Looks like shame again

It's review time, all the time.

2011-03-09T10:14:00.011Z

So I came across some review site the other month, that had taken the time to do a 500-word write up on a Morrison's value egg and cress sandwich. Seriously. Without even the slightest sense of irony.

I read it and, as you would expect, did a bit of a sick in my mouth, then began to question the existential relevance of the human race. Here was a grown adult, reviewing two bits of bread forged together in a factory by an ambiguous dairy compote with the least possible amount of human effort.

Seriously.

So I wondered, is there anything now that is too trivial to be reviewed? Is this our destiny as homo-sapiens? To sit at our computer screens giving five star ratings to firelighters and glass polish and chalk and postage stamps? Will this madness ever end?

Then I thought: 'Shut the fuck up Gilmour, and just go with the flow. Here's your chance to contribute to the insanity, and finally bring some much-needed prestige to these vague outskirts of the Mancunian Blogoscape.'

So, here is a completely pointless review of a time when I got twatted by two dicks on Market St a few years ago. (Thank you, egg-and-cress reviewer, for the inspiration.)

When I got jumped in Manchester City Centre in 2001, A review.

Pavement muggers had a different, edgier flair ten years ago, that you seldom find in today’s common towny-twat. For instance, nowadays, you wear your valuables in an easy, tidy, compact package: the iphone. Big Jobs has made life easier for all involved in this respect: it saves labour for the mugger, not having to beat their project to a pulp in order to rifle through pockets like they did in the olden days. It also saves time, hassle, injury and dignity for the muggee: take out a simple insurance plan, and it’s the big corporation that pays out, not the individual. Back at the turn of the millennia though, a mugging this tidy seemed as unlikely as meeting someone from Burnley without a corkscrew and a fearsome agenda.

It was late 2001. I was 19. I was approached at about 2am by two towny fellows (Outnumber bonus: 5 points), 1 x skinhead, 1 x manc-indie-fuck. Unfortunately, the opening line was that tired old chestnut: ‘Here’ya mate, got a cig?’ (2 out of 10). My reply was in the negative, the follow up to which was even an tireder: ‘Mate, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ (1 out of 10) Where's the effort in that? They then asked about my immediate finances, but that was where the perseverance ended. I pushed through them, taking a punch and then a headbutt to the eye, before I was left alone to be on my way, and not a penny poorer. (Execution: nothing gained. 1 out of 10) Thus my ordeal came to a surprisingly speedy denouement. Although I didn’t feel the pain at the time because I’d come out of (what was then) Piccadilly 21’s moderately wankered, when I woke up the next morning, the eye fucking murdered and I looked like I was using one half of my face to do a shit impression of a panda. Ouch. (Effective use of violence: 6 out of 10)

Overall verdict – hardly a mugging, more a random act of violence. A cheap but hardly cheerful 1 and a half stars.

Never Trust The Lego People

2011-02-28T11:39:00.001Z

So about four and a half months ago, I'd noticed that some people, upon clapping eyes on me in the street, were turning to their friends and saying: 'Shit! That kid from Hanson's really let himself go hasn't he?'

Time for a haircut then. And a sheer lack of financial capital meant that I had to bite the bullet and head for the cheapest option: The Toni and Guy Academy, or, to give it it's proper name, Fucking Lego Land, becuase all who work there are required to have the dreaded legohead do/the floppy haired fuckface of doom.

So I get there late and I'm ushered to this room, where I'm put in a stall like some dowdy old bovine at a cattle auction in the after-life. This bloke comes over and takes the same kind of inhalation that a car mechanic takes when he has to service a lada, or if you like, the same kind of inhalation that a rational human being takes when you tell them a Jim Davidson joke, as if to intimiate the following question : 'You've brought me this. What the fuck am I supposed to do with it?'

The option to go nuclear with the clippers is always there, so I say: Off With It! Take it as short as you like. But don't make me indie. Make me indie and I sue you for everything you've got.

I'm taken then to another room and put in another seat. A man, large and generally unwieldy approaches. He looks like the sort of fellow who, upon learning of Michael Jackson's death, likely stayed in bed for a month crying/masturbating. Nevertheless, he approaches, slowly, far too aware of his awkwardness. At this point, I'm so scared of being turned indie that I'm a mess. A fucking blithering mess.

What are we doing?

Short please. Just don't make me indie.

He's not sure. I'm not sure he really works there. A man, a supervising man is consulted. He's wearing a black suit with a black t-shirt, and I deem it entirely possible that somehow Elvis Costello and Jean-Paul Satre are missing a mutual offspring.

Hey man, he goes. What we doing man. Man.

I've just got long hair, I'm not fucked. Brad Pitt isn't here, this isn't True Romance. Just speak to me fucking normally.

Hey man, so you kind of want it short like mine? he asks (coded, to mean: You want to look like me then, man? Because I'm so cool, man?) and just so that I don't fuck anyone off and end up with an indie: Er, Yeah. I guess.

He only just stops short of saying: 'Yeah man. I like heavy metal too man', thus stopping the following conversation from taking place before it can begin:
Costello-Satre: Yeah man. I love all that fuckin' heavy metal shit.
Me: Oh right, cool. Who you in to?
Costello-Satre: All the fuckin' big ones, man. Aerosmith. Fuckin' Bon Jovi.
Me: Right. Yeah. This colourant here, is it corrosive?
Costello-Satre: Yeah man. Why, you wanna take a drink, man?
Me: No, I'm just after something acidic to throw in my own eyes.

Fortunately, instead of all that having to take place, he just tells Jacko groupie what to do in this weird fucking underworld legospeak language that nobody is meant to understand apart from them. It's like when your dentist talks to your hygenist, they say: 'Pass me the 3, I'm going to under-rout the w9.' But which really means: 'The saw! The saw of Hades, woman, now! This fellow's skull needs a good pulverising, ha ha!'

