Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips - Things You Could Be Doing Instead of Writing

According to statistics I'm just about to make up, struggling writers spend up to three hours a day, for fifteen years either writing stuff that nobody else will ever read, or procrasturbating - that is employing some delaying tactic, most usually wanking, or recovering from wanking, in order to postpone the activity of writing.

That's urm, 3 times seven times 52 times fifteen hours of your life. Or

16380 hours. Or 682 days. Or two years, roughly.

That's sixteen thousand three hundred and eighty hours spent on a futile exercise that only makes you feel as worthless as ...insert your own analogy here. In fact, let's have an analogy competition. Write how writing aspirationally makes you feel - but nothing inflammatory - creationists are people, too. As is Bono, I think.

So, I've started to think what else I could be doing with that time.

For starters, I don't want to procrasturbate any more. I don't want to feel guilty, thinking I should be doing something else. I want to bring out the scented candles, and the oils, put on the Barry White and Motorhead mix tape and treat myself to a posh wank. I want to allocate valid time for it, not pump furiously away, with my top lip hugging my nostrils, scorning myself for not developing my protagonist.

Whilst I'm at it I'm going to learn a new language. I've got two ideas for this. I don't want to learn French or Spanish. I realise that this would probably open up half the world to me, as would Chinese, but fuck that, I want to be individual. They, like my future wife, can come later. Not that she would come later when we were making love (although she probably would. In trying to ensure synchronicity I would get too excited and exclaim my liquid apology. That's what happens when I watch clips, anyway. Don't worry though, I would rub her off afterwards).

I'm going to learn either sign language or Estonian.Why Estonian? Because no-one speaks Estonian, that's why. I'm going to dedicate one year of my life to learning it, then I'm going to book a holiday in Tallinn, act like a stupid English tourist then, BAAAAM! I'm going to pull it out the bag and blow them out the water. By the time my holiday ends I will probably be working in the embassy and married to seven beautiful women. Do they have polygamy in Estonia?

Then I'm moving on to sign language. Imagine yourself in a cafe, surrounded by deaf people, wondering what they're saying. Then you realise, holy shit, I do know what they're saying! You can turn round with a funny and that's it, you're friends for life! Plus, my neighbour is deaf, and he's also a cunt, and I really want to tell him to fuck off.

I'm also going to learn a cool trick to do in the pub, like that card thing Bill Murray does in Groundhog Day. I'm going to allocate one hour every day to learning a skillful thing to do with bottles, glasses and beer mats. And I'm going to learn jazz guitar, and foraging, so that when Armageddon kicks off I can go into the woods with my Rambo knife and find sustenance for my Estonian family.

Aside from this I'm going to chill out. I'm going to relax about the fact that I'm just a random organic organism who happens to be cognizant at this moment in history. Objectively my existence has practically no value. I am not a butterfly and I have no wings to flap and cause an earthquake in Peking. But I still have relationships with people, and I'm going to treat these with the obsession that has previously been paid to trying to get out of writing. I'll almost certainly get it wrong at first and be one of those fake smiling nobheads, but with enough counselling I could be a good friend to someone.

But if you just can't shake off the writing bug then I would say stop reading tips, stop being neurotic, stop seeing it as the be all and end all, stop running from one idea to another second guessing what the industry wants, stop thinking about all the money you're going to make and how it's going to change everything and make it all OK, stop thinking about the actress you're going to marry.

Stop writing. For three months.Just write down thoughts you have about the world, about your life and the way you see it.Think about what makes you passionate.

Then write about it.

Writing is art and it's about converting how you see the world into something meaningful to others. Don't cheapen it by turning it into anything else.

Friday, 2 December 2011

High Concepts - The Curse of the Great Unknown

Oh my God, I've just woken up with an idea so fantastic both my ears are full up with love juice.

By fantastic I mean beautiful, high concept sci-fi that could be sold to someone in two sentences - and it would get sold.

So now I feel like the goose that laid the golden egg. Only I haven't laid anything, I'm vaginally constipated - not that geese have vaginas, or arseholes, they actually have cloacas, which are one hole does everything sets of genitals. Pretty sure my ex was 90% goose.

What do I do? OK, for me it's a golden ovum, eggbound up my creative cloaca, but for some other cunt, probably with industry contacts, it's already several cells big. I guarantee that if I do nothing I can look forward to seeing my idea on the screen within five years.

Do I spend six months squeezing this fanciful oospore down my denotative cervix, only to sit on it like an legless penguin, not knowing what the shit to do with it? Or do I just say fuck it, I'll leave it to the other guy and get on with something so out there no other mind could possibly have conceived it?

Because if I choose the former then I'm going to have a prolapse every time I check industry boards, every time I see the cinema listings, every time I talk to someone, waiting to see it already in print, or worse, on film.

If I had just one contact that I could pitch to, who understood that I twitch and that my arms are no longer mine when I'm nervous, then all would be well, but we live in a world of social eugenics. These foibles put people off.

I wrote an enquiry letter to a production company the other day, but got so nervous I wrote cunt instead of my name and pinged it off before I could stop myself.

Fuck it, I'm going to bash it out and put it through Terry Gilliam's letter box.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Cool People Don't Use Exclamation Marks

Have you ever written a pithy sentence and got to the end and thought "I want to leave it with a full stop, but I am not brave enough, I may piss people off, I'll end it with an exclamation mark, that way they will see the smile on my face?"!

Listen, if you want to get ahead in life and make as many friends as possible then the exclamation mark is your best friend - every time you make an inane announcement on facebook or twitter then you need to add at least five of those stiff little fucks to the end of it!!!!!

But it's the cowards way out. Do you think Tom Selleck, as Magnum P.I. would ever think of using a fucking exclamation mark? Which of these do you think Dirty Harry, if he were writing his autobiography, would write?

"Blew that dirty fuck's face off."

"Blew that dirty fuck's face off!!! LOL!"

If you write what's on your mind leave it as intended, with a fucking full stop at the end of it.

Saturday, 19 November 2011

The Fun of Script Pitching Events

Good afternoon Gartholomites and random travellers of cyberspace!

As you know my challenge is nearly up - in a month and a half one word is going to be scrubbed from the heading of this blog. Either I'm not going to be aspiring any more, or I'm not going to be a screenwriter any more.
So, when I saw an opportunity to attend an industry pitching event at my local university I thought - this is it Garth - this is what you have been waiting for. They are going to hear your idea, and be so overcome all hands are going to migrate below their lofty panel table, launching an almighty wank fest.

Didn't quite go according to plan.

Firstly, the morning kicked off with a chat by a producer on the pitfalls of writing. Actually, the day didn't start like that, the day started with everyone piled into the uni cafe for networking teas and coffees. So, lots of us enjoyed that. There's nothing a group of writers enjoy more than being in a room with other writers who we don't know. I believe the collective noun is a fucking awkward silence of writers. Or a twitching collective of angles. That doesn't work because it doesn't include the word writer.Anyway -

Then we were treated to a couple of hours of chat by a couple of professional TV writers, who were lovely, but churning out the same old shit everyone had heard before on auto-pilot. I guess when you have a group of mixed abilities there are only so many truths you can spout and only so much wisdom you want to impart to potential competition.

