Options

Two students, looking through course documentation, choosing classes:

Jim: OMG, look! There's a class on bras! I'm doing that one! Should be fun, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I've always been interested in bras, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Kev: There's a class on bras? Where?

Jim points to a course heading.

Kev: What are you talking about?

Jim: Bras.

Kev. Yeah. No. I mean, that's not a course on bras. It's a course on CObras. The snakes.

Jim: What?

Jim looks more closely.

Jim: Oh. I thought it was bras.

Kev: You can read. What did you think the C and the O were about?

Jim: I thought they were a winking face emoji. You know, like... "bras" *wink*. Or *wink* bras. Because they know it's rude.

Kev: Why would they put an emoji in the course name? Anyway, a C can't be a winking eye. There's no vertical winking. 

Jim: Isn't there? *winks*

Kev: It's a shame. I bet a course on bras would be pretty interesting. It could be mainly a fashion thing, but they could also get into bras as a political/ social symbols. Like burning bras and stuff. I think the history of the bra would be an interesting topic. 

Jim: Yeah, it's a shame. I suppose it would be unlikely for them to run a course on bras here at Sheffield Reptile College.

Kev: Yeah.

Jim: Not sure if I'll sign up for cobras. After all, I'm already doing that course on pythons.

Kev: How's that going?

Jim: I don't like it. I only signed up by accident. I thought it was a class on pylons.

Kev: Oh. Did you think the TH was, what, some kind of wonky waffle emoticon?

Jim: Mmmmmmmmmmaybe.... *waffles*

Sabbath

I'm going to freshen things up a bit, by writing this post with a sprig of mint in my USB port.

Hmm. Is "port" funnier than "socket"? I can't decide. I'm usually very good at deciding which of two options are the funniest, but I must be a bit off because it's Sunday.

I'm going to leave Sunday behind, by leaping into a fictional world in which it is a different day of the week.

***

INT. REGGAE-THEMED LOCKSMITH - DAY

Behind the counter, the LOCKSMITH sits, playing with his dreads and wondering if there's some mileage in the fact that 'Chubb' rhymes with 'dub'.

The locksmith is open. It is therefore NOT SUNDAY.

The door opens, and the bell (which sounds like a steel drum or some shit) rings. It's a PRIEST. The PRIEST is elderly and dignified.

LOCKSMITH

Hey mon. How can I 

help you? Sorry, I 

mean how can I 

reggae help you? 

PRIEST

Good afternoon. As 

it is not Sunday, 

I was just having a 

pleasant walk through 

the neighbourhood and 

saw your fine emporium.

LOCKSMITH

Aye. Is "aye" reggae 

slang? I... uh...lockmith. SMITH, 

I mean. With an 's'. 

Do you need a key cut?

PRIEST

Yes. I'm having problem 

getting into the rectory. 

Which - as far as I'm aware - 

is a non-denominational 

dwelling for a man of 

the cloth.

LOCKSMITH

Right, me old... 

jerk-chicken... dude.

There's a long silence. The sounds of Sting featuring Pato Banton play over the shop's sound system.

LOCKSMITH

Listen, father. I'm going 

to come clean here. I 

don't really know much about 

reggae. I just thought 

it would be a weird juxtaposition 

to have a reggae locksmith.

PRIEST

Ah, I see. Perhaps 

you wanted to do a 

"dreadlocksmith" joke?

LOCKSMITH

(BEAT) I never even thought 

of that.

PRIEST

That's OK. To be honest, 

I don't know much about 

the priestery. I was 

just here to hammer home 

the fact that it's definitely 

not Sunday.

LOCKSMITH

Sunday? It couldn't be 

LESS that, father.

PRIEST

Indeed. I suppose I'll 

just have to bust my 

way into the rectory. As 

many priests have done before me.

LOCKSMITH

Is that a joke about child 

abuse in the church?

PRIEST

No. That would be too 

obvious for my tastes.

