Deadbeats

So… yeah… big contract fell through and I am now officially poor. Can’t be specific right now because not everybody involved actually knows so it would be bad protocol but most of you that are aware of my plans of late can probably guess anyway (and that doesn’t mean ’shout out the specifics in the comments section’, my lovely dears, for the reasons outlined above).

So. I’m back to the drawing board as far as a career is concerned through until March when Book Two of LOM offers another cheque in my direction.

All is not lost, there are a few possibilities, a few ideas. What’s that? You want specifics? Oh…

Okay then. I’ve got a really nice kid’s book idea that’s been brewing since I went snorkelling off the coast of my closest town a couple of months back. If one were to take The Water Babies, Stig of the Dump and Amando Ossorio’s Return of the Blind Dead and mix ‘em all up you would be close to the plot that bubbles in my head. My current editor has offered to put me in touch with the children’s editor at S&S so I shall remain foolishly optimistic.

Until the restraining order…

One of the writers I met through working on the LOM book has recently set up their own production company and has promised to have a meeting down the line with a view to me pitching a few scripts. I shall therefore look forward to my TV début (as a writer of course, who can forget my halcyon acting days? Emmerdale, Where the Heart is… Where would the pleasure start?).

Right up until they throw me out of the office for wasting their time…

There still, in fact, seems a degree of enthusiasm for Deadbeat as a piece of Telly, so I look forward to bringing that particular vision to the screen.

Right up until they cast Dick and Dom in the main roles and change the club to a Jelly Bean factory in Leeds. Because they think their demographic would prefer it that way…

Also on the go: the makings of a Giallo story that may be a short novel, a particularly eerie novella called “Last Train Home” and a short story influenced by Lon Chaney, Sr.

A writer’s life, conflicted but never dull.

Gx

Most upset. That little snot William Grantham (aged 9) won the Blue Peter “Design a Doctor Who Monster” Competition, the grand prize being the realization of his design into the series. Here it is, Peter Kay as ‘The Abzorbaloff‘ due to air next Saturday in the episode titled “Love and Monsters“.

It was a bloody fix I tell you. I had the competition nailed. My creation, a handsome young actor/writer who sought world domination by repeatedly attacking Billie Piper with his cock would have been a major asset to the pantheon of monstrous creations the series has birthed over its 43 years. Someone must have bribed that Scot Git Tennant not to pick it, it was blatantly the best entry and I would have happily played the part myself to save on budget.

So there I am, several hours of wakefulness on the wrong side of a pathological hatred for all mankind, when it has a go at me…

IT (too damn hateful for a personal pronoun) has got a problem with me smoking… in a smoking area.

Immense physical tiredness and slight cramps are nudging me towards psychosis and some daft sod wants to up the ante.

Now let me be clear here, I like to consider myself a ’sensitive’ smoker - aware of those around me, happy to reasonably temper my habit for the sake of others in my presence. But, the absurdity of someone going out of their way in order to give a smoker a hard time is quite beyond by ability to rationalize. It’s rude, pointless, aggravating and, potentially, rather dangerous, I am, after all, a man on ‘borrowed time’ as she is only too happy to remind me, would you really antagonize a man with nothing to lose? For all she knows I may well snap and do something destructive to her wizened bulldog’s arse of a face, you know… just for fun; hooligan smoker that I am. The temptation was strong but, exhausted, I was beyond the physical ability to act.

If this had been Heathrow, with its smoker’s section reminiscent of a waiting room in Soylent Green, fading yellow people puffing voluminous clouds, the air of fatalism as thick as the nicotine stains on the formica; I may well have killed her… driven temporarily insane by my surroundings. But this is Singapore and they do things better here. I am in the ‘Sunflower Garden’, my dry and desperate skin being slowly revived by the ‘tropical mist’ that is sprayed from chrome pillars onto our bodies, the heat and brightness of the early morning sun forcing we night journeymen to shed layers and add sunglasses.

She is lucky, I am away from my cramped airplane seat, a cappuccino sweet and frothing in one hand a duty-free American Marlboro in the other. I am reduced to simple pleasures, basic lusts, these two are better than sex to me right now and all I need to survive the hour’s wait before my next flight is silence on the part of this dreadful creature.

“I’m a mother!” she cries, waving her hand in front of her nose with no less energy than had someone just taken a healthy dump on her hairy upper lip. This piece of logic has me stumped. We (for there’s a reasonable crowd of us fuming deviants by now) assume - against the evidence of our own eyes - that this aging beast is pregnant, then she clarifies: “I have children!”

Right… this… thing… has reproduced and that is why we should cease our habit this very instant. Presumably in deference to the fates that allowed someone to find this harridan attractive enough to indulge in physical contact beyond stabbing at it with sharpened sticks.

Then we meet one of these hallowed offspring, male, early thirties - doomed to be crucified upon a Sunflower unless he stops the exaggerated ‘puffing’ smoker mime he’s performing for us with all the bravura ludicrousness of an idiot child teasing animals in the zoo. It must be genetic - this incredible and mind numbing arrogance and insensitivity. I was (and still am) utterly at a loss to explain this woman’s immense attitude problem - I wish I could say that she was mentally ill in some form, ranting and insulting those gathered with all the unfortunate abandon of a Tourettes sufferer. Truth is, she was absolutely rational, just another ignorant member of an increasingly belligerent and hostile society.

The ultimate irony is that I have decided to give up smoking. Partly due to the fact that I really cannot put it off for any longer (like many smokers, I always felt I would stop soon… it’s picking the precise time that’s hard) and partly out of the realization that If I ever meet this woman again I’d love to have sufficient energy in my body and air in my lungs to give the cow a run for her money.

G.

Spread the love, it’s good for your skin:

	Listen to: Reality - David Bowie Because I’m a fanboy, obviously, I mean, c’mon, this is Bowie… why weren’t you cueing to buy it on the day of release?.
	Read: Batman: Arkham Asylum - Grant Morrison Probably the first thing I read by Mr. Morrison, certainly not the last. Took the Batman character and proceeded to make him genuinely interesting for 96 pages. Also features the sublime artwork of Dave McKean, more about whom next week I think…
	Watch: Bill Hicks - Totally [1994] Or, indeed, any other video or album you can get your hands on, probably THE best stand-up comedian to come out of America. Painfully funny, also gifted with being opinioned AND right, not always easy. Died like a martyr ten years ago.