Turning pro in less than 362 days!

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

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Let the ghost out the closet

I’ve just realised something important.
Every time I go to write something it is to update or rewrite some project that I’ve already started, some great idea I’ve had, but put off, or written badly - a process that has been rumbling on for years.
This is probably the stupidest thing any aspiring writer could do. Basically, you’re basing the possible success of your career on agents liking Dave, ITV4 or whatever other freeview/ satellite channels broadcast irrelevant shows from the past. You are lining up a portfolio of scripts for things which are no longer relevant. They are all yesterday’s zeitgeist. Zeitgeist means time ghost, and if you don’t listen to this advice then this is exactly what you will become – a ghost lost in time - a meandering warbler in a plastic jacket, shuffling along the streets smoking fag butts dropped by life’s go getters, too busy to finish the job, because they have another to get to.
Time to tell those ghosts to fuck off.
In fact, maybe it’s tie to tell all ghosts to fuck off. Seriously, what a bunch of cunts ghosts are.
If someone did invent an afterlife couldn’t they’ve put a bit more fucking intelligence in it? A bunch of ectoplasmic polterfarts casually and inoffensively knocking things off shelves and creaking doors. Oh, that’s my Uncle Albert that is, just letting me know he’s there. What, that’s what he did in real life is it? Wander around, whispering like a branchless oak, knocking shit off shelves and opening and closing doors without a thought for WD40? If there is a God he must be a right cunt to allow the Parkinson’s and dementia so evident in these astral clefts to transfer to the other side. At least let them do their business in the spectral prime of their lives.
Or, if you’re going to have them like that, at least give them comedy timing. If they are going to knock a pot off the mantelpiece, let it be when an ugly child is standing under it. If Uncle Albert likes sliding chairs across rooms, let this be just as a visiting salesman is about to sit down on it.
And what about this other side communicating business? For a start every medium I’ve ever seen on TV looks and acts like a lobotomised  pirate from planet grey. And the responses they get from so called spirits are, as everyone knows, vague and pointless. What the fuck is going on in that other dimension? If that’s heaven then what the fuck are they doing there all day every day? An eternity spent nattering inane shit to a near infinite collective of other idiots. It’s like being in the world’s biggest Wetherspoons. I’d rather burn in hell, thanks.
Next time I’ll let you know how I got on pitching an exciting documentary idea about wasps.