Blog Off

+++WARNING+++TETCHY TECHIE POST+++

I had an email from Blogger last night. Ooh, I thought. They’re hand selecting me for a blogging award.

Yeah right.

It was to inform me that Blogger would no longer be supporting FTP publishing from the end of March 2010.

Hello? Are you still there? Basically this means that people like me who publish their blog to their own bought and paid for domain name would no longer be able to do so. We must switch to Blogger’s own domain name – blogspot.com – or, I surmised (though it wasn’t stated) go elsewhere for our blogging needs.

I was not amused.

Apparently only 5% of Blogger users publish via FTP and yet it is a huge draw on Blogger’s resources to continue to support it. Myself, I can’t quite accept the logic of that. All my pages, all the images are held on web space that I own. They are not using up web space on Blogger’s own servers which must surely be chock-a-block with the material supplied by the other 95% of Blogger users.

What resources am I hogging exactly?

Anyway, I kind of got the impression that resistance and complaint was futile. I’m in the minority here after all. The blogging world will hardly down tools in protest if I disappear from the electronic ether. My choice is simple – either switch to blogspot.com or go elsewhere. I’ve tried other Blog suppliers and I don’t really like ‘em so I guess I have little choice but to cooperate with the new Blogger dictat.

I’m going to jump before I’m pushed and I am therefore requesting that all you good people who visit and read my blog – maybe even Follow it in the Blogger sense – will be good enough to update all your links and swap to my new blog address which is as follows: http://bloggertropolis.blogspot.com

I shall set up an auto redirect myself for stragglers but as from today the old address is essentially defunct. There is a new blogging world order.

Apparently there are pros to this move. I will be able to utilize some of the new Blogger templates that us awkward FTP users have been technologically denied access to – so maybe there will be a change of décor as well. Ooh! I bet you can hardly wait.

Ahem.

I hope to see you all on the other side...

(Please leave any comments on the new blog.)

Bottle

So I finished the “re-write” of my novel earlier this week and found myself on the crest of a wave of excitement and anticipation. It wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Feedback from the few who have received advance copies has been good and my wife who, believe me, would tell me in no uncertain terms if it was crap, has given it a big thumbs up.

I’m ready, I thought.

For the next step.

Acquiring an agent.

I did an initial search on-line. And straightaway found the wave dropping away from me like the start of a tsunami and disappearing down the nearest drain.

Without exception their web sites are cold, clinical, unwelcoming places full of corporate speak and self advertising. Finding one single link to the submissions page is a labour of Hercules. They keep that particular doorway well hidden. Almost as if they don’t really want people to find it.

Plus finding an agent who (a) is accepting unsolicited work and (b) taking work of the genre that best fits what I have written is another labour entirely. I managed to bookmark a few but they have another list of hoops for the potential author to leap through. Everything must be just so or they won’t even look at your work.

One even demanded a CV.

A CV?! This is my first novel! Aside from a bit of poetry and a short story I’ve not been published before!

I tried the old trick of picking a few successful authors and searching for their agents. What a waste of time that was. J.K. Rowling’s agent is not taking any new work at the moment. They’re inundated. Possibly because of the success of J.K. Will Self’s agent had a very cold pop-up window which virtually said thank you but no thank you if we haven’t already heard of you. Other writers who decorate the spines on my bookshelf are either American or Japanese. I’ve nothing against acquiring an overseas agent but they do tend to take a higher percentage of any earnings – 20% and above. Rather steep.

The end result of all this wall-banging was that it totally shrivelled up by burgeoning little author’s ego and sapped me of all confidence. It made me lose my bottle and I went back to checking my emails instead.

I’ve come back round since then. Karen has bought me a couple of advice books for writers and the Writer’s Yearbook is always a hardy reference manual on my bookshelf. I shall read the relevant sections, gird my loins and pitch myself into the Rejection Game once more. I’d got hardened to it when I was writing poetry. I daresay I shall harden up again.

Bottle is all well and good. But bulletproof glass is the thing required...

Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 3)

Call it Winter Blues. Call it SAD. Call it vitamin D deficiency. Call it what you like (being “misog” in Blake household parlance) but I’ve been feeling down and out for the last week or so. I’m not the only one. I know my good lady wife is too.

Suddenly it all seems... not exactly too much, just not enough. We’re both sick of chasing our own coat-tails financially. There can be nothing more galling than turning up to a job (that makes you sigh) every day to earn not enough money to cover all the bills. It is truly demoralizing.

And we feel tired. Deep winter tired. I suspect we should be hibernating. Curled up in a warm cave stocked with hot chocolate, sausages & mash and a host of other tasty comfort foods. My DVD collection wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

The winter is just not a great place to be.

But I’m trying to be cheerful.

Well, if not exactly cheerful (this is me we’re talking about after all) then I’m at least I’m trying to count my blessings.

I have a wonderful wife. Too wonderful rumbustious boys. A roof over our heads. Karen and I have both completed an accountancy course (ACCA) and a degree course respectively over the last few months – Karen is merely awaiting her final results (out in Feb). I’ve nearly completed the first rewrite of my novel – next step will be sourcing an agent. It’s very early days yet but we calculated than we’ve paid off about £9k from our mortgage.

So if we’re not rich in money we’re at least rich in assets and home comforts. And we’re not going to starve.

But a bit of elasticity would be nice. A holiday would be nice (I’m not even thinking “abroad”). To be able to buy a luxury item once in a while without feeling guilty would be nice.

*Sigh*

Although I’m not sure if it will help we have a financial advisor coming round to visit us this evening. Somebody independent and professional to take on board our haemorrhaging fortunes to see if they can apply a tourniquet. If nothing else she might be able to get us a better deal on our mortgage, I suppose. I’m not holding my breath though. I can’t help suspecting it will merely result in a tightening up of moolah elsewhere. Swings and roundabouts as they say.

Sorry. I’m meant to be being positive. Reasons to be cheerful and all that.

Ahem. At least she’s not a bailiff.

There, is that close enough?

The Great Work Is Finished

2 years, eight months.

303 pages.

231,558 words (though this is apt to change).

My novel is finally finished.

I typed the last words last night and then let my fingers hover over the keyboard for a few moments, savouring the slightly shocking sound of silence.

I can’t quite believe it. I’ve lived with this story and the characters for such a long time it now feels weird to be without them. But there is nowhere left for them to go. Nothing more for them to say. Their day is done.

And it feels good. This is the biggest writing project I’ve ever undertaken. I started a novel once before in my twenties but it petered out half way through and that failure was always a source of chagrin. It’s nice to have exorcized that particular ghost and proved to myself that I can see a narrative through to the very end.

But of course this isn’t the end. This is merely the beginning of the end. I now have to contend with the rewrites, the read throughs, the asking other people to read it and eventually the submission process. Writing the first draft was the easy part.

And so this is a heads-up to all my dear blog readers. Sometime over the next few months, I’m not sure quite when, I shall be asking for volunteers to read the damned thing. I’m not expecting reams of technical feedback or in-depth analysis, just a simple “yes I liked it” or a “no, it was crap” will do (though any technical stuff would be appreciated).

I’m not going to post it on-line for download but anyone who is foolhardy interested can email me and I will gladly email them a copy. I’m not expecting to be inundated with requests but I figure that at the very least a couple of you might be bored enough to want to read it. Go on, I’m letting you in on the ground floor of the next big thing here...

As a thank you I will ensure that you get a glittering mention on the acknowledgments page... (there, I’m sure that’s clinched it for you).

In the meantime, big spender that I am, I’m going to treat myself to a chocolate bar. A Boost Duo. I think I’ve earnt it.

The Death Of Magic

When I was an impressionable teen I got into magic. Or rather the idea of magic. In fact this occult interest lasted well into my impressionable twenties.

At the time the occult section of Waterstones (now, I believe, respectably entitled “Health, Body and Spirit” or some such) was bursting at its magical seams with middle class grimoires from the likes of Laurie Cabot and other darker tomes from the late, great and dangerous-to-know Aleister Crowley, who is in fact a fellow Leamingtonian.

I have to say I was swept along more by the theory than the practice though I do recall once going into an “alternative” shop in York and buying a wand that looked like a Native American phallus. All dangly feathers and a ruddy great bulbous crystal sprouting from the end of it. It languished under my bed for years until I offloaded it onto a kooky ex back in 2003. I don’t miss it at all.

As for Crowley... well I was never tempted to try out any of his Magick™, beleaguered as it was with demons, drugs and downright moral depravity but I did purchase a lot of his books. I got about 2 thirds through his immense autohagiography (for those of you who don’t know an autohagiography is supposedly the biography of a saint) before getting bogged down in lengthy "he said / she said" transcripts of various conversations Aleister had enjoyed in various privileged gentleman’s clubs across Europe. It all got a bit stuffy. I just wanted the salacious bedroom exploits and the otherworldly descriptions of the Abyss not the scripts from an Open University staff meeting.

