Make Tea Not War

'That Thing'- A Sketch

2009-04-10T16:26:00.002+01:00

The dialogue came to me in a dream and I wrote it down on the train home.

Lights up.

Two people on stage- MUM and DAD. They sit upon chairs.

M: Do you remember?
D: Remember what?
M: You know.
D: What?
M: That thing.
D: What thing?
M: That thing.
D: Which thing?
M: That thing!
D: I don’t remember.
M: You do.
D: I don’t.
M: You do!
D: I do?
M: Yes!

Pause

D: What thing?
M: You know.
D: I don’t.
M: You do. It’s that thing.
D: Which thing?
M: That one.
D: That one?
M: No, that one.
D: I don’t remember.
M: You do!
D: I don’t.
M: It’s that thing!
D: What thing?
M: That thing!
D: I don’t remember.
M: You do! (Pause) Oh, it’s that thing!
D: That thing?
M: No, that thing!
D: That thing?
M: Yes! That thing!
D: Ah, that thing!
M: That thing.
D: I do remember.
M: You do.
D: I do, yes.
M: Yes.
D: That thing was good.
M: It was good.

D: I thought you meant that thing.
M: No, that thing.
D: I see.
M: Yes.

Pause

D: What about it?
M: What?
D: That thing.
M: That thing?
D: That thing.
M: It was good.
D: Yes. Very good.
M: Good that thing was.
D: Yes. Very good. Very good.

Black-out.

For Those...

2009-04-03T10:36:00.002+01:00

For those 3 people (myself in included) who read this rarely updated blog should know I've started up a new one- http://bergmanblogathon.blogspot.com/

Because I had an obsession with Ingmar Bergman's films and 30 of them on DVD I'm going to review all of them on that blog.

Charles Dance

2009-03-06T10:42:00.002Z

When I heard that Charles Dance would be gracing DeMontfort with his presence I was very excited as I am a fan of his. As you can imagine when I heard that the event was cancelled I was very disappointed. I presume the reason for his cancellation is that he got a job at short notice, so in the hour I should have spent listening to him talk about his career, I imagined what films he could be making instead...

‘Land of 1,000 Dances’- on a mysterious island a government experiment clones Charles Dance 1,000 times, think ‘Battle Royale’ meets ‘Bleak House’

‘Save the Last Dance’- the sequel to ‘Land of 1,000 Dances’

‘Dance with a Stranger’- Charles Dance in conversation with whoever we can pull off the street.

‘Dance of the Dead’- A lowly shop worker (Charles Dance) tries to get his girlfriend back and survive a zombie apocalypse.

‘Dance Floor’- A supernatural horror about a young couple who find their floor is alive (voiced by Charles Dance)

‘The Forbidden Dance’- A dystopian future where Charles Dance is banned, but can a small band of resistance fighter armed with copies of ‘The Jewel In The Nile’ change that?

'Dance With Death'- Charles Dance and Death take the opportunity to interview each other and discuss their lives and careers.

And finally...

‘Dances With Wolves’- Charles Dance and a pack of wolves take on old London town.

How I Became A Psychopath Over Christmas

2009-01-12T19:21:00.003Z

When I first read ‘Othello’ and saw the film with Laurence Fishbourne and Kenneth Branagh, my first thought was for a play called ‘Othello’ the more interesting part was Iago. Sure the play’s about an honest man who gets his life torn apart, but for me I was far more interested in the man doing the tearing- Iago. So knowing I had Christmas to go through before return to studying I decided to look at Iago myself and asking that timeless actor’s question- how could I do it?

My initial question was- why is Iago doing this? He gives reasons (a fair few) such as racism, jealousy of being passed over for promotion, fears that Othello seduced his wife, and commentators have listed many, many more ideas of why Iago does what he does. I found a great quote by the actor Andy Serkis (aka Gollum from Lord of the Rings) from when he played Iago and he came up with this:

“There are a million theories to Iago's motivations, but I believed that Iago was once a good soldier, a great man's man to have around, a bit of a laugh, who feels betrayed, gets jealous of his friend, wants to mess it up for him, enjoys causing him pain, makes a choice to channel all his creative energy into the destruction of this human being, and becomes completely addicted to the power he wields over him. I didn't want to play him as initially malevolent. He's not the devil. He's you or me feeling jealous and not being able to control our feelings."

I think that, yes, this is an interesting interpretation, and makes Iago more of a sympathetic figure, who succumbs to power. As good as it is, it’s just not how I’d play it. I don’t think I could play an honest man who breaks down like that. Something I agree with him though is that Iago certainly is intelligent, very much so. So I began to form my interpretation that Iago is a psychopath. He uses this great intelligent negatively to destroy several people’s lives out of some narcissistic desire. I think that Iago really seems people as a means to an end, almost as if when he speaks to people he knows that if he says ‘x’ it will produce reaction ‘y’, which makes him seem so cold and viewing others as little more than machines.

When I began to think about Iago as a psychopath, I began to think about the show ‘Heroes’ of which I am a fan, and I thought about the character of Sylar. Now I think that Zachery Quinto puts in great performances ever week as the psychopathic Sylar. He really fit’s the ‘classic’ mould of a psychopath- cold, detached and without empathy. The reason why he kills is that he believes that he is ‘special’ and so steals other people’s superpowers people who he doesn’t believe are worthy of them.. So I began to think of Iago like this- believing that he is owed more than he gets, that he is ‘special’ and cannot understand why unworthy people (Cassio and Othello) get more than he does. So to him it must seem logical to get rid of them.

But my whole Sylar analogy began to fall apart when I looked upon his manner- isolated from other people. Iago certainly is not an isolated figure, in fact other characters seem very fond of him (“Honest Iago” oh, Will, you ironic devil, you), so if he is this cold and detached person then why the hell would people like him? And why the hell would Amelia marry him? What would she see in him? So I want back to the drawing board.

I found inspiration from another source after days of pondering over how on earth I could make my Iago work when I watched the film ‘10 Rillington Place’. At Christmas I try to keep my watching of Christmas films at a minimal (all that sugar-sweetness, snowy, jolly goodness doesn’t mix well with me) and so ‘10 Rillington Place’ seemed very much an anti-Christmas. It’s based on a true story about serial killer John Christie, played magnificently by Sir Richard Attenborough. When I was discussing my Iago dilemma with my best mate and said I’d been inspired by a Richard Attenborough performance he was taken aback as, like most of my generation, he thinks of Richard Attenborough as the kindly old grandfather in ‘Jurassic Park’ or Father Christmas. But his career wasn’t always like this, oh no, most of his early career was based on playing violent hoodlums (go see ‘Brighton Rock’- a British film noir).

Anyway, Richard Attenborough was fantastic as John Christie who was a serial killer in the 40’s and 50’s. What struck me was that he didn’t appear to be a ‘traditional’ psychopath, Christie was even married, like Iago, and she, like Amelia, discovered all too late what her husband was up too. I got the dvd of the film so I could watch the interviews with Attenborough about the role, and he made point that Christie wanted people to trust him and spoke in a very gentle tone of voice that was also sing-songy. It was how he lured people but speaking gently and telling them what they wanted to hear. So I began to try and read Iago’s speeches in a gentle voice and sing-songy way, which was hard at first to try and not sound too much like Salad Fingers.

There’s a moment in the film where Christie tells someone that he has a background of medical experience and I (like the victim) didn’t question it. It was only towards the end of the film that’s revealed as a lie, and the audience realises that Christie must be a pathologically liar. This suits Iago so well, that he just lies and lies to get what he wants from that person. So Iago is never sincere in reality, but he must always seem sincere to those he speaks to, not like Richard III who can afford to give the audience a wink. Now, I did see similarities between Iago and Richard, but they’re very different roles to play as Richard has so many wonderfully black lines I find it’s hard not to play him with a smile.

Not so long ago I had a drink with a friend who had studied Psychology at college, and in conversation I mentioned that I’d been looking into the character of Iago over the break. Luckily he knew the play and gave me his interpretation that Iago is not a psychopath, but a sociopath. He argued that Iago is not a psychopath because he isn’t violent enough, whereas I think that he is. But the sociopath idea is an interesting one as it fits with my idea of his narcissism and his clinical view of other people.

So all of it boils down into what I want to channel into the part of Iago that he’s so sure of what he’s doing (destroying lives) and believes it to be right and logical, and must appear to others as very sincere and, hell, even nice and helpful, but inside he is plotting, quietly and calming. I suppose I could have made things easier for myself and just read one of those True Crime books, but I really don’t want to read anything like that because I think those sort of things would upset and disturb me. It was only as I was looking into the character of Iago that I realises just how many films, programmes, books are about psychopaths and cast them as villains, like I saw ‘The Dark Knight’ at last and The Joker is clearly insane, and ‘No Country For Old Men’ when Javier Bardem’s character function and works on his own brand of logic.

Well, that’s one way of fending off boredom over Christmas.

I Like Short Shorts

2009-01-12T18:08:00.002Z

There's no real 'official' name for stories under 30 words, but even if there was I'd still call them 'short shorts', for obvious reasons. Anyway, I was inspired by Ernest Hemmingway's story 'Baby Shoes' which is 6 words long and a masterstroke. I tried at this format and found that it suited my more drier sense of humour.

Modern Love
“Can I add you on Facebook?”

Ward No. 9
They say they keep the worse of them in Ward No. 9. I’ve never been up there. They say it’s too dangerous.

Psycho Killer
I love it when it rains. Clears the blood off better.

I Love You (Or- The Butterfly Collector)
Why is it so hard for her to say ‘I love you’? Maybe I should loosen the gag.

Noir
I’m sure she did it. Shame she’s so damn beautiful.

Only A Pawn In Their Game
What’s so good about a Knight anyway? There’s two of them and eight of us.

Advice to A Sick Man
“With a flu make sure you have enough to drink.”
“That’s ok. I’ve got some rum left over from Christmas.”

Boobs
I was told to sex up my work.

The Death Of James Dean
“He’s bound to move out of the way.”

In Dreams...
I held her at last. Then, she kissed me.

A Mugging
After my date with Susan I got threatened with a gun and my wallet was stolen. I went after it but got beaten up. I’m never going to trust a woman again.

'The Man Who Loved Cats'

2009-01-04T10:52:00.002Z

'The Man Who Loved Cats'

He had the target lined up neatly in the crosshairs. He followed the target carefully, following the movement. The target had been easy to spot- a yellow vest, green shorts and a white sweatband around his large head. Moments ago Elliot had stopped to observe this hideously dressed jogger before realising that he was the target he was looking for.
The crosshairs followed the chest area. A head shot would have been more effective, but the head was a smaller area and more difficult to follow. An excellent shot at the chest would produce the same desired effect.
Elliot pulled the trigger.
The target fell forwards and hit the ground. Elliot stood and dismantled the rifle. He put each part of the rifle inside of a leather briefcase. He picked up the briefcase and opened the fire escape door and walked down the stairs until he reached ground level. He walked through the reception to the main street. Dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase Elliot did not stand out on Hong Kong’s streets.

“He’s dead?”
“Yes.” Elliot replied. He handed the man the briefcase with the rifle in.
“My employer will be very pleased.”
Elliot nodded, “I want my fee within the next 24 hours.”
“You can have it within the next hour, if you wish.”
“I do.”
The man smiled as him, “Something important back where you’re from?”
“Yes.” Elliot replied. The man smile faltered and knew that the assassin would say no more. Elliot did not tell people about Hermione.

He returned to his hotel two hours later. He packed his luggage and called for a taxi to the airport. The taxi arrived shortly and drove him to the airport. Upon arriving Elliot paid the fare and checked in at the main desk. He then went into the bar and had two small gins. As he walked through to the departure lounge he stopped in at a gift shop to see if he could find a present for Hermione, she was very fussy about what Elliot brought for her. He selected a gift and handed it to a smiling girl behind the counter.

He returned to London at twenty minutes past three. He took a taxi from the airport to his penthouse. He lived two floors away from the top of the building but refused to take the elevator. He carried his luggage upstairs and reached his door. He took out his key, unlocked the door then opened it. The penthouse was as he left it. “Hermione?” He called. There was only silence. He dragged his luggage inside and shut the door. “Hermione?” He checked the bedroom and couldn’t see her there. He’d left the balcony door partially opened in case she wanted to go outside. He opened the door fully and walked onto the balcony. There was no sign that she’d even been outside. He returned inside and went into the kitchen. He’d left her enough food and water for a week, and it looked only a slightly less amount than he originally left for her. “Hermione?” He called.
There was a knock at the door. Elliot passed through the living room to the door and partially opened it.
“Mr. Landry?”
“Yes?” Elliot replied. He recognized the man at the door from working in reception. He was a small, greasy man with an unease smile.
“Mr. Landry, I saw you come in and I thought that…”
“Yes?”
“I should speak to you.” The greasy man said. There was a long pause.
“About?”
“It’s… it’s your cat I’m afraid.”
“Hermione?”
“Yes…” He looked down at Elliot shoes. It infuriated him when people did that. “Your cat… managed to get down to the ground… did she do that often?”
“Yes.”
“Well…. She got down to the ground and I’m afraid to say that she was run over. Hit by a car.”
Elliot nodded.
“I’m… very sorry, Mr. Landry.”
He nodded again.
“You would have been told sooner but the mobile phone number you gave us, and to the vets, didn’t work. You must switch mobiles often.”
“Who…”
“The vet told us it was your cat. It was on the chip you see.”
“Whose car was it?”
“A resident here I’m afraid.”
“Who?”
“An old gentlemen a few floors below you.”
“What room?”
“Oh, Mr. Landry, I don’t thi-”
“What room?”
The small , greasy man rubbed his hands and looked up and said, “Room 19 if you must know, sir…”
“Thank you.” Elliot said and shut the door.

George was watching ‘Deal Or No Deal’ when there was a knock at the door. At first he ignored it, but when it came again he decided to answer. “Alright, alright…” He grumbled.
He got up, walked across the apartment and opened the door. “Yes? Can I help you?” He said to the strange man outside.
“My name is Elliot. I live downstairs.”
“Elliot?” He said the name to try and bring back remembrance of it. It struck him and he groaned. “Oh dear, the man with-”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear. Look, I am sorry, it just shot out in front of the road, I didn’t see it-”
“How old are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How old are you?”
“I don’t see ho-”
“Answer the question.”
“Sixty eight.”
“Thank you.” Elliot said and nodded. George’s eyes narrowed. This Elliot was certainly a strange chap, ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘Any unmarried man with a cat has got to be a little peculiar.’
Elliot said, “Do you live alone?”
“Yes. My wife died two years ago. Kids left years ago.”
“May I come in?”
A pause. “Yes.” George replied and stood back. Elliot walked in slowly and sat down in a chair, placing both arms on the arm rests, finger hooked over the ends. George returned to his seat and switched the TV off.
“I didn’t see my cat that often.” Elliot said. “I work abroad a lot. I never like to bring business home, but I’m afraid in this case I must.”
George nodded, but did not understand.
“In my line of work... It’s not the sort of thing you want to bring home, you understand?”
George nodded, but once again did not understand.
Elliot said- “Do you have any pets?”
“No. I don’t. Never liked ‘em.”
“Dogs are stupid animals. Mean, stupid animals. Cats, on the other hand, are smart. Very smart. They only go to people when they need something from them. They can go away for days on end then return back when they need shelter. Cats don’t need other cats. They only fight if put together. Cats are solitary creatures. Predators. It’s their nature to hunt. If I could live again as any animal it would be a cat. You understand?”
“Yes.” George said.
“My cat was very dear to me, very dear. I got her from an animal sanctuary. Her former owner had tried to kill her, unsuccessfully. A neighbour stopped him and rescued her. The animal sanctuary were going to put her down as she was a vicious creature. She attacked any animal she was put with, even a few people. When I went to find a cat I saw her, Hermione, and there was something. A connection, if you will between us. I was the only person she allowed to touch her. Not because of kindness but I think out of… recognition. Can you believe that?”
“Well… if you say so.” George said.
“They’ll never be another one like her.”
“Look, I’m very, very sorry about what happened I-”
“There’s something I’d like to show you.” Elliot said.
“Yes?”
“But I’m afraid I left it in my apartment. Would you like to come with me please?”
“Look, mister I-”
“It’d mean very much to me. Please.”
George sighed and checked his watch. If he as quick he’d be back in time to watch the news. “Oh, all right.” He stood up. “Where’bouts do you live?”
“Just downstairs.” Elliot replied.
George walked across the room and opened the door. Elliot walked past and out into the hallway. George followed, shut the door and locked it. He turned and headed towards the lift.
“Oh.” Elliot said. “Why don’t we take the stairs since it’s just downstairs?”
George shrugged, “Fine.” He turned left inside and walked down the corridor towards the stairwell and Elliot followed behind.
George reached the stairs, put his hand on the railing and went to go forward. He tripped. He tumbled down twenty five steps and crashed into the wall at the bottom. His nose was broken and blood flowed from it.
Elliot stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at George. He watched his breathing get slower and slower until his chest remained stationary. Elliot bent down and removed the piano wire he’d placed at the top of the stairs before going to see George. He put the wire in his jacket breast pocket and took the stairs up back to his penthouse.
He opened the door, walked in and sat down. He reached underneath a table and pulled out a Yellow Pages. He put the book on his lap and began to look for the nearest animal sanctuary.

'An Unfortunate Occurrence'

2008-12-29T10:48:00.002Z

'An Unfortunate Occurrence'

This is based on a true story. It was a small article in the newspaper of about 50 words or so, but something struck me about it, so I cut it out from the paper and so a month later I decided to write something about.

