Song Of A Wayfarer

“Home again, home again, jigitty jig, good evening JP.”

…was what I was singularly not welcomed back with… the one cat looked at me accusingly and the others just said ‘meh’ and went back to sleep… pragmatic things, cats, they care not who serves them as long as the quality of the service remains undiminished…

Of course, I completely neglected to mention I was going anywhere, didn’t I? I am a very person and shall pay someone to spank me later: did I say that out-loud? So, effectively I disappeared off the face of the earth for a while longer… in my defence, the trip did come upon me with something of a hurry. I went ‘Oop North’ for a week. ‘Oop North’ is like the West Country except colder, wetter and lumpier. And by God was it wet. Very wet. And at least it wasn’t that London… which is like nothing on earth and more akin to that which was thought under it: it’s loud, noisome, claustrophobic, dirty, too light at night and just too full of damn people who move too damn fast… often with your cash and cards… or with the blood-smeared knife they’ve just stabbed you with. No offence to all them lovely Londoners out there but how do you cope with it? My money’s on drinking. Anyway, you may just have guessed I’m not a big city sort of person. Except Leeds. Leeds is alright. To visit…

Right, so, my trip was a resounding success for a multitude of reasons. I have come to the conclusion that I have access to that most elusive and desired of things, that which I believe to be called ‘the writer buddy’. Then I journeyed further North, through the ice-fields and snow-storms, battling polar bears and militant penguins, to the city known only as Leeds where I caught up with some old (and hardy) friends. Also did some shopping aided by finding a shop closing down and selling off Tartan DVDs at two pound a time.

The most important part of the trip, however, was the discussion of UCT which, as I have expanded upon previously, has been languishing somewhat due to a lack of a sufficient ending. So, I had a decent conversation about the piece and suddenly things started to fall together mentally and, during a late night showing of Cape Fear, I worked up the day’s thoughts into a fair schematic of the ending. It’s not perfect by a long shot but is an ending; reasonably nifty and gives the rest of the story something to work towards and to which be tailored. On presentation of this to writer-munki it received a seal of approval and means I can now go full steam ahead… of course, he may just have been saying that to get me to never speak of this matter again. My other concerns are now taken up with whether the rest of the piece is too obvious (I can’t tell because I know how the story ends) and by the lack of a ticking clock. Ticking clocks aren’t essential but are recommended and create artificial tension where none otherwise exists.

I did a double bill in the main Leeds fleapit*: this is noteworthy as I tend not to go to cinemas as it means, firstly, expense; secondly, communing with humans, which gives me the heebie-jeebies and, lastly, means lurking in a darkened room for two hours with humans, any one of whom may well be heavily armed…** The films viewed were I Am Legend (2007, Francis Lawrence; SP, Mark Protosevich, Akiva Goldsman) and Enchanted (2007, Kevin Lima; SP, Bill Kelly). The former is a fine film- one of those ‘don’t mention the vampire’ stories that I think must have started with Channel 4’s excellent 1998 series Ultraviolet. Exciting, good jump moments, the always entertaining Will Smith, vampires, suspense: a thoroughly enjoyable film. Also worth mentioning, which has probably been mentioned ad nauseam in serious film magazines is the intriguing politico-religious subtext (not so sub- in some places). Ground Zero is mentioned at least three times, for example, and, while this term existed pre-9/11, the current connotations of the term can only draw the mind to the War Against Terror connexion. The continual battening down of hatches and pulling down of shutters; the withdrawal from the world: all these lead to a clear post-9/11, W.A.T. reading of the film… the nearest and clearest antecedent to I Am Legend seemed to me less The Omega Man and more The Village. If this is how Americans are currently feeling then it is concerning as, while I may not approve of everything the US does globally, I do know that this world more needs a co-operative, interacting and friendly US than not. And anyway all the Americans I’ve ever met have been thoroughly nice, decent and generous people: admittedly all these have passports and leave the country and are not those who stoned the Top Gear team! Personally, I’ve never been a big admirer of The Omega Man (1971, Boris Sagal; SP, John William Corrington, Joyce Hopper Corrington); it seems too ‘easy’ a film; too glib and just too ‘Hestony’. My real surprise came a couple of years back upon finding a copy of The Last Man On Earth (1964, Ubaldo Ragona; SP, William F. Leicester, Richard Matheson, Furio M. Monetti, Ubaldo Ragona) with Vincent Price; Price succeeds in curing the ham, the sparse setting and black and white photography producing a genuinely bleak and eerie feel which is entirely missing in The Omega Man and, to a lesser extent, I Am Legend. I would still adduce by dint of acting, direction, production values (etc.) that I Am Legend is by far the superior version, but assert that The Last Man On Earth should not be overlooked- and it does have the imprimatur of the original author. I am told by the chap I saw the Will Smith version with that the new film’s ending is completely different to the novel and inverts, changes and ultimately loses the essential point of the book. I wouldn’t know…