I still own the books and have a few rarities too including a copy of his very dirty poem “Leah Sublime” (which in the modern age is no worse than a 6th form Rugby song).

I keep them now not out or any respect for magical lore but as interesting historical documents. As a figure Aleister Crowley has, I think, stood the test of time. The magical theories, I’m afraid, I now view as complete bunkum. It’s plainly obvious that Crowley was doped to his eyeballs most of the time on heroin and cocaine and various other Victorian opiates and spent a great deal of his time reading esoteric texts and then hallucinating as a direct consequence.

One story from the autohag is a case in point:

Aleister recounts an occasion when he saved a man servant’s life by wrestling a demon to the ground. It’s one of the signature notes of his autohag and makes a great read. However, that same man servant later independently recounts Aleister taking various drugs and then suddenly attacking him. The man servant was lucky to get away with his life, his dignity and his virtue intact. Enough said.

But there was more to Aleister than the dodgy magic. There was philosophy, literature, appalling poetry and a rock and roll lifestyle a good 60 years before rock and roll was even invented. He’s a genuinely interesting character and I may write more about him in the future but don’t have the room or the time now.

Laurie Cabot – an American white witch – is another case entirely. Stephen Fry met her earlier this year during one of his televised road trips across the States and she came across as an aging nutter who spent her time living in a yurt for the tourists and touting feather-based love charms for the sad, lonely and financially incontinent.

I can’t believe I ever fell for any of that crap. It all seems utterly ridiculous now.

Me and magic have, alas, parted company. I’m no longer a believer.

Which isn’t to say I don’t keep an open mind on ghosts, UFOs, and other paranormal oddities.

But magic... magic I’d like to believe in but sadly just don’t anymore. I’ve grown out of it. It’s a young man’s dream, borne out of ignorance and wishful thinking; a desire to control the uncontrollable.

Nowadays I’m more accepting of the uncontrollable. In fact part of me is rather glad that there are some things beyond my control – I can take neither responsibility nor blame for them. It’s an immense relief.

And yet...

...and yet there is a tiny part of me that is sad that I have lost this wide eyed belief in magic. The world seems a little smaller, a little greyer as a consequence. It’s like figuring out the true identity of Father Christmas. You still get the presents. Nothing physically changes in the world.

But the magic has gone.

Half Blood Prince

+++ SPOILER WARNING +++

So. The difficult 6th movie adapted from the difficult 6th book.

I took to the Harry Potter movies from the offset (yes, even with the occasionally irritating kiddy acting) but came to the novels late. In fact, up to the last movie (The Order Of The Phoenix) I’d staunchly avoided reading any of the books. I’d enjoyed the films so much I wanted my enjoyment of them to continue unalloyed and I didn’t want to join the miserable members of the “oh it wasn’t as good as the book” club.

However, the complete boxed set on Amazon last summer put paid to that and I ended up reading all 7 novels straight through in a matter of weeks.

So I went into this film fully armed with the gospel truth according to J. K Rowling and my membership card to the “oh it wasn’t as good as the book” club all ready to be stamped and issued.

And have I joined the whining members of that club?

No. I haven’t.

I will say this though: the movie isn’t as full as the book – but then that is inevitable. Movies can never be as full or as all encompassing as the books they are adapted from. And thank God for that, I say. It is a fact that should be embraced. Movies are a different beast entirely and should be / must be accepted as such.

They are a different discipline. A new thing entirely. They are a filter, not a mirror.

And David Yates, the director of The Half Blood Prince, has proved himself to be a very adept filter.

The Half Blood Prince is an odd book. Unlike the other novels there is no overriding mission or endeavour – the book focuses on relationships, on romance with the activities of Voldermort (via Draco Malfoy) very much on the back burner. The threat remains hidden until the last scenes when suddenly the whole world comes crashing down with the shocking violence of Dumbledore’s murder.

Yates builds up to this nicely in the film – there is plenty of humour and laughs but the darkness is never too far away. The duel between Potter and Malfoy is short, brutal and bloody. The horror and shock of it is well handled – as is Malfoy’s attack on Potter in the early stages of the film. And yet I felt that Yates pulled his punch with Dumbledore’s murder. I felt that, compared to the book, it had been sanitized. A little fluffed. Instead of the sickening lurch of Rowling’s prose (that isn’t a comment on her writing style) we got a tasteful floaty-fall from the highest tower reminiscent of Gandalf falling into the mine of Moria.

It’s just a small gripe and is part and parcel of the whole franchise being aimed at kids I suppose. Or maybe I’m just being too bloodthirsty?

The only other gripe I had was that Snape’s part of the story (which is rather essential) was downgraded far too much in the film. He should have had way much more screen time but I’m honestly not joining the “Oh it wasn’t as good as the blah blah blah” club, honestly I’m not.

‘Cos these gripes aside I thought the film was superb and well worth the wait. Jim Broadbent was perfect as Slughorn and the usual triumvirate of Radcliffe, Grint and Watson were a joy. There is such subtlety to their performances now, especially Watson as Hermione, that their interlinked relationships carry the film without any apparent effort – they must look back at their performances in the earlier films and cringe. Bonnie Wright as Ginny Weasley stepped into the limelight as Harry’s love interest and exuded a strength and confidence which was a perfect foil to Radcliffe’s / Potter’s bumbling abashedness. She also should have been given much more screen time in my opinion.

It took me a while to get used to Michael Gambon as Dumbledore. Richard Harris had such a warmth about him that Gambon seemed cold in comparison but he seems to have softened himself into the role over the last two films. In The Half Blood Prince Gambon IS Dumbledore and I found his performance poignant and sensitive. The failing health, the fading strength, the acceptance of his fate was all there in the way he moved – which is something I have never expected from Gambon before. Suddenly in The Half Blood Prince I notice him as an innately physical actor rather than just verbal.

So. The difficult 6th movie is a success. As good as the last film? Hmm. I’ll be honest and say perhaps not. To be fair, it never could be. The Half Blood Prince is a scene setter. The final moves before the end game begins. The antechamber to the great hall of the finale.

Yates has set the dominoes up nicely.

I’m packing my mixed metaphors into an old kit bag and booking my seat on the front row right now.

Umbrella For A Sunny Day

“Umbrella” because the two components of this post are completely disparate but I’m going to lump them together ‘cos today is the day for writing about them both. The first part is a family oriented kiddie post, the second touches on the reading aloud of poetry. Take your pick, dear reader, or read ‘em both.

The eldest boy is celebrating his 8th birthday today. He came downstairs this morning to find the sofa stacked with presents – presents that his dad hastily wrapped last night while his mum suffered beneath the vicious malaise of a horrible cold. Every birthday / Christmas Karen and I always say “this time we’ll be more organized and get the presents wrapped early” and every time we play present wrapping chicken and wrap them at the very last minute.

Not that Ben minded. He’s had a good haul – loads of Lego (naturally), a Nintendo game, the ubiquitous Pokémon cards and a digital camera amongst the new treasures.

Tom’s reaction was very interesting. Last Christmas he still didn’t fully understand this “present opening malarkey” at all though had good fun shredding the discarded paper and cardboard.

Today however was very much a different kettle of fish. He seemed as excited by the presents as Ben was – lots of cooing and ooh-ing and a few attempts to eat the presents whilst still in their wrapping paper...

But once the gifts were unwrapped they were far more intriguing than the paper.

I sense a shift in consciousness here. Gone are the days when we could have palmed him off with an empty box or a bit of glittery paper... now he wants product! He’s joined the consumer race at last.

To help avoid any displays of jealousy or feelings of neglect we bought Tom a little present too. His current love is bus spotting whenever we are out and about in the car. He just loves them. Every time we point a bus out to him we elicit a shout of joy and the phrase: “Dus! Dus!” which is Tom’s pronunciation of the word “bus”.

Hence Tom’s present just had to be a big bright yellow Lego Duplo bus complete with passengers and luggage compartment which, if it has been opened and closed once, it has been opened and closed a hundred times already. He loves anything with a hinge does our Tom.

He has refused to let the damn thing go and has taken it into nursery with him. Woe betide the staff if they ever try and separate them...

Anyway the upshot is, I think Tom has decided he quite likes birthdays. Doesn’t matter if it’s his or not. Any birthday will do. Just as long as he acquires a bus.

Let’s hope I’m not having to negotiate with Midland Red when he turns 18...

And now for the poetry...