I'm three hours in the chair. Snippety-snip. I'm watching you pal. We're friends for the time being, but give me a floppy fringe, a schmo-cut, or any of that lego-bullshit and I'll see that you're carried out of here in a fucking bag.
Snippety-snip. On the stereo, every 'vintage' track, I say vintage, I mean every track they play off their best of 80's Brit punk compilation CD by The Clash or The Jam, is followed by some contemporary revivalist crap, The Strokes, The Wombats, The Kangaroos, The Koala Bears, Vampire Weekend, Werewolf Tuesday, Philip Schofield Friday, Scouting for a Ruddy Good Pasting.

Snippety-snip. Every now and then, the cutter goes off, 'excuse me' he says, and disappears into the back for a few minutes, probably to have a bit more of a cry to 'What about us?'. Eventually, I'm done, and I'm presented to the supervisor. I'm not 'man' any more. I'm 'mate'.
What do you think mate?

Fine.

Costello tells him to 'Tidy it up then'.

And then I'm out, but having paid first, am I supposed to tip this man? He makes me feel like I should. My bank balance says otherwise. So I don't. But, as I catch a glimpse of myself in the window of the bakery next door, I look like I'm made entirely of fucking crap guitar music and shit beer. It's always the lego people who have the last laugh.

'Til next time.

This phone will change your life

2010-08-09T15:50:00.016+01:00

So I’m in the thick of writing my dissertation but I’m pretty short of cash and I think: ‘Shit! Maybe the sheer amount of cheap coffee I’ve consumed is impairing my judgment, but wouldn’t it be awesome if I started up my own multimedia corporation?’

Yeah. So I did that, and I’ve made a prototype smart phone, the brochure for which is viewable below. Read it, but be careful not to shit yourself with sheer awe.

Behold: The iPrick
the new smartphone from the 'S and Pears Media Technology Corporation

Here’s the shizzle.

Fuck Apple. Fuck Sony. This piece of shit does everything and more:

Internet (up to 3KB a month).
Phonebook.
Fucking Snake 2.
Text (yes, text!!!!)
Camera with 500 kilopixels
Enough storage space to store 3 entire pictures
Stands up on its own!

And comes with special features:

1 – Salon app
- With which to style your bush.
- Not enough time to do your hair and talk/email/twat about on your phone for the customary 18 hours a day? Fucking now you can do that shit at the same damn time! Style while you speak! There’s an entire salon attached to this bad boy!

2 – Paul Bradley Placation Screensaver Icon

- With which to placate one's self and boost one’s self esteem
- Feeling down? Well don’t. It could be much, much worse. Just look at Paul Bradley.

Interchangeable with:

2b - Natalie Cassidy Reminder of the Power to Say ‘no’ Screensaver Icon

- With which to regain a sense of self-respect.
- Because standards, no matter how bad your life is, are very very important.

2c - Kevin Keegan Screensaver Icon of Defiant Doncastrianism.

With which to blame others for your own shortcomings.

3 – Tin opener app.
- With which to open tins.
- Because after forking out for this, you’ll be on the beans for months.

4 – Spoon app
- With which to scoop up the beans with.

5 – Muffler app

- With which to muffle the sound of the speaker’s voice.
- Looks like a bit of cotton wool sellotaped over the mouthpiece, but it's not. It's actually one of the latest innovations in personality adjustment technology.
- Want everyone else in the world to hear your conversation as well because it’s so damn interesting? Well fuck! This will train any mumbling faint-voiced weakling to shout their conversation into this phone with the appropriate level of obnoxiousness. This app can equally be placed over the receiving speaker, so as to train the user when taking a phone call to either repeatedly scream ‘What? Speak up!’ or simply not listen. To anyone. Ever again.

You can order the iPrick now, for a low low price of £699.99 * plus £20 p+p **

* cash only, non-refundable.

** or more if the train fare I’ll spend delivering it exceeds that.

Plug conatining even lesser shame

2010-07-05T12:11:00.011+01:00

Less shame even, than some political geezers, who steadfastedly swear against a rise in VAT, but then get into office and go along with one anyway. Less shame even, than a comic actor with no comic talent whatsoever who, despite this, inexplicably keeps on getting work. Less shame even, (just maybe) than a bunch of people who are supposed to be half-decent at playing football, but, when the shit comes down to it, are actually pretty wank. And finally, less shame even, than an MA student with a shitload of work to do, plunging into hitherto undiscovered depths of procastinative self-aggrandisement by maintaining a blog, albeit in a slipshod manner, and using it to do only two things: whinge, and promote his own work; it's... oh, hang on. It's that last one.

You can see 'Waiting for the Floor to Stop Moving' in all its staggering mediocrity, by visiting Ersatz Press and purchasing the first issue of fledgling lit mag Stub Magazine.

Sold? 'course you are. Maybe I'll get a job as one of those dicks who calls you up on the phone while you're having your tea. What are they called again? Oh yeah. Dicks.

But anyway. Yeah.

Angry Observational Comedy

2010-06-17T13:23:00.018+01:00

So, for those of you who don’t know, a few years ago I was working as a whiskey-addled stand-up, mainly specialising in angry observational comedy. I was doing the small halls, working my way up and stuff, and it was going alright, until one morning when this bloke turns up at my door. He’s dressed in a wizard’s getup and looks like Russ Abbott in a bad wig. So I go: ‘Yes?’ And he says: ‘Look I’m not being funny mate. But at the minute, the stand-up scene is saturated with little shits like you trying to hog all the attention, and we, the old guard, aren’t going to stand for it any more.’ And I go: ‘So you are Russ Abbott in a bad wig.’ He tells me to ‘Shut the fuck up,’ and then he says: ‘Listen, I’m going to shine this laser pen in your face and erase all your comic ability, so that you’ll never work as a stand-up comedian again.’ I shrug at the lunatic and reply: ‘Bummer.’ Then he continues: ‘I will, however, permit you to keep the memory of one gag, which you may also write down for posterity, to remember your glory days by and for anecdotal use at dinner parties and so on. But only one.’ So I humour this idiot and write down the old ‘volvic challenge’ routine on a scrap of paper. Then he shines the pen in my face and boom, I turn into the gibbering sap you all know me as today.