Enchanted, the second in the double bill, was something of a contrast… and I don’t care what mirth this choice provokes! It was that or The Kite Runner but at 11pm on a Saturday night 3 hours or Afghan misery isn’t high up the list of things you might be wanting to watch. There’s less to say about it apart from that it’s fun, enjoyable, doesn’t take itself too seriously and forced me to exit the cinema smiling… but that may also have been relief that I hadn’t been brutally stabbed in the dark!

So, after seven hundred miles of driving, the shocking discovery that if I empty the petrol tank and have to refill it this now costs over sixty quid… and to any curious Americans who’ve stumbled their way here that would be one hundred and twenty of your shiney dollars whereas the equivalent petrol at US pumps would probably have cost me about five dollars... or something... but I now have a bag of very cheap DVDs of probably very good films and an ending to UCT! So, all in all... a pretty good trip...

On coming home I discovered that now, not only does Gordon Brown want to know everything about you during life, he now wants possession of your body after death… his plan sounds good in theory but consider the implications: the State will own you for spare parts- like buying a second vintage car for parts. And they can now use pretty much anything: when you die you’ll need not so much a large coffin as a small Tesco carrier bag. But how long will it be before the State asserts ownership over you during your lifetime: claiming a lung, a kidney, a chunk of liver or a few pints of claret as and when required? Oh, and now we’re going to be force-fed cloned animals…

…but on the plus side a small herd of rare (and cheap eBay) vampire films had arrived for me when I got back… which was nice.

…and I brought the wet weather back with me… which wasn’t. We’re now facing Flood II: The Sequel. What fun. Don’t tell anyone I’m to blame… I do so hate it when the villagers hove into view with their pitchforks and torches…

*It’s not actually very fleapit-ish… it’s highly swanky and comfortable.
**I saw that documentary called The ABC Murders…

The Facts Of Life

Today you’ll just have to put up with a random unfocused musing. My leg went numb in my sleep and this morning when I was got up I tried to put some weight on it, fell ass-over-tip and, of course, my hand went out to break the fall. Minor wrist sprain, no great shakes... I'm more concerned about the landing on my ribs, given that I broke three of them many years ago since when they've never stopped hurting, particularly when I do that whole breathing in thing... So, what you’re getting is spell-checked but not especially brain-checked! (The bulk of this post was actually written yesterday though- so not much of an excuse really!)

So, on Sunday those good people at the BBC showed the enjoyable comedy How To Murder Your Wife (1965, Richard Quine*)^ starring the ever dependable Jack Lemmon and, surprisingly, Terry-Thomas. The basic story is of Stanley Ford (Jack Lemmon), a newspaper cartoon strip writer-artist who lives a happy well-ordered playboy bachelor life aided by his British manservant and general factotum, Charles (Terry-Thomas). The cartoon strip chronicles the travails of a super-spy named Bash Brannigan. Stanley tests out the basics of his stories for the character in real life before inking them up. Then, after a drunken party Stanley wakes to discover he’s married to the Italian Miss Galaxy contestant who wants to change pretty much everything about his well-ordered life and Charles quits his employ. So, Stanley writes this marriage development into the Brannigan strip (and doubles his audience) but as he vents his (humorous) frustrations through the strip his thoughts turn to murder: he rehearses Brannigan’s wife-killing murder plot in reality (though without wifely participation) then inks it up and publishes. Of course, his wife leaves him and he’s promptly arrested for her murder… the evidence is damning and his confession witnessed by 80 million readers of his syndicated cartoon strip…

Right, so what’s actually happened is a bloke researches and rehearses a plot for a fiction which is then mistaken for reality. A slightly more obscure film, the comedy Please Turn Over (1959, Gerald Thomas), from the writer that brought us the early more gentle black and white Carry On films, Norman Hudis, tells of a small 50’s English village that gets fired up over the publication of steamy novel written by the Headmaster’s over-imaginative teenage daughter who has clearly drawn all the characters from life but precisely none of the situations that she puts them in. Reputations are all in this village and so, for example, the imaginary revelations of womanizing by the local doctor are damaging. But what is so wrong, all this young woman has done is draw her characters from life and that’s what writers are meant to do, isn’t it?

