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Chapter 7

2005-11-08T23:56:00.000Z

Amy was too nervous to eat. As soon as the morning training session ends she hurried from the room and rushed to get out of the building. The huddled smokers around the back door parted as she burst through the doors. Only when she was through the gate and off the premises did she slacken her pace: dare to breathe.

The letter had dropped on the mat as she was gathering Jess up to take to the nursery. Jess was still enthralled by the plastic princess that came with the Happy Meal, and held it out for mummy to look at, which was not what Amy needed at that moment as she struggled to get Jess’ arms into the sleeves of the anorak. Jess wriggled and fought back, and Amy was on the point of loosing her temper when the post came.

At the time she didn’t notice the letter. Simply thrust the bundle into her bag, and pulled Jess out of the door and into the car. Only when she got to work, and found that she had an extra ten minutes more than she thought, did she open it. It was clearly official, and when she saw the headed paper bearing the name of Noble and Plunkett solicitors she was more puzzled than alarmed. Only when she unfolded it did she realise the enormity of what was contained within.

All morning she had tried to block the thoughts from her mind, to remain professional and focussed on the training, but all the while she could feel the guilt nibbling at the back of her mind. Of course the whole situation was entirely of her own making. But, no sooner had she started thinking this than she began hating herself for being so weak. Not that the current situation was made to enervate anyone.

She had two options.

And in an effort to avoid either, she found herself in a card shop looking at novelty mugs. The plan had been to by Jess something as a treat, but nothing in the tacky row of stuffed toys appealed, and she couldn’t find a card that suited the mood. And the reality was that this was just another piece of pointless displacement activity: a practice that she was becoming expert in.

She had plenty of opportunities to deal with this. There was the incident in Ibiza when Cliff had got drunk and argumentative and she had locked him out the apartment. That was supposed to be the end of things, but then he had talked his way into the next-door apartment and clambered over the balcony. And then they had a row, and as per usual he had used a mixture of blackmail and physical presence to make her back down. Which had always been the way things had happened between them. And he was especially effective at this when she fell pregnant.

It was his changeable nature that she disliked the most. Some days he was the most loving man that a woman could ever wish for, and then the next he was distant and moody. But, then this was as much to do with the nature of the job. The public are not the easiest people to deal with, especially when you have a bullying nature: like Cliff.

Her eye was draw by the stare of the assistant. Amy turned away from the novelty mugs, and flicked through a stand of ‘Happy Birthday Grandma’ cards. Before slipping out of the shop and back into the flow of office workers rushing on errands in the dinner hour.

The queue for Gregs was back out of the door. Amy joined it, and stood behind a couple of teenagers discussing the forthcoming weekend. The line shuffled forward, past the sandwiches and drinks. But Amy was in need of a sugar rush, the kind of thrill that can only be provided by a four pack of raspberry donuts.

What annoyed her was not that she had been deceitful: which of course she had. But it was more of a sin of omission.

They had been together for six years: living together for four. In all that time Cliff had never had a clue or even asked about contraception. To him it was a matter that was purely down to the woman. The only time he had shown the slightest interest was in the early days when Amy had told him that she was on the pill and was worried that it might lead to a thrombosis, to which he replied that not having to use a condom would more than make up for that.

And she didn’t blame him entirely. They were both working shifts, and Cliff was working all the overtime that came his way to pay for luxuries.

She wiped a trail of jam from her chin as she turned into the High Street. A number of the women scurrying by looking on enviously as took the third donut from the clear plastic tray.

What struck her most was the fact that she had never had to lie. From the moment she told Cliff that she was pregnant he had assumed it was his. It never occurred to him that he was away with the rugby club in Dublin on a Stag Night on the weekend of her fertile weekend. Not that she would have expected him to even know this fact. Because the truth was that as far as she could recall she was still telling him that she was taking the pill.

The receptionist in the solicitors took some details but understood that Amy didn’t want to give her the details. She didn’t have to wait long. A legal secretary appeared and ushered Amy into a side room.

“I received this letter this morning. It’s from my…. ex-boyfriend’s solicitors. He is applying for custody of our…. my daughter.”

“I see. Could I take a copy of the letter? All the solicitors are busy at the moment, but if I could take the details, we will be able to arrange an appointment.”

“Of course. This is all rather embarrassing.”

The secretary smiled, a warm smile, “this is entirely confidential.”

“It doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. The thing is, Jess, that’s my daughter: isn’t his child.”

“Has there been a paternity test?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to take one?”

“Yes. Ummmm…. I suppose that is why I am here. You see he, Cliff, has moved in with another woman and my circumstances are not ideal. And the Lord knows the money he has been sending us has come in handy.”

“How long have you be separated?”

“It’s about eight months. I’ve only just moved up here, about a month ago. I had to leave my job: I was a policewoman. And, Jess’ father was someone who worked at the station.”

“Are you sure you who the father is?”

“I didn’t sleep around if that is what you are asking.”

“I didn’t mean that. What I meant was, If you go for the paternity test then you may be opening up a bigger can of worms. For instance the biological father might wish access, or it could affect any benefits that you may be entitled to.”

“I’ve thought of that. I was wondering if it would just be possible to prove that Cliff is not the father. I’m not doing this for the money. I just want to make sure that I keep my daughter.”

“Well, as I say, the solicitor will be able to advise you. Though I should point out that he may wish to know the identity of the biological father.”

“I understand.”

“Ok, I’ll arrange an appointment for you. Is there any day that would be best for you?”

As she left Amy felt a huge weight lifted from her mind.

Chapter 6

2005-11-08T13:44:00.000Z

David picked at the turkey curry. Outside the sun was shining briefly through the scudding grey clouds. Conversations whirled around him in the cafeteria but each time he caught another diner’s eye, the feeling of being an outsider only increased.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

David looked up and saw Sean standing at the end of the table with a tray in hand. “No, no,” said David, making a slight gesture with his right hand of welcome. “I was just sitting here feeling like the new boy.”

Sean slid into the seat opposite David, “yeah, I know what you mean. They are not the friendliest of people who work here. I asked a woman on the third floor the way to the toilets but she just ignored me. How are you finding the training?”

“Boring.”

“It’s all pretty straight forward for you I guess: with your background.”

“It doesn’t make it any less boring. To be honest, I am wondering if I have made the right career move taking on this job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well between you and me this company doesn’t have a very good reputation. And there is gossip that it might go under.”

“Really?”

“It’s only gossip,” said David again, “it’s just something that my old boss told me when I handed in my notice.”

“He was probably only saying it to try and get you to stay.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh no,” said Sean, looking up and seeing the approaching figure of Chaz.

David looked over his shoulder but by that time Chaz had reached the table, “shift up,” he said with his usual bravado, and he sat down beside David. Chaz noticed the look on Sean’s face and said, “have I disturbed something?”

“Not at all,” said Sean quickly.

“Have you seen Amy?” asked David.

“I think she’s gone into town. You know what women are like, they are always on one urgent mission or another.” Chaz laughed at this, but as no one else did, he changed tack and fixed Sean with a questioning stare, “did you sort things out?”

Sean winced, “yes thanks.”

“She weren’t a bad looking girl. I wouldn’t have had her down as your type: maybe a work colleague but not a fiancée.”

“Have I missed something?” asked David.

“I’m not sure,” said Chaz, “I saw young Sean here, last night, with his lady friend. Why did you shoot off so quick?”

“I….. er….. it was all a bit awkward.”

“What was?”

“I don’t know. You know how these things are sometimes.”

“And there was me thinking that you were spying on Mrs Wade. You have no idea how suspicious her husband is. Do you know him? He’s the boss of Wage’s Glass. Oh, he’s loaded. But, he is also very suspicious. For some reason he is under the impression that his beautiful wife is having an affair: can you believe that? By the way, didn’t you say you used to work for a private detective agency?”

“I used to.”

Chaz forked a pile of chips and stuffed them into his mouth. “Only, I thought I read something in the contract that we were not allowed to have over jobs.”

“I doubt they take that too seriously,” commented David.

Chaz raised an eyebrow; “I would have thought it crucial. After all, the last thing this company needs is to be compromised by a conflict of interest. I mean supposing that Wade’s Glass was mysteriously to burn down and old Mr Wade were to make a dodgy insurance claim. It might get a bit tricky if one knew that his wife was having an affair because you had been moonlighting.”

“Or if you were having an affair with her?”

“Sean, Sean, Sean: you have a suspicious mind. Oh wait! Are you suggesting that I might be having extra marital pleasures with the beautiful Mrs Wade?”

“It’s really none of my business.”

“Really?”

“Yes really.”

“Then your fiancée wasn’t taking illicit pictures on her mobile phone?”

“Would someone like to explain what you two are talking about?” asked David.

“It’s nothing,” said Sean, his shoulders rising around his ears as he tried to make himself invisible.

“We just bumped into each other last night. And for some reason I got the impression that I was being spied upon.”

“I was there with my fiancée, I told you, and we went for a quiet drink to discuss the plans for the wedding.”

“That’s alright then.”

“Fine.”

“It must have been quite a row you had.”

“We didn’t have a row. I just didn’t want to stay in such a grubby pub.”

“I meant, for you to be late into work.”

“You’ve got your answer, so can we just change the subject.”

Chapter 5

2005-11-06T21:40:00.000Z

The next morning Sean was late. In answer to Les’ questions Chaz dropped some heavy hints, along the lines of “I think he’s got woman trouble,” or “probably still drunk from last night.” But, he refused to be drawn further and dismissed his own comments as a joke. When Sean did appear nearly an hour later he was most apologetic and said that he had been forced to go home again because he had left the grill on and worried that there would be a fire. Chaz let out a loud laugh, Les told him to take a seat and the matter was forgotten.

“Right, as we are all here,” began Les, taking a pile of printed papers from his briefcase, “I thought we would take a break from the mundane business of the principles of insurance and take a look at an actual case.”

