Yesterday was a great day: script meetings, infernos, damning the man, bucking authority, free food, working on my bladder control, uproarious comedy, old friends, new faces and a bat-shit crazy drunk on the train putting her legs behind her head whilst mumbling about her calves and then driving a stiletto heel into my chest.

Fairly normal for a Friday really.

It all started off with one of those great script meetings where you go through every page of the script and the questions are all about why the characters are doing what they’re doing. If I can answer in a logical manner which makes sense, describing the characters’ emotional state and giving sound psychological reasons for their actions … the scene stays in the script. If I can’t, we talk around it until we come up with a new scene which should do the job.

This is my favourite type of director to work with because he doesn’t just want the script and then me to fuck off, he wants to know exactly why I’ve written what I’ve written and wants to understand what my intentions were. True, he’s going to eventually go off and film his version of the story; but hopefully this way he won’t accidentally cut out the most vital scene in the film because he doesn’t understand why it’s there.

Plus, when the actors inevitably decide they’d rather not be upset in the scene because it’s emotionally unsatisfying and they’d much rather be gaily tap-dancing instead – he can confidently explain that being upset when your entire family has been face-raped to death by mutated Nazi reindeer is a much more universally understood reaction … you fucking  pretentious prick.

In the midst of the heated script discussions we noticed two things:

1. It was actually getting quite warm in the office.
2. There seemed to be a lot of shouting going on outside. I’d even go so far as to say it was verging on a commotion.

A quick peek outside the window revealed a common answer to both observations. The shouting was an inordinate amount of police, firemen and paramedics clearing the street and emptying all the buildings, and the reason they were doing it pretty much explained the first observation:

The street was on fire.

Obviously this was a pretty serious fire, so we took the only sensible option … we closed the windows, pretended we hadn’t seen the coppers and carried on.

Fuck the police.

That’s right, I’m a rebel, I know. Sometimes I wear odd socks and I just don’t fucking care.

When we were God damned good and ready, not when the man told us, we sauntered – yes, sauntered, not ran for our lives – out of the office and strolled off.

It was a pretty quick stroll, but a stroll nonetheless and a nonchalant one at that.

I may even have been whistling, I can’t remember. I doubtlessly had one hand in my pocket, but that’s just because I like to play with my balls.

After that I wandered around for a bit, sat in a tea shop (it was actually a coffee shop, but I don’t like coffee and refuse to conform to your social conventions) until I really, really, really needed a piss. At which point I went to McDonalds and used their toilet without being a customer.

Fuck, I was just racking up the convictions that day. It was like a one man crime spree swept through Soho and disappeared without a trace …

And the place I disappeared into was the screening for Messrs Turner, Arnopp, Beckley and Morgan’s (who’s a girl and probably not a Messr) new sketch show, Splendid.

Going to screenings of things is always tricky because people ask you awkward questions like ‘Did you like it?’ and ‘Was it any good?’ The kind of questions you have to divert by pretending to be interested in their shoes:

‘Yeah, I thought it was … sorry, where did you get those shoes from? I love those shoes. In fact, they thrill me so much I must just dash off without answering your very valid question and touch myself in the toilets.’

It’s even worse when you actually know the people whose thing is being screened because a) they have your phone number and can ring up at any time to solict an opinion; and b) they tend not to be so friendly afterwards because they think you’re rushing off to masturbate over them.

Which I do, by the way. All the time. Especially about you. Yes, you. You know who you are.

Anyway, as it happens, on this occasion there was no need to dash for the toilets whilst tearing at my flies and muttering about slingbacks because the show was actually very good. Surprisingly good. Fucking awesome, in fact.

Seriously, it’s very, very funny and should be picked up for roadcast immediately. Do you hear me? Huh, do you?

Commission it.

Now, you fuckers.

I liked it. A lot.

It’s not perfect, don’t get me wrong; but it is very, very good and very, very funny. I think the couple of minor quibbles I had will either be justifiably ignored or ironed out and the result will be … well … Splendid.

Lobby your MPs now. Tell them to stop dicking about with that economy bullshit and force the BBC to make with the funny.

Also at the screening I met some lovely people I already know, someone I haven’t seen for ages and had forgotten how breathtakingly pretty she is, a few people I’ve never met before but quite liked and and a young lady with a burning desire to dress up as Richard Dreyfuss.

All good stuff then.

