Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts

Saturday, 26 February 2022

NOSFERATUTU THE DANCYR

NOSFERATUTU THE DANCYR


So there you have it, after working for a long time as a graphic artist before suddenly finding myself with rather a lot of time on my hands in my mid-fifties, I've been pottering around writing stuff, drawing stuff, and recording stuff, for the past couple of years, mostly because I happen to be lucky enough to share my life with someone rather wonderful who has been very supportive of what I still think of as my silly creative nonsenses.


Just after New Year, having been inspired by a documentary I watched over Christmas, I Idly did a sketch - of what I thought was a slightly amusing idea - in my sketchbook and thought "Hang on..." as I realised that maybe, just maybe, this was a pretty good subject on which to hang a project that I'd been trying to get off the ground since around the time I got flung onto life's scrapheap a couple of Christmases earlier.

One long, bitter afternoon, back in November 2019, I'd had a thought that I might investigate what it took to put "A. Book." together, and went onto the self-publishing site Lulu to see if I could possibly work out how to do it.




Several hours later, and, despite having had a long career in the Graphic Arts, I walked away from their templates with my forehead bleeding from the frustration of having utterly failed to make any of it work properly and, as I've discovered in the intervening years, I was not alone in having this problem.

Two years passed, in which I continued making contributions to the ROUND THE ARCHIVES podcast, carried on working with ANDY PRIESTNER on the "AN A TO Z OF UK TV DRAMA" podcast and "SPACE SOLDIERS: A FLASH GORDON COMMENTARY PODCAST," as well as producing and presenting VISION ON SOUND for FAB RADIO INTERNATIONAL (a digital radio station based in Manchester), and I continued scribbling in my sketchbooks and, more rarely, writing my poems, and this idea of creating "A. Book." of some sort had never really gone away.

So I sat down in front of my keyboard and wrote a 32 stanza poem which I thought might work quite well as the basis for this new project, and sat down with my pens and started scribbling and, after a few days, was able to put together a couple of pages and began to see that maybe, just maybe, I might be able to bring something together that, if I did it properly, might just be the master document I could use to return to that website and see whether I could finally figure out how to actually stagger across the finishing line and hit "publish" because, basically, it's a lot easier to figure out the details if you've actually got something tangible to upload to the site.

At this point I didn't ever expect to ever ACTUALLY publish it. The whole thing was just an exercise in teaching myself how to do something new.


This started to become known as the "not really a book" project, and I carried on working on the drawings, and I was generally finding that I was quite enjoying doing that, and, at one point, even felt brave enough to put out a "teaser" image that suggested (with all my key ingredients still kept very secret) that I might be working on something new to the kind and lovely crowd with whom I engage in the allegedly big bad online community.

Two months passed and, eventually, the artwork part was - I thought - finished, and a first draft had been put together and, after several frustrating attempts, I managed to chip away at the necessary tolerances, and found myself with an acceptably formatted file, an ISBN number, and the possibility of ordering up a test print, because I still had no idea just how well a fully illustrated book might actually print using their processes.

I hit "print" and figured that would be the end of it.

After all, the entire point of the exercise had been accomplished; I had created and prepared something resembling "A. Book."  and sent it to print.

Then, overnight, I had a thought. One of the design concepts I'd had whilst creating the first draft had been to make the whole story look like a "Family Album" with the kind of borders you might find in those old Victorian photograph albums but, having hit "print" I suddenly hated that idea (which had taken a whole day to add to every page after I'd found the previous "ragged edge" style looked far too messy) and went back to the computer "just to see" how it looked with clean white margins instead.

Dammit. I thought it looked far better without.

Anyway, with that little hiccup out of the way, the test print arrived and I thought that it looked okay, and I shared a picture of it with TwitWorld, and nobody was saying it looked awful, or that it was a truly dreadful idea. There were, however, a few minor issues that I decided I really ought to deal with because, well, wouldn't it be nice if I actually made use of that ISBN number and maybe, just maybe, I could actually make my silly bit of nonsense available on the Lulu Bookstore...?