So, here’s where I’m going. Where does fiction end and life begin or, alternatively, where does life end and fiction begin. In doing the research for a project these days you run the risk of breaking the law without knowing it: if you research methods of poisoning or bomb-making you could be unwittingly breaching one of the myriad recent Terrorism Acts. (Fight Club and Spooks both require- and give- information that could be material in the 'preparation of an act of terrorism'.) If you write your murder plot story in the wrong way it may end up looking like you’ve been plotting to kill your nearest and dearest.

For veracity’s sake you should research things but if you draw too shady a character from life you could end up indicting them and end up with both criminal and police on your back. (And how are you really meant to get in touch with these various nefarious characters in the first place?) If you delve too effectively into the underworld you may end up looking like you have been enjoying a bit of a double-life yourself! And if you just ground your characters too closely in people you know you may end up losing all your research subjects!

I’ve realised that the artist, writers in particular, is effectively committing themselves to a lifelong public Rorschach test, exposing their inner self on a regular basis for little remuneration. So, you’re meant to do the research without getting arrested, draw some characters from life without getting a ‘contract’ taken out on you or losing your friends then weld these to some original ideas and characters and situations. No matter how many times I’m told to the contrary I have never believed anything other than that the writer’s personality and stance seep in: they’re cutting their cloth from their imagination they can’t help but add some of themselves. A diamond may no longer be coal but its raw stuff is still carbon; such is the case with the writer. So now, the writer’s trying to avoid arrest, being the subject of a hit and worrying about giving too much away… such as their dark desires to invade Antarctica or ride off into the sunset with Skippy the Bush Kangaroo…

Now, if a writer puts the same characters, themes and situations in repeatedly there must be some reason, from trauma to obsession to deeply held belief, even if this doesn’t manifest itself in the most obvious of manners it will still be there. If you continually show shots of bare feet there may just be something going on; if there’s always a character plummeting from the heights the author may just have vertigo… There was an anecdote on The Culture Show the other week while Cronenberg was discussing his new film Eastern Promises. Cronenberg said that in the early 80’s he was at some event and saw Scorsese across the way. The two men finally spoke to each other and Scorsese confided that he’d been nervous about meeting someone he’d assumed to be disturbing given the nature of his films. Cronenberg thought this was amusing coming from the man who brought us Taxi Driver! But if a Scorsese can make such an assumption what hope for the rest of us…

I’d love to think I can keep myself covered and make sure I give nothing away but I’m sure as my body of specs are (when completed and) read in concentration they’ll give me away with every word on the page!

So to my conclusion… er, you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t! So, I suppose you just have to get on with it and be damnd... or do nothing! I don't know... why you looking at me?

*Script by George Axelrod who also wrote the wonderful Breakfast At Tiffany’s.
^apologies for my continued use of the pro-director, anti-writer format but it’s how I was taught on my aborted Ba. and is the usual way these things are done.

Enjoy The Silence

***Note***

This worked for me even if it hasn't worked for anybody else so I'm passing it on for your edification! Maybe I only think it worked for me and the calls dropped off because all the companies simultaneously realised I didn't have any money!

This is a public service announcement. With guitar. Alright, I was lying about the guitar. That’s resting quietly in the other room right now. My wonderful, battered, old, incredibly cheap guitar; so patient, so loyal, so terribly badly ‘played’. And I use the word played in the loosest possible sense of the word!

So, on to the PSA. This applies to UK residents only. Inspired by this post I thought I’d bring the following to your attention in case you didn’t already know it… they don’t exactly publicize it. You may have noticed that there is a tendency for some companies, wanting to try and sell you things you neither want nor need, to phone just as you settle to meals or in the evening when you’ve just sharpened your quill for an good evening’s scribing. Very annoying. I bring you the solution: the Telephone Preference Service. It’s simple: you ring up BT (0845 07 007 07) and register yourself on the list free of charge and Paul has kindly pointed out that you can register online here. After that you are not allowed to be cold-called. By law. Then if they do ring you, you should ask the name of the company and how they got your name/ number then you listen to them squirm and virtually beg you not to inform BT about their multi-nefarious ways. If they are found guilty they are fined several thousand pounds per call.

