Monthly Archives: December 2008

2008

Another year over (nearly). How was your 2008?

Mine was suspiciously like this:

JANUARY

George MacDonald Fraser died. I was a bit upset about that.

I set out to write a feature in six days (due to some ridiculously bad time-management skills). I actually managed to write it in three … and it was shit.

I found out I had no idea what blue pages actually are. Or rather, I knew what they were, but not exactly what they looked like and how to do them. I’m still not 100% sure but I’ve come up with my own version and no one’s complained so far.

Whilst on location for ‘K‘ I managed to work out a cheap way of throwing an actor off the roof.

I got fired from a film and inexplicably became obsessed with tin foil as a direct result. Looking back on that, it might have been a teeny tiny nervous breakdown.

I learnt how to write a sex scene which won’t upset actresses, then got called a sexist by Piers for using the word ‘actresses’.

Weirdly, someone asked me to put more swearing into a script. I’ve never been asked for that before or since.

K‘ started shooting.

I began a new script and immediately tried to hide under the tin foil again.

I bought my first ever calendar.

And to wrap January up, BBC Three announced the airdate for ‘The Wrong Door‘.

FEBRUARY

I learnt how to keep actors happy. Or happier, anyway.

I finished the first draft of the new script and for some reason felt the need to post a video of my friends and I massacring ‘I Believe In A Thing Called Love’.

IMDB made me happy.

After a couple of years of faithful service, I abandoned this room:

Office

And moved into this one:

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Which has a sofa for me to lie on whilst wrapped in tin foil:

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And a light switch shaped like a nipple:

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All to make space for my soon-to-be-arriving daughter. My old office looks more like this now:

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And then I got memed. I didn’t like it.

 

MARCH

I decidedthe new script was going to be my last low budget film and from now on I was going to concentrate purely on some TV specs.

I started work on two more low budget films. Since I can’t remember what they were, they obviously went the way of most low budget films and imploded on contact with reality.

I wrote a lot of shit about strategy.

Adele Silva completely failed to mention me in Hello!

I learnt taking meetings when your brain is in a different time zone is a bad idea.

I got invited to a mysterious gathering.

I learnt I used to live in Croydon – or at least that’s what the Croydon Guardian believes.

I worked out how to introduce a character without having her in the scene.

And then I got dressed up as Captain Kirk.

n534632306_758690_8843

 

APRIL

Wow, are you still reading? Really?

I went to the thing I got invited to – a BBC shindig and chance to meet the producers of the BBC’s New Comedy Unit. Where I stood in the corner for a few hours, got very hot, very angry and completely failed to meet any of the producers of the BBC’s New Comedy Unit.

I realised there are very few female sidekicks.

I picked up even more low budget film work.

Abi Titmuss completely failed to mention me in The Sun and then promised to continue to never mention me in public. I decided not to believe she existed.

Karma Magnet turned up online. People seemed to like it.

Abi Titmuss made good her promise and failed to mention me in Closer.

I confirmed, once and for all, actors don’t really have sex in sex scenes. Unless it’s porn.

I got to write for Doctor Who. Not the show, or even the current Doctor, but for Sylvester McCoy and that’s good enough for me.

I decided some actors needed punching in the throat.

And then the new script started shooting, so I went and hid in the Caribbean.

 

MAY

 I finally gave in and went on set. It was fun. I made tea.

Shouted at people for getting upset about not winning competitions. If you’ve entered the Red Planet Prize this year, you should read this post again.

I had a day off. That was nice too.

Someone said something nice about me on IMDB. I immediately became suspicious.

I had another shout at people for being idiots and starving themselves to death whilst failing as a writer. Get a proper job, for fuck’s sake.

Had my first, and so far only, guest post.

Wrote a short guide to dealing with notes which basically involved a lot of swearing and some minor violence.

Hmm … May was a bit rubbish, wasn’t it?

 

JUNE

I decided to murder my old spec scripts and just deleted them.

I rescued  my old spec scripts from the recycle bin and hid them where I couldn’t find them.

Fleeced‘ started filming – that’s three features so far this year.

Got another black belt – also my third.

Went on a bit about loving the treatment I was writing. I wish I hadn’t now.

Shouted a bit about questions and then took two weeks off because:

dsc00076

Seriously, who gives a fuck about the rest of the year?

 

JULY

Oh, you’re still reading, are you?