And whilst I tinkered, and procrastinated, and worried about the fact that I'm not really a "real" writer, I was reminded with a hearty "Well, what's the worst that can happen?" (Answer - I'm so humiliated that I crawl back under my rock and vow never to approach a keyboard, or a sketchbook, ever again) that I might as well hit "publish" - and so I did.

Of course I got something the wrong way around, and I still had to order myself that proof copy that Lulu insist upon for approval before allowing "World Distribution" (Yikes!) but, over the course of that terrifying Sunday, several very kind people decided to order it "sight unseen" as it were, because they were being supportive of me and my efforts, and so a tricky week followed in which I hadn't seen the finished product, and I still fully expected the ones which arrived at those people's homes to be greeted with hoots of derision of the "How dare he think that THIS was book-worthy?!" kind.

Anyway, on Friday the 25th of February, 2022, as the world was unravelling around us, that proof copy arrived, as did the dozen or so copies which had been ordered by those various households.

And they were all very kind and told me that they liked my work, which is always something of a relief. It’s difficult to explain how much it means when, as somebody who doesn’t think of themselves as a “real” writer, I put something (a poem I wrote and illustrated) “out there” for public scrutiny, and (so far anyway), people have not poured scorn or found it truly awful.

To be honest, the purpose of the exercise has been fulfilled. I have, as the saying goes, achieved all of the goals that I set myself. I never expected that there'd be any demand for many more than the twenty or so copies that I thought it might run to, and, to be honest, at least a dozen of those have been bought by the very same people I would probably have gifted them to if I'd had an actual income to afford to print that many for myself.

But NOSFERATUTU THE DANCYR, my silly bittersweet little story about loneliness and dancing, has made it out from the confines of my imagination into the real world, and I hope, at least, that some people enjoy it.

Martin A W Holmes, February 26th, 2022


NOSFERATUTU THE DANCYR is available via the Lulu Bookstore

ISBN 978-1-6780-3662-1

https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/martin-holmes-and-martin-holmes/nosferatutu-the-dancyr/paperback/product-882nz7.html










Thursday, 24 November 2016

TWELVE BY TEN

Because I'm never, ever likely to do anything else with the 70,000 words of that first draft novel I splurged out during November, I then got bored enough to start working up several rough cover ideas for that thing I'm not doing.

Still, it's sometimes kind of fun to mess around with things when there's no actual significance to them whatsoever, don't you think?

No...? 

Just me then.

Well, why not, eh...?









A philosophical curmudgeon watching his half century disappear rapidly in the rear-view mirror of the second-hand rust-bucket of life, whilst living constantly on the brink of Derbyshire with a very tolerant Beloved.

The day job involves colouring in pictures to earn an honest crust, and the evenings, weekends, and early mornings are often spent writing plays nobody performs, poetry (or something resembling it) that nobody cares all that much about, and blog posts that seep out unnoticed into the uncaring universe. Dabbling in this return long-form prose in the form of writing a novel is yet another experiment to find out whether I have the stamina or mental capacity to create something more substantial.

As has been pointed out on several occasions, I'm always finding new ways to find another complete waste of time to fritter a few more precious heartbeats away.

Old enough to know better, stupid enough to care about it, daft enough to keep on doing it anyway...

Tuesday, 15 November 2016

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD!

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD!

Okay, now that the stench of potential failure and the embarrassment of even suggesting that I might be capable of such a thing has passed, I feel confident enough to make a small confession.

This year, and with the kind of unofficial and unaided approach that tends to see me through these things, I was foolish enough to attempt the NaNoWriMo 2016 Challenge to write a "novel" (or at least 50,000 words of something that might turn into a novel) within the month of November.

