Rejected Sketch #1

The Thirtieth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Newsjack, the topical comedy show on Radio 4 Extra is in the middle of its fifth series at the moment. They have an open submission policy on gags and sketches and last week I thought I'd have a quick go. Didn't get anywhere mind, but I think there's a smile or two to be had in the sketch I submitted so I'm reproducing it here. Might have another go next week - busy old weekend though with parents visiting and stuff so perhaps not that likely.

Anyhoo, this sketch follows on from the news last week that a satellite was about to crash back down to Earth...

Satellite Sketch

                            

ANNOUNCER: This week saw a decommissioned satellite fall from orbit and re-enter the Earth's atmosphere. There were concerns that debris from it could hit someone on the ground despite reassurances from NASA that this was very unlikely. With space junk on the increase this is likely to become a recurring problem. However, Newsjack can exclusively reveal that initiatives are already in place to get this problem under control.

 

                             On Mr Kelly's doorstep. A door-to-door salesman is offering Mr Kelly the latest satellite TV package...

SALESMAN:      So that's Sports 1 and 2, Movies 1, 2 and 3 and the full range of HD channels. How does that sound?

KELLY:               That's amazing. And I don't have to pay for any of it?

SALESMAN:      Not a penny sir. It's all part of our door-to-door free installation promotion. We're pleased to have this opportunity to come to your house at precisely 53 degrees, 28 minutes North by 2 degrees, 16 minutes and 57 seconds West and showcase the complete extent of our services.

KELLY:               And there's no catch?

SALESMAN:     Yes.

PAUSE

KELLY:               Sorry, just to be absolutely clear, you mean 'yes, there isn't a catch'?

SALESMAN:     There isn't a catch -

KELLY:               Good.

SALESMAN:     No, it's more what we like to call a reciprocity concession.

KELLY:              (sigh) So to qualify for all these obscure channels that I don't really want -

SALESMAN:     You said the Religious Quiz Channel sounded interesting.

KELLY:               I said I can't believe there is a Religious Quiz Channel.

SALESMAN:     Maybe there isn't – I think that's one of the questions they ask.

KELLY:              (impatient) In order to qualify for this deal, what do I have to do?

PAUSE

SALESMAN:     (embarrassed) Let one of our satellites crash on your house.

KELLY:               Excuse me?

SALESMAN:     Our earliest satellites are coming to the end of their working lives and we need to find somewhere safe to dispose of them. As an incentive to potential targets -

KELLY:              Targets!?

SALESMAN:      Potential targets - I'm authorised to offer our best package by way of compensation for (trails off, uncertain) any... damage... (picks up again) Full acceptance of this verbal contract to be signified by the householder saying 'What!?' in a disbelieving voice.

PREGNANT PAUSE

SALESMAN:      I can also accept 'Eh!?' (expectant beat – no response) 'No!' (beat – again, no response) or 'Crustacean!'

BEAT

SALESMAN:       (disappointed) Thought that last one might get a 'What!?' out of you.

KELLY:                I'm not going to fall for it.

SALESMAN:      (sulk) Fine. Whatever. Clever old you. Just don't come crying to me when you find out the new series of Glee has moved to Sky.

KELLY:               What?!

SALESMAN:      (playground style) You're it! No returns! (suddenly adult again) There you go, all sorted. The boys will be round on Friday to install your dish. (beat) Actually, better make that Thursday...

END

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Scandals, Sex and Signing (on Sunday)

The Twenty-Ninth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

I'm learning British Sign Language (BSL). No, really. Very slowly and in my inimitable cack-handed fashion but I am learning. No 2 son is deaf and as he grows up it's our hope that he'll develop bilingually - speech and BSL. He's coming along brilliantly in both but it would be a great help if his dad was up to speed too. Not doing too badly - vocab's coming along nicely, my grammar's a bit poor. Shu Shu and I are doing an online course for Level 1. Running a bit behind - as I am in most of my endeavours - but got some breathing space last week when the tutor had to postpone our tutorial because she had just had a baby. The lightweight.

But in addition to my studies there is a more casual way that I am assimilating a feel for signing. And that's by watching the Hollyoaks omnibus on a Sunday morning.

I have no idea who the characters are. I have no clue what the latest plotlines are (that's not strictly true. There was something about Jeff Rawle off of Drop the Dead Donkey being a serial killer or something). But on a Sunday morning I spend half an hour or so in the company of this woman:

Her and her colleagues are tasked with the tricky business of interpreting a whole week's worth of good-looking people getting into outrageous scrapes. Or something.