Anyway, recently I thought: 'Wow. The blog's looking slack. I know... I'll change the title, stick a depressing picture on it and whack that shit angry joke that the wizard let me keep on there for good measure.' Unfortunately, I was drinking in my local Wetherspoon’s recently when the scrap of paper containing the sum of my stand-up career was wrested from me and subsequently swallowed by a fox. Below then, is the total of the ‘volvic challenge’ routine which I can reproduce from memory (consequently, the content and delivery of it may have suffered a severe depreciation in quality as a result):

"You get these adverts don’t you? You get these adverts. You get these adverts, for water. Because obviously water needs advertising. Because obviously the essence of life needs to be advertised. Because obviously, we won’t even consider drinking water unless we see some fashionable dickhead with salon hair drinking it on the telly. But anyway, you get these adverts don’t you? Where, they stick a trendy prick in front of a camera and the prick says: ‘I’m about to do the volvic challenge’. ‘I’m on the 7th day of the volvic challenge, I hope I make it.’ ‘Now, I’m just having a cheeky volvic, or else I won’t make my units and complete my challenge that I’m doing.’ Challenge? Shut the fuck up. The volvic challenge. Drinking water, right, it’s not a challenge is it? The volvic challenge. Not a challenge, drinking some bottled water every day for a bit. Drinking water, as humans are biologically conditioned to do. The volvic challenge. ‘Oooh, just a progress report, I’m on the 10th day now...’ get to fuck. And then at the end, get this right, at the end they go ‘So yay! I’ve completed the volvic challenge, yeah. I’m feeling a bit more energetic now...’ as if the act of drinking water being conducive to a healthy lifestyle is supposed to be some kind of a fucking revelation to us."

'til next time.

Twitterati

2010-06-14T18:28:00.016+01:00

I now know of at least two reasons why Twitter isn't a complete waste of time.

Number 1

Number 2: fig. a plus fig. b equals fig. c (see picture):

A (possibly facetious) reply from Douglas Reynholm himself! Nutty.

Music While You Work

2010-05-26T12:02:00.023+01:00

So, I’ve just handed in a load of work, one piece of which was quite possibly the last full-on critical academic essay that I’ll ever do. It was while I was in the thick of doing this work when I realised that, over time, and without really noticing it, I’ve developed something of a habit of playing very specific, certain styles of music to help me write.

I’ve thought about it a little every now and again, but it actually struck me proper recently that having some sort of a mild distraction actually aids the writing process. Personally, I always find that I write better when there's a window nearby to stare out of: it sounds tacky, but for some reason, looking out onto an outdoor scene helps me to process thoughts. I’ve known some people to write better in coffee shops or parks, but I can’t seem to do that – I usually find the outdoorsy environment too noisy and distracting. Equally, if I’m sat at my current set-up, which is a desktop PC on a pull-out unit with a bare wall behind it, then I’ll find myself pulling up Twitter every fifteen minutes or so to alleviate Word-document-eye-fatigue.

Striking up the right level of distraction for me then, has had to come through the right choice of music-while-you-work. This in itself is a whole other can of worms: pick your music too loud or busy and you won’t be able to concentrate; pick something too light and easy going and you’ll wake up six hours later with a bunch of F-keys mashing into your eye socket and wondering what the fuck happened. Making a playlist has its issues as well, as it can prove time-consuming and the whole ‘ooh, I wonder what’s coming on next’ factor can be a niggling hindrance. So, in order to assist anyone who might chance across this obscure corner of the web and happen to have the same problem, I’ve compiled a short list of albums, which are best when simply plonked on and listened to from start to finish, that I have found to be most beneficiary in aiding my writing over the past few years.

Now, I’m not a music reviewer, so forgive me for not paying the following records the respectful coverage they artistically deserve. They’re all fantastic albums by fantastic bands, but I’ve also found them to be very conducive to creative productivity:

Fragile by Yes

Obviously a classic. Bouts of long proggy Wakeman/Howe grooves interspersed with soothing harmonic interludes and vocalised genius from Jon Anderson. Exactly the right balance to work to I’ve found, although with Yes, you have to be careful which album you choose: earlier records like the eponymous Yes or The Yes Album can be a little too busy on the musing ear, and later recordings such as 90125, being quite poppy, can also prove to be a distraction.

Widows by Day For Airstrikes
A Manchester-based instrumentalist outfit who ooze proggy tremendousness, Day For Airstrikes strike up a good balance between long build-ups and rocky chorus riffs, spurring on writerly inspiration.

Rumours/Then Play On by Fleetwood Mac
Two different albums from what are essentially two different bands. Then Play On is Fleetwood Mac fronted by Peter Green’s bluesy/folk brilliance, just busy enough to keep the old creative adrenaline at the level of a brisk walk. Rumours, the oft-celebrated crown jewel of the Nicks/Buckingham line-up, is a much different record, but the effect on word productivity is much the same, i.e. very ruddy good.

Alpha by Asia
Fairly dramatic, rocky album which, at the same time, has enough of a softness about it to serve as a rhythmic backdrop for doing work to.

Fresh Cream by Cream
Who doesn’t like The Cream? People wi'out no bloody ears, that’s who. But also, when faced with the blinking Word-cursor of doom, tracks like Sleepy Time and Spoonful are just the ticket for getting going. Why? I can’t really explain it. I think the slow bluesy-ness of it all has a relaxing, ‘settle down and think about it’ effect.

Other complementary-to-writing records deserving of an honourable mentch: The Free Story by Free; Nursery Crime by Genesis; Split/Who Will Save the World? by The Groundhogs; III by C4AM95 (The Fucking Champs); Clutching at Straws by Marillion; and Defector by Steve Hackett.

