Deadbeats

And there we have it. Well, there the UK has it anyway (although as it’s co-funded by C.B.C., no doubt our token colonial will have it on his maple leaf shaped screen soon enough; ignoring the fact that, with the rife torrent network anyone in the world with a broadband connection — say someone in Spain… ahem — can now watch whatever television their browser favours). So, what do we think?

I know that Thomson The Design — my frequent sounding board in matters Who related — has his reservations, but the general feeling here in Casa Deadbeats was that we have another interesting show to occupy us for the next few months. It wasn’t perfect of course, no show is from the word go in my experience. It takes time for a cast of characters to build into something we care about. Let’s not forget quite how… fine Doctor Who seemed when its first episode screened a couple of years back. Impressive, yes but nothing compared to what was to come. There seems to me a huge amount of potential to Torchwood, some nice dialogue, rounded characters and a premise that opens up storytelling possibilities with consummate ease.

The second episode was a little hampered by its sex driven plot — Bruve felt the ‘lesbian snogging’ gratuitous, we boys refused to comment; although the wanking club owner was televisual gold on our sofa, three boys of varied ages laughing like drains — and showed that Chris Chibnall has a good ear for voices, which is always the most important thing in my book.

I interviewed Chris for the LOM book and we talked of Torchwood (he’s more involved story-wise than Russel T. Davies in many ways) and I was convinced then that the show would be in safe hands. His enthusiasm and understanding of TV drama with a fantastical edge was unerring and a splendid, anorak-y conversation was had.

Let’s just hope it’s successful because, not only will it provide another interesting diversion for a Sunday night it’s also another step towards getting genre television thriving again here in the UK — and Matthew Graham is being no slouch in this department either, his recently announced Life On Mars sequel being only the tip of this man’s fantastical iceberg.

It’s getting to the point that a resolute fantasist may have places to tell the stories he likes and get paid doing it.

Beats the shit out of writing for Casualty.

So then… FantasyCon.

Yeah. Well all would have been well were it not for the pernicious biological malingerer washed from some soft-drink pump into the unsuspecting gullet of your gentle author.

I missed most of it you see. Hunched fœtal in a hotel room smaller than dimensional physics should allow within the auspices of ‘twin’. I lost the plot sometime late Saturday afternoon, hit suddenly by intense gut-stabbing and nausea (oh yes, all the usual evacuations would follow over the next thirty-six hours have no fear of that; I would be incapable of retaining anything in the darkness that was to follow) and wouldn’t come out of ‘the fug’ of it all properly until 4:00 am Monday morning — five hours before my flight home.

It started well enough though. After a fond farewell to Bruve and the Boys (with a promise to return home extracted under physical duress and the judicious application of a cut-throat razor and a splintering pair of castanets) I flew my EasyJet way to Nottingham East-Midlands, riding out churning turbulence with a copy of The Reckoning by Sarah Pinborough (knowing she’d be at the Con I thought it only fair to finish it before arrival if only so I could rip the piss out of her for it; supportive like that, me). I nearly used it to bludgeon the sundry tossers that kept trying to sell me things during the flight (the trade off with ‘no frills’ it would seem — the fuckers don’t leave you alone: scratch cards, perfume, a Ginsters Pasty for three christing pounds fifty) but decided that tempers may still be thin in these ‘terrorist’ times.

Once down, and safe a taxi ride sees you at The Brittania Hotel in St. James Street. I managed to beat Thompson to it despite the fact that I gave myself what I like to think of as a fair handicap (starting in an entirely different country). Useless girl.

Once Her Ladyship had arrived and we’d checked that the books had been delivered (our stock for the weekend was being shipped by Parcel Force as Thompson was travelling by train) we decided that the only professional thing to do was go and stay in the bar for the rest of the evening — we did spend a while behind the Dealer’s Table at one point, but soon returned as our throats grew dry. Health first.

A splendid night was had in the company of such joyous folk as: Mark Morris (author of Toady from Humdrumming as well as many other superb novels - including Nowhere Near an Angel which I’ve finished since returning and suggest all discerning readers pick up), Pete Crowther (head of PS Publishing and Northern Gent), Graham Joyce, The Aforementioned Pinborough, Tim Lebbon, Steve Gallagher (it says so much that my last contact with this lovely chap was when I sent a picture of an Octogenarian with her tits out to him pretending it was Bruve; I am truly a Man of Letters) Adam L.G. Nevill (Gentleman Perv) and Kevin Mullins (Just Perv).