I'm getting better. I can't follow every word of  what she's saying but I surprised myself last Sunday with how much I could figure out. I learned the sign for 'gutted' - that was quite good.

Coincidentally, one of the actors, Rachel Shenton who plays Mitzee on the show is fluent in sign and is a fully qualified interpreter.

She was inspired to learn by her deaf father and has subsequently used her skills to make a living between acting jobs. In the photo above she's raised money from skydiving on behalf of the National Deaf Children's Society - the NDCS who have given us a lot of help and advice. Proof if ever it was needed that Hollyoaks is a valuable tool in learning BSL. Possibly. Just don't ask me what's actually going on...

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Where Do Babies Come From?

The Twenty-Eighth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

That used to be one of my stock gags. Whenever I was at a talk or discussion and the speaker finished with 'any questions?' if the mood was right I would jump in with the high-larious non sequitur 'where do babies come from?'

Twelve years ago today I found out.

My girlfriend and I and I had been going out for just over three years. She was working as a bus driver in Scarborough, and I, well, I was getting the best use possible out of my Creative Arts degree by microfilming documents for minimum wage in Salford. Actually, don't knock that job - it was one of the most enjoyable I've had - good people there, the thing that makes any work bearable. I'll have to blog about it some day. I had a bachelor flat (ha-ha!) in Walkden and between the Unit 4 cinema and Davardi's pizza restaurant where you could bring your own bottle I was poor but happy. But I was miles away from my better third (thank you Andy Fachau for coming up with that one).

Distance is an excellent contraceptive.

We decided I'd move over to Scarborough, get a place together and see how we went on from there. I managed to get a Christmas job, we found a flat - a maisonette really, it had an upstairs and two loos! - and proceeded to make the most of our DINKY existence. It didn't take long...

'Twas the night of bus company Christmas do. It was upon the high seas, on the Regal Lady, the boat that ran pleasure trips out of the harbour. I was my customary seasick self, but I was in good spirits as I had won 10th prize in the lottery - a tin of biscuits. I think buoyed by this we proceeded with our experiment in gene splicing.

Oh, that line on the indicator stick. The way you double check with another one and it resolutely says the same thing. The rest of your life mapped out by a short straight line. One of the pregnancy tests was inadvertently left in the downstairs loo, so I think grandfather-to-be knew well before we told him. The best way to break this sort of news, I feel.

I had a couple of temp jobs over the pregnancy before I landed the one at the station where I continue to labour until this day. The summer of 99 was spent as a conductor on the sea front buses. When Shu Shu was rushed to hospital near the end I was picked up by the bus supervisor at the terminus and whisked away. Turned out to be a false alarm, but the whole thing was a bit uncertain. Two weeks after the due date and it had still not arrived.

I say 'it' - we had decided not to find out the baby's sex. The things we had got in preparation were all neutral colours - not that I have any truck with gender stereotypes - pink and blue are just colours.

I'll spare you (and Shu Shu, the mother) the horrific details of the labour. Suffice it to say, we held off pain relief as long as possible and there was a spurting blood incident with an IV. I think we'd all had enough when the mother, out of her tree on gas, woozily announced 'right, that's it - the baby's coming'. The actual delivery didn't take that long. And at 1.36am on the morning of the 28th September 1999 it all got a bit Johnny Mathis and our son was born. We had boy's and girl's names ready. When he arrived we said hello to him. He had a bit of trouble breathing so he didn't really say anything back. He can't have been that bothered to see us cos he buggered off to the ICU almost straight away. And we'd waited all that time too...

A little later, I went to visit him in his incubator. The nurse encouraged me to put my hand in and this tiny creature grabbed hold of my little finger. A friend of mine has just had her fifth baby. A relative and another friend are about to have their first. By definition it's an everday thing. Yet every meeting between parent and child is magical and unique. My life got bigger and better that day.

When we all came home a couple of days later we spent the first night sleeping downstairs on an inflatable with baby next to us in his Moses basket! We were that nervous and unsure. Twelve years later a lot of that has subsided - not completely, mind. Today, I'm happy enough to enjoy my son's smiling face as he unwraps his presents, the worries about his infant years behind me. With secondary school just started, I'm grateful for this breather before I start worrying about what he'll get up to in his teen years...

More soonliest.

Chazen Rainbows

The Twenty-Seventh of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Quick bit of celebrity-spotting. Yesterday, while manning the 'tickets-for-today' window I was approached by someone who had booked their tickets on t'internet and wanted to collect them. She claimed the card she'd made the booking with had been compromised in some fashion or other and so she was unable to get it from the machine.