“Oh good,” said Chaz, turning to wink at Sean.

“This is a case that I worked on, and I use it to demonstrate the way in which one thing often leads to another, and that until all the facts are none, that you should not jump to a conclusion and prematurely close the case. The first sheet I am handing around is an example of the information that we receive from the insurance company. As we have David, I thought it would be useful to the rest of you to understand the way in which a case comes together.”

“Me?” asked David, looking alarmed.

“Yes. I wanted to give the others some perspective as to how the process begins. And the starting point for all our work is the claims handler.”

“Well,” sighed David, unsure of exactly where to begin. “The very basics is that every claims handler has a list of indicators that they should look out for, These are pretty standard stuff really: if the policy has only recently been taken out, or the insured has a history of frequently changing insurers, or even if they live in a high risk insurance postcode. But it can also be things about the manner of the client. For instance if they are pushing for a fast settlement, or appear to have an intimate knowledge of the insurance policy.”

“And why would that last point be an indicator of fraud?”

“Because sometimes a client will alter the circumstances to make the claim valid, when if they revealed the actual circumstances it would make the insurance invalid. An example would be that in certain policies, a theft from a car is only covered if the belongings were in the boot or the glove compartment. I remember a case in which a customer tried to claim for cigarettes and CDs that were stolen from a car, and they claimed that as a matter of routine they took such items out of the body of the car and stowed them in the boot, but we were able to show that this was not the case: and because they had made a false claim it made the entire claim invalid.”

“Exactly, thank you David. And the other thing you have to think about is that the claims handler has on average around three minutes to deal with each call, and therefore these decisions are really only snap judgements: or a question of intuition. Now by the time the case is referred to us there will have been more digging into the claim but don’t think that they will have got to the bottom of the matter. Ok, I’ll give you a few minutes to read through the instructions and then we can chat about where you would start.”

Les turned his back on the group and busied himself with the over-head projector. The class read the brief.

“Ok, as you can see,” said Les, breaking the silence, “it is our old friend Asian jewellery. Right, let’s look at the details of the case. In a burglary, forty-eight thousand pounds of jewellery is taken from a house in Stretham South London. The insured is a married couple, he is a businessman who lists his business as import and export, she is a housewife. They have one child, aged twelve. The police were called shortly after the break-in was discovered, and report that a back window was forced to gain entry, but there are no witnesses. Who would like to start?”

“What is the husband importing?” asked Amy.

“Excellent question. How are we going to find that out?”

“You could speak to the insurance company,” suggested Sean.

“What is wrong with that?” asked Les.

“If the insurance company knew it would be included in the notes,” stated David.

“Exactly,” said Les, empathically, “look at the dates. The claim was originally made in June 1998. The insurance company have been negotiating with a loss adjuster and the client for nearly two years, and in that time it was impossible to establish the exact nature of the insured business dealings.”

“Then he’s got something to hide,” said Chaz.

“Perhaps? But without evidence you may not make that conclusion. There might be a number of perfectly legitimate reasons why the insured has not disclosed that information. For instance he might have been out of work and his listed occupation is import and export, and therefore he is entitled to be considered as in such a business. Is there anything else that strikes you?”

“There were no witnesses to the burglary, and it would seem that it was not immediately reported to the police,” said Amy.

“Precisely. The client discovered the theft of a large amount of jewellery, and did not immediately report it to the police. In fact, and this is not covered in the report, the police were not called for some three hours.”

“Dodgy,” commented Chaz.

“What does that suggest to you?”

“That there wasn’t a break in,” said David.

“What makes you think that?”

“I was thinking back to what we were talking about. The policy might have included a clause that there would be no pay out unless there was a break in. And I was thinking that perhaps they used the time between the discovery and the call to the police to fake the signs of a break in through the back window.”

“Oh you have a suspicious mind,” said Chaz.

“That may be so, but these are things that you should be asking yourself. Go on David.”

“I would want to know what the child was doing. For instance if it was left in the house on it’s own, or if they had friends around. Because apart from anything else, there is no mention of anything else being taken, which suggests that if this were a burglary then the burglars knew exactly what they were looking for.”

“How long had the couple been married?” asked Sean.

“Aha!” cried Les, “what makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s got a thing about married women,” said Chaz, giving Sean a broad smile.

“Why don’t you cut the wise cracks,” said Amy, sharply, “no one thinks you are funny.”

“Calm down everyone. And Chaz, can you focus on the exercise.”

“Sorry boss.”
“Sean has stumbled across the killer clue to understanding this case. And precisely the reason I use this case to illustrate the perils of the job. So far we have been looking at all the reasons for why this case is a fraud. But we have not looked at why the client is not answering the questions to our satisfaction and why every answer has led all previous investigators to believe that there was an improvable fraud occurring. And though it is improvable, the details gleaned were sufficient to legitimately withhold payment. I want you to have a look at who has referred the file to us. It is not the insurance company, or the loss adjuster, but the insurance ombudsman. The crucial clue is that this jewellery was the dowry and the burglars new exactly what they were looking for because the client had been bragging to associates, and they in turn had decided that it was worth stealing. And the question of employment status was ambiguous because the client was not legally in the country at the time, import and export was his job in his homeland, but for various technical reasons his employment status was in a state of flux. I cannot explain why he did not inform the investigators of this: maybe it was pride; perhaps it was fear. Though in a final twist to the tale, the claim was not paid, precisely for the reason that David stated. They did indeed try to fake the forced entry, before ringing the police. Ok, let’s get back to the work in hand. I want to go through a standard household policy, and I want you to consider this case when going through it. And, then this afternoon, we will have a look at some other actual cases.”

Chapter 4

2005-11-04T23:54:00.000Z

“Where the hell have you been?”

Angela did not look happy. She was pressed into the raw shelter of a shop doorway against the increasing rain. Sean shrugged an apology. “I got her as soon as a I could.”

“Well it’s not good enough. I have caught my death of cold.”

“Where’s your car?”

A sneer ran across Angela’s face, and for a moment she looked as if she was really going to let rip: but the moment passed and she regained her supercilious façade. “Whatever.” She stepped from the doorway and looped her arm through his, “tonight I am going to be your fiancée.” Sean flinched from her proximity, “you are walking a tightrope lad. I could have done this job on my own. It is only because you are Des’ favourite that I got lumped with you. Come on let’s get this over and done with.”

The White Lion was not the most salubrious of places. It smelt of stale malt and burnt sausages. Sean and Angela leaned against the Snug bar and scanned the room. The room was lined with faded red flock wallpaper, rows of red velourette benches lined the walls. The tables had heavy iron supports and were screwed to the floor. The focal point of the room was a worn dartboard flanked by pinpricked blackboard scoreboards.

Monday night is ladies darts night at The White Lion. On the table to the left of the dartboard sat the home team, and to the right was the away team. And on the table, one up from the home team was a spread of sandwiches, sausages on sticks and slices of congealed pizza.

Sean scanned the teams, and was instantly drawn to Debbie Wade: the target for tonight. She was a woman in her early thirties, with bleached blonde hair that darkened at the roots of her central parting. A sense of longing and sensuality leaned from her every pore, and this energy flowed from her to become focused in her jet red lips. She was sitting with the home team. They laughed and joked amongst themselves and cheered if a high score was thrown.

Angela paid for the drinks and she and Sean took up position to get a good view of Debbie Wade.

“So why were you late?” asked Angela, sipping at her have a lager and black.

“You don’t need to know,” was Sean’s terse reply.

“That’s nice.”

“We are only playing at being engaged, so you can cut the crap.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“With me? Nothing. Who is the bloke?”

“Didn’t you read the file?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“As if they are listening. Look at them; they are too busy laughing at the size of their husband’s cock to bother about us. I knew you would be a pain in the arse to work with. Everyone says you are useless.”

“Of course I read the file,” said Sean, trying to change the subject. “Look out.”

A woman in a jade low cut top, which barely concealed her bosom, broke away from the home team and approached them with a plate of curling sandwiches. “Have you had your tea?” she asked, thrusting the plate towards them: a strong smell of cheese and onion assailed them. Both Sean and Angela declined. “There’s some meat and tuna on the table there. You help yourself if you feel peckish. It will only go to waste if not.”

“We’re fine,” said Angela.

The woman caught sight of the ring on Angela’s finger, “you want to be left alone?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Have you set the date?”

“That’s what we are talking about.”

“I think it’s nice. In my day we waited until we got up the duff before we went in for that sort of thing.” The woman winked at Angela, “get what you can out of him now, he’ll soon be like a Christmas tree: all dried out and the balls only there for decoration.”

No sooner had the woman turned away than the door to the bar opened and Chaz walked in. Sean felt his insides shrivel. A sensation that increased with Debbie Wade stood up and walked across to Chaz at the bar. It was perfectly obvious to even the casual observer that this was the boyfriend. A fact made more obvious when he bought her a drink, and she kissed his neck in thanks.

Angela was onto the case at once. On the pretext that she was texting a friend, her phone was out and the camera snapping away. Sean sat dumbfounded watching his worst nightmare unfold before his eyes.

And then things got worse. Chaz turned and saw him, “hello mate,” he said, “we don’t see you over this side of town very often.” Debbie stood beside him, grinning.

Sean’s face ached as he fixed a smile, “I just fancied a quick drink”

“You never mentioned that you had such a gorgeous girlfriend.”

“Fiancée,” corrected Angela.

“You didn’t ask,” said Sean, the words coming out long before his brain had processed the correct way to deal with the situation. “Angela, this is Charlie…. Charlie this is Angela.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Angela a flush running across her cheek.

A look of recognition ran across Chaz’s face, “oh sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise that you were moonlighting.”

“We’re not,” cut in Angela, “we were discussing arrangements for the engagement party.”

“Leave them alone Chaz,” said Debbie.

“I hope that mobile is not a camera,” he continued, pointing at the phone in Angela’s hand. “I know that I am stunningly handsome, but it is good manners to ask before taking someone’s picture.”