Fine, come on then.

Shall we just have one more photo of Alice?

alice

 Aw.

Anyway.

In July I organised a museum heist.

Got invited to a screening of The Wrong Door.

Went to the screening of The Wrong Door, met loads of people including Doctor Fox, Sarah Morgan and her boyfriend, didn’t make a tit of myself (except with Doctor Fox) and managed to steal a T-shirt:

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Two days later, I had to give the T-shirt back. A handy tip – if you steal something, don’t mention it on your blog.

Learnt how to be constructive with my criticism rather than just scrawling SHIT on the script in red ink, wiping my arse on it and sending it back.

Met Gordon Robertson after knowing him via email (not in the biblical sense, that’s impossible) for a few years. He’s a nice bloke.

And then waffled on a bit about random shit to avoid having to do any real work.

 

AUGUST

Crap. Still working on that fucking treatment.

Got asked an annoying question.

Got offered a shit load of imaginary money.

Got asked if I wanted to run a sketch writing workshop. I didn’t. Then I thought I might. Then the guy stopped talking to me. So I didn’t.

Didn’t have dinner with Gordy Hoffman.

Bought a new computer:

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It has touchscreen. I like touching it.

Discovered cats and touchscreen computers don’t mix.

The Wrong Door got a lot of publicity in the run up to the show – 12 of the 14 reviews I read were very positive. 2 were very negative.

The Wrong Door kicked off. So did a guy called Ben Randall who was so upset he didn’t find a programme funny he came all the way over to this blog to call me names.

 

SEPTEMBER

The Wrong Door had the highest opening of any show on BBC Three (about four people) which seemed to greatly upset a handful of Internet loonies who went on and on and on about it for fucking ages.

I made the mistake of suggesting the people coming to my blog to call me names because they didn’t find a TV programme funny were a bit mental. Several people took great exception to this and went far out of their way to call me names in an effort to prove how mistaken I was about their lack of sanity and a real life.

Got my first death threat. Actually I got two death threats and one offer to rape my three month old daughter to ‘teach me a lesson’. That was nice. Perfectly sane behaviour that, I thought.

Still working on that fucking treatment.

Had a superb meeting where people offered me lots of money. I didn’t, and still don’t, really believe them.

Got offered another low budget feature film. That’s more like it.

Yet more abuse about The Wrong Door. One guy has taken to posting insults then changing names and agreeing with himself. He doesn’t seem to be able to grasp concepts like IP addresses, I can see it’s all one guy. I assumed this was a guy because I like to think women have better things to do.

There was a new trailer for LVJ. Again.

An old project threatened to spring back to life … and then didn’t.

Finally finished that fucking treatment.

Oh and a bit more abuse about The Wrong Door.

On a serious note, all that abuse was a bit wearing. You write in the privacy of your own room for years until someone decides they want to make your work. You’re pleased, they’re pleased, the show comes out and generally people either like it or turn it off. Then a small contingent of morons think it’s perfectly acceptable to come and call you names, threaten your family and generally behave like cunts because – horror of horrors – THEY don’t like it. It’s depressing and it’s demotivating. I expected to be slagged off in papers if the critics didn’t like something I’d written. I expected to be slagged off on forums or other people’s blogs – all that’s fair enough; but the sheer persistence of a few individuals who felt the need to come here and spout off about it did actually get me down.

Until Oli sent me a cartoon. Which explained everything and really cheered me up. I decided I would find some way to repay him, somehow.

I completely failed to do some writing and in a gargantuan procrastination session, I redesigned my website.

 

OCTOBER

I revealed the one true secret of screenwriting THEY don’t want you to know.

The Wrong Door finished.

The abuse didn’t.

Took on far too much work and struggled to cope.

Found out I didn’t have a second act. Bit of a bugger that one.

Had a dream about Jason Arnopp, James Moran and an over-ground submarine.

Fixed the second act thing and discovered it no longer matched the ending.

Wrote a whiny post about writing treatments in the hope a certain producer was reading and would let me off for not turning in a treatment he was expecting. It didn’t work. Turns out he can’t read.

Wrote a writer’s vision for a sales pack – I don’t have any vision.

That guy’s still answering himself on The Wrong Door posts.

Found out I’m a celebrity.

 

NOVEMBER

Is anybody still reading?

Why?