On the train home I got to spend half the journey chatting to Stuart Perry, which is always a pleasure, before we had to part at Haywards Heath. I decided to get my laptop out and work for the rest of the journey. At which point the train was invaded by an army of pissed up Motown fans.

Well, I say an army, more a Brigade really. Possibly even a Platoon. Or even a Squad. Yes, that’s it, an all female Squad of pissed up Motown fans – not a particualrly regular occurence, but not unheard of in those parts.

They spread themselves liberally about the train since there were no large groups of seats together. All well and good. Until I realised the 34 year old woman sitting opposite me was so far off her face she’d lost sight of it.

I know she was 34, by the way, because she told me. Appropos of nothing, out of the blue. Along with several other facts:

• She teaches kids with Cerebral Palsy.
• She liked Kenny Everett.
• She’s a natural blonde and has the landing strip to prove it. (She didn’t … prove it, that is)
• She’s very proud of her calves.
• She can get her legs behind head and can prove that too. (She did and she can)
• She thought my laptop was very smooth – a word which I now unfortunately link with the word perineum after the Splendid screening.
• She thought the terrified Spanish girl she’d practically sat on was beautiful and should touch my laptop too.
• Oh, and she had a black belt in Karate.

She chose to prove the last fact by kicking me in the chest whilst wearing exceedingly sharp stiletto heeled boots. The truly marvellous bit about that being she was initially wearing flat ballet pumps but decided to borrow some spiky heeled boots from a fellow rampaging Motown fan especially for the occasion. Presumably because they’d either hurt me more or show off her calves better.

Well, thanks for that.

Luckily she vanished a few stops later and disappeared into the Lewes night screaming about it ‘all being in the best possible taste’.

I was a little shell shocked, not quite as much as the delicate Spanish girl who may never speak again, but if I’m honest – which I rarely am – the whole encounter went about 80% towards fulfilling a fantasy I’ve harboured since I was about 14. The other 20%, of course, is completely impossible in the Earth’s gravitational pull.

So there you go.

If you get a chance to see Splendid – seize it with both hands.

If you get the chance to commission Splendid – just do it, don’t stop to think about it, just do it.

And if you happen to be a 34 year old, Cerebral Palsy teacher from Lewes with a black belt, nice calves and natural blonde hair (with the landing strip to prove it) then I bet your fucking head hurts today … but probably not quite so much as your crushing sense of embarrassment.

Splendid.

Ooh, look! A spanky, shiny new website!

http://www.justfortherecord-movie.com

Where’s my flag?

One thing I find you have to do as a writer is constantly readjust what you think of as being exciting. It’s like a series of little victories which are horrendously exciting the first time you achieve them, but quickly become tedious when you slog past them for the hundredth time without actually getting any further down the road.

For example, I can still remember the giddy excitement I felt when I first sat down to write a script. This was it, I was on my way! After years of telling people my sci-fi series was far superior to anything currently on telly, I was actually going to prove it!

Surely fame and fortune would be mine by the end of the week?

Nope.

It turns out, writing a script is difficult and writing a good script is nigh on fucking impossible (hence my comfortable rut of consistent mediocrity). Once you’ve started the first script, starting subsequent scripts is easy. It’s finishing the fuckers which is the tricky part; but that’s the next milestone …

I’ve finished a script! I’ve actually finished a whole script! This is so exciting! I’m days away from being rich and–

Nope, apparently it’s shit.

Bugger.

Still, now you’ve finished one script you can finish others and while it’s nice to finish them, it never feels quite as exciting as the first time you type THE END. You soon learn that particular goalpost is not really a major achievement but more a prerequisite for actually being a scriptwriter.

And so on. Every time you achieve the next step it’s initially exciting until you realise that particular project just isn’t going anywhere and is a career dead end. It’s like a giant, life long game of snakes and ladders where it’s increasingly difficult to get excited about any given ladder since you know you’ll be back at the beginning any day now.

Over time you just learn not to be phased by it. The first time you option a script is pant wettingly exciting, the tenth time without a single one of the projects going any further is considerably less so.

And all this is right and good, you can’t continue to be excited by the same thing over and over again indefinitely, certainly not when the reason you’re getting excited is because you believe it’s a step on a journey somewhere. The problems arise when you have to deal with other people. When someone options a script from you, you have to pretend to be excited because it’s their project now and they’re excited because they know for an absolute fact they’re going to make a fucking amazing movie out of your script …

Whereas you know, with reasonable statistical certainty, they’re not going to achieve anything and you’ll probably never hear from them again until they ring to apologise for the project falling apart because they couldn’t get funding/the actor they need/out of bed in the morning.