Janete over at Writer’s Blog has embedded a small movie into her latest post featuring photos she has taken during her travels. The soundtrack is Janete herself reading one of her amazing poems. It’s worth a click and a few minutes of your time savouring the experience.

What struck a chord with me was Janete’s comment about not liking her own voice. I expect most people feel the same way – possibly because we imagine our voices to sound somehow different to how they really are... sort of the same but different. The same but improved. Polished. Authoritative. Silkier. Movie star like.

It’s always depressing when you hear your voice played back to you and you realize you sound like a bin man from Walsall.

Not that Janete does, I hasten to add. I actually think she has a fabulous voice – really lovely – and it suits her poetry perfectly. Go and listen to it if you don’t believe me.

Mine, however, does. Or at least I think it does. About 15 years ago I had the opportunity to read out some of my poetry on a local radio programme broadcast by Coventry & Warwickshire BBC. It was to be pre-recorded and would be broadcast a week later... so, lucky me, I’d be able to listen to myself in the comfort of my own home.

For some reason, even though I’m Midlands born and bred, I had a fancy to sound like Ted Hughes. I loved his poetry and I loved to hear him reciting it. Such a rich, dark voice. And the Yorkshire accent lent his words an expressiveness and earthiness that added yet more depth and richness to a grasp of language that was already immeasurably deep and rich.

Oh to sound like that! I would have turned heads.

Now, don’t think for a minute that, when presented with the microphone, I launched into an awful cod-Yorkshire “ee bah gum it’s cold oop North int it” accent. I wasn’t that stupid. I’m not good at mimicking accents though can manage a passable Scots if I put my mind to it (but as my dad is part Scottish this is only right and proper).

I merely tried to speak clearly and authoritatively. With feeling and passion. With an ear for the words and the music of my poetry.

I swear to God I sounded like a Birmingham fish monger reading William Blake. Not a great mix.

It affected me so badly I didn’t write anything for nearly 12 months and, bar reading a 3rd prize winning poem at Warwick’s 2006 Warwick Words competition, have never read my work aloud again.

Beauty might be in the eye of the beholder but the ear has its part to play also.

With Nobs On

With the BAFTAs out of the way we can at last move onto the REAL award ceremony. The Noblesse Oblige Awards.

(And sadly Jonathon Ross hasn’t won one of these either.)

I was nominated a couple of weeks ago by the superlative EmmaK who’s blog, Mommy Has A Headache, has tickled my fancy almost as many times as its tickled my funny bone. It was a tremendous honour to receive this award though I disappointingly noted that there was no 5 course meal, cabaret or excuse to hire a tux involved. Just the glamour and kudos of acquiring the award. However, in these days of austerity and recession I wouldn’t have been able to afford the coke or the after party hookers anyway so who’s to say it wasn’t a win-win situation after all?

The award works like this:

The recipient of this award is recognised for the following:

1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs.
2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage and offers solutions.
3) There is a clear purpose at the Blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture and Sciences and Beliefs.
4) The Blog is refreshing and creative.
5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking.

The Blogger who receives this award will need to perform the following steps:

1) Create a Post with a mention and link to the person who presented the Noblesse Oblige Award.
2) The Award Conditions must be displayed at the Post.
3) Write a short article about what the Blog has thus far achieved – preferably citing one or more older post to support.
4) The Blogger must present the Noblesse Oblige Award in concurrence with the Award conditions.
5) Blogger must display the Award at any location at the Blog.

I’m not going to follow the directions to the letter (it’s just the kind of cavalier guy I am – I’m an extreme blogger after all, dudes) but I am, with great delight, going to pass on the Noblesse Oblige award to showcase the talents of a select few of my favourite bloggers. It’s a tough choice because I love all the blogs that are listed in my sidebar but, to follow EmmaK’s example (and because I’m lazy) I’m only going to pick out and honour 5. Please don’t hold it against me if you are not picked – it is just that my love for your particular blog is beyond all description and defies expression in every language.

And so the winners are:

1) Diary Of An Old Cheeser: He’s been gone for a while but now he’s back. Hopefully for good. School teacher, self-confessed Whovian and cheesy TV aficionado the Old Cheeser is a reading must for those of you who like your TV served up hot, spicy and... well, cheesy. OC has a delightfully humorous touch and a penchant for saucy commentary that would make Graham Norton blush. This blog is guaranteed to brighten anybody’s day. In fact even Gordon Brown has been known to crack one off to OC’s blog. A smile that is.

2) The Reluctant Blogger: What can I say? RB’s blog has long been a safe and comfortable online haven for me, Articulate, sensitive, expressive, thought provoking and always, always warmly humane. RB has a writing style that is welcoming and all inclusive. It’s impossible to visit merely once. You will simply have to keep going back for more. And more.

3) Magic Lantern Show: I only discovered this blog a week or two ago though I think it was more of a case that this blogger stumbled onto me and was good enough to bestow a few intriguing comments my way. My curiosity was piqued and I followed them back to the source. I’m glad I did. I’m still sussing out the blog world of Magic Lantern Show but already I’ve been dazzled by wonderful photography, incredible writing, exciting travelogues and a brilliantly eclectic selection of posts. Go check it out.

4) A Write Blog: another recent addition to my blogging canon. AWB writes posts and leaves comments that are superbly crafted and challenging and push the reader to think a little deeper. No mean feat in this age of instant electronic gratification. AWB engages the reader on so many levels... if you’ve not dropped by before now I suggest you make an appointment in your diary to head over there as soon as possible.

5) Through A Glass, Darkly: one of those blogs that makes you cry out, “where have you been all of my life?” Brother Tobias has trodden the blogging boards for a while now and it is truly an honour to have him stop by and leave a carefully considered comment or three. The man has everything: style, panache and a humble and unpretentious sense of honour and dignity. Brother T’s posts balance gracefully between worldly wise and wide eyed wonder and are never sourly cynical or dismissive. To visit this blog is to breathe the free air. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Congratulations my friends. ‘Tis an honour to pass this award onto you all. Do with it as you will.

And so, in my closing speech, it only remains for me to say that I only wish I had time and energy enough to showcase all of the blogs on my reading list. For you are all wonderful and deserving of praise and riches and I thank you all for your dedication to the blogging cause.

And now I shall virtually retire and virtually polish my virtual award, stare at my mantelpiece and think how much more attractive it is than one of those awfully kitsch BAFTAs.

And far easier to dust.

Motivation

Progress on the novel (yes I am still writing it) has become tortuously slow of late.

It’s a mite frustrating as I am now into the last phase of the plot. Just a matter of tying everything together. And at 170,000 words (and counting) I don’t think anyone can knock my dedication.

But finding time and energy to devote to it lately has proven to be monumentally difficult. The worst thing about this is that it makes me feel distant from the novel and then it’s doubly hard to get back into it again. It requires a huge effort to pick up all the piece and embrace the myriad strands once more.

And then yet more interruptions and delays... it soon feels too difficult to re-engage.

I’m being lazy and moany, I know.

Part of the problem is that I have an idea for a second novel and, human nature being what it is, I want the first one done and dusted so I can get on with the shiny new one.

Which feels a rather childish reaction.

I suppose I ought to try and see the positive. All these delays are ensuring that I don’t rush the ending – a crime committed by many a writer and of ineffably annoyance to any reader... cos you can always tell when a novel has been rushed. The conclusion is invariably shoddy, unbelievable and way too convenient... altogether very, very dissatisfying.

I guess I’ve just got to tell myself that the tortoise is always better then the hare and just knuckle down... Instead of distracting myself with constant displacement activities.

Like writing this blog...

400

What a momentous day this is. Ripe with glory and grandeur!

Forget Barrack Obama’s inauguration as the 44th President of the United States of America.

Forget the news that this is the first Official day of the UK recession.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my 400th blog post.

Yes. That’s right. 400!

Since this blog’s inception in late 2006 I have continuously and without mercy produced 400 blog posts of varying length and dubious quality, luxuriously peppered them with photographs slyly half-inched from the World Wide Web, and thrown them to you, the blog reading masses, as if they were high class crumbs from my overflowing banqueting table.

Such food for though has passed before your poor fatigued eyes! Subjects such as Nigella Lawson, politics, television, celebrity culture, music, Keeley Hawes, parenthood, Lego, work and even how to wash up a tea mug have all been righteously laid before you like the tenets of a new religion.

And how you have gorged yourselves, you lucky people!

No, no, please don’t bow or scrape, there really is no need.