So there you go. Happy writing and listening.

Back soon(er).

Plug containing even less shame

2010-05-03T07:43:00.003+01:00

Even less shame than the amount that Peter Kay might feel, after he's taken between £35 - £40 of your money to stand in front of you, albeit at some distance away, and parade around shouting Bolton anecdotes that were only borderline funny at best when you first heard him tell them in 1997. Imagine 'Go-ern Loh-Koh, derrrn in akka-pul-koh...' accompanied by a man, too heavy to be sliding along on his knees, sliding along on his knees.

But anyway, those good fellows at Jersey Devil Press kindly ran something that I sent them in this month's issue, which you can find here.

Now for a tired satirical observation/guffaw moment

2010-04-23T12:42:00.011+01:00

Don't get me wrong, I’m not really against Labour. On the contrary in fact, although ideally I'd like to see the Lib Dems get in, I’m all for a Labour/Lib Dem coalition, if only because it will result in the Tories not getting in and soon-to-be anger management patient David Cameron’s silly beetroot head finally overheating and imploding with sheer rage (I can't wait to see the look on his face when a hung parliament is declared).

It's an old joke, but even the most ardent Labour supporter I’m sure though, will appreciate the irony in the following letter I received from Hazel Blears, Labour candidate for the Salford constituency and 2009 expense claim fiasco heavyweight, inviting me to support her campaign by giving her (more) money.

(Insert quip/sarcastic suggestion about her maybe using her expenses, because that's how they are supposed to be used, to pay for her campaign instead of asking taxpayers to here)

(That's enough trying to be Private Eye - Ed)

City Centre Living: It's not all bass guitar, late night poker and Man City, but there is quite a lot of that.

2010-03-25T13:27:00.012Z

So I live more or less slap-bang in Manchester City Centre. When people find this out, they usually ask 'What's it like living in town?' and I usually tell them that it's alright, you know, good for rolling home after a messy night out, but shit if you want solitude. But then I thought, well, I haven't blogged for a month. Why not do, like, a fucking guide or something, delivered in pro/con format?

PRO: Most obvious one, you're never far from big shops, etc, so you can just wander out on a whim and get pretty much whatever you need whenever you feel like it. Feel like watching Dragnet on DVD tonight? Fopp'll have it for £3. It's five minutes across the road. Going out later and need a fucking shirt that everyone else will be wearing no matter which bar you go to? Topman is in spitting distance. But, while this is good for those with large disposable incomes, it isn't so good for those who have little and/or none at all, which brings us to...

CON: Expensive rent. You have to pay through the nose to have town on your doorstep. Which is okay if you're a young professional with a salary upwards of decent, but not okay if you're a full-time student, part-time restaurant dogsbody and funding a rather nasty Saxon CD habit. Not that I have that last one. That's just hypothetical.

CON: Closeness of big shops can encourage you to buy shit you don't need or even want. Saxon CD's being just one example. Another example being the following, observe:

'I haven't got any coffee in. I could just go and get a jar. Or I could just go and get a Starbucks. I think I deserve a Starbucks. I have finished Austerlitz today and done a load of washing. Fuck it. Oh and while I'm here, I'll have a Rocky Road please. How much? Well if I'm splurging out here, I may as well take this Paul McCartney compilation as well.'

PRO: Time - you generally have more of it, because you rarely need to get on a bus/train, as you've got shops/work etc all here, so that cuts out waiting/commute. And I've also found that my 'weirdo approaching me for a fucked up conversation' quota has severely decreased since I've not been getting on the bus. As some of you know, I rocked the Our Saviour look for quite a long time, and that is definitely more of a magnet for bus weirdoism than anything else in the history of creation. In my experience, about 50% of all weirdo interaction happens on buses. Ergo, less bus travel = less weirdos. Although, I guess you could argue that as more of a con than a pro. Weirdo interaction can be entertaining on occasion.

PRO: No taxis needed/being able to crawl home even when completely fucking twisted at 4am. However...

CON: Leaving bars to go home doesn't become so much of a priority as a result of this, and long bouts of perpetual twistedness invariably become a likely danger.

CON: Various forms of cuntery. By that I mainly mean noisy fuckers, who, at the end of a night out go: 'Oh you should all totally come back to mine, I have a flat in town, and we can go there and play shit music until the sun comes up and really piss off that sleep-deprived MA student who lives beneath us.' Other cuntery may be more outdoor related. For instance, if I want a bottle of milk in the morning, I have more or less no choice but to go onto the high street to get it, and that means actively ignoring at least five out-of-work actors wielding a clipboard, or having to dodge around an aggressive suit in either a) a mood or b) a fast car, all before I've had chance to sit down with a cup of tea.

PRO: That said, mostly, people in Manchester are generally nice and not cunts.

To sum up, I reckon it's good to live here for a bit, but not too long. But there it is anyway. My addition to the abyss that is the online property lifestyle canon. I'll be back soon, probably with more swearing or another shit joke or something as deadline and procrastination season is fast approaching. T'ra.

No! Please! Not Room 101!!?!

2010-02-25T13:10:00.010Z

Last night, I went to see 1984 at the royal exchange.

It was about a month ago when I first saw this poster for it at St Ann's square and I dived into the box office right there and then without even thinking twice about it.

As you can probably tell, I consider 1984 to be one of the greatest dystopians of all time. Actually scratch that. One of the greatest novels of all time, dystopian or otherwise. When I had the tickets in my hand though, I did think - hang on a minute, how's this going to work on stage? Surely there's too much to cram in? Not just story, but scenery - how could you do something like the storming of the bedroom scene on an enclosed surrounded space?

Simple. With innovative sets and tremendously well-organised stage directions. So, in actuality then, not that simple.

In between scenes, the cast, intricately and meticulously choreographed, would carry bits of the set on and off, and, in a brilliant touch which complimented the production perfectly, would place the furniture about in drilled, militaristic fashion. For instance, two of the ensemble, dressed as party members, would face each other and handle a table in the same way that a guardsman outside Buckingham Palace handles a rifle. This would be mirrored across the stage in perfect time with everyone else during a scene change.