So you have to pretend and jump up and down and squeal and shout ‘Yay!’ a lot until they let you go home.

Similarly, when someone else options their first script and is breathlessly exuberant – the correct response is to buy them a drink and go ‘CONGRATULATIONS! That’s fucking awesome!’ because it is. Getting a script optioned by someone is awesome …

It just doesn’t actually mean anything useful.

Neither does winning a competition, getting a commission, getting an agent … hell, even going into production can ultimately result in nothing useful at the end of it. I’ve had seven feature films start shooting now and not one of the fuckers is actually finished. Even the one already out on DVD.

Maybe someday they will, maybe they won’t. If one of them ever does (and it’s actually good) then I probably will get a bit of pant moisture building up, but until then, I’ll just calmly wait and see what happens. An attitude I think confuses people:

“Oh my God! So-and-so’s in your film! That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

“You don’t sound particularly excited.”

“No? I can wave a flag, if you like?”

And so on.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying people shouldn’t get excited about these things, because they are exciting and it really is great you’re all making progress. I’m happy for you, I really am. I’m just not going to get excited about any of my projects, no matter how many times people talk about theatrical releases, until I’m sitting a cinema watching a film I wrote which I, and everyone else, have bought tickets for.

Basically, I’ll believe it when I see it.

Having said all that, I read an option agreement this morning whose terms did have me browsing the Aston Martin website and picking out colours …

Damn it, I’ve just wet my pants and drooled all over the keyboard …

According to IMDb, that date (1/10/09) is the release date for ‘Just for the Record’.

Hooray!

Now all I need to do is work out exactly what that means. Released where? And via what medium? Or media?

In short, what the hell’s going on?

Perhaps if I actually read some of these emails it might shed some light?

Bigger penis, bigger penis, better drugs, cheaper drugs, cheap drugs to make your penis bigger, cheap drugs to make your penis better, cheap penises …

This could take a while.

Fuck it, let’s just watch the trailer again:

In a rare moment of benevolence, I suddenly feel the need to promote other people’s short films. I know, I know, I must be either ill or under the influence of some particularly potent tea; but never mind. I’m feeling promotey …

First up, two short films from one Lara Greenway:

Runner

and

Hostile

followed closely by one short film from one Lucy Hay:

Safe

and finishing with one each from two Dans – or one Dan and a Danny, which is close enough:

Origin, by Danny Stack – trailer and official website are here; but no actual film yet. Still, it’s nice to be prepared, isn’t it?

and finally, the absolutely superb:

The Big Idea by Dan Hartley.

Watch them, love them, rate them – where appropriate.

Earlier today I was reading the paper over someone’s shoulder …

I should explain, I don’t buy newspapers any more – they’re depressing, inaccurate and generally full of shit.

For example: according to the papers, Britain is a perilous place to live full of knife wielding youths, lethal viruses and is about to be completely overrun by illegal immigrants. The police are either buried under piles of paperwork, incompetent and impotent ora bunch of baton toting fascists who’d rather beat the shit out of you than tell you the time – depending on what best suits the story of the day.

However, if you don’t read the papers, Britain (or at least Eastbourne) is a lovely sunny place full of reasonably friendly people who rarely knife you and the police are now so young they look like they might burst into tears if you stare at them too long.

Seriously, if you’re depressed, anxious or fearful about the modern world – stop reading the news and you’ll find you brighten up immeasurably.

Anyway, I was reading the paper over this guy’s shoulder – not because I suddenly felt the need to know how soon we’re all going to die from Swine Flu, but because it was The Sun and I thought I might see some boobs – when this article caught my eye:

Specifically, this bit:

By the way, if you’re wondering how I managed to get a scan of someone else’s paper – there’s this little pressure point under the ear which, if pressed while pulling back on the head, will result in a complete neurological shutdown. After that, stealing a paper from someone who’s unconscious is child’s play. It’s fun, practice on your friends … if you don’t like them much.

“Bruce has been making films and a pilot for a TV comedy called Spinal Flap, set in the world of boy bands.”

That’s me they’re not talking about there.

