home as pissed as a lemur and decide that you want to share your pain with the world, it will detect the agonisingly slow key depressions, whilst conducting an internal log of how many times you press the backspace key to delete your repeated spelling mistakes, and lock you out.
If you attempt to resume your drunken ramblings, the PC will play 'I Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)' until you're reduced to pitiful, sobbing tears, whereupon you shambolically stumble off to bed and collapse, fully clothed, into the covers. It's a kind of audial Mace.
Thus, when you awake the following morning, you don't have to gingerly log in to your blog to a) witness the self-pitying torrent of spleen you have vented on to the World Wide Internet and b) cringe when you realise how many people have already read it and are dolefully shaking their heads and wondering how long it'll be before you finally cave in and deliberately drown yourself in a sinkful of dirty dishes.
I think it's a winner.
8 May 2006
TEPS, sunscreen, achievement, and the future.
I have just participated and, thank the Lord, been succesful in a game of TEPS (The Emergency Poo Sprint).
For those of you unfamiliar with TEPS, this involves an evening of drinking and eating, culminating in a sudden and rather frightening need to immediately excrete.
The need hit me about five minutes ago as I wended my drunken way home after an evening out with my father. Thank Christ, I made it in time. Racing in through the front door like an impatient penguin, I waddled upstairs (curse my first floor flat, despite its admirable view) and burst into the toilet before, well, bursting into the toilet.
I am now sitting, drinking water and enjoying the kind of buzz that is usually only experienced by potheads who have just smoked a twelve-inch skunk roll-up marijuana pipe.
Is this a male only phenomenon or do women experience TEPS too? Feedback please. I like to think I'm closing the sex gap.
So, I listened to Baz Lurhmans 'Everyones free to wear sunscreen' again yesterday. I love the song. If you don't like it, get out. Now. I mean it. Fuck off out of my blog you neanderthal.
It appeals to me on so many levels, not least of which is my own tendency to dispense sage advice to people regardless of my apparent inability to control a single event in my own life.
One of the lyrics in the song is "Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t."
That lyric has been haunting me.
I don't know what I want to do with my life. I'm 33. Surely I should know by now?
Sadly, however, I don't.
Does that mean that I'm an interesting person?
Maybe it means that I'm far from interesting and have only succeeded in failing spectacularly.
I don't know.
I lack direction.
What does the future hold? Is that the question that should be occupying my time? Should I be concentrating on what destiny has in store? Should I be ignoring destiny and concentrating on my next masturbatory fantasy? Should I just go to sleep.
These are the questions which, ironically, keep me awake...
Answers on a postcard.
For those of you unfamiliar with TEPS, this involves an evening of drinking and eating, culminating in a sudden and rather frightening need to immediately excrete.
The need hit me about five minutes ago as I wended my drunken way home after an evening out with my father. Thank Christ, I made it in time. Racing in through the front door like an impatient penguin, I waddled upstairs (curse my first floor flat, despite its admirable view) and burst into the toilet before, well, bursting into the toilet.
I am now sitting, drinking water and enjoying the kind of buzz that is usually only experienced by potheads who have just smoked a twelve-inch skunk roll-up marijuana pipe.
Is this a male only phenomenon or do women experience TEPS too? Feedback please. I like to think I'm closing the sex gap.
So, I listened to Baz Lurhmans 'Everyones free to wear sunscreen' again yesterday. I love the song. If you don't like it, get out. Now. I mean it. Fuck off out of my blog you neanderthal.
It appeals to me on so many levels, not least of which is my own tendency to dispense sage advice to people regardless of my apparent inability to control a single event in my own life.
One of the lyrics in the song is "Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t."
That lyric has been haunting me.
I don't know what I want to do with my life. I'm 33. Surely I should know by now?
Sadly, however, I don't.
Does that mean that I'm an interesting person?
Maybe it means that I'm far from interesting and have only succeeded in failing spectacularly.
I don't know.
I lack direction.