“I was texting my mum,” Angela said, entirely unconvincingly.

“Give her my love,” said Chaz.

“We better go,” blurted out Sean, stranding so violently that he spilt the drinks.

“So soon?”

“I promised that…. I need to get back to sort out things for the morning. Come on Jane, we better go.”

“I thought you said her name was Angela.”

“It is,” said Angela, “Angela Jane. Well it’s been nice meeting you.”

And with that, they left the pub, leaving a Debbie looking bemused and followed by Chaz calling after Sean, “See you in the morning.”

Outside the pub, Angela was livid, “What the hell is going on Sean, you completely blew that. How dare you call me by my name! You have breached my confidentiality and maybe even put me at risk.”

“Keep your hair on. Did you get the picture?”

“No thanks to you. Did you know that man?”

“Good file it with Des.”

“Wait Sean, where are you going?”

“I getting out of here.”

“Sean….. Sean……”

“Later.”

Chapter 3

2005-11-03T23:06:00.000Z

As she stepped through the front door was assaulted by the smell of furniture polish. The vacuum cleaner was whirring back and forward from her bedroom. For a second she felt a flash of dread that she hadn’t felt she was a teenager. “I’m home,” she called, taking off her coat. The vacuum stopped and moments later her mother appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. The two exchanged looks. “I’m not going to say anything,” said Amy, “though I would rather that you didn’t clean my bedroom.”

“I got a bit carried away,” replied her mother, “you know what I am like when get on a roll. I haven’t been prying if that is what you are worried about. How was work?”

“It wasn’t work, it was training. I need a cup of tea. How about you?”

“I am a bit dry.”

Amy went to the kitchen, as her mother retrieved the vacuum from the bedroom. She wasn’t annoyed precisely; the flat was getting a little ragged. The effort of moving, and the stress of trying to sort out her life, find a job, a nursery fro Jess, to feel safe again. All of this required a routine to be established, a routine that had not been imposed because of the vast amount of energy it required, and she was too tired to even attempt it. Instead she had metaphorically cleaned a space in the flat in which she cocooned herself and her daughter.

“Cliff said he would bring Jess back around seven.” Announced her mother as she can into the kitchen. “He was late picking her up. He didn’t get here until twenty to three.”

“He can’t do so much damage.”

“His breath smelt of mints.”

“Be thankful that he is making the effort. Do you want tea?”

“Yes please.” Amy’s mother pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. “So come on, tell me about your day? What were the people like? Do you think you will like the work?”

“Like I said it was the usual training day. We sat down talked about ourselves and then sat back and listened to the usual stuff. How was Amy when he arrived?”

“You know what children are like?”

“I thought you might say that.”

“I didn’t say anything if that is what you are worrying about.”

The kettle boiled and Amy filled the teapot. The question of Cliff was just another piece of baggage from the move that had not yet found a proper place in her life. And, it wasn’t fair on Jess to break contact entirely. Though it still ate away at her.

As they drank tea, Amy listened as her mother told her about her day. It was a relief not to have to think. And as she settled into listening mode, she found herself melting into the old certainties of life that she had not felt since moving away to join the police. Amy had never felt entirely at home. She missed the tiny details that her hometown offered: the way the clouds rolled over the fells, the accent, being called ‘duck’ and ‘love’. And though in part she had feared her mother’s influence, it was a necessity now that she needed childcare.

After they had finished the tea, her mother washed the cups, whilst Amy searched in the freezer for something for her tea. She hadn’t been shopping for a week or so, and so the choice was between a frozen seafood pizza or boil in the bag cod in parsley sauce.

The door bell rang. Amy looked at the clock, quarter past six.

“Mummy, mummy, look what I got with my Happy Meal,” cried Jess as Amy opened the door. The child waved a plastic cartoon character. Amy smiled and ushered the child inside. Cliff stood on the landing, a thin drizzle of rain illuminated by the streetlights swarmed as a backdrop.

“We ran out of placed to go.” He explained, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine.”

Her mother came into the hallway and glared at Cliff through the crack of the door, before breaking into excited baby talk that steered Jess into the living room.

“Everyone at the station wants to know how you are doing.”

“What have you told them?”

“I said you were fine. There’s not much else I could say. Having not seen you.”

“You’re seeing me now.”

“Yeah.”

“When do you want to see Jess again?”

“I’ll ring. If that is OK? I mean just because we can’t be friends there is no reason why Jess should miss out on her dad.”

“I haven’t stopped you.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t imply that I have been difficult about this.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I can see this is going to be one of those conversations and I don’t have time. I’m due on shift at ten and it is a three hour drive.”

“I thought you had the day off?”

“We’re short of staff and all leave has been cancelled.”

“If you feel sleepy, you can always raid the drug safe. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Right. I’ll ring you about Jess.”

And with that he was gone. Jess closed the door and wondered if she would ever find the strength to tell Cliff the truth.

Chapter 2

2005-11-02T22:07:00.000Z

“OK,” said Les, closing the door.

The four inductees sat in islands of there own space, in an inverted pyramid with the top lopped off. They had exchanged brief grunted greetings at the coffee machine, but before any meaningful conversation could begin they were rounded up by Les and led to the training room.

“Ok,” repeated Les, picking up a cloth to wipe the white board, “welcome to the firm.” He then turned and wiped the last session from the board, his backside wiggling in over tight chinos. “Don’t look so nervous,” he continued, turning back and tossing the cloth onto the table. “My name is Les and I will be guiding you through the induction process. So that you have a bit of background, I have been an investigator for the past ten years. I have seen every scam, by every scammer, so feel free to ask me questions. And before we go any further, I want to make one thing clear. If you read the handbook, it will say that it is company policy not to discriminate on the grounds of age, sex, gender, race, sexuality, mother’s cousin or any of the other nonsense that the management choose to churn out to please the Politically Correct. That does not mean that you should forget your manners. But it does mean that you are free to pursue your prejudices until such time as those prejudices are shown not to lead anywhere. Let me give you an example. A common case we handle is Asian jewellery. And you will find that the only proof that the person ever owned the jewellery is normally a photocopied invoice from Dubai. And if I say that this invoice will usually include enough necklaces and rings to kit out a jewellers shop, then you will understand why I say ignore your prejudice. Because when you turn up at their small terraced house, and see the son in street wear talking like Ali G then the chances are that the scam is not simple insurance fraud but money laundering. If this happens, and I guarantee that it will, I want to make one thing clear. Under no circumstances do you write this down. You do not put anything on paper that could lead to a compliant until you have found the evidence to make it obvious to the ombudsman that the compliant is the last resort of a desperate crook. You will see what I mean when you get on the job. Right let’s introduce ourselves to one another and then we can get on with the training.”

David was the first to speak, he was followed by Sean, then Amy and lastly Charlie, who preferred to be called Chaz. Rather than dwell on these potted histories it is sufficient to know that David had a background as an insurance claims handler followed by two years working in the fraud referral unit. Chaz had been in the army, served in the first Gulf war, then joined the MET and had applied for the job because he didn’t like shift work. Amy had also been in the police but was looking for a change in career because of limited career options. Lastly, Sean had had various low paid jobs, from deck chair attendant to white van man, before he got a job working for a private investigator. His work was mainly compiling dossiers on errant husbands. He wanted to become a fraud investigator because it offered a regular pay packet.

Les listened to the biogs and made the occasional note in a reporter’s notebook. “OK,” he said, “we may as well make a start.” He handed out folders, manuals, notebooks and pens. “I warn you that this week will be extremely boring. But, before we let you loose on the public you need to understand everything that there is to know about insurance. And the one thing that you need to know is the simple truth that you are all that stands between honesty and our clients going out of business. The business model of insurance is that because most people don’t claim on their policy, the company can afford to pay out 104% of the money they take in. Thus technically all insurance companies are bankrupt. In general, if you get your phone nicked, the company can afford to replace it as a courtesy. But, as any of you who have ever made an insurance claim will know. The more money involved in the claim, the more hassle the company will put you through before you pay out. The jobs we get are the big money claims. The claims that if they are allowed to proceed will eventually make the companies collapse. We are the guard dogs. And like any good guard dog, our bark is often as effective as our bite. Now, clearly we cannot threaten members of the public, but if you make yourself familiar with the rules of insurance, and the technicalities of the policy, you will not need to get heavy with them. You will be able to steam roller them with the facts, or at least the facts as you want them to be understood. By the way, this is a superfluous part of the training. But we need to tick the boxes. When you get into the field, the chances are you will never use any of this stuff. And I realise that I have just contradicted myself. But never mind.”

“What a tosser,” said Chaz, as they gathered around the coffee machine in the break.

“He’s only doing his job,” said Sean, feeding ten pence pieces into the machine. “It’s like he said, he has to give us that stuff to tick the boxes.”

“I meant him, not what he was talking about. What do you think Amy?”

“Why ask me?”

“You’re a woman aren’t you? Would you go to bed with him?”

“Is that a chat up line?”

“Ignore me. I’ll be sorted when I get some caffeine inside me. I had a skin-full last night. I can’t take in anything he says.”

“Why did you leave the force?” asked Amy.

Chaz stepped up to the machine as Sean took his Hot Chocolate and moved across to David. “You know better than to ask a copper why he left the force,” said Chaz, running his finger up and down the menu of drinks. “You should know that being an ex-force yourself.”

“I guess you couldn’t have done something that bad, or you’d be a security guard.”

“You must be more bored than the rest of us,” said Chaz to David, as he leaned down to take his coffee. “You must have been through this insurance stuff a hundred times before.”

“It goes in one ear and out of the other,” replied David, “I always found it was best to just trust your nose. If it smells funny, then it usually is.”

“So we don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, I’m asking you.”

“Ignore him Dave,” cut in Amy, “he’s your typical squaddie copper.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you forget some of us don’t need to shave our backs to make us different to gorillas.”