But it has not all been bouquets and banners! Oh no! There were some – you know who you are – who thought this blog would never amount to anything. Thought it would die, bawling and howling in its infancy, a shrivelled negatively potentialled hybrid of overweening ambition and undergrasping ability. You thought I’d get bored within the first 6 months. You thought I’d get sidetracked by the flash-bang-wallop of hardcore internet porn and the gaudy lure of online Poker. You thought I’d be discovered by the Head of Writing at the BBC who would snap me up like the last green triangle in a tin of Quality Street and beg me, dry-humping my leg as the tears roll down his face, to co-write the next series of Doctor Who and officiate over the next batch of period dramas primed to emerge from the pen of Andrew Davies.... no, no, Steve, you must give up this blog writing malarkey immediately, Hollywood beckons for one such as you, don’t cast your pearls before swine, your seed onto barren ground (you must leave the internet porn alone)... you must step up to the plate, dear boy, scripts must be written, book deals signed, an e-book autobiography with Flash and interactive content must be penned (keyboarded)...

But I said “nay!” And lo I sayeth “nay!” again.

I am going nowhere. This blog shall not be moved. This blog shall stayeth forever. Yay e’en unto perpetuity and the electronic eternity (server functionality excepted). Have no fear that I shall desert you, dear reader. I shall turn my back on all offers of wealth, stardom, critical acclaim and cheap easy sex with breast heavy celebrities who present property shows on Channel 4. I shall keep the Bloggertropolis standard held aloft and rippling in the breeze and my mind purely on the blogging tasks at hand for now and for ever more.

No need to thank me. This is simply what I do. Be confident and assured. Rest easy, dear reader.

I am going nowhere.

Absolutely. Effing. Nowhere.

Words Or Music?

I’m not sure where this post has come from but whilst pottering around the house over the weekend I had a sudden flashback to a Manic Street Preachers' gig I attended about a decade ago. Back when I was cool ‘n’ hip ‘n’ energized enough to actually go out in the evening and pay to watch live music being performed.

I was at the bar soaking up the pre-gig atmosphere, feeling a bit like I was too old (already) to be patronizing this kind of gig-going malarkey when my annoyance with my fellow gig-goers reached an all time high.

Now, you don’t need to know much about the Manic Street Preachers – just that that one of their songs (Design For Life) featured the refrain “We don’t talk about love / We only want to get drunk”.

It’s a painful, sorrowful protestation of working class chauvinism – an expression of the tragedy of men whose emotions have been stunted by class ethics and their upbringing. It’s a truly sad song.

And this synopsis is pretty evident from the lyrics, I think.

And yet.

And yet there were a little gang of meatheads at the bar – tanked up on cheap cider served in plastic tumblers – who were swaying arm-in-arm football terrace style singing the above lyrics like it was a glorious celebration.

“We don’t talk about love / We only want to get drunk!”

The sneer on my face held back an avalanche of bile. I didn’t order a drink. I turned around and left them to it. It spoiled the night for me. And the song. I can’t listen to it now without being reminded of the utter stupidity of those buffoons at the bar. So stupid that they couldn’t even see that they were the ones the tragedy of the song was addressing.

But maybe my problem is one of snobbery? I love words – poetry, lyrics, prose. I’m happy to analyse and mull it all over; make connections, be inspired. For me the words are easily as important – if not more important sometimes – than the music. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good tune, a beautiful melody. But I like it to mean something. I like the lyrics to speak to me, to connect with me.

Not everybody is like that. For some people the lyrics to a song are just a handy way to commit the tune to memory; a way to get a handle on the song’s internal timing so that it can be sung along to. A bit of nut and boltery. A few la-la-la’s strung together to augment the chord changes of the guitars or the synths. The last thing they want to do is to have to think about the issues the song might be exploring. To feel challenged and have their consciences prodded.

I guess everybody is different and I need to accept that. I need to stifle the grimaces when some idiot misinterprets, or worse, dismisses the lyrics of songs that I love. As long as my life is enriched why should I care about theirs? It’s not my responsibility.

But what about you? Do you like the lyrics to be pregnant with meaning or are you happy just be-bopping yourself into oblivion on the disco floor?

Confess. I promise not to judge.

Meme-ories Are Made Of This

I haven’t responded to a meme for a long time but today I’m making an exception by answering one sent to me by lovely Lucy Fishwife.

Basically I have to list 6 random things about myself – preferably things that you don’t already know – and then pass the meme on to 6 other lucky-lucky bloggers. While I think about who to infect with the meme disease here are 6 interesting (I hope) but little known facts about yours truly.

1) I’m a “published” poet. Kind of. I’ve had about 30 poems published over the years in various poetry journals and anthologies. Sadly I’ve never had a collection published or won any major poetry competitions which would have blasted my name before the addled sight of the UK literati. Out of the 30 published I was only ever properly paid for one: £10 for a poem called “Love” that was published in top-notch poetry mag The Rialto. I briefly considered framing the cheque but the law of economics took over and I cashed it.

2) I was at school for much of my younger life with fellow blogger Tris and we still maintain regular contact. He is quite simply and quite honestly my oldest friend. An initial acquaintance and then a friendship which dates back approximately 30 years. I’m very proud of this.

3) I had a childhood crush on Charlie’s Angels. All of them. But primarily it was Cheryl Ladd who floated my boyhood prepubescent boat. This is odd as she is blonde and with very few exceptions I go for brunettes. I have a wonderful wife (brunette) who thankfully feels unthreatened by this early blonde obsession and bought me the boxed set of Charlie’s Angels for my birthday last year. It’s crass, it’s dated, it’s so unbelievably 1970’s (even though it was filmed in the 80’s) but Cheryl Ladd has still got “it”. Though she has now been usurped in my affections by Keeley Hawes. Gotta move with the times, right? (Yes my search to find something previously unknown and interesting to say about myself is becoming desperate.)

4) One of my most vivid school memories is of the school playing field being covered in daddy-long-legs at the end of September / beginning of October (back when the seasons worked properly). One kid in a year below me made the mistake of charging towards the seething mass screaming out loud. One disoriented daddy-long-legs – evidently its bearings lost or fancying a kamikaze-style last act – promptly flew into the boy’s open mouth. Folks, it really is possible for a human being to turn bright green.

5) I have never in my entire life eaten steak. I don’t know why. I don’t have anything against red meat (though I’d hate to see my own going underneath Gordon Ramsay’s knife). I’ve just never ordered or desired a steak. Does this mean I am not a real man?

6) I used to write stories as a young boy where I was a superhero called Donny Osmond (look, I saw an Osmond cartoon once and it made an impression, OK?) and I had a gang of superhero friends who ranged (unsurprisingly) from the lovely ladies of Charlie’s Angels, the good guys from Star Wars, Logan and Jessica from Logan’s Run and for some weird reason Abba. I still have the stories – all hand written in little exercise books – beneath the bed. One memorable scene features my grandparents flying X-Wing fighters to blow up a humungous enemy star ship piloted by the evil Witchy Woo Hoo. It is my life’s ambition to make it available in all good books shops.


OK. Now for the tagging part. With apologies I’m tagging Tris, Inchy, Kaz, Brother Tobias, Kate and Amanda though please don’t feel you have to.

And lastly – the rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Write six random things about yourself
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

Good luck and God speed.

Faces Come Out Of The Rain

I thought I was writing in a void.

Well, not so much a void – more of an airport waiting room where only people from other towns and other countries ever passed through. The people in my blog list for example. Maybe a few pieces of stray luggage passing by as they desperately try to locate their owners. My wife on occasion when I nag her to read through what I’ve composed...

But nobody else.

But it seems I was wrong.

It seems that some of the people that I work with are reading this here very blog. They are taking my hastily scrawled words or irreverence and discussing them over their sandwiches in the staffroom.

And how do I know this?

My boss told me this morning.

You know that crash you heard? That was the sound of my jaw smashing clean through my mug of hot chocolate and an MDF table top. I now have blood, chocolate and teeth on my shoes.

I confess I didn’t quite know what to say. What went through my mind was: “How dare people I know read my blog – it’s only meant for friends that I haven’t actually met.”

The other thought was: “Shit, what the hell have I written about my boss?”

I’m a lot calmer now though. As the day has progressed my keel has gradually evened itself. C’est la vie.

And as the sun sets on this (in)auspicious day, the questions now are slightly different:

Am I the unofficial spokesperson for a disenfranchised and World Wide Web friendly workforce? Am I the übermensch and spiritual leader of a new breed of chat-room based cyber terrorists? Or am I merely a source of local misinformation for my work colleagues and fellow council officers?

I suspect – alas – the latter.

Ho hum. Infamy, infamy, they’ve got it in for me... what is an erstwhile propagandist to do (except keep tapping away)?

One last question though before I sign off:

Can I now continue to write in as free and easy a manner (hey, I might make it look easy but...) as I have done these last three wonderfully unrestrained years now knowing that people I have daily contact with are possibly reading my cyber meanderings and offering up opinions on them as they go about their normal work duties?