In the middle of all this meticulous arrangement, being helplessly whisked about by everything, is Winston Smith, superbly portrayed by Jonathan McGuinness. The casting for Smith was spot on - McGuinness captured the downtrodden demeanor of the protagonist perfectly, and expertly conveyed Winston's awkwardness when it came to intimate scenes with Julia, as well in the exchanges with Syme and Parsons.

Julia, sadly, was a little too upbeat and Blue Peter presenter-ish for this. In the book she's much more moody, cynical, 'impure and corrupt'. That said, she does still manage to give a strong performance.

O'Brien is a mountain of a man, booming, sadistic and self-important. Goldstein's monologue is delivered with impressive confidence. Parsons is the perfect, brainwashed, pitiful fool. The captured girl in Winston's cell, even though her part only lasts for about two minutes, also gives a harrowing performance that almost threatens to steal the show.

The play does run a little on the long side - just over three hours, but this included about ten minutes where the action was put on hold due to a technical hitch - but as a result, the script is absolutely faithful to the novel, which is a tremendous achievement for a stage adaptation. I can't think of a single scene that was left out.

The lighting, sound effects and score are all also top-notch, in particular, the more violent scenes, which are plastered with a bright red glare and traumatic distorted buzzes, really do feel like a boot kicking you in the face.

So yeah. I'm giving this twenty-eight thousand stars.

It runs until 27th March. Go see it.

Why don't Engels and Catatonia get no love?

2010-02-11T14:25:00.003Z

I made up a shit joke today, using only the powers of my head. Here it is:

There are two men in a cafe, sat together at a table. One is environmentally conscious, and is doing a crossword puzzle. The other, a dickhead, gets in his hummer every morning to drive 300 yards down the road to the local newsagent just to pick up a paper, probably the Daily Express or something what with him being a twat.

The first man comes to the following clue in his crossword puzzle: Careless with resources. 8 letters. First letter is W.

Instantly, he knows the answer is 'Wasteful'. But instead of simply writing the answer in the boxes and rather wishing to make a point, he turns to his acquaintance and repeats the clue.

'Careless with resources. 8 letters. First letter is W.'

The second man mulls it over and then says: 'Willful.'

'How are you spelling 'Willful'?' asks the first man.

'W-I-L-L-F-U-L.' the second man answers.

'But that's only seven letters.' points out the first man.

'And?'

'There are eight letters.'

'Why use eight letters to say something which can be said in seven? Surely that's just being 'careless with resources'? Eh?'

The second man, chuckling, leans back in his chair and looks pleased with himself because he thinks he's won and it's the end of the joke.

Only, he hasn't, and it isn't.

The next five minutes pass in silence because the second man is an arse and the first man can't be bothered with him. The second man's food then arrives: a lavish Japanese-style salad topped with a Wonton crisp. The second man begins to eat it, but begins to choke after several bites.

'Wonton!' the man croaks, while pointing, panic-stricken, to his blocked airway.

'What?' asks the first man.

'Wonton!'

'Wanton?' The first man thought about it for a second. 'Ah, very funny. Why even use seven letters when you can use six?'

'No! Wonton!' the second man desperately hacked, his head turning blue. 'Get me water!'

'Eh?'

'Water! Water!'

'Wow, water? That's only five letters. Doesn't have much to do with the clue though does it?'

The second man dies, right there. That's the end of the joke. Ha.

I've started so I'll procrastinate until we go off the air.

2010-01-25T18:36:00.015Z

Serious sorty-outy time at Gilmour Towers this week. (Towers? Surely not. How about Gilmour House? Wait, even that’s still too generous...) Oh, by the way, don’t mind this fellow here in bracketed italics - it’s just my sense of self-deprecation. I read somewhere that blogging is all about not taking yourself too seriously so I thought, lest I fell into such a trap, it might be a good idea to have him around for entertainment purposes. I’ll keep him strictly bracketed and italicised though of course – the little bugger may just run amok otherwise.

Recently, what with it being a new year, and that generally being a time for sorty-outy-ing, it struck me that, what with having this here blog and claiming to be a writer supposedly, I should probably talk about what I’m working on at the minute (and try not to use so many commas while doing so). At least that way, I can prioritise stuff in the old noggin. Plus there’s the added advantage that, if anyone should read this (pfft) and bump into me, they may just ask me if I’ve finished working on such and such, and rightfully pester me into finishing it if I haven’t.

Every now and again I worry about not writing enough, and I think the sudden anxiety was brought on this time by a conversation I had with a mate the other day, about generally getting out there and doing writerly stuff. It was then when I realised that, obviously apart from all the MA stuff, I haven’t really done anything of note since last July, when me and a colleague cobbled together a handful of props and actors, and put on a play/script-reading in a derelict office block for the Manchester Art Crawl. I think I’ve relied on the ‘I’m busy, I mean I’m doing an MA at Manchester for fuck’s sake’ excuse a little too much. A lot of the other guys on the course do stuff like story and poetry readings off their own back and, although it’s not always easy, I should be finding the time to do the same.

But anyway, what I’ve got going on at the minute. Here goes:

I started writing a novel in January 2008. I won’t into detail about the premise of it here as there isn’t really enough space to explain it in a dignified manner. Basically, it’s a different take on the catastrophe novel. I wanted it to be along the same lines of Saramago’s Blindness, or John Christopher’s Death of Grass. Or even Douglas Adams’s Hitchhiker’s, only a little more serious.