Chaz laughed, “I can see you and I are on the same wave length.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Amy, with a knowing smile.

Chapter 1

2005-11-02T21:32:00.000Z

His mother had always been the repository of knowledge on all matters relating to the family. She seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the faces that stared out of the black and white pictures that she had spent the best part of twenty years cataloguing and ordering into family albums. She was a regular visitors at the offices of the local paper, and by searching the micro-fiche and using her considerable intuition, she had been able to identify the most obscure events, and people who in all reality were but bit-part players in the family album. Each time he returned home, after tea, David would humour his mother by sitting on the sofa in living room, and making the correct noises as she revealed her latest piece of detective work.

“That is George Bunn,” she said, pointing to a very erect man, who had the air of a sailor, who was holding a pint of beer aloft, “I can’t be sure of the exact date this picture was taken, but I think it was shortly after North End won the district Football league: division B, in 1936.” It always amazed David that she could be so accurate. His mother clearly picked up on his quizzical look, because she added, “my uncle Alfred used to play for that team, he was the right full-back, and that chap there,” she pointed to a baby faced youth wearing a cap three times to large for his head, “well that is Davie Grayson, and he only played for the team in 1936: I think he joined the army after that.”

Now you should not get the impression that either David or his mother found this ritual in the least bit odd. A psychologist would probably point to the day nearly fifteen years before that David flew the nest to go to study at college. Because prior to that date the collection of the photographs inherited from her mother, had been a novelty to his mother. More modern types may call it a by-product of empty nesting.
And some might call it social history; because of the sheer depth of information that David’s mother had amassed over the years. There was hardly a family in Queens Market that was not touched in some fashion. They need only to drift into the frame of a snap-shot and they became part of the whole mythology.

The albums, and there were nearly fifty books, were ragged with news-cutting and dogged eared photocopies. His mother was insistent on finding as much as possible about every picture.

His father drifted into the room, with a fresh pot of tea. “I see she’s cornered you again,” he said, setting the tea-pot on the coffee table.

“I find it interesting,” said David.

His father gave him a wink, “It’s certainly interesting.”

“Oh,” said his mother excitedly, “Now you remember that I couldn’t place this woman.” She turned the pages of the album to the book marked page. “Ah yes, here we are.”

“I’m going to oil the lawn mower,” said his father, the tone of his voice was half invitation that David might like to join him in the shed. Maybe they could talk about men’s things? But the chance went by the board, because his mother took him by the hand, almost an instinctive move, and drew him back into her world of pictures. His father realised the situation and turned on his heels and sloped out of the room.

“Yes here she is. That woman in the back row, there.”

David leaned forward and looked at the picture. It showed the cast of a theatrical production, the clapper board held by a beaming girl in the front row, informed that this was the cast of ‘Cho Chin Chow, 1943,’ and from the oriental costumes and the slanted eyes of the make-up, it was clear that this was indeed that show. But though he could not see the woman’s face clearly, it being partially obscured by his mother’s finger, but the woman bore a remarkable resemblance to his grandmother who was two rows in front and to the left four people. He continued glancing from one to the other whilst listening to his mother.

“You wouldn’t believe how much trouble I have been through trying to find out who she was. I managed to get a program from the show, but she is not listed in the cast list. But then I happened to bump into Marge Clark in the library, and as luck would have it, her father was a member of the Minstrels during the war. Did I mention that he is in hospital again?”

“No.”

“His waterworks have gone haywire again.”

“I blame the Viagra,” quipped David.

His mother cackled, and then elbowed him gently; “You’ll get me in trouble. Anyway, that his him there, the stagehand and luckily he remembered that the woman was called Joan, he couldn’t recall her surname, but in the program she is listed as an usherette. So I was able to put a name to the face, she is Joan Davis. Why she is in this photograph is anybody’s guess.”

“Perhaps she was an understudy?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so. The Minstrels were never that professional.”

“Or perhaps she was standing in for a friend?”

“Perhaps. But, whatever the reason she has caused me a great deal of trouble.”

“Mum? Have you noticed how much she looks like Gran?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have a look at the two of them. They are almost like peas in a pod.”

“So they are. Do you know I have never noticed that before?”

“Do you think there is something Gran never told you?”

“Don’t be silly. You always did have a wild imagination.”

David knew better than to say anything more on the subject and held his tongue. He was well aware that to protest this point would lead to his mother reeling of increasingly embarrassing incidents from childhood. Partly they were embarrassing because his mother has a knack of remembering things that he knew had never happened, or at least, had not happened in the way that his mother seemed to remember.

He checked his watch, “I really should be making tracks. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

“There’s nothing like home cooking.”

“Indeed, and no-one makes gravy like you.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’ll just go and have quick word with dad.”

The heat of the day had passed but the garden was pleasantly warm. And as he crossed the grass of the neat cut lawn a wave of nostalgia ran through him. The colours of the flowers in the borders changed each year, and the lime tree he climbed as a child was now gone, but there was something eternal about his parents garden. And nothing was more eternal than his fathers shed, half hidden as it was by dog roses.

And just as he expected his father was not oiling the lawnmower but sitting on his chair reading the Sunday paper and smoking a cigar.

“You’ve managed to escape then?” said his father as David stepped inside the shed.

“I might say the same for you.”

“Cigar?”

“I don’t have time. I have to leave, it’s quite a drive, and if I leave now I might avoid the happy campers coming back form the coast.”

“When are you starting the new job?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Nervous?”

“As nervous as anyone is when starting a new job.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re a smart lad.”

And just as he knew would happen, as he backed out of the drive, he saw his mother and father standing by the front door waiting to wave him goodbye: his mother fighting back the tears: his father supporting her with an arm around the shoulder. He pushed the car into gear, gave a simple wave and drove away.

Dealing with the Stoopid

2005-10-23T18:01:00.000+01:00

Don't worry folks, the podcasts will soon resume.

I have spent the weekend at a writer's workshop, but before I tell you about that.

I wish to remind you of my current thinking whilst writing scripts: Towards a Ring Wing Theatre. Now before you get your knickers in a twist, this has nothing to do with facism or even right wing politics particularly.... and everything to do with slayed the sacred cows of Political Correctness and trying to move drama towards the truth.

Perhaps a clearer explanation is to get away from the sort of theatre in which a happy ending is for a woman to leave her 'partner' or that the moment a black character appears, you know that racism will be the theme of the play.

Oh.... and two things amused me.

The first is that we were told we were free to write whatever we like.

And the second is that we should break free from the conventions and tell new stories, in new ways.

Anywho.....

Older readers may recall that I have been working on a script about a transvestite is caught in the act, and rather than admit the truth to his girlfriend he tells her he is a rapist.

Now the reason for his lie, is guilt. And becuase I wanted to explore the nature of secuality surrounding transvestitism. This is in part because the only time the subject appears it is always as a joke.

In order to understand why this relates to rape, I would suggest you read Men in Love by Nancy Friday, or perhaps the Bacchae by Euripedes. Or failing that have a skim around the tranny blogs on the net. Despite the odd 'it's not a problem' blog, there are any number that are wracked with shame.

Anywho..... accept and build.....

The reason for me telling you all this is that there was a woman in the group, who lost her temper and angrily declared that transvestitism was offensive to women and that it was insulting. Principally because 'all' transvestites dress like tarts.

Which is news to me.....

Why this was funny was that she could not make the connection between her attitude and my character telling the biggest lie he could think of when backed into a corner.

Which means that despite the bullshit comments I have had to wade through, it has given me a way of proceeding.... time to go and have a look at the theatre of Brecht.

peace:)

The Director's Cut

2005-10-10T17:15:00.000+01:00

It's odd the way that things happen.

To those that have heard this podcast on BlogExplosion, you may be forgiven for believing that Pinky and Perky or the Chipmunks have made a come back. It seems that there is a way around this porblem, but since it relies on understanding technical stuff, that is all quite beyond me.

But....

I got to thinking....

Since the serial, Towards the Light, is the story of a woman I decided to try to play around witht he settings in the hope of getting a more feminine sounding voice. Plus, I have added music.... and to be honest I am rather pleased with the result.

So go.... give it a try....

I have re-recorded the first three episodes, Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3.

The final two episodes will be appearing shortly....

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

A Break in Transmission

2005-10-08T16:35:00.000+01:00

Excuse me folks, I'm just doing a little housework.... do you like the pinny?

My Odeo Channel (odeo/e93ea011cb162c63)

My Odeo Channel (odeo/b55f565bd59c0612)

My Odeo Channel (odeo/56b8e8deab2341ab)

oh and while I am doing behind the scenes work: "web 2.0", "the trouble with...", earthquake, serenity, "Karl Rove", "Leo Laporte", "Paul Krugman", tsunami, ajax, "Taylor Behl".

The management wishes to apologse for the pointless of this posting, but it was required to register our transmitters on Odeo.

Normal service will return as a soon as possible.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

More Versified Culture

2005-10-07T13:21:00.000+01:00

Today, eBBC continues in our task to bring you the finest poetry on the web.

Beehive and Geordies is a collection of recordings from the past week.

The Beehive Poets meet on Monday's at the Beehive Pub on Westgate; the Beehive is the last gas-lit pub in England. The group are stunning in the quality and diversity of the work produced, and bring out a yearly anthology of the best work.

Featured on this recording are Frank Brindle, Kathy Benson and Nick the Vic.

The second part of the recording features poets from Newcastle, who perfromed at the Irish Democratic League in Bradford as part of a series of exchange visits between Northern Writers.

The featured Poets were Keith Armstrong, Ray Clark, and Nod the Geordie Poet: with the final two poems provided by Bradford's very own Tina Watkin.

The second podcast is a simple Prayer

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World

peace:)

The Arts Program

2005-10-05T01:28:00.000+01:00

Today eBBC brings you cuture in the form of poetry.

A Room with a View is a moving poem, which attempts to describe the emotional fall-out of an arson attack.