A likely story, I thought! But since the person in question was Debbie Chazen off of lots of telly stuff (including Mine All Mine and We Are Klang (do you know, they should have done more We Are Klang, it was fine. I know they did that Klang Show pilot, but it looks like they've all gone their seperate ways now. Greg Davies is doing the business post Inbetweeners and Marek Larwood seems to pop up on CBBC comedy Sorry, I've Got No Head so I guess there won't be any more) I could tell she was not an imposter. Her name came up after she read out her Collection Reference Number (and she read it in proper NATO style, saying 'Kilo, Kilo, Hotel' and all that nonsense that's actually pretty cool really) and the fact she looked like Debbie Chazen was the clincher, which is to say she looked like this:

Well, you know what I mean - not exactly like that. She was in town for Calendar Girls which had just completed a smash hit run at Scarborough's Futurist Theatre. It's been a pretty big deal - there was even a poster for it on the floor of the station concourse. That's right - the floor. Everybody who got off a train at Scarborough station had to walk over several naked women huddled around a piano. Her ticket was to Blackpool, which is the next location for the Calendar Girls tour, so that seemed to corroborate her story further.

Anyhoo, to me it was more important that she'd played Foon Van Hoff in the 2007 Doctor Who Christmas Special Voyage of the Damned.

Fear Factor 1100!

Casually letting her know that I had twigged who she was I confessed my credentials as a Doctor Who fan. 'May the Force be with you,' was her considered reply, to which we both gave a knowing chuckle. I hadn't the heart to tell her that my people consider that to be an offensive comment of the worst kind and in more fundamentalist circles she could very well have been stoned. With stale jelly babies. But as I had also enjoyed her readings of the the Doctor Who Audiobooks Wishing Well and Shining Darkness I tempered my disgust.

Blimey, I forgot to ask her what it was like working with Kylie Minogue! God, I'll be buying OK and Heat before you know it (actually, I got a really cheap subscription to Heat when it first came out and was more of a TV and Film mag than a 'sleb one. And I won a copy of Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line on VHS from the prize crossword in one issue. Still haven't watched it though...).

Later, as she went for her train she gave me a little nod of acknowledgment as she passed. I gave one of those half-hearted reciprocal waves as if I was allowing a Ford Fiesta to pass me on a narrow road. How nice, I thought. That's something I can bob in me blog.

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I've Got a Funny Feeling Under My Dan Dare Belt

The Twenty-Sixth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Comedy in the 70s, eh? Lot's of good stuff, but oh the casual sexism and racism. What it is to live in the much more enlightened 21st Century.

One of my favourite books as a chiled was Captain Kremmen and the Krells, a graphic novel (were they called that back then?) based on the character that used to feature in Kenny Everett's radio shows.

This book had a profound effect on my sense of humour as a boy. I can't remember exactly when I was given it - I seem to think it was a Christmas rather than a birthday present. The book was published in 1977 - before Maggie Thatcher came to power and Everett came out in support of her by declaring 'Let's bomb Russia!' at a Young Conservatives do (just a laugh, by all accounts. Not something to damn the man for). And before the brilliant Cosgrove Hall animated versions that featured on Everett's Thames Television shows (here's a link to their version of the Krell story).

This is where it gets a bit confusing. It's difficult to make out from the various websites chronicling Kremmen which order the various versions came in. The TV cartoons seem to use the radio soundtracks but I can't be completely certain. I think the book is preceded by a radio version and that's what was used for the cartoon in the link above. Or something. At any rate, I think the book features the first drawn versions of Kremmen, Carla et al.

Non PC stereotypes aside I love this book. It's full of phrases that have stayed with me for over 30 years. Preparing for the task ahead by getting 'a gallon of Rosie Lee in your wellies'. 'Beast Fiend Incarnate' as an insult. And Kremmen's response to the strict instructions of  Zorro, leader of Krells, when he tells his men not to use their phasers: 'How discreet.' The whole thing lurches from one surreal set piece to the next. It's great.

It also introduced me to Liquid Thron, the Krells weapon of choice. Myself and my friend and neighbour Nicholas Pilchard Willsher (inventor of the ball and stick game Kendori) adapted Thron for use in a kick-can/rallyevo type game where two gangs roamed the streets of Seedley looking for each other. When you found an opposing gang member, you pointed your watch - which you wore round your fingers like a knuckleduster - at them and shouted 'Thron!' and then proceeded to make an electronic 'eeee!' sound as if you were zapping them. Lesley Halsall never quite got the hang of the fact that it was supposed to be a sound effect and simply called 'Thronny' as she pointed her death ray at an opponent.