Harry arrived at the office at 9:17 a.m, twenty seven minutes later than he should have been. “Are they in there?” He said to the receptionist Alice.
“They came in about five minute ago, so it won’t be too bad.” She said.
“Christ…” He said and put his coat behind the desk.
“Harry, how did-”
“The tube was complete chaos. Some idiot causing trouble and waving a knife about. Terrible.”
“You’ve got-”
“Yes, terrible. Is the case file in my office?”
“Harry, please you’ve got-”
“It’s ok, I can see it.” He said and picked up the Johnson’s case file from Alice’s desk. He straightened up his tie and said, “I don’t look too rushed, do I?”
“Harry, listen to me, there’s a-”
“No time for chat, Alice. I’m already half an hour late.”
He walked through the reception to the door with his name upon it and opened it. The Johnsons sat on one side of his desk. “My apologises,” Harry said, “For keeping you waiting so long.” Mr. Johnson stood up and Harry shook his hand. He nodded at Mrs. Johnson.
Harry moved around them to the other side of the desk and sat down in his chair. He felt an uncomfortable pain in his back. He’d had back problems the previous year and it’d kept him off work for a month. He decided to just grin and bear it. “Now,” He said opening the Johnson’s case file, “We’ve spoken with the firms accountants and…”
“Mr. Matthews?” Mrs. Johnson interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Are you… alright?”
“Well… yes… why?”
Mr. Johnson said, “It’s just that,” He looked at his wife and she looked back, “You’ve got a knife in your back…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve got a knife in your back.” Said Mrs. Johnson, “It’s sticking out.”
“Is there?”
The Johnsons nodded. Harry reached around and touched his back. His fingers moved up the jacket, finding nothing. He turned around and said, “Whereabouts is…”
“Up a bit,” Mrs. Johnson said, “And too the left.”
“Thank you.” He said. He followed Mrs. Johnson’s directions and his fingers brushed against metal. “Oh,” He said, “Have I got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Right… well…”
“Do you,” Mr. Johnson said, “Want me to take it out?”
“Oh no, no that’s alright. I think it’s probably best to get a doctor and, er, call an ambulance. Excuse me.” He said. He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Alice?”
“Yes, Mr. Matthews?” Came a fuzzy voice.
“Could you… call me an ambulance?”
“Of course. Right away.”
“Thank you.” He switched the intercom off. He tried to lean back but felt a sting.
He cleared his throat and looked across at the concerned faces of the Johnson’s. He gave them a reassuring smile.
“How did you…” Mr. Johnson said.
“I’m… not sure replied.” He replied. “There was somebody on the tube this morning with a knife, causing trouble, so I can only suppose… I was in a rush, you see. I don’t like being late, never have done.”
“No?”
“No. Never liked it, so maybe I just… didn’t feel it. Yes.”
Silence hung over the three. Mrs. Johnson drummed her fat fingers on her handbag. Mr Johnson looked at the ceiling.
Mrs. Johnson said, “Would you like us to come back another time?”
“I suppose that if you see Alice you could rearrange another time… how about next Tuesday for you?”
“I’m working Tuesday.” Mr. Johnson said.
“Unfortunately Tuesday’s the best day for me that week, but the week after is a lot better- the week beginning the 20th?”
“We’re free on the Wednesday…” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Yes I think Wednesday should be fine.” Mr. Johnson said.
“Excellent, then if you speak to Alice on the way out she can book your appointment.” Harry smiled then said, “We could always have a quick chat about your situation now if you wanted?”
“Are you… sure?”
“Yes, I don’t see why not.”
“Even with the, erm…” Mr. Johnson said.
“It’s inconvenient, well it is for me, but you two shouldn’t have to be inconvenienced also.”
Mrs. Johnson said, “Well the ambulance won’t be that long…”
“Well it might be good just to give you an o-”
“Mr. Matthews? Are you ok?”
He smiled as reassuringly as he could at them, “Please excuse me,” He said politely, “But I’m going to faint.”
And that he did.

Imagist

2008-12-27T11:06:00.000Z

This is my attempt at Imagisim.

To A Dancer in Paris, 1892
From your audience-
I leave you a note
Under an empty glass
On my table.

Clear Skies

2008-11-21T20:23:00.002Z

On Wednesday night I was given the task of writing a script for somebody's media piece, and I gladly took up the challeneg even though I'd only have twenty four hours to write it and I had a cold. The brief for the piece was a delusional man being followed and uses a voice over. This piece is the original, unedited monolgue I wrote at one o'clock in the morning. The piece that filmed was very cut down from what this is.

It’s the bad dreams that keep me awake, but I’m not sure who keeps putting them there. I sleep in gutters and the beds of passing acquaintances who take pity on my shoes. Sun’s too bright for my eyes it burns and turns them into matchsticks. I’m sure that if I could get myself a new face and clean pair of shoes then it sure as hell wouldn’t matter what I’d done or who I’d been and some pretty faced girl would take sympathy and I’d show sad eyes and we’d take off to the low lands.
I feel them after every step I take. As soon as my back turned there’s another one behind me, pointing, staring and watching and they say ‘That’s the boy that turned his back’ and I heard them murmur the name of Judas Iscariot like a curse that’ll go with me to the grave. But they do not know, they never could know the acts these sweet little hands have committed, the sins they have seen. I turn my back, I turn my back on them and their ideals I say ‘I shall not be apart of this revolution, it’s the wrong time of year for it’ but they do not listen and they send their agents after me. The angels of depth and perception would invade my day to day thoughts and implement kinetic nightmares designed to frighten me into submission. But I do not weaken, I do not break- my back is strong and my shoes are dirty but stubborn and I shall wipe them along the floor and make my way through the leaves that Autumn has marked the path with, and I shall follow like the plane on the runway and reach my destination and drop off my dreams so they can collect their luggage and keep their passports.
I need safety. I need a place I can put my hat on my Jack Daniel’s bottle and call it ‘home’. I need a good woman carrying Fruit Pastilles. I need to clean my teeth and eat my vegatables.
All the bright lights and peoples faces make me go a little insane, but then again aren’t we all just that bit crazy? We don’t understand other people because of the simple fact that they are not us and we can never understand as we never do understand ourselves.
They wait behind and they follow me through dark and the light. They wait until I smile then the demons emerge from the sewer grates and dig their claws into my face so I can frown again. They want to take me with them to join their cause, but dear Jesus I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.
I haven’t eaten since Saturday. My stomach is full of the acid that it makes. It’ll poison me inside out if I don’t get a drink. They feed me drink designed to confuse me so I cannot collect the inheritance that is rightfully mine. Every time I approach money they sniff me out and wonder and wonder if I would dare if I would dare to take that sweet little hand and take the money for my own so I could buy sugar and water and be good for another day. But they do not want me to have such luxuries they want me to wallow in selfishness and unrequited desire.
I hear them say ‘we shall have you’ though I do not want to be apart of anything that would wish me as a member. I do not trust easy membership and gifts handed on plates. I no longer accept food or kindness from strangers for the fear that is was poisoned long ago. The Phantom of the Opera keeps inviting me to tea but I’d rather drink coffee with Casanova, I could learn more from him. He seems so wise in the things that I do not know. Those that are left behind from parties say to me ‘You have changed’ but I cannot tell them I say the same- it is they who are different. It’s those new glasses that make them see things like that. It wasn’t always that way because a long time ago we used to be friends, but time and change and different places have torn us apart and now we are different people, but you cannot see what you have become can you?
I’m sure they’re all spiders in human clothes. Spindly legs, jutting fangs and eyes set to ‘kill’. They watch me as their prey, another victim to devour not my flesh but my soul. They want to drag me inside out take my deepest fears and marinate them in a garlic sauce. A fun feast for all the family. Once they have my soul then I am a puppet on a string and I will dance and write and sing whence they command it of me and I will do it too their order and no longer one of my own.
I think I hear voices, coming from the people who pass me. I hear them judge me and look at me as a circus freak and I want to say ‘I am a freak but I work for no circus’ but they would not understand, the poor fools. They never did get me.

A Pile Of Autumn Leaves

2008-11-10T18:09:00.001Z

Library
My silent mentor;
Filled with potential.
Welcoming with arms open
To all is patrons.
Within I began my journey
Mining through rocks
Until I found diamonds.

My Favourite Mistake
I am making my favourite mistakes again.
I’m falling for the same dreams again.
I’ve tried follow a new model this year,
But I’ve become the daydreamer of last year.

I’m making my favourite mistake again,
And it sounds like this-

If only it could be.

October
October is the wettest month,
Raining on all I hold dear-
The heart in my shoes
The principals in my tie
The soul in my hat.

I have seen several cases
Of Autumn-monoxide poisoning.
Its sufferers cry a lot.

October is the wettest month.

Laurel Leaves
I shall wear his laurel leaves.
The leaves fell from his hair
The day you told him to go.
I wish to pick them up,
Place them in my hair,
Not matter if they be brown or green
I wish to wear those old laurel leaves of his.

'Tales From The Bus Stop'

2008-11-07T20:15:00.002Z

…never come on time, always waiting then there’s one bus, two bus, three buses all at once and none of them are the one you want. It’s always the way when it’s cold the bus never come on time and the timetables are liars and can kiss my arse who bloody wrote those things anyway? They never arrive when they say they…
…maybe my appendix will bust on the way and I won’t have too go in I hate French anyway who needs French I‘m never going to France but maybe I could go to France and punch a French person because they don‘t know who I am in France and I could get away with it and they…
…bloody dog…
…table will be there. We like our table it’s a good table and a nice view. Maybe Norman will save it for us. Nice Norman nice Norman with the coffee always makes good coffee. Must get our favourite table. Can’t be spending too much today, what will the daughter say, she’ll say ‘You’ve been buying too many clothes again do you really need that many trousers’ but I always always always find a bargain, I’m good at that. I always find a bargain. I do have too many trousers but there are so many nice ones in Marks and Sparks…
…the wheels on the bus go round and round round and round round and round all day long…
…off at Playschool and I’ll go pick up my money, they better have money I want my money I need my money how else am I going to afford food for the week now that he’s out of work the stupid bastard had to go and light up on site bloody fucking idiot leaves us in the…
…kick the bloody thing if it doesn’t shut up why do they let dogs on bus anyway?…
…murder a curry…
…grrrrrrrrrr… grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… grrr… WOOF! Woof woof…. Grrrrrrrrr… …like my appendix to go BOOM! because I wouldn’t have to go in and I’d get all the attention and I’ll have a cool scar and I can say I got it in a fight. Girls like scars. I think they like scars…
…think of the money think of the money, I’ll get through it okay it’s just another day. Work, work, work all work and no money makes Dan a dull boy. Grin and bear it grim and bear it that’s the way too go, be British- stiff upper moustache and all that. I think I’d be a great man if I didn’t have to work…
…it’s just like the Eiffel Tower though, aint it? I know she wanted to go to Paris but we can’t afford Paris and Blackpool Tower is like the Eiffel Tower, ain’t it? I’m sure she’ll like it. I know she’ll love it. It won’t matter when I propose and she’ll forget about Paris cos it’s the thought that counts, ain’t it?…
…We’re going on the bus we’re going on the bus where the wheels go round and round mummy say and I like the doggie too and I want a doggie and I think we should have a doggie waggy tail doggie doggie…
…too early for a curry…
…tail on the dog goes wag wag wag, wag wag wag, wag wag wag the tail on the dog goes wag wag wag all day long…
….grrrrr…
…here it comes…
…at last…
…bout bloody time…
…isn’t my bus. Better off walking…

This was written for the walk homework for Simon. I think of it as 'Camberwick Green' on speed.

Poem

2008-10-12T14:13:00.000+01:00

Written for Simon's lesson.

Slow sunlight.
The dawn chorus
Of birds and kettles sing.
While others dream
In riddles
I keep my eyes open,
Listen to the slumber
Of the street;
A peaceful pause,
Sheltered from the storm.

'No Bloody Angel'

2008-10-09T15:56:00.001+01:00

This was written in Johanthen's lesson on Wednesday morning. It's been edited and revisied.

‘You’re no bloody angel!’ Jack’s last words rumbled through Carole’s mind along with the sound of the train in the distance. ‘No bloody angel’, she mused to herself and she supposed that he was right. Then again, she thought, Jack didn’t even know half of what was going on, and he’d hate her even more if he knew the full story.
The train appeared on the horizon, so she stood up and carried her three suitcases forward to the platform. Two suitcases full of clothes, one full of money. That suitcase she kept closest to her.
The thought of the money had her smile. The amount was enough for her to live comfortable and quietly in the countryside for years to come, or until she got bored of the countryside and returned to London. She felt a little sorry for Jack, though- he’d be rather upset when he returned home to find the little pink note she’d written for him, and then her and the money gone. ‘No money and no girl’, she thought, ‘Poor Jack.’
In the brief moment before the train crawled to a stop at the platform, she thought that Jack Redgrave hadn’t been all that bad. He was probably the nicest guy she’d stolen money from. She thought he had been charming when he wanted to be. ‘Oh well’, she said, ‘I’ve got my retirement money now’, and carried suitcases to the train. Carole flashed a smile at the fat little porter and he came scuttling over to help her carry her luggage onto the train.
The words ‘You’re no bloody angel!’ returned to her mind as she watched the fat little porter step back onto the platform, having just dragged her suitcases onto the train and put them in the luggage rack for her. Carole stepped into her first class compartment, shut the door and then sat down on the green, cushioned seats. She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, took out a cigarette and lit it. As she inhaled the smoke she remembered she’d taken the packet of cigarettes out of Jack’s coat pocket before he’d left after their little row. The cigarettes were just something else to add to the list of things she’d taken from him. She guessed that the cigarettes would probably the last thing on his mind to worry about, after all he’d have just enough money left to be able to buy a new packet. She exhaled and imagined the smoke coming from her mouth like it would from a dragon.
‘No bloody angel’, she said, ‘Probably the only time you ever got me right, Jack.’. She smiled at her reflection in the window.

My Back Pages

2008-09-28T20:02:00.002+01:00

In a bored moment I began to ponder over influences- all artists have them. One thing I have always loved is finding out who my influences are influenced by and then searching those people out. Plus I wanted to answer the question- what's my most major influence, what can I trace back to being the 'first cause' for want of a better statement.

Two influences I've discovered in the last 9 months or so are two people who work in different fields but with quite similar common themes- Raymond Chandler and Edward Hopper- an author and a painter. I've always loved detective stories. Murder mysteries and whodunnits have always been a great joy to me. The hero of Chandler's book is Phillip Marlowe, the classic archetype of the Private Eye. A lone moral hero in an immoral world. Great stuff. As the books were mostly written in the 40's they have that wonderful fashion of the time- hats, ties and big coats, and the same period was when Edward Hopper was painting. I love all of his paintings- they have such a strong sense of narrative in them it really seems as if there's a story going on. Hopper has inspired many other writers as well as myself.

Over the summer I discovered the wonderful writer that is Leo Tolstoy. I read 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina' back to back and loved both very much. He really has a true insight into human nature and the tickings of the human mind, plus his prose is just magnificent. 'War and Peace' is not a book to read- it is a book to be lived, balancing the big scale drama of war with the human drama of it's characters.

Keeping with the idea of introspection and melancholy is David Bowie, or specifically Berlin Bowie. In 1976 and 77, Bowie escaped from America and returned to Europe to kick his cocaine habit and give his career a new direction. 1977 brought about two classic albums- Low and "Heroes". Both albums contain soundscapes that really invoke a true sense of place, and the sparse lyrics reveal in their simplicity Bowie's depression and lethargy over his break from his drug abuse. Bowie spent most of this period in Berlin, and lets the spirit of the city wash over both albums.

At 17 I discovered two of the finest songwriters to have picked up a guitar- Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. Dylan is the master of voices flitting brilliantly from protest singer, finger wagging at those in power, spurned lover, reborn Christian and above all rock's first ever poet. His most poetic album 'Blonde on Blonde' is only a recent discovery but it contains some beautiful prose. Cohen is the King of Melancholy and nobody can challenge that title. He speaks of love, romance and sex in quasi-mystical terms, bringing an almost religified view to them, as best done in the monumental 'Hallelujah'. Once you've listened to Leonard Cohen nothing else seems that depressing any more.

And once again to depression with three excellent poets- Edgar Allen Poe, William Blake and Dylan Thomas. Three men responsible for (or guilty of) getting me into poetry. Their words combined with an excellent English Lit teacher opened up my mind to poetry.

Then a return to songwriters two whom I discovered around the same time at 16- John Lennon and Roger Waters. Both members of famous bands- The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Waters wrote all the lyrics to the classic album 'Dark Side of the Moon', the first time he'd written all the lyrics of an album for Pink Floyd. The lyrics were born out of his frustration with modern life- time, money, war, mortality and all those sort of things. He wrote the wonderful line: "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way". Other albums he's done are also excellent, but 'Dark Side of the Moon' is undoubtedly his magnum opus. John Lennon is one of the most iconic performers of all time. 'Imagine' is an athem for a generation and his work in the Beatles is very avant garde- he changed the face of rock and roll, but he wouldn't have devolped as he did if it wasn't for... Bob Dylan who encourage his more personal style of writing. And Roger Waters calls Lennon his favourite lyricist.

And at 13 I discovered two writers who I always say formed the foundation of my writing- William Shakespeare and Stephen King. Two very different writers but I learnt one thing from both of them- to have no mercy with my characters. I am not at all squemish about having my characters meet grisly fates. In a way they both deal with the themes of death and religion (if you look closely enough that is.

I always said that Shakespeare and King were my foundation but it was only today that I realised a very important influence to me that I rarely acknowledge, but it's effect on me still lasts till today, and probably will last for many more years too come. What made my favourite genres detective stories, mystery and horror? It can only be...

'The Perfect Hostess'

2008-09-01T10:16:00.002+01:00

'Room In New York' by Edward Hopper

'The Perfect Hostess'

He could not love a stranger, and that’s all that she was too him now, no different from the faceless people that walked along the sidewalk below him. It was the memory of her he was in love with- as she had been before, when he had first known her in their early years, but the illness became apparent.

Larry sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh. It was a relief to be home- the old familiar room, the same wallpaper and carpet that had always been there- none of that had changed and he was glad for familiarity of it all. It was a great sense of comfort after the repetitive bleakness of hospital walls.

Light notes of music covered the silence of the room. Larry knew she was at the piano, pressing the one same note over and over. They’d brought it 6 months ago, with the paycheck from her last cinematic appearance. Alice gladly told people she was teaching herself the piano and would take singing lessons too. She always told people with such pride that she was going to be musical, Larry had his doubts and it proved true when she abandoned it within weeks. She pleaded with Larry to get rid of it, but it’d been so much trouble getting the damned thing up the stairs to their apartment they were keeping it.