It is very much based on true events, and was originally written as a tribute to the mother and son who died: and whose deaths were obscured by the outbreak of war in Iraq.

Bleaching a Mouse is a very contraversial poem, that has recieved calls for it's banning when it appeared in an anthology last year.

Like it, loath it, or laugh.... you decide..... but you have to make your own entertainment when you don't have a television.

And lastly, we offer you the latest in the SoundScape series, Supermarket Saturday.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World

peace:)

Variety isn't Dead

2005-10-03T02:49:00.000+01:00

The drama continues in the eBBC serial, Towards the Light

In today's episode, plans progress apace, whilst the tongues start wagging.

Now....

Never let it be said that eBBC's talent scouts do not scour the length and breadth of the land to bring you the finest talent.

And so get your MP3 clicker finger working and tune into the latest offering from eBBC Variety Theatre.

Today, for one night only.....

Evan Evans the only Asian/Welsh Ventriloquist Magician treading the boards today.

He comes fresh from his triumph in the Mountain Ash Search for a Star competition.

Hear him now for free, before Las Vegus snap him up.

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

New Series

2005-10-01T18:28:00.000+01:00

eBBC is proud to present a powerful new documentary series...

Hartley Dearcroft Investigates

Week-by-week we take you undercover to expose the criminals and break the stories to hot to handle by the mainstream media.

This week's investigation sees Hartley on the trail of a dangerous left-wing conspiracy to bring a 'Peace Festival' to the mean streets of Bradford.

Fire up your i-Pods and MP3 players and listen as Hartley Dearcroft Investigates: Peaceniks

eBBC: Broadcasting a Message of Peace to the Free People of the World.

peace:)

eBBC Presents

2005-09-30T01:54:00.000+01:00

Today eBBC brings you the latest episode in the comedy drama, Towards the Light.

In today's episode, Alan has a shocking announcement.

The other offering is a SoundScape piece built around my going to rehearsal of the London Cuckolds: In Rehearsals and a Kebab

Other than that the day has been spent grappling with JavaScript, MP3 files and generally trying to get around the fact that PodCasting does genuinely offer a way of making radio programs without the need to stick to the confines of accountant-driven-three-act-plays that rely almost exclusively on your CV to get commisioned.

So have a listen and join in the fun.

eBBC: Broadcasting a message of peace to the free people of the world

peace:)

More Fun with Sound

2005-09-29T18:02:00.000+01:00

I am curently struggling to learn the mysteries of podcast hosting, so my apologies to those who followed the previous link.

Plus you can now use the Poem Jukebox on The Complete Poetic Works of Jeremy Young

Anywho....

Last night was the third Taking the Mic event to be held at Rafters, and a good time was had by all. The guest poet was Anna Tuck, who was on splendid form as always.

Next month, we have Kevin Byrne.

I have made this soundscape of the evening.

Unfortunately it ran into technical difficulties whilst converting it to an MP3 file, for some reason it wiped large sections of the content.... and you guessed it..... the parts it wiped were of Anna:(

Oh and I learned a lesson, which is not to destroy the mastercopy before you have checked the MP3 is working correctly.... oh well, I guess you live and learn.

Right now to sort out the other file, so you can begin to enjoy the serial....

This is eeore reporting for eeore's Bradford Broadcasting Company....

eBBC, Broadcasting a message of peace to the free people of the world.....

peace:)

For Your Listening Pleasure

2005-09-28T03:49:00.000+01:00

You know the old saying, 'if you can't join them beat them'

And so in that vain I offer you:

eeore's World of Theatre.

Yes you guessed it, I have discovered podcasting.

To be frank I have given up messinhg around with time wasters and this offers a way of getting the work out to the people that matter, the audience. But, rather than start this project in a negative tone, I shall simply offer you this link, which takes you to Part 1 of Towards the Light.

It is the script I was working on for Kitty earlier in the summer.

I shan't give away the story, suffice to say it is set in Bradford and is a tale of working class life.

Here We go Again Yawn

2005-09-09T01:06:00.000+01:00

It is September, so it must mean that a well-known scrounger is due to arrive and drain energy, enthusiasm and particularly money out of the hard pressed people of the Bradford poetry community. I refer of course to the visit of Thom the World Poet.... I have forgotten how many times I have heard that it is his last visit.

Mind, I have forgotten how many times I have heard people at the Beehive poets moaning about having to have him as a guest, or complaining at his basic lack of talent, or that next time they are going to tell Bruce Barnes, his principle cheerleader, that next year come-what-may they are not going to have him back.

But then, I have forgotten how many times I have heard people moan and groan at the thought of another of Bruce's workshop nights.

And in the past few days I have recieved a stream of emails from Bruce, most of them factually inaccurate, extolling his virtues, and attempting to have him hi-jack, long-term and unwanted events.

For instance, we are commited to hosting a visit from poets from Newcastle, as part of an exchange visit, principally because we have a grant from the Arts Council and the money has to be spent. This exchange was principally responsible for the demise of the Interchange writers group, as it split the membership into an in-group and an out-group. Now suddenly we are informed, by Bruce, that not only do we to have to host this event, but that we are to have Talentless Thom on the bill.

I guess my problem is that I am perfectly prepared to be the boy in the crowd who points out the Emporer is naked.

But the simple fact of the matter is this. All of this is backward looking. The reason Kevin and I set up the Taking the Mic event is precisely to get away from this sort of crap. We are interested in the future of poetry and perfromance in Bradford, and developing talent and an audience for the future. Not harking back to a glorious past that never was, and to people who have been entirely destructive in pursuit of Arts Council money.

And before anyone chooses to disagree, show me the groups and the poets that these people are supposed to have created, supported and fostered?

Still Here

2005-08-09T22:19:00.000+01:00

Don't worry people I'm still here. I haven't updated because I haven't been writing anything.

Though last night I went out to the local theatre co-op and one thing lead to another. First, I met this woman who is perfect for the script I wrote for Kitty, and since Kitty appears uncontactable at the moment I have sent a copy of the script to this other woman. And, since this appears to be a runner, I have wangled to get it serialised on the local radio station. The exact details of the serialisation have to be worked out: i.e. how long each episode will be.

Either way it is all good.

Oh and I have arranged the guest for the next poetry event at Rafters, my mate Frank Brindle. He's a wonderful nature poet: and I say that as someone who normally doesn't like nature poetry.

But I guess hte main thing is that the radio play looks like a goer.

Plus it was a very boozy evening with a lot of laughter and some rather good jokes, like:

This man goes to the doctor with a bad back.
'How did you do it?' asks the doctor.
"It's my girlfriend, she insists on doing it doggy style, and it hurts my back.'
"Well why don't you turn her over?'
"She keeps licking my face."

You have fun now...

peace:)

On My Holidays

2005-07-30T15:38:00.000+01:00

The past week I haven't written anything. I have weeks like this sometimes. It's not that I dobn't have anything to say, it's more that I can't be arsed.

I sent off a script to a short film competition and I have been chatting with Kitty about the play, but neither of which give me much cause for optimism. Meh.... we'll see.

I kind have found a little more inspiration and sense that I will start scribbling again.

About the only thing of note that has happened is that I got an email from this guy called Mark 'I'm a journalist' Cantrell, who wanted to know about Taking the Mic: the poetry thing that I helped organise the other day. And maybe this goes to the root of my present disgruntlement. Since he seemed to think that I was just tagging along and that my partner in crime Kevin was the driving force behind the the project. Which is not the case.

It annoyed me because his questions were all so pointless. For instance he wanted to know how Taking the Mic relates to the defunct Interchange writers group. And the fact is that Taking the Mic is the antithesis of Interchange, indeed we set it up precisely to be nothing to do with Interchange.

One of the questions was: 'Why did Interchange fold?' To which I gave the reply, 'too many lefties.'

And this is true. One thing I have noticed from travelling about that Marxist naval gazing is not something that is common elsewhere. And I can't imagine them having pointless conversations about sexism and such-like that Interchange collapsed into: hence my reference to lefties.

Meh.... whatever....

peace:)

Versifying Again

2005-07-28T11:41:00.000+01:00

It's been a busy couple of days.

On Tuesday I went to Sheffield with the Bradford Poetry Idol Winners, another of the exchange visits. It was a good evening. Not much to say about it really, other than it was fun.

Then last night we had the first of the Taking the Mic events at Rafters. And the general agreement was that it went well. To be honest I was nervous that no one would turn up and sure there were poeple who said they were coming and didn't show but that is only to be expected.

Perhaps the best thing, from my perspective, was that there were more women then men. Which may seem a minor point but I think it was significant, and a welcome sign.

The guest poet was Fiona Durrance and she was excellent.

Which has left me scratching my head as to who to invite for the guest spot next month, and also even more nervous, since my partner in crime Kevin is off in Austrailia doing a painting a decorating job: don't ask.

peace:)

Whatever....

2005-07-27T23:50:00.000+01:00

I went to Sheffield yesterday to a poetry gig.... one man and his dog.... which I understand is no way to talk about his wife.... but you know....?

It was Ok but nothing to set the world alight....

And tonight we had the first 'Taking the MIc' event at Rafters which wnet very well. We had Fiona Durance as a special guest and to to be hinest she was too good fo us.

And people seemed to enjoy it... and I am drunk.... so hey! It was a good evening....

peace:)

Spastic

2005-07-26T02:11:00.000+01:00

I rang Kitty today to ask if she had read the script I had sent her, which was amusing because I dialed the wrong number and got into a very strange conversation with some woman, I never realised there were 8,000 ways to say 'hello' but we got through most of them before I realised that it was a wrong number.

To be honest I have been feeling a bit out of sorts of late. This is partly because of the college thing and being rejected on the grounds of discrimination, partly because I really can't be arsed, and partly because of the way things get commissioned. It does seem a fairly crazy system in which you have to have a track record in theatre, when most people can't stand theatre, which does kind of hint at the reason there is so much shite on the television. Meh..... this is just me being bitter. Though the significant point here is that commissioning is in the hands of accountants and not creatives.... I refer you back to the posting in which Pauline said that King Leah would not be commissioned today because of the basic flaws in the play.... this of course being the greatest work of tragedy in the English language.