Are you fucking mental? Go outside and play.

November:

The second-act-less treatment went to script stage. Bugger. Now I have to write the fucking thing.

Saw some footage from Fleeced. Was pleasantly surprised.

Found out I’m an anal bastard.

That loon is still at it, still posting bile and answering himself. It’s been three months!

Didn’t get an email from Kristen Kreuk.

Made Alice do some writing for me:

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She’s better than me, so I banned her from using the computer.

Got horribly busy.

Actually did some work.

Ate some soup.

Got upset about writing the first ten pages of a script.

Painted the lounge, got high on paint fumes, wrote a load of shit about writing sketches. I have no idea what my point was.

Got a request about re-writing. Wrote a loooooooooooooooooooooooong post about it.

Got sacked from a project I didn’t know I was involved in.

Learnt that A and B are the same thing.

Talked about bookcases and wallpaper. No idea why. Probably trying to avoid working.

Got all arsey about the word ‘what’.

That lone loon’s finally stopped commenting. I miss him, the crazy bastard.

 

DECEMBER

Hooray! December! This post is finally over and we can all go home!

Assuming any of you are still here.

Met some more writers in the pub: Paul Campbell, Danny Stack, Lara Greenway, Michelle Lipton and Oli … as well as the normal crowd. They were all nice. I told Danny and Michelle the secret which isn’t really a secret – just something I don’t bother telling people. Danny immediately left the pub, Michelle wanted to hug me.

Got angry with ten imaginary people because there were ten of them.

Panicked. Finished the script.

Cut out every other word in the vague feeling it might make it exciting and mysterious. It didn’t.

Told people how to wait. Not sure why, probably avoiding some other work.

Declared my love affair with Apparitions. Which I still haven’t seen the last episode of. I’m a fickle fucker sometimes.

Had some fun. It was fun.

Met James Moran. Told him the secret which isn’t really a secret – he seemed to find it funny.

And there you go. That was 2008 for me. How was it for you? 

Categories: BBC, BBC Sketch Show, Bored, Fleeced, K, Karma Magnet, LVJ, My Way, Progress, Random Witterings, Rants, Sad Bastard, The Wrong Door, Two steps back, Writing and life | 18 Comments

Fun

I’ve got a meeting on Friday to discuss the first draft of the horror script. So in the meantime, with nothing better to do, I’ve finally managed to get back to the re-write I had a meeting about in September.

And it’s great.

Working on the script I mean – not the script itself. Not that it’s not a great script – it might be, it might not – I just don’t want to sound like I’m heaping undeserved praise upon myself.

What’s great about it is working on the script. This script is one of MY scripts. It was my idea, a spec script I wrote back when I didn’t have to answer to anyone. No deadlines, no budgets, no specifications … no money. Just me, my imagination and a blank screen. No one was expecting anything specific, I just put down the words I wanted in the order I felt best and damn the consequences.

For so long now I’ve been working on scripts which are FOR people. They’re never fully my ideas, they’re the result of hours of discussions and negotiations. This one, this is mine.

Actually, not quite. Not anymore. It’s been optioned for a while now, we’ve had meetings, notes have been given, re-writes requested; but still … there’s something different about it. I still feel like this is MY script. If it doesn’t get made, I get it back. I can do whatever the hell I like with it. Assignments, with money involved … you don’t own them. You work on them, you help shape them but ultimately they’re not yours.

This is mine.

And I’m completely tearing it to bits.

There are a few key scenes remaining, but almost everything else is in the bin. It’s like there are little lit milestones in the darkness. I have to get from one familiar place to the next but I can go anywhere I want in-between. I’d forgotten how good it feels to work on something wholly mine.

Sort of.

Fuck it, you know what I mean. I’m not saying working for other people isn’t fun, because it can be; but this is just MORE fun. It’s FUN! Rather than fun. Assuming the definition of fun is lying face down on the bed mumbling about wizards and swords and wondering what the hell happens next.

Come Friday I’m going to have to go back to the horror script, but right now …

I should do this more often.

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | 8 Comments

Apparitions

How good is Apparitions? I mean, seriously, how good is this show? I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed watching something this much. There’s been the odd episode of stuff here and there, but an entire series of consistently superb quality? On UK TV? Surely not?