Ha - I've just remembered another Kremmen related incindent. I was in a maths class when I turned to someone and quoted a bit of a recent Kenny Everett radio show I'd heard. Miss Ware, the teacher, caught me and told me to share what I'd said with the rest of the class. I responded honestly with 'By the prools of nilge what will happen next?' She gave me a telling off but I noticed her smiling a bit at that nonsense.

The live action sketches from Everett's fourth Thames series and Kremmen the Movie (I saw that as a supporting feature at the pictures - I wish I could remember what it was on with. Blimey, that's going back a bit...) were rubbish though.

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Theoretically Speaking

The Twenty-Second of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

It's cold and summer is slipping away without barely announcing its presence. That much I'm sure of. If I'm lucky I'll get five hours sleep tonight. And my knees and back hurt from the effort of dragging my big ol' body up three flights of stairs, fighting gravity all the way.

Yes, things are pretty certain within my comfortable Newtonian existence. The poorly aligned springs on my pull out sofa bed obey Hooke's law, everything makes sense.

No1 son was doing his homework last night, part of which was to ask people how they thought the universe had begun.  I gave the best answer I could, trying to remember as much of the stuff about the Big Bang as my lapsed physicist's brain could recall. Admittedly, most of that comes from the opening titles of The Big Bang Theory ('The whole universe was in a hot, dense state/ When nearly fourteen billion years ago....) but I had some vague notion about the primordial atom and I chucked in something about that was when time began too. Ever one for the scientific method I tried to point out that there was evidence for the Big Bang in the background radiation that can still be picked up on Earth. I wanted to use the phrase 'pre-Baryonic' matter, but I wasn't sure if I had a) remembered that correctly and b) what it actually meant so I didn't go there. I was confused, but I was confident that someone, somewhere had an idea of all the hard maths involved to figure it all out and it was only a matter of time.

Then we get this report that suggests that it may be possible to create particles that move faster that the speed of light. I love the uncertainty of it all - the results have apparently gone through more checks than would be necessary to claim a discovery, but such is the potential hugeness of all this they're asking other scientists to also check the work and see if they can replicate this extraordinary occurrence. If it does pan out it'd be incredible to think of this cold and miserable day being the one where our understanding of how everything works was altered so radically. I don't know if it's comforting or frightening to realise that nobody really knows anything.


In the meantime I'm off to bed to let my unconscious mind try to make sense of it all.

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My Favourite Joke

The Twenty-First of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Sorry gang. Bit short on time and energy tonight so it's going to have to be an exceptionally short one. I think I'm allowed to do this every once in a while as long as I don't make a habit of it. So let me take this opportunity to share with you my favourite joke.

Last night I had a dream that I was eating a giant marshmallow.

And when I woke up, my giant marshmallow had gone.


Thank you.

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The Boy Who Never Grew Up

The Twentieth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

When you give a Mother's love,

Milk and Warmth are not enough,

Guard your daughter, watch your son,

If you would not have them gone.

Hide your child from fairy eyes,

Let but mortals hear their cries, 

Cross no pixie, harm no sprite,

Or lose your loved one to the night.

Beate Zweibel (1822-1879)

Trans. Thomas Sachs

This is the tale of the boy who never grew up.

Across a magic skyline and under a field of stars.

A city of souls sheltered within brick and stone.

A time of penny posts and songs of Empire.

A time of iron horses, dreadnoughts of steel.

Of young children's dreams of the future.

She didn't speak, fairies very rarely do, yet William Robinson understood every word that wasn't said.

My  name is Julia, she had told him. If the clockwork miracles of the ages to come hold no wonder for you, then I offer an alternative. Attend me now and learn of a realm worthy of your wishes and your imagination.

And William sat at the foot of his bed casting hour and minute hand shadows by candle and fairy light. He weighed stories of floating continents beyond the clouds against tales of exploration and exploitation abroad. He compared the riding of unicorns and coltpixies to the static, dust-gathering bulk of the great steamship models his father had harboured about this bedroom. His engineer father. His engineering father. His engineering fate.

William made a decision.

He asked how he might join this other, better and brighter world.

There was a spray of glittering dust, its volume many times greater than that of the diminutive fairy from whom it issued, which engulfed the young boy.

Close your eyes and think happy thoughts, Julia replied.