Which leads me on to the Kitty situation.

The piece have written has as the central character a woman who is paralyzed and blind. This is specifically because Kitty is blind, and I was looking for a way around the problem of having a blind person on stage. And the simplest thing was to have them in a wheelchair.

Which then got me thinking about another issue. Kitty is a diabetic, which is the reason she is blind, and thus she has to be very careful about checking her blood. The monologue is about 1hr 20mins and I started worrying about this. But then I thought 'meh.... If she has to check her blood, let her check her blood.' Sure it isn't scripted but since much of the play is about showing disabled people as people and not their disability: what the heck.... let her have an insulin injection on stage if need be.

Which is not to say that I am planning on a freak show. Because this is not the case. But like I say the script is about how disabled people are 'normal' people.... and not in a preachy way.... since there are jokes in the script that are too good for that.

Besides, I have a feeling that this is all going to come to nothing in the way that most things I do come to nothing so it don't matter.

Though she is reading the script and will get back to me. If she likes it the agro begins. If she don't I shall just have to go and find someone who wants to do it and a venue that wants to perform it.

peace:)

Terror

2005-07-25T00:12:00.000+01:00

I have been toying with going back to a project I have been toying with for the past ten years. It's a film script based on the Houndsditch Murders and the Siege of Sidney Street, though essentially it is about terrorism.

I did make a start on it ages ago but the script fell to pieces whilst thinking about the sub-plot of the love story.

And the problem was also knowing where to tie down the story. I mean by this that the gang at the centre of the story were Latvian Nationalists: one of who's members was only there because the rest of the gang had sprung him from the central jail in Riga: a place where prisoners were tortured by having their penis ripped off.

There are other similarities to the current situation. For instance that London was being used as the base for anti-Tzarists groups, with the British government claiming that these groups were under surveillance.

But in terms of making this into a story, where do you draw the line?

For instance, does the action start with the pogroms following the 1905 revolution? Or do you try to tie that element of motivation into the later action and use it as justification? This following the death of around 7 policemen and a number of by-standers in a bungled wages snatch.

And then where does the story stop? Does it end with the fire that supposedly killed all the members of the gang? Or do you end it with the fact that one of the gang, who escaped the siege, went on to be the chief of Stalin's secret police and was responsible for the deaths of millions of people.

There is a telling line in this story. That the reason the gang were willing to die was because they could not believe the British police would be any different to the Tzarist police.

peace:)

Nowt

2005-07-24T08:52:00.000+01:00

Didn't do much yesterday....

The only thing of note is that I e-mailed Pam at the BBC, but even that was dull.

Peace:)

Down at Heel

2005-07-22T13:25:00.000+01:00

I'm blooming knackered.

I was on BCB radio this morning, with my mate Kevin, publicise the upcoming poetry event, Taking the Mic, which, is taking place at Rafters on Little Horton Lane, on Wednesday 27th July.... starting 8pm..... The interview was pretty painless and we managed to repeat the venue and the time about eight times.... so that was good.

I was then handed a handful of flyers and a number of posters by Kevin, and off I went, like the proverbial blue arsed fly. I have managed to get them in shop windows, the library and all the places that I thought they might attract interest.

Though interestingly this process has yet again shown what a waste of space liberals are: or rather those liberals who are employed in public service jobs. For instance to get a poster displayed at the university I had to go to the Student Union, where a woman with a speech impediment told me that she would have to refer them to the committee. This is be expected really. Since Bradford University still does not see the irony of having the Biko Bar.

And the woman at the library, yes that's right the library, a place that exists to further people's interests in books and reading, would only display the poster on the guarantee that we were not making any money out of the event. Which almost prompted me to ask, 'does anyone make money out of poetry?' But I didn't.

Still no matter I managed to get rid of all my flyers.

I popped into the Shaw trust on the way home and Conor asked me how the interview went with Alby. I told him that I hadn't got the place on the grounds that I had a mental illness. He offered to start a claim for discrimination, but I can't be arsed. I'd rather just share that fact with you, dear reader, that Leeds Metropolitan University and more specifically Alby James discriminates against people on the grounds that they have a mental health condition.

peace:)

Dealing with Stuff

2005-07-21T14:48:00.000+01:00

Oh well it has happened, I have finished the monologue, and it has not made me happy. Well it has in one way, but in another it hasn't. Obviously it is pleasing to have completed a piece of work, and I am happy that it runs to about 1hr 20mins, so it has possibilities of being performed in a number of media. The problem is that I so liked the main character that I am sad that she has been squeezed out of me.

This is partly why I so rarely finish things.

On another subject I got some feed back about the tranny play, and it was pretty positive stuff. Ok it was the usual, strong dialogue, good clearly defined characters, good set up.... but no matter.

On another matter. I have sent the script to a film competition and the application form was full of the usual politically correct nonsense. Including the question about how your proposed film would widen access to excluded groups. Which is a bit of a job, since as I am mentally ill, and thus a member of the most excluded group of all, the answer is simply that if you commission my script then that will give you your answer.

The other question, apart from the question about racial identity, that made me laugh was gender?

I always have a problem with this. Since I consider my racial identity as English, but on the form the options were all the colours of the rainbow, and linked to specific areas.... such as Black West African, or Asian Chinese, but the options for white were: White British, Irish, Other White. Which kind of misses the point.

And the same with their asking gender? male or female. Since I consider myself as a man, but I consider my gender as being more female than male. Of course what they are interested in, for the purpose of box-ticking, is sex.

But since we are dealing with the politically correct, there is no sense in trying to understand what they are thinking.

peace:)

Light the Blue Touch Paper

2005-07-20T11:58:00.000+01:00

I meant to mention this yesterday but didn't get round to it.

I went to the Beehive on monday for poetry night. I didn't get there until late because I stopped off to write a bit more of the script. And when I got there I wasn't really in the mood.

I read Sheep and After Judy Garland.

The first of these poems was written because it is mentioned in the play I am writing for the BBC, and Pauline wanted to know what the poem actually was. And so, I went and found a Walt Whitman poem, used the rhythtems and changed the words. And it is not a bad poem but it has no heart. And so when I read it, there was hardly any comment.

Then because there was a hiatus, whilst this DH Lawrence look-alike prevaricated, I read the second. Which then provoked twenty minutes of discussion. Though had Bruce had his way there would have been no discussion, but then Bruce generally does this whenever I read anything. The leader of the debate was Kathy. Who claimed that the piece lacks my usual wit and is beneath me. Which I'm not sure is the case. Since my five lines got people fired up enough to go into their experiences of terror, what a poem is, and even the admission by Kevin that he has a special affinity with Judy Garland because she was perfroming in Manchester on the day he was born.

As for the DH Lawrence look-alike, we eventually got to hear his poem at about 11.30.... and let's just say It was not my cup of tea. The word death appeared in line three, and the second part of the poem was dealing with big issues. And The moment someone starts dealing with big issues, I stop listening because they never know what they are talking about.

peace:)

Telling the Truth

2005-07-19T12:00:00.000+01:00

I sent a copy of the monologue to a friend yesterday, to see what they thought.

I was a bit surprised when the reply came back that 'it is very intense.'

I should explain.

The character is a woman, who is almost blind and in a wheelchair following a road accident. And the story is about her moving from being very isolated and depressed at the beginning and we follow her journey to a reawakening her emotional life by marrying a man called Alan.

Which on the face of it is not the most cheerful of stories. But I have been working hard to get this woman's story as truthful as I can. And I guess I am in the right ball park, since my friend said that she had a very clear understanding of this woman's world, and felt that she knew hat it was like to be blind.

In truth the blindness was not the hardest thing to write about, since I do occasionally suffer from stress blindness.

The aspect I had the most problem with was dealing with the the specifically female parts of the play. One of the choices I did make was to stop the action at the bedroom door. Originally I wanted to write a scene in which she has sex. This was to challenge the taboo about disability and sex, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I had no idea what the experience of sex is like for a woman.

Anywho....

It is nice to know that the drama of the piece is there.

Though it doesn't stop me asking the question that most bothers me in everything I write.... Did you laugh?

peace:)

How Things Sound

2005-07-18T14:32:00.000+01:00

I have spent the morning working on the various projects that I have been plugging away at for the past two weeks or so.

One of these is a gentle comedy about a group of poets. It is this project that I am working on with Pauline at the BBC. As part of dialogue, one of the characters mentions a the first poem that he ever wrote and Pauline said that she would like to know what this poem is. Which threw up a problem. I hadn't written it. All I knew was that it was a parody of Walt Whitman.

Anywho.....

This is the poem, Sheep

Which I think works reasonably well in terms of the story. And I like the way the numerous rhymes work against the free verse of the original.

Oh and last night, I rang my mother and tried out the monologue I am writing for Kitty. I even did my Yorkshire accent. The excersise was partly to see if it worked dramatically. I realise that she is my mother, and therefore is unlikely to tell me to stfu: but then again you don't know my mother. It probably took about 25 minutes to read, and at the end she was fullsome in her praise, which is not usually the case. plus there were a couple of times that we both fell about in hysterical laughter.

The line that made her laugh the most was: 'Even Alan piped up in the chorus. He has a lovely light bass singing voice. But then you expect that in a big man.'

I have decided to chance my arm a bit on this, and sent it to Pam at the BBC, since she has worked with Kitty in the past, and I will get a sense of possibilities and direction from her reaction.

peace:)

Toward a Right Wing Theatre

2005-07-18T00:50:00.000+01:00

Tonight I have been and had another look at the tranny play, that had a rehearsed reading at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. And I got to thinking about the toxic reaction I got from Alex, the commisioning director for new writing.