Although, to be perfectly fair, I've not really approached it their way. I'm not in any groups, haven't got any "buddies" (Lord help us), and I've ignored their continued requests for donations (A-hah...!). I merely arbitrarily picked their target and start date, and off I jolly well went, prattling along and churning out my nonsense simply as an exercise to discover or not I have the stamina or the mental capacity to one day try to go the full "nov..."

So, you might have noticed - you probably didn't - that I'd been rather less "active" on the "stringing a few inept words together" front over the past few weeks, but that wasn't because I'd become all antisocial, or decided that you weren't worthy, it was simply that producing a wodge of deathless prose in those quantities takes an extraordinary amount of your free time - especially when your free time is evenings, weekends, and the occasional early morning if you can be faffed getting up that early in the week.

Nevertheless... By Jove, I think that I may have actually been and gone and done it...!

Despite the fact that prose hasn't really been the strongest of my writing "things" in recent times, I seem to have managed to start thinking in that way again and created a string of several thousand words that, to me at least, aren't completely terrible to read.

Now, because it's me, I doubt that anything else is going to happen to those words other than the fact that they'll sit on a hard drive forever, but the fact is that they exist and I have, for whatever reasons, achieved whatever pointless goal it was that I set myself.

Huzzah!
This is a story that's been rattling around in my head for several years now, so I'm glad of the opportunity to finally make a proper start to it and prove to myself that, with a certain amount of focus, I can actually belt out a significant slab of prose after all those years of play-writing and (more recently) poems. 
I fully expect to fail, by the way, but will be happy enough if I even get half way.
Meanwhile, the story itself is a small, multi-stranded, web of deceit in which several lives and fates cross in (hopefully) unexpected ways. In the end I'm aiming for a more psychological torment than action-packed thriller, so don't expect helicopter gunships or massive explosions... 
Well, not unless I get weirdly sidetracked and end up including helicopter gunships and massive explosions after all...
I did have this rather bizarre notion, you see, that I could cheat a little and write a full-length novel by writing around a dozen short stories that happened to be linked in some tenuous way, not unlike that Christmas story I once knocked out in 25 parts on the blog one year. It was only whilst I was doing this that I realised that that's what chapters tend to be anyway; short stories that are part of a larger whole. The only difference I was trying was compartmentalising each segment and playing around with the notion of narrative time, neither of which are that innovative as ideas, but they did make climbing the word mountain at least plausible rather than seemingly impossible.
On a summer morning, a woman does the washing up at her kitchen window. 
On an autumn weekend, a man heads out with a camera before dawn. 
Overnight in a lonely office, a Detective contemplates his enforced retirement.
In an otherwise deserted factory, a Senior Executive tries to cover up her crimes. 
The paths of these disparate lives will cross at terrible junctions, and murder, betrayal, fraud, and the events of a chequered past, will come back to haunt all of these people in one way or another, long after some of them might think that they had got away with it.
Because bitter people have long memories, and can carry grudges for a very, very long time.
To be fair, I did approach this little project as a type of bonkers literary therapy, and the subject matter was, in part at least, rather too personal to ever be considered for publication, but I have found the process extraordinarily cathartic and, in the process, have managed to deal with a few "issues" which have been bubbling under in my subconscious for far too long now.

My top tip from this month (actually half a month) of pointless madness?

If you have demons in your past that sometimes pop back into your mind, write them down and find ways to slaughter them - in a purely fanciful and literary manner of course. Even if those dark demons are still out there in the real world, somehow I have found that addressing them on the page, and finding ways of destroying them in fiction, just makes you feel a hell of a lot better about life.

I tell you, it works wonders.

Of course, whenever I do start to even consider that I might one day actually be able or allowed to publish some of my wordmongery, I find someone with my name (or something very similar to it) is already out there as a playwright or novelist, and I start to wonder whether I might have to come up with a nom-de-plume.