Larry leaned forward and picked up the newspaper on the table. It was from a couple of days ago, ‘Has it been that long since either of us were here?’ He thought. Maybe two months since he was last here? He’d been in New York for three days but never visited the apartment- he’d gone straight to the hospital to see Alice. He looked up from the newspaper over to her. She was wearing her red dress, the one she’d been wearing when they took her into the hospital last Thursday. It was crumpled and messy, but Larry was not surprised with all the fight she had put up with the nurses and everyone else.

Larry thought back to when they first met- before she was ill, he liked too think, but he suspected that she may have been ill for a lot longer but he had not noticed. Perhaps he passed it off as moodiness, or that all actresses behaved like this- they were used to top treatment. It was backstage of the theatre they first met, Larry gone to greet the cast, and he secretly hoped he would get to meet Alice.

Larry knew of Alice Rains before he had met her, most had- she was the biggest box office draw in America in 1946. Larry had seen her in three or four films before they met, he always did have a soft spot for her. She’d told him years later that she moved from movies to Broadway because she’d wanted to be a real actress, see what it was like to really be put under pressure and sustain a character for a lengthy period of time. His second play went to Broadway, something he was very proud of, and he was equally pleased when he found out that Alice Rains would star. He’d wanted to go and watch the rehearsals but he was working in L.A, working on a script for a romantic comedy for the studio. He rushed through his work as quickly as he could, and managed to be free to go and see his play open on Broadway. After the show the director had brought Larry backstage to meet and greet with most of the actors who all seemed to put on a welcoming greeting, but Larry guessed their true feelings didn’t amount to much. As the director leading him down the hallway they came to Alice’s dressing room.

The first image Larry saw of her was her reflection in the mirror. She was facing away from him, but her reflection seemed to look straight into him. Larry thought she looked better in the flesh than in the movies- her dark, velvet eyes, porcelain skin and raven black hair. She had a dark beauty like no other. She spun around in the chair and greeted Larry so courteously he could not fail to fall for her charm.

She was married then, when they first meet, but she left her husband soon after. Larry guessed she’d been looking for an excuse and Larry entered right on his cue. They both alternated between New York and L.A. depending on their work- most of the time moving together, thought there were often periods where they would be separated for weeks and months at a time. They wrote each other long letters- Larry kept all of hers in his desk in New York, Alice assured him she had kept the love letters he sent her, but Larry had no idea where she kept them. The letters rambled on for pages about their burning desire to see each other again, the large chunk of them that was missing, and so on and so. The one Larry had treasured most of all went along these lines-
“Oh, Larry-kin, oh dear the days are far too long and every time I close my eyes I find you are here with me and you hold me in those loving arms of yours to take me away and protecting from all the nasty people here. Then when I wake up and she you’re not here I cry to myself because it’s only a dream, but I count the days till I finish here and I can come back to you and we can be together again… much love and tears and kissing, your Alice from Wonderland”
Those two years were the happiest Larry could remember. They had only argued once when he had called her to say he was going to stop in New York a couple of extra days. She screamed down the phone at him, screaming that he did not love her and that he was going to leave her for some woman with loose morals, or worse- a dancer. Larry did his best to reassure her. When he finally got to L.A three days later he was told she was ill and would not see him. Then a day later she appeared at his hotel and threw herself into his arms, and they had made love soon after as if the last days were a fiction.
Larry thought she had always seemed happier at her home in L.A. He’d take her back tomorrow morning. He knew she’d be happier there, as she used to be, Larry thought- it was a last attempt. The house in L.A. was 5 times the size of the New York apartment and Alice loved throwing parties for everybody and anybody in the movie industry. Alice was always the perfect hostess, making sure each and every person in the room felt her presence and she was in total control.
There had been one time, with two older British actors when her perfect hostess act slipped. The actors were both invited to one of Alice’s parties, except one had told the other that it was a fancy dress ball as a practical joke. So, the one actor turned up dressed as a harlequin, much to his embarrassment when he realized the joke. He’d seen the lighter side of it, but Alice did not. Her face froze in shock, and when it melted she stormed up to the harlequin, ripped off his mask and ordered him and his wife from the house. They thought she was joking, but Alice had surprising strength when she was angry and virtually pushed them outside and refused them entry. Once they’d gone Alice had run upstairs, Larry followed and then returned five minutes later and informed the guests that Alice had a headache.
Over the years Larry had heard those that she was working with complaining about her, that she could one day be screaming and shouting at people, then deathly silent and still and sometimes perfectly charming. She was mostly charming to people whenever shooting began, but soon Larry would hear reports of problems. In the early years that’s all they were to Larry- reports of unhappiness, she kept that side of nature hidden from him for the most part, but in the last 18 months he’d seen the other side to her, the one only talked about it bitter terms by co-stars and directors. Larry began to fear her a little, and pandered to her whims more and more afraid of an outburst. One night when she had ripped into him for coming home later she had threatened to kill herself, so Larry had taken all the pills in the house and flushed them down the toilet. The next morning Larry awoke from the sofa to hear Alice laughing hysterically, and he found her laughing at the empty medicine cabinet.
It was three months ago, just when the summer of ‘54 had started than Larry nervously told Alice he’d been contracted to go to L.A. to work on the script for MGM. Alice had politely smiled and told him that was fine, she’d come to see him just as soon as her play finished in a few months time. Larry had breathed a sigh of relief and left two weeks later. They written each other long letters as they normally did and ran up long telephone bills, but Larry was began to feel like an actor. He was just repeating things he’d said to her years ago just to keep on her good side- he loved her good side. That side of her was the woman he’d fallen in love, the other side of her scared him. Once arriving at the studio office he was told he would be co-writing the script. Larry was put aback at this as he had never written with anyone before, and even more shocked was he when he learnt it was to be a woman he was to work with. He knew that it was her novel he was meant to be adapting, but he did not expect to be adapting it with the author herself. When they first meet, she nervously shook his hand and said that would have written the script herself but she just “Had no darned idea how to do it.” She had laughed a little with a Southern twang to it.
Her name was Hermione, she was six years younger than Larry and had bright, red hair. Larry had thought her novel was certainly an interesting one, but he’d planned to take a different direction with it, so he thought this would pose a problem. The first days working together was an awful experience, neither of them was sure of each other and had no idea what to do. It was on the fourth day when Larry had had enough and suggested they just go and get some lunch because he couldn’t work anymore, nervously Hermione had agreed. Because Larry distrusted the studio canteen they had driven to a little restaurant not too far away. It was over this lunch that Larry had happened to mention a play by Chekhov that was an influence to him and Hermione agreed with him. Before they knew it they had spent hours talking about books and poetry and had wasted most of the afternoon they should have spent writing. When they came into work the next day everything seemed to click, the reluctance and nerves had gone- the ice had broken, and the script was written in a short space of time. In between writing they would discuss plays and books and find they had very similar taste. Hermione asked Larry what Alice Rains was like and with a fake smile he said “Wonderful”.
One week before Alice was due to visit, Larry and Hermione kissed. They had had a few drinks to celebrate the completion of the third and final draft of their script. It had been a mutual kiss, neither dominated, neither took a back seat- it was mutual. That night Larry was so wrapped up in guilt he had forgotten to call Alice.
The next day Hermione apologized to Larry for what had happened. Larry tried to do the same but found he could not. He gave Hermione his New York address and number so that they could keep in contact. She kissed him on the check, and Larry held her for a few seconds imagining what it would be like to wake up one morning and see her face on the pillow beside him. He said nothing though.
When he got back to his hotel the receptionist said there was a call for him and it was urgent. “Larry, it’s Peter,” Said the voice on the other end of the phone, “It’s Alice- she’s had some kind of breakdown. You better come back to New York. We’re going to try and get her to hospital.”
Larry was told later on that the evening before Alice had been late coming to the theatre for the evening performance, most of the cast believed she would not turn up at all. When she did turn up she was in a red dress and spoke to no one. She went into her dressing room and locked the door. They’d waited as long as they could before the show began but there was no response, so an understudy went on instead. It was during the interval that the cast backstage heard screaming from her dressing and the sound of smashing glass. Some on from the crew broke down the door and Alice was sitting in a pool of broken glass from all the mirrors, cuts up and down her arms and across her face. She was screaming wildly. With surprising strength she had run past them all and out into the street. She had run into the road and was almost hit by a taxicab. The shows director, Peter, was an old friend of theirs, and followed her back to the apartment, he said without irony that she’d left a trail of bloody handprints on the stairwell for him too follow. He’d spent most of the night trying to get her to take some sedatives or go to the hospital, but she refused. While she was calm he had bandaged her arms but minutes later she tore them off. In the early morning when she was out of the room he called from an ambulance to pick her up. It took three ex-marines to get her into the back of the ambulance, and another 2 to hold her down on the journey to the hospital.
Larry got there the next day and she was as bad as ever. She didn’t seem to recognise him and scratched his face. He stayed in the hospital the whole time, sleeping in a visitor’s room. It was the opinions of the doctors and nurses that if she were to stay in hospital any longer she would have to be sectioned then put into a sanatorium. When she calmed down she asked sweetly for Larry to talk to her. She told him that all the doctors frightened her and that she didn’t want to stay in there anymore. Larry looked into her eyes and saw the old sparkle and charm that he knew so well. He kissed her forehead and told her they’d leave straight away. They were about to leave and she threw another fit, the doctors once again sedated her. While the doctors sedated her she threw Larry a glance that pierced him as if she was saying ‘Et tu, Brutus?’
That evening while she was calm Larry smuggled her out of the hospital and back to the apartment. And there they were. Tomorrow, he’d take her back to L.A, and hoped she’d be happier there, as she always seemed to be. She kept playing the same note on the piano- over and over. Ding. Ding. Ding.
“Larry?” She spoke softly.
“Yes?”
With eyes fixed on the piano she said, “Do you love me?”

Larry swallowed hard and looked out the window to the night sky, though it was marred by her reflection. “Yes, my darling,” He said, “Of course I do.”

'The Lonely Death Of A Spy'

2008-08-29T11:27:00.000+01:00

There was once a man (Leonard could not remember if he had known this man personally or it was a tale an old friend had told him years ago) who had read every play by William Shakespeare, bar one- ‘As You Like It’. The reason for this was thus- the man held Shakespeare in such high regard and loved his plays he wanted ‘As You Like It’ to be the last thing he read before he died. Leonard had thought it would have been amusing if that the man had been hit by a car or shot because he’d go into the afterlife knowing he had missed one play out. Leonard had no patience for waiting till his deathbed to read something, so he had read Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina’ practically once or twice a year. As he sat in his North London flat he read- it truly would be the last book before he died, he knew that for certain. He just wanted to read it one more time before he took his life.
Leonard first picked up ‘Anna Karenina’ while he studied at Cambridge in the late 20’s; he had forgotten the years that he had attended, it felt like centuries ago in a very different planet. He knew it was before MI5 had approached him that was for certain. A particularly favourite tutor of his had recommended that he read it, and following his mentor’s advice he did. Upon first reading he had absorbed Tolstoy’s evocative prose loving each and every sentence contained within. Leonard praised the book as ‘the perfect novel’ to all friends and family he came in contact with over the next year. Even when he was stationed in France during the war he had purchased a French translation to read and read it he did.
Languages were something of a speciality to Leonard- his Mother had been French and had taught him the tongue from an early age. In school he had developed a taste for German; so it was not a difficult choice for Leonard when asked what he wanted to study at Cambridge. It was his excellence in languages that made MI5 approach him to work for them, and because Leonard had not given much thought to life after Cambridge he gratefully accepted.
The MI5 were very encouraging and Leonard felt quite contented working for and with them. His language skills were thought of very highly, and one high ranking member told Leonard that he would make ‘the best spy I’ve seen in all my years’, this compliment was one Leonard had never forgotten. Even in his forced retirement, he would take himself back to that moment.
Within a few years with MI5 the shadow of war was beginning to loom large over the world. As soon as war was announced Leonard requested that he was stationed in France as his French was fluent and he could pass himself off as a born Frenchman with little difficultly. Leonard was also concerned about the family that still were living France from his Mother’s side. Even though Leonard saw himself as nothing less than British, he felt a certain attachment to the land that bore his Mother’s family. The officials declined his requested and he was sent straight into Germany. He served only three missions in Germany, with only one being successful- the failure of the other two Leonard put down to the inadequacy of others. But once France was invaded and occupied Leonard begged his superior to be transferred to France and this time his requested was granted. Leonard was flown into France, taking nothing of his former self with him. Leonard Carter was left in Britain, he was now Jean-Luc Beineix. Upon getting himself a job working in the dock, he used his money to buy a copy of ‘Anna Karenina’- a French version. He had considered learning Russian to read it in its original language, but whilst been stationed in France he thought it not the wisest idea he’d even had.
‘Anna Karenina’ had been a common denominator all his life- no matter what age or era Tolstoy’s novel would be along with Leonard. As his Cambridge friends grew older began to find women to settle down with, Leonard felt a strange sadness settle upon him. He knew what kind of woman he would like to marry, but he had yet to find her. It was to be a woman very much like Kitty. Leonard had fallen in love with Kitty upon the first reading of ‘Anna Karenina’ and she became the bar he judged other women and girls by. For a large part of his life he had not found another like her- lively, full of laughter and grace, devoted and loving to her husband. That was what Leonard wished for in a wife.
There was a time in France he thought he had found a woman close to Kitty. Eloise (‘Or was it Estelle?’ Leonard mused, ‘It began with an ‘E’ I remember that much) had been working for the résistance as had Leonard, but barely three months into their relationship she had been caught by the Germans and executed after days of torture. The officials wanted to bring Leonard back to Britain, but Leonard had insisted he wished to carry on his duty in France. He knew the girl would have told the Germans nothing, and he had been right.
After the war he was happy to have been stationed in Berlin after a brief return to England. He felt happier out in the field doing something. Over the years in Berlin he had done much to aid the government- he had broken many circles and stings by the KGB and had trained several pupils and protégées, though he had heard nothing from any of them since his ‘retirement’ 6 years ago.
His ‘retirement’ was brought about by a woman by the name of Lillian. She had been a nightclub singer and sometimes prostitute whose company Leonard had paid for whilst in Berlin. He had been with her for a large section of the 50’s. Despite knowing she saw other men Leonard felt quite attached to her, despite the large age gap between them. Leonard knew she was not beautiful, but she was certainly an attractive young thing, with blonde always in a fashionable way. He liked talking to her. He often told her about his life, his Cambridge years, his parents who passed away, his role in the war years, and because she spoke only broken English he would reveal more intimate details of his life to her, believing she did not understand him. It was in 1957 when he was taken aside by a colleague and discreetly told that information had been leaked to the KGB about British spies resulting in several names of British spies been sold for high prices- and the name ‘Leonard Carter’ had been one of them. The colleague put a hand on Leonard’s shoulder and offered condolence, but his cover had been blown and he was no longer welcome in Berlin. “Sorry old chap,” the colleague had said rather unsympathetically, “That’s how it goes I’m afraid.” Leonard had never liked the man anyway, Leonard thought him far too young to be working such a high priority position.
Leonard had only even told one person in Berlin his real name- and that had been Lillian. She had sold his name to the Germans as if that’s all he was to her- a collection of letters.
He managed to stay in Berlin for an extra week much to the upset of his superiors. He had wanted to find Lillian, ask why she had down what she had down. He had waited outside her apartment building, watching her bring a new man in every night, even two some nights. He never spoke to her and she never knew he was there. She appeared in dreams sometimes, normally laughing at him. Once he dreamt he was chasing her laughter through a hall of mirrors, only for him to be chased around by a clown. It was only when he reached a dead end he realized the clown was just his reflection.
His superiors had convinced him that his retirement was a well-deserved one, although a little early. Leonard began to believe it too after a while. He settled into a small house in London. He had great plans for his garden, but after several months back trouble prevented him from doing too much bending up and down so his plans for the garden were crushed. He lived in that house for only a year or two more, watching the garden get overgrown.
He tired to find his old Cambridge pals, but many had died in the war or could no longer remember him. All the friends he had in MI5 were forced to keep their distant- if the enemy knew Leonard was a spy they want to know who he mixed with in case his old friends were also spies. Leonard was aware a young chap tailed him for a while. It became quite a game for Leonard to see if he could still outwit a young man at his own game. Soon the tail grew bored by it and left Leonard alone.
Despite large funds of money, Leonard elected to move into a more modest accommodation. A little apartment, like the one Lillian had owned, was what he was after. He eventually found one in the north of London and settled down there. He had tired to buy himself some company one early night, but had been laughed at for being ‘a dirty old man’ by the women he had though provided that service. Leonard was not disheartened though- he wanted company for old times sake, he didn’t think his back was up to it these days.
In was in 1963 that with no friends, no job nor family Leonard did not want to carry on suffering of isolation from the rest of the world. He no longer recognized music on the radio- it was all guitars now and raving about these ‘Beetles’ (whom Leonard was surprised to discover were a group of young men, not women). He had decided enough was enough and that he did not want to spend the rest of his years wasting them. So he took out his shoelaces to form a noose as he had been taught by the MI5 in case of capture and it was likely British secrets were to be revealed. He was about to stick his head though when he looked across at his book shelf- ‘Anna Karenina’ seemed to look at him. He removed the makeshift noose and picked the worn copy up. It had been with him many years now, there was a brandy stain on page 54, and page 203 had been torn a little. He poured himself a brandy, pulled up his armchair, sat down and began to read…

'The Watchmaker'