When I explained the premise to people in more detail, I usually got one of two reactions: the first was ‘Adam, that’s fucking ace. How did you think of that?’; and the other was ‘Oh, right. Okay. Sounds erm... yeah...’ accompanied by a proper funny look. It was pretty much a 50-50 split, and there was no middle ground: people either completely got it and loved the idea, or just didn’t get it all and thought it was a waste of time. To be honest, I was even more encouraged by this ratio of polar opposites: even if people didn’t like it, it’d get people talking. A blend of ‘I like this’ and ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ is what I really try to get. So, I pressed on with it. Luckily, that semester, I had science-fiction writer Andy Remic as my Portfolio supervisor, and he was a big help in terms of plot guidance and etc. I carried on with it for roughly a year and hit just shy of 49,000 words. Eventually, I got to a stage where I needed to start thinking about wrapping it up, but I couldn’t think of a way to do it. I’d come up with about seven different endings when in the haze of final year projects, I put it down and left it. For the past 6 months I’ve been thinking: ‘Just fucking go back and finish it, in any way possible, it’s been going on for two years now.’ So that’s number one.

Number two: No Farms, No Buckets. This started out as a short story last year, but after a while I realised that I might be onto something with novella-stamina legs. In fact, if I had to choose a marathon-runner as an aspiring metaphor for this piece of work, I’d like it to be Paula Radcliffe, moaning and shitting itself a pathway towards an awkward sense of triumph. Admittedly at the minute, it’s more like your Auntie Edna trying to do the 10k run and bailing out after 10 yards because her false teeth are chafing against her gum. Don’t worry though: I’m sending Edna to the treadmills of that dodgy discount gym down the back of Hogshead in town. She’ll be novella shape in no time.

What was I even talking about? Oh yeah...

The concept, again, isn’t too straightforward. This lad dies way before his time and ends up in a kind of careers office, where his life is subject to a review and the careers officer gets to decide which way he goes, up or down, and so on. Quite philosophical an’ that. The reaction to this was different: I work-shopped it at Uni, and everyone got it. Not everyone liked it, but everyone got it. I’ve been carrying on with it since and gathering peer opinion in the process. In total, this one sits at about 13,000 at the minute and is just beginning to hit its stride. I think letting this rest would be a mistake right now, so I’m doing ongoing work on it.

I’ve written a play as well. Well, kind of. I’d done two acts at about 15 minutes each by last Autumn, and I need to do a final act so I can try and whore it out to theatre companies. I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you what this is about – I’m not too experienced in theatre circles, but I’ve observed amongst playwrights who I know an etiquette of caginess, and I don’t want to tread on anyone's codpiece.

So there are some things. Omitting a couple of less notable others. As you can probably tell, I’m a good starter, but not a great finisher(er). So why dignify this post with an adequate finish? (Oooooooh. Check out postmodern pants over here.) But yeah, I’m not someone who likes going on about himself so don’t worry, these kinds of posts won’t be frequent. However, I will be back with an update on all this, by which time I will hopefully have actually managed to finish something.

(Got it: how about Gilmour Ground-floor-studio-flat-without-adequately-installed-central-heating?)

I'd like to see James Corden step in a really deep puddle so that his feet get wet and he has to be really uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

2010-01-11T21:30:00.002Z

So this lad who I work with absolutely loves BBC Three. A couple of months ago, we were having a bit of a discussion about it over a beer. My take on BBC Three is that, generally, I don't really watch it. He asked me why I don't, and I said that watching BBC Three is akin to 'Being dragged out by some mates who you haven't seen in ages, and ending up in some shit towny bar like Walkabout, only to find that they're running low on drinkable stock, and that there's only Stella available (on tap) and Sambuca, and after a few of those, finding yourself dancing against your will to some tremendously awful ditty, like Hi-Ho Silver Lining or that overplayed crowd-pleaser by the Proclaimers, and then, after leaving as late as possible, entering some crowded food outlet and gorging yourself on a doner kebab, even though you don't really need sustenance because you ate before you came out. That feeling, as you wake up in the morning, suffering from chaser-induced amnesia, cringe-worthy flashbacks, aching limbs and bloody fists, that feeling, of bloated physical and emotional over-indulgence, that's the feeling I get after sitting through just half an hour of BBC Three programming.' Obviously I meant that in a nice fun way.

Yesterday, this same lad came up to me out of the blue and said: 'I heard you watch pro wrestling.' Admittedly, I do and have done since I was a kid. Then he said that surely the rant I went on about BBC Three stank a bit? That pro wrestling is about as low brow as you can get? That's true, I said. But we all have our guilty pleasures. It turns out he watches it as well. I still maintained that just about anything on WWE programming is more intellectually challenging than watching Gavin and Stacey or Kill it, Cook it, Take it to the Cinema or whatever that show's called.

Then it struck me that pro wrestling must require some degree of intelligence, because of it's kind-of postmodern qualities? Yeah, 'what the fuck', I heard you. But think about it. You have this weird choreographed semi-sport, where the fans know it's fake, and the writers and the wrestlers know that the fans know that it's fake, yet they still keep up this facade of realism. Along with this, there's the insider references that the announcers make, breaking character and acknowledging that it's all a work. And surely, when some really bad dude like Steve Austin acts like a twat but is cheered and becomes an anti-hero, that itself breaks some kind of metanarrative somewhere? Or maybe not. Maybe that whole paragraph was just bollocks.

This much I know: watching TV and writing essays is a lethal cocktail.

Til next time.

Sharp Scratch

2010-01-06T23:14:00.000Z

So then.

I've been tremendously ill, hence the lack of post. About three days after the plug below, a bunch of stuff that had brewing for a while with my gut came to a messy head. I ended up spending a week inside my flat, not being able to eat anything or go anywhere, and then two weeks in hospital. It turns out I have a chronic intestinal condition, as well as a dodgy appendix. Obviously I've had to cut down on chilli-cheese burgers and just about everything else since, but the big one though, is taking it easy. Apparently, stress tends to spark off the entire thing, and thinking about it now, it did all kick off about a week after I handed in my essay on Woolf, while not sleeping or taking any time off work-work to do it. Having lost so much study time over the past two months, and with two assignments due in the next fortnight, hopefully I'm not booking myself a return ticket to the ward as speak. So yeah.