Because, believe me, writing a poem or a play or, Lord help us, a novel is an absolute breeze in comparison to having to try and come up with one of those...
STATS:
November 15th, 2016 - Of the twelve planned "chapters" or "short stories", seven chapters "complete" to "first draft". The earliest incomplete chapter is five, and the latest "complete" first draft is chapter nine.
Ch 1 - 6021 Words; Ch 2 - 5828 Words; Ch 3 - 5783 Words; Ch 4 - 5470 Words; Ch 5 - 2264 Words; Ch 6 - 5462 Words; Ch 7 - 4961 Words; Ch 8 - 7066 Words; Ch 9 - 6479 Words; Ch 10 - 1112 Words; Ch 11 - 233 Words; Ch 12 - 162 Words.
Running total: 50841 words (+/- variations in word counting software) between 01 and 15 November - although most of the actual words themselves are probably quite dreadful it's been an interesting experiment. 
NB - To not appear to be a proper swot, and not discourage any scribes still in the doldrums, I've been understating my word count on the "official" website - They still think I'm wallowing in the low 40,000s - the fools...! 

Wednesday, 10 December 2014

STAN THE T-REX


Long, long ago, I promised you that, when it failed miserably, as it inevitably must, I'd publish my entry to the Talking Statues competition for you to mock derisively as yet another of my spectacular and unheroic failures at convincing myself that I can write stuff like proper writers can.... So, here it is in all its embarrassing lack of majesty...

[ROARS]

Hey! You down there!

Look up! Up in the sky…!

Here I am!

Faster than a speeding Usain Bolt…!

More powerful than a feasting shark… (Well, my bite is, anyway)

Able to eat tall buildings in a single bite…

Okay, maybe not…

Let’s think about this…

Hmmm…

Able to look tall buildings straight in the eye…

Well, three-storey ones perhaps…

At least I wouldn’t need a ladder if I wanted to clean the windows of my house.

If I had a house…

Listen! When you get to be more than twenty feet tall, maybe I’ll finally be able to pick on someone my own size…

Now you might be looking at me and thinking that I just look like a load of old bones… but that’s not true.

I mean, yes, you’re not exactly seeing me at my best today.

I’m a replica, built just so you can understand how big I once was.

These aren’t even my real bones.

Oh no…

My REAL bones, the ones that they dug up in the Badlands (Yeah!! BAD lands) of South Dakota, are somewhere else entirely, but they look just like this…

Only they’re not quite as strong, and might not be able to stand up to all you people with your sticky fingers and the strange filthy air that you breathe, which I need like I need a hole in the head.

Actually, I’ve got several holes in my head, because, as I was the king of the terrible lizards, I got into a fair few fights, but you can tell from the fact that some of the holes healed up, and I grew new teeth, that I survived them all…

Okay, not all of them, otherwise I’d never have ended up in the ground in the Badlands…

We didn’t call them the Badlands back then, of course, but it’s not the worst name for it, given that something very bad happened to me.

So…

Is it a bird…? (Well, kind of…)

Has it a name…? (Oh yes…)

It’s SUPERSTAN!!! (Yeah…!!)

And dinosaurs are big, you see…? (You SEE!!!)

REALLY big, and we lasted for a very, VERY long time…

We were around on this planet for far, far longer than you rather tasty looking humans have been around…

All of you little mammals ARE looking particularly tasty today…

And… after all this time I’m feeling a little… HUNGRY!!!!

[ROARS] 

Saturday, 4 October 2014

DINOSAUR PROBLEMS

I’ve been troubled by dinosaurs – specifically by the variety known as Tyrannosaurus Rex – twice this week, causing me to believe that the most ferocious of the “terrible lizards” has really got it in for be, despite being long extinct in all places apart from those lost islands that occasionally turn up in old movies.

I went to bed the other evening, but found that I couldn’t sleep, but really wasn’t in the mood for picking up one of the mountain of books and making a start on that whilst so many others lay in a “semi-read” state.

