“Tell him what you said,” said Nick, grinning.
“About what?” Asked Jordan.
“About Walter!”
“Oh!” Jordan grinned too, looked at me, and then licked his lips before continuing. “We were talking about Walter, right? And how boring he is, yeah? So boring. And I was like, ‘hanging out with him is so bad you might as well call it Chinese Walter Torture!’”
I didn’t say anything.
“Get it? Like Chinese Water Torture.”
I got it.
“I got it,” I said. “ But it’s a bit racist.”
“How is it racist?” Asked Jordan, aghast.
“Yeah, how is it racist?” Asked Nick, another ghast.
“Chinese Walter Torture,” I said.
“What?” Said Nick. “His name is Walter. He is Chinese. Talking to him is torture. Fact, fact, fact.”
“He’s Japanese,”I said.
“Yeah, well…” Jordan convulsed, bemused.
“Yeah, well,” Nick picked up the baton. “There’s no such thing as Japanese Water Torture. It wouldn’t make sense.”
“How do you know?” I asked, and we spent the next minute googling “Japanese Water Torture” and the next three minutes regretting it.
“Walter’s dad’s in the Triads,” said Jordan, out of the blue.
“No he isn’t,” I said.
“He is,” said Jordan.
“Even if he was – and he isn’t – Triads is Japanese. If anything, his dad’s in the Yakuza.”
“Now who’s being racist?” Said Nick, for what turned out to be the first of a dozen times that day. We never agreed on now who was being racist, but he really wanted it to be me.
“He’s got tattoos,” said Nick. “Walter’s dad, I mean.”
“So has my mum,” I said, “ and she isn’t in the Yakuza.” Both true statements.
“Walter isn’t a very Japanese name,” said Nick.
“It’s not his real name,” said Jordan. “His real name’s Toshihiro or Toshihiri or something. Walter’s just his Western name. They got it from Walter White in Breaking Bad. His dad loves Breaking Bad. He’s obsessed with it. Walter’s sister’s called Jesse. And his dog’s called Barking Bad.”
“You know, it actually doesn’t sound like Walter is that boring,” I said.
They seemed to agree and we all went out to buy ham.
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Friday, 2 March 2018
Tuesday, 27 February 2018
Wool
My uncle sold mittens and was defensive about it.
“What do you need the individual fingers for?” He asked, often. He was always taking shots at traditional gloves.
On day, I felt like I might as well respond to this question, even though I didn’t really care. I half-heartedly suggested “Chopsticks?”
He did a little confused laugh, as though he’d never heard of anything so stupid.
“If you’re eating food with chopsticks, the temperature of the dish would keep your hands warm anyway. Why would you need the mittens?”
“What about sushi?” I asked, getting a bit more into it.
He wasn’t so quick with his comeback this time. Eventually, he said: “On the rare occasion where you happen to be in a situation where your hands are cold enough to justify mittens, and you happen to be eating sushi, then you can just use a fork.”
“Tell that to the Japanese,” I said. I’d clearly won.
It wasn’t just mittens, though. He’d started to expand his range into scarves. But with a twist. Literally.
Möbius scarves, they were called. He was really proud of the idea, and he could barely wait to tell me, even though I’d never previously shown any enthusiasm for his business, and mostly just shot down his mitten theories.
They were scarves in the style of Möbius strips. I think he’s only just found out about Möbius strips and was getting carried away.
“So it’s not really a scarf?” I said.
“Yes, it’s a scarf,” he said. “It’s just one continuous loop of scarf.”
“One continuous loop,” I repeated (fully aware of how annoyed he was getting). “So it’s essentially a baggy snood? It’s essentially a baggy snood.”
He made a face and started winding wool. His assistant, Vida, was standing nearby. “Have you heard about these Möbius scarves?” I asked her. “It’s essentially just a baggy snood.” She shrugged.
I turned back to my uncle. “It’s essentially just a baggy snood.”
“Shut up!” He snapped. “Stop saying it’s essentially just a baggy snood.”
“But it is essentially…”
He slammed his hand down on the table. “What are you even talking about?!”
We were all quiet for a couple of minutes. Vida pretended she had to go to the toilet just to get away from us both.
After a while, things had thawed, and he was back on track with his sales pitch. “I’m thinking of something very specific for the Möbius scarf. Specific, but lucrative.”
“What’s that?” I felt bad for shutting him down before, so I thought I’d hear him out.
“You know those half and half football scarves they have now? It’s like one end is in the colours of one team, and the other is their opponents’? Like, if it’s Arsenal-Tottenham, it’s half red and half white? You know those scarves?”
“You mean, those universally derided scarves that everyone hates?”
“Someone’s buying ‘em,” he said, with a smile. He’d won that one.
“Anyway,” he continued, “ the genius of the Möbius scarf is that instead of one team at each end of the scarf, you can have one team on each side of the scarf!”
I’d tried my best to be encouraging, but this was the last straw.
“Geoff,” I said (his name was Geoff), “in your exhaustive research – which I assume you always undertake before a major product launch – surely you must have learned that a defining, if not the defining, feature of a Möbius strip is it only has ONE SIDE.”
He looked blank. Vida walked back in, read the atmosphere of the room, and went straight back out to the toilet again.
“What do you mean?” Said Geoff.
“If you put Arsenal on one side of the scarf, it’ll go all the way around,” I said.
He looked blank again.
“Where are you going to put Tottenham?”
He stood there for a few seconds, and then mimed holding what looked like a baggy snood.
“On the other side,” he said.