Then, there were two airborne figures, swooping and spiralling around the room like mating butterflies. A momentary whoop of delight was silenced by the lateness of the hour. The aerobatic display continued, quietly now, Julia leading young Master Robinson is a series of  instructional manoeuvres to improve his speed and mobility. These finished with a spectacular figure-of-eight loop.

Now you are ready, announced Julia, come with me to The Land Beyond Beyond and take your rightful place amoung us, O child of man.

Julia wheeled and spun with typical fairy indirectness, then darted out of the window. William followed eagerly.

It took a matter of seconds for the ant colony to swarm over the compass-rose corpse etched upon the pavement.

The skin dissolved and ran quicksilver-like off Julia's shiny black body, revealing the canister embedded into the exo-skeleton at ther uppper right leg. Stencilled upon it weren't words, fairies very rarely use them, yet these symbols were perfectly readable. They said: "FORMIC HALLUCINOGEN"

Julia consulted her itinerary. Mary-Elizabeth Hilton, 24 Bilbury Avenue, then on, out of London altogether.

It would be morning before the colony stripped the meat down to the bone.

This is the tale of the boy who never grew up.

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Aquae Sulis

The Nineteenth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday. 

Let’s start off with some Divine Comedy. 

I have a very compact and bijou flat, with all the mod cons (I even have a kitchen in my living room – how space age is that?) and apart from the damning cold which is once more beginning to encroach upon us (the tiny wall-mounted electric heaters are barely adequate) it suits my current needs quite nicely. 

Where it falls down a bit though is in the hygiene stakes. Not just the general unsanitary detritus you’d typically get in single male accommodation. No, it’s just that if I want or need to have good scrub I have only a shower with which to do so. 

A shower. 

Oh, how I long for a bath. I like a good soak. You can have a nap, read a (comic) book, listen to the radio. Have a bit of a think while all the while getting cleaner, it’s marvellous. 

It’s a tricky equation getting the temperature right, mind. In anticipation of a good hour-plus long soak some discomfort might be experienced as you fill the tub with piping hot water. That scalding sensation will only last minutes and it is necessary to endure it to ensure as long as is possible is spent in the water before it becomes cold enough to give you various muscle cramps. 

These days I only ever get the chance for a bath when I’m visiting my parents or I’m on holiday. I’ll say one thing for my old friend Travelodge, they usually do you proud on the tub front. I got a good soak with my copy of Action Comics no1 in Edinburgh recently (not the original 1938 edition, naturally, but Grant Morrison’s superb entry into DC’s line-wide reboot (yes another Morrison title forming my Fifth Comic Book Recommendation). In fact, I think that was my last bath to date. 

The parental bath is good, but there your time will most likely be curtailed as you will not have sole use of the bathroom. Still, I like to get as long in as possible before someone starts hammering on the door.

When it comes to very long baths we all aim to emulate the Captain of the Golgafrincham B Ark off of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. He knew how to drag out a bath. Let's see him in action:

Sigh.

Off to bed I go, and in the morning - a shower. But in my dreams I will be fully immersed and in the company of a rubber duck.

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Payday!

The Sixteenth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Survived another (lunar) month without completely running out of money - hooray! Due to some technical problem or other this week's wage slips haven't arrived yet. Nevertheless, the actual wages have turned up!

Hmm, what is it all going to get spent on this month? First up was a maintenance payment. Apparently you still have to pay for your kids to be fed even after you've skedaddled with all the family silver. The laws in this country are ker-razy!

The usual bills: rent, getting the prepaid electric meter key to work at Sainsbury's, council tax, TV licence, phone, internet, satanic cult dues, laser hire and £3 a month to the psychic goat sanctuary.

Two birthdays! Due to poor scheduling son numbers one and two are both getting numerically older before the next payday. And with it being my birthday the month after if I don't get them anything they're bound to get the huff and not bother getting me anything in return. I hate having nothing to open on the day. Gift vouchers - or those 'credit card' type things that seem to be all the rage these days - just won't cut it. What sort of exchange rate is two cakes in order to get one in return? What a swizz!

Normally I have a bit of a splurge at the beginning of the month - maybe buy a DVD or two, or a CD or something. The truth is I have a shedload of stuff that I haven't read/seen/listened to yet so there's no great demand for new things. Although the Region 1 DVD of Adventure Time is out on the 27th, that'd be cool. Hmm, I suppose I should wait until next payday for that, really. It wouldn't be long after the release date.

There's a charity donation I'm overdue at making. Get on to that tomorrow.