It’s a toughie.

I hope the answer will be yes. I hope I will adhere to the writer’s motto of: “I write what I like”. I’ve always been (I hope) circumspect and careful. So really it should be business as usual.

But, I admit, I do feel rather...

Strange.

Off The Cuff

I’m in a buoyant mood this afternoon.

Maybe it’s because I have the day off tomorrow.

Maybe it’s because the sun is shining and myself and my work colleagues spent an extended lunchbreak in the park eating ice cream – Flake 99’s no less – and pretended we were school kids once more bunking off for the afternoon. Though they (the Flake 99’s) cost considerably more than when I was a boy.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve managed some decent quality time on my novel this week (yes that old chestnut... I’m still writing it). A grand total of 125,262 words and still growing. I’m entering the final phase of the story now. The final third. It’s becoming something of a beast. Something I have to wrestle with and force to assume the submissive position beneath me each time I work on it. Who’s the daddy, eh? Who’s the daddy?

Er. Not sure if that analogy is entirely apposite. I mean, what I do with my Friday evenings is my business, right...? Ahem.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve booked a week off the end of May so that Mrs Bloggertropolis and I and our burgeoning little dynasty can head off into the glorious hills of Wales and partake of some much needed R&R time while the rest of the crazy rat-race we call life goes on without us.

Who knows?

Let’s just let the good times roll.

Backlog And Block

Words, words everywhere and not a word to write.

Or something like that.

I can't even come up with anything remotely clever or "literary" today.

It's been a frustrating week. I haven't been able to do as much writing as I would have liked. The blog has suffered. My novel has suffered. I feel stretched in far too many different directions. I suspect the main reason is I have an essay to write for University and it's hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. In itself it's not too onerous a task to accomplish. 4000 words is pretty meagre by my wordy standards. A couple of days and it'll be done.

However, we've got to come up with our own essay titles.

Sounds a wonderful opportunity doesn't it?

But I'll be blowed if I can come up with a title that doesn't sound limp, lame or just plain lobotomized. I know what I want to write about but I just can't bring it all together into a neat, academically satisfying little package.

Not a global disaster by any means but I'm one of those sadsacks who cannot relax until a set task is completed. I hate having something hanging over me. Absolutely loathe it. Karen on the other hand is happy to leave things to the very last minute. How do people do this? I almost envy her the ability.

Anyway. I feel like I just can't relax and write anything properly or with any kind of enjoyment until the essay is completed... and I'm stumbling at the first hurdle: the title. It doesn't bode well.

As for the picture of Keeley Hawes...

Well. Eye candy. A spoonful of sugar and all that.

Completely unjustified and all the sweeter for it. Enjoy.

Ketchup

This is going to be a very messy post I’m afraid.

I seem to have been all over the place of late, constantly trying to catch up on my life and not at all succeeding. I owe far too many people emails. I have little projects around the house which I’m no nearer to completing than I was over the Christmas break. My novel, although not at all falling by the wayside, is languishing slightly under the cold shoulder of relative neglect... I’m still plugging away at it but my progress has been slow over the last few weeks. I just haven’t been able to spend enough time getting back into it after the New Year hiatus. Not that it’s doing too badly: 102,100 words and counting... just counting extremely slowly.

I can’t deny it; my energy and inspiration levels have dropped significantly since the New Year.

I’m sure it’s just a seasonal thing but I do find under achievement very frustrating... even though the old plate is actually pretty full at the moment. Karen’s mum is still in hospital though Karen hasn’t visited her for a week or two due to illness – she and Tom and myself have all been afflicted with the post-Christmas lurgy that’s been doing the rounds. Plus Tom is having periodic bouts of teething and is currently recovering from the mother of all nappy rashes. None of which is conducive to sticking a baby into a car seat for 4 hours to drive up and down the country to visit someone who doesn’t even appreciate it.

Sorry. I was going to give the anger thing a rest.

University continues well though, even there, I can tell that I’m slowly reaching the end of my tether. Another 12 months and it’ll all be over and I’ll be indescribably glad. The constant outlay of money and energy is wearing me thin. Doing a part-time degree has been great in many respects – I certainly wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise – but 10 years slogging back and forth is way, way too much. I’m happy to commit to long-hauls but even I have a limit.

The web site business also continues apace. A constant background hum of extra work and toil sloshed onto my plate. It’s time consuming, tiring and frequently tedious but it does bring in much needed extra money. And God knows I need it – I’ve got Karen’s birthday fast approaching this month plus Valentine’s Day on top. My budget is as shot as a suicide bomber in Dimona. Sorry. Bad taste. But topical. And really I’m finding that difficult at the moment.

And TV at the moment – usually my hardy standby in terms of blog-worthy material – is ineffably flat. Sure there’s Torchwood and there’s Lark Rise To Cranford. And Ashes To Ashes starts this week... but it’s not impinging on me like it used to. I have no real enthusiasm for new stuff at the moment and it’s frightening. About the only thing that’s excited Karen and me with regards the telly is working out how to use the Catch Up TV feature on our Virgin box. But this just means we’re watching “old” stuff out of sync with the rest of the country. Lost in our own private TV schedule.

All in all I feel like some kind of weird psychological hibernation process is occurring in my brain. Like I’m not fully engaging with the world around me. Like I’m a record being played at the wrong speed. Mind you as long as it’s not Whitesnake I really shouldn’t complain too much.

Mainly though I’m just annoyed with myself. Annoyed because on the whole I have very little to complain about so why am I so full of moans? Other people are having a much rougher time. I’m just feeling a bit blurgh. And that hardly makes for a decent blog post.

Square One

The smell of stale disinfectant in the foyer, the glum faces of everybody I meet, the mouldy hum of my office computer all tell me that Christmas is well and truly over. I’m back at work. Back earning the crust that allows me to maintain my precarious chocolate and Lego lifestyle. Back up to my hips in leaky pipes, malfunctioning machinery and air conditioning that patently cannot or will not air condition.

And am I glad to be here? Am I f***.

I’m quite shocked at how easily I dropped all thought of work over the last 10 days. It was like it never existed. I let go of all thought of university too, my web design business, even my novel... and just wallowed in relaxation and pleasure. So easy.

And so difficult to pick it all up again this morning. Demotivated. Not a good way to start the New Year but, in a way, really quite traditional.

And I suppose it could be worse. Work has its down points certainly but it does have a few pluses too. Mainly that it allows me the time and (just) enough energy to do other creative things – like my novel and university for example; the things that keep me relatively sane when the conservators are sobbing on my shoulder about a painting that has been doused in rain water due to a leaky roof...

Normally this compromise is enough. Normally this molecularly precise balance between the good things in my life and the crud is enough to keep me on an even keel. Enough to keep me content and satisfied and functioning.

But after a long break where the crud has largely been expunged it’s hard to accept it back into my life again now that the holiday period has drawn to a close.

Why should I compromise? Why should I accept any of life’s drudgery and trash?

Because it pays the bills. It pays the bills. It pays the bills.

This is the New Year song that kick-starts every new year for every single one of us I’m sure.

And as for resolutions...

Well, I’m not a believer in compiling a foot long list of things that I know I will never accomplish.

Last year I seem to remember I kept things simple: start a novel.

I did and am now 96,000 words through it. Mission accomplished.

This year my resolution will be to finish the novel.

Mission accepted.

And in the background, the bills will all, every single one of them, get paid...

Yet Another Novel Update

After much discussion and speculation on the state of my novel in the previous post’s comments I hereby present to you, most fastidious reader, a crisp and newly composed excerpt...

The Book Of Ouroboros: Excerpt 2.doc

I’m now 84,000 words into the story and my initial estimate of 120,000 words to complete it now seem hopelessly optimistic. However, the plot is unfolding nicely and I’m happy with the overall progress... so I’m just going to run with the ball and see where it leads me.

Hope you all enjoy...

No Bean Monday

Do you ever have one of those days when nothing major goes wrong, nothing especially disastrous occurs but nevertheless the day is a mega crap one?

I had one yesterday.

I didn’t get half an hour to myself at work – there was always someone around wanting something or needing my attention. Nothing particularly difficult or traumatic but I just didn’t need or want any of it.

I also found it difficult to be creative despite feeling in a creative mood. It took me nearly 90 minutes to “get into” my novel and then I only produced a measly 600 words. OK. It’s not going to be the end the world but it’s frustrating.

And then there was lunchtime.

Lunchtime summed up the entire day. I decided to treat myself by going to Mr Spud, the local purveyor of that fine English traditional meal, the hot potato. A nice hot spud with a chilli con carne filling was just what I needed to cheer me up and break the malaise of misery that had laid its broad hands upon my shoulders.