Remember around 2012, snoods were in, like, the top five things people talked about that year? It’s crazy to think that now. With all the horrors of 2017, snoods wouldn’t crack the top hundred. We didn’t know how lucky we were.
Friday, 7 November 2014
What You've Done
I'm working on a series of sketches featuring a wise-ass gumshoe-type who is taken to various ramshackle locations, and each time sarcastically says "I love what you've done with the place...".
That would be the whole sketch. There would be a series of them. It would be his catchphrase.
I know rapid-fire catchphrase-based sketches are a bit 90s, but I think they're due for a comeback.
Here are my suggestions for the early sketches.
INT. ABATTOIR - DAY
Two henchman drag GUMSHOE onto the killing floor. There are animal carcasses everywhere. Blood on the walls, rusty saws, bones, hooves. They throw him at the feet of a BUTCHER wearing a bloody smock.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
That one's not great. But it's just there to set up the premise. There would be several of these in every episode.
INT. THE OVAL OFFICE - DAY
Two secret servicemen drag GUMSHOE into the office. There are plaques everywhere. Wallpaper on the walls, nice carpet, desk, potted plants. They throw him at the feet of BARACK OBAMA.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
We're already rolling.
I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what the joke is. Well, there isn't a joke. It's not that kind of sketch. The trick is repetition. People enjoy it when they expect something to happen and then that thing happens.
INT. THE EARTH'S CORE - DAY
Two mole-men drag GUMSHOE into a lava cave. There are lava everywhere. Lava on the walls, rivers of magma, molten rock, fires. They throw him at the feet of a FIRE DEMON.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
All of these sketches will appear in the first five minutes of the sketch show - just to get people up to speed.
After this, we can start stretching our comedy wings.
EXT. WORLD TRADE PLAZA - SEPTEMBER 11 2001
Two firemen drag GUMSHOE out of some rubble. There is dust everywhere. Crying people, paramedics, police officers, general distress. They gently help him to a STRETCHER-BEARER.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
Edgy.
You see how versatile this is? We can do anything with it.
By this point, we'll be about seven minutes into the sketch show, and people will be getting complacent. So we mix things up.
INT. CHINA SHOP - DAY
GUMSHOE walks into a china shop. There is crockery everywhere. Jugs, bowls, saucers, vases. The OWNER is behind the counter.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
The OWNER accepts the compliment with good grace.
END OF SKETCH
Yes, we are also going to do one set in a fish and chip shop. You can probably figure out the punchline. (Clue: it features a certain type of fish. Plaice.)
We're winding down now. Only a couple more in this episode. You can have too much of a good thing.
INT. GUMSHOE'S HOUSE - DAY
Two neighbours carry GUMSHOE into his own house. There are GUMSHOE's possessions everywhere. Furniture, photographs, Blu-ray collection, cat. They gently help him to the SOFA.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
The neighbours look at each other, concerned.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
We'll be about ten minutes into a twenty-eight minute episode at this point (this will be on the BBC). The gumshoe sketches will stop for the next eighteen minutes. People will think we've forgotten about them.
But we haven't forgotten about them.
After the credits have rolled, we'll have one final surprise:
INT. HOUSE OF MIRRORS - DAY
GUMSHOE stares at his dozen reflections. He looks around and smirks.
His smirk falters.
His eyes well up with tears.
GUMSHOE gulps. A single tear rolls down his cheek.
GUMSHOE trembles, and then falls to his knees.
The reflections break into a kaleidoscope of smirks.
END OF SKETCH
END OF EPISODE
And that, my friend, is how you write a recurring sketch character.
A viral hit if ever I've seen one.
Now all I need is a sketch show.
And some lava.
That would be the whole sketch. There would be a series of them. It would be his catchphrase.
I know rapid-fire catchphrase-based sketches are a bit 90s, but I think they're due for a comeback.
Here are my suggestions for the early sketches.
INT. ABATTOIR - DAY
Two henchman drag GUMSHOE onto the killing floor. There are animal carcasses everywhere. Blood on the walls, rusty saws, bones, hooves. They throw him at the feet of a BUTCHER wearing a bloody smock.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
END OF SKETCH
That one's not great. But it's just there to set up the premise. There would be several of these in every episode.
INT. THE OVAL OFFICE - DAY
Two secret servicemen drag GUMSHOE into the office. There are plaques everywhere. Wallpaper on the walls, nice carpet, desk, potted plants. They throw him at the feet of BARACK OBAMA.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
END OF SKETCH
We're already rolling.
I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what the joke is. Well, there isn't a joke. It's not that kind of sketch. The trick is repetition. People enjoy it when they expect something to happen and then that thing happens.
INT. THE EARTH'S CORE - DAY
Two mole-men drag GUMSHOE into a lava cave. There are lava everywhere. Lava on the walls, rivers of magma, molten rock, fires. They throw him at the feet of a FIRE DEMON.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
END OF SKETCH
All of these sketches will appear in the first five minutes of the sketch show - just to get people up to speed.
After this, we can start stretching our comedy wings.
EXT. WORLD TRADE PLAZA - SEPTEMBER 11 2001
Two firemen drag GUMSHOE out of some rubble. There is dust everywhere. Crying people, paramedics, police officers, general distress. They gently help him to a STRETCHER-BEARER.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
END OF SKETCH
Edgy.
You see how versatile this is? We can do anything with it.
By this point, we'll be about seven minutes into the sketch show, and people will be getting complacent. So we mix things up.
INT. CHINA SHOP - DAY
GUMSHOE walks into a china shop. There is crockery everywhere. Jugs, bowls, saucers, vases. The OWNER is behind the counter.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the plates...
The OWNER accepts the compliment with good grace.