What does the future hold? Is that the question that should be occupying my time? Should I be concentrating on what destiny has in store? Should I be ignoring destiny and concentrating on my next masturbatory fantasy? Should I just go to sleep.
These are the questions which, ironically, keep me awake...
Answers on a postcard.
7 May 2006
Myspace, webpages, writing, and dog turds.
Just finished 'doing up' my Myspace profile thing. The legitimate thought process behind this is that if I throw myself into enough different bits of cyberspace, I'm bound to be recognised eventually. Of course, that may not work.
I also have my own website which I purchased through 123reg. This was a big mistake. 123reg is bastard-well difficult to use, and so far all I've managed to achieve is a holding page. If anyone can help me to set up a very, very basic website, then I'd be much obliged.
Rob Pratten is a film director. He optioned the Gentlemen's Club screenplay that I co-wrote. However, he isn't making it at the moment because he's committed to another project called Mindflesh. This was hugely disappointing. However, I then realised that it was probably a good thing. If Mindflesh is the critical success that London Voodoo was, then that may give him a little more power to be able to get the financing for GC. Check out Rob's website. www.zenfilms.com
As I typed this, with the sun peeking through the window and Aimee Mann playing in the background, I looked out into the garden with a beatific smile on my face only to see my neighbours dog squatting on the grass, back legs juddering like Michael J. Fox, curling a huge brown cable. I don't like dogs. And I don't like dog eggs.
I also have my own website which I purchased through 123reg. This was a big mistake. 123reg is bastard-well difficult to use, and so far all I've managed to achieve is a holding page. If anyone can help me to set up a very, very basic website, then I'd be much obliged.
Rob Pratten is a film director. He optioned the Gentlemen's Club screenplay that I co-wrote. However, he isn't making it at the moment because he's committed to another project called Mindflesh. This was hugely disappointing. However, I then realised that it was probably a good thing. If Mindflesh is the critical success that London Voodoo was, then that may give him a little more power to be able to get the financing for GC. Check out Rob's website. www.zenfilms.com
As I typed this, with the sun peeking through the window and Aimee Mann playing in the background, I looked out into the garden with a beatific smile on my face only to see my neighbours dog squatting on the grass, back legs juddering like Michael J. Fox, curling a huge brown cable. I don't like dogs. And I don't like dog eggs.
30 April 2006
The loneliness of the long distance surfer
So, it's now just after 4.30 am and I'm still bastard well awake.
Benny C, the crazy little Northerner, is asleep on the floor in my living room. He has to be at work in 2 hours. Hehehe.
I've spent the last few hours surfing the net, trying desperately to engage someone - ANYONE - in a meaningful conversation. It ain't happening.
But I'm amazed by the amount of people still awake in the UK and posting messages on various forums. Also, there are quite a lot of people in the UK chatrooms. Sadly, they are all buffoons of the highest order with absolutely nothing to say.
Which reminds me, I was recently 'kicked' out of a chatroom for offensive behaviour.
My crime? Trying to start a discussion. I explained to those present in the room that all I was trying to do was stimulate intellectual debate via an argument. Sadly, we're not allowed to argue anymore in this country. We must be nice and pleasant and caring.
Absolute arse. Since when did conversation become a crime?
I remember becoming quite angry, joining other chatrooms and complaining about this terrible injustice. I was, unfortunately, quite drunk so the point may have been lost in my incoherent ramblings. Regular readers of this blog will be used to these...
Benny C, the crazy little Northerner, is asleep on the floor in my living room. He has to be at work in 2 hours. Hehehe.
I've spent the last few hours surfing the net, trying desperately to engage someone - ANYONE - in a meaningful conversation. It ain't happening.
But I'm amazed by the amount of people still awake in the UK and posting messages on various forums. Also, there are quite a lot of people in the UK chatrooms. Sadly, they are all buffoons of the highest order with absolutely nothing to say.
Which reminds me, I was recently 'kicked' out of a chatroom for offensive behaviour.