Only my social awkwardness made it memorable. If someone mentions something taboo, or whatever, in a public space I act like I'm guilty. I remember being in school and the headmaster called a special assembly because someone shat themselves and smeared all the poo over the walls. Looking back I can admire the early pioneering spirit of the inventor of the dirty protest, but anyway, when we were all sat there and the headmaster said - who amongst you wiped defecant all over the toilet walls? - I went bright red - so much so he singled me out - was it you, Jenkins? I feverishly shook my head in denial, but by then I had pooed myself with fright and anxiety, which wasn't really the best defense. In a similar vein, the TV writers said 'write about what you know - unless you're really perverted', at which point everyone laughed, except me -my arm twitched moronically, slapping myself in the face. That's everyone behind me now alienated.

Then we all put our names into a hat with three to be chosen to pitch an idea at the industry panel, boasting film-makers, writers, commissioning editors etc.

Three? Just three? That's a bit shit, isn't it?

So we're all told to network again for half an hour and meet in a lecture theatre for the pitch event. I grab a tea and run outside for a smoke.

Back in the pitching room and we're all expectant, with the panel sat on a long table at the front, like the head table of the British royal wedding.

The host grabs the hat 'so who's it going to be?' I feel like it's time to pick teams at school P.E. again.

First name gets called - it's not mine. Doesn't matter - two to go.

Next one - some student - what's the fucking point of that?

Last name called out - not mine again. Shit! I want to get up, stamp my feet and call the person a cunt - but she's a wheelchaired lady to my right and, as it turns out, she was the best pitcher.

The first couple get up to pitch and I'm feeling forsaken. They start to talk- it's about child abuse- great - my fucking syndrome kicks in again and I've jerked my cup of tea all over myself. That's the rest of the room alienated.

And their idea was shit, as was the other one. I had to sit there, with what I knew was a great idea, watching a couple of bozos fumbling around like disaffected teenagers at a Playboy party. Everyone in the room knew they didn't have a sniff of a chance. In another fucking universe I could be making a pitch that changes my life, but not in this one, oh no. This is not my universe, this is some cunt's universe, who doesn't even know my name. There's no-one looking out for me - I'm on my own, we all are.

So I'm not leaving it to chance any more, waiting for my name to randomly get picked out of a hat, because it fucking ain't - I'm taking taking charge of my destiny - it's the only way.

I'm off to kidnap the head of Channel 4, whoever the fuck that is.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Life's Too Short - a Real Time Review (may contain a shitload of spoilers)

Ok, I know it's a bit on the late side, but I'm finally get round to watching the latest offering from everyone's favourite cunt, Ricky Gervais.

To celebrate I thought I would do a real time, stream of consciousness review of episode one.

What am I expecting? Well, we all know that Gervais has based his entire career on the scene from Spinal Tap containing the immortal line-

"It's such a fine line between stupid and... clever".

Remorselessly mined with the interpretation 'do what you like, as long as you angle the presentation so that the joke aimed at the disadvantaged is thrust back on to the audience in an ironic act of genius'. Oh yes Gervais, we fucking sussed you long ago, matey boy.

Therefore, I'm expecting scenes such as this one, set at the circus. A convicted pedophile is in the audience - Stephen Merchant recognizes him from the paper and gets a good view, owing to his hilarious height, and calls out to the police, who charge over, hoping to nab him before he can get his mittens on. But there's no way - he's practically out the door.

It's over to Warwick Davis - the only man who can save the day. He selflessly and hilariously climbs his diminutive frame into a cannon and fires himself across the stage, aiming to bring down the molesting bastard.

Or maybe I'm doing Ricky a disservice, and I should stress at this point that everything he has ever done I have found fucking hilarious. Anyway, enough bollocks, let's watch this bitch!

Starts out with Warwick walking through a city centre, with some cuts of films he's been in - a cut out ewok - quick flash of a Princess Leia poster - my God, I forgot how good those bangers were. Back in a minute.

Ah, Warwick is playing an arrogant son of a bitch version of himself - what a fantastic switch! The wee guy with the big ego - let's knock him down a peg or two using visually humiliating imagery- shouldn't be too hard, he's already most of the way there, eh Ricky! BAAAAM! If you want me on your writing team, I am currently available. Unless I'm working the checkout, of course.

Two and a half minutes in and he's still introducing himself-  man, he must be sooooo conceited - oh hang on - he's getting out of his massive Range Rover - yep - he's fallen out HA HA HA HA!! Fuckin' brilliant! He deserved that, the tiny arrogant prick!

Five minutes in, and Warwick mentions being fired out of a cannon - can it be? Is that telegraphing a later scene?

Warwick is good, very good. He's in his big swanky house, still introducing himself. Points out the heels in the hall are not his, good one, points out his wedding photo - "Sue had to lose a lot of weight to wear that dress. Not as much as I'd have liked, but enough to get into her dead mum's dress". Fuck me, I bet that scene took three days - they must've been dying on set.

In the kitchen, even his dog, Chewbacca ignores him, oh no! His wife comes in - oh no they're separated - he shouldn't even be in the house! She claims he left her, thinking he could do better in Hollywood, he denies it, whilst stressing that he could have done better if he had wanted to. His character is starting to sound quite familiar...

Blah, blah, wife gags, he's Manning Lite now. CUT TO:

He's outside some flats or something, walking up some steps. Oh no! He can't reach the buzzers! A ha ha ha! He gets a passer by to buzz it for him. Oh, it's Ricky Gervais's flat - and he can't hear him down there - he thinks there's nobody there - Warwick laughs it off. Glad someone can. He gets a passer-by, who happens to be black, to speak into the intercom for him. But he's unsympathetic -he's never heard of him - that's not right - they are both minorities aren't they - good one Ricky, keeping it real and totally counter expectation there. Some comedy gold here, culminating with the passer by announcing Warwick as Warren Davis - fuckin' A!

Inside the flat and Ricky Gervais is sat at a swanky glass table with his comedy sidekick Stephen Merchandise (see how funny it is when you get the name slightly wrong - it implies a total lack of respect on my part towards Mr Merchant!) Curiously, Ricky comes across as a right cunt - he doesn't think much of Warwick - thought he made the buzzer high enough to put him off coming round. Warwick has a thick enough skin to brush it off. He comes clean - he needs work - have they got any? No. Talk about the impending divorce and Warwick starts discussing their sex life - how he always saw to her needs - TooMuchInformation Warwick - who would want that image in their heads - there's only one thing worse than an image of a dwarf fucking a respectably attractive normally sized woman - and that's a thousand Miss World winners eating shit out of a single, gigantic cup.

Oh, he bumps into that cunt from Eastenders who was in Extras - awesome! Is he going to sing? Not yet, no.But he is doing Ricky and Steve's laundry. Very good. Moving on.

Hires an assistant or something. Has no choice -she's the only candidate!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Next, and to his accountant's office. Jesus, this guy is a cunt, too! Who would've thought it - he is a shit, apathetic anus - didn't see that coming, fuck! He can't even do simple math - bloody brilliant! Absolutely disingenuous, predictable, forced, humourless crap.

Back at Ricky and Steve's office, to more resistance. Oh, hang on - here comes Liam Neeson for a cameo - he wants to be a stand up and he needs their help. He's anal in this universe and he's made a list of things he wants to cover - he claims that's why he was cast in Schindler's List: -
"Steven, I love making lists"
"That's exactly what I'm looking for" replies Spielberg.

HAA! That is a genuine laugh, by the way - that is a bloody good gag, and Neeson's dead pan delivery is spot on. They run through some improvised comedy - each time Neeson brings it back to AIDS, contracting it from an African prostitute, or T*& C$%^&* a bleeped out Hollywood actor. This is a very funny scene - but Warwick is marginalised and it feels like an aside.

Now we're back to Warwick, packing his suitcase, preparing for single life, or something, and we're expected to laugh at him using the expression dipping my wick. In women, he makes clear - he is not a homosexual.