END OF SKETCH
Yes, we are also going to do one set in a fish and chip shop. You can probably figure out the punchline. (Clue: it features a certain type of fish. Plaice.)
We're winding down now. Only a couple more in this episode. You can have too much of a good thing.
INT. GUMSHOE'S HOUSE - DAY
Two neighbours carry GUMSHOE into his own house. There are GUMSHOE's possessions everywhere. Furniture, photographs, Blu-ray collection, cat. They gently help him to the SOFA.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
The neighbours look at each other, concerned.
NEIGHBOUR 1
(TENTATIVE) We haven't done
anything with the place.
This is *your* house.
GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.
END OF SKETCH
We'll be about ten minutes into a twenty-eight minute episode at this point (this will be on the BBC). The gumshoe sketches will stop for the next eighteen minutes. People will think we've forgotten about them.
But we haven't forgotten about them.
After the credits have rolled, we'll have one final surprise:
INT. HOUSE OF MIRRORS - DAY
GUMSHOE stares at his dozen reflections. He looks around and smirks.
GUMSHOE
(SARCASTIC) I love what you've
done with the place...
His smirk falters.
GUMSHOE
(TENTATIVE) I love what you...
(BEAT) What ALL of you...
GUMSHOE
What have you done?
GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 1
Done to what?
GUMSHOE
To the place.
GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 2
We've been working so hard on it.
GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 3
Do you like it?
GUMSHOE gulps. A single tear rolls down his cheek.
GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 4
Well?
GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 5
Do you like what we've
done with the place?
GUMSHOE trembles, and then falls to his knees.
GUMSHOE
I...(BEAT) I LOVE it.
The reflections break into a kaleidoscope of smirks.
END OF SKETCH
END OF EPISODE
And that, my friend, is how you write a recurring sketch character.
A viral hit if ever I've seen one.
Now all I need is a sketch show.
And some lava.
Thursday, 23 October 2014
Train of Thought
Good heavens, that's a long gap between blog posts.
In my defence (and defense, for that matter), I've been busy watching Werner Herzog films. That takes up a lot of time. I've also started to watch Twin Peaks for the first time, and have its incidental music in my head right now. I'm sane.
Oh, and I went to see Southampton beat Sunderland 8-0 on Saturday. That was rather bonkers.
I should write about those things in more detail, but I can barely bring myself to string even these few meagre sentences together. I'm out of writing practice (and practise, for that matter), and I don't want to pull a muscle.
So I'll just have a brisk walk around the block to stretch my writing-legs (fingers). What form should this walk take? It's nearly Halloween, so how about a spooooooky short story?
***
The train was full of vampires. A vampire in every seat. In every window seat: a vampire. In every aisle seat: a vampire. In the overhead storage spaces: three dozen collapsed coffins. And a vampire.
Vampires standing all the way up the aisle, blocking the refreshment trolley. Each vestibule chock-a-block. With vampires.
The train doors opened at Ealing Broadway. One vampire got off, and Naomi got on.
Though she was a feminist (and a vampire), Naomi was half-hoping that there would be enough chivalry in the carriage for the occupants to make space for her. She hoped they'd squeeze out of her way. Maybe even offer her a seat.
But there was no room for chivalry. Not with all the vampires.
Naomi's seat reservation held no water, holy or otherwise. So she resigned herself to an hour of discomfort.
The conductor hadn't even tried to check tickets.
"I'm not going out there," he'd said to a colleague. "It's packed tighter than a Welshman's leeksatchel."
The conductor's idioms were legendary.
In the vestibule, Naomi pressed her bosom against a safety poster to avoid the sharp collar-end poking her in the back of the neck.
"Sorry about this," said the collar-owner. "I've just had it starched."
Somewhere down the carriage, someone caused a commotion by opening a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
"Some people..." said the collar-owner, shaking his head and spearing the eyeball of the man next to him.
"That's IT!" shouted Naomi.
There was silence.
"I can't travel like this," she said. "Why don't we just all turn ourselves into bats?"
They assented, and all of the passengers enjoyed a peaceful, roomy rest-of-journey.
Everyone arrived at the convention centre as fresh as a daisy.
***
Chilling.
Utterly chilling.
I hope you weren't reading that alone at night.
Don't worry: it was only a story.
Or was it...
In my defence (and defense, for that matter), I've been busy watching Werner Herzog films. That takes up a lot of time. I've also started to watch Twin Peaks for the first time, and have its incidental music in my head right now. I'm sane.
Oh, and I went to see Southampton beat Sunderland 8-0 on Saturday. That was rather bonkers.
I should write about those things in more detail, but I can barely bring myself to string even these few meagre sentences together. I'm out of writing practice (and practise, for that matter), and I don't want to pull a muscle.
So I'll just have a brisk walk around the block to stretch my writing-legs (fingers). What form should this walk take? It's nearly Halloween, so how about a spooooooky short story?
***
Vampire Train
The train was full of vampires. A vampire in every seat. In every window seat: a vampire. In every aisle seat: a vampire. In the overhead storage spaces: three dozen collapsed coffins. And a vampire.
Vampires standing all the way up the aisle, blocking the refreshment trolley. Each vestibule chock-a-block. With vampires.
The train doors opened at Ealing Broadway. One vampire got off, and Naomi got on.
Though she was a feminist (and a vampire), Naomi was half-hoping that there would be enough chivalry in the carriage for the occupants to make space for her. She hoped they'd squeeze out of her way. Maybe even offer her a seat.
But there was no room for chivalry. Not with all the vampires.
Naomi's seat reservation held no water, holy or otherwise. So she resigned herself to an hour of discomfort.