2008-08-18T14:52:00.001+01:00

No man can create time, he can only create instruments to track it, and to be able to create something complex enough to track time was a gift, a gift the watchmaker was proud to possess. Taking apart an aged clock, gently lifting the face to reveal the intricacies within never failed to amaze the watchmaker- that man could create something so pure and as perfect as a keeper of time.
In the workshop of his Father’s shop, the watchmaker would sit surrounded by keepers of time, each second hand of each and every clock and watch moving in exact synchronisation creating a small hum of cogs turning. The watchmaker smiled- it was so perfect and pristine.
The clock before him was running half a second slow. It had been out in the main area of his Father’s shop for sale, but the watchmaker could not let the clock be sold when it did not run at exact time- that would be cheating the customer, and that would be wrong. It was 8 seconds past midday and his Father had left the shop to purchase sandwiches for their precisely 20 minute lunch break. They would then start work again, and then take a tea break at 3:15. They would resume work at 3:30 then at 5:00 close the shop for the night and be home for 5:47. The watchmaker and his Father ran their lives by the ticking of their clocks.
As the watchmaker made the second hand move forward he caught something- something that was not meant to be in a clock. He set the clock down and picked a pair of tweezers and leaned over the clock and extracted the alien object. The watchmaker was confused; he turned around to hold the object up to the lamp.
It was a hair. A long, very fine strand of golden hair.
The watchmaker looked at it in confusion- he himself had not blonde in his hair and his Father’s hair had been grey for many years now. How had this golden hair got caught in a clock that the watchmaker himself had built over a year ago?
He delicately lifted the hair from the tweezers and placed it in the palm of his pale hand. It just lay there. Perhaps, the watchmaker wondered, that it had belonged to a customer with an interest in the clock, but had not purchased it. Or perhaps this customer, possibly female, had lifted the clock up to hear the ticking (the watchmaker himself had the habit of listening to the rhythm of a clock) and a stray hair had been caught inside the mechanics of it. The watchmaker wondered then if this woman had noticed the clock was half a second out then perhaps she decided not to purchase it.
The watchmaker was about to dispose of the hair when an image rose in his mind- the owner of the hair, a woman, with blonde hair perfectly styled and with sparkling blue eyes. The watchmaker liked this image, especially when he coupled it with the idea that this woman had showed an interest in clocks, much an interest the watchmaker shared. He did not realize he was smiling.
The watchmaker sat at his bench, but his mind had long flown away from the shop to this owner of the golden strand of hair. He wondered that if this woman had not been too offended by the clock that was half a second slow that she may indeed return to his Father’s shop to inspect the clocks and watches once again. Then perhaps she would notice the watchmaker sitting in the light of his workshop, composing another clock, then she may approach the watchmaker- a conversation would begin. About clocks? Most likely. He would say something deep and interesting about the nature of man been able to keep time, and she would be wowed be his poetic philosophical nature. They would speak of their past- the woman would tell the watchmaker of a bad past relationship she had barely escaped from, and (up until this point) believed she would never love again. The watchmaker would be flattered and casually ask her if she would accompany him to dinner this Friday. She would smile and say ‘of course’. No, the watchmaker had a better idea- she would say ‘No, I’m sorry’, then watchmaker would be dejected but then she would say: ‘I should have made myself clear, I’m busy Friday but free Saturday instead’? The watchmaker smiled.
Each day for the following weeks, the watchmaker moved his chair a little closer to the door that connected him to the shop, in the hope his daydream woman would enter. Each time the little bell above the door tinkled the watchmaker jumped up and looked into the shop to see with disappointment that it was not who he was looking for.
His hands became shaky. He felt like nerves and excitement were fighting it out in the pit of his stomach. His watch making was become increasingly sloppy. His Father had to HAVE WORDS with him, something that had not happened in many years. The watchmaker kept his head bowed so not to reveal the deep shame on his face- as his Father said watch making was an absolute gift that was given to very few, and to produce substandard pieces of work was to cheat the customer. “Do you want to cheat the customer?” His voice boomed.
“No, Father.” Came the quiet response. The watchmaker wanted to tell his Father that he struggled to work to his normal standard because he was in love. Yes, he admitted he was in love. He could not admit to the Father that he had finally found love- he would not understand.
The watchmaker had kept the strand of fine gold hair wrapped in a handkerchief which he kept in his shirts drawer at home. Late at night he would often take it out and caress the hair and continue his dream of life with it’s owner. By now they were to be married, at first Father had not consented by once he saw that the young couple were truly in love he caved in, much to their delight and they celebrated with a bottle of red wine.
Vienna or Switzerland? The watchmaker pondered on a rainy Tuesday. Which would be the preferred honeymoon destination? They would have to bring Father along too, if he could bear to shut the shop. Then again, the watchmaker thought it be better if they just stayed in Britain. He’d never flown before and after all he’d heard about plane crashes and such and such it might not be such a good idea. An early death was not one he had planned, but he was trying not too think of that- he wanted to go through their life in a logical order.
It was on a Friday, when Father had left to purchase sandwiches for lunch that the watchmaker had been left in charge of the shop. There was the tinkling of the bell, and the watchmaker felt his heat stop for a moment and he knew it was her.
She was about 10 years older than he thought. And perhaps she had more weight on her than he had thought, and her eyes were green, not blue, but still- it was her. She came to the counter and told the watchmaker than she had come to collect her clock she’d sent in for repairs. The watchmaker took the repairs slip from her and found her clock, and gently handed it over to her. She thanked him and left.
The watchmaker sighed. He had forgotten to ask her name.

'Out Of Time'

2008-08-18T14:43:00.001+01:00

“You wanna talk?” She said as I began to put my undergarments back on. “Some guys they wanna talk.” She carried on, “They wanna talk and tell you ‘bout their lives and all their problems and about their wives giving them trouble.” I slipped my trousers on as she spoke, “Then some guys just want to do their business and be gone.” She paused, bite her lip and asked- “Are you the talking type, mister?”
“Nup.” I replied and lit a cigar.
“Oh God, open the window, mister. I can’t stand the smell of those things.” She order me, and after a pause I did as told. It was still light outside and I could see my horse tied up down stairs. It’d be about 15 minutes before Jack and company arrived. It wouldn’t take them too much trouble to find me. The town was pretty much without face or character, just waiting for the wind of the civil war to blow through and tear it apart.
She stayed within the sheets of the bed, just watching me. Her crimson hair tumbled prettily around her pale shoulders. The girl hadn’t been cheap, but I figured that if it going to be my woman before I die it might as well be a good one. I can’t remember if she said her name was Lily or Rosemary, but I might have got her confused with another one of the girls in the building. The madam told me that she was 21, but I think she was only 17. It didn’t matter. I’d enjoyed it.
“Mister?” She asked, “You want me to go?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Nup.” I picked up my gun holster and slipped it on. I wasn’t planning on using it when Jack and company found me. They’ll be expecting me to surprise them and surprise them I will- by not fighting back.
“I hate those things.” She announced, “Guns, not the holsters that is. My pappy got himself killed with one. He was working on the farm and then men came all in black and ridin’ on black horses and- blam.” She sighed, “And that was the end of Pa.” I nodded. Probably hired killers. I done one or two jobs like that myself in the past. Never liked killing farmers. They always had families. When I killed Fred I did not feel bad- he had deserved it. The one time I don’t feel guilty is the time it comes back to haunt me.
“You ever killed a man, mister?” She asked.
“Noah.”
“What?”
“My name aint ‘Mister’. It’s Noah.”
She opened her mouth and let out a long ‘Oh’. Then her eyebrows narrowed and she said, “Like the Bible guy?”
“Yeah. Just like the Bible guy.”
“I used to go to church. I liked all the singing.” She frowned, “They don’t let me in church anymore, not since Mrs. De Winter took me in after Mama died. She died about a year after Pa. My brother, Billy went off to join the army, then my sister Fran got married to a nice man.” She paused, “She died too. So did that baby of hers. She never got to see it. I think… Mister Noah, that I might be cursed when it comes to family. They all seem to die. You got any family?”
“Nup.” Jack and company had made sure of that. Trying to spurn me into action but instead I just ran away- like a coward. But now I’m going let them catch me. I’d had enough of running.
“Where you going, Mister Noah?”
“What?”
“I mean, after here. Nobody wants to stay in this town. Not even me.”
I let out a small smile along my cracked face, “Somewhere I haven’t been before.”
“Like an adventure?”
“You could say that.” I stubbed out the cigar and threw the butt out of the window. “You mind if I have another?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I like talkin’ to you. You don’t say too much.” She smiled, “I’m not going to stay in this town forever you know. No, not me.” She leaned forward, “I’ll tell you a secret, Mister Noah-” And she in an almost whisper, “I’m gonna run my own farm.”
Crazy girl. No one would ever let some ex-whore run a farm. “Cute dream.” I said.
“No, I know how to do it. When my pappy was alive I used to help on our farm. I cold do all the stuff the boys could do and then some.” She folded her arms across her chest, “Hell I could run a farm with my eyes closed and arms behind my back.”
“’Course.”
“I am very serious about all this. All I need’s the money, that’s all, and I reckon I’m almost half way there from what Mrs. De Winter gives me.”
“Money aint everything.” I said and I meant it. If it weren’t for the damned money I wouldn’t be here waiting for Jack and company to find me- waiting for them to kill me. My family would still be here. I wouldn’t have had to run for 5 years. Did the money make it worth it? No it did not. In five years I spent maybe three hundred dollars out of the ten thousand I had stolen. I could not spent it or else it would leave a trail for them to find, but now I did not care and I had spent a little of the money for them to follow me. They could have it for all I cared.
I looked out of the window down the street and I could see a group on the horizon riding up. It had to be them, who else would stumble into this little town than Jack and company? My time was up. I turned and looked and the girl on the bed, and I said. “Get out.”
“What?” She said surprised.
“Get your clothes on and get out.”
There was hurt across her face at my suddenness, she slowly got out of the bed and picked up her clothes, she looked at me and said, “I thought you wanted to talk.”
“I changed my mind.”
She began to put some of her clothes back on but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Poor little girl. As I watched her return to her clothes I began to get an idea, I figured it might be worth it. She was about to leave when I said, “Wait.” She turned back to me and I picked up my jacket from the floor and pulled on a little grey bag. It was filled with notes and gold that I had stole. “Here.” I said and tossed it towards her.
She took it in her hand and looked back up at me and said, “Mister?”
I looked out the window and saw that Jack and company were in town now. I looked back at the girl and said, “Just get going.”
Her little hands felt the bag and she realized what was in it, “Mister Noah-” A grin spread across her face, and I cut her off.
“Talk to no one. Just get out. Hell, take my horse. It’s the grey one outside.”
“But-”
“Don’t ask questions. Go find your farm.”
There was a smile on her face so wide it could have covered Texas. She opened the door, and stepped into the corridor, taking one last look at me then shutting the door.
I guessed she’d probably pass Jack and company on the way down stairs. I found it pretty funny that they’d pass the girl and she’d be carrying all the money they were after- the money I killed Fred and wounded Jack for. At least somebody’d be actually using the money now.
Every step I heard on the stairs I was convinced it was theirs. Death was coming towards me, but I wouldn’t fight. I’d had enough running for my life, I’d make my peace with God. Or the Devil, whichever of them’s got a hold of my ass. I’d be waiting right here to see Jack again, see if he’s still got the crazy look in his eye. Doesn’t matter now- I don’t have the money. Joke’s on you, boys. Ha.

I Love Blonde On Blonde

2008-08-08T12:58:00.003+01:00

I love 'Blonde On Blonde' by Bob Dylan- it truly is an exceptional album.

You get some albums that are a collection of great songs, but those sort of albums are most likely to fit snugly into a play list and be shuffled into other music, but a 'great' album has a sound to it that is distinctly that album and I think 'Blonde on Blonde' fits this category. Even Bob Dy;an himself has said the album is the closest he's ever got to the 'thin, wild mercury sound' that his music makes in his head. It's no surprise the next album he released was a stripped down, quieter affair- after two previous albums Dylan finally gets the electric guitar/harmonica/organ combination just right.

The songs themselves are mostly brilliant, listen to this (or listen to it as you read the rest of this review)- 'I Want You', a song that always makes my toes tap.

I love that jangly guitar sound. 'Blonde on Blonde' contains several classic songs, opening with the infectious 'Rainy Day Women #12 &35', but from that raucous opening the songs get increasingly sober to the quiet and reflective final track 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' (which I shall discuss later). There's the classic 'Just Like A Woman', and lesser known but still great songs like 'Temporary Like Achilles' There's a clear blues-y influence on a lot of tracks like 'Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat' and 'Pledging My Time', and these slot perfectly against the more poetic songs 'Visions of Johanna' and 'Stuck Inside A Mobile With Those Memphis Blues Again'.

Speaking of poetry- Dylan once again proves he is the poet laureate of the 60's. The lyrics to this album are among the finest and strongest in his career, often the lyrics aren't straight forward at all but cryptic and highly symbolic, but retaining his sly humour. The final track on the album is the epic 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' which clocking in at 11:32 took up a whole side of an LP upon it's initial release. This has to be one of the most beautiful and unconventional love songs ever recorded, it takes my breath away each time I hear it. Even though the lyrics are symbolic references to the relationship with his wife, Sara, the listener can tell this is a heart-felt affair. The affection that appears in his voice is unmistakably.

I would not recommend this though, as a starting point to Bob Dylan and his work. To a none Dylan fan unused to his work it's likely to come off as a strange and confusing record. I'd tell a beginner to start elsewhere and build up to 'Blonde on Blonde', but once you reach it you can appreciate what a stunning album it is.

Masterpiece? Perhaps.

A Joker and Two Dylan's (Things I'm Looking Forward To This Summer)

2008-07-03T12:36:00.004+01:00

1. Getting to see Heath Ledger's performance in 'The Dark Knight'. I know that after his death there was even more hype about his performance as the Joker, but the week before he died I got caught up in the hype from the trailers- it looks like a terrific performance and I told several people on different occasions that I was looking forward to it. Sadly it will be marred by his death this year. The tragedy is that it looked set to elevate him from being a popular actor to a respected one.

2. The aspect of going on holiday that I'm looking forward to most is going to see Dylan Thomas' boathouse (going to Wales, see) and I'm a big fan of his. Though I've yet to see the movie released about him 'The Edge of Love' mostly because I hate the fact the advertising and marketing is all about Keira Knightly and Sienna Miller and that fact the former sings in it, rather than it been a biopic of a genius.

3. Speaking of Dylan's- the film 'I'm Not There' is released on to DVD, a film about Bob Dylan (with the genius idea of having 6 actors portray different version of Dylan) and I didn't get to see it in the cinema (damn university taking up my cinema going time!) so I very, very much looking forward to it!

That's all I can think of right now...

Book Listy Thingy

2008-06-30T09:04:00.002+01:00

Apparently most people have only read 6 out of the 100 top books (a great shame). So here's mine- bold one are ones I've read, italics means I want to read them and underlined means I love said book.

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier (I do know the opening line off by heart though0
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien (Only read some of it)
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy (Now that I've read it all it's offically my favourite book I've ever read)
25. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy (Reading this at the moment and very much enjoying it)
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis (I've read 3 of the books all the way through and started but never finished the other 4)
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (Why is this seperate to the Chronicles of Narnia?)
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres (I want to read it after meeting the author)
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving (Started it but never finished)
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert (Did start reading it during my GCSEs, but it wasvery hard to juggle bewteen the two so I gave up)
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon (I think this might be the only book on the list I've never heard of!)
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens (Did start reading it once but it was during A Level revision, not a good mix)
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold (Currently been turned into a movie by Peter Jackson)
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas (Started it but never finished it)
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell (That's two book I've not heard of before...)
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro (I did start reading it but didn't finish it, even though I really was enjoying it)
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams (Bright eyes, burning like fire...)
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare (My favourite play ever!)
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

23/100

I'm a bit disappointed by that, I'd thought it'd be more! If I included books I've started and not finished then it'd be 37, which looks better.

Stolen Character Questions...

2008-05-26T18:39:00.002+01:00

Once again I've been impressed by what someone else has found... and then stolen it.

Write down twelve of your own characters and then answer the questions - NO LOOKING AT THE QUESTIONS BEFORE ANSWERING!! GOT IT? GOOD!

1- Jack Redgrave
50's P.I, narrator of 'Wild Is The Wind' (which just so happens to be available to read on this blog!)

2- Lady Katherine Ferrers
Heroine of my play 'Stand+Deliver!', a noblewomen who turns to a life of crime. (That's a comedy for me)

3- Charles Bennett
Main character of my play 'Berlin', a young and naive man working for MI5.

4- Roger Waters
Drug addled and psychotic detective from my play 'Within'.

5- Bethany Allen
Femme fatale from 'Wild is the Wind'.

6- Matthew Bellamy
Double crossing CIA from 'Berlin'

7- Thomas Ferrers
Kate's drip of a husband from 'Stand+Deliver!'

8- Samuel Coleridge
Charming con man from 'Within'

9- Gordon Magnus
Veteran MI5 agent and expert chess player from 'Berlin'

10- Satan
Old Lucifer himself from my attempt at radio writing 'In My Dark Life'

11- Russell Faraday
Head of a West End gang from 'Wild is the Wind'

12- James Barker
Scriptwriter and selfish git from an untitled play

#1. Who would make a better college prof.? 6 (Matthew Bellamy) or 11 (Russell Faraday)?
Well, I'd say Bellamy most likely though I think he'd be nervous about speaking before people. Russell just wouldn't see the benefit in education.

#2. Do you think 2 ( Lady Katherine Ferrers) is hot?
Well, actually I've seen her. It' the only character on the list (apart from her husband... and possibly Satan) who was a real life person and there is a painting of her I've seen several times. But as I wrote I imagined her as looking like Diana Rigg circa 1969. So yes indeed- she is hot.

#3. 12 (James Barker) sends 8 (Samuel Coleridge) out on a mission. What is it? Does it succeed?
I don't think James would get involved with any real, important missions. He'd probably ask Coleridge very nicely to get him a cup of tea. Coleridge would probably smile, take James' money and run.

#4. What is or would be 9’s (Gordon Magnus) favorite book?
The complete works of Shakespeare. Magnus has an obsession with the Bard.

#5. Would it make more sense for 2 (Lady Katherine Ferrers) to swear fealty to 6 (Matthew Bellamy), or the other way around?
That's interesting... if it were Kate when she becomes a criminal, she'd make Bellamy swear to her. If before it'd be more likely she'd swear to him, but I think that if the price was right Bellamy would swear to anyone.

#6. For some reason, 5 (Bethany Allen) is looking for a roommate. Should (s)he share a studio apartment with 9 (Gordon Magnus) or with 10 (Satan)?
I must admit that I'm greatly amused by the idea of having the Lord of the Flies for a room mate. Actually Beth probably would move in with Satan and sell her soul to further her career.

#7. 2 (Lady Kathering Ferrers), 7 (Thomas Ferrers), and 12 (James Barker) have dinner together. Where do they go, and what do they discuss?
James would go round to the Ferrers country house (as the Ferrers are married), but it'd be a terribly boring evening. James would be shy, Thomas would be dull and Kate would be dreaming of being somewhere.