Looking about the gloom of the room, at the very edge of the glow being given out by the bedside lamp, my eye alighted upon a little gift that I had once been given, and which had since lain untroubled atop one of the drawer units – one of those tiny little “Build Your Own Dinosaur” kits of the sort that you can usually find in museum gift shops.

“Aha!” thought my non-slumbering mind “That’ll only take five minutes and might take my mind off things!”

And so, I leapt from under the duvet and grabbed the box, opened it up, and began the construction of my tiny little Tyrannosaur.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER and several rebuilds and swear words later, and it still didn’t really work properly.

I kept on telling myself that this really ought not to be beyond my capabilities because it was really meant for children (“Over threes” if I was to believe what was printed on the packaging). I made allowances for myself for having larger fingers than might normally be expected to be dealing with the tiny fiddly pieces, but still couldn’t award myself a Krypton Factor of anything other than zero.

It didn’t help that I had to get up and rummage about the house and look for a tool to pop the tiny, TINY, punch holes through, nor that I kept on putting the wrong parts in the wrong place and got the thing almost finished before noticing that I’d put the little motor in back to front.

Also, trying to build this thing on a less than one hundred percent static duvet, in the half light of a bedside light, and all of the shadows it brings, probably didn’t help either, but those are mere excuses, and whilst I was able to finally go to sleep knowing that all of the parts were finally in place, somehow the tops of the legs didn’t quite slot over the positioning pins correctly, and this troubled me.

I was proven right to be troubled when I did finally manage to wind up the little motor the following day (the noise it made would have not gone down too well the night before, I fear…) and his little legs bounced all over the place as he did a little jig, firmly and resolutely on the spot like a hopeful busker.

“And I thought it would be a nice, relaxing little present for you…” was the disappointed retort when I tactlessly explained my woes.
 
Meanwhile, the OTHER dinosaur problem found me trying to wrangle out a few words for Manchester Museum’s “Stan” for the “Talking Statues” competition and finding that my word-wrangling skills are really not what they once were.

Still, I had a bit of a go and sent something off, getting stupidly fretful when I didn’t get a response to my email fore a while, and then mentally kicking myself around the room when I suddenly became aware, several days later, that the “Talking Statues” project is actually a mobile phone thing, where you bleep one of those mysterious square things (which I don’t really fathom) and the statue supposedly calls you back.

So, I may very well have missed the point with my huge Brian Blessed-style bellowings to the gallery, so that was a bit of a waste of time, although, once the competition has been well and truly lost, I may publish those words here some time - Just for the record, you understand…?

Dinosaurs, eh…? Can’t live with ’em… luckily we don’t have to.

Saturday, 6 September 2014

IN STRICTEST CONFIDENCE

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly low, or on the very brink of insanity, I get ideas in my head that immediately sound utterly ridiculous, but I persevere with them nevertheless. Like when I occasionally toy with the idea of doing some acting again. After all, I reason to myself, I used to quite enjoy doing a bit of the old board-treading at school, and occasionally I feel as if I need to find things that I enjoy doing when I’m feeling gloomy.

But then I try and practice, or at least think about the idea, by perhaps saying some words out loud when I’m in the car, they instantly just sound utterly ridiculous when it’s me that’s saying them, and I quickly put the idea back into its box until the next time I’m having a crisis or something.

Come to think of it, in my mind I know full well that those school performances were pretty embarrassing, too. Whilst my Jacob Marley (I know, typecasting at its very best) was generally well received, I know now that I could have done far more with those chains, those locks, those weights, and the mere thought of all that howling just makes me cringe in utter shame. (Heck… Even the programme cover design I did makes me want to weep nowadays…)

As for Franz the comedy Nazi butler in “The Sound of Music” let’s just recognize the fact that he once existed and then never speak of him again. I do like to think that the late Sam Kelly and I shared a similar disdain for public “Heils” however…

Also, rationally (if I can consider anything that I think nowadays to actually be rational…), I know that the last time I was persuaded to drag myself onto a stage to make up the numbers in a cough and a spit appearance in something so dreadful I dare not speak its name, I can nowadays only remember the massive pain-in-the-arsedness of having to turn up each day, remembering to shave, and the utter fear of not remembering the words.