The conductor hadn't even tried to check tickets.
"I'm not going out there," he'd said to a colleague. "It's packed tighter than a Welshman's leeksatchel."
The conductor's idioms were legendary.
In the vestibule, Naomi pressed her bosom against a safety poster to avoid the sharp collar-end poking her in the back of the neck.
"Sorry about this," said the collar-owner. "I've just had it starched."
Somewhere down the carriage, someone caused a commotion by opening a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
"Some people..." said the collar-owner, shaking his head and spearing the eyeball of the man next to him.
"That's IT!" shouted Naomi.
There was silence.
"I can't travel like this," she said. "Why don't we just all turn ourselves into bats?"
They assented, and all of the passengers enjoyed a peaceful, roomy rest-of-journey.
Everyone arrived at the convention centre as fresh as a daisy.
***
Chilling.
Utterly chilling.
I hope you weren't reading that alone at night.
Don't worry: it was only a story.
Or was it...
Sunday, 24 August 2014
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.
There's a long silence. The sounds of Sting featuring Pato Banton play over the shop's sound system.
Another awkward pause. The shop's sound system is now playing Big Mountain's cover of 'Baby I Love Your Way'.
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.
The PRIEST beats the floor with his fists.
The LOCKSMITH and the PRIEST both turn and directly face the camera.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 21 August 2014
Three Corners
How about a lovely, thoughtful piece of writing?
***
Nothing was visible, except a bright triangle of moon between the branches of a struck tree. All else was black soil, black wood, black leaves, gleaming black barricades. And the sounds were black too.
The rest of the moon was nowhere to be seen. It was just the triangle; a gift for which we should be grateful. So many children have been spoiled by an entire circle. Curves are an unnecessary luxury.
A triangle of moon is more than enough, for romantic skies and ominous lycanthropic portents. The rhythm and magic of the tides remains unbroken. Everything is as it should be. The vulgarity of a circular moon is a full-beam headlight on a country road: into the hedge we swerve, into a dry-stone wall, into the black trunk of a tree.
Think about others. Dip the headlight. Pare it down.
The triangle is the strongest shape in nature. It will shine a light on our own strength.
And for the greedy eye that asks for more? It shall be blinded by circumferent wonder, and will weep for the beneficence of Pythagoras.
***
***
Nothing was visible, except a bright triangle of moon between the branches of a struck tree. All else was black soil, black wood, black leaves, gleaming black barricades. And the sounds were black too.
The rest of the moon was nowhere to be seen. It was just the triangle; a gift for which we should be grateful. So many children have been spoiled by an entire circle. Curves are an unnecessary luxury.
A triangle of moon is more than enough, for romantic skies and ominous lycanthropic portents. The rhythm and magic of the tides remains unbroken. Everything is as it should be. The vulgarity of a circular moon is a full-beam headlight on a country road: into the hedge we swerve, into a dry-stone wall, into the black trunk of a tree.
Think about others. Dip the headlight. Pare it down.
The triangle is the strongest shape in nature. It will shine a light on our own strength.
And for the greedy eye that asks for more? It shall be blinded by circumferent wonder, and will weep for the beneficence of Pythagoras.
***
Tuesday, 17 June 2014
Backdrop - Part 3
Backdrop
3
TEN YEARS LATER
David and Maura are both dead. Luckily, their children - and yes, they did have children - are now fully grown and are much more interesting characters.
Their eldest daughter Jood is eight feet tall, and can predict the future. Their middle daughter Faye has an unusual accent and leads a subterranean revolutionary army. Their son Alto is a clone of Steve Martin. Their youngest daughter Caroline has a very dry wit, and knows lots of well-connected people.
On a bright spring morning, they all meet at their parents' graves to discuss the annual family get together. which Alto has dubbed 'the sibling ribaldry', despite the incestual overtones. Jood had predicted that they would all go to Universal Studios in the summer, but Faye doesn't want to spend too much time away from her sewer command centre.
All of this information could have been imparted by dialogue, but wasn't.
Caroline's fashionable handbag spilled open, and dozens of cigarette holders tumbled out onto the grass. She sighed and rolled her eyes.
"Woo har yein goad illa demfa?" said Faye.
"I'm attempting to civilise the worms," said Caroline, lighting the big long wizard pipe that she'd been holding all along.
"Wurms fitin holdos. Cad smoak demshelps."
"Would that we all could," muttered Caroline.
The two gravestones had been chiselled in different fonts, which irritated all of the siblings.
"I think the 3D Transformers ride alone would justify the trip," said Jood. "And when you throw in The Wizarding World of Harry Potter..."
"We're not going to Universal Studios!" shouted Alto. "It's too expensive."
"Ang I'ch tordyoo: am bizzry."
"I know you're busy," said Jood. "We're all busy. But this is tradition."
"So is dying alone," said Caroline. "Anyway, I agree with Al and Faye. Can't we all just hire a barge and get smashed like last year?"
"Lash yur?! I lass faur regimens! Faur massakurs!"
"Come on, they were all part of the same massacre," said Jood.
"Graveyards make me bored!" shouted Alto. "And they're too expensive!"
Alto was cheap. But, to be fair, this one was more pricey than most.
He wandered towards the cafeteria, with Caroline and Jood bickering behind him. Only Faye remained. She looked at the gravestones of her parents, and beyond them to the dozens of other markers, tight together in rows, waiting expectantly like chairs in an empty theatre.
Faye had lost so many friends. But the uprising was gathering momentum, and she knew that their sacrifices had not been in vain. She also knew that her decisions had led to many deaths on the other side, many fallen foes filling graveyards similar to this one, many families grieving as she had done.