LOCKSMITH

I know what you mean. 

It would be like me making 

a joke about smoking marijuana.

PRIEST

Yes. Too obvious.

Another awkward pause. The shop's sound system is now playing Big Mountain's cover of 'Baby I Love Your Way'.

PRIEST

(TENTATIVE) So... *have* you 

been smoking marijuana?

LOCKSMITH

(TENTATIVE) Yes. 

PRIEST

Me too. To be honest 

I can't remember why I'm here.

LOCKSMITH

Me neither, actually. I 

have no idea what's going on. 

PRIEST

Ha! How amusing.

LOCKSMITH

But...

PRIEST

But what?

LOCKSMITH

But that might mean...

PRIEST

What?!

LOCKSMITH

That it could possibly be... 

Oh dear god, I hope it's not...

The LOCKSMITH turns to look at his laminated wall-planner. He sees that all of the previous days have been crossed off with a red X. All except the current day: SUNDAY.

The PRIEST drops to his knees.

PRIEST

Nooooooooo!

The PRIEST beats the floor with his fists.

PRIEST

I'm late for work!

The PRIEST beats his knees with his fists.

LOCKSMITH

And *I'm* violating our shop's 

licensing agreement for 

hours of business!

The LOCKSMITH and the PRIEST both turn and directly face the camera.

PRIEST

Don't smoke drugs.

LOCKSMITH

This could happen to you.

Then they both start giggling and stagger into a display of fobs.


***

Gah! You can never escape Sundays. The human imagination isn't strong enough to break that gravitational pull.

Negative Space

A magic potion where, with each sip, the drinker gets one sip older.

There's an idea for Schweppes.

I've spent most of today feeling like I'm trapped beneath a collapsing tent. Poles keep poking me in the face, I can't see anything, and I've stubbed my toe on a little travel stove. It's been collapsing for hours. Who would have thought there could be so much tent?

I'll soldier on, though. I can make a hole in the tent with my bayonet. I'm nearly there. 

There must be a there, right? If there was no there, there would be no incentive for people to keep going. And people do keep going. They can't all be mistaken. They're just more clued-up on the wherefore of the there, and know exactly where it is. I'll just follow them, as long as I don't lose sight of them through the tenthole.

Don't think about anything right now, anyway. Ignore the tentish rain (vinyl, might it be?). Let's do an amusing dialogue between two unlikely characters. That's my trademark. Sometimes there are more than two. But I can't claim to have invented that.

***

Laertes: I hope you're not expecting anything "Shakespearean".

Matthew Clark: What do you mean?

Laertes: Some people expect a load of thous and alases. I just wanted to make it clear before we get going.

Matthew Clark: To be honest, I had expected that. 

Laertes: *shrugs* Well, sorry.

Matthew Clark: So you're not going to do any of that stuff? At all?

Laertes: Nope.

Matthew Clark: I have to say that's a bit disappointing. I'd promised Chris that...

Laertes: Who's Chris?

Matthew Clark: My son. My son, Chris. This is his birthday party.

He gestures towards the decorative banner, which reads 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRIS'.

Laertes: Oh, right. *pause* You called your son "Chris"?

Matthew Clark: What's wrong with that?

Laertes: Oh, nothing. *rolls eyes*

Matthew Clark: So, what are you going to do?

Laertes: I was just going to get another beer.

Matthew Clark: No, not now. For your act. I thought when I was hiring Laertes to perform at my son's party, there would be a strong Shakespearean element to the show.

Laertes: *puffs out cheeks* Nope.

Matthew Clark: But you're Laertes. That's what you're best known for. 

Laertes: I'm multifaceted. I want to get away from all that stuff.

Matthew Clark: But your business card is in an Elizabethan font. There's a skull on it. Wearing a ruff.

Matthew Clark holds up the business card.

Laertes: That's one of the old ones.

Matthew Clark: So, what's your plan? How are you going to entertain eight ten-year-olds for half an hour?