Got to set up the payments for the new HD Humax too. That's going to take a chunk out of the proceedings for the next six months, but I knew that when I got it.

I've got most of the comics I want for now so that won't make too much of an impact of funds. There are the UK Marvel Collectors editions - I'll be picking up some of these tomorrow including Fantastic Four Adventures and Avengers Unconquered. I like the fact that you can still pick up US comics from WH Smith, even if they are reprints.

By all means suggest other things I can spend my wages on in the comments section, or on my Facebook page. I'm off to sleep now - my favourite free thing.

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It's Never Dull

The Fifteenth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Today I had a 90 minute commute to work as I went to Hull to cover a shift at Paragon station. It's all very modern - the ticket office there shares a hall with the bus operators as Paragon is now a bus/rail interchange. My shift started at 11 o'clock so I didn't have too busy a day. It turned out to be a pleasant change of pace.

I've a lot of time for Hull. I visited Amazing Fantasy today, an independent comic shop on Anlaby Road just across from the station. It's well stocked, with plenty of recent issues and graphic novels and is well worth a visit if you're a comicky person (like me).

I picked up my copy of the new Ultimate Comics Spider-Man from there today. Back in June I blogged about the death of Spider-Man. Well, this is the comic that begins the story of his replacement.

The number of phone boxes in the modern world is diminishing, but you can still see examples of Hull's unique cream boxes dotted about the city.
.

The last time I went out for a drink in Hull with my erstwhile wife she asked a couple of police officers on the beat where was a good, quiet place to go. After a second's bemusement (it was clear the officers were more used to worrying about the noisier parts of town) the officer we were talking to gave us a walking escort across town

We aren't too far from the Humber Bridge, once the longest single span suspension bridge in the world, now the fifth.

What fascinates me is how the Humber was crossed before the bridge was completed. It wasn't that long ago - just 1981 - when the bridge was opened. Up until then there was a ferry that ran from the Corporation Pier in the city -

- over to New Holland Pier on the Lincolnshire side where you could join the train to Grimsby and Cleethorpes:

As I left to catch my train back to Scarborough I bumped into poet Philip Larkin as he was off for his train.

I picked up my souvenir t-shirt.

And watched the sunset as I waited on the platform.

Au revoir, Hull.



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Toast and Craig Ferguson

The Fourteenth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Oh, hi.

How're you doing?

It's nearly one o'clock and I'm studiously avoiding writing the blog (yet again). Only I'm having such a good time watching clips of Craig Ferguson's American chat show on You Tube and eating toast that I'm not as worried about not doing what I'm supposed to be doing as I usually am. I'm mainly looking at interviews with the cast of The Big Bang Theory (I've just watched three episodes in a row from The Backlog - the digital pile of stuff that needs to be watched on my Humax PVR as mentioned in this entry (incidentally, I still haven't watched any of the stuff from The Backlog that I mention there - I keep meaning to have a Dollhouse-a-thon. Might do that the next Sunday I have off (not this Sunday, then)). Towards the end of the fourth series it seems to have hit a particularly rich seam of comedy gold so I have no hesitation in nominating it as my Fifteenth Telly Recommendation)

It's just I'm in a particularly good mood at the mo. No particular reason - Jim Parsons who plays Big Bang's Sheldon has been giving good value in his interviews on Craig Ferguson. That's been making me smile. (Stating The Obvious Alert!) It's funny how different the cast members are in real life. Yes, I know they're actors, I'm not stupid. It's not like I address the fan letters I send to Coronation Street to Ken Barlow - that would be silly, I know he's a character. No, I address them to "Ken Barlow", my use of quotation marks showing Ken I'm aware of the metatextual conundrum of his existence. What I mean is, the characters in The Big Bang Theory are so exaggerated (expertly so, mind) - perhaps even more so than the heightened performance you normally associate with sitcom - that it taken aback a little to see them as normal human beings.

Hmm, analysing comedy's such a dry biscuit, isn't it? Sorry about that. I'll quickly move on and get back to my toast.

Man City began their opening campaign of the European Champions' League with a 1-1 home draw against Napoli tonight. Hit the woodwork a few times, could have been better. Could have been worse too. A good night's work, I guess.

What I will mention is that the producer of The Big Bang Theory, Chuck Lorre, is also producer of Two and a Half Men - the show that Charlie Sheen left so spectacularly earlier this year. For a number of years he has written down his thoughts on the vanity cards - usually the production company's logo or trademark that appears at the end of a TV programme - that bear his name. You can read them if you freeze frame the credits, or you can check out the archive of them all here. The ones around #329 are the most interesting ones - they relate directly to the Sheen kerfuffle.