On the floor, the cigarette holders still lay scattered between the reeds, on top of the untended earth. Faye picked them up, and bunched them together like flowers, before sticking them in the space between where her mother and father lay.
A worm, disturbed by the new bouquet, writhed in the disturbed soil and then disappeared.
"Mee tooh," said Faye. "Amm goan ta go bak unnergroun."
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Backdrop - Part 2
Backdrop
2
David climbed the steps slowly. His clothes were heavy with water and the sponges in his pocket. The umbrella didn't keep him dry. The rain fell right through.
As he approached the officials, their voices grew quieter, and their faces became blurred, low-res, indistinct. One of the officials turned to David, just as he reached their step.
"David," she said. "We didn't expect to see you here. Not today."
She gestured at the sky. David noticed that she was completely untouched by the rain. Her umbrella handle was dark as black pudding.
"I wouldn't have come if I didn't have to," he said.
The other officials - three women and one man - that had been in the same group had slid away when David had approached. They stood on the same step, but far away. The same, but smaller.
The woman, whose name was Maura, gave a patronising smile. "You know I would have passed on the salient details," she said, oozing friendliness.
"Well that's just it," said David. "I think we have different ideas of what's salient and what isn't."
"I don't think they'll even be expecting you. You're not on the list."
"Then I'll come in with you."
She winced and looked over at her colleagues in the distance. "I don't think that would be a good idea."
The rain was starting to stop. An old man fell up the steps and spilled the contents of his briefcase all over the place. He struggled to retrieve the damp paper from where it had stuck to the stone.
David looked down at him, then back at Maura. "I wouldn't have come all this way in the rain," he said, "if I wasn't sure that I could get in."
Maura's concern fell away. "Well, you did. Because you can't."
David reached into his pocket - the non-sponge one - and pulled out a pistol. He pointed it at Maura.
"I am sure. I wouldn't have come if I wasn't."
David's pistol was also transparent. The barrel was transparent. The trigger was transparent. The handle was transparent.
And David knew that Maura's guns were not transparent. They were as opaque as her umbrella, their handles just as full of blood.
Maura looked down at the gun. Though it was transparent, she could see the bullets in the clip.
So she made a little nod of acceptance and they both went up the steps together.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
Backdrop - Part 1
Backdrop
1
David took off his jacket for the third time. Then put it on for the fourth. After drumming his thigh with fingers for a few minutes, he opened the dining room window and reached out, his hand open to the sky. He couldn't feel anything.
The overhang of the building's roof was vast. His arms could have been twice as long. In the distance, the raindrops hung in the air like ripe fruit. He pulled in his dry hand and closed the window.
His right arm spasmed against the jacket, so he grabbed the sleeve with his left hand. He'd decided. He went to the front door and picked his umbrella off the hook. The umbrella was transparent, by order of the government. He opened it inside. It didn't matter.
Then he went outside and within ten seconds was visibly soaked.
The tall, grey spire of Parliament Central dominated the skyline like a raised objection. On the polished steps, several officials smiled and whispered. David noticed that their metaphors were opaque.
Sorry, not metaphors. Umbrellas.
Anyway...
Friday, 16 May 2014
Full/Empty
I think I might struggle now that the football season is over.
For months, I've been using football to mark the passage of time. Midweek games, previews of the weekend's action on Thursday and Friday, the glorious ball-glut of Saturday and Sunday, the post-weekend analysis and match reports on the Monday and Tuesday. And throughout, there's a healthy sprinkling of opinion pieces, meaningless statistics and hilarious jokes about the managers' faces.
The last Saints game was only on Sunday (I was there! The crazy pitch design! Rickie Lambert! The emotional lap of appreciation!), but I'm already feeling withdrawal symptoms.
I burned through the hundreds of 'season in review' articles, and now I'm frantically searching for football journalism. The content is drying up. I feel like a polar bear desperately struggling to maintain my footing on the rapidly melting sea ice.
Soon, I'll be reading about the Tunisian second division, or proposals to make the goal posts more matte.
And what will I do on my weekends now? The ball-glut is over.
This weekend, I'll have to make do with the FA Cup Final, the dramatic deciding game in La Liga, the German Cup Final and probably loads of other stuff. Slim, slim pickings.
I'll have to start doing things and making plans. It will be an ordeal. A vast desert of no football, stretching as far as the eye can see.
Or until the World Cup starts in less than a month. The eye can probably see that.
The World Cup may fill up my time, especially when there's three fixtures per day.
I'll be brave and will make do.
***
I came up with something hilarious in my sleep the other day. I do that a lot, as you might remember. As usual, the thing I came up with was only hilarious when I was in my sleep-state.
Half-awake, I thought: make sure to remember this. It's funny.
I did remember it.
It was this:
Good new band name: Sorbonne Monoxide.
See? That's terrible.
What does it mean? It's not close enough to 'carbon monoxide' and - even if it was - it makes no sense.
A band would have to be pretty low on ideas to agree to that.
A blogger would have to be pretty low on ideas to write about that.
***
The submarine was getting full.
"No more breeding," said the captain, in the mess one day.
"Yes, captain," said the men.
"Yes, captain," said the women.
But nothing changed. Three more babies were born that afternoon. When a senior officer questioned the triple influx, the mother claimed that two of them were "experimental torpedoes" and the other was the chaperone.
The captain, who had risen to that rank despite a strong aversion to confrontation, had notices printed and posted in every section. They read: "SERIOUSLY, NO MORE BREEDING. THE SUBMARINE IS GETTING FULL."