#8. 3 (Charles Bennett) challenges 10 (Satan) to a duel. What happens?
For a start only God or Jesus could beat Satan in a duel. Charles would never dream of challenging anyone to a duel!

#9. If 1 (Jack Redgrave) stole 8’s (Samuel Coleridge) most precious possession, how would she/he get it back?
Ooooo that would be a meeting... cocky Jack versus manipulative Coleridge. Coleridge would probably got to Jack asking for help with something, and knock him out while he's not looking.

#10. Suggest a title for a story in which 7 (Thomas) and 12 (James Barker) both attain what they most desire.
'A Quiet Life By Way Of Winning An Oscar'

#11. What kind of plot device would you use if you wanted 4 (Roger Waters) and 1 (Jack Redgrave) to work together?
Well, as Jack used to be a policeman and Waters is one, Waters probably would the antagonist.

#12. If 7 (Thomas Ferrers) visited you for the weekend, how would you get along?
It'd be bloody boring. He'd just sit quietly not waning anything.

#13. If you could command 3 (Charles Bennett) to perform any one task or service for you, what would it be?
Probably spying on people... well he is a spy!

#14. Does anyone on your friends list write or draw 11 (Russell Faraday)?
No...

#15. If 2 (Lady Katherine Ferrers) had to choose sides between 4 (Roger Waters) and 5 (Bethany Allen), which would it be?
I think she'd choose Beth because she leads her own life.

#16. What might 10 (Satan) shout while charging into battle?
A sound that kills people.

#17. If you chose a song to represent 8 (Samuel Coleridge), which song would you choose?
'I Want It All'- Queen

#18. 1 (Jack Redgrave), 6 (Matthew Bellamy), and 12 (James Barker) are having dim sum at a Chinese restaurant. There is only one scallion pancake left, and they all reach for it at the same time. Who gets to eat it?
Jack would only let somebody else eat the last pancake if he got something in return. Bellamy would probably steal it when no one was looking.

#19. What might be a good pick-up line for 2 (Lady Katherine Ferrers) to use on 10 (Satan)?
Quite how one would chat up the Prince of Darkness I don't know.

#20. What would 5 (Bethany Allen) most likely be arrested for?
Murder. But she'd convince the police she was innocent.

#21. What is 6’s (Matthew Bellamy) secret?
That he's selling CIA secrets to the KGB which has jeopardised missions and caused the death of three of his friends.

#22. If 11 (Russell Faraday) and 9 (Gordon Magnus) were racing to a destination, who would get there first?
Magnus would never run, but Faraday would clearly cheat to win anyway.

#23. If you had to walk home through a bad neighborhood late at night, would you feel safer in the company of 7 (Thomas Ferrers) or 8 (Samuel Coleridge)?
Well, Thomas would be an absolute coward and run hearing a cat miaow, and Coleridge would probably be the one to make it a bad neighbour. I'd say Coleridge as people would be scared of him.

#24. 1 (Jack Redgrave) and 9 (Gordon Magnus) reluctantly team up to save the world from the threat posed by 4’s (Roger Waters) sinister secret organization. 11 (Russell Faraday) volunteers to help them, but it is later discovered that he is actually a spy for 4 (Roger Waters). Meanwhile, 4 (Roger Waters) has kidnapped 12 (James Barker) in an attempt to force their surrender. Following the wise advice of 5 (Bethany Allen), they seek out 3 (Charles Bennett), who gives them what they need to complete their quest. What title would you give this fic?
I...have....no....idea....

'Wild Is The Wind'- Part 3

2008-05-24T12:40:00.002+01:00

The final part of 'Wild Is The Wind'. It's the end of this mystery, but I get the feeling that Jack Redgrave will find another case to solve.

I decided it’d be good manners to go to Bruce Watson’s funeral. I was sure if I paid my condolences and explained my situation, a family member might be willing to cover the bill of my services for him. But as the taxi drove me to the funeral, I realised that they might not be too happy that the person I had been paid to look for actually killed Bruce. As I had dusted down funeral suit and had it dry cleaned for no mere sum and paid for the taxi I decided I‘d have to sit through the funeral..

The funeral was a quiet affair, only about ten or twelve people were in attendance. There was one mourner I was very surprised to see, and that was Russell Faraday. He styled himself as a ‘gentleman gangster’, but he was nothing more than a West End hoodlum. I had run into him on occasion before, and knowing his reputation I was very curious to know what on earth he was doing at this funeral.

I waited till it was over, and I noticed him ducked around the back of the church for a crafty cigarette. His heavies were waiting in the car, so I thought I’d go and say ‘hello’. He was a well dressed man, that could be said. Always in the finest of suits, with his hair slicked over with brylcreem, and probably his moustache too.
“Hello, Russell.” I announced.
He jumped, then grinned. “Jack Redgrave. Still playing Humphrey Bogart?”
“Still playing James Cagney?”
He laughed aloud loud, and carried on talking in a thick London accent, “You’re real funny. You’re a real funny guy, Jack. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Not as I often as I’d like.” I took out a cigarette, and Russell lit it for me with his silver Zippo lighter.
“What brings you here?” He asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m paying my respects. You?”
“Same.” I took a drag of the cigarette, “I did a job for the guy.”
“He pay you?”
I shook my head, “Never did. Said he would, though.”
“Yeah, unreliable git. He owned me money too. Said he’d pay me as soon as he got outta jail. Sod’s law I only learn he’s outta jail when I find out he’s dead.”
“Tough luck.”
“Tell me about it.” He stroked his moustache. “He owned me a lot of money. Buried it before he went to jail.”
“From the robberies?”
“Yeah. Couple years ago now.”
I nodded, “More brawn than brains that guy.”
“Nah, he weren’t like that all the time. You know the only person he said he’d tell where the money was, was the bird he was seeing. Then she went and shot him!” He laughed loudly, a dirty laugh. “I hear you’re friendly with his bird?”
I shook my head, “Not anymore.”
“Shame. Bet Bruce didn’t even get a chance to tell her when the dough was hidden.”
“Don’t think they did much talking.”
He told a drag of his smoke and said, “Yeah. Read about in the paper. They fight, then blam.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.”
He sighed, “All that money, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Just rotting away somewhere. Think most of the family are hoping it’ll turn up in his will.”
I raised at eyebrow, “And you’re not expecting it too?”
He shook his head, “Nah, ‘course not. No guy would ever put his buried treasure in his will.”
“Maybe he left a treasure map.”
Russell laughed out loud again, “You always make me laugh, I tell ya.” He then asked, “I always wanted to know- are you having fun being a private eye than you were as one of the pigs?”
“Being a pig pays better.”
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on a gravestone. “Oh well, see you around, Jackie-boy.”

It took me a while to figure it out. It was after the funeral, I was back in my office, drinking a cup of tea and doing the cryptic crossword when it all began to make sense. Something Sylvester had said had stuck in my mind, I thought nothing of it at first, but the more I sat and thought the more it made sense. It was just like one of the cryptic clues in the crossword, of course I hadn’t understood it at first, you never do, but once I did… I leaped out of my chair, grabbed my hat and my coat and went out.

I knew who would hold all the answers, so I tailed them for a while. I began to doubt myself and what I’d worked out, but as soon as night time came it all began to fall into place. The one I was tailing hailed a taxi, so I got one as well, and in true Hollywood style I told the driver to “Follow that car!” He had a laugh, then realised I was serious. The taxi drove out of London to a wood. When the other taxi stopped, so did ours. The person I was tailing got out and the taxi went. I paid the driver and he went off. I began to walk through the woods, I could see they knew were they were going. Once they found what they were looking for I stopped and lurked in the shadows of the trees.

When they got what they wanted, I thought it would be time to show myself. I strolled along as casually as I could, but they didn’t notice me. Loudly I said, “Of all the gin joints in all the world…” They turned around and shone a torch into my face, “You had to walk into mine.” I grinned. “Hello, Bethany.”
“Jack? What the hell are you doing here?” She said in her familiar drawl.
“Oh, you know, just taking a stroll.” On the floor before her was a spade, a large hole in the earth, and a brown, dirt covered suitcase. “So, what brings you here?”
“Jack, I…”
I waved my hand, “It was clever. I’ve got to admit that, Beth. Real clever. Would have been perfect if I didn’t get in the way, right?”
As she spoke, her right hand was reaching into her coat pocket, “Jack, I have no idea what…”
“Beth, please. I know you’ve got that gun in your pocket.” Her eyes widened, I knew I was right. She took her hand out of her pocket. I continued- “You wanted Bruce Watson to find you, didn’t you? Because you knew he’d tell you were the money from the robberies was. It was you who sent the letter tipping him off.”
“And I knew you’d never tell Bruce where I was.” Her lip curled, “Guess you did like me.”
“So,” I said, “You knew he’d got a temper on him. You knew he’d cause a fuss. So, nobody’s going to doubt that a violent criminal would be carrying a gun on him. It was only today I realised that it was a .22, which gets called a ‘woman’s gun’. So no self-respecting criminal would be caught dead carrying one.” I paused and then added, “But poor Bruce was caught dead with one. After all, does a man that size really need to carry a gun to be threatening? So, you waited for him to show, and when he does you get him to tell you where the money is. I don’t know how you got him to tell you, but maybe he did love you. But as soon as he did…” I turned my fingers into a gun shape and made a popping noise. “Exit Bruce.”
She licked her lips and said, “Do you know how long I’ve waited to get this money? All the years I spent waiting for him to get out of jail…” She started to get louder, “I gave up on it, that’s why I stopped writing to him. Then you go and tell me that he’s out and he’s looking for me! It was my chance to get the money, Jack! Thousand of pounds!”
I put my hands up in defence, “Ok, ok! I just came to talk to you, Beth… because you do know that Bruce owes me money?”
“What?”
“He never paid me to look for you.”
“But you didn’t look for me!”
“That’s not the point, Beth. I’d like my pay, if that’s alright with you.” I took a step towards the suitcase and she quickly pulled out the .22 from her coat pocket.
“And what makes you think I’m just going to hand the money over?”
I raised my hands again, “Whoa, I’m not asking for all of it! Just 50-50!” The gun clicked as she took the safety off, “Ok, just as much as Bruce owned me…”
“I could just kill you.” She snarled.
I grinned, “After all the fun times we had together?”
“I’m warning you, Jack…”
“And I’m warning you- I‘ve got friends.”
Her brow furrowed, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“That in the event of my death, a couple letters will be sent. First to my old mate Sylvester Hartnell, you remember him, don’t you? The proper detective who questioned you? It’ll tell him all about you killing Bruce and me… he’ll be able to match the bullets from the gun.” She looked nervously down at her gun. Of course there was no letter. It’s just a good thing to say when somebody’s pointing a gun at you. I carried on, “And they’ll be another one sent to Russell Faraday.”
Puzzled, she asked, “Russell Faraday?”
“Yeah. He’s looking for Bruce’s money as well. The money Bruce owes him from the robberies.”
She shook her head, “Bruce wasn’t working for Russell Faraday.”
“I spoke to Faraday…”
“No, Bruce told me everything. He didn’t say a word about Faraday.”

I began to lower my hands, “Then how did Russell Faraday know Bruce had buried the money?” There was a pause, and at the same time we both looked down the suitcase. I made a step towards it, but she made a ‘Ah!’ noise and I stopped. “Ok, ok!” I said. Still, keeping one eye on me, she kneeled down and began to open the suitcase. With her free hand, she opened first the left catch, then the right one and lifted the lid.

There was money alright. Lots of it. Only trouble was it was money from the board game Monopoly. I dropped my hands and let out a loud laugh. Got to hand it to the guy for having a good sense of humour. There was a note on top of the coloured paper money, Beth picked it up, stood up and read it out loud in a disdaining voice, “I got to Bruce first- ha ha ha, love Russell.”
I chuckled, “Oh that crafty devil.” Beth glared at me. “Come on, you’ve got to admit it’s quite funny.” She just shook her head. Russell Faraday had probably heard the rumour that Bruce had hidden some money, waited till he got out, got the information off him by hook or by crook. It explained why he probably turned up to the funeral- see who else was interested in the money. Crafty devil. “We’ve both been had.” I nodded my head towards the way out of the woods, “Come on, let’s get going, I’ll get you a cup of tea, my shout.” Beth just said nothing. “Something stronger instead?”
She began to shake her head, then walked up to me and hissed, “Go to hell, Jack.” She turned and began to walk away from me. I watched her go. I took off my hat and scratched my head.
“Women.” I sighed.

FIN

David Bowie- 'Wild Is The Wind'

'Wild Is The Wind'- Part 2

2008-05-20T20:58:00.002+01:00

As I started to write the conclusion to 'Wild Is The Wind' I realized that it wouldn't be just this part, there'd have to be one more to get everything in. I'll wait either a couple of days before putting the final part up.

I spent the next two weeks doing The Times cryptic crossword each day. By the end of two weeks, I was getting pretty good at it. You eventually learn how the guy who writes the questions thinks, you can see the methods he uses. So, as I was doing 19 across there was a loud knock on my door, and I guessed that it could only belong to one person.
“Come on in.” I called, and as expected Bruce Watson came in, ducking to avoid hitting his head. I stood up and shook his hand.
“Hello, Bruce. Drink?”
“No. I don’t want one.” He spoke quickly, as if he had somewhere more important to be.
“Well…” I motioned for him to sit down, which he promptly did. I took a deep breathe and got my act ready. “You must understand, Bruce, looking for someone who’s been gone out of your life for a long time is a difficult task. She isn’t fresh in people‘s minds. Anything could have happened, right?” I was met with stony silence. Not a muscle of his face moved. He just sat, holding his cap in his hands. I cleared my throat and continued, “I think there’s the possibility of a trail in Scotland, but I can’t be too sure. If you want me to find out, you’ll have to hire my services for another week. Or, you could go up there and investigate yourself.”
There was a long silence. He just sat, staring at me as if I’d just come out of a flying saucer. “Bruce?” I asked, “Everything alright?”
Again there was a long silence and he said, “You’re lying.”
I froze, then smiled and said, “Pardon?”
“She’s here in London.”
I did a fake laugh and said, “If she was I would know.”
“I got a letter.” He said. His giant hand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a yellowish envelope. He opened it and took out a piece of paper.
“What does it say, Bruce?” I asked.
He began to read it aloud, slowly, being very careful with the words, “Kiki is alive and well and in London. Go to the Victory Club tonight.”
I shook my head, “The Victory Club is only down the road, I’ve been there a couple times. I’ve never seen or heard of the girl you’re looking for. When did you get the letter?”
“This morning.”
“Do you know who sent it?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“So it hasn’t been signed or…”
He cut in, “I’m not thick, you know.”
“Ok. Ok. Just… let me look at the envelope.”
He looked at me strangely, and reluctantly passed it over to me. I checked the postmark- it was London. Somebody had to know about Beth and Bruce other than me. And if Bruce knew that she was in London… I had to tell her somehow.
I smiled as best as I could and passed in back to Bruce, “Don’t get your hopes up. It looks like a fake.”
“It does?” He said
“Sure. I can spot them a mile off. I mean, whoever sent it gives no evidence, and if your… Kiki was working at the Victory Club down the road I would have known about it!”
Just by looking at the great brute you could see the cogs in his heads working. “So… they’re probably lying to me?”
“Absolutely. Now, about payments for my services…”
“I can pay you.” He said quickly.
“Well that’s great. Cheque or cash would be wonderful.” I leaned back on my chair, and when he failed to respond I became worried. “You can pay me, Bruce?”
“Sure. Just give me a week.”
I groaned. There’s always a catch, “I generally do expect money up front…”
“I’ll get it too you, ok?” He almost shouted.
I raised my hands in defence. “Fine. Fine. I’ll give you a week, ok? But if I don’t get my money… I’ll have to go to the police.” That got him.
“I’ll get your money, I will. I swear.”
I stood up. “Be sure you do, Mr. Watson.” It felt good to have power over such a big guy. I said my goodbyes and opened the door for him. As soon as he had gone I returned to my desk. I had to let Beth know that somebody knew about her, but I had no idea where she lived. Some flat somewhere, but I couldn’t be sure, she never invited me around there. The only place I knew she’d be would be the Victory Club. It was only a matter of time before it opened. I decided to carry on with the crossword until the time came.

At half 9 I turned up at the stage door of the Victory Club, but I was too late. It looked as though somebody knocked it down with a battering ram. I went through the gap where the door used to be, and I saw Bill, sprawled on the floor. I kneeled down to check on him. He was still alive, which was a good thing, but he’d been knocked out for the count. He’d have a nasty bruise where he’d been thumped when he woke up tomorrow morning. There was a shriek, and then that awful sound of a gun going off. It was like a small crack of thunder. I ran down the corridor, knowing exactly where the sound had come from.

I went into Beth’s dressing room, unsurprised at the sight before me. Beth stood shaking on one side of the room and on the other Bruce Watson sat on the floor, with a bullet shot just below his right eye. He was as dead as Hitler. The gun was in the middle, a little .22. Beth turned and looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. She ran to me, and I held her as tightly as I could.