He leaves the house, dragging his suitcase along the driveway and we're done.

Almost certainly.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Movember - Christmas Come Early

Am I the only one who's a little suspicious about the true motivations of the moustachiooed Movemberons?

For those who don't know, Movember is an annual event wherein normally clean shaven, or unimaginatively bearded men grow a moustache for the duration of the month of November to raise money for male related health causes, chiefly testicular and prostrate cancer funds.

Which, in itself is admirable, and I'm certainly not going to slate. However...

Don't expect me to buy the "oh no, I've going to look like a nobhead for a month, but not to worry, it's for a good cause" - you all fucking love it.

For a start we can right off 85-92% of entrants, as they are going to grow handlebar moustaches, which are a bit of a cop out, and not really the point of the exercise, which is surely to look a complete tool.

If you are going to do it, do it properly, do not grow anything that could be construed as something someone would legitimately want on their face. Grow a moustache that you would only ever see on the face of a felcher or train spotter.

But even this belies the real, underlying truth.

Moustaches are cool. That's right, moustaches are cool. They are the ultimate symbol of manhood. Every man secretly knows this. His heart yearns to grow one every day of his fucking life. He dreams of sporting a Selleck and going into the bookies, putting down a disastrous bet and fighting an Irishman. Why can't I? Who the fuck decided that they are shit? Fuck you all, I want one! But the pressure is too much. I can't goddam it, I'm not powerful enough.

Because nothing shows your lack of strength like a moustache. You can cover a troubling torso with a baggy shirt, but a moustache reveals the true properties of a man.

Who is that guy over there with the moustache? I don't know, but I fear him, with his piercing eyes, and jawline that could plough fields and plunder the seven seas. What about that weasel over there, with the fungalised caterpiller on his top lip? He makes a mockery of the tache - look how it accentuates his massively over large top lip, lack of male hormones such as testosterone and weak, milky chin. He is a human hoverfly, wearing the colours of the wasp, when all know he is nothing but a gnat.

But we all do it, fantasise about being B.L. Stryker, jumping around the house at dawn, whilst the missus is still asleep, knowing it will have to come off before you take in her cup of tea.

But then suddenly someone, a person who has yearned more than any other to grow the noble lip cover, invented the idea of Movember and men the world over rejoiced that, even if it is only for one month of the year, they can grow their moustache and feel like a man. That's all they ever wanted, validation.

So don't feel there is any self-sacrifice involved in Movember - there isn't. Asking a man to sport a moustache for a month is as much a hardship as asking a woman to wear a padded bra.

He's never felt more alive.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips - Nailing the Story Arc

Hola Gartholomites!

As 5 of you will know, last week I tried to write a drama script in eight days, to enter Channel 4's drama writing competition.

As anyone who has ever read this blog will know I didn't make the deadline. I got fifteen pages in and then didn't know what the fuck was going to happen until I got to the end. That's because I went out the night I was supposed to write the story outline, and tried to write it on the wing.

And it taught me a very important lesson. There are two types of writers - those that have an intrinsic sense of story, otherwise known as fairies, elves and creationists, and the rest of us.

Before you write any scenes always make sure you have cracked the story by writing the whole idea as a short story first. This way you can tell if you truly have a beginning, middle and end, with character development. 

Earlier in the year I sent a script in to the bbc's writersroom and just got a standard response - thanks, but no thanks A.K.A. thanks for wasting your time and ours, fuck off.  How dare they - it was genius! So, after my latest failure I went over this past project and got it.

Each scene on its own had something intelligent and well written about it, but when I tried to write the whole thing out as a short story I had to skip the first forty pages! It was all just disparate, waffly bum gas and bile, without any solid stool. I'd spent page after page skirting around the story and putting off an confrontation A.K.A. a literary form of my life, wherein it takes me two hours to decide what jam to buy, even though there are seven empty jars of economy raspberry jam sitting on my bedroom shelf, containing numerous alchemical potions, derived from bodily secretions.

By all means deviate from the narrative of your short story, once you come to sit down and write your script, just make sure that you have the short story outline to deviate from, otherwise you'll spend hours in the john farting and getting backed up, when all you really want is to have a good dump.

Friday, 28 October 2011

Something to Ponder When You're Eating Your Cornflakes

I don't know about you, but when I think of Doctor Kellogg I think of some doddery old fool with teeth like a chipmunk, spouting on about breakfast cereals and clean living.

But that's not the real picture, oh no. Let me just say that it wasn't his idea to put honey and nuts onto cornflakes. He never tasted a honey in his life and his nuts were as much use to him as his appendix or, if I'm being imaginative, an arsehole made out of wasps.

That's right, he was a celibate.

"What the fuck is wrong with that, you cunt?" You say.

"Nothing, you cunts", I reply. "Each to their own. It certainly worked for Nikola Tesla. I very much doubt he would've invented alternating current, which runs the modern world, if he had spent every night squirting and secreting his way through the streets of Serbia. Only some people don't want to leave it there do they? They have to take their personal truth and thrust it on to everyone else. They start knocking on people's fuckin' doors - I know the truth, do you wanna hear it? Urm excuse me? Go back and knock on your own door mister, this is my universe."

Well Kellogg set up his retreat and all and started preaching his own gospel as if it was the only way to do things. Listen Kellogg, not everyone was born with a fuckin face like a panda's scrotum - we all know your abstinance was a pre-emptive strike, but these kids are cool - they have a chance of getting laid. Don't ask them to sew up their foreskins, so that they can't really get erections without considerable personal pain, or recommend strong acids be poured onto a girl's genitals to remove the sensitivity of the clitoris. Just stay in your ivory tower and keep your thoughts to yourself.

Your cornflakes are pretty good though, where can I get some?

What have the gays ever done for us?

Now, I know it's not every man's idea of fun to feel a rock hard cock slowly enter their buttered up anus. That's fine. Of everywhere I can imagine as enjoyable places for a willy to be, my mouth isn't one of them. It's just not my thing.

But it is other people's thing, and I think that's fucking fantastic. The sight of two men, or women, cuddling and holding hands makes me want to burst open my trousers and play with myself. But not in a sexual way.

I know there are a lot of people out there that are still a bit uncomfortable with it, so I thought I would make a list of all the things humanity's legacy would be missing if all those that loved nothing more than ticking a tripod or munching a carpet never existed. It might help, somehow.

Phwoar, it's chilly out, put the heating on, would you love? Heating, what's that? Not a lot without fire, and there's plenty of evidence from homoerotic cave drawings to suggest that Cro Magnon man was also Pro Hardon man. Could it be that fire was invented by two young australopithecine males, whose vigorous frotting created so much heat and friction that their pubes caught fire? Probably not, but you never fucking know, and it would be unscientific to dismiss it out of hand. 

Now fast forward four and a half million years. With homosexualities just a flimsy fiction, the young proto human cock fighters never invented fire so you're sitting there with your family, in your cave, freezing cold, with your three jumpers on, and it's Christmas time. You want to cut out some paper snowflakes and put them up in the cave window. Forget it. Scissors were invented by Leonardo da Vinci, a famous gaysmith, and when he wasn't inventing, among other things, the helicopter and the tank, he was either painting some of the greatest masterpieces in the history of mankind, such as the Mona Lisa, or revolutionising thought on comparative anatomy, the properties of light, geology, music, cartography and mathematics. Or packing his wanger into another man's orifice.

And he wasn't the only gay artist. You can forget about ever seeing the Sistine chapel in the straightlands, too.And indeed anything by just about all the Renaissance artists.