The message took a while to sink in. But eventually, the culture of constant breeding began to change, just as the submarine itself, slowly, gradually, altered its course.
Soon the submarine became less full. No more babies were produced, and a large number of corpses were jettisoned.
Things were now pretty ruddy roomy. The badminton court was expanded to regulation size.
By the time the submarine surfaced, the crew were so used to wide-open spaces that they struggled with the confinement of life on dry land. Even the ones from Wyoming - which is technically even bigger than the submarine.
And that's how we won the war.
***
I had a muffin just now, baked by the fair hand of Lucy. She always bakes with the fair one. Her unfair hand is muffled in a dozen oven-gloves.
This blog post has been quite formless, unlike the muffin. I should have written it in a paper case.
Monday, 5 May 2014
Homework
Fiction. It's all around us. There is fiction in our books and on our televisions. There is fiction in our speech and our thoughts. Why, even my own children are fictional. Where does it come from? What can we do about it?
Those questions are not for me to answer. I ask them merely to conclude my opening paragraph. Intentionality is an island to which there is no ferry.
Answering those questions about fiction can be your homework.
I don't remember doing much homework when I was a schoolchild. Perhaps I was so brilliant that I got everything done in class, or perhaps I just refused to do any work at home because we had no flat surfaces on which to write. It was all 'spherical this' and 'convex that' at our house. I'm sure we thought it was all very modern at the time, but it seems rather tacky in retrospect.
That's the good thing about (some) jobs, I suppose. No homework. You don't need to take any baggage with you. Your evenings and weekends are yours to play 2D side-scrolling shoot-em-ups and eat bagel after bagel after bagel.
At university, it was pretty much all homework. It had its benefits. One could sleep until noon and go to see films in the middle of the day. But the work pressure was always there. There were no designated relaxation periods, which meant constant worry and constant sloth.
I'm happy to no longer have homework. Though some may consider writing this blog to be homework. It's certainly an obligation, and is eating into my bagel time. Often I write these posts at work, so everyone's a winner (except for my employer - the Chevron Corporation). But it's Bank Holiday Monday today, so this is all on me.
I am at home, but can something this fun seriously be thought of as 'work'? I don't think so. It's such a pleasure. It glides out of my brain and into your eyes as smooth as you like.
No friction, only fiction.
Fiction. Ah yes, back to where we began. Let's make some fiction.
***
A dog that could fly was friends with a gnome that could swim. Together, they won the Olympics.
***
There. Fiction. It's as easy as that.
I'm a bit ill at the moment. That's why it was so short. You know me - on a normal day, that story would have gone on for ages. Too long, really.
It's a shame. But I really am ill.
Can you imagine the kinds of things I'd have put in the story, if I was 100%? Crazy, crazy stuff.
I would have named the dog and the gnome, and the names would have been ridiculous. Like, they would have been weird. Not conventionally weird, but genuinely like "wow, where did that come from?" kind-of weird.
They'd have families and would have some pretty amazing conversations. Imagine the field day I could have with a gnome and a dog talking to each other and going to the Olympics? Damn these germs.
But it wouldn't just have been loads of surreal stuff happening. I probably would have made it unexpectedly moving, and it would have a political element that would make you think. I reckon, if I didn't have this cold, I probably would have included a reference to Jesse Owens that would have been clever.
It's such a shame.
And the Olympics could have just been the beginning. Imagine a dog that could fly and a gnome that could swim being employed as secret agents, going on covert ops and rescuing kidnap victims or what have you. There would be quips and probably some dog puns - even gnome puns would be in the offing - if only it wasn't for this blasted runny nose.
And the cough. The cough is probably the main reason you've been robbed of the entertainment.
Never mind, though. I'll probably feel better tomorrow.
I won't come back to the dog and gnome thing, though. Never look back. Only look forward. My eye hurts a bit, but I don't know if that's because of the cold or an unrelated thing, such as when I poked a lash out of there.
I should be in bed. Even having written this much is heroic. I never complain usually - you know me. But I am suffering.
Let's put an amusing photograph here. It's your reward for getting through this. Like at the finish line of the Race For Life, where they hand out bags of moisturiser and hair-straighteners.
Here is your moisturiser:
I'm going to make myself a Lemsip.
Those questions are not for me to answer. I ask them merely to conclude my opening paragraph. Intentionality is an island to which there is no ferry.
Answering those questions about fiction can be your homework.
I don't remember doing much homework when I was a schoolchild. Perhaps I was so brilliant that I got everything done in class, or perhaps I just refused to do any work at home because we had no flat surfaces on which to write. It was all 'spherical this' and 'convex that' at our house. I'm sure we thought it was all very modern at the time, but it seems rather tacky in retrospect.
That's the good thing about (some) jobs, I suppose. No homework. You don't need to take any baggage with you. Your evenings and weekends are yours to play 2D side-scrolling shoot-em-ups and eat bagel after bagel after bagel.
At university, it was pretty much all homework. It had its benefits. One could sleep until noon and go to see films in the middle of the day. But the work pressure was always there. There were no designated relaxation periods, which meant constant worry and constant sloth.
I'm happy to no longer have homework. Though some may consider writing this blog to be homework. It's certainly an obligation, and is eating into my bagel time. Often I write these posts at work, so everyone's a winner (except for my employer - the Chevron Corporation). But it's Bank Holiday Monday today, so this is all on me.
I am at home, but can something this fun seriously be thought of as 'work'? I don't think so. It's such a pleasure. It glides out of my brain and into your eyes as smooth as you like.
No friction, only fiction.
Fiction. Ah yes, back to where we began. Let's make some fiction.