My crime? Trying to start a discussion. I explained to those present in the room that all I was trying to do was stimulate intellectual debate via an argument. Sadly, we're not allowed to argue anymore in this country. We must be nice and pleasant and caring.
Absolute arse. Since when did conversation become a crime?
I remember becoming quite angry, joining other chatrooms and complaining about this terrible injustice. I was, unfortunately, quite drunk so the point may have been lost in my incoherent ramblings. Regular readers of this blog will be used to these...
22 April 2006
Recycling. Pissed. Photos. Update. (Edited due to sobriety.)
I've just put two empty Pepsi Max Cino (fuck you, I like it) bottles in the pink recycling sack. Although, truth be told, I have my doubts about exactly what's going to be recycled here. I suspect that some guy in a big warehouse somewhere, takes all the pink sacks, rips them open and tips them into a skip, where they are then added to the other landfill shit that is being buried in our green and pleasant land. It's all about ticking boxes. Trust me, I work for the Government and my entire fucking job is about ticking cunting boxes.
I work in security. I'm a qualified security auditor. I have certificates. But I've been told, don't actually go out and do security audits so that we can prevent terrorists, eco-warriors and the like from getting to our deep dark secrets, just tick a few boxes. Bunch of arse.
Anyway, I've been told to tick boxes. On paper, we're doing our job. We're making society safer, we're protecting assets, we're 'MAKING A DIFFERENCE'. Oh, if only. Bunch of cunt.
Just spent ten minutes looking through some old photos that I found whilst looking through my drawer for something. Photos of my Grandfather (the nice one) and my father (the white one). Came to belated realisation that both of these people that came before me had their own lives, dreams, hopes and regrets. Realise that the next time I see my Dad I need to ask him about his Dad. Reason? Because one day, my Dad will be gone and I'd love someone to ask me about him. He's my hero. Yes, he's an aggravating old bugger who likes to carp on about whatever topic of the week is currently annoying him, but he 's my Dad, so fuck it, he's allowed.
One day, I'll be him. Apart from the 'Dad' thing, cos I haven't got kids and I'm unlikely to have any. But apart from that, it is my duty to carry on the 'Leonard' line until my inevitable heart-attack-related death and be a right annoying bugger who'll piss on anyone's parade just to irritate them. So, just to sum up, I need to ask my Dad about his Dad because it's important.
Update.
The Gentlemen's Club is currently being taken to Cannes to see if the Director can get some financing to make the fucker. Poster and tagline available at www.zenfilms.com
I work in security. I'm a qualified security auditor. I have certificates. But I've been told, don't actually go out and do security audits so that we can prevent terrorists, eco-warriors and the like from getting to our deep dark secrets, just tick a few boxes. Bunch of arse.
Anyway, I've been told to tick boxes. On paper, we're doing our job. We're making society safer, we're protecting assets, we're 'MAKING A DIFFERENCE'. Oh, if only. Bunch of cunt.
Just spent ten minutes looking through some old photos that I found whilst looking through my drawer for something. Photos of my Grandfather (the nice one) and my father (the white one). Came to belated realisation that both of these people that came before me had their own lives, dreams, hopes and regrets. Realise that the next time I see my Dad I need to ask him about his Dad. Reason? Because one day, my Dad will be gone and I'd love someone to ask me about him. He's my hero. Yes, he's an aggravating old bugger who likes to carp on about whatever topic of the week is currently annoying him, but he 's my Dad, so fuck it, he's allowed.
One day, I'll be him. Apart from the 'Dad' thing, cos I haven't got kids and I'm unlikely to have any. But apart from that, it is my duty to carry on the 'Leonard' line until my inevitable heart-attack-related death and be a right annoying bugger who'll piss on anyone's parade just to irritate them. So, just to sum up, I need to ask my Dad about his Dad because it's important.
Update.
The Gentlemen's Club is currently being taken to Cannes to see if the Director can get some financing to make the fucker. Poster and tagline available at www.zenfilms.com
20 April 2006
The French and Pandas. And Cages.