Only when I get to be served I get the dregs from the chilli pot. Instead of starting a new pot the seller merely tipped up the sparse remains of the old and slopped it all over my spud. The result was I was the only spud purchaser that day whose chilli contained not one single kidney bean.

And I love kidney beans. For me they are the highlights of a chilli.

Some days, it seems, it’s plainly not worth the effort of getting out of bed...

Tag Team

Good day fellow bloggers; yours truly has been tagged good and proper by blogging buddy Old Cheeser and so I must most humbly submit myself to the task at hand.

The rules are simple (they could have been written for me):

First: post the following rules and a link to the person who tagged you.

Second: share seven interesting facts about yourself. The more amazingly interesting the better.

Third: tag seven people at the end of your post linking their names to their blogs and advising them of their tagged status via the comments facility on their own blogs.

Couldn't be easier. Except finding seven interesting facts about myself is going to be an absolute labour of Hercules...

1) One of my aunts is a distant relation of Audrey Hepburn. But sadly so distant that there is utterly no mileage in me trying to capitalize on the connection.

2) I have met Mel and Sue, Roger McGough and two members of Killing Joke. Mel and Sue I met at Weston-super-Mare train station: Mel was lovely and friendly, Sue was much cooler but still very polite. They made a point of not getting into the same carriage as me. Was it something I said? Roger McGough I met at a book signing - top bloke but he gave me a very weird look. Was it something I said? The KJ band members - Jaz Coleman and Paul Raven - I met during an amazing gig at the Birmingham Institute. Jaz shook my hand (his was very sweaty) and Paul Raven was wandering around brushing his teeth. He just gave me a weird look. Was it something I said...?!?

3) I am a secret Lego geek. I absolutely adore the stuff and am an avid collector. Sad eh? However, the way I look at it, there are worse addictions. I could be into crack, booze or gambling. Or, as Karen has just pointed out: I could be into football. I'm also keen to big up the fact that Lego is a lucrative investment as the models tend to increase in value as they get older.

4) When I was a toddler my mother tells me I used to regularly throw myself down the stairs (was it something she said?) without incurring a single injury. And then one day I fell down the bottom two steps and fractured my leg resulting in a few weeks in hospital. Why my family hadn't invested in a stairgate is still a mystery to me.

5) I started my as yet unrewarded writing career when I was about 7 years old after seeing Star Wars at the local cinema. Since then I have tinkered with stories and poetry with only the occasional year off here and there for bad behaviour. A veritable monster was created. Blame George Lucas.

6) A friend and I once snuck into the grounds of Guy's Cliffe - a local heritage site owned by the Masons and reputedly haunted by the ghost of lady Felice of Warwick who threw herself from one of the windows into the river below - and part-way round were confronted by a very spooky presence. I'm not joking for once either. We didn't actually see a manifestation but something unwelcoming was definitely there. I'm happy to report that we both turned tail and ran, wise poltroons that we were...

7) I have a phobia of moths. I can't stand them anywhere near me and I cannot relax if one gets into the house. Urgh. Horrible flaky, powdery things.

There you go - seven not so fab facts to ponder about yours truly.

And now I'm tagging Ally, Eve, Rol, Laura, Tris, Emily and Per.pri to do the same!

Think Of A Number

Quite why Johnny Ball is leaping about my subconscious this morning I don’t know – but he is and he’s waving his arms about manically and spouting lots of amazing stuff about numbers, equations and surface areas and doing his damnedest to make it all sound jolly and fun.

And it works.

I hated Maths at school. Absolutely loathed it. And I hated Physics even more. Our Physics teacher, Mr Prior, resembled a leather jumpsuit wearing troglodyte with a beard bushy enough to lose Ray Mears in and who demonstrably had a pathological hatred of all secondary school pupils. Especially wimpy secondary school pupils who had utterly no grasp of the manly science of Physics. What can I say? Mr Prior rode a huge eff-off motorbike to school everyday and regularly flirted with the svelte, cool-eyed French teacher (whose name escapes me but who looked like a female version of the keyboard player from Duran Duran) while I was a weedy bespectacled nerd who found numbers and pulleys and electrons all rather boring.

And yet I was totally addicted to Johnny Ball’s Maths/Physics based educational programmes.

The man was mesmeric. A little bit insane yes but he managed to make Maths exciting and even appealing. His enthusiasm was infectious. Even a numberphobe like me found himself swept along by Johnny’s unbounded zeal for number patterns and intricate gear systems. I think Johnny’s trick was not his intelligence in his chosen subject – formidable though it was – but his ability to communicate and transfer his own passion for the subject into the hearts and minds of his viewers.

If Johnny Ball had been my teacher at school I’d be an award winning physicist by now or even better I’d have had my cherry taken by the unnamed French teacher above. Instead I’m a disgruntled civil servant who writes novels and poetry in his spare time and whose cherry wasn’t offloaded until he was nearly 30.

I kid you not.

Hmm. But maybe that’s sharing a little bit too much information?

I’m sure Johnny Ball would be able to plot an entertaining graph mapping out my divergence from manly science stuff and my headlong dive into the world of literature and not pulling anything but a cracker for three whole decades... but as he isn’t here you’ll have to make do with this 'ere blog.

In the meantime my unanswered question is this: whatever happened to Johnny Ball?

Attacked

I must admit to feeling quite upset this morning.

God knows we all receive negative comments every now and then and most of the time I hope that when they come my way I take them on the chin when they're deserved and give as good as I get when I think they're not.

This morning, however, I awoke to some comments on my blog which felt like personal attacks. I didn't publish them as they were from the ever misanthropic anonymous: although one did have the startling nom de plume "a web designer" it was fairly obvious they were all from the same person.

Basically the web sites I design are "bad" and my writing it seems isn't up to much cop either. It seems also that I'm not funny, though in brackets Mr Anon was keen to point out that I myself obviously think that I am.

I'm still wondering if I made the right decision by not publishing them - maybe I should have let you all read them too? As it was I decided to stick to my guns: no anonymous posts get published on my blog. Plus I didn't want to resurrect the upset they engendered in me every time I re-read them. I don't need that kind of crap in my life... so click. They're gone.

Part of me suspects they were a personal attack from someone who knows me. Part of me wonders if maybe I'm just hoping that's true so that it in someway invalidates what they said.

Anyway, a healthy stint in the garden - lawn mowing and the like - has righted my keel a little more now but that cloud of upset remains over me.

Maybe my web sites are bad? Certainly I acknowledge that they cannot compete with stuff you'd have designed for you by a huge company: I work alone and my knowledge base is therefore tiny in comparison. However, this is reflected in the prices I charge and I believe they are more than fair. Whatever, once the price has been agreed between me and the client that is the end of it. I deserve to get paid when the work is done. And I believe I have a perfect right to complain when this doesn't happen (the insinuation was that I had no right to the complaints detailed in the previous post).

And maybe my writing is bad too? That's a difficult one to answer. I can after all only write as I do. And I'm glad (arrogant maybe) to say that I've had far more people offer praise than criticism - though the latter I am always hungry for when it is constructive and helpful. Comments that I am "lame" and "not funny" aren't really helpful at the end of day. That's a subjective response. Sure you're entitled to feel that way Mr Anon but rather than leave a snide comment about it why don't you take your reading abilities elsewhere?

Ultimately Mr Anon, I wonder what the point of your comments were. To cause upset? To make yourself feel superior for a moment or two? Hey I can sympathise. I'm sure I'm guilty of such things myself some of the time. We all are.

Just don't do it on my blog. This is a forum for me to expunge my dirt. Not yours. And I believe that here I can write whatever the hell I like...

A Poetic Interlude

It’s been a long while since I’ve posted any poetry on this blog but blog buddy Janete has reminded me that actually, getting poetry “out there” into the big wide world is a good thing and to be encouraged.

So, to change the pace somewhat, here is a small offering from my extensive back catalogue of angst and metaphor.


Sheffield, December 2003

In hoar wind trees lag dirty:
white filings pinch northward as iron
but grow grey and blunt
in the furnace slump of the factories.

The air sounds detonated –
the lung aftershock pressing down, pursed
and cursive, a spent
cartridge. The streets are baptized in it and

limed with the sign of the cross.
Trams belch black looking shoppers like grapeshot
but none hit their mark.
Fag ends blow red grit across department store windows,

the displays lost behind
a welding shower of tracer bullets.
The pavements bolt beneath
the rapid cannon fire of pork shops and pound shops

and job shops.

Christmas growls and sprints once from the rubble
to be dourly gunned down by the masses.