***
A dog that could fly was friends with a gnome that could swim. Together, they won the Olympics.
***
There. Fiction. It's as easy as that.
I'm a bit ill at the moment. That's why it was so short. You know me - on a normal day, that story would have gone on for ages. Too long, really.
It's a shame. But I really am ill.
Can you imagine the kinds of things I'd have put in the story, if I was 100%? Crazy, crazy stuff.
I would have named the dog and the gnome, and the names would have been ridiculous. Like, they would have been weird. Not conventionally weird, but genuinely like "wow, where did that come from?" kind-of weird.
They'd have families and would have some pretty amazing conversations. Imagine the field day I could have with a gnome and a dog talking to each other and going to the Olympics? Damn these germs.
But it wouldn't just have been loads of surreal stuff happening. I probably would have made it unexpectedly moving, and it would have a political element that would make you think. I reckon, if I didn't have this cold, I probably would have included a reference to Jesse Owens that would have been clever.
It's such a shame.
And the Olympics could have just been the beginning. Imagine a dog that could fly and a gnome that could swim being employed as secret agents, going on covert ops and rescuing kidnap victims or what have you. There would be quips and probably some dog puns - even gnome puns would be in the offing - if only it wasn't for this blasted runny nose.
And the cough. The cough is probably the main reason you've been robbed of the entertainment.
Never mind, though. I'll probably feel better tomorrow.
I won't come back to the dog and gnome thing, though. Never look back. Only look forward. My eye hurts a bit, but I don't know if that's because of the cold or an unrelated thing, such as when I poked a lash out of there.
I should be in bed. Even having written this much is heroic. I never complain usually - you know me. But I am suffering.
Let's put an amusing photograph here. It's your reward for getting through this. Like at the finish line of the Race For Life, where they hand out bags of moisturiser and hair-straighteners.
Here is your moisturiser:
I'm going to make myself a Lemsip.
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
Dust Run
Lord Knows I've Tried
*phone ring*
Seckeratary: Hello, Lord's phone. No I'm sorry he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message? OK, great. Just let me get a pen.
*gets pen*
Seckeratary: Right, I'm ready. Yes. Yes. Mm-hm. Yes. OK. Yes, no problem. (*is writing message on paper whilst*) Bye!
*puts phone down*
*Lord enters room*
Seckeratary: Ah, there you are. Someone was just on the phone.
Lord: Sorry, I was in the toilet. Anything important?
Seckeratary: No problem. I wrote it down.
*finds paper*
*reads paper*
Seckeratary: He says he's... (*scrutinises own handwriting*) tired. He's tired.
Lord: Oh. Is there a name?
Seckeratary: No, he didn't say.
Lord: Oh. Never mind. At least I know now.
*LORD THINKS HE'S TIRED.*
*LORD DOESN'T KNOW HE'S TRIED* < crucial
SCNE 2
Louise: Why can't you find a job?
Neil: I've tried! Lord knows I've tried!
LORD DOESN'T KNOW THAT
THAT IS THE CRUX
Friday, 14 March 2014
1+1=2
Imagine a world where the steps you've taken matter less than the steps you've forsaken and stop...
No.
It's no good.
Two days ago I started a draft blog post that began like this:
The process by which I intend to find my calling is as follows.
Fail to endure, enjoy, tolerate or deal with almost everything in the universe. Hitch your wagon to whichever star remains.
That's not a good start to a blog post, but don't want to go back to the blank page. I've already jumped into the freezing ocean, there's no point in climbing back out now.
The die is cast. The ship has sailed. The bridge is burned. The writing is on the wall. The jelly has set.
No turning back.
There's a strange dichotomy in being a progressive recluse.
And it's just been sitting there, so I thought I'd begin afresh with something new. Something strange. But I lost confidence before the end of the first sentence.
I'm struggling here. I have been for a while.
But perhaps there's mileage in those first four words. Perhaps I can produce several bite-sized ideas in quick succession and fill up the page.
***
Imagine a world where children are at war with the elderly. The children would win. They would be cruel, vicious, energetic, ruthless, annoying. The wiser elderly would kill some children in traps (Lego beneath a dangling bomb), but the children would win in the end.
They'd be happy. They'd grow up happy. They'd know they were winners. They'd know they were stronger.
But they would age. And the stronger would grow weaker. And soon they would find themselves on the other side of the great divide. The war would not have ended. The war would never end.
The new younger generation would be crueller, viciouser, energeticer, ruthlesser, annoyinger. The new elderly would try the same Lego-based traps (though the Lego would be licensed, branded, tied into the latest pop culture craze), but they would no longer work because the new children can hack into bombs now and stop them dangling.
The elderly would die. The young would laugh in triumph. And the cycle would begin again.
Everyone from the ages of eighteen to sixty-nine would just sit there and watch the whole disaster, knowing that they were once evil. And that they could do nothing to stop themselves becoming evil again.
***
Imagine a world where no-one was interested in dinosaurs. We'd know about them, but we just wouldn't care. We'd find bones and shrug. Jurassic Park would never have been written or adapted. Museums would have to rearrange things.
People would still be quite interested in Godzilla. He's not exactly a dinosaur. But people would be less interested in him.
The Flintstones would still be on, but the fictional world would be a bit less rich.
***
Imagine a world where the Heimlich maneuver was a famous battle strategy from a poor later-season episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
The episode would even be called 'The Heimlich Maneuver'. It would be pretty terrible. It would feature Worf or Kira finding out about an ancient gambit that could help an outnumbered ship destroy all its opponents by shimmying back and forth in a little dance. Seriously, it would be total dogshit.