I’m loving the acting, the direction, the whole look and feel of the show and yes, even the writing. Okay, so it’s not perfect – but it’s very, very good. There are occasional plot points I think are either a bit tenuous or perhaps not given enough weight and can be easily missed, but usually they’re things I don’t think about until after the show’s finished – a good sign since it means I’m so engaged in the episode I haven’t noticed.

That’s a good rule of thumb for me: if I don’t start thinking ‘Why did that happen?’ or ‘Was there a better way of showing that?’ until four or five hours after the episode, then it had me hooked at the time and is enjoyable.

If I’m thinking ‘Why doesn’t he just … ?’ or ‘What the fuck was that?’ during the episode, then it’s failed to entertain me and everyone involved should be executed immediately. A policy I feel the BBC should adopt immediately; since, obviously, my opinion is the only one which counts.

Two negative things which stand out about Apparitions for me:

  1. The first two episodes seemed to be self-contained with episode three struggling for a few minutes to pick up the pieces and carry on. I thought that was an odd choice at the time, to effectively end most of the plot in episode two, but I’ve since found out it was originally only commissioned for two episodes. So from episode three onwards is effectively a second season.
  2. The basic premise is silly and makes no sense. Every time, particularly in the first two episodes, talk turned to exactly how the whole God/Devil/Demons thing works it runs into sticky ground, because the whole thing is nonsensical and contradictory. There’s this all powerful, all loving, invisible guy who will punish you forever if you don’t follow a set of rules dictated a couple of thousand years ago and then randomly altered by whoever felt like it ever since – even though he’s infallible and all knowing … he still changes his mind every now and then. He can do anything, ANYTHING, but he won’t lift a finger to help you if you get attacked by demons because … um … he’s busy. There’s a war going on for human souls but it’s only a war because God lets it happen. He can stop it at any time, he just chooses not to because … he’s busy. He’s probably doing a Sudoku or something. Some of those can be really tricky. Maybe he’s still sulking? Remember, he designed you to be stupid and naked, trousers and books are an affront to His will. During every episode there’s a part of my brain (and no, it’s not Satan) telling me there’s no God, there’s no Devil, there’s no such thing as a soul, when you die, you die, there’s no such things as possession or demons or … but you know what? If I can suspend my disbelief long enough to enjoy a program about a nigh-immortal man who travels time and space in a box which is bigger inside than outside … I can suspend it long enough to believe in invisible, mentally unstable, judgemental, space ghosts and his intentionally created opponent with an army of nasty invisible, intangible creatures.

Overall, I love this show. I did have a little chuckle at the preview at the end of episode five when I saw the priest with machine gun – but I’m sure in the context of the final episode it will be brilliant. Top marks to Joe Ahearne and everyone else involved.

Categories: Random Witterings, Someone Else's Way | 5 Comments

How to wait

So you’ve finished your commission, the script’s as good as you can make it and you’ve delivered it into the hands (or at least the inbox) of the producer … what now? How do you face the nail-biting wait for approval? How do you cope with the nagging fear that, instead of a script, somehow you’ve emailed him a pile of shit?

Never fear, for I have compiled the definitive guide to waiting for the verdict. Obviously I’m not really using ‘definitive’ in the dictionary definition of the word (because dictionaries are clearly the work of Satan, God wants you stupid and naked. So do I) but have redefined ‘definitive’ to mean fatuous, incomplete, inaccurate and completely pointless.