Laertes: I've got loads of stuff. Bit of crowd work. Impressions. Balloons.

Matthew Clark: If I wanted balloon animals, I'd have booked a clown.

Laertes: Who said anything about animals?

Laertes pulls an unopened bag of cheap balloons from his coat pocket. He nonchalantly throws it at Matthew Clark, misses, and knocks over two paper cups full of cola. The drink seeps into the paper tablecloth.

Matthew Clark: Chris is going to be pretty disappointed. He specifically asked for you, because he's a big Hamlet fan.

Laertes: Your ten-year-old son likes Hamlet? Tell him to get out more.

Matthew Clark: I can't believe you have so much contempt for your fans!

Laertes: Look, I got stabbed, OK?! By a poisoned sword! Do you want me to relive that every weekend?

Matthew Clark: I... no. No, I don't want that. But would it kill you to make a small boy happy - on his birthday - by just approximating Shakespearean speech? For money?

Laertes: *sighs*

Matthew Clark: Wouldn't you have liked it if your dad had done something nice for you?

Laertes: My dad was an idiot. *pause* I mean, who hides behind a tapestry? 

Laertes starts to cry. Matthew Clark puts a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Matthew Clark: Look... do you want a goody bag?

Laertes: *protracted sobbing and sniffing* *nods*

Young Chris Clark enters the room, looking excited. His eyes widen.

Chris Clark: Wow! Are you Laertes?

Laertes looks at the boy, then to the boy's father. They lock eyes, and share an understanding. Laertes forces a smile.

Laertes: Yea. 'Tis I. 

***

We've won an important battle today, ladies and gentleman. We've all come out of this smelling of roses.

Stakes

It's a struggle.

I want to do things, but not enough, my friends. Not enough.

I want to write a long essay defending artistic cowardice.

I want to document my difficult year in excruciating detail.

I want to learn how to ride a bike.

But not enough.

You know how summertime is when the living is easy?

Well it's January. The living isn't.

Peter Pan was an idiot. To live may be an awfully big adventure, but some adventures aren't worth the effort. We've all been to Chessington.

And now, to top it off, it looks like the Southampton FC chairman might be resigning, and possibly taking the manager with him.

Don't they know that I'm basing my entire mental well-being on the fortunes of Southampton Football Club?! How could they be so selfish?

It's grey and drizzly outside. I miss the days when it was night, and the nights when daylight was broad. I miss the blinding, golden, three pee ems.

It's a struggle, it really is.

On the other hand, maybe something.

***

I need to get writing again.

INT. BREAD SHOP - DAY

BREAD SHOP?

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, IS IT?

WHAT IS IT?

BUTCHERS IS MEAT.

IT'S NOT...? NO.

MAYBE BREAD SHOP *IS* RIGHT...

NO.

NO, IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

"I'M JUST OFF DOWN THE BREAD SHOP!"

IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

I MEAN, MOST PEOPLE BUY THEIR BREAD FROM SUPERMARKETS NOW. BUT THERE ARE STILL BREAD SHOPS. I'VE SEEN THEM.

IS BUTCHERS FOR BOTH? MEAT BUTCHER AND BREAD BUTCHER?

"BREAD BUTCHER"... NAH.

WHAT ABOUT THAT RHYME?

"THE BUTCHER, THE BREAD SHOP WORKER, THE CANDLESTICK MAKER."

AH, SO IT IS BREAD SHOP AFTER ALL!

YOU CAN OVER THINK THESE THINGS.

A customer comes through the door, and the door bell rings. Not the doorbell. The door bell. It's not, like, one of those push-a-button ding-dong bells that people have in houses. It's a bell that's on a door - a shop door - a bread shop door - to let the shop workers know that someone has come in to the shop.

The customer is HILLARY, a middle-aged woman.

She goes up to the counter. Behind the counter is NICK, the bread shop worker.

NICK

Yes, madam. 

How can I help?

HILLARY

I'm looking for 

a very specific 

loaf of bread.