Sure you can listen to some music if you want to, but it probably sounds fucking dull if it's sprung from a universe devoid of that of Mahler, Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Schumann, Britten, Bernstein and maybe Beethoven. And you can't listen to any David Bowie, Queen, Velvet Underground, or Sammy Davis, Jr, either.

Read a book? Not if it's by Graham Greene, Oscar Wilde, Marcel Proust and many more you won't. Hell, them themselves probably wouldn't have written a thing either if the evidence that Shakespeare indulged in the odd bit of bear baiting is validated.

Hmm, what's it all about then? Is there any meaning to this odd new life? Suppose you want to ask these questions sometimes, at parties, and such like. Not any more you don't. Western thinking was founded by the ancient Greeks, Socrates and his pupil Plato, chief among them. But did you know their motto was 'one for the bum, no harm done, just don't tell your mum'? In Ancient Greece homosexualities were encouraged - even by the military - if you were fighting alongside your lover you would fight longer and harder. In more ways than one.

Not that Ancient Greece was an aberration. Throughout history, right up to modern times, great intellectuals have been attracted to the bodies as well as the minds of their peers. Notable modern thinkers Gore Vidal and Christopher Hitchens have both adored the embrace of a man. Without gay sexual exploration we would all be living an unquestioning existence and hitting each other in the face. Like they do in the Midwest of America.

And in case this bleak vision has made you want to top or cut yourself, just remember not to expect any sympathy in your brave new heterosexual world. You'll probably just get told to man up. Our whole system of modern nursing was inspired by the teachings and practice of Florence Nightingale, the 'lady with the lamp'. When she kissed someone on the lips it was those of the vagina.

And where are all your alpha male role models going to come from? Alexander the Great, Richard the Lionheart, James Dean, Marlon Brando, Burt Lancaster and Joe Longthorne -all at least half gay.

Damn it, where's my thread?

I don't know, I know where the needle is, it's in my hand, but I'm sitting at the top of this mountain and there any nothin' for miles around.

But this was supposed to win me the Pulitzer Prize.

Pulitzer Prize? You'll be lucky if you get four page views, you flaky bellend.


Monday, 24 October 2011

How to Write a Spec Script in Eight Days

Oh God.

As anyone who read my last blog knows I've got a shit hot idea for the Channel 4 drama writing competition - only problem being, the deadline is next Tuesday!

Basically, this is the writing equivalent of premature ejaculation, and I need to develop a hair trigger, and fast.

It's only eight days, but who cares - I'm going to do my best to make it, and the beauty is that my idea is topical, so I'm hoping that if it turns out a bit ropey they will think 'Philip, give this guy a break, we all know what event stimulated this guy's creativity gland, it takes big balls with a full load to try to bash anything out in that time - maybe give him a chance to elevate it out of the doggy mess state it's currently in'.

It doesn't help if, like me, you have had to compromise and demean yourself by working a god awful day job to pay your way. I finish work at six, and by the time I've constructed and then pricked the voodoo dolls of all the people that have pissed me off that day, and had some dinner, maybe a wank, we're looking at half nine. Bottom line, I have two and a half hours a night, plus the weekend. I'm going to have to plan properly.

Here's my schedule for the next eight days.


Research. By the time I go to bed tonight I will hopefully know all about my characters, and they will have some consistency and psychological profiles, grounded in reality. If it goes badly I will have a sparkling flat and a severe vitamin deficiency.


Story outline. By the time I go to bed on Tuesday I hope to have a beginning, middle and end, with a plot for each of the major characters, whether I choose to run with them all or not. If it goes badly I will fall asleep on a tear flavoured pot noodle.


Scene by scene. I'm not going to write any dialogue at this point, unless it springs out at me, I'm just going to write out a sequence of every scene, as I see it. I have an idea of where I want each character to go, so hopefully this should be OK. If it's going badly see Monday.


Break. I've done three nights in a row and I'm probably going to be climbing the walls. Besides, my mate Jimmy Stroker normally comes round for a night of Risk on a Thursday, so provided his facial herpes has cleared up that's back on the radar. All I'm going to do is try out some of my killer dialogue on him in random conversation, see how they sit.If it goes badly I may have to recruit someone to rewrite the dialogue.


First draft. It is at this point that I will probably think it's a good  idea to downsize it from a feature length to thirty pages, as this is the minimum amount. If it's good enough for Californication it's good enough for my idea. I know what I'm doing by this point, and I've had my night off to work any problems out in my mind. Time to write the complete article, dialogue, direction, the works.


Second draft. For this I'm not going to look at the first draft, but rather go back to the scene by scene and write it all over again.


Third draft. For the third draft I'm going to assimilate the first and second drafts and do a dialogue pass. By this time it should be looking pretty strong.


Script polish. Do everything I should've done in the last seven days. I know what I'm like. There's no way I'm going to stick to a schedule as professional as that. I'm only an aspiring screenwriter for a fucking good reason. I've already had a look at tonight's TV - there's University Challenge in half hour, which I normally combine with chat roulette, and a fascinating documentary on C4 called Mummifying Alan. Now, I don't know who this Alan is, but he's called Alan, so mummification is a good call as far as I'm concerned. That's pencilled in.

I better hope Jimmy's herpes doesn't clear up and I can use Thursday as a catch up.

If not I'm going to have to buy an industrial batch of proplus, book a sickie for Tuesday and hope for the best.

Friday, 21 October 2011

4Screenwriting Drama Competition

Good morning Gartholomites!

As I couldn't sleep (I keep having this recurring nightmare where I'm a worm and every time I stick my head above ground there's this bird with my mother's head that tries to peck at me - what's all that about?) I thought I would let those that don't know know about Channel 4's drama writing competition.

They are on the look out for 12 new writers to work on their excellent drama series. It's open to everyone who doesn't have a previous broadcast credit. I've never got anywhere near one, so this is definitely one for me.

To enter you need to send them a full script over 30 pages long, the easy bit, and a c.v., the tricky bit.

The deadline is next Tuesday, so hopefully you already have something suitable that you can ping off.

I don't, as drama is something I try to steer clear of in my life, and this has translated over into my writing, hence the sci-fi bias and overwhelming desire to write for Star Trek.

So I basically have a week and a half to write something, poo.

I've got an idea.

I originally posted it here, but I'm actually working on it now and as I'm a paranoid son of a banshee I'm taking it off - seeing as how many millions of you are now reading this horseshit.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips - Getting The Big Idea

Thanks for hanging in there Gartholomites!

Right, so in the second to last blog we discussed what a high concept idea was, and why you need one - now we're going to try to come up with one, using the method of taking a classic tale and contemporizing it and distorting it.

We had the following suggestions:

Right, so it's probably up to me, then.

Ok, I'm going to fucking test myself here, step right out of my comfort zone.I'll start by making a list of the books I've read. Must be some inspiration there.

Don Quixote.

Hmm, not read a lot, that's the problem with starting at number one in the best ever book list, you've got nowhere to go. Has this got potential?

Guy who goes mad after reading book upon book on chivalrous tales of yore. Thinks he is a knight and tries to tackle dragons, which turn out to be windmills, and win enough honour to satisfy his beloved Dulcinea del Doboso.

We don't really have an attachment to any such moral code any more, but the name is obvious - Don K. Otey. Has an edge of Kick-Ass, maybe, only Kick-Ass was a savvy teenager.

Yeah, in Cervantes time people would've put stock in the code of chivalry, now it's all detachment and story telling through vicarious supermen.