  1. Get those nails cut, don’t catch yourself biting them until you have bloody stumps where once were fingers – act now, before it’s too late.
  2.  Try to forget about it … medication helps. Or, if you prefer, a severe blow to the head. Although, be wary of this method as it can lead to you developing a new personality, becoming a down and out and going on weird and wonderful adventures with a stuntman/bounty hunter.
  3. Cast your mind over the script, mentally compare what you wrote to your original idea – whether that be the logline, the synopsis or the treatment … have you succeeded in delivering what you were hired to do? If the answer’s no – why the fuck did you send it in, you numpty? If the answer’s yes you’re probably wrong you over-confident twat.
  4. Think about the characters, the key scenes, turning points, plot elements … are they clear? Do you remember them as making sense or being natural? Have you adequately disguised where you stole them from?
  5. Make a vague list of things you think might need improving. That way, when the producer gets in touch (assuming he’s still talking to you) and he takes that deep breath in preparation for laying out exactly how bad your script is – you can beat him to it. Shout the bits you don’t like at him while he’s breathing in. If you’re lucky, he’ll be so surprised he’ll have a heart attack, die and no one will ever know how poor your work is.
  6. Spend all the money you’ve been paid so far – make sure you blow it on perishable goods so no one can demand it back. For God’s sake don’t buy anything which might increase in value unless it’s wine or whisky which you can consume quickly.
  7. Maim a relative. If you can confidently claim your nan/auntie/second cousin was at death’s door, causing you great mental distress and rendering you incapable of producing your best work – you’re onto a winner. If, on the off chance, you’ve actually written something half decent you can prove you work well under pressure.
  8. Stay away from the phone and your email. This has two benefits: a) it stops you harassing the producer day and night with “Have you read it yet? Have you? Have you read it? What about now? Okay, I’ll stop bothering — what about now? Come on you corpulent cunt, read the fucking thing.” And b) if you can’t get the bad news then it doesn’t exist. La la la la la.
  9. If the producer is someone of note – use his name before he fires you. Shout it about town (any town will do, I use Leamington Spa), tell everyone you’re working together and he loves you so much he’s asked you to marry him. If it’s not someone of note, lie and pretend it is.
  10. Um … I can’t think of a ten.
  11. Practise crying. At the first hint of bad news, break down in tears and sob like a baby. If you can do real tears and going blue in the face on demand, you’ve got a glittering career ahead of you. I draw the line at lying face down and banging my head repeatedly on the floor, but then I’m lazy and never prepared to give it 110%.
  12. Write a stupid blog post to take your mind off it.

Actually, I haven’t done (m)any of these things. My week so far has mainly consisted of spending a fucking fortune on a pair of sofas, another fortune on car maintenance (did you know you weren’t supposed to get Renaults wet? I fucking didn’t), a third fortune on stuff to match the new sofas (cushions, rugs, new cat … etc), giving away all the stuff I spent a fortune on last time I bought a new sofa (including the old sofa), festooning the house in lights and tinsel, putting up the Christmas tree then realising I can’t get my new projection screen (92 inches!) down with the bastard tree in the way and beating the hell out of the brown sashes because it’s ‘good training for them’.

Tomorrow I’m going to get a new phone and spend a fourth (or is it fifth) fortune on Christmas presents because I want a shiny new toy and I enjoy buying presents for my lovely wife.

In all this time I haven’t thought about the script more than five times a minute and if I don’t hear by tomorrow I’m going to … is that the phone?

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings, Sad Bastard | 6 Comments

Into the aether

‘Tis over, ’tis done, ’tis sent.

Oh fuck, what if they don’t like it? What if it’s a pile of shit? What if … oh look, shiny things.

Luckily my panic induced feelings of inferiority are easily diverted by … oh, a wall. Wow, it’s really flat.

I read back through the script this morning, resisting the urge to change every other word for the moment, just trying to get a feel for the story – does it make sense? Do you get the right impressions at the right places? Do the characters react properly? Are there any bits when the rest of the movie seems easily avoidable – you know, can they just go home at any point?

I almost missed the big reveal at the end, primarily because none of the characters reacted to it. Oops. There’s a spooky sequence near the end which is just too short and nothing makes things spooky like dragging it out. Ratchet up the tension, drag it out as long as possible:

“They search the house. It’s dark.”

Doesn’t quite cut it. It’s no where near as tense as reading a couple of pages of creaks, doors being opened, shadows looming at them … and all that shit.

A nice walk along the seafront this afternoon to digest and back into it this evening.

First thing to go – all the ‘ands’.

I’m not quite sure where this has come from, maybe from Russell T Davies’ book, can’t remember him saying it, but maybe it’s in the way he writes … anyway, I’ve somehow come to the conclusion ‘and’ is evil and has to be purged. Not in dialogue, obviously, but in lists of actions:

“Mike opens the fridge, grabs some milk and closes the door.”

Seems better to me (this week) as:

“Mike opens the fridge, grabs some milk, closes the door.”

It just sounds more immediate, more dynamic.

Of course the fridge then turns into a killer robot, massacres Mike, his kittens … etc. Pretty lame bit of action otherwise. Oh, he gets milk out of the fridge, does he? How interesting. Marvel at how storing milk in a fridge, then retrieving it, advances the plot and defines character. Why would you want to dynamically get milk from the fridge?