A French playwright, Norbert Aboudarham, has spent a week inside a cage at the zoo to gain an insight into how pandas live for a theatre project he is developing.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4926280.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4926280.stm
He stated that it was "about the universe, you have to put yourself in a cage smaller than the universe." Well, that's hardly bastard well difficult is it?
A zoo employee stated that the experiment was a way of "questioning man about his belonging to nature". And all the time that Mr Aboudarham was communing with nature and learning to become one with the cosmos so that he could make a small bundle of money with which to pay the rent and stock up on unfiltered cigarettes, what was he actually doing? Using his laptop.
I shit you not. He broke up the boredom of contemplating the Universe by checking his e-mails, doing a bit of e-Baying and getting to the next level on Doom. Twat.
To most people, all of this will seem like a) a rather silly, yet lucrative, publicity stunt, b) a heartfelt attempt to discover the reality of the plight of caged pandas, c) pretentiousness of the highest calibre, d) a Frenchman taking the wrong things far too seriously, as usual, or e) a lot of old wank.
I'm withholding judgement until I see the actual theatre project itself. You can all sit and scoff, but I shall be able to self-righteously recline and nod intellectually as I watch a group of poorly paid actors cavort childishly around the stage earnestly attempting to communicate the spiritual decline of big, stupid Chinese bears that would rather eat sticks than fuck.
However, I think the cage thing is an excellent idea for two quite distinct reasons:
1) I am going to establish 'Le Zoo Humain'. Effectively, this will be an international chain of Human Zoo's in which people from across the world can see the French, safely behind bars, living in total seclusion from the rest of humanity.
"Look, Timmy! There's a Frenchman swilling back cheap red wine*, half naked, whilst disinterestedly mauling the disappointing breasts of his tawdry, lipstick-smeared girlfriend!"
"Oh, Daddy, can we come back and see the French people again next week? They make me giggle in my tummy!"
I have nothing against the French, but for some reason I just feel that they should be segregated from the rest of society. Like midgets. And Northerners.
2) Rule one in 'How to be an author' is - write what you know. Mr Aboudarham wants to write about Pandas, therefore he sits in a panda cage for a week. So simple, so obvious.
Taking that idea on board, and bearing in mind my current scriptwriting project which is about social isolation and the spreading phenomenon of Hikikomori, I have decided to radically alter my lifestyle and spend the next six months indoors, with no-one to talk to, listlessly trawling the internet in an unceasing quest to find some small flicker of human contact, recognition or love, whilst...
Shit.
*Those wine glasses that you can buy which hold an entire bottle; they were invented by the French. For children. To drink at breakfast time.
I'm withholding judgement until I see the actual theatre project itself. You can all sit and scoff, but I shall be able to self-righteously recline and nod intellectually as I watch a group of poorly paid actors cavort childishly around the stage earnestly attempting to communicate the spiritual decline of big, stupid Chinese bears that would rather eat sticks than fuck.
However, I think the cage thing is an excellent idea for two quite distinct reasons:
1) I am going to establish 'Le Zoo Humain'. Effectively, this will be an international chain of Human Zoo's in which people from across the world can see the French, safely behind bars, living in total seclusion from the rest of humanity.
"Look, Timmy! There's a Frenchman swilling back cheap red wine*, half naked, whilst disinterestedly mauling the disappointing breasts of his tawdry, lipstick-smeared girlfriend!"
"Oh, Daddy, can we come back and see the French people again next week? They make me giggle in my tummy!"
I have nothing against the French, but for some reason I just feel that they should be segregated from the rest of society. Like midgets. And Northerners.
2) Rule one in 'How to be an author' is - write what you know. Mr Aboudarham wants to write about Pandas, therefore he sits in a panda cage for a week. So simple, so obvious.