Since signing up to this service the number of cold calls has not so much dropped as plummeted. It’s down to about one call every six months and given that previously it had been up at the five a night rate I’d say that counts as an improvement! There is only one exception to this: it only applies to calls originating in the UK. However, at present that’s the majority. Hope that’s some help!

…and talking of cold-calling… the other day a young chap rang on the doorbell. Duly, it was opened to him and as he stood on the threshold of the porch he revealed his fell purpose: he was after selling some things…

The first question, would I like a conservatory? Not really, with a North-facing garden it would be less a Summer-house more a refrigerator.

The hopelessly optimistic young chap looked at the uPVC double-glazing not one arm’s length from his very self and thus came the second question…

Had I thought about getting double-glazing fitted? Er, where exactly?

…and so the borderline delusional young man, standing in the porch, came to his third and final question…

Had I considered getting a porch? I must have fainted from the shock for when I came to the night was dark and the young man had long since fled…*

*Almost all entirely true!

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

The 2007 Edition of the Highway Code has just been published: it’s now longer than Leviticus and with more rules!

The following are now considered ‘bad’ while driving: smoking, drinking, eating, listening to music, sat-navs, map-reading (it's far better to drive round forlornly staring at sign-posts) and talking with passengers.

So, basically all the things that a person would be doing to break the monotony of a long journey (...except smoking which is a vile evil thing that gets people thrown bodily from my moving vehicle), only the politicians and bureaucrats with easy access to the redoubtable London Transport system (or chauffeur-driven gold-plated carriages) could come up with this.

The Transport Minister, Jim Fitzpatrick, asserted on the news,

“When driving your hands must never leave the steering wheel.”

I’ve been driving round in first gear ever since!!!

The Long Hard Road Into Hell...

"The road to Hell is paved with works-in-progress"

-Philip Roth, Times Culture Section, 23/09/07.

A Pain That I’m Used To

I was reminded of something by an aside in a post from Comrade Arnopp at http://jasonarnopp.blogspot.com/2007/09/writer-endorphin.html. (I'd do something smart with that cumbersomeness but I haven't worked out how yet.) I rarely drink these days, no drugs or 'fags' (neither really appealed), however…

…however, most days, I rattle like a pharmacy. A couple of pills for the usual minor ailments we all have… you hit 20 and your body just starts falling apart… or was that just me? Then I often take a few painkillers: the maximum strength Ibuprofen. (Annoyingly, I found out a coupld of months back I’d been taking twice the daily dose- ineffectually- because being a writer obviously means that I can’t actually read simple bits of packaging!)

By the way, explain this one to me: if I buy 400 mg tablets I’m allowed to take 4 a day but if I take the 200 mgs I can guzzle 8… but isn’t this the same thing? Now, I have a high pain threshold, I was told that by an expert (a physio not dominatrix… though their techniques look suspiciously similar), but I still prefer to have the edge removed. By the way, it’s nothing particularly serious in the scheme of things, so don’t be getting all big concerned looks across your collective faces.

Paracetomol doesn’t contain an anti-inflammatory, aspirin helps me become reacquainted with my dinner, Ibuprofen works a bit. But I find this a touch problematic. Then to counter the numbing of the Ibuprofen I drink about 8 gallons of PG a day.

So, here’s the conundrum: if I take all the Ibuprofen I need for to do its trick I end up rather foggy and my brain feels like it’s wrapped up in damp towels and writing becomes somewhat difficult as I can’t come up ideas or good words. On the other hand, if I don’t take them, I can’t settle for more than 10 minutes without getting uncomfortable and needing to stretch all the time but my mind fires on all cylinders. (Don't think I'm whining about this though, 'cos I'm not... there's a lot of people with far worse problems than mine. It's just an intriguing conundrum for me.)

Tricky though, t’ain’t it?

Now, don’t get me started on Opioids*…

*prescription synthetic morphine-codeine preparations.

“Time may change me but I can’t trace time.” -Changes, David Bowie.

Age Of Panic

How do you feel old very, very quickly? Talk to someone young.

I was talking to my cousin's 14 year old boy, not so long ago, and we were talking music- a wondrous subject. He asked me if I had anything special. And I said I had a record worth £100+ in some parts. I thought that should make him say 'wow' or some such other youth related term. Instead I got....

"What's a record?"

...I thought he was jesting. But no! Finally, after some consideration he came to conclusion I meant the old-fashioned plasticy things with a hole in the middle. Then, he said 'wow' and disappeared off to do 'young person stuff'.

I slunk off to my cave to work out how to create fire. With sticks.