Anyway, back at the point.

Next thing to go: ‘but’.

“Mike kicks the door, but it’s locked.”

Yuck.

“Mike kicks the door … it’s locked.”

Better. Oh no! How’s Mike going to get his milk out of the fridge now? Who locks a fucking fridge? Oh, it’s a different door – that’s alright then.

Next up: all the ‘ings’.

Where do they fucking come from? I don’t write ‘ings’ I hate them … but there they are, all over the fucking shop. And the script. In sentences when they shouldn’t be:

Sleeping, running, walking, BORING!

Gone.

More swear words, translate some into Polish … pierdolic, this is looking better already.

What’s left? Dialogue, trim it down, hack out the first few words of every sentence, get rid of most of the words.

Yes, like it!

Add some more spooky words, everything’s blood-stained or gore-encrusted at the moment. Some chunks of brain, blood-matted hair, fragments of skull … make some bits slick with blood … stuff like that. Where’s that thesaurus?

Bits have been cut, bits have been added, bits have been shortened, bits have been lengthened … it’s 84 pages, that’s close enough. Save it, back it up, PDF the motherfucker and BOOM … it’s on its way.

What’s on telly?

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | 37 Comments

Kick bollock scramble

I lied to you.

I’m sorry, but it’s true.

When I wrote the last post, about thinning the herd, I said:

“I’m finally at the stage in this horror script when people are going to start seriously dying”

I wasn’t.

Sorry.

The truth is, I said that partly to make me feel better; but mostly in case the producer was reading this blog, wondering where his script was.

You see, the point where people start seriously dying is the mid-point and this being an 80 page script, that should be around page 40. Because of the problems dealing with 10 characters in the room – all the fucking time – I was really looking forward to the point when they’d stop FUCKING TALKING.

So hopefully the producer, being a clever chap, would have read that and thought “Hullo, Phill’s halfway through the script. Maybe he will actually finish this fucking thing?”

In actual fact, come Thursday morning I was still on page 26.

Eek.

The deadline’s on Monday.

Double eek.

That’s ten more fucking pages of ten fucking people fucking talking all the fucking time!

Still, no problem. 54 pages in four days – that’s easy. I think. I’ve done it before anyway, I once wrote a screenplay in three days – a whole screenplay!

A whole shit screenplay as it turned out, but still: 54 pages, 4 days = 13.5 pages a day. I can do that. I can.

Oh wait, that’s not including editing time. That’s just getting to the last page and stopping. I need to go back through, right from the beginning and tidy, prune and hack until it makes sense and is actually good. Okay, so that takes a day, but still: 54 pages, 3 days = 18 pages a day.

Hmm.

Reverse maths.

I started this script on … oh, the 3rd of November. So I’ve been working on it for … 31 days.

Fuck, that’s less than a page a day.

A lot less.

Ah! Take weekends out. That’s 23 days. Ooh! More than a page a day. Better. But not much.

Um … oh yeah, I wrote some sketches for a TV thing … that’s got to count for …

Fuck it, alright. I’ve pissed away the last month. Balls.

Never mind, here’s my chance to make up for it. I can do this. 18 pages a day. Here we go.

Thursday: 13 pages.

Shit.

It’s not my fault, there were … um … monkeys. With hats. They wanted me to … shit.

20.5 pages for the next two days.

Friday: 10 pages.

10 pages?

10 fucking pages?

That’s fucking dog shit.

Oh crap, I’m not going to do this. I’ve got to write 31 pages tomorrow. 31! I can’t do it. Jesus, I’ll believe in you if you … no hang on, back in your box beardy … the deadline’s Monday, but no one said when. I can write until 23.59!

An extra day!

I’m saved!

15.5 pages a day Saturday/Sunday … I can do that. I can.

Saturday:

Type fast, just keep fucking typing. No more than two words of dialogue per person per scene.

    BOB
Look!

    MARY
out

   SAM
it’s

    MIKE
a

    HORATIO
trap!

Genius! Look at that page count rack up!

Keep typing. Make something blow up, don’t give anyone time to talk.

Hooray! People are dying!

Stab that one in the neck. What with? What’s on the desk? Tippex? Can you stab someone with Tippex? Fuck it, if I don’t know, no one else will. Maybe the killer deliberately left the top off and the bristles went all hard? Yeah, that could work.