And there were only about six of those dotted through the banal nonsense…

Standing there, with my knees quaking in the wings, knowing that word number one had vanished and taken all of its little word friends along with it, was just horrible, even when I knew that they were penciled in on the clipboard that my “character” (and I use the word loosely) carried.

Oh well, at least I didn’t have to hang about for the curtain call… Given what I was doing, that would have been an insult to everyone else involved, I always thought. Plus, of course, I could be home and in bed before the end of the interval, which is always a bonus when you live in the back of beyond.

So, my mind may occasionally drift off and consider thesping again, but the practical part of my brain knows that I can head upstairs to write a pithy phrase of my own only to forget it before the computer has had time to boot up, and that’s when I’m thinking of my own words. Remembering pages and pages of someone else’s would be nigh on impossible, especially this aging addled old cranium of mine.

And even in the unlikely event of me managing to remember them, there is, of course, the additional rubicon of then having to stand in front of people and say them out loud, preferably with some sort of performance sprinkled into the air around them.

Not a chance in hell of that happening, I suspect.

This public performance anxiety is, I fear, also why my scriptwriting pastime finally ground to a halt. It wasn't just the lack of self-confidence in what I was writing (although that played a huge part in it), but also the thought having to say my words out loud and in front of other people, especially people who might think that it was all utter rubbish.

I do consider joining a writing group again from time-to-time, if I could find one, but that whole crippling, crushing lack of self-confidence thing tortures me into submission and instead I do nothing, preferring instead to rattle out blogs like this in relative obscurity and anonymity.

You know, I once read somewhere that, in certain quarters, shyness is equated with selfishness. Well, all I can say in response to that is you just try living with it, matey…

Way, way back in the day, I used to quite enjoy performance poetry and occasionally toy with going along to some of that again.

Don’t get me wrong, I doubt that I could ever stand up and spout some of my own doggerel out loud in a public place, but I think that it might just occasionally be pleasant just to be amongst it again and hear some well-chosen words drifting across an enraptured room, although I would cringe in transferred embarrassment at the inevitable smartarse heckle and so probably wouldn’t enjoy it at all.

You see, a lot of the time, I’m not even suffering on my own behalf, but absorbing the blame and the shame for the entire room, presumably so that they don’t have to.

Lack of self-confidence… It really is a bit of a bugger, especially as “people” seem to think that I don’t suffer from it at all, especially as when, in the days when I did used to socialize, I was often the loudest idiot in the room.

I was trying to compensate for something I suppose… either that or the demon drink had a hold on me…

Even expressing opinions could leave me flustered and I really can't get across to anyone quite how much self-loathing can follow even the simplest of social interactions, and how much I would hate myself as I headed home after yet another evening of public embarrassment and humiliation.

I believe other people refer to such things as “parties…”

But then again, my artwork fizzled out in much the same way. Showing my “work” to people who might proclaim it to be utter garbage was more than I could bear, and that was before I ended up working for a guy whose entire modus operandi seemed to be to ridicule and belittle everyone who worked under him, for the betterment of the product, of course...

(I'm amazed sometimes that I manage to function at all any more, especially in the workplace...)

That was years ago now, but it’s left its mark on my stuttering soul.

In recent years, I’ve often felt like I have had a lack of encouragement, or someone to believe in whatever abilities I may or may not have had. I always wanted some kind of a mentor, but even then you have to persuade someone that you actually have some kind of ability for them to mentor you about, and that really isn’t possible when you don’t believe a word of it yourself.

It’s far too late now, anyway, but it still nibbles away at me from time-to-time, and I regret being such a bloody coward for letting those feelings of self-doubt and disbelief overwhelm all of those possibilities I once believed I once might have had.