My advice: never get ill while you're doing an MA and living hand-to-mouth off a part-time job. I couldn't study, so I fell behind, and I couldn't work, so I couldn't pay my bills. I was very close to being totally fucked. I'm lucky that Vicky, as well as visiting me every night, took the time to sort my life out for me while I was in there. I'm also lucky that my Mum and Dad loaned me a few bob to cover the rent this month.

But anyway, enough of all that, whinging and stuff. Here are some other things:

The Co-op came through in the end. I know! I knew that by doing the step-by-step guide totally slagging them off, the law of irony would come back to bite me in the guilty nether regions. Thank you that bank. In true Co-op style, they've also given me a current account which I never even thought about asking for.

Random recommendation: I've been reading Talking Heads by Alan Bennett, and if you haven't read this already as well, you really should. Especially if you're into Northern, working class, theatre-y type stuff. There's probably a term for such a movement which I'm too lazy to search for in my Norton Anthology of English Literature (i.e. Wikipedia).

Anyway, I must dash. I have a date with Jorge Luis Borges and some narrative-obsessed Frenchman. (If I was a real intellectual, in these brackets I would take the opportunity to quip: 'Narrative-obsessed Frenchman? Which one? Guffaw!' But I won't. Because I'm not a cunt. Not yet.)

Til next time.

Plug containing not even a hint of shame.

2009-11-20T15:47:00.001Z

If you're bored, and fancy reading a book containing a whole bunch of tremendous short stories one after the other, admittedly with a short interruption in the middle where some dross that I wrote appears, then you should buy this. It's not expensive, well, okay, it's not strikingly inexpensive, but you won't need to take out a mind-twisting loan with the Co-operative Bank to be able to afford it. Incidentally, I was in the Co-op yesterday, buying a quiche if you must know, and upon paying for said quiche, when the man behind the counter asked: 'Would you like a receipt?' I very nearly said: 'How about you fax it to me?'

But yeah. The point of this post, and the point of life itself I believe, is that you should purchase this book. The work in it, especially the featured piece by Hardy, is bloody brilliant.

£9.99 plus £1 p+p from Leaf Books.

You can buy it here.

How to apply for a Career Development Loan (and subsequently raise your blood pressure)

2009-11-18T16:35:00.000Z

Allow me to backtrack a little. When I was setting this blog up, I had two ideas for the name of it. The first was simply: Well, Fuck; but I ended up going with the less catchy: No, that would be too easy. Both of these titles were inspired by my recent dealings with the Co-operative Bank concerning my application for a PCDL to pay my MA course fees. You see, despite what their tremendously well thought out ad-line 'Good with money' claims, it turns out that applying for a loan with them is far from 'Good' for your emotional or mental well-being.

The following is a step-by-step guide to the PCDL application process, as experienced by me, Adam Gilmour, MA student in an increasingly fucking desperate financial position.

September:

1 - Phone up the PCDL helpline and they agree to send a bunch of forms. There is a choice of two banks to apply for a loan with: Barclays or the Co-op. Being a Rochdale lad, I opt for the latter.

2 - Forms arrive. Get 'em filled in. Wait, there's a bit that the university has to fill out and stamp.

3 - Go to uni. Find a building, just any building with a person in it and ask: 'Where do I get this form filled out?' They answer: 'Student services.'

4 - Find student services. It's registration week and nobody knows what's going on, so queue for at least an hour in a room with no working air-con and a distinct smell of fear.

5 - Send forms off.

October:

6 - Receive word from an MA colleague that Barclays have stopped taking part in the PCDL scheme, so the Co-op is the only option now anyway. Also receive word that apparently my tuition fee amount was misquoted by uni. Bugger. Does that mean I'll have to adjust the amount I'm borrowing with the Co-op? Uni reckons that the Co-op may just go ape-shit if they think I'm making out that my course fees as being more than they actually are. Not wanting them to chuck my application in the bin, I decide it might be best to phone them and find out.

7 - On hold for 40 mins. The hold-tone is a two minute hybridisation of a Jack Johnson riff followed by a dramatically dull pop bridge that sounds like it could only have been penned by The Corrs. Well, Fuck. And to think I'm paying for this phone-call.
'So my fees were misquoted, blah, blah, blah, do I need to change that on my application?'
'Yes,' this dude says, 'fax us over a letter from the university with the new amount on and we'll send some new forms out.'
'Fax? Really? Can't I email it to you?'
'No. It needs to be faxed.'
Insert joke about it not being 1986 any more here.

8 - Acquire a letter from uni admin with new fee amount on it. Type up a covering letter explaining what's happened. Luckily, my work has a fax machine. Get it faxed off.

9 - After a fortnight, no new forms have arrived. Best phone up.

10 - Same hold-tone as before. Great. On hold for 40 mins, then get cut off. Phone back, and get an automated message saying that the Development loans office is open from 8am until 4pm. It's now 4:02pm.

11 - Phone up the 24 hour banking line. Tell them about the being cut off fiasco and that I just wanted to check that they got the damn fax. They're very sorry. They have access to my application, so they can tell me what's going on with it.
'Ah... ah....'
'What?'
'There's been a problem verifying your details.'
'Right. What do I need to do then?'
'Best phone up again tomorrow and speak to the loans office, they'll be able to help you.'
'Right.'
'They're open from 8 until 4.'
'Yeah, I know. Cheers.'

12 - Phone up the next day at 8am (those fuckers aren't closing on me this time). Spend 15 mins on hold (they're improving).
'What's the problem?'
'The address you've provided isn't on our database.'
'Right.'
Pause.
'Well, what do you want me to do about it?'
'Well, have you given us the right address?'
'Yes.'
'Well it's not on our database.'
'It's a fairly new building.'
'That'll be why then.'
'Okay... well, I have a tenancy agreement here that says that my address is actually my address. Should I email- sorry- should I fax you a copy over?'
'Hang on a minute...'
Background muttering.
'Hello? Mr Gilmour?'
'Yes?'
'We will accept a passport as verification of your identification. If you fax us a copy of that across then your application will proceed.'
'Right. Did you get my other fax?'
'What fax?'
'About the change in fee amount?'
'Erm... you'd best fax that over again.'
'Right.'