And they'd say that it was because they were rushed for time because of production issues and the writers' strike, but even so... There would be a bit at the end where Odo and Sisko play basketball and a bowl of punch falls on Morn's head. Like, it would sound good, but the execution would be totally off.
A series low.
Imagine a world where despite this seeming like a reference to a specific real-life thing, it actually wasn't. You don't have to imagine.
***
Imagine a world where there was a dynamic, progressive politician called Adrian. Far-fucking-fetched.
***
Imagine a world where the afterlife only lasted for an hour.
You'd have time to realise you were dead, and to say hello to all of your loved ones. You would be pressed for time. It would be a bit of a scrum, to be honest.
Everyone who has ever died would arrive there at the same time, and there would only be an hour for people to accept their fate and settle their affairs. Some people would probably freak out, so someone has to deal with them.
I don't know if it would be everyone together, or if there would be sections.
Imagine an afterlife where there are two sections: one for people with surnames beginning A-M, and one for those with surnames beginning N-Z.
If you wanted to say goodbye to someone whose surname was in the other section, you could arrange it, but it would involve a lot of forms. It probably wouldn't be worth it.
When the hour was nearly up, there would be a countdown, just like New Year's Eve. People would count in their own languages. Some of the dead people would have come from a time before language developed (or surnames, for that matter), so the countdown would confuse them.
Then everything would go blank, and that would be it.
Imagine a world where that, smart guy.
***
It worked. Those four words have given me an entire raft of ideas. And they have hopefully entertained you, dear reader.
I might eat a cereal bar now.
No.
It's no good.
Two days ago I started a draft blog post that began like this:
The process by which I intend to find my calling is as follows.
Fail to endure, enjoy, tolerate or deal with almost everything in the universe. Hitch your wagon to whichever star remains.
That's not a good start to a blog post, but don't want to go back to the blank page. I've already jumped into the freezing ocean, there's no point in climbing back out now.
The die is cast. The ship has sailed. The bridge is burned. The writing is on the wall. The jelly has set.
No turning back.
There's a strange dichotomy in being a progressive recluse.
And it's just been sitting there, so I thought I'd begin afresh with something new. Something strange. But I lost confidence before the end of the first sentence.
I'm struggling here. I have been for a while.
But perhaps there's mileage in those first four words. Perhaps I can produce several bite-sized ideas in quick succession and fill up the page.
***
Imagine a world where children are at war with the elderly. The children would win. They would be cruel, vicious, energetic, ruthless, annoying. The wiser elderly would kill some children in traps (Lego beneath a dangling bomb), but the children would win in the end.
They'd be happy. They'd grow up happy. They'd know they were winners. They'd know they were stronger.
But they would age. And the stronger would grow weaker. And soon they would find themselves on the other side of the great divide. The war would not have ended. The war would never end.
The new younger generation would be crueller, viciouser, energeticer, ruthlesser, annoyinger. The new elderly would try the same Lego-based traps (though the Lego would be licensed, branded, tied into the latest pop culture craze), but they would no longer work because the new children can hack into bombs now and stop them dangling.
The elderly would die. The young would laugh in triumph. And the cycle would begin again.
Everyone from the ages of eighteen to sixty-nine would just sit there and watch the whole disaster, knowing that they were once evil. And that they could do nothing to stop themselves becoming evil again.
***
Imagine a world where no-one was interested in dinosaurs. We'd know about them, but we just wouldn't care. We'd find bones and shrug. Jurassic Park would never have been written or adapted. Museums would have to rearrange things.
People would still be quite interested in Godzilla. He's not exactly a dinosaur. But people would be less interested in him.
The Flintstones would still be on, but the fictional world would be a bit less rich.
***
Imagine a world where the Heimlich maneuver was a famous battle strategy from a poor later-season episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
The episode would even be called 'The Heimlich Maneuver'. It would be pretty terrible. It would feature Worf or Kira finding out about an ancient gambit that could help an outnumbered ship destroy all its opponents by shimmying back and forth in a little dance. Seriously, it would be total dogshit.
And they'd say that it was because they were rushed for time because of production issues and the writers' strike, but even so... There would be a bit at the end where Odo and Sisko play basketball and a bowl of punch falls on Morn's head. Like, it would sound good, but the execution would be totally off.
A series low.
Imagine a world where despite this seeming like a reference to a specific real-life thing, it actually wasn't. You don't have to imagine.
***
Imagine a world where there was a dynamic, progressive politician called Adrian. Far-fucking-fetched.
***
Imagine a world where the afterlife only lasted for an hour.
You'd have time to realise you were dead, and to say hello to all of your loved ones. You would be pressed for time. It would be a bit of a scrum, to be honest.
Everyone who has ever died would arrive there at the same time, and there would only be an hour for people to accept their fate and settle their affairs. Some people would probably freak out, so someone has to deal with them.
I don't know if it would be everyone together, or if there would be sections.
Imagine an afterlife where there are two sections: one for people with surnames beginning A-M, and one for those with surnames beginning N-Z.
If you wanted to say goodbye to someone whose surname was in the other section, you could arrange it, but it would involve a lot of forms. It probably wouldn't be worth it.
When the hour was nearly up, there would be a countdown, just like New Year's Eve. People would count in their own languages. Some of the dead people would have come from a time before language developed (or surnames, for that matter), so the countdown would confuse them.
Then everything would go blank, and that would be it.
Imagine a world where that, smart guy.
***
It worked. Those four words have given me an entire raft of ideas. And they have hopefully entertained you, dear reader.
I might eat a cereal bar now.
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