So it looks as if I might have to try and find something new to enjoy doing, although, after all those years of searching, I really am beginning to wonder quite what it might actually turn out to be…





Wednesday, 12 March 2014

GIBBERISH

I often wonder if anyone would notice if I just wrote a load of old gibberish when I got up one morning...

Some, of course, might say that I already do...

Others might say that it would be an improvement…

Well, that's just mean, mean, mean…!

That said, this morning I have come to the keyboard without a coherent thought in my head, and feeling so very sleepy (and, if it's not going to prompt one of those sarcastic "thank you for sharing" comments, more than a little bit ill… and gloomy… today I feel a little bit gloomy, too...) that this is likely to add up to little more than just some random words strung together purely for the sake of it.

But then, as I've often stated before (although perhaps I've not admitted it hereabouts to often for obvious reasons), I seem to have come to a point with this bloggery where it's become more of a habit than anything else; I write because I write, not necessarily because I have anything to say.

It sounds fiendishly windy and rainy out there… The weather is beating against the roof slates like a frustrated toddler desperate for a new toy and the temperature appears to have dropped considerably. This must mean that spring has sprung, as it will, but my spirits do not appear to have been lifted because of it.

To be honest, at the time of writing, I'm coming into a Friday off a very frustrating Thursday which has left me feeling exhausted. The working day started with me arriving at work to find that the internet had crashed and was refusing to reconnect, and, as I attempted to work my way around this, the batteries in my wireless mouse went flat and it turned out that the replacements were locked inside a drawer to deter thievery.

With graphics, that can be very irritating; Move a slider [DISCONNECTED… WAIT… CONNECTED], alter a… [DISCONNECTED… WAIT… CONNECTED] setting, run the [DISCONNECTED… WAIT… CONNECTED] sequence, select another…[DISCONNECTED… WAIT… CONNECTED] layer…

You get the drift.

Meanwhile, it seemed as if the world just believed that the internet would fix itself and, whilst messages would appear on teffalone screens, the vital documents and files contained therein were not managing to make the great leap into the email inbox, and all of the advice on fixing the problem that we required was all available by visiting websites that were being remarkably uncooperative, given that actually accessing the internet was, basically, the problem.

And much of the day unfolded like this, distracting us from actually getting a great deal of the bloody work which we had to do done. In the end, I packed up my troubles in my old kit bag and went home to set up there, and achieved far more in the few hours I sat in my own house than in the entire morning of frustrations and irritations in the office.

The hope is now that the problem was an overnight upgrading glitch and the Thursday night overnight upgrade will solve it, because otherwise we might as well not turn in at all.

After all, I have better coffee at home too…

After getting home and muddling through for a few hours, I went to collect the Beloved who had a plan to complete her marathon watch of "Elementary" on Thursday evening, so that she could discuss it at length with the person who lent us the files containing the series at lunchtime on Friday without everyone at the table having to tiptoe around the "spoilers" problem...

This meant a very swift meal, which followed a blitz upon the accumulated washing up backlog which had been calling out to me for at least forty-eight hours or more to remind me that attending to it was long overdue, but I had determinedly ignored its cries due to having other, far less important, things to attend to.

After this, we settled down to a "box-set blitz" of five back-to-back episodes before bedtime, during which revelations upon revelations were revealed in that "high-octane" manner and huge pile of "out of character" moments that story lines leading up to season finales of television series can bring along with them.

I yawned a lot, to be honest, because I was feeling very sleepy… but we made it through...

If you're blocked, they say, write yourself out of it… but if you're writing stuff that you hope that somebody at least will read, then it's very difficult to just bludgeon them with some random nonsense and expect them to stick around for more than a sentence or two.

Nevertheless, by rattling on and on about nothing in particular, we've somehow managed to fill up another posting with a load of old gibberish, so that probably proves something significant or otherwise, I suppose.