NICK

Ah, well! We'll 

see what we can do!

HILLARY

It's brown, and it's 

not one of those ones 

that are all... segmented.

NICK

Segmented?

HILLARY

Yes, you know. With 

lots of flat segments. 

I don't want that.

NICK

So... unsliced?

HILLARY

That's it. Yes. And brown.

NICK

What about this one?

NICK takes a brown loaf from a shelf behind the counter. But as he moves it to the counter, something falls out of a hole in the side of the loaf. It is a gun.

The gun lands on the counter with a metallic thud.

For a moment, NICK and HILLARY stare at each other, and then at the gun, and sometimes a mixture of the two.

NICK

(cautious) Was this the specific 

loaf you were 

interested in, madam?

HILLARY

(cautious) Yes. I think 

that will do nicely.

NICK wraps up the loaf in paper, and also the gun in paper, and puts both of them into a plain white carrier bag.

No money is exchanged.

NICK

So. Tonight's the night?

HILLARY

It is.

NICK

Anything I should be 

aware of?

HILLARY

Let's just say: I wouldn't 

be taking any trains today, 

if I were you.

NICK nods. HILLARY leaves.

Then another woman comes in, and exactly the same thing happens. But this time, with an iced bun.

***

It's a struggle.

But that's the beauty of life, isn't it? If there was no struggle, there would be no stakes. Everything would be sterile, and there would be no screenplay extracts about a bread shop and some kind of clandestine plot that affects trains.

It's a bit brighter now. The sun's not out, but the rain has stopped. It's still grey, but it's a brighter grey.

It's funny how things can be improved with a little hard work.

Perspective

INT. GYM - DAY

People are milling about in the aerobics room, waiting for the aerobics to start. They are all wearing shorts, leotards, head bands etc. LOU and REESE are limbering up. REESE is doing some advanced moves.

LOU

Where did you learn 

how to stretch?

REESE

Nowhere. 

I'm self-taut!

REESE grins.

LOU

Oh. (BEAT) Oh, I get it. Like 
"taut". Like T-A-U-T taut. 

Because of the stretching.

That's funny.

REESE

Yeah. I suppose it's not that 

obvious when I say it out loud...

THE INSTRUCTOR enters the room, and everyone quiets (quietens?) down. He strides smoothly to the front of the class. He is rock hard all over, even his tongue. His eyes are full of intensity. He never blinks.

THE INSTRUCTOR

(INTENSE) Blood. Sweat. Tears. 

I expect two of the three. 

You can choose which.

LOU raises his hand.

LOU

What about urine?

THE INSTRUCTOR

What about urine?

LOU

That's what I said.

THE INSTRUCTOR

No, I meant, what ABOUT urine? 

What about urine? The emphasis 

should have been on "about". 

It's difficult to indicate. 

Can you do italics in screenwriting? 

Is it presumptuous to tell 

the actor how to deliver a line?

LOU

All of these questions 

aren't consistent with 

your authoritative character.

THE INSTRUCTOR pulls out a gun and points it at LOU.

THE INSTRUCTOR

Is this authoritative 
enough for you?

LOU

Again: a question. 

You shouldn't even be 

engaging with me.

THE INSTRUCTOR softens, blinks, then pulls the trigger. 

REESE reacts with remarkable speed, stretching his leg over to deflect the bullet with his wrist-band (which was on his ankle - a happy accident). It pings off, Wonder Woman-style (though we don't have the rights to mention her by name). 

REESE

I guess all that 

stretching paid off!

THE INSTRUCTOR is outraged, but he's out of bullets. He had meant to stock up before the class, but he didn't. You might want to show this in a flashback/montage/anime sequence.

LOU

It certainly did! 

He's self-taut, 
Mr Instructor. 

Tee-ay-you-tee!

Something happens with the police.

CREDITS

***

I had a danish pastry earlier. You don't need to capitalise that, right? It's like a dutch camera angle, or a french kiss. It's no longer about the nationality. It's a word in its own right.

