Welcome back. Sorry I haven’t blogged for a while – it’s been an incredible eleven days. I have so many things to say and only one mouth. I know some of you have almost certainly been thinking:
Garth, what are you playing at? You’re
nearly 5/12ths of the way through your
challenge and you’ve only guffed out the
Calm the fuck down! Firstly, because it
makes me anxious, and when I get anxious
I clam up, and productivity, masturbation
aside, slips drastically away. Secondly,
because it’s all part of my master plan.
I can’t just get myself out there with
nothing to show, throwing shit around like
a deranged bonobo, hoping some of it sticks.
I’m not Nicolas Cage.
I’ve had to build up a portfolio, a body
of work, to work with, from and at. I’ve had
to drill holes in the earth and jet my seed
in it, and work the earth, grow the seeds,
wait for a stalk to appear and work that
stalk, build it up, big and strong, and pump
everything I possibly can off it before
the produce withers and dies.
Right now, I’m feeling fruity. First off, I’m going to meet a script reader tomorrow about my newly finished sitcom script –can’t wait! I know what you’re thinking – I’m giving £60 to some fucking chancer – some washed up talentless prick, who isn’t good enough to make it as a writer, so spends all day making sure no other cunt does, meaning the only scripts that ever make it have come from the younger brother of the fucking cameraman, or the daughter of the director - thereby freeing up the script reader to do what he/ she does best – read absolute dogshit scripts and get paid fuck all for slating them.
Nepotism rules ok, you’re thinking. Well actually you’re wrong – and what the fuck made you so bitter? Was it the countless rejection letters filling up your hallway? Or the ones you’ve pinned up on a wall, in the cupboard at the back of your bedsit that should really be used to store miscellaneous electrical items, next to the accompanying photos of staff that work at that particular production house, in the event that if you run into them in the street you can mouth abuse with relative anonymity? I hope not, because you’d have to look in there every morning, just to feel confident of your facial recognition abilities, and probably install some lighting or something, judging by how murky your flat is. And you’d probably have to have a balaclava on you at all times, or something similar, so that if you did run into them, you could quickly whip it on, throw your insult and get the hell out of there.
Wow, take the fucking hint sunshine – you ain’t got it and no amount of guerrilla action is gonna bring back the talent you never had. These guys are fucking professionals and they know what they’re talking about. And even if they didn’t, they have a checklist on them at all times that lets them know what is required from a script and when. If your script was rejected it was for a reason. And that reason is that your idea stinks worse than a beef bolting bulimic’s burp and what’s more you delivered it, which makes you a beef bolting bulimic burp birther.
Not you, by the way, I didn’t mean you, or your ideas, I was talking hypothetically.
Suppose I should leave it there – I’ll let you know how the meeting goes tomorrow. I haven’t got time to tell you about the film-maker that’s interested in tracking my progress for a possible documentary. His previous for petty arson and poultry theft might prove an obstacle with U.S. customs, were I to make it to Hollywood, but for now it’s very exciting.