It didn’t take too long for the police to turn up. The manager had rung them. Thankfully the patrons of the Club hadn’t heard the gunshot over the noise of the jazz band, so they had no idea that the body with a bullet in it’s brain was lying only a few feet away. The manager, Jenkins, had gotten me and Beth some stiff drinks which we downed in silence. We worked our way through a pack of cigarettes until the police turned up. It was lucky as Sylvester Hartnell was in charge of the case, he was a guy I used to work with. I went outside when they questioned Beth. As soon as it was finished, Sylvester came outside and joined me. He was a small man, and his hair was going a bit grey now, but he had much life in him.
“Hello, Jack.” He said.
“Hello, Syl. How’s things?”
“Not too bad, Jack. Not too bad. Me and Doreen are expecting another little one.”
“Congratulations. It’ll be your third, right?”
“Yeah.”
I asked, “How old’s your eldest now? 5?
“Six.” He replied.
“Time flies, hey?”
“It sure does, Jack. You know I should be asking you official questions right now?”
I offered him a cigarette, which he took. “That what I always liked about you, Syl. You’ve always got time for an old friend.”
He laughed and said, “Well I can take a good guess why you were here tonight. It’s was always the blondes with you wasn’t it?”
I smirked, “Not always.”
“Ah, I know you too well, Jack. So- you and her?”
I shook my head, “Oh, no. No.” I then added, “Well, we did once, but that was a while ago now. I was flavour of the month of all of five minutes.”
“And yet you still never gave up?”
I shrugged, “Flavours of the month can come back in fashion.”
He smiled, “You never change.” He sighed, “Well, Bruce Watson’s dead as anything.”
“Let me guess,” I said, “He stormed in, argued, they fought, she got the gun and fired a shot off.”
“Got it in one.”
“The gun was a .22, right?”
He smiled. “Your eyes are as sharp as ever. Yeah, it was a .22, a woman’s gun really, but it as probably all the poor bugger could afford.”
“What‘s going to happen to Beth?”
“If a bull like Bruce Watson stormed in with a gun, I’d probably want to shoot him as well” He paused and added, “But what I’d like to know, Jack, is why you told him where she was?”
“I didn’t. He got an anonymous letter telling him where to find her. I did my best to convince him it was a fake.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough though.”
“Clearly.” I took my final drag on the cigarette and tossed it to the floor. “What was Bruce Watson in jail for?”
“Armed robbery. He was in a gang, they robbed 5 or 6 Post Offices in a week. He’s the first of the gang to be let out, only because he snitched on the others.”
“Couldn’t imagine him planning a robbery.”
“He was just the muscle.”
“No surprise there.” I said.
Sylvester gave me a funny look and asked, “Did you know that Bruce Watson didn’t have a penny to his name when he came out of jail?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I said glumly, “I wondered why he didn’t pay me.”
“Well, the money from the robberies was never recovered. Rumour was that only Bruce knew where it was.”
“And now nobody’ll ever know.”
“Exactly.” A police offer called something to Sylvester, so he patted me on the back and said “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, Jack.”
“Sure, Syl.”
“Stay out of trouble!”
I smirked, “When have I ever got in trouble?”
“Goodbye, Jack. You ought to visit sometime.”
“Maybe I will.” I said. I watched him walk away to confer with the other police officers, then turned around and went back inside of the Victory Club. I went to Beth’s dressing room, and saw her sitting on the sofa, staring into space, a drink in her hand. I stuck my head around the door and said, “You want me to call you a taxi?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s alright.”
I took a couple of steps into the room, and took off my fedora. “I’m sorry, Beth.”
“I just can’t believe you told him I was here.”
“No! I wouldn’t! I didn’t!”
She never once looked up at me. She just stared at the wall. “Well, how come he turned up here?”
“He got a letter from somebody.”
She raise her eyebrows and said quietly, “You really expect me to believe that, Jack?”
I kneeled down next to her and tried to take hold of her hand, but she moved it away. “Beth, I would never do anything to harm you.”
“Go away, Jack.”
“Bethany, please…”
She shook her head, “No. I just hope the money he gave you was worth it.”
“I wouldn’t put money before you.”
“Just get out, Jack. Before I call somebody to get rid of you.”
I bowed my head in defeat. There would be no convincing her. I stood up and hung there for a few moments, “Well… be seeing you, then.”
She responded by taking a sip from her glass. I put my hat on and left her alone.

Writing And Other Such Forms Of Insanity

2008-05-19T12:45:00.002+01:00

I mercilessly stole these question, mainly as I found them very interesting and I love to ramble about writing.

1. Do you outline?
Not on paper, I used to, but I normally keep it all in my head.

2. Do you write straight through a book, or do you sometimes tackle the scenes out of order?
I have to write them straight through, I think I work better when I'm following the characters through their journey.

3. Do you prefer writing with a pen or using a computer?
Mostly computer for stories, scripts and some poems. I write on paper only for my journal and personal poems, I just think writing on paper is more intimate and immediate.

4. Do you prefer writing in first person or third?
I'm not sure, it varies depending on the story. I do love all the fun you can have with first person narrators, especially unreliable ones. I did have a phase where anytime I used a narrator they would either be lying or insane.

5. Do you listen to music while you write?
Absolutely! It's a very important factor to me to help me write! I try to listen to music that fits the mood of the piece, like for out-and-out horror I like to some fast rock and bombastic pieces of classical music (like 'O Fortuna'), and then for my play 'Stand+Deliver!' I listened to lots of punk rock to go with the rebellion theme. For the short 'Wild Is The Wind' (which, coincidentally, is just below this post- so why not read it???) I listened to lots of Nina Simone to get a jazzy 50's mood.

6. How do you come up with the perfect names for your characters?
With great difficulty! Naming characters is as important as naming children! I try to draw on mixing of names, for example in 'Wild Is The Wind' (shameless plug because I'm going to post the second part of it soon) I named the narrator Jack Redgrave because on the day I started writing I saw the film version of 'The Importance of Being Ernest' (of which I once was in a production of), in which Michael Redgrave played Jack Worthing... thus Jack Redgrave! In my play 'Berlin' I named the double-crossing CIA agent Matthew Bellamy after a certain rock star I have a great disdain for.

7. When you’re writing, do you ever imagine your book as a television show or movie?
Well, we all see stories in our head, so I imagine it like that.

8. Have you ever had a character insist on doing something you really didn’t want him/her to do?
Sometimes. I think it's good when they do, it proves they're alive. I once have a character escape death when they were fated to die. The Grim Reaper caught up with them 3 chapters later to punish them with eye-gorging.

9. Do you know how a book is going to end when you start it?
Most of the time. I think it's important to have an idea of an end point, but sometimes I purposely don't think about the end until I come to write as it's more surprising.

10. Where do you write?
At my desk primarily. Though sometimes I like just to take my notebook out and do some jottings in the park.

11. What do you do when you get writer’s block?
get annoyed and grumble to myself a lot.

12. What size increments do you write in (either in terms of word count, or as a percentage of the book as a whole)?

13. How many different drafts did you write for your last project?
I'm an awful editor of my own work. I'm lucky if I see a second draft completed, let alone a third one!

14. Have you ever changed a character’s name midway through a draft?
Yes. In 'Berlin' after five scene Charles Franklin decided to become Charles Bennett.

15. Do you let anyone read your book while you’re working on it, or do you wait until you’ve completed a draft before letting someone else see it?
I try to wait till I'm finished with the first draft.

16. What do you do to celebrate when you finish a draft?
I generally just feel very contented and tip a glass of coke to my laptop.

17. One project at a time, or multiple projects at once?
I try to stick to one at a time, but I become easily distracted by other idea.

18. Do your books grow or shrink in revision?
Generally grow when I do revise.

19. Do you have any writing or critique partners?
Not really, unfortunately. I worry that people aren't really interested in what I've written.

20. Do you prefer drafting or revising?
Revising.

'Wild Is The Wind'

2008-05-17T23:32:00.005+01:00

I wrote this short today due to the combination of these factors- boredom, copious amounts of tea, the painting 'Nighthawks at the Diner' as my desktop background, love of film noir and private detective characters and listening to lots of Nina Simone.

The suit was too small for the man. I don’t know how he had managed to squeeze into it, and how it had managed not to tear apart at any second. He must have been about 6 foot 7, he had to duck to avoid hitting the door frame when he came into my office. His hair was a little wavy, and his ape like face clean shaven.
“Please,” I said, “Sit down.” But I was a bit worried that the chair might break under his bulk.
“Thanks.” He said, but his voice didn’t match his looks, it was a little on the high pitched side.
“So, Mr…” I took a quick glance at the appointment note I’d made, “Watson. How can I help you.”“Well,” he started to play with his cotton cap, rolling it around his palms, “I’m looking for somebody… do you… look for people?”
“Congratulations, you’ve come to the right place.”
His eyes narrowed, “You being funny?”
Bad mistake to be sarcastic to him. He looked as if he’d knock me unconscious before I could stand up. “No.” I said hurriedly, “Who is it you want me to look for?”
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. He looked at it for a few seconds, as if he had forgotten that he had intended to pass it over to me. Then realizing, he passed the photograph over the desk. It was of a girl, maybe 20, with blonde hair in a bathing suit. “She’s gone missing.” He said glumly.
“Right.” I said. “And when did you last she her?”
He tugged at an earlobe. “She used to write to me.”
“Well, when did she last write to you?”
He shrugged, “’Bout… three years ago…”
“You haven’t seen her in three years?”
“No.”
I leaned forward on the desk, “When did you start looking for her?”
“Last week.”
I nodded, “So why look for her now?”
“I’ve been away. Working.” He refused to make eye contact. He didn’t have to tell me the truth, he might as well had it stamped on his forehead- he’d been in jail. Big, tough guy like that, the suit he had might have fit him several years ago. Yes, he’d been in jail alright.
“Ok then. Where was she living when she last wrote to you?”
“Here. In London.”
“And in her last letter, did she perhaps, give an indication she might be moving, or not writing to you anymore?”
“No.” He said sharply. “She would’ve said if she didn’t want to speak to me anymore.”
“Ok. Tell me about her. Anything. I could use to find her.”
“Her name’s Bethany. I call her Kiki.” How he got ‘Kiki’ from ‘Bethany’ I couldn’t figure out. I thought it not best to question the logic. “She’s from Texas.”
“An American…”
“All Texans are American. I’m not thick.”
“No,” I said, “That’s a good thing. Yanks over here stick out like a sore thumb.”
“You think you can find her?”
I shrugged, “I’m not sure. It’s been three years. She could have gone back to America.”
“She wouldn’t have. She loves England.”
I nodded. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
His eyes lit up. “You’ll find her?”
“I’ll look. No promises.” For missing people I normally had the rule that after two weeks without a sign of them I gave up. I let him know the costs that my service would demand.
“I can pay.” He said firmly, “I have money.”
“Good.” I stood up and offered my hand.
“Thank you.” He said crushing my hand within an inch of its life.
“Come back in two weeks, Mr. Watson.”
“Just call me Bruce.”
I manoeuvred around my desk and got to the door and opened it for him. “Well… Bruce, good afternoon.”
“Goodbye.” He said and left. I went back to my desk and collapsed into my chair. This was going to be difficult.

I waited till it was late and I went down the road to the Victory Club. I went around the back and knocked at the door till Bill turned up. “Alright.” He said.
“Is she in?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s not on till ten, but she’ll be in her dressing room.”
“Cheers, Bill.” I normally slipped him a fiver, but tonight I was a little low on funds. I went down the corridor till I reached the right door. I opened it and just walked right on in.
The woman inside turned around on her chair, but upon seeing me gave me a small smile. “Oh, it’s only you.”
I sat myself on the sofa in the corner of the dressing room, “Don’t sound so disappointed.” I took my fedora off and put it down next to me.
She turned around so she was looking into the mirror. She was applying her face before she went on stage. She was looking very good tonight. She had her blonde hair draped around her shoulders. She asked, “How’s work?”
“Not too bad,” I said. “I’ve got a new case to work on.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Not really. Just a missing persons.”
In a dry voice she said, “Positively thrilling.”
“It really is, Kiki.”
She spun around on her chair to face me, “What did you just call me?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a nickname I heard somewhere.” I leaned forward and rested my hands on my chin. “Now what part of America did you say you were from?”
She flashed me a wide smile, “You should know that one.”
“Indulge me.”
She turned back to the mirror. “Texas.”
“And if I ever asked you if you knew Bruce Watson you would say…”
In the mirror’s reflection I saw her smile falter. “Never heard of him.”
“That’s funny. This Bruce, he’s a big guy. Looks like he got stolen from the zoo as a child. Anyway, he turned up in my office today, says he’s looking for his ex.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He gave me a photo of her. Must have been about, say, 5 years old, but I’d recognize your face anywhere, Beth.”
“I told you, Jack. I’ve never heard of… what did you say his name was?”
“Bruce Watson. He’s really desperate to see his Kiki again. Am I right in thinking he just got out of jail?”
Her smile flashed bright in the mirrors reflection, “I have no idea what you are on about, you strange man.”
“Now, Beth, I don’t like turning away clients. It’s not exactly as if they’re battering down my door. Bruce really wants me to find his girl.”
“And will you?” She said in a quieter voice.
I shrugged and grinned at her, “Can’t say I’ve decided yet.”
“Well, when you do, just let me know.”
“He doesn’t seem like a nice sort of bloke at all. Bit rough. Not your type at all.”
She raised her eyebrows and said, “Oh yeah? And what is my type? Penniless detectives?”
“Private detective. And I’m not penniless.” I folded my arms, “I’m low on funds.”
“Same difference.”
“The question is, my dear, what do you want me to do about him?”
“Oh, let me guess, I pay you to get rid of him?”
“Now why should I suggest such a thing?”
She stood up and began to pace the room, “Because you’re low on funds?”
“Now, I could see Bruce in two weeks and tell him I haven’t found you. But, he’s most likely to hang around London, and, well, sod’s law dictates he‘ll probably see your show or something.”
“Or?” She said.
“Or, I could just tell him that I picked up a little bit of a trail in Scotland, but I’m not willing to touch it.”
She stood still, “Why Scotland?”
“Because if he thinks about looking for you it’s far enough away from here.”
“And if he doesn’t go?” In response to her question I could only shrug. So, she moaned. “Oh, you’re a great help.”
“Hey, I could have not told you and had Bruce turn up here instead!”
“How come you didn’t?”
I stood up, and said, “Guess I must like you. Why did you finish with him anyway?”
“Jail relationships aren’t my idea of fun.” She said.
“When you on tonight?”
“I go on at ten. You going to stick around?”
“Maybe. Depends. What you doing after you’ve performed?”
She returned to her make-up chair. “I’m going home.”
“Need an escort?”
“And how much would that cost me?”
“A cup of tea, maybe?”
She smiled, “What a shame- I have no money on me.”
I picked up my hat off the sofa. “Do I get a cup of tea if I get Bruce Watson out of the way?”
“Sure, Jack.”
I put my hat on and opened the door. “Goodnight, Beth.”
Without turning she said sweetly, “Goodnight, Jack.” I took that as my cue and left the same way I came in.

Madness, Egos and One Big Inflatable Pig

2008-05-14T13:02:00.002+01:00

Since lessons are over, here is your chance to learn something new. I present 'A Brief History of Pink Floyd'.

The band was started by four boys from Cambridge- Syd Barrett (vocals and guitar), Roger Waters (bass), Rick Wright (keyboards) and Nick Mason (drums). It all started in the late 60's, with the band quickly joining up with the psychedelic music scene. The band initially performed under the name 'The Pink Floyd Sound', but elected to drop the 'the' and the 'sound'. The principal song writer was Syd Barrett, who became renowned for his strange, psychedelic lyrics.

In 1967 the band released two hit singles 'Arnold Layne' and 'See Emily Play', with the latter one reaching the Top Ten. In the same year they released their album 'Piper At The Gates of Dawn', which is now viewed as a prime example of psychedelic music.
See Emily Play-

But with the psychedelic music scene came danger in the form of mind-altering drugs. Syd Barrett is known to have taken much LSD and weed during this time, and it became to have severe effects on his mental health. Barrett became increasingly erratic and unreliable, he would often go on stage and either play a completely different song, play only one note for the entire show, or just lie down and not play at all. It was decided to help Syd out to hire another guitarist, and after auditioning they chose David Gilmour. Sadly, even with the addition of Gilmour, Barrett was far too unreliable, so he was fired from the band. They released a second album, using as much workable material they had from Barrett.

1968-1972 was a period of experimentation for the new Pink Floyd. During Barrett's decline, the other band members began to try and write their own songs, often in the style of Syd Barrett. It was only after he was fired from the band the others began to really try and come into their own as songwriters. Vocal duties were primarily passed to David Gilmour, but Roger Waters and Rick Wright also began to sing tracks. They released three albums which were successful, but not exactly very big hits. The band were beginning to lose faith in what they were doing. It was under these pressures that Roger Waters came up with an idea.

Roger Waters wanted to write an album about the pressures of modern life, and he presented this idea for the band as 'Eclipse- A Piece For Assorted Lunatics'. The band allowed Waters to become the lyricist for this album, the first time there was one lyricist since Syd Barrett's era. The band began to put music to his words and performing in live. In 1973 they recorded the songs onto an album, and changed the title from 'Eclipse- A Piece For Assorted Lunatics' to 'Dark Side of the Moon'.

'Dark Side of the Moon' was a phenomenal success that the band could never have even imagined. It was a hit all around the world, a real first for the band. The single 'Money' was a huge hit in America, opening up the market for them across the water. So the band began touring across the world with their famous light shows.
Money-

In 1975 they came to record the follow up to 'Dark Side of the Moon'. Due to the success of that album, Waters elected to once again write all the lyrics. This album was born out of guilt- that Pink Floyd had become a success only with the departure of the founding member and guiding influence. The album 'Wish You Were Here' is an ode to their fallen band mate. But as members have commented later on it was with this album the cracks in the band began to show, as Waters began to take control and the other members just giving in. One member remarked years later "The album's title summed up how we felt- we wished we were there!"

Once again they began touring across the world, and in 1977 produced the album 'Animals', which is more famous for the iconic cover of the inflatable pig over Battersea Power Station. Having an inflatable pig over the audience became a staple of their live shows. All the touring was beginning to take it's toll, as the band in the early 70's were used to quiet, intimate venues were the audience would listen to the music, but now selling out stadiums and began screamed at to play their hits became to much for Waters. In a well documented event, a fan tried to climb on stage and Waters spat in his face. It was this that made Waters wonder how all these people had made him perform such an act. It was this incident that sparked the idea for the next album.

'The Wall' is a concept album which is told from the point of view of Pink, a troubled rock star sitting in an isolated hotel looking back over his life. Once again the lyrics were all Waters and almost all the music was as well. All the other band members have said this was Waters album through and through. There is much argument over Nick Mason, the drummer, as Waters claims it was a group decision to fire Mason, whilst the others claim Waters bullied them into it. Either, the drummer was sacked.

The album was huge success and spawned the Christmas No.1 'Another Brick In The Wall (Part 2)'. The band performed the album live, literally building a wall between themselves and the audience as Waters wished.
Another Brick In The Wall (Part Two)

In 1983 they recorded 'The Final Cut', which Gilmour describes as being "A Roger Waters solo album featuring Pink Floyd". The album used a familiar theme for Waters- war and loss, something that had affected him in his life. It was after this album, Roger Waters declared Pink Floyd defunct and left. David Gilmour and Rick Wright were not so sure, and decided to carry on the band. But Waters wasn't so pleased, he took the other to court, claiming that they couldn't carry on the Pink Floyd name without him. Gilmour and Wright refused this, so waters decided to sue them. Then what was brought into the equation was who came up with what, a main example being the big inflatable pig. Waters said they couldn't use it. They said fine. So instead they had a big inflatable pig, with a penis, just to make it different to Waters' big inflatable pig.