I've never been a big fan of the danish (pastry), but I don't know why. I like croissants. I like goo. What could be better?

It must have been a prejudice from earlier in my life, that I hung onto for no reason.

It's over now. I've had two this week.

On Monday, I had a massive passion fruit danish that looked like a creamy swastika. Today I had one with orange and lemon in it.

It's changed my life. 

("Shortened your life, more like!" - a wiseguy)

Nothing will ever be the same, because I've tasted two danishes.

I don't really have any strong opinions on them, to be honest. I could take them or leave them. But they've changed my life forever, by having entered it.

Everything that has entered my life has changed it. You can't help but change something if you're inside it. It's like entering Schrödinger's cat box: the box will never recover.

So, even though the danishes were mediocre, I am new. There was pre-danish Paul and post-danish Paul. I am now post-danish. It's like the television series Bewitched. Everyone divides it into two eras: genuine witchcraft and fake witchcraft. And we all have our favourite.

I think I might be too loose with my analogies. I just throw them out there, even if they don't make any sense.

Still, that's the only way to end a blog post.

It's like finding a spider in your telescope: you don't know how it got in there, but at least you no longer have to worry about that blasted meteorite.

Cut

Yesterday, there was a power cut in our office. We were unable to do any work, so we all made our own entertainment. Some people drew pictures, some people tidied their desks, some people sat around and watched those people do those things.

I wrote the following:

***

There was a power cut in our building this morning. We have power now, but none of our systems are working. The internet isn’t working. None of us are working.

I’m bored, so here I am. Typing this into a Word document like some common urchin.

Urchins are everywhere. The rats of the sky.

You’re never more than ten feet away from an urchin. If you work for an Urchin Shelter, it’s even less.

And don’t get me started on sea urchins. The rats of the sky of the sea. Filthy. They spread disease and cover Atlantean monuments with their droppings. You can barely even see Neptune’s Column. We need a cull.

Besmirchin’ the urchin. That’s my bag. Deal with it.

Someone has come round to say that we may have another forty-five minutes of nothing. More than enough time to write and manually format a screenplay.

INT. CLINIC – DAY

A row of bricks and mortar. Pull out to reveal more rows of bricks and mortar, all stuck together with yet more mortar. This is a WALL.

An old fashioned rotary phone rings. It is answered by LLOYD BORL. He has brown coat.

BORL

Hello? What?

His hands shake. He puts the receiver back on the bit that holds the receiver, disconnecting the call.

NAOMI (OS)

Who was that?

BORL

Wrong number.

NAOMI walks into view. She is in her early twenties, and will be for another two years. Dark hair, blue eyes, smartly dressed, holding golf bag w/golf clubs (woods etc).

NAOMI

Are you OK?

BORL is as white as a white sheet. He is scared [ASK ACTOR TO COVEY WITH FACE].

BORL

Fine. I’m’ll be fine. Have you had

a chance to look at my proposal?

NAOMI

Not yet. I can’t find my glasses.

Must have left them at the 18^th.

BORL

Hole?

NAOMI

Yes.

The phone rings again. BORL gasps, but realistic. He waits.

NAOMI

Do you want me to get that?

BORL

No.

NAOMI picks up the phone.

NAOMI

Hello? (BEAT) Martyn!

With a ‘y’! How are you?

Great! Yes, he’s here. Hold on.

(TO BORL) It’s Martyn with a y.

He wants to speak to you.

BORL has since died.

CUT TO:

EXT. BICESTER – EIGHT

A red sports car races through the city streets. It flies straight through a red light, causing a bus to brake suddenly and break gradually. The driver shouts and waves his fist.

The car speeds on. To avoid traffic, it mounts the pavement. Pedestrians scatter. A dog climbs a lamppost; one of those newspaper box things gets all driven into.

Sirens blare.

A police car is in pursuit. Inside is the police officer CYRENS BLAIR. He’s the most attractive person in the car.