I should point out that I have been re-reading Accidental Death of an Anarchist, by Dario Fo, today.

As I said I haven't thought about what I wrote for a while. And when I went to the rehearsed reading, I genuinely had not idea what the actors would say next. Which is a sign of how little I had thought of the play.

There is an exchange that really stuck in my mind.....

Janet - You won’t. This is a social gathering, that article is strictly about my professional life.

Tony - You can’t let it be known that Janet mixes with transvestites. That would ruin her feminist credentials at a single stroke.

Janet - I don’t see why you say that.

Tony - Shall I get more wine?

Paul - We are running low.

Janet - No wait Tony. Why did you just say that?

Tony - What?

Janet - That my knowing you will ruin my feminist credentials?

Tony - What is that expression that Americans use? It’s something about the elephant in the room?

Mia - It’s the opposite of the nigger in the woodpile.

Paul - I’m not sure you are allowed to say that anymore.

Mia - Chill.

Tony - I'll get some more wine, before someone else puts his or her foot in it.

Tony hurries to the kitchen.

Paul - No seriously Mia, that expression is very offensive.

Mia - To who?

Paul - To me for one.

Mia - Fucking Liberal.

The significance of this passage is that it is the only occasion in which anyone swears. And Mia is mixed-race and uses the 'n' word. And that the principle note I was given with regard to submitting the full play is to drop the 'issues' and to focus on the cliche of tranvestitism being a metaphor of identity.

Whereas the reality is that the visceral nature of the characteriation is the strength of my play.

And just as Dario Fo cut the crap from motherhood and Apple Pie of right wing of Italian politics: that would initially ban pretty girls from winning quiz shows and now replaces them with general nudity.

My play is about the way in which the left of Western politics has become stuck in tyranny and endless argument about the direction of the great March.

Be honest girls. If your man wanted to be prettier than you, would you fancy him? If the answer is no, you are sexist and a fascist.

You are naughty eeore.
I know precious

peace:)

Putting the Claws Away

2005-07-17T17:00:00.000+01:00

Last night I went to the theatre. The show was doing final previews prior to it going to Edinburgh for the festival. And to be honest it was the perfect example of what the Edinburgh festival is all about.

The basic set up was a tramp, a prostitute and an un-named character who seemed to be a representation of the devil. Oh and there was a saxophonist, who tootled away throughout the performance for the sake of 'atomosphere'. And to be honest it smacked of 'student' theatre.

It didn't bother me that there was no story. But what did bother me was the writing was so awful. You knew this form the beginning when the un-named character announced that he was not the main character and then launched into a speech about management targets and 'ideas' and general nonsense, whilst on the other side of the stage the prostitute mimed having a piss. And that was the problem. There was nothing in the cript that held the attention, and the physicality of the perfromance merely worked to emphasise that the play had nothing to say.

Oh and there was a whole section about death, dying, being dead, being the living dead: in fact all the cliches that poor writers resort to when they wish to aspire to greatness.

But there was a very interesting moment, to me at least. One of the characters said the line, 'on your own I mean,' but because of the accoustics and his pronunciation I heard the line as, 'on your enemy.'

I did have a chat with my friend Michael afterwards. He invited me to go to a party but being in a dreadfully dull, workoholic mood at present I declined and went off into town to work on the monologue for Kitty. It is now around 35 minutes, and choices are going to have to be made soon, since the idea is to pitch it to Pam at the BBC, and the slot that it will go in is 40 minutes. Though I have kind of fallen in love with the characters, and I have a feelign that I should just write it until it reaches the end and then look at the length. Since there is a possibility that it could work as a series of 15 minute slices.

Ok I realise it is a bad thing when writing to laugh at the jokes, but I thought I would share this as an example of the humour. 'Though it seems the decision had not been Father Timothy's, but his predecessor's, the Reverand Jim, who had taken a missionary poisition in the Ukraine.'

Meh... I guess the best thing is to keep plugging away, and wait 'til Kitty gets back from Llandudno.

And today I have spent the day shaping the play for Pauline. I have stripped out the tragic elements, and reshaped it into more of farce. An example of the humour is:

Ian - Monica? Will you touch me up?

Al - You don't waste time.

Ian - I meant my make up.

Meh.... you have to be there.

peace:)

Getting in Touch with my Feminine Side

2005-07-16T15:11:00.000+01:00

I have got into the habit lately of nipping out for a pint and writing while I drink it. It is strange really but for some reason I find it easy to write in the bustle of the pub, as if somehow I am picking up on the energy of the people. And there is also the issue that if you write directly onto a computer it leaves you with a sense of having completed the job, because it looks right, and therefore you tend to be less cutting in the editing.

Last night I was sitting there, working away on a monologue/play that I am writing for my friend Kitty that I am going to try to pitch to the BBC, or failing that to the local radio station, when this bloke came up and wanted to know what I was doing. He seemed rather surprised when I told him. And then started wanting to talk about it. Which wasn't really that much of a problem, though I did find myself getting a little irritated because I was in full flow.

I only mention this because I have been going to the same pub, to the same table and writing, every night for the past three weeks and this is the first time anyone has asked what I am doing.

Anywho....

The monologue is coming along nicely. I have gone through the panic of it not having enough material and it not being long enough, and have settled into the rather nice pleasure of churning out the story and discovering new aspects of the character.

Though one problem I am having is that finding the right details with relation to her being a woman. For instance there is a whole section about sexuality... Which was kind of difficult to think about in any way other than the general.

Which is also a problem I am having with the rewrite of the play I am working on for Pauline at the BBC. One of the criticisms of the original was that though she liked the characterization and the relationships between the men, she didn't believe in the character of Monica. This is partly for a technical reason, that the storyline was from the original play, but when new characters were added, the main storyline changed to these new characters.

Oh and I have decided to ignore the word drama and stick to what I am good at, writing comedy.

peace:)

Watching the People in your Head

2005-07-15T12:34:00.000+01:00

After dashing back for the meeting in Manchester, it was off to Leeds to a rehearsed reading at the playhouse of a script I had completely forgotten all about. It comes out of the work I was doing on the issue of transvestitism. But with a twist, since the main character, Tony, may be wearing women's clothes but the reality is that this is 'the elephant in the room.'

The other characters are Mia, his present girlfriend, who is mixed race and is schizophrenic. Janet, a feminist lecturer and mentalist. And Paul, an aspiring left wing journalist. And unseen but a constant prescence, Laura, Tony's ex-girlfriend.

Now I should point out that I had no contact with the actors.

And in truth my heart sank when the actor playing Tony opened his mouth and came out with a Tim Curry impersonation. I guess it is a question of time pressures and actors dealing with architypes, but it did annoy. Because to play the part of tony as a camp gay man, goes completely against the notions of gender stereotyping that the character is deliberately written to attack.

But having said this, the audience did laugh at the jokes, they did appear to engage with the characters and it did get the loudest and most sustained applause of the three plays on show.

peace:)

Big Meetings

2005-07-15T11:20:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was rather tiring, but none-less-enjoyable.

I had a meeting with Pauline at the BBC to discuss the script. I have been very nervous about this meeting for a few weeks now. But it went well.

There is a saying that, 'if Shakespeare were alive he would be writing in Hollywood.'
I can assure you that this is not the case. He may be the greatest poet in the English language, and his plays may be seen by millions of people each year, even though he four hundred years ago....
In the course of our discussion, Pauline made the admission that if she were offered the script of King Lear, she would demand rewrites, and there is no way the opening scene would stay as the opening scene: because it leaves the audience asking to many questions.

Which is not a criticism of Pauline, but more a comment on the formulaic drama and CV important plays that get past the accountant obsessed commissioning editors. And if it is like this with the BBC, it is like that in Hollywood: only more so.

Anywho....

After our first meeting I went away and thought about what we had discuss, which was along the lines of the three act drama with an exciting incident.... i.e. a piece of formulaic drama. This after me having one of my philosophical rants about audiences wanting character driven drama, in which the story is secondary to their empathy with the character.

So fancy the irony of Pauline saying that she really liked the opening scene, the set-up, but the later scenes were too plot driven and seemed to be from another play. Which only proves my point, though also shows that I should have stuck to my guns. Though in truth the opening scene was written on the fly in an attempt to get to the story and establish who the characters are and where they are.

Oh well back to the drawing board I guess. Though in truth the changes are in fact changes that I want to make. Since I have been too focused on the drama, when in fact the strength of the original script was the comedic dissection of the characters.

peace:)

Treading the Boards

2005-07-13T12:02:00.000+01:00

Despite feeling hot and bothered I went to Wicked Words in Leeds last night. It was a good evening, though still suffering from the summer lull. As there weren't that many people there, and inspired by Siobhan's poems on Goddess', I took the chance to read Spring Shoots which is a poem I like but because of the length, it takes about 15 minutes, it isn't something that I often get the chance to read.

I'll admit that I did rather rush through it, but people were kind to me afterwards and said they liked it. Oh and I now have a new quote from Brendan to add to my publicity, since he introduced me as 'Mr Wonderful.'

I managed to clear up the confusion from Monday, when Bruce made an announcement at the Beehive of the Taking the Mic event, and questioned whether Fiona, the first guest spot, was actually appearing. I suppose this is what happens when you have too many cooks, since I spoke to Fiona and she was as keen as ever.

Thought there was a downside to the evening, armed police with machine guns at the railway station. Which I guess is only sensible given the events of the day in Leeds.

I also got to have a chat with someone who has had a play at the rehearsed reading, you may recall that I am having one of plays read tomorrow at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. I appears that it gets quite a big audience, and that there is voting. Which makes me wish even more that I hadn't sent the script.... meh, what you gonna do?

And I have begun work on something for Kitty.

peace:)

Gossip

2005-07-12T12:33:00.000+01:00

A fairly successful morning. I edited one script, wrote another and sent them to the bloke I spoke to last night, who said he would be interested in working with me on a short film. And I sent off an application for a grant to pursue my poetry and to set-up a production company for my film scripts.