Yes, I can exclusively reveal I co-wrote Spinal Flap (or ‘Untitled Boy Band Sitcom Pilot’ as I prefer to call it) with my enigmatic and mysterious co-writer Earl Grey. A man so enigmatic and mysterious he needs two words which mean exactly the same thing to describe him.

In fact, he may not even be a man, that’s how enigmatic he truly is.

Shit. I meant ‘or she truly is’.

No, it is a man. To be honest, I think I’ve given his identity away many times on this blog.

Fuck it, it’s Lee Otway.

Anyway, the sitcom pilot mentioned is one I co-wrote with Lee (he did most of the work and it’s his idea), which was filmed last month (or was it the month before?) with Bruce Jones and SOME OTHER PEOPLE!

That isn’t to say the other people aren’t as exciting or famous as Bruce Jones, but they haven’t been promoting it in the papers and as yet are protected by an impenetrable shield of anonymity.

In other words, I was hiding in the Caribbean during the shoot, didn’t meet any of the cast and can’t find the email which contains the list of actors.

I was going to write a post today about the Movable Goalposts of Excitement, but I thought not being talked about in The Sun was more interesting.

Maybe tomorrow.

If you’re lucky.

As everyone knows, writing is hard …

Well, perhaps not everyone. I know a few producers who think you just slap the words on a page and then get on with the important stuff – like seducing the actresses.

Come to think of it, I’ve also met directors who find the whole writing process just an inconvenient series of arguments which happen before the creative process can begin.

Oh, and then there’s the script editors, actors, ADs, costumers, makeup artists, cinematographers and indeed most of the technical crew who think writers moan about having the easiest job going – sitting still and thinking.

Okay, so it’s only writers who know how hard writing is and you know what? We’re fucking right. And it’s only made harder by producers/directors who DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY FUCKING WANT. They know what they don’t want, but only after you’ve said it. Other than that they haven’t got a clue and it’s really, really difficult to divine exactly what it is they might possibly be thinking the film may vaguely be about. Meetings involve long periods of Guess Who style guessing games as you try to winkle some kind of opinion out of them on what kind of script they think they’re paying for:

“What I’m looking for is Jaws meets The Karate Kid.”

“Right. So the Karate Kid fights a big fucking shark? In the water? Or does the shark sprout legs?”

“No, no, no. When I said they meet, I don’t mean they actually meet - I mean thematically.”

“A shark teaches a kid how to defend himself against bullies? Or maybe a weedy teen martial artist terrorises a local fishing community?”

“No! You’re not listening”

“I only wish that were true.”

Another favourite of mine is when I get asked to write something which is A crossed with B when A and B are the same fucking thing. A bit like asking for ‘Life on Mars’ crossed with ‘Ashes to Ashes’ – unless you’re looking for a series set in 1977 I have no idea what you’re talking about.

And this is what makes writing difficult – the picture they have in their head, the one they want the writer to translate into a script, isn’t really a picture. It’s not fully formed and it actually makes little or no sense. Usually it’s more like a dream – something which makes perfect sense until they have to describe it and then turns into a random stream of unconnected images:

“I was in this room, only it wasn’t me and it wasn’t really a room but there was this iguana wearing a trilby … or possibly a smoking jacket, I can’t remember. Anyway, the iguana which is now a 1964 Studebaker Challenger who’s got this fruitbowl, says … something in German. Possibly about a spatula.”

“Sounds great. How much are you paying me again?”

And so here I sit, staring at a pile of index cards with random words on them like SPATULA, IGUANA and FRUITBOWL, trying to rearrange them into an order which makes some kind of sense, whilst vaguely wondering if it’s too late to just give the money back … when suddenly it hits me …

I’ve done it again.

I’ve completely forgotten why I started this post.

What the fuck was the point of all this?

Shit.

Sorry.

Something to do with hats I think …

Ooh look, a natty new poster:

Today, and I suspect for the foreseeable future, I have a big silly grin on my face.

And here’s why:

If you like it, spread the word.

Last year … or maybe this year?

What year is it?

Hmm … no, it was last year.

Last year, a feature script I wrote – one of the first feature scripts I ever wrote, one of the six for anyone who can remember what that means – Fleeced went into production … sort of.

As it turns out I’d got the wrong end of the stick somewhat and actually they were just shooting a promo to try and raise the money for the film proper.

And here it is:

I was going to link to the Facebook group too, but it seems to have disappeared.

Never mind, I’m sure it will be back.

There’s a blog here though. Does that help?