Anyway. Craig Ferguson. I was in New York in February and saw the show on the 17th that had Sarah Chalke in (you know, off of Scrubs). She was really good, but here's William Shatner instead:

Right, off to bed and then I've got a day's work in Hull tomorrow (later today... sheesh) Might tell you how that goes for the next blog.

More soonliest.

Please Don't Drive at Eighty-Eight

The Thirteenth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Can you believe in an early draft it was going to be a fridge? The time machine in Back to the Future, I mean. There’s lots of material, out there on the interwebs and on the DVDs (and even books!) and such, about the development of this fab film, my Fifth Film Recommendation. For genuine facts a ten minute google session will reveal everything you need to know. No, this is going to be nothing more than ill-considered thoughts thrown together without any research or due diligence. In other words: as usual.

Let’s start with this one: if I had a time machine I would go back to the eighties and prevent the sequels from being made. I know, not exactly up there with going back to kill Hitler in the changing history stakes (and here’s a thing. I’m writing the first draft of this on Word. The auto-correct has just capitalised Hitler for me. I don’t know why, but I find that a little disturbing…) but you know what I mean. In the very specific area of movie-related time travel I honestly think the original is diminished by its sequels. That's not to say they're not good films in their own right - they are (the romance between Doc and Clara in III is particularly sweet). And of course they've made a bucket load of cash, so simply telling the movie execs of the late 20th Century not to make them isn't going to work either - it'd have to be some complicated chain of event-type alteration of the timeline. You know, where you make someone delivering a pizza five minutes late and the knock on effect is that someone isn't in the right place at the right time to make a crucial decision and the movies are never greenlit (greenlighted? Whatever...). That sort of thing.

While we're at it the DeLorean's pretty cool isn't it?

Apparently they were rubbish cars, but they look good.

Cos the first film is just ace. It has a slightly harsher tone, in keeping with a lot of 80s movies (even ET has cussing kids in it) that gets mellowed as the idea of the multiplex blockbuster takes over (II and III are very much in that 'big film' mould compared with smaller indie sensibililties of the first). It's got Crispin Glover in it which is pretty much a solid 'yes' to any film. The man's middle name is 'Hellion'. Here he is on Late Night with Letterman just doing his stuff. I remember him on The Last Resort with Jonathan Ross with his musical animals trapped in tar pits. Here is another example of his genius.

The whole thing just holds together so well it doesn't need anything adding on. Yes, the repeated jokes in the sequels raise a smile but they dilute the aceness of how everything comes together in the original. I must have watched it six times before I noticed the name of the mall had changed when Marty gets back to 1985. There's the clock at the beginning that has a man dangling from one of its hands. There is the tightness of the plotting that has Jennifer writing her phone number (cos she's not at home) on the back of the 'Save the Clock Tower' flyer so that Marty keeps hold of it to let the Doc know exactly when the lightning will strike. It has great character work between Fox and Lloyd that sells the bond between these two mismatched friends. And it does the most important thing you can do in any time travel story which is use a cheap gag ('I thought "what the hell?"') to disarm any worries about paradoxes, etc.

I went to see it on a free offer from the Sun with Karen Summers. As I handed my paper over to the ticket lady at the ABC Deansgate I said 'can I have two tickets for this Back to the Future lark?' 'It's no lark,' was her solemn reply.

That's a great comedy cliffhanger too. Oh, if only they'd left it as such. A sequel's such an obvious payoff to the DeLorean flying off. Mind you, I've a lot of time for Elisabeth Shue (star of my Sixth Film Recommendation, Adventures in Babysitting (which for some reason was renamed A Night on the Town in this country) even with a daft wig so maybe II isn't all that bad.

Let's leave the last word to Huey Lewis (and the News, of course). One story has it that they got the gig providing songs for Back to the Future as part of the settlement for when they sued the makers of Ghostbusters for ripping off their song I Want a New Drug. All I know is I had The Power of Love as a 7" single and it's an essential part of the BTTF experience. Take it away, Huey.

More soonliest.

Key Notes

The Twelfth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Back at work after two weeks on holiday. Nice to have a proper keyboard again after writing on the touchscreen of my phone which is a traumatic experience at the best of times but which recently has become a trial as the screen doesn’t function at temperatures below – oh, I don’t know – 20 degrees Celsius. Consequently, I have to warm it up under my arm to get it working, recalling with nostalgic irritation those Polaroid photographs you had to bury in your armpit for 30 seconds to get them to develop.