BLAIR

A car chase.

Static signals the beginning of a two-way radio message.

RADIO VOICE

Suspect has been confirmed as

JANE LEGGE. She’s wanted in connection

to last month’s farmers’ market

bombing, and should be considered

dangerous and extremely armed.

BLAIR

A radio message.

The sports car races towards the biggest suspension bridge in Bicester. It weaves in and out of traffic, the sun glinting off its shiny sections.

BLAIR’s police car is catching up. He skilfully avoids a pyramid of milk bottles that some school children have been building as part of a competition.

BLAIR

Milk bottles.

BLAIR’s car is almost bumper-to-bumper with the sports car. He shouts through a megaphone at the fugitive.

BLAIR

Amplified voice.

No response.

BLAIR pulls out his gun and fires at the sports car’s wing mirror.

The radio crackles into life again.

RADIO VOICE

Blair? Come in Blair.

What are you doing?!

Cease fire! You’re gonna

kill someone!

BLAIR picks up the talking-into bit of the radio.

BLAIR

Solution.

We close-up on the shattered mirror. The bullet has smashed it in such a way that the sun is reflected into the eyes of the driver. We don’t see the driver yet, but this information is conveyed using filming/cinematography and the orchestral score.

The sports car swerves one way, then the other, then clips the central reservation and (if budget allows) rolls over several times before coming to a stop.

BLAIR stops his car and gets out. He walks slowly towards the sports car with his gun raised.

BLAIR

(SHOUTING) Bridge encounter.

The door of the sports car swings open, and a leg steps out. The leg’s owner is JANE LEGGE. But as we pan up, we see that her whole head is covered in C4 explosives. 

There's a tiny gap for her to see through. So the whole sunlight blinding thing does work after all, Sarah.

LEGGE

Bmffff lmmmf grrrjjrr fffn.

(OR OTHER MUFFLED NOISE)

BLAIR

Amplify voice.

LEGGE

Bmffff lmmmf grrrjjrr fffn.

A helicopter circles, making bits of paper blow around a lot, and there’s a searchlight.

BLAIR holds his ground.

LEGGE takes one step forward. BLAIR cocks his gun.

A loud speaker from the helicopter blasts out.

HELICOPTER VOICE

Put your hands over

your bomb-head and

lie on the floor.

LEGGE looks up at the helicopter. Then at BLAIR. At least she seems to be looking – her face is obscured by the C4, as mentioned above. But the eye-slit lines up with the helicopter.

BLAIR looks up at the helicopter. Then at LEGGE. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gun to the floor.

He walks slowly forward with his hands outstretched in a gesture of not holding anything.

BLAIR

No ploy.

LEGGE looks uncertain through body language.

BLAIR walks closer.

LEGGE looks up at the helicopter.

BLAIR

Potential explosion:

undesirable.

LEGGE

Mmmff rrrrnnnnnnn

MMnnnnrrrr gnnnnn!

BLAIR is visibly shocked at this statement. He starts to run away from LEGGE, waving warning waves at the helicopter.

But it’s too late.

LEGGE’s head explosives explode in an enormous explosion. It takes out a huge section of the bridge. Its plume of fire hits the helicopter, which falls out of the sky, decimating the milk bottle pyramid.

BLAIR runs and jumps off the bridge, narrowly avoiding a huge shrapnel cloud.

BLAIR

Jumping.

He dives into the Bicester river, with chunks of concrete raining down around him.

He sinks beneath the surface. Underwater, he speaks a single word, which we can hear because of bubbles.

BLAIR

Martyn.

The ‘y’ makes a *special* bubble.

***

The forty-five minute estimate turned out to be way off. The systems weren't fixed before home time. Everyone had wasted their whole day.

Everyone except me.

I wrote a screenplay.

I do all my best work when I'm not contractually obliged to work.

I need to find out the name of a river in Bicester. Then I can send this bad boy off.