All was glorious, Humdrumming has a schedule planned for the next year — I believe the only way to strike such deals is with beer in hand — with some of the above names and I was very much on a high come bedtime.

I was also surprisingly sober.

Saturday morning, chipper and filling my face with the usual wilting bacon and cardboard toast that hotels do so well, Lee and I made ourselves ready for a ‘proper’ day of business. We had prepared some nice promotional things for the launch of Toady and Garry Kilworth’s In the Country of Tattooed Men, a sampler that looked like a school exercise book (Starmouth Secondary from the fictional world of Toady) containing short stories by Mark, Garry and myself as well as ‘Horror Club’ badges and a pack of temporary Humdrumming tattoos. They went down extremely well, causing lots of good intentioned jealousy from Pete. The spare packs of these are going to be given away by Shocklines — the prestigious US Horror bookstore.

James Christie came over for a couple of hours, as did Steve Newman (Lee and I were introduced to his new lady; poor woman, she’s probably stopped crying now).

I drank a Coke.

All were quick to remind me how popular my launch speech had been the year before and were fascinated to know if I could match it for this year. No pressure.

The Coke did bad things.

Soft drinks had been off at the bar for awhile, some problem with the pump apparently. The pint I’d downed had been a bit flat, but it was wet and cold and I was too busy or thirsty to care.

I started to sweat.

Lee and I decided that we should get some food before the evening kicked off so we strolled into town, all the while my stomach stabbing and churning. Hopefully, I thought, a bit of food would settle it.

Ten minutes later I was dashing back to the hotel, convinced I was going to throw up in the near future. In the lobby I bumped into Clive Barker — a genuine hero and someone I had a business proposition for but had yet to get him on his own to discuss. Here he was, stepping out the lift. “Hey”, he said, all Trans-Atlantic smiles and approachability. “Hey”, I replied, deciding that throwing-up on a best-selling author is never a way of endearing oneself. Racing up in the lift, swearing at the bastard for being so slow, furious that I’d had my perfect ‘in’ with Barker but was in no fit state to use it. I made it to the room bathroom on time and had my body beaten up from the inside. Muscles straining, twitching, tears in my eyes, abject bloody misery.

All the time keeping my eye on the time as the book launch was in less than an hour.

After a couple of abortive attempts to leave the room I finally got down there with a couple of minutes to spare, apologised to Lee and Mark for the exercise in brevity they were about to hear and — after being introduced as “our insane friends from Humdrumming”; they’ll be calling us bloody ‘zany’ next — managed a few minutes of nonsense involving Mark’s addiction to the lethal by-products of the brewing process found in the outlet pipes of his local Tadcaster breweries and promptly shut up. Bit of an anti-climax for all, really.

I tried to hang around, everyone was grabbing a curry and, hoping that whatever had been wrong with my system was now well and truly out of it, I was determined to have my Saturday night.

An hour later and I’m back in my room for one of the longest, most painful and feverish nights I can remember.

Lee had fun though - he may well flesh out this part of the weekend himself, drinking games and barfly debates — but I remember little of it. Even water made my stomach roll before flooding back out again. It was desperate.

I grabbed a few hours of Sunday. I covered Lee for an hour in the Dealers’ Room while he tried to get over his hangover, met Mark’s family briefly and then vanished back upstairs where I lost consciousness again until the Award Ceremony.

It’s no great surprise that we didn’t win, both Mark and I were nominated (he for the aforementioned Nowhere Near an Angel) but we could see that the competition was harsh and — more to the point — the predictable winner in each of our categories was a ’shoo-in’, so we agreed that we were both silver medallists in the absence of proof to the contrary and clapped in all the right places.

I did manage a brief word with The Lord Barker — covering my fever sweats well, one presumes — which hopefully will lead to something interesting but vanished swiftly back upstairs again.

Knowing I still had to forward my return flight details to Bruve, book a taxi, and sort out various paperwork things with Lee, I was determined not to space out straight away but — worse than ever — I crashed and didn’t resurface until four the following morning feeling the best I had so far.

So, an early morning of planning and much water drinking and before you know it I’m back here in Spain. Back to final deadlines and — I shit you not — some form of bloody cold virus!

Just about had enough now, thank you. Could some kind soul please point to exactly where it was my health went?

Ah well, there’s always Toronto…

Gx

‘Ad ‘er. With butter for lube. She came like a shitting rhino.

Evening children and how are we all?