And also back on a proper keyboard at home. All my old friends waiting there to greet me: Mr Dirty-Washing and Mrs Filthy-Potts. The cupboard brothers, M.T. and Bear. Not forgetting my Star Trek fridge DeFrost Kelley (‘Dammit, Jim, I’m a refrigerator not a notice board!’) Good to see them all.

Can you believe I learned to type at sixth form college? That's how ancient I am. During General Studies they had typing lessons in a room full of big ol' secretarial typewriters. I can still remember exercising my little fingers on the q and p buttons to this very day.

I once convinced a woman who now presents a breakfast show on commercial radio that the inventor of the typewriter was a Pole by the name of 'Qwerty Uiop' and that's why every keyboard bears his name on the top line of letters.

Also, I had my computer for more than a year before I realised it was on a US setting and that's why the @ and the " keys had been reversed. I've got it adjusted for UK use now, but for all that time it never occurred to me to try and do anything about it. I

Another quick one tonight, gang. We'll get up to full speed soon enough.

More soonliest.

Closed at Weekends

The Ninth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Well, I'm bushed. I've done a week in Wales. I've done a week in Scotland. Today alone I've been in Edinburgh, Manchester, Doncaster and London. I have been on trains (standard and narrow gauge), trams, tubes and tourist trails. Bought some comics. Eaten out every night. Bought some more comics. Visited two castles. Had egg and chips with David Jason (picture above). Eaten four macaroni pies.

And plenty of other stuff too. I'm aching all over.

So I'm following the example of the photo at the top. Yes, 'Old Street', that's appropriate. I'm not as young as I once was. That's why, like 'Old Street', I'm going to close down for the weekend.

Back to work Monday. Joy. Let's all meet up back here then, eh?

More soonliest.

Victor Mike Hotel

The Eighth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

I've spent the last few days in beautiful city of edinburgh and I've had a lovely time. There's just one little thing that worries me.

I remember when I visited last year I had the nagging feeling that I was being watched - not so much from other people but somehow from 'outside' the way a goldfish might vaguely be aware of an observer beyond its bowl. This seemed to be coupled with regular occurrences of my initials turning up about the city. The first photo at the top is from a sign in Leith I saw last November.

I had dismissed this as simple paranoia until tonight during my current visit when I came across the vehicle numberplate shown in the second photo. That these letters should only appear while I'm in Edinburgh puzzles me. All I can say is that the sense of being regarded by something outside of the ordinary world has returned.

Only it seems much stronger this time.

Thank goodness I leave for home in the morning. I don't know if I'd be brave enough to return. Not if it's worse again.

More soonliest.

Becoming a Writer

The Seventh of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Hello. You are reading this. I have written this. This is because I am a writer.

Today I have been talking about writing. This is even better than actual writing, purer perhaps. This is why I talk more than I write. It's not that I'm skiving, it simply is the best way of going about it. No, really.

Quite often, sometimes as much as once every three years, I'm asked for tips on writing. Understandably. And although no-one asked me today here for you now are my top 5 tips if you want to do some writing. Like what I do.

5) Write in green ink. I used to have a special green pen, but now I have one of those four-colour pens and I just use the green button on that.

1) Steal other people's ideas. It's really hard thinking of stuff to write. Fortunately today the internet gives you access to literally dozens of other people's writings. Your new friends are the buttons ctrl+c and ctrl+v. For example, this particular entry has been copied from the blog for Jan 30th 2007 of someone called Hilary Brown.

2) If you're going to swear, swear. Don't use made up words it looks lumping stupid.

3) Always write the ending first. Once you've got that out of the way it is very easy to wrap things up if you get bored with what you are writing. Which you will do, believe me. You can just put in something like 'six months later...' and your readers will do all the work of filling in all the bits that lead up to the last part. But don't forget to put the end back where it belongs. It'll look daft if you leave it as the first bit.

4) There is no story that can't be made better by the addition of robots. Or women kissing. Shakespeare knew this, Coronation Street knew this, heck, James Joyce's Ulysses has both in. It's not a cheap gimmick, it's a literary device. Like adverbs. Go ahead. It'll be fine. Car and/or helicopter chases are pretty cool too.

So there you go. There's no 'write' or wrong way to write (although I don't see the point of poetry if I'm honest. It really ticks me off the way you have pay the same - and quite often more! - as a proper book for something with - what? - less than a tenth as much writing. That's just a rip-off) but if you take into account these simple pointers you'll be well on the way to emulating my style and success.

More soonliest.