So, if instead of going mad after reading tales of knights of lore we have a washed up 60s hippy/ geek guy who goes mad after reading too many comic books, watching the world crumble around him.

Maybe he addled his brain with acid in the 60s, and his reality is hyper-real and psychedelic, but when the bubble is burst is brown and sodden. He is incredibly verbose, but deluded and beautifully accompanied by his plump, loyal and virtually catatonic best friend.

Maybe he is obsessed with a particular comic book - maybe he is convinced he is living in Gotham City - when he is actually living in Guildford.Maybe he is trying to woo Catwoman, when in actual fact she is a catwoman, i.e. a trampess.

Maybe, maybe, but I think it potentially has something, I might work on it some more. Not bad for a five minute brain dump.

If any film-makers want to get moving on it, you know where to find me. In the meantime it would be interesting to see what you guys can come up with.


Tuesday, 18 October 2011

When @rickygervais Forgot to be David Brent

For those of you that don't know, Ricky Gervais has outraged the twitter fraternity by repeated use of the word mong in his tweets, a word which has historically been, and actually is, an offensive word for a Down Syndrome geez/ geezette.

This is disgusting and insensitive, says everyone else. The word don't mean that no more, counters Gervais. 

Now, I don't think that a one man pre-emptive strike is going to desensitise people to a word's usage, however earnest they may be, and certainly not when that man has always historically acted like a right cunt.


Am I missing something here? This is Ricky Gervais we're talking about? Not the Pope? Actually scrap that. Not Cliff Richard? Or Joe Pacquale, or some other inoffensive twat.

Come on, the guy loves getting his metaphorical cock out and chucking his ironic man fat around. 

I remember him on the Eleven O’Clock Show, years back, when he played this bloaty little cock-sure bellend, getting in people’s faces. Presumably playing himself.

Then he has a masterstroke. What if, instead of being myself, I write about, and play, a bloaty little cock-end, and use the ironic twist to spray my jizz over everyone?

Everyone loves it. The guy's a genius.

Then earlier this year, or whenever it was, he presents some awards or other and offends everyone - what a surprise - but give him credit, at least he didn't dress up like David Brent and hide behind it.

I remember watching a reality TV show a while ago, wherein washed up and aspiring stand ups were coached by experts upwards and onwards to the big time - the winner got a Tuesday night gig at the Komedia or something. Anyway, there was this old school guy, he looked like a mouldy potato trying to eat two currents, which were his eyes. He was basically Bernard Manning lite, and his blend of misogyny and casual racism/ twattery didn't go down well with the modern audience.

I know, thought the coach, let's make you into a character - do exactly the same routine, just stagger out to the stage with a pint in an old school pint glass, they'll know it's a send up. With exactly the same jokes he tore the fucking place down.

The mistake Ricky Gervais has made is, he's forgotten his stagger and pint glass, and without that he's not a master of irony offering a piercing insight into human nature, he's a cunt.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips - What's The Big Idea? (Part One)

Good evening Gartholomites!

Hope you've all had a great day -  especially you, you crazy Latvian bastard! 

We haven't had any tips for a while and I feel ashamed, though that has more to do with the fact that my trousers fell down in town today, which wouldn't have been a problem if it wasn't pant wash/ go commando day. And it was in Poundland.

Anyway, in the next couple of weeks, providing I don't get roped into paving any more fucking gardens, I'm going to furnish you with some ideas so powerful they must have originally been ejaculated by Poseidon himself.

We're going to discuss, well probably not discuss, that was just lazy writing, pure and simple - I'm going to write about structure and why subtext is the key to being both a great writer and a formidable lovemaker.

But first: -

Every aspiring screenwriter needs an idea that's so damn frisky it could lubricate even the vagina of Roseanne Barr, so compelling that any writer you mention it to will want to steal it, and every reader who reads it will want to finish it.

These are called high concept ideas, because they can be summed up in a single sentence and, from my experience, they are what you need to break through.

So that incredible drama script you've got, you know, that one on which you wrote Gary Oldman in pencil over the name of the protagonist, about the vegan who gets washed up on an island where literally nothing lives bar battery farmed chickens, put it away, you won't be needing it until people actually know who you are.

So, how do you come up with high concept ideas?

One simple way is to take a classic tale and update it, so that's what we're going to do.

I'm not talking about an adaptation, and I'm not talking about ripping anything off, I'm talking about using an idea that you know is great and splicing it with zeitgeist and the human condition, until it becomes something fresh - like an early Will Smith, you know, before he became a cunt.

If you're still unconvinced just think of Oldboy. An incredibly original and brilliant piece of Korean cinema. Nevertheless, it is basically The Count of Monte Cristo. They took the classic Dumas tale and shoved it face first through a meat grinder until it wouldn't even be recognisable to it's own mother or, in this case, pere. 

So, in part two, we are going to take a classic tale, or myth, and fuck around with it until it becomes a shit hot script idea.

Anybody care to suggest one?

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

New Mexican Film Claims Proof of Aliens

Gartholomites take heed -  there's a new Mexican documentary coming out soon claiming to have proof that aliens visited the ancient Mayan civilisation. Exciting!

The evidence is to be found not only in Mexico, but also in Guatemala, and possibly elsewhere in the range of the ancient head lopping motherfucker's empire. Apparently they built landing bays, the works. Here's a link to the article. http://goo.gl/5Ldjv

Could it be that this is just a cynical and cheap publicity stunt, in the manner of The 4th Kind or Blair Witch?

Of course it fucking is.

Oh right, yeah, of course, an advanced alien culture visited ancient Mexico, it's obvious. How else did they know to build the pyramids?

Hey man, how the fuck do we build something bigger than four feet? Fuck knows. Ok, let's just live in the jungle, in mud huts or something. Cool, I like being rained on anyway, it's fun. Holy shit, who are these big eyed freaks hovering this way? I dunno but I sure hope they speak Mayan.

Wow, they do, must be those weird fish in their ears.

Hey, crazy primitive, cannibalistic Earthlings, how's it going?

Not bad.

Cool, we've come from the stars.


Yeah, would you like us to teach you stuff?

Dunno, like what?

Man, we know so much shit - we can teach you about culture, language, technology - man we could teach you how to travel through space and time if you like? It will be so cool, we could meet up on the moons of Alpha centauri! We can teach you how to be at one with the entire universe - it's very cool - but stop all that decapitation bullshit - the galactic authorities will frown upon it.

Hmm, nah, you're ok. But do you know how to build stuff higher than four foot?

Course we do - ok, let's build a thousand foot high gravity defying tower block!

Hmm, you're ok, what about something a bit more shit looking, in keeping with our current technology.

We travel all the way across the fucking universe and you're not interested in any of our cool stuff -  fuck you, you stretchy headed fuckwits, we're off.

But we'll leave you one piece of knowledge - if you get all those stone head chopping boards and arrange them in a square, then build incrementally smaller squares on top, eventually they will meet at the top and you will have invented a pyramid.

Yeah, that must be it.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

Movie Review – Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Movie Review –  Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Running Time – 105 minutes

Genre: Sci-Fi Mo-Fo

You know things are fucked up when you go to see a movie called Rise of the Planet of the Apes, and you find that you’re not even rooting for your own fucking species.

Such feelings are not assuaged when you watch the late showing at the Odeon on Brighton’s nightclub hotspot, West Street, only to emerge in the early hours to find yourself surrounded by beer soaked, self administered retards seemingly incapable of uttering even the limited vocabulary of a genetically modified ape. 

