Turning pro in less than 362 days!

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Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Stranger Than My Own Fiction

Wowsers, I’ve just had some really weird shit happen to me, and I wondered if any of you fellow scribes have had similar experiences? You know the adage life imitating fiction? Like ‘The Only Way Is Essex’. Although, to be fair, that’s fiction imitating life, which in itself is a fictional representation of life, imitating fiction, set in a fictional county wherein life is frequently mistaken for fiction, and vice versa. Well anyway, my life has decided to take it one step further and imitate my fiction. See normally, for a writer like myself I stick to the principle of ‘write what you know’.

There’s no way I’m going to ever pen any of that smug country estate shit, with toffs topping each other in such convoluted fashions, in the style of Julian Fellowes, a man who holds himself in such regard that he has actually injected helium into his skull to prevent him from ever looking downwards. Or Richard Curtis, or any of those bumfluff merchants. God look, my life has no crisis, let’s invent one! Wow, and this vulnerable crack creates such a wacky character. I don’t have colonic irrigation, I just watch ‘Love, Actually’ and puke and shit myself clean. Shit, this is a writing diary entry rapidly turning into a rant. I need to think of Bladerunner for five seconds and get back on track.

So, the other day I was dusting off an old script about an aging tramp who receives a visit from a mysterious benefactor, who offers him a wager, lifting him out of his eternal miasma and into a brave new dawn of opportunity. I suppose I must’ve fallen asleep watching Trading Places, which would also explain the cum that was everywhere.

Anyway, I was literally on my first day back on it, encrusted with jizz, no real prospects for the future, not far off being a tramp myself, which is probably why I thought about starting to write it again, when I get a call from someone I hadn’t heard of for a number of years. Do I still remember him? How could I forget him. Cold, fish eyes, moist skin and the hands of a bear. Anyway, said that I did. He said did I remember the wager we agreed at the producer’s fair five years ago? Initially, I thought it might have something to do with his patio, and racked my brains furiously, but apparently we had entered into a tryst – the first one to make it has to make sure the other one does. I told him I hadn’t but to try me again in another five years. He laughed. Wasn’t sure if that was good. Said he’d made it, silly! He was grateful for all the help I’d given him and was going to sort me out.  

The help I’d given him? I remember him sitting near me at the back of a script-writing evening course I was attending at the time. Every time I looked over at him he would already be staring right through me, like he was sizing up whether he could fit all of me inside him, like some starved python. But eventually he plucked up the courage to speak to me. “Do I scare you?” were his first words. Who the fuck opens with that? I’m pretty sure even Hitler didn’t use that one. I said that he didn’t, but the guff I involuntarily released betrayed me. He gave me several of his scripts to read, which I said would be a pleasure. I was happy just to be leaving there alive. They were bloody awful, but I respectfully gave him encouragement and feedback, which I guess he must’ve been grateful for.

Sometimes the whole class would go to the pub, and I would always be the one left sitting with him, whilst the others binge drank at the bar, or had really long poos in the toilet. I still couldn’t properly assimilate him into my mind, it just wouldn’t happen - all I could ever think of was getting a thermometer and sitting it in him to make sure he was warm blooded. But I guess all this must’ve meant something to him.

So, fast-forward on, and I’ve arranged to meet him in London, at some swanky members club of which he is now a privileged member. We’re going to talk about what he’s up to, and what he can do to help me out, to launch me into the big time. I can’t get out my head that he hasn’t made it, or maybe he has but for the last five years all he’s thought about is a terrible sleight that I levelled at him, that’s been eating away at him, motivating him for the ultimate revenge,  maybe the unhelpful destruction of his blatant rip-off of The Wicker Man, only set on Canvey Island, which I’m sure raised a chuckle from the rest of the class, cruel, stupid me,  maybe this swanky club isn’t so much a member’s bar as an elitist, reptilian snuff joint, and that my pursuit of fame, in its hypocritical guise, is leading me straight into the jaws of death.

I wish I hadn’t smoked so much puff in my formative years.

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