Taking that idea on board, and bearing in mind my current scriptwriting project which is about social isolation and the spreading phenomenon of Hikikomori, I have decided to radically alter my lifestyle and spend the next six months indoors, with no-one to talk to, listlessly trawling the internet in an unceasing quest to find some small flicker of human contact, recognition or love, whilst...
Shit.
*Those wine glasses that you can buy which hold an entire bottle; they were invented by the French. For children. To drink at breakfast time.
9 April 2006
Time for resurrection?
There's an old adage which says, "Quit while you're ahead".
For instance, the current series of Hustle on BBC1 is really, really awful. They should have stopped after the second series. The new Derren Brown series on Channel 4 is also similarly terrible.
Sometimes, people need to learn that you really should stop while you're on top.
So, in that spirit, I've decided to restart The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
After all, it was never particularly popular anyway, so it's not like I have anything to live up to.
Welcome back.
For instance, the current series of Hustle on BBC1 is really, really awful. They should have stopped after the second series. The new Derren Brown series on Channel 4 is also similarly terrible.
Sometimes, people need to learn that you really should stop while you're on top.
So, in that spirit, I've decided to restart The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
After all, it was never particularly popular anyway, so it's not like I have anything to live up to.
Welcome back.
26 January 2005
And so it ends
Life is a strange and wondrous thing and it never ceases to amaze me. Wherever you go, you will find disappointment, but you will also find beauty, kindness, generosity and laughter. Life, real life, is an unforeseeable, yet exciting, combination of so many things, both positive and negative.
Over the course of the last few months, I've used this blog to write of my experiences (some real, some imagined) contribute bizarre ideas and, in certain circumstances, exorcise a few demons. It's been strangely cathartic and I've had great fun doing it.
You see, if you can take those things that bother you, that keep you awake at night, that break your heart and tear at your soul, and you can find the humour in them, then you're on the way to becoming a much better person.
Like they say, life isn't the destination, it's the journey. Enjoy the journey, make it a good one, and never forget to laugh at yourself. Bill Hicks said, "It's just a ride". Amen to that.
All of this leads me on to my point.
This blog had a purpose, but I'm increasingly feeling that purpose has been served and it's time to move on. Also, there's a lot of truth in the cliché 'Quit while you're ahead'.
I've spent the last year collaborating on a screenplay (The Gentlemen’s Club), which may soon be sold. I have another screenplay (Forty Thousand Thieves) to work on which will take up the next year of my life. Something's got to give, and that thing is The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
It's been fun, I've been in contact with some interesting and very funny people but, as the man said, All Good Things Must Come To An End.
I may, from time to time, come back and add the occasional comment or insight, but for now I feel that the time is right to say goodbye.
Thank you for visiting.
Thank you for your comments.
Most of all, thank you for 'getting it'.
It's been good.
Dan.
Over the course of the last few months, I've used this blog to write of my experiences (some real, some imagined) contribute bizarre ideas and, in certain circumstances, exorcise a few demons. It's been strangely cathartic and I've had great fun doing it.
You see, if you can take those things that bother you, that keep you awake at night, that break your heart and tear at your soul, and you can find the humour in them, then you're on the way to becoming a much better person.
Like they say, life isn't the destination, it's the journey. Enjoy the journey, make it a good one, and never forget to laugh at yourself. Bill Hicks said, "It's just a ride". Amen to that.
All of this leads me on to my point.
This blog had a purpose, but I'm increasingly feeling that purpose has been served and it's time to move on. Also, there's a lot of truth in the cliché 'Quit while you're ahead'.
I've spent the last year collaborating on a screenplay (The Gentlemen’s Club), which may soon be sold. I have another screenplay (Forty Thousand Thieves) to work on which will take up the next year of my life. Something's got to give, and that thing is The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
It's been fun, I've been in contact with some interesting and very funny people but, as the man said, All Good Things Must Come To An End.
I may, from time to time, come back and add the occasional comment or insight, but for now I feel that the time is right to say goodbye.
Thank you for visiting.
Thank you for your comments.
Most of all, thank you for 'getting it'.
It's been good.
Dan.
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