As I walked up the street I half expected them to start throwing their own shit around. They probably would if they could figure out how to undo their belts. Which is also why they were all walking around the gait of a chimpanzee, trying desperately to find a taxi before the turtle fully emerged from their backsides. I want to go back inside – I want to live on that Earth!

Anyway, that’s all by the by. The main thing is the movie is a bloody masterpiece. 

It’s one of those great story plots that grows and grows, like the ripples of a pond after some little brat has thrown a stone in, trying to hit a swan, from a small, but irreparable enterprise, to something that engulfs the entire planet. The classic snowball movie.

There’s very little dialogue, most of the meaning conveyed by the astonishingly detailed CGI. It still manages to present an incredibly damning and claustrophobic take on modern humanity. In this way, and many others, it is a fitting prequel. 

Oh, I should’ve mentioned the plot briefly by now. It’s about a well meaning scientist (yeah, really) who gives something to chimps that he hopes will work on those so he can try it on humans. It all makes sense when you watch it. But that’s enough of that, if you want a proper review go to a proper website, I’ve got two points to make, then I’m fucking off to digest the shit out of it all.

Firstly, it stars Tom Felton, the pursed mouthed motherfucker that played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies, as a dicksplash zoo keeper, who loves being cruel to chimps. This guy needs to have a rethink, he’s only in his early twenties and he’s already typecast. If he doesn’t watch out he’s going to grow up to have a face like the guy who plays Ian Beale in Eastenders. Somebody give him the lead in Tooth Fairy, Too! And fast.

The other thing I was thinking all the way through is, if you’re going to experiment on chimps, make it bonobos – those guys are chilled out beings, they just go round fucking each other all day. Not like your regular chimpanzee, the aggressive, floppy anussed bastards. What did you fucking think was going to happen?

Having thought about it some more though, hmm, a strain of super smart sex crazed bonobos with a libido like Michael Douglas on steroids, running amok through the streets of San Fransicso...

Doesn’t even bear thinking about.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips – Part Three – What Kind of Writer Are You?

Welcome back Gartholomites!

Sorry for the harsh words in part two, I knew it could reduce my readership back to one, but it had to be done.

Right, the psychology is gone – your mind is hardened and resolved – you must be a writer, even with the accompanying consequences of a pot belly and blanched skin. Let’s get down to the practicalities.

Many people start writing something without actually questioning whether it’s what they should be writing, whether it plays to their strengths. Take my friend, for example.

He has been writing and re-writing a God-awful rom-com for over ten years now. Why? Because ten years and one day ago the woman of his dreams left him and he has been trying to rewrite history ever since.  He always gets stuck on act three. Why? Because he’s not a hopeless romantic - surely the profile of a successful rom-com writer – but a broken and bitter man with a self sabotage streak bigger than Brigitte Nielsen’s tits. He should be writing something more suited to his character profile – like low budget rip-offs,  ‘Inglorious Wankers’, or ‘Dave Must Die’, that sort of thing.

So, think about who you are, what you’re interested in, how you like to write – it may be that you should be writing novels and not screenplays.

Below I’ve written a scene – minus the ending. You have to select which of the five possible conclusions sounds most like you and post the accompanying letter, together with your  age, star sign, vital statistics and a few words about yourself, in the comments box below, and I will give you a personalised response on what kind of writing suits you. Sound good?

Ok, here we go: -


Keith, a middle aged man with messy hair enters the kitchen of a comfortably sized walk through kitchen diner, clutching his temples and groaning.

He pours a glass of water and gulps it down.

He opens the cutlery draw.

It’s empty.

He looks to the washing up – there’s shitloads.

He sighs and drags a large carving knife out of its wooden block.

He cuts off a piece of bread and begins to butter it with the huge knife.

A middle aged woman enters the room –
                What the hell do you think you’re doing?
                                                      CUT TO:

Ok, what’s next?

Keith carries on looking down at the bread.
               Getting myself some breakfast, babe.
               This is the only clean knife.

Keith picks up the buttery knife and licks the mighty weapon suggestively.
               What’s the matter? You got something
               better to eat?

Keith launches the huge knife at her, and it sticks in her mouth, killing her instantly.
               Don’t speak with your mouth full, bitch!

It hits him like a bombshell and he looks up, confused, his mouth dropped open.
               I… have… no… idea.


Her words crash like misplaced eggs off a sideboard. His eyes flicker for a moment as the perfect reply flashes into his mind, but he allows it to pass him by. A wistful smile plays upon his lips and he looks up and into her eyes.

But her image flashes and vanishes into the memory from whence it came. His head falls, sunken by regret and gravity, releasing a single tear down onto the buttered slice.
Of course it may be that none of those are what instantly sprang into your head, in which case feel free to add an F), G) or H) if its not taken, but be careful to justify your words.

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Screenwriting Tips Part Two – Why Do We Write?

Hey, thanks for hanging in there Gartholomites!

The next tip is probably the most important of the lot.

Be honest with yourself. Why are you writing? 

Do you really have something different to say, an interesting voice and an innate sense of story, or are you just a cunt like the rest of us?

This is a very difficult thing for a lot of people to answer. The last thing anyone wants to admit is that they are clinging on to a desperate aspiration to stave off the utter terror of a vacuous and worthless existence – but that’s what a lot of us do. 

After all, it’s pretty bloody obvious now that God doesn’t exist, and that he was the creation of a primitive peoples trying to find meaning in a world they barely understood, before being formalised into religious doctrines by men with small penises on a power trip. 

It can be scary living in a godless world and a lot of us take refuge in a hope, or a dream, that replaces the crutch of religion. Writing is one of those, and it works for me. As long as there is a chance that my novel/ screenplay will get sold and transform my life in the future I can get through the rest of this crap. A cunning, but ultimately self defeating, replacement for a faith based afterlife.

Sure fire signs that you are a cunt and not a writer:

1)      You don’t write. You talk the talk, and maybe plan a lot, but your ideas aren’t self-perpetuating.

In my youth I was taught the guitar by someone I instantly recognised as a genius. I don’t wish to name drop but he has gone on to become one of the greatest living guitarists. As Arthur Conan Doyle once said “mediocrity cannot see above itself, it takes talent to recognise genius”. I recognise that I have talent but not genius, so it’s going to be a hard slog for me, and I’m going to have to get lucky. 

The aforementioned guitarist once related this fine anecdote. He used to have pupils approach him all the time asking how to write the perfect pop song. He said he couldn’t. He could teach them all the ingredients that go into a pop song, the mechanics, but he cannot teach inspiration and, ultimately, this is the source. What you can do is enrich yourself as much as possible, read and watch only the best. Imagine your mind is a hard drive- fill it with greatness and give your inspiration the best possible chance. But if you don’t have ideas that make you want to fat off over your keyboard, forcing you into a typing frenzy to expurgate your tidy mind, then maybe this isn’t for you.

At this point I would like to state that if you now realise that you’re not a writer then congratulations – you’ve just liberated yourself from a life of perpetual misery, anxiety and unfulfilment! You are now free to go and get yourself an obtainable dream – such as being a great person to others, maintaining a social life and living a full life, travelling and maybe doing a bit of fossil hunting, finding a job that has meaning to others. That sort of thing.

That should now just leave a few hardcore writers. 

For you guys and gals – rock on!!! But before you swan around getting that big head of yours stuck in doorways you’re gonna have to read part three.

Coming soon.

Monday, 12 September 2011

Essential Screenwriting Tips - Part One

Okay, I know what you’re thinking – how come you’re writing tips on screenwriting when you’re not a pro yourself? Two reasons.

1)      It doesn’t stop a lot of other cunts from doing it.
2)      Some of these cunts don’t know what they’re talking about.
3)      I would be a pro if I followed my own tips, that’s how good they are.