So, how far anyone's actually penetrated this impenetrable tome will dictate as to how far into the realms of gibberish I feel that we can now venture, because I could just tap out a load of flim, flam, flummery (Pop! Wheee!!!) and if nobody's any the wiser, what harm could it do…?

Maybe tomorrow I'll have something more substantial to share with the world…?

Who knows.

Sunday, 2 March 2014

CREATIVE SWEARING

We were having a chat at work the other day, as you do, and wondering about the various possibilities for conversation offered by the imminent arrival of the office window cleaner. When he turns up for his regular monthly visit, he always seems to enjoy engaging us with a little bit of seventies-style mildly sexist, racist and/or homophobic blue-collar banter, during which any and all of the topical stories in the news he might wish to discuss at that time, in that "taxi-driver-like" way he has, might actually manifest themselves.

It's always a bit of a lottery as to which subject might crop up, although we do like to take a punt, even if we're inevitably wrong. Sometimes he disappoints and takes a thoroughly left-field approach, and sometimes he gets right on to the predicted subject in hand, although it took a couple of goes before he felt comfortable enough to offer an opinion about the celebrity abuse trials - a topic that we imagined would go straight in to the top of the charts with a metaphorical bullet...

As he once more failed to appear, however, the idle chat moved on and m'colleague started speculating upon the possibilities offered by his "creative swearing" to which I felt the need to half-wittedly reply:

"You'll probably be able to do a university course in that one day!"

(Because I still never know when to keep my mouth shut when it comes to smartarsery...)

"You probably already can..." m'colls mused, and this led me on to thoughts of both the Shakespearean insults which I mentioned to you a few weeks ago, and the award-winning roomfuls of writers whose main job (it seemed) was to come up with the bizarrely brilliant lines of abuse that were hurled out by Malcolm Tucker in the satirical series "The Thick Of It".

Some of the dialogue for that satirical sitcom was in fact improvised rather than being scripted (and the cast were credited for providing "additional material" which seems like nice work if you can get it...), and, to be honest, the series includes some very, very strong language indeed.

Peter Capaldi, the real-world actor responsible for putting life into the character of the Swearmeister General, Mr Malcolm Tucker, once stated that "Fundamentally 80% of the final cut is the script that we started with. The improvisation just makes it feel more real and not written."

Meanwhile, before rehearsals began, those very scripts were, I'm unreliably informed by Wikipedia, forwarded on to a "swearing consultant" who was, in reality, apparently actually a gentleman called Mr Ian Martin from Lancaster, who would then add in some of the more "colourful" language to up the comedy ante to a far higher (and obviously far lower) plane of existence.

How and why he became an expert upon such matters, and the "Go To" Guy for impressive linguistic profanity conjunctions remains a mystery, as does the reason why Lancaster should inspire such ingenius wordplay or creativity in someone's abusive responses, or, indeed, such ghastliness (depending upon your point of view of course…).

Lesser Blogfordshire is, of course, a very "family friendly" part of the great big internet, or, at least that "No Adult Content" button on the settings page claims that it is, so I couldn't possibly reprint for you any of the most creative potty-mouthery which got written for the series, although, if you follow any of the links listed below you'll get a pretty colourful range of epithets to mull over.

WARNING: If you are easily shocked by words that were considered perfectly acceptable for post-watershed broadcasting aimed at grown-ups, then DON'T click on the links, and don't say that I didn't warn you...!

"Feet off the furniture you Oxbridge twat, you're not on a punt now."

Hmm...

"Adult content..."

What does that mean, exactly...?

Presumably in internet terms, that means to pictures of anyone with their bits hanging out for all the world to see, and anything which could be regarded as being foul language, although, in my limited experience, it was seldom the "adults" who were caught snickering at the nudie photos and magazines when I was at school, and most of the more impressive examples of swearing I hear come from people I consider far too young to be exhibiting knowledge of such expressions...

Still here's those links I promised you…

Enjoy!!!

(Or not, obviously…)