Took this charming lady — who will never know what I just said about her but it’s oh so tempting to knock on her door and explain to her one night — in Moraira a couple of nights ago. Haven’t managed to eat a decent meal in the town yet. Two meals out and both stinkers. Not that I judge a place by its restaurants you understand but… yeah… bit shite. Had a Carbonara last night that I suspect to have passed through the digestive tract of a goat before reaching my table. Unfortunate. Steps will be taken.

Bruve and I did, however meet a stray kitten who is now known as ‘Plumduff High-Pockets’ in our head because it sounds good. Nearly took him home with us but we were good. Next time.

We went up to the boy’s school the other day too. Everyone’s surprisingly normal. I have no doubt that all of the peroxide crazies that cued up with us at the school shop (to buy bits of uniform and such) have homes filled with butt-plugs and nipple attachments that link to car batteries but they seemed so fucking normal y’know? By God, but Parent Teacher evenings should prove interesting. The governors have no idea what they’ve taken on with us two. The boys on the other hand should cause no trouble at all.

Seem to have beaten the mosquitoes, little pussies have no staying power.

Gx

So then my gentle folks, here I am, warmed over by an August Spanish sun; bleached by pool dipping. Still in expatriate limbo right now, tapping this from an internet café in Calpe (south of Valencia, north of Alicante). Tomorrow should see me in my permanent-for-the-next-six-months-or-so residence and a viable office and broadband connection should follow relatively quickly. It’s hot but good, the lizards are well mannered, the beer is cold, and the mountains beautiful. There will be photos aplenty as and when I am in the position to upload them have no fear and I shall do my best to bring a little of the continent to your eyes. The image here comes from Thompson’s Blog, taken during our ‘leaving night’.

Life On Mars approaches completion — it would approach it a lot sooner if some bastard would let Thompson interview Phil Glenister and John Simm! — and the horizon begins to broaden. Deadbeat went and got itself shortlisted for the BFS “Best Novella” award didn’t it? Beating both Simon Clark and any offering from Telos (the company it was originally pitched for) so I’m surprised but pleased. Mark Morris (shortlisted for “Best Novel” with Nowhere Near an Angel) and I have agreed to get mucho drunk in celebration or commiseration come award night.

I fancy writing something big.

Just a random thought that came to me in the pool…

More in a couple of days.

Love to all of you bastards.

Gx

So anyway, as I was saying…

Many times I’ve strayed close to making some sort of post here and yet the sight of three grown men circling in blog logic was so entrancing I hated to interrupt.

But no more.

Been busy. Get over it.

Humdrumming has over forty books scheduled for the next eighteenth months — some of which are allegedly down to me to write which seems both unfair and unrealistic but I’ll try and make it work.

Myself and Thompson The Design are working freelance for Kudos Film & Television producing books based on their shows (Life On Mars and Hustle). The plan is simple: we create them, they flog ‘em to the highest bidder.

We’re also looking at other spin off products: Mugs, Calenders, T-Shirts, Vaginal Douches…

It’s a living.

Oh yes. Really. For I turn full time hack in two months and counting…

Somewhere in there I returned to acting (one show only you’ll be pleased to hear), decided to emigrate and got engaged to the ever patient Debruvio.

Average few months really. Nothing to get excited about.

Okay, filthy assistants, resume your rambling…

Gx

Zut Alors!

Originally uploaded by theycallhimgibbles.

Ho Ho Ho [Repeat ’til Fade]All change. Tomorrow I shall be a ripe and fruity thirty years of age. Send me Frankincense. 2006 is upon us and, while normally I give not a Tinker’s Wank for such New Year musings, this year will be different. This is the year of change, the year of upheaval. Over the next four months or so it is unquestionable that I will have relocated, sold the ‘nine-to-five’ business that has covered my back when the real world won’t take good reviews for payment, and started on a track that will make my life by this time next year somewhat unrecognisable. This is daunting. This is the stuff upon which arse shattering fear is built. However, it must and shall be done.

Book-wise, this is the year of whoring the words upon an undemanding public. More Than This in particular has emerged as a book that I am finally immensely proud of and one that I’m content to ram down the throat of anyone who’ll help me make a noise about it. Time to start shouting a little.

Still to come are the second and third in the “Deadbeat” series (Dogs of Waugh and Old Bones respectively), my book on playing Holmes — I’m holding off on that until I have a satisfactory way of launching it, I have plans but thus far that’s all they are — and a collection of short stories.

Because I can.

Hmm… Best get on with it then hadn’t I?

Happy New Thing. Enjoy breaking every damn one of your resolutions.

Gx