So, over the next couple of blogs I’m going to outline what I think every aspiring writer needs to succeed, as well as some general tips to make your writing better.

First and foremost: -

You must love writing. If you think that a writer’s life is sitting on the top deck of buses, getting sucked off by adoring fans, before alighting to do an interview with Jonathan Ross, then you’re wrong. That’s an actor’s life. If that’s what you’re in it for then get yourself to Prada, or whatever it’s called.

 If you want to be a professional wordsmith then you must love writing, not drinking coffee in Starbucks, or any of the other cunty chainstores, in your corduroy jacket, talking about your next idea, which they know as well as you that you are never going to finish. Any writer worth his salt testifies to the fact that you don’t talk about it until it’s done. And he knows better than to be ripped off in some sterilized, overpriced beanhouse, where you pay over the odds for sitting on, and looking at, pieces of wood that aren’t really wood at all, but laminated pieces of shit, the same pieces of shit that are found in every other one of their personality free kernel whorehouses, everywhere else in the country. No, the real writer goes to real cafes, independent places, wherein you are unlikely to find anyone with a normal amount of facial features. They will always be missing an eye, or have an extra forehead, placed where their chin should be, that kind of thing. In England these are called greasy spoon cafes. Oh yes, the writer will be in there, with his notepad, jotting down the utterances of these characterful inbreds, ready for inclusion in his next working class masterpiece starring Gary Oldman and the man from Eastenders.  

Oh yes, and you must love the idea, nay the practice, of sitting down at a computer, or with a pad, or typewriter, or a quill and a forehead, whatever floats your boat, and testing your imagination and powers of communication.  You must delight in taking yourself to imagined cul-de-sacs and smashing your way out of them with a cerebral dumper truck. Take this improvised scenario.

You are at the shops and you see a man passing by in full jogging regalia, followed by an overweight policeman. Do you simply exclaim ‘oh’ and walk on, or do you question your reality? Are the two things related? Had the jogger just got off with a priceless necklace? Was the jogging outfit a ruse to deflect from his history of petty crime and thievery?  On this occasion no, the jogger had simply dropped his wallet and the policeman picked it up, but these are the sorts of questions you should be asking yourself if you want to be a pro. You should be running home at this point, alive with possibilities on what the background of the mystery jogger could be. What’s his home situation like? Is he a homosexual or libertarian? What sort of cunt would go out looking like that? Create a psychological profile. Do online psychological tests as that man. And every other person in your screenplay.

 If this all sounds like too much work then perhaps you are better cut out to be a runner, or maybe an editor.
If, on the other hand, it sounds like what you do everyday anyway, then congratulations, you’re well on the way to having a successful screenwriting career. But don’t be so na├»ve! You’re not there yet – you still need to read part two – and part three if I can stay motivated.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Why You Should Never Pitch What You Haven't Written

Ok, it’s been a while since I last blogged. That’s because my life has been nothing but an oversized stool slowly working its way out of an anus too small for it. Whichever way I’ve pushed or turned it a) only increased the pain and b) didn’t seem to affect the outcome – my attempts at becoming a writer were going down the shitter.

A while ago I pitched an idea that I had previously tried to offload onto The Asylum – a cult straight to DVD production company – to a small time independent producer – who loved it! Only problem being I hadn’t written it, so when the request for the script came through I had to think quick – I’m on my way to a voluntary conservation stint in the middle of Ecuadorian jungle so won’t have internet access for a month – I’ll ping it when I get back. That should buy me just enough time to write a reasonable first draft. No problem he says, look forward to reading it/ have a good time - which he’d cleverly translated into Spanish – what a card!

 Cue the worst writer’s block/ savage wankathon of my life.

I swear my eyes are a full half inch further embedded into my skull than they were a month ago. I’m walking like a crab and doing all my shopping in the middle of the night, wearing steel toecapped boots and my right arm in a sling to hide the callouses and over-sized forearm,  hoping that they think I’m a construction worker who’s had an industrial accident.

Two days before I’m due to return, and he is expecting the script, and I’m producing nothing but dust and running a temperature of 105°. Worse still, I’ve written nothing. Then something really fucking weird happened. I’m not going to write about that though- it’s too freaky. Then I started to write, more than I’ve ever written before.

I’ve always thought that I could be a great writer, but it’s difficult to tell when you’ve never sat in a chair and written for more than half an hour before your hand somehow ended up in your pants, or you were half way to the shops, or to sleep. Now though, I couldn’t help it. I had literally wanked myself into a cul-de-sac of potentialities wherein the only option was to write. So I did. For nineteen solid hours.

When I woke up the day after the next day I felt amazing. My temperature had gone and I had written a feature length script in less than a day! The edge was slightly taken off by the fact I had fallen asleep on a jammy dodger biscuit – the fine details of which were etched into my forehead for the next three days, like the hand of that cunt in Raiders of the Lost Ark, who picks up the burning hot amulet. At least the night workers now had an additional clue as to the possible nature of my industrial accident.

Anyway, I give it a quick read through – it’s fucking awful, but who cares! I’m like the dad of the kid at school who looks like a sausage, with four teeth in the hole where it was pricked, none of which agree on the best direction to face and who eats like a fleshy car compactor. It doesn’t matter how ugly the thing is, it’s mine and I’m proud of it. I check it for typos and ping it off.

The producer gets back to me – it’s interesting but he has some issues to discuss. ‘Fuck off, I’m not Carl fucking Jung’ I think , but don’t write. We meet for coffee and it’s not going too badly – I manage to palm off my social insecurities and twitches as a tropical disease I picked up in Ecuador when he drops it like a bombshell.

“And how is the place?” The place? Sounds like he might be familiar with it.

“Er, you know, pretty green, lots of spiders”. 

“Ha! Yeah, I take it you went down the Napo River?”

Shit. He has been there and goes off on a mad, sparkly ramble. I haven’t and now I’m in a situation that is impossible to escape. I feel like an idiot, but how the fuck am I supposed to know that Rivadeneira, his name, is an Ecuadorian name? That he spent practically his whole life wandering around the entire fucking country? I thought his accent was fake, I thought it was just a Brighton thing, like moustaches, lumberjack shirts and soft mouths. He asks me a question, one that I am in no way qualified to answer. I do the only thing open to me.

I forcibly shat myself in Costa Coffee.

Still, they say your first meeting is always the hardest.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

Racist Men Have Tiny Penises

I can’t help noticing that when things get tough, economically and socially, people turn into total pricks. Have you noticed that? You go on Twitter, or look at the newsfeed on Facebook (which I am no longer on, due to the investment of Goldman Sachs), and someone that you thought was a reasonable person, with well thought out views, posts something like:
“I says hang all the little bleeders, and their liberal sympathisers”
“Send in the fuckin’ army, rubber bullets too good for them”
“Is Aushwitz still operational?”
That sort of thing. Fucking hell, what has happened to you? You do realise that you are guilty of a horrendous projection of self loathing, don’t you, you droopy old ballbag. I don’t have any imagination to work my way around this issue – I know – kill ‘em, and if you have a spare bullet aim it at my ability to invoke critical thought. 

And then, predictably and inevitably, out come the subtle, and not so subtle, racist black culture references, most notably in the U.K. from renowned badger hating historian and all round Twix eater, David Starkey.

 So, if you are exasperated with bigoted, shit-brained autobots ruining your day, a piece of research I stumbled across whilst working as an intern at a Helsinki newspaper in the early 90s, may put that smile back on your face.