Another Excerpt

I seem to recall promising to post another excerpt from my novel a short while ago. A "short while" that has stretched into rather a long one due to flooding problems at work and my recent holiday in Cornwall!

Anyway, here for your delectation and serrated critical faculties - finally - is an excerpt from Chapter 9...

Book 101: Excerpt.

Apologies for posting it as a Word doc download but 9 times out of 10 I post to my blog from work (shhhh!) and I'd never get this excerpt passed the sensors if it was posted as html.

As always, thank you to all those who take the trouble to read it, it's much appreciated.

Shameless Plug

In an example of totally shameless plugging I hearby present an excerpt from the current home page of my personal web site, Pocketropolis:

So there I am walking along the main shopping thoroughfare of my own home town when suddenly the crowds part like some sort of Biblical miracle (the parting of the chav sea) and with an awful demonic whirr a shape both diabolical and familiar approaches my terrified form at a speed which must surely induce immediate suffocation in its rider. Amid the red and chrome glint of this monstrous beast I perceive a weapon of perverse shape and engineering aimed inexplicably at my quivering heart. I have a split second to dive out of the way and with the adrenalin still pounding in my ears I hit the carpet of the Pound Shop to my left as this pavement behemoth trundles blindly passed without even a by-your-leave or a thank you. As I pick myself up and wander dazedly back out into the sunlight I watch as other poor pedestrians are likewise terrorized by this path hog. Not content with owning a mobility scooter built like a Chieftain Tank, it’s driver has also seen fit to attach a pair of crutches to it in such a way that the vehicle is now equipped with a pair of state-of-the-art lances. I strongly suspect that this scooter also had full mine laying capacity and side mounted scud missile launchers beneath the seat but due to the speed of its acceleration I really can’t say for certain...

The rest of the article can be read via Pocketropolis.com or Pocketropolis.co.uk.

Thank you for your kind attention.

Another Novel Update

It occurred to me this morning that I haven't supplied my dear readers with a novel update for a while and people are possibly wondering if the damn thing is still in progress or lying gathering electro-magnetic dust on a hard-drive somewhere.

Well the good news is that it is still very much a work in progress. I'm chugging away at it steadily and am currently up to Chapter 8 - a grand total of 45,116 words to date.

Here, for your dubious delectation, is an extract from Chapter 6:


When I open my eyes the light has changed. The sky is the colour of luminous iron and the car has filled with the tips of long shadows. A blue light pulses somewhere from the back of my head. My eyes are blurry and sting when I rub them. I grimace as the smell of the car comes back to me. Caustic and bitter with an unpleasant twist of organic rot. I breathe in carefully through my mouth trying to bypass my nose. It’s getting dark outside. How long have I been here? I check my watch. 6.30. Christ. Cass will be home and wondering where the hell I am.

Next to me Trevor is unconscious in the driver’s seat. His head is tipped back onto the headrest and his mouth is wide open and loose looking, slightly moist around the edges. He reminds me of a drooling dog. I reach out and shake his shoulder. I’m groggy and move without any finesse. Trevor’s head jolts violently as I rattle his shoulders.

“Trevor. Trevor, it’s late. I’ve got to go.” My voice comes out in a dry rasp. I sound like I’ve spent the afternoon smoking weed. “Trevor!”

“What? What?” Trevor opens his eyes and regards me balefully. His eyes are bloodshot and red around the edges like an albino. He peers at me and frowns. It takes him a second or two to recognize me. “Mike...?” He peers in closer and then sighs. His breath smells like old mould. “Yes...” He nods. “Mike.” He looks exhausted. In the half light I can make out beads of sweat on his forehead and his hair darkened down with moisture. He rubs his face with one hand while the other remains on the book lying across his legs. It looks like a huge chunk of freshly quarried Yorkstone and Trevor a pre-Restoration peasant crushed to death for witchcraft.

“Trevor, I have to go – it’s late.” My head is spinning. How has it got so late? Where has the entire afternoon disappeared to?

Trevor nods vaguely but I see a sharpness returning to his eyes as he regards me. “Yes. Yes, of course. You may go, Mike. I’ll call in on you again soon. You’ll have the proof you need. We can discuss terms later.” He waves me off like a lord releasing a servant but I’m too out of sorts to react to it. “You go, Mike. Get yourself home. You can walk from here, I’m sure.” His head lolls back onto the headrest and I hear his breath hiss unpleasantly in and out of his throat.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just leave things for now, shall we?” I turn away from him, eager to be out of his presence, and reach for the door handle. I feel like a drunkard. It takes me three attempts to get the car door open and when I haul myself out I have to cling to the roof of the mini to stop myself dropping straight down onto the tarmac. My breath steams cloud patterns onto the metal roof as I labour to get air into my lungs and blood into my legs. I couldn’t feel worse if I’d sat through a long haul flight to Australia.

I stamp the blood into my feet and make an attempt to let go off the car roof. I wobble precariously for a few seconds but I don’t fall. That’s good enough for me; I’m desperate to be away. God knows what’ll be going through Cassie’s mind. I push the car door closed and without a look backwards push myself off. I aim roughly for the pavement and just about make it, my feet nudging each other like a pair of dodgems. Another drunk wending his way home. Up ahead of me, on the other side of the street, I spot an ambulance and the green and yellow uniforms of paramedics kneeling on the ground. The cold air on my face is wonderfully revitalising and I pause for a minute to suck it deep into my lungs. I feel cleansed by it and inexplicably healed. Slowly I feel the dull pressure of a gross headache lift from off the top of my skull and disappear up into the darkening ether. It’s like having a rotting mask removed by a crane. By the time I walk parallel with the ambulance I feel almost back to normal, just the running panic of being unbelievably late and the distant instinct of approaching trouble because of it.

As I glance over to the other side of the road the crowd of onlookers part briefly and I spot the tramp from earlier this afternoon lying on his back on the pavement. His limbs are strangely twisted as if he’d thrashed violently around him as he fell. Even in the dulling light I can see the whites of his eyes glisten flatly like clammy mushrooms. One of the paramedics is calling a report through on his radio but nobody seems to be in a rush to get him on board. I take that to be a very bad sign. I shake my head dourly but without any sense of true feeling. So long, Fagin... I don’t let it touch me. I’m comfortably numb. Insulated by the after effects of some kind of inebriation. Instead I push onwards through the evening light and navigate the familiar strangeness of the streets, my heart pulsing covetously. Heading home.

Novel Preview

Ooh scary.

My blog buddy, Old Cheeser, has suggested that I preview an excerpt from my novel-in-progress right here on this very blog for everybody to read and laugh at / pull to pieces / plagiarise.

I don’t usually show people my work until it’s completed so this is quite a departure for me, however, with such a big writing project I can see the benefit of gathering as much feedback as possible.

So. Here for your delight and edification is a small excerpt:

Background: Mike has been mugged and suffered a severe head injury as a consequence. He is recovering in hospital. He has recently experienced a very weird episode which he is convinced is real but everyone else is putting down to epilepsy as a result of his head injuries. Mike refuses to accept this and has recently fallen out with his girlfriend, Cassie, about it...


“Here. I got you some juice.”

Cassie holds the plastic cup out to me but withholds it just enough that I have to reach out for it. I guess she’s seeing if I’m prepared to cover some of the distance myself or continue acting like an arsehole. Her eyes are downcast, looking only at the cup with an intensity that suggests she’s certain it will spill if she risks a sideways glance somewhere else. It’s quite convincing if you’re a stranger but I know her better than that.

I gently touch her fingers with my own as I take the cup, leaving them there a second longer than necessary. As always I’m amazed at how cool and soft they feel and how much information the touch seems to communicate to me... nothing I could put into words but an instinct of something known and knowing. I see her look up immediately and make eye contact. She smiles. Small and soft like her fingers but it’s there. Her eyes still look hurt though. The blue of her pupils looks flattened out somehow. And bruised. Christ, did I do that?

“Cass. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I just...” I shake my head. I feel strikingly tearful which in turn makes me feel thoroughly pathetic and miserable. It must be all the drugs they’re pumping into me. I don’t usually get this emotional. I take a few deep breaths to steady the wobble in my throat. I haven’t been as snivelly as this since I was a young kid apologizing to my mother for riding my bike on the pavement and knocking Mrs Stamford over. I was very definitely in the wrong that time too. I take a sip of juice. It’s horribly bland but this isn’t the right time to voice a complaint. I catch her eye. She’s looking at me expectantly but there’s no sign of any concealed malignancy or stored-up fury in her countenance. That’s something I suppose. And more than I deserve.