Five years after the previous album 'A Momentary Lapse of Reason' was released. Waters called in 'A fair forgery of Pink Floyd'. Then in 1994 Nick Mason rejoined the band and performed on the lasty album 'The Division Bell', which spawned the single 'High Hopes'. They band had finished it's run.
High Hopes

Then in 2005- there was Live 8, and the original members of Waters, Gilmour, Mason and Wright were asked to regroup for one nigh only. Reluctantly all four agreed, and on 2nd July they took to the stage once more a played a selection of their classics hits. Many have described their performance one of the highlights of the show.
Comfortably Numb (Live 8)

But, a Pink Floyd reunion is not on the cards, Gilmour described their Live 8 appearance akin to "sleeping with my ex-wife". Any reunion is highly unlike. In 2006, Syd Barrett passed away after many years of mental illness.

Pink Floyd's legacy still lives on today, with millions upon millions of copies of their albums sold.

10 Random Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die

2008-05-13T18:43:00.002+01:00

Play Hamlet.

Lay flowers outside of the Dakota building

Meet David Bowie

Sing 'Fairytale of New York' for karaoke

Visit Berlin again

Listen to my vinyl of 'Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd on a proper record player

Publish something I've written

Cry at a movie

Watch all of 'The Seven Samurai'

See 'The Phantom of the Opera' on stage

"I Started At The Top And Worked My Way Down"

2008-05-06T18:41:00.002+01:00

"I started at the top and worked my way down" is how Orson Welles describes his career in the movies, and today (6Th May) would have been his 93rd birthday if he were still alive today. I wanted to do this as a tribute to him as he is my hero.

There are many people I call 'heroes' and 'influences' and I probably used the two words far too much, but in the case of Orson Welles I mean every syllable of it. My first encounter with Welles was watching 'the Transformers' movie in which Welles does one of the voices, and ironically, it was his final performance that I should see first. I am too young to remember what the film was about (other than robots in disguise) but I do remember watching it. I only really became aware of Orson Welles as my deep passion for movies started up in my early teens, and of course Welles and 'Citizen Kane' is hard to avoid if you're a fan of films. But my curiosity really got started when I was compared to Welles, because I had acted in, written and directed a play for school, and I of course was immensely proud and still riding on my sense of pride years on (it was only last year I dsicoverd that at the age I had done that play was the same age Welles acted, directed and wrote his school play). I watched the great film 'The Third Man; which Welles only appears for 10 minutes but walks away with the film in the pocket. The (arguably) most memorable moment of the film is where Welles's character Harry Lime gives, and his performance is made all the more impressive when it is know that Welles wrote the speech himself-

Welles's name was always in the background, as I said for a classic film fan it's hard to ignore. Then when i was 16 I watched 'Citizen Kane'. To say how it felt is to borrow what Bruce Springsteen said about Bob Dylan's 'Like A Rolling Stone': "Somebody kicked the door open to your kind." Even though I couldn't view it as 1941 audiences would have viewed it, I knew this film was special It wasn't special it was.... 'Citizen Kane'. For me every myth and rumour about that film's greatest was true. Every time I see it I still find something new in it. What Welles did in 1941 was take the rulebook on how direct a film then tear it up and rewrite it. It's only when you see 'Citizen Kane' you can see how all the Spielberg's and Scorsese's have been influenced. For me there will never be any movie like 'Citizen Kane' that has had such resonance and impact, but still be a damn watchable film.

It cannot be avoided that Orson Welles had the voice. Perfectly suited to radio and theatre, it was a tragedy that as his career slided his voice was reduced to advertising frozen peas. It was distinctive andlistenable. The only other vocie that comes close to it is Richard Burton (but that's another debate for another day.)

It would be a lie to say I would be nothing without Orson Welles and 'Citizen Kane', but it's true to say that I certainly wouldn't be the same person.

'Just Another Nobody On 25th Street'

2008-04-25T16:25:00.001+01:00

I flick the match away and watch it drown in a gutter. I’m standing next to a streetlight in the pouring rain with a .28 in my pocket. Another tram goes by, making its way down town. Nights like these I could normally be found in Joey’s showing a couple bottles of beer a good time.

Down the street Johnny Friendly comes out of some booth. Didn’t like the look of the heavy with him. Looked like he was stolen from the zoo, shaved and put in a suit three sizes to small. Guys like that needed a lot of shooting before they went down.

I start up the street. Another tram passes by, lighting up the street for a second before disappearing into the darkness. “Hey, Johnny Friendly” I say and they turn round.

“What you want?” He says. Another tram goes past and lights him up, he looks like a little woodchuck. Not a cute woodchuck, an ugly nasty woodchuck.

“I gotta message from the Visconti’s.” I says and pulls out my .28

The heavy’s slow to react, I land two in his belly that knock him back, and another one in his neck to put him down. He goes crashing to the street, I’m sure that guys ten blocks over could hear him fall.

Johnny Friendly starts running across the street, but the roads are slippy and his shoes don’t do so well under pressure. Then- blam. I pop one into his leg. He goes tumbling onto the floor and I run over to him. I aim the little .28 right in between his eyes. He starts laughing at me. Giggling and chuckling like some demented joker.

I then got the joke- I was standing on the tram line and there was one coming. Before I can move- wham- it comes speeding into me and I get dragged underneath it. My guts get spread along the street making a nice photo op for the journos. Just another nobody on 25th street.

'Desolation Row'

2008-04-25T16:23:00.000+01:00

The idea of giving up being a cop was sown when we pulled the body out of the river. I stood on a muddy bank and watched as the corpse was tugged out of the litter filled water, its body bloated. It had a red Mac on, and high black boots, which gave it the appearance of humanity, before the fish began to nibble it.

The corpse has once been girl by the name of Ashley. She had been on the edge of 21, no previous troubles with the law or with anyone else. It was a shame; from the old photographs she had been beautiful once. She just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I went to speak to her mother. She made me swear I would find who did it, knowing it was a promise I couldn’t keep. Ashley was just another statistic.

So for five weeks I walked around with Ashley in my head. I could have walked past her murderer a dozen times and he could have smiled at me and I would have never known.
Not long after I quit, I drove down a road where women, some no more than girls, lined the corners like the sirens luring sailors away. I drove on into the night.

'In A Chelsea Hotel'

2008-04-25T16:08:00.002+01:00

I watched her light up a cigarette on the other side of the room. She looked out of the window, “My limo’s waiting.” She said.
“How do you know it’s yours?”
“Mine’s purple.”
“Purple?”
“Sure.” She took a drag of the cigarette. “It has, like, 13 speakers and a tape box of everything good. You just lose yourself in it, and before you know it you wake up at the airport.”
I sat up on the unmade bed and asked, “Don’t you find it strange riding in a limousine?”
She smiled a little, “Not really. I sit in the front seat.” She let out a small laugh, it was almost like a cackle.
“Isn’t that against the point?”
“I like looking out the window. See what’s going on.” The Southern twang in her voice reared its head every now and again; it was a little rough around the edges. It was already becoming soaked with whiskey and nicotine.
There was a silence for a few minutes in which we said nothing. She sat, looking out of the hotel window, silently working her way through a cigarette. I just observed her from the safe vantage point of the bed. At first I was just musing over what colour her messy hair was, but then I began just watched her. She was looking out of the window, with a sad but wistful look in her eye, as if her mind were a million miles away from the Chelsea Hotel. But there was nowhere she could go, she went where her manager told her to go, like a good girl. She was a robin with her wings clipped, looking out of the window only pretending she can fly. Once her cigarette had finished she turned her head towards me a little, with a grin said, “You going to be reading poetry to old ladies?”
“Why not?” I said. “As long as they pay me.”
She smiled again and said, “You know something? I normally go for handsome men.”
“Gee, thanks.” I murmured.
“I didn’t mean it like that, just… you know, you have the music. It makes up for it.”
I raised an eyebrow, “The music?”
“Yeah. You’ve got the music. I’ve got the music. Looks don’t matter as long when you have it.”
“But it helps.”
“Yeah to the narrow minded ones it does.” She moved over to the desk with a mirror on the wall. She began pouring herself a drink, the glass reflected the moonlight. There was a brief pause and then she said reflectively “We may be ugly, but we have the music. I mean people who have the music- they’re going to last forever. And the good-looking people… well they just come and go, you know what I’m saying?”
“That we’re immortal.”
“Maybe.” She lifted the glass to her lips, paused and added; “Only time can tell, right?”
“Right.” She gulped down the contents of the glass; I asked her softly, “Do you think you’re going to last forever?”
She looked away from me, avoiding my gaze. “Sure. Maybe… I don’t know.” She looked into her glass, “Guess it’d be nice.”
“What about Kris?”
That struck a nerve, “Of course he will. He’s got the music, man.”
“Oh course- the great Kris Kristoffsen.”
“He’s done some good records.”
I shrugged, “I never brought any of them.”
“You should.” She said. “You guys are kinda like each other.”
“Except he’s taller.”
“Is he?”
I looked confused, “I thought you and he…”
“No.” She paused. “Not yet, anyway.”
Great, I thought, I’m a substitute for a guy she hasn’t even met.
She continued, “His records… they just show he’s got the music, you know?”
“More than me?”
She shrugged, “You’ve both got the music. You’ve got it in your words.”
“He reads poetry to the old ladies too?”
“Not exactly.” She turned away from me and looked into the mirror, the tumbler in one hand and the whiskey bottle in another.
“Was it Kris you were looking for tonight?”
She shrugged, “Does it matter?”
“Well you certainly weren’t trying to find me.”
Her voice darkened, “I could say the same about you.” That was true. I didn’t reply back because we both knew that it was true. What had happened was of no importance. Our brief encounter was not out of passion- it was out of convenience. If I been looking for anyone it would have been Bridgette Bardot, but I’ve yet to find her. “If it’s not for the music, then what’s the point, you know?”
“Sorry?” I said.
“Why we do it- for the music.”
“Yeah. For the music.” I replied, although I believed she meant something else.
“I mean, money… it just comes and goes, doesn’t it, man? All the travelling and meeting people and all that crap… nobody does that because they want to. They do it because they have to. They do it just so they can get to the music.”
“Everything else is irrelevant.”
“Right! That’s right. You can forget all that other stuff, that aint worth anything- it’s the music that counts.”
“Or the words if you read poetry to old ladies.”
She began to pour another drink. “Yeah, but you say what you mean… you feel it. You get inside it. If you don’t… say what you mean, then what’s the point? It’s getting it all out, all those emotions and feelings that, you know, we’re not supposed to talk about in polite conversation, we do it through the music. We talk about this stuff through the music.” She took a gulp from her glass, “If we don’t talk about it then who will?”
“Somebody new and better looking.”
She finished off the contents of the glass of whiskey, “If you kept thinking like that then you’re going to get nowhere.”
“I thought music was about the journey, not the destination?” The question hung around like a stale smell in the atmosphere.
She turned around once again to face me, even in the darkness I could see it was like the light in her eyes had gone. “It gets lonely, though. Doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“People… people who haven’t got the music, they don’t understand that we put everything into it- we put our hearts into it.” Once again she turned to the desk and poured herself another drink.
I spoke up, “You know that might not be the best idea.”
“What- feelin’ lonely?”
“No the drink.”
“I aint got nothing else to do.” She polished it off in one. “Everybody’s always expectin’ you to be someone, you know.” She held the empty glass began her hands and rolled it around a little. “Like Bob Dylan,” She carried on, “All he wants to do is make music, but all people want for him is to sing protest songs. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I bet people always want you to be sad just because you write sad songs?”
I sighed, “My songs aren‘t sad. They aren’t cynical, either. They’re just hopeless.”
She didn’t respond for a few songs, then nodded and said, “That’s deep, man… anyway, you’d kill yourself if you were sad all the time.”
“Good thing I’m not sad all the time. Just when I sing.” I then added as an afterthought, “Or read poetry to old ladies.”
She looked down and said, “It’s like… I don’t want to be anyone else. I just want to be me. It’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“Apart from the music?”
“The music’s a part of me. Like it’s apart of you too. You can’t get one with out the other.”
I said, “So when you’re 80 and can’t sing in tune you’ll still be making music.”She smiled, “I think so. Unless I find I’m really good at something else. Like… knitting.” She laughed.
I smiled a little, “I can see you at 80, sitting in a big chair next to a fire…. Knitting away…”
“You can really see me like that?”
I shook me head, “Don’t think growing old respectfully would suit you.”
“Don’t think I’d be able to sit still long enough.” She turned away from me and began fixing herself another drink, I guessed that in her head she was trying to dream up what she would be like at 80. I think she would have been a grouchy 80 year old, with big round glasses like magnifying glasses. I could see her bitter at the young ones who waste their youth. She’d not be quiet, that was for certain. She’d probably spit at people too. She turned back to face me and asked, “You at Chelsea often?”
“Not often enough.” I said. I liked this place. It was the sort of place where you could stumble in at 3 in the morning with a crate of beer, 4 women and a dwarf and no one would care. “You?” I said.
“When I’m this neck of the woods.” Then was another of those long pauses where neither of us could decide what to say. She broke it with, “Boy, I’m hungry. You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips and said, “There’s a good burger joint across the street. It’s real nice there. They’ve got a good jukebox. Even got some of mine on there”
At this time in the morning I was in no mood for a burger at that early hour in the morning. “Why don’t you go and get one then?”
“You comin’?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
She laughed, “You want me to sit in there all on my own? No way, man!”
“Isn’t there someone else you could go with?”
“And this hour in the morning? I don’t think so…” She finished off another drink, I had lost count of how many she had had. Either way, it didn‘t seem as if it were affecting her to much. And that was her. The woman whose heart was a legend, sitting across from me in my room in the Chelsea Hotel working her way through a bottle of Southern Comfort. Like everyone else I’d seen her perform- she was magnificent. It was if she exploded on the stage into a tidal wave of emotion and put her heart and soul on show. She was like a flower in the sun- beautiful and delicate to the touch. And very easy to break.
She said,“I’m supposed to be going to… somewhere. I forget. Maybe somewhere nice. With a lake.
“A lake?”
“Yeah. It’s been about 8 years since I last saw a lake.”
“A long time, huh?”
She sighed, “Yeah. Don’t get much chance to do stuff, like seeing lakes.” There was a silence. We paused. We had nothing much of worth to say.
I asked, to make conversation, “Will I be seeing you around?”
“Sure. You got a TV, don’t you?” She lit up another cigarette.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

2008-04-17T13:30:00.001+01:00

A piece of work from a friend of mine by the name of Charlie F. Kane. I kinda like it.

I Am Reminded Of You…

I am reminded of you by certain songs,
I recall you once told me you liked them,
Back when we were still talking to each other.
I try to listen to other music now.

I am reminded of you by strange, silly things,
Because I recall the time we talked for an hour
And our conversation was about ducks.
It made me laugh back then.

I suppose I am reminded of you so much
Because a part of me still wants you
Even though you never wanted me.

Amateur Philosophy

2008-04-13T13:08:00.002+01:00

Let's talk about ethics, you and I. No doubt that if you were in the lecture on Friday you surely heard me voice my opinions on the philosophy of the so-called 'dice life'. What made me angry is that the core maxim of the philosophy is flawed, and if your foundations are flawed then you'll have a very shaky house. It started that following the dice gives you freedom. That's rubbish. By following the dice you are NOT getting anymore freedom, you're just following another set of rules- YOU choose six options and then the dices picks for you. That's not freedom, that's just asking something else to choose for you, you still have to choose the options.

At least it seemed that the dice idea was a bit of a satire, but it seemed the guy in the video actually believe in it which befuddles me. If you chose to follow the 'dice' path then you really are shutting yourself off from other people, forsaking them. That to me is only a step away from narcissism, egotism and solipsism (in which you believe you are the only mind in existence). If you cut people out of your philosophy then I believe your screwed. Why? Because everything you do will ALWAYS have an effect on other people. Think about it, can you honestly name one act that really has no effect on anybody else? My philosophy is a combination of two theories, the fist is utilitarianism which works on the maxim- the greatest good for the greatest number. And what is 'good? Quite simply- happiness. If you look inside yourself can you find anything better than the feeling of happiness? If you think this sounds like a selfish theory, then you're wrong- it's the opposite. If a good utilitarian had to sacrifice his happiness so that, say, three other people could be happy then they would do it.

Now, other course there are problems with this theory which I'm sure you can see, so in order to fill the gaps as it were I bring in this theory- libertarianism. And the maxim for this- people can do whatever they want as long as they don't hurt or harm anybody else. For me, those two theories really go hand in hand, helping each other out when there's a problem. I try and live my life by these rules because they make sense to me. Everybody should have some kind of a principle they try and live by. With the 'dice life' there is no principle other than letting the dice decide, and by my philosophies it seems that alienating other people while making yourself happy, will cause harm to other people and that's not good.

Any comments?

Confessions of a Jelly Tot Junkie

2008-04-02T21:55:00.000+01:00

Hello. My name is Dan… and I’m addicted to Jelly Tots. I am caught in their sugary (and now 25% real fruit juicy) grasp. I often say that when I write, I write with a glass of coke and a bag of Jelly Tots by my side and this is true. I am never without a bag of them in my jacket pocket. I am an addict. A Jelly Tot Junkie, if you will. I can’t quite remember when such a simple sweet became an addiction for me. I think it started whilst I was in college, on a day when passing through Woolworths. I noticed that harmless looking yellow bag sitting on a shelf. It brought back memories of childhood- the days when children were rewarded with sweets and MacDonald’s. It was my Godmother who brought me Jelly Tots when I was young. I haven’t seen her in, well, more years than I dare count. But as soon as I saw the Jelly Tot packet it brought back parts of childhood to me. I remember very little of my childhood; if I sit and think for long and hard enough I do begin to recall certain events and places and faces- some hidden files recovered from a cobweb covered filing cabinet. I am still uncertain as to whether or not my childhood was a happy one because by the time I was old enough to realize things weren’t right we’d gone through all we could go through, and with a child’s blindness to the adult world I missed it all. So when I think back to childhood, I remember the upsetting things, the bad stuff, and worse the things I missed with a child’s eyes but with older eyes see all too clearly the meaning. But when I connect childhood to Jelly Tots- I am happy. I am reminded of the freedom of childhood, the simple pleasure derived from a simple, sugar soaked sweet. So now I cannot imagine myself without Jelly Tots, they have become a part of my character. I do not believe I could wean myself off them even if I choose too. I have heard people say that it’s the addict who chooses their addiction, and I’m glad to say mine are Jelly Tots. It’s healthier and cheaper than a heroin addiction.