A Finnish psychologist, I think he was called Erkki Krypti, certainly something like that, was trying to get to the bottom of why people are racist, and he found the answer not at the bottom, but at the cock.

Apparently, without exception, racist men have tiny cocks. I’m not even talking about below average, the kind that you could save up, go to a back alley in Harley Street, and get a snip that could give you an extra inch or two. No, we’re talking the kind of atrophied nob that would make a newborn look like Ron Jeremy. The kind that would have Michelangelo’s David parading around the showers at the gym, with his leg notched up on the changing room benches, towelling down his sack, crack and jack for ten minutes, until he was certain everyone in the room had seen how bloody massive it was, before talcing it for a further ten, to satisfy any new comers. 

Between 1972 and 1989 Erkki studied 123 men, all of which were sectioned to his care, after being found guilty of racially incentivized crime. I used the word incentivized there to hopefully provoke a response. What a load of bullshit that word, and others like it, is. When are we going to draw the line at putting ’ized’ at the end of a word? OK, I’m tangentalizing, let’s endize this sentence.

He was looking for psychological problems that may be underlying the problems with racism and he found three unifying factors.

1)      They were all dicksplashes. 
2)      They were all raised by dicksplashes
3)      They all had unbelievably tiny willies. 

Erkki theorised that atrophied genitals in Caucasian men led to a mutated form of the Oedipus Complex. These men, as adults, maintained the genital profile of a very small child, and therefore the mental framework and IQ of one, and viewed the black man as an adult, being as they are, generally, well endowed - which is anthropologically proven (black men too, can be racist, and if you pull down their pants, no doubt Erkki would suggest you will find a tiny lovepump). 

Unfortunately, no one seemed interested in his findings and he took to the bottle, discredited and ostracised from the mainstream psychological community. His ideas became more outlandish, as his bitterness, and alcoholism, spiralled out of control.

At the time of his untimely death, he was also trying to establish whether there was any link between veganism and early experimentation with sodomy, lesbianism and small faces on large heads and pigeonholing and sudden acts of violence. He died in 1995, horribly beheaded by a vegan lesbian. 

Nevertheless, Kryppti should be commended for having the bravery to publish his findings on the links between racism and the minuteness of the male genitalia – and remember – every time you hear or see a racist thought or action, it is performed by someone with a wee, tiny worm in their undercrackers. Somewhat comforting.

Saturday, 6 August 2011

The Beginner’s Guide to Film Symbolism – Part One – El Topo

With my attempt at becoming a professional screenwriter now looking as likely as a Cliff Richard sex tape I’m redirecting my energy into providing you with a definitive guide to film symbolism. 

Over the next few weeks I will dissect some of the oddest films in existence, hoping to shed some light on why the hell that goat is in the background, eating that hat, and why that actor is always facing south. 

Although this guide is directed primarily towards film connoisseurs it could, reluctantly, also be of use to the following:

  • 1)      People living with pretentious cunts who make them sit through hours of arthouse crud. Check out this guide and the next time you’re watching something you can come out with something to blow their socks off, right before you let off a fart grenade and go down the pub.
  • 2)      Film-makers. If you are struggling for funding, or have been lumbered with a dogshit script, don’t worry! Just fill your film up with this stuff and you’ll never go hungry at a film festival again.
  • 3)      Movie reviewers. Just remember to hyperlink this page.
  • 4)      Pretentious cunts.
To my mind there is no greater place to start a guide to film symbolism than the work of hatstand Mexican maverick Alexandro Jodorowsky. He may never have had the mainstream appeal of Fellini or Lynch but Jesus did he pack his films full of weird shit. 

The beauty of applying symbolism to film is that, by definition, it never has to be explicitly explained on screen. In Jodorowsky’s case I’m not entirely convinced he could do so off-screen either, but if we examine the man and his movies we can have a good stab at it.

Tomorrow I’m going to watch El Topo for the 102nd time, and write up notes as I go - which I’ll transcribe in suitably blog-sized instalments. Expect the first one on Monday.

N.B. the guide has had to be put back, owing to the rioters running off with my motivation.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

The Jonnie Marbles School of Shameless Self Promotion

Tired of being an anonymous cunt with less Twitter followers than Dean Gaffney?

Worry not, just subscribe to the Jonnie Marbles School of Shameless Self-Promotion and your future is assured. 

Just hijack the next mass publicised event with some madcap slapstick jinx and you’re sure to take the world by storm.

Just make sure that you have some material on the net to back you up and launch you into the big time.

For fucks sake don’t do anything whilst there may be some youtube video of you attempting to do stand up that’s as funny as having your face slowly sawn off, or a monologue of you spouting some horseshit that makes every single viewer look on you as an absolute cunt. 

This would completely invalidate everything that you have achieved.This is, of course, provided that what you did in the first place was something worthy of being invalidated. For fuck's sake don't do something lame and meaningless. And don't put yourself in a position where you could have the whole thing blow up in your face. If there is the chance that you could end up engaging in a possible confrontation with an octogenarian then make sure to power lift a water biscuit every day for a week beforehand, or you could end up looking like the cock of an impotent gnat.

Who is that guy that flung that bag of cowshit at the Queen? Don’t know – let’s see if Twitter knows. Yes, someone’s tracked him down – his name is Garth Jenkins. Wow – he could be cool, although his actions do suggest a bellend – let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and google him.
Wow, he has a couple of youtube clips – let’s watch them. 

Oh Christ no. Oh fuck. I really wanted to like him, but these are fucking awful. That’s the worst ‘comedic’ observation I’ve ever heard. And that delivery is shit. Why didn’t he make sure these were taken down before he flung all that excrement at our monarch? Maybe he thought they was good? Maybe he wasn't chucking shit at the queen to make a point about poverty diets and disenfranchisement, maybe he was just trying to get himself out there.

Jesus, he must be a right cunt.

That is definitely not going to happen with me, oh no - I'm planning ahead.

Saturday, 16 July 2011

Fare Ye Well

Firstly, for anyone who read last night’s drunken ramblings, I apologise, and am deeply ashamed. I would explain myself to you in person, but I don’t intend to leave my flat for the next two years. Can’t help but be a bit impressed by my grammar and narrative structure though, considering how smashed I was.

Anyway, this may be my last blog, as it’s all fucked. Don’t know if you remember, but I had this old ‘friend’ get in touch, saying how he’d made it in the movie business, and wanted to help me to make it, as I had helped him in the past. As a test of faith I was to pay for his ticket to L.A., with the last of my redundancy money, and he would pitch my TV and movie ideas to all his new contacts.

I thought it was a bit weird when, after he’d been out there a week I phoned him up and heard the music to The One Show in the background.  He shook it off, saying The Black Eyed Peas heard it whilst they were in Britain on tour and loved it so much they sampled it and have turned it into a hit stateside. When you want something bad enough you are blind to the truth.

What I wasn’t blind to though, was seeing him yesterday, running away from me in Sainsbury’s car park.
I’m afraid I took it hard. Got ramjacked on goofballs and clusterfucks.

And that’s probably me done. Don’t know if I have it in me to bounce back and make it in this cut-throat business. 

Hope you have enjoyed some of my ramblings, and that maybe some were of use, somehow, even if only to laugh as someone who is an even bigger cunt than you are. 

Would’ve been nice to have received a comment or two, but you can’t have anything, sorry, everything.

I guess I’m relieved in a way. My pursuit of being a great writer stopped me being a great son, friend, brother and person. 

Time to put that right. After I’ve had some ibuprofen, LSD and vitamins.

Good luck people, hope you make it!