I begin again. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You’re the last person I’d want to do that to. I just...” I wave my hand about in the air as if I could catch sift what it is I want to say from out of the dust motes. “It’s just the idea of...” My tongue buckles in my mouth. I can’t even say it. As apologies go it’s not going to win any awards for eloquence. I feel the soft burn of tears at my eyes yet again and have to break off. I give Cassie a helpless look before dropping my head and staring into my own lap. I shake my head. “What a great apology.”

Cassie’s hand moving through my hair, stroking my head and the side of my face make me look up. “I’ve had worse.” She steps nearer and her other hand pulls my head towards her breasts. I reach out and grip her around the waist, hugging her close to me. I can feel her chin resting gently on the top of my head and the warmth of her breath ruffling my hair. She’s shaking in my grip and I let her cry. Knowing Cass she’s been holding it all in since I was first admitted into the hospital. It’s weird but Cassie crying gives me the strength to get my head back together. It’s not a vampiric thing, more a reaction to her display of vulnerability: my response is to be the strong one and protect her. It’s nice to know that all my caveman genomes are responding normally.

Having my face crushed so closely against her breasts gives me an instant hard-on too. I can smell her perfume – Opium – and a vague scent of washing powder from her blouse and behind it all the unmistakable scent of Cassie: healthy sweat, hormones and emotion. I feel undeniably horny. Mr Caveman is definitely alive and well. It might be a pathetic and disappointingly male concept to cling to but that single reaction alone makes me feel more hopeful than I have done in days. So why I’m now crying is beyond me. A few short sobs and I’m done. It’s as if my awareness of crying removes the ability. I guess the analytical part of my mind is stronger than the emotional.

Two kisses on top of my head and Cassie gently breaks the hold. She steps back slightly and daylight and cool air suddenly sting my face. I feel cleaner for it. I hold her hands and we stay that way for a while, getting our bearings, not speaking.

After a while though I’m overtaken with the need to talk again. To voice my fears. I shake my head by way of a preamble. “I just can’t bear the thought of...” I still can’t say it and close my mouth over the sudden knot in my throat.

“Epilepsy.” Cassie says it for me. Quietly. Confidently. Her tone gives the word a neutral pH. Imbues it with soft pastel blues. Makes it seem like a soft puppy that just needs housetraining. See. Doesn’t seem so bad when it’s out in the open and named. Except it does and it is.

I speak slowly, taking care not to allow the fear and panic I feel lace my words with aggressive hysteria. “Cassie, I am absolutely certain that what I experienced was not an epileptic fit.” I squeeze her hands as if to emphasize what I’m saying. “I was conscious right up to the last few moments. Trevor and I had sat and talked quite calmly for several minutes before he lost it. I had trouble breathing. I had a blinding headache. I panicked. I blacked out.” Cassie opens her mouth to speak but I place a finger gently upon her lips. “Some sort of weird episode I accept. But it wasn’t epilepsy. And whatever it was, was brought on by being freaked out by Trevor.”

Cassie looks pained. I can tell from her face that she’s caught up in some sort of internal conflict. For all that Cassie is strong and fiercely independent in most areas of her life she’s nevertheless one of those people who’ll blindly accept the advice and judgment of a medical expert or doctor even if it flies in the face of her own cast-iron convictions. Mind you, I’m probably being very unfair. I’m not exactly giving her much to go on. I had a weird episode but not an epileptic fit; please believe me even though whatever sense I was born with has been punched out of me... I gaze steadily into her eyes but try not to make it too invasive, willing her to at least allow me the barest chance of being right.

At last she nods and gives me a watery smile. Again I feel like I’m being humoured more than believed but again I’m happy to settle for it. At least for the time being anyway. It buys me some time to try and figure out exactly what did happen. I sigh loudly and give a little shudder. I don’t know why but each time I think about Trevor’s visit I feel more afraid than any thought of epilepsy could possibly make me.

“We’re just so worried about you, Mike.” Cassie voice, so close to me, brings my attention back to her face. Her skin is blotchy and pale – a sign she’s not slept properly in days – but she still looks beautiful and vital.

I pull her closer still and wrap my arms around her waist. “Am I really that fragile?” It feels good to have her this close and captive. I can smell the warmth of her skin and the moisture it contains. The familiar pulses of arousal return once more.

“You didn’t see yourself when they brought you in, Mike. Your face was messed up so badly. There was so much blood.” Cassie closes her eyes, whether to remember more clearly or not to remember at all, I can’t tell. “And then you were unconscious for days. Out cold. And even after that you were only half there. With all the drugs and your injuries you were asleep most of the time. All I had to go on each time I came to see you was your face and at first it just wasn’t yours. It was so swollen and...” She struggles for the right word. “Alien. Not you.” She shakes her head as if to throw off a bad dream.

“You should have seen the other guy.” It’s a feeble joke but even so I’m surprised by Cassie’s reaction. Her shoulders stiffen and her face whitens even more. She looks worried. Sick even. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I rub a hand up and down her back to try and calm her down. I’m shocked by how much she’s trembling. I pull her into a hug and rest the side of my head next to hers. The intimacy is comforting and makes me almost feel normal. Cassie puts her arms around my neck and grips me fiercely. It’s like she’s hanging off a cliff. “Cass? Cass? What did happen? Everybody’s been so cagey about it all – even the police. Nobody will talk to me about it.”

I feel Cassie shake her head again and from her breathing I can tell she’s crying silently over my shoulder. I stroke her back some more and gently kiss her neck. “Hey, come on, it can’t be all that bad. Look, I promise not to have another funny turn.” Another feeble joke. In a crisis I’m full of them.

When Cassie’s voice comes it’s shaky and ragged and barely above a whisper. “It was horrible, Mike. They brought him in at the same time as you. Only he was dead.” I feel myself gasp feeling oddly detached from my reaction; like it’s another person experiencing it. I’m glad that I’m not only holding onto Cassie but also sitting down on my bed. My legs feel like they’ve turned to water.

“Dead? Christ. I had no idea.” In my mind I go over what I can remember of the attack. A montage of badly dubbed images and snapshots flicker before me but nothing I can get a firm grip on. I lick my lips before speaking; they’ve gone suddenly very dry. “To tell you the truth I can’t really recall anything much about what happened. I saw blood. I think.” I shake my head. “It all happened too fast.”

A loud sob from Cassie makes me refocus on the present and I squeeze her tightly to me, at a loss as to what else I can do. A typical guy, I want to find something to say to her to fix the unfixable but, of course, there isn’t anything. I just let her cry and hold her close.

“He had your name, Mike. He had your name.” Cassie bites off another sob and breathes in hoarsely. “Your name exactly. The police thought it was a joke. When I arrived I didn’t know which one was...”

More sobs rack her and her whole body seems to dissolve into a mass of trembling and convulsive shakes. All I can think of to say is, "Oh God."

Just Get On With It, Man!

I can’t believe how much vacillation I have entered into with regards my novel. I still haven’t begun writing the damn thing. Admittedly over-working and a dose of the seasonal flu bug that’s been going around has horse-whipped any kind of enthusiasm for extra curricula activity clean out of me... but even so, this is hesitancy on a historically humungous scale.

My current dilemma is: third person or not third person? First person has an immediacy that I like – plus all that juicy introspection – but another part of me favours third person to gain that delicious sense of omniscience... even though part of me feels it’s a trifle trad.

This debate of course is just a cover for the dark mire of nail-biting fear that is really lying at the heart of my current delay...

It’s time to put a metaphorical gun to my own head. Do it... or the bunny gets it!

The Über Novel

At long last, after literally years of harping on and on about my desire to write a novel I’m finally in a position to start one.

I have an idea. It’s workable. I’ve lived with it for a while and my intelligent and stylish wife has picked it to pieces, scanned it for logic holes and generally bullied it into tip-top shape like a hard-nosed training officer in the United Stated army (only without the muscular moustache and the baguette sized cigar).

I have the technical ability. Well, at least I think I do. I’ve been scoring quite a few successes with my writing over the last few years – it’s about time I put my skills to a bigger test and made the dream real.

I have the stamina. Yes really I do. I consistently write a thousand words a day – usually for this here blog - and regularly write for my own web site, Pocketropolis. Why not siphon off some of that verbiage into a more lasting project? Go on, my son, you can do it!

I have the motivation. God anything that offers me a possible escape route from my boring, soul destroying job will be grabbed with both hands I can tell you. The Foreign Legion and Al Qaeda were all viable options at one point. I even considered Big Brother for a while... Well. Actually, no. I didn’t. That’s a lie. Things have never been that bad.

I have the power. He-Man stylee. The planets are all correctly aligned. The Death Star plans are on board. I’m perched on the edge of Mount Doom with the One Ring in my hands.

So why instead of starting today – right now – have I again typically distracted myself by composing yet another blog entry?