13 - I figure that it might be an idea to pop into my local Co-operative so they can fax all this stuff over themselves. Walk in. Queue up. Get to a cashier's desk and they send me to this other desk thing where I have to queue up again. I tell the lady what about what's happened and that I need to fax this stuff over. She tells me to take a seat. After 40 mins I've still not been seen to. I have stuff to do and a shift at work that night so I can't really wait around any longer. I ask the lady if I can just get the correct fax number so I can send the stuff off myself as I have lunch to eat and The Good Soldier to read by the end of the afternoon. She says she'll just get it for me and disappears for 15 mins. Then she returns with the fax number. Turns out the one I had was the correct one. I'm convinced by now that they're just shit. I have another date with work's fax machine.

14 - About a fortnight after sending said fax, I receive a letter from the Co-op, stating that they 'Do not have all the relevant information they need to process my application. Please call this number, blah blah blah.'

15 - Call up. Another 30 mins of sanity-crushing acoustic pop. Some dude answers.
'Hello, yes. What's all this about then?'
'Ah, Mr Gilmour. We had a problem verifying your identification.'
'What about the photocopy of the passport I sent?'
'It wasn't verified.'
'Verified?'
'It needs to be verified.'
'By who?'
'By an official.'
'What? Like by the police or a doctor or something?'
'The post office will do it for you.'
'They will?'
'Yes.'
'Will they charge me?'
'No.'
'Are you sure?'
'They won't charge you.'
'So what then? I fax the verification over to you?'
'Yes.'
'And then that's it?'
'Yes.'
'I don't have to send you anything else?'
'No.'

16 - The post office have a daft new system where they give you a fucking raffle ticket and call you up when it's your turn. It's Friday afternoon, so it's rammed. I wait an hour. They call me up to the counter and I get my passport verified.
'That'll be £6.85 please.'
That lying little shit.
To work.
'Hello boss. Can I borrow your fax machine again?'

November -

17 - I receive yet another letter yet another fortnight later. It's an exact duplicate of the last one, saying that they don't have all the info they need, yadda yadda. It's a Saturday and the office is closed, so I have to wait til Monday to phone up.

18 - Phone up on Monday morning. On hold for 5 mins. Wow.
'So. What this time?'
'Okay, let me see... the problem Mr Gilmour is that the documents need to be verified and faxed over from a Co-operative branch.'
'Are you kidding me?!? That's not what the last guy said.'
'Err... erm... let me put you through to the loans team.'
'Please do.'
50 mins on hold. I have to leave for uni in a bit. I'm about 10 seconds away from slinging the phone across the room when:
'Sorry to keep you waiting, how can I help?'
'Right. I know this isn't your fault, but....' and off I went.
'Okay, Mr Gilmour, I'm sorry about this and you're going to hate me now, but, I've just tried to access your application, and it's actually expired...'

19 - To be fair, the girl on the phone this time is extremely helpful. She sends out some forms and says to send them back as soon as and I'll be put through as a priority.

20 - Forms arrive. Date with student services. Surprisingly, there is no queue.

21 - Go to the Co-op. Give them the forms. It only takes up 40 mins of my time for them to fax them off. For some reason, I'm grateful for this.

If you managed to read all that, fucking well done. That's the story so far. No joke. The conversations aren't word for word, but they're pretty damn close. Needless to say that if I don't get this loan now, I might go to Toad Lane in Rochdale and perform a satanic ritual on an innocent meat and potato pie in retaliation.

No, that would be too easy.

2009-11-18T15:39:00.000Z

So, fuck me, I'm blogging now.

This came about as a result of the usual twisted reasoning that seems to take place at the exact moment before I make a decision about anything. You see, a couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation with two workmates over post-shift drinks, talking about youtube, twitter, blogs and etc. My sentiments during said conversation were along the admittedly underthought lines of: 'No! I hate bloody technology. Too many people blog nowadays, too many people are interested in just hearing their own voice, talking and talking, and no cunt listens to anyone else any more as a result.' And you know, I still feel that the more I hear about blogging, the more I feel like I shouldn't be doing it. I'm not a particularly interesting guy. I'm not that outgoing. I don't really have that much to say. But then I think: 'Well, if I feel like I shouldn't be doing it, what better reason then to actually do it?'

So here we are. A reluctant blogger. How wonderfully (and sickeningly) postmodern.

That said, there were a couple of rational factors behind the decision to come on here and waste 5 minutes of the lives of the 2-5 people who'll actually see this and bother read past the line 'You see, a couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation...' One being: Typing practice. Basically, I don't write enough. I know, an MA Creative Writing student who doesn't write enough. What can I say? I aim to do it. It's just making the time. I do a lot of reading, and seemingly by the time I've got that done, I have to be off to fling plates of noodles around at work. So when I do actually sit down to write something I feel like I'm rusty as hell because I'm not keeping myself, like, writer-fit. I figure if I do this lark it'll at least keep me on my toes.

Another reason is this: Right now, this is the busiest I've ever been. I think about the amount of stuff I have to do, like in the next half-hour, and it's just a dense continuous swamp of seemingly unfinishable tasks. Somewhat questionable logic then, to compound this problem by spending an extra half hour a week behind a computer desk typing up some shit that no one will ever read? Maybe. But at least I'll have a souvenir of that time when I didn't have time to do anything. Quite sentimental like that, me.

So that's the boring 'holding hands up and admitting to being a hypocrite' bit overwith. I would say 'see you next week' but we all know that would be a ridiculous lie. Truth is, I'll probably just post when I ruddy well feel like it.

'Til then.