8 Random Facts

2008-03-17T21:00:00.002Z

Yes I'm jumping on the bandwagon of facts, so here goes-

1) I have a bass guitar called Rosalita.
2) I'm not a chav (according my sister)
3) I brought some trousers purely because Bob Dylan wore a pair that looked like them.
4) I recently listened to 'Blackholes and Revelations' by Muse due to somebody trying to convert me too them (though I am putting up a fight)
5) I sound like Johnny Rotten when I sing.
6) I'm a libertarian-utilitarian.
7) The orange Jelly Tots are my favourite.
8) One of the first characters I ever created was a detective called Fred Friday.

My Story- Part Two

2008-03-03T18:44:00.001Z

PART TWO
I could have been driving for no longer than a few minutes when I turned down a road onto a little suburban street- you know, two cars on every drive and all that. Like before I had to swerve to avoiding hitting somebody, accept this time it was two people, a man lying in the road and a girl kneeling next to him.

I would have done the sensible thing and just driven on had the girl not decided to start banging on the car window (the not broken one). I switched the ignition off and got out. The girl could have been no more than 15, 16 at most and her face was all red and puffy. “It’s my dad..” She said pointing at the body lying in the road. “One of those things got in him…”
“You mean those bug things?”

She nodded. “It jumped at him… and got inside of him…” I looked past the girl to where the body was. It looked very much dead. The chest wasn’t moving at all.
“Look, call an ambulance- they can help you.”
“I’ve tried!” She wailed, “The phones are dead!”
“Look there must be somebody on this street who can help you!”
“They all went!” She waved her arms to emphasis a point.
“Went where?” I said. I was in no mood to argue with an upset teenager, but I didn’t want to be stuck out here if there were those… bug things.
“After the earthquake… they all went… Dad said we’d be safe, he didn’t believe it… but they…”
“Christ…” I said not listening to her. Behind her, her until recently deceased father was now standing. Like the other guy, he had a rather large hole in his chest with something filling up that hole.
“Dad!” The girl screamed in joy and ran towards him. Her dad ran towards her and they gripped each other in an embrace. For a moment, just a moment, I thought she might be safe. Her dad had two large hands which he wrapped around her neck. The sound of the snap was disgusting. He let her body drop and ran towards me.

Not hesitating I jumped back into my car and slammed the door. Before I knew it the father (or what used to be the girl’s dad) had reached the car and punched in the window. Glass fell across the other seat and I got the car started.

He was a big guy, but he still thought he could fit through the little window, his arms reached frantically. As he tried to crawl through he was cutting himself on the broken glass, trickling blood in several places. If he felt it he certainly didn’t show it. The one thing that got my attention was that his eyes were completely and utterly black, I barely had time to notice the grey shape that filling in the hole in his chest. Though I recognized the spindly leg sticking from it.

If I had been paying more attention to the road than the black eyes maybe I wouldn’t have crashed the car. I didn’t realized that I had veered over the left quite a bit and was dead in line to hit a lamppost. I braked, and that only helped a little. The car bonnet wrapped itself around the lamppost, and my car died there and then. I got off considerably luckier than the car. I hit my head off the steering wheel, causing a rather large bruise and a nasty headache.

I blacked out, but it was for no more than a minute or so. I managed to lift my head up and see the guy was no longer trying to get into my car. He’d been flung off and was now impaled on some iron gates that some clever sod have decided to put up instead of a fence.

I opened the car door and practically rolled out onto the street. My head was spinning like I’d been on the Tea Cups. Christ, those things always made me sick.

Then I looked up and saw what was ahead. “You’ve got to be kidding…” I murmured almost drunkenly. Ahead of me there were about 7 or 8 of those bug-things coming right towards me. I pulled myself off the ground and somehow found the energy to turn and run. It’s amazing what you can do when you’re shit scared.

My Story- Part One

2008-02-28T20:43:00.002Z

"Our time is running out
You can't push it underground
You can't stop it screaming out,
How did it come to this?"-Muse, Time Is Running Out

"The lucky ones die first."- Tag line for 'The Hills Have Eyes'

PART ONE
Because fate has a sense of humour the beginning of the end started on Friday 13th March at almost one in the morning. I was working the graveyard shift at the hospital (which is never as quiet as the nickname suggests) when the building began to shake. At first I thought I was going crazy as the walls began to vibrate and a chair moved from one side of the room to another, but when I popped my head out into the corridor everybody else had that dazed look of confusion on their faces so I knew I wasn’t alone. I waited to see if any alarms would go off but they didn’t, so I took it that meant that the hospital wasn’t going to fall down or anything. I guessed it was a little earthquake or tremor or something like that, either way I knew it’d be the topic of conversation for the next couple of days, or at least until my shift finished.

At half four I said my goodbyes to hospital and got in my car to head for home. As soon as the car came to life the radio switched on, but I didn’t pay any attention to it- I just plugged my iPod in and drove on. I wish I’d listened to the radio now, it had been the news that was on. I have often wondered if I knew beforehand what was going on things might have been different. Then again, if I’d heard what was happening I probably wouldn’t have believed it.

So, there I was just- driving back to my home on the other side of town, quite tired and not really paying much attention to anything. Then I caught a glimpse of something in the road and my mind came back to planet earth when I realized it was a person. I swerved the car and just missed knocking the guy over. I stopped the car and looked out the window and the guy was still standing in the middle of a road, like a deer.

I opened the door, got out and the guy turned to face me. He was large, balding and wearing a dirty red dressing gown. “Hey,” I said, “What the hell were you doing in the road?”
He took a step towards me and opened his mouth, blood trickled out of its corners. “Please…” He murmured through the blood “Help me…” He shuffled forward towards me and as he did the dressing gown began to open and I could see his chest. There was a hole in the middle of it as if someone had shot him.

I remained still as he shuffled towards me, and in the orange glow of a streetlight I could see there was something moving inside the hole in his chest. “Christ…” It was sickening. I turned to get back into my car but I froze when I saw something on the roof of it. It was like a bug, well more like a children’s interpretation of a bug- a thin body with many spindly legs jutting out of it. It had two large black eyes on its head, like a dolls eyes and a mouth that was a rounded ‘O’. The thing could have been no bigger than a Coke bottle.

It leaned back on its legs and I realized it meant to leap at me. It moved so damn fast I was lucky just to step out of the way of it. I turned around to see where it had landed but the large guy was centimetres away from me with hands outstretched. His eyes looked a shade of grey. His fingers brushed my neck, so I flung my arm to knock his aside, and it knocked him back a bit.

I leapt into my car and slammed the door too. I turned the ignition on when the bug thing crashed into the side window leaving a rather large crack on the glass. Not wanting to see if it were alive or not I drove on as fast as I could.

Update

2008-02-28T12:18:00.002Z

Yes, my story is coming along, I haven't forgetten. I re-wrote the first part becasue I was inspired by recent events and I thought it's make a great start to the story. You can expect to see the first part on here either tonight or tomorrow (but as few people read my blog I'll have to start beating people so that'll they'll read it) as I was hoping to generate some interest. Anyway, becasue I like hinting at what my story will be about and because I like posting videos here's a clue as to what my story will be about-

Just A Quick One...

2008-02-27T13:12:00.002Z

To say that if you're ever bored why not try reading some of the works of Charlie F. Kane-

http://www.poemhunter.com/charlie-f-kane/

Other than that I have nothing to say other than that I'm in a Bob Dylan mood today. So, here's a wonderful Bob Dylan song I shall dedicate to all those of you who are young at heart. Listen to the words and then try and tell me Bob Dylan isn't amazing.

My Message To You (Yes, You)

2008-02-25T21:39:00.002Z

Ok, so I'm definitely going to go ahead with this serialized story- I've done the opening of it, have an idea of a plot, just about know who my characters are and where they're going (mostly created up on my journey from Solihull to Leicester), at the moment it looks as if the story is definitely going ahead. But I got thinking (uh-oh) about the idea of the serialized story format and the fact that people can give feed back at each chapter, what I'm trying to say is that if you comment you could change the story. I thought that if people think certain characters don't work, then I'll work on them, if they don't think the plot line is going as well as it could, I could change it, if you do think it's gong in the right direction then it'll stay in that direction and so on and so forth; so it becomes reader participation, you see?

What I want to write is a horror story because I like horror and generally my prose work is divided into two categories- horror and depressing stuff. Don't get my wrong, it's get to use all these literary techniques and have lots of clever symbolism and lots of deep and meaningful themes, but every now and again, I just want just plain horror, just simple, running and screaming, oh-no-it's-going-to-get-us, cathartic horror. Maybe it's just me being crazy (most likely) or maybe it's because I recently watched horror movie classic 'The Fog', but that's fuelled my dark muse who is telling me to write horror, so I shall write. And with your help (yes, you) I change and alter the course of the story as it develops before you, so if you don't like a character they may meet a grim and grizzly demise, and if you really like a character they might met a grim and grizzly demise (if I'm feeling cruel).

So there it is- my declaration of principals as it were. On a side note once I do start posting parts, I have set myself the target of a maximum of 4 days before the next part and try not to write more than 750 words a chapter. And that's that.

Going off on another topic if you have a peek at the blog about the Oscars I was right about the Coen brothers winning, but wrong about Cate Blanchett. You can't win 'em all. Anyway, this video made me laugh, and not just because it mocks Johnny Depp-

My Challenge For The Week

2008-02-24T18:32:00.002Z

I'm going to write this now while I think it's a good idea rather than in 10 minutes when I actually think about the challenge I've set myself and change my mind (which will happen, though it's likely I'll post this and think- 'My God what have I done..')

I've been moaning and rambling about how I want to write a serialized story to put in this blog, well my challenge for the week is to bloody well do it! I think if I actually set myself the challenge of doing I can force myself to write, so hopefully by this time next week I'll have at least a first part, chapter or whatever I want to call it to post. Then (in a rather smart move) I can use my blog to discuss the writing process- everybody wins, but especially me.

So there it is- the gauntlet is thrown down, if anybody else wants to take up this challenge then feel free to. Writing will be my main focus of this week (other than attending Cultural Exchanges, of course) and hopefully I'll actually have something of merit to put in my blog!

My Predictions For The Oscars

2008-02-23T11:45:00.002Z

Now, I'm pretty sure the Oscars are this weekend, so I thought I'd post up my predictions. Those unsure what's going on here's the link to the full list of nominations. Last year I won £10 because I predicted the Oscars correctly, so I want to see if I can do it again this year.

Firstly I really think that this year will be the Coen Brothers year, I think there is a very strong chance that they will scoop the best director prize. But on the other side it depends on how friendly the Acdemy is with the Directors Guild of America becasue the Cohen brothers resigned from it becasue the DGA states that no more than one person can be credited for directing a movie. If they don't win then it'll be Paul Thomas Anderson who'll likely win. Don't get me wrong- he's a great director, but he really should have won for the superb film 'Magnolia' about 7 or 8 years ago.

Cate Blanchett will win something- she's got nods for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress. I don't think it;s all that liekly she'll win both but I reckon she'll get one, though which one I'm not sure. When you look at the Best Actress category you can normally see the pattern of at least two likelys, one British actress for good measure and one comic performance. Then with her Supporting nod her performance has been universally praised.

Other than that my one is prediction that in the Best Song category 'Enchanted' will win, after all it does have three out of the five nominations.

Random Song Lyrics I Really Like

2008-02-21T18:37:00.002Z

My blogs won't always this unfocused, I'm just doing my best to work out what I actually want to write about.

"Well, never mind, we are ugly but we have the music."- Leonard Cohen, 'Chelsea Hotel #2"

"I once loved a woman, a child I am told, I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul."- Bob Dylan, 'Don't Think Twice, It's Alright'

"And you may ask yourself- What is that beautiful house? And you may ask yourself- Where does that highway go to? And you may ask yourself- Am I right?...Am I wrong? And you may say to yourself- my God! What have I done?"- Talking Heads, 'Once In A Lifetime'

"They hurt you at home and they hit you at school. They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool, till you're so f*cking crazy you can't follow their rules."- John Lennon, 'Working Class Hero'

"It's not the side effects of the cocaine- I think it must be love."- David Bowie, 'Station To Station'

"Ooh it gets dark, it gets lonely on the other side from you."- Kate Bush, 'Wuthering Heights'

"And if the band you're in start playing different tunes, I'll meet you on the dark side of the moon.'- Pink Floyd, 'Brain Damage'

"In the days of my youth I was told what it means to be a man, now I've reached that were I try to do all those things as best as I can."- Led Zeppelin, 'Good Times, Bad Times'

"Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and of taste, I've been around for long, long years and I've stole many a man's soul and faith."- The Rolling Stones, 'Sympathy For The Devil'

"I was born, lucky me"- The Kinks, 'Victoria'

"That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight."- R.E.M, 'Losing My Religion'

"Only hope can keep me together, love can mend your life but love can break your heart."- The Police, 'Message In A Bottle'

"Maybe there is a God above, but all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you, and it's not a cry that you hear at night it's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."- Leonard Cohen, 'Hallelujah'

"From War of Worlds- invaded by Mars"- Queen, 'Radio Ga Ga'

"And as we wind on down the road, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show how everything still turns to gold, and if you listen very hard the truth will come to you at last, when all is one and one to be a tock and not to roll."- Led Zeppelin, 'Stairway To Heaven'

"What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know it's mine."- The Beatles, 'With A Little Help From My Friends'

"Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window, for her I feel so afraid, on her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid to her, death is quite romantic, she wears an iron vest.Her profession's her religion, her sin is her lifelessness"- Bob Dylan, 'Desolation Row'

"When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, I turned to look, but it was gone, I can not put my finger on it now, the child has grown- the dreamis gone."- Pink Floyd, 'Comfortably Numb'

My last offering-

"I met a girl who sang the blues and I aksed her for some happy news, but she just smiled and turned away."- Don McLean- 'American Pie'

That's all I can think of right about now. Any personal suggestions would be good. I know as soon as I post this I will think of a 100 more I could have put.

7 Deadly Blogging Sins

2008-02-20T18:34:00.001Z

Found this on MSN- it's their list of '7 Deadly Blogging Sins'... couldn't have found it at a beter time really...

A Blog For Blog's Sake

2008-02-19T20:06:00.002Z

I figured that since it's been Sunday since I posted I might as well put something up just to get this ol' thing moving along. Well... I think I am a little closer to knowing what I want to do with story-wise, but it's still early days (and I don't want to say too much incase I jinx it... fate has it in for me recently)

So for something to write about here is my dedication to the women of rock, oh yes, becasue lets face it- rock is dominated by men, but these women simply (for want of another word) rock.

Firstly I take my hat off to Patti Smith, a punk poet whose album 'Horses' is a very important album in the history of rock music-

To the legendary Stevie Nicks from the ever changing line-up of Fleetwood Mac, great solo artist and fantastic songwriter-

To Chrissie Hydne, frontwoman and lead songwriter of 70'/80's band The Pretenders and quite an underrated writer-

My last (and by not means least) dedication is too the one and the only Janis Joplin- the grandmother of all women rockers in my opinion. Nobody ever sang with so much conviction and soul-

I've probably missed a load out (especially Kate Bush, but I don't consider her rock- she's in a league of her own) but those sprang to me mind.

Enjoy, folks.

Banging Your Head Against A Mad Buggar's Wall

2008-02-17T11:18:00.005Z

Last night I thought I had it all sorted out, thought that I had worked out what I could do with my blog by serializing a story- but yet this morning as I sit here ready to carry on writing it all my passion and love for it has dissappeared. I just didn't want to write it anymore!

I wrote a good 2000 words of this story last night, yet when I look at it now I don't feel any enthusiasm what so ever. Made it's just the harsh light of day clouding my judgement, I don't know. Who knows I could change my mind again by the end of the day!

I just really, really, really don't know what to do with this blog! I want to do something good so people will read it! ARRRRRRRRRRRAAAGH!!!!!!

My 'Technical' First Post

2008-02-14T18:50:00.002Z

I know I've done one post already, but that was simply to help find my feet with this new fangled tomfoolery. This is the first post that Kathleen wants us to make so here it is-

I really don't know what this blog's going to be about, here are my options- I could write day-to-day events, I could invent a life, I could post a serialized story or I could just rant about why music was better in the 70's. I don't know!!! The one I am quite tempted to do is the story one because I like the idea of having people's comments influencing the direction of the story, and I am interested in the format... but on the downside it'd take time to write something. I don't know.

No one will be more surprised than me when I work out what to do with this blog.

What's In A Name?

2008-02-13T11:00:00.001Z

This is my blog for my Creative Writing lesson, and this is pretty much a test so I can work out what I'm actually doing with it, so if this looks really werid when you read it, it means I haven't quite the hang of it yet. And there's a picture of Bob Dylan!

I've practically spent 40 minutes debating what the hell I should call my blog. The name seems so import to me because I felt it should be a representation or summary of myself. A kind of prelude, if you will, to the blog. Here are some of the selections I went through- 'I'm Sure Bob Dylan is My Father', 'Who Said the 70's Are Dead?', 'Tea and Trilbies', but I couldn't deicde if I should call it something profound or something a little silly. Then I thought I could call it after one of my favourite albums, so it could have been 'Dark Side of the Moon', 'Rain Dogs', 'Scary Monster (And Super Creeps)' and so on and so forth. I eventually settled on the simple- 'Make Tea Not War' because it highlights my love of tea and my dislike of war. Really deep, huh?

The url was easy to do, I just combined the names of my two favourite David Bowie albums- 'Low' and '"Heroes"'.

Anyway, here's a song for you all to enjoy-