Keep going.

Next one, kill him! Um … just been to the toilet – I could strangle him with a light pull or choke him with Toilet Duck. Fuck it, do both. Yeah, you’re dead, fucker! And your breath smells of disinfectant.

What else? Oh it’s her, I hate her. I’ll kill her with … oh Jesus … index cards? Yeah, death of a thousand paper cuts. Are paper cuts lethal?

After hacking at my face for the last thirty minutes I can conclusively tell you they aren’t – but they do sting a bit.

Bollocks.

Yes, I can snap a CD in half and gouge out her eyes!

Oh fuck, the window’s open and the neighbours heard that. Sorry!

Come on, come on.

A fire, some talking fleas, killer magnets, rubber ice cream … chuck ’em all in.

These aren’t things on my desk, by the way, I’m just past the point of ultimate panic and can no longer see.

Or think.

Ironically, in my quest for weapons to murder with, I neglected to turn round. If I had, I would have seen: a samurai sword, a rope dart, a quiver of Masai arrows, a jo, a bokken and a Gurkha knife – all of which are fairly lethal.

Keep typing, keep typing.

Fuck, it’s Alice’s bath time.

Okay, here we go; bath time, bath time. La, la, la … how much is that doggy in the window? Splash, splash. Here’s the fishy, here’s the froggy … can you kill people with a froggy? Maybe. Plug out, towel down, dry the baby, clothes, milk, bed, shut up – it’s bed time.

Better have some food.

Pizza, tea … back to work.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I’ve lost two hours!

Type, must type!

Stab, slash, burn, maim, chew, Tippex … explain the plot. Who was the murderer? Um … K9? No, that makes no fucking sense. Um … it’s close enough, someone built a murderous robotic dog and …

Oh, I’m finished.

82 pages of … I was going to say glory but … let’s just say 82 pages.

Hmm … it’s only 22.38.

Have I actually put words on ALL the pages?

Yes, apparently I have.

I’ve finished.

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | 12 Comments

Thinning out the herd

I’m finally at the stage in this horror script when people are going to start seriously dying (as opposed to the comedy dying they’ve been doing up until now). The body count and the terror escalates throughout the script, but for the first half there are only two murders, meaning most scenes have ten people in them.

Ten people! That’s ten people to introduce, ten people all with something to say, things they don’t want to say and things they say and instantly regret. Ten lots of opinions, ten lots of problems and ten egos which need massaging.

In short, it’s a ten-fold pain in the arse.

Half of them don’t listen to the others, one wants to wind everyone up, one’s secretly (yet accidentally) plotting to murder everyone and one just won’t pay any attention – she just makes facile comments and wanders off on her own tangent.

They say herding cats is difficult, but herding imaginary people is fucking impossible. I’m finding the scenes drag on for pages and pages before I have to step in and tell them all to shut up.

“Listen you lot, you can have two lines each – that’s it, so make them count. ”

Then they just start bickering.

I swear, I’m a quarter of a gnat’s pube away from making six of them mute; but then I’d just have them writing shit down or gesticulating or communicating with their eyebrows or something. Fuck it, maybe I can relocate this to a mute, limbless … no, better yet: a coma convention! People wheel in their comatose loved ones and leave them for the weekend! Only one of them isn’t comatose and murders the others and the single orderly/nurse has to work out which one.

Yes! I’m loving this. I could have twenty minutes of bodies lying around the screen with nothing happening and just when the audience get bored and look away, one of them leaps up and slits someone’s throat!

Then another twenty minutes of lying still before the next one.

As far as I can tell, there’s only one flaw with this plan … it’s fucking shit.

Oh well, back to herding cats.

Never mind, most of the fuckers will be dead in a minute.

Categories: Random Witterings, Sad Bastard | 13 Comments

Barred

Last night, thanks to the lovely Michelle Lipton, I discovered some people are unable to see this blog in the workplace due to the level of swearing and the questionable content.

Personally, I consider that a major achievement.

What a marvellous world we live in when, thanks to the Internet, I’ve been cyber-barred from offices all over the country and (dare I hope?) the world?

It gives me a warm rosy glow to know I’ve even managed to offend computers. And to think my teachers said I’d never amount to anything.

Actually they mostly said: “Shut up and sit down, you little tit.” but the meaning was clear.

Categories: Random Witterings | 4 Comments

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