I was them twindling me thumbs, deciding what I should do next, when the phone rang. This is not a good sign in the daytime, as it usually means a cold-caller. And to be honest I didn't recognize the voice. But, when the penny dropped it was a most welcome call: it was my friend Kitty.

I met her at a training course with BBC radio and we kind of clicked straight off. She is a very funny woman, and very modest. For instance after I had rattled on about the minor triumphs I have had of late, she happened to mention that she has just written a 6 part series for television, and has been offered a one woman show. Now normally this would provoke writers jealousy within me, but I don't feel this at all with Kitty. It didn't even bother me that she had used one of my stories in the back story of the TV series.

We had a good old chin wag. And there was a rather amusing moment, when I had been winging on about the woman I had been seeing and happened to mention her name, and it turned out that Kitty knows her. It's a small world.... lol

peace:)

Cut the Crap

2005-07-11T23:59:00.000+01:00

I have been out to poetry night at the Beehive. I didn't get there until late, because my mother rang and because I had an email from my friend Kitty, who has been seriously ill in hospital, and it was such a relief to find that she was back in the land of the living.

As luck would have it my friend Joe was there. I have been having an email conversation with him today about my script Ian's Childhood, and bumping into him gave me the opportunity to continue this debate.

But first I had a poem to read in the read around: so I read: Rhetoric and it seemed to go down well. I knew this because Red Karl came up to me and said that he wished he had written the poem, and my friend Kathy said that it was 'the mixture mixture of acid comment and razor sharp wit.'

The conversation with Joe was interesting.

He seemed to hung up on the elements of the script that couldn't work, rather than seeing the bigger picture. For instance there is a shot of a crow, which he said couldn't work, and fair enough he has a point. But to me it is there as a metaphor, so it hardly matters.

But the things I learned from this exchange, were:

a) that I had hit the right emotional spot with regard to the film.
b) that he really liked the script.
c) keep it simple stoopid.

So now I am going to go back and edit the script. My intention is to cut the things that were only ever added to give detail. And to pair things back to the story and the characters.

The other thing that struck me, was that he would start the film from the places that I have considered and disregarded. Since I went straight for the beginning of the action and cut out the set-up.

peace:)

Stereotypes

2005-07-11T12:45:00.000+01:00

I was meaning to mention this last week but the bombing in London got in the way.

This is an issue that has come up a few times recently, and it is the question of people who are mixed race. Now as I am of a certain age, I call such people half-caste or half-cast: since I am not sure if it a question of fate or manufacture.

The first time it came up was when I was talking with my friend Mel, who is mixed race. The conversation went something like this:

"What do you think of people that say half-cast?"
"I think they are idiots."
"Yeah I agree."
"Why do you ask?"
"Oh no reason."

The second time it came up was when I was seeing this woman who described herself as being Very Liberal. Of course, this is code for being a judgmental control freak. A fact proved by her constantly picking me up on language, including my making reference to Mixed Race People.

Anywho....

At the poetry event in Liverpool there was this Black Woman who performed a poem called, 'The PC Police Are after Me". And to my surprise she referred to herself as half-cast. And then mocked the notion that she she make contact with her black roots, pointing out that living in Preston, there was very little benefit to her knowing the language of her ancestors in Nigeria.

I don't mention this to make a wider political point.

Or rather I say this to make the wider point that this woman was clearly free: you could tell this by her physicality, the tone of her voice and the fact that she was not constrained to challenge societies perception of her.

I guess I could make the joke that she had natural rhythm, but I won't.... oh I just have, never mind.

Which reminds me, I must see if I can get her phone number, and invite to be a guest at Taking the Mic.

peace:)

Another Job Done

2005-07-10T13:01:00.000+01:00

I have finished the script I was writing for the short film competition. I have decided to call it Ian's Childhood. Which is clearly a reference to Tartovsky, and since I have stolen a couple of ideas from that film I can't see there being any sense in shying away from the link.

The thing which pleases me most, is that there are no jokes in the script, which is something unusual for me.

Which reminds me I have to go through the script for the meeting with Pauline at the BBC. I think I may have made a mistake. When I was going through the script the other day, it suddenly struck me that the back story is not as clear as she is going to want.... the details are there.... and I have shown not told.... but she is going to want telling and not showing.

So I sent her an email explaining the back story, and then it struck me that she is going to want the play of the back story and not the rather gentle light comedy I have written.

This seems to be the way with producers. It don't matter what you send them, there will always be something wrong with it. Even if the changes are those they told you to make last week, this week it will be wrong.

No matter....

peace:)

NewsSpeak

2005-07-08T13:42:00.000+01:00

As someone who uses words and understands the importance of nuance, I have to say that I am annoyed at the way the news of yesterday's bombings are being reported.

The World at One, on Radio 4, has made great play of the need not to place blame. And that until the bombers have been found, that the figure should not be pointed at muslims.

They then had an interview with the spokesman for the muslim safety forum, who stated that there had been a number of attacks on muslims, including a petrol bomb attack on a mosque in Leeds. He listed what had happened which boiled down to 3 assaults, and then a lot about hate mail and graffiti and he ended with, 'people giving funny looks.' So not more than 50 dead then?

Though the important thing is that this petrol bombing was given as a fact. Only later when recapping the news was it mentioned that the police were investigating a fire, and that at present they could not confirm if it had been a petrol bombing.

It's all a little like Alice in Wonderland.

Not least because they then interviewed a couple of muslims who stated that we should understand why the bombers acted, and that this was nothing to the killing that is going on in Iraq. And no it is not. But the reason the killing in Iraq doesn't get the air-time anymore is because it happens everyday. And as for understanding that Britain is a target because blah, blah, blah.... get real. The largest march in political history took place to oppose the war.

And let's face facts.

Last week was the commemoration of Srebrenitza. And there would be a lot fewer muslims had Britain and America not bombed the serbs back into their box. And in Palestine/Israel Britain has been using it's influence for years to try and bring a settlement favourable to the Palestinians. Not to mention the Ugandan Asians who would have been left at the mercy of Idi Armin.

But I guess it is all just words....

peace:)

Getting Things Done

2005-07-08T08:10:00.000+01:00

I had quite a successful meeting last night.

I met this guy at the film networking evening and we have been in discussion about making a short film. I sent him my idea for the film about the tranny and his girlfriend and he liked it. So we spent a couple of hours discussing it, and now have a couple of deadlines for the script and a projected shooting schedule. Plus it turns out that we have fortuitously co-incided with the funding timetable of the local film funding body.

The best thing about the meeting was the way in which our ideas fed off each other.

Now we need to find the actors.

Oh and on Wednesday I got a surprising email. A few weeks ago I was working on a stage play which is loosely based around the same idea. I say working on, because the reality was that I had roughly sketched out two scenes.

Anywho....

I got drunk one night and sent this script to a local theatre. And immediately regretted it.

So when I got an email saying that next Thursday they were going to give it a rehearsed reading, I was a little shocked. Ok I am delighted, not still shocked.

Which means that things are going to be a little busy next Thursday, as I have a meeting with Pauline at the BBC in the afternoon.

hey-ho

peace:)

The London Bombings

2005-07-07T16:05:00.000+01:00

This blog is meant to be a record of my struggles to be a writer, but on this day, with the bombings in London, I thought I should make a comment here.

When I first heard this morning, in a typical piece of gallows humour, I did wonder if it had been the French.

But as the day has gone on and events have unfolded my sense of humour has escaped me.

From the moment I heard, it was obvious to me that this is the work of Islamic terrorists. You only need look at the location of the explosions: Edgeware Road and Kings Cross to know this. Edgeware Road has a large Arab population, and the area around Liverpool Street has a large Bangladeshi community. And the bus bomb is reportedly the work of a suicide bomber.

And is disingenuous of the Muslim Council of Great Britain to call for restraint. It was not so long ago that I was walking in Manningham and saw posters for a meeting in support of Bin Laden.

I have no particular axe to grind with Muslims, I just wish they would grow up and work out that no matter how many people they kill I aint about to convert: not least because I like bacon and I like beer. So sort yourselves out, stop playing the victim and just get on with things.

The news is reporting 43 dead.

So well done.

peace:)

No Need for Apologies

2005-07-07T00:49:00.000+01:00

I went over to the the Dead Good Poets in Liverpool this evening: with my partner in poetic crime Kevin. It was a good evening.

Though a most curious incident occurred. I did two poems How the Old Woman Lost her Left Buttock and The Rabbit God. And Ok I was a bit cheeky since they are long poems and I went over the five minutes, but the poems were written as a pair, and I feel that they work together well. Plus I know them by heart and thus I like performing them.

The first poem went off ok, and the audience were laughing, indeed they were laughing long before other audiences have cottoned on to the idea that I am actually taking the piss and not simply having a go at women.

However, in the second poem, at the point were the rabbit gets skinned, this bloke who had performed earlier in the evening, got up and made a rather dramatic entrance, along with rather pointedly saying, 'Good night everybody.'

It didn't particularly throw me, as I only had two more lines of the poem left.

Shortly afterwards in the beer break it started. People started coming up to me and apologizing for his rude behaviour and saying how wonderful they thought the poems were, and how they didn't want me to get the wrong idea about scousers. One guy went so far as to say that he had been going to poetry evenings for twenty years and that he thought from a technical and delivery point of view that I was equal to anything he had ever seen.

To be honest this sort of thing embarrasses me. Not because I am arrogant or trying to be humble, it is just embarrassing when people are so fulsome in their praise. And to be honest I wasn't particularly, or even in the slightest, bit offended that this guy had walked out in such a pointed way.

Though I was pleased that this poet said that I was like Shakespeare, in that I delivered comedy and then tragedy and gave both without sentiment.

Whatever... it was a good night.

peace:)

Liberals spit

2005-07-06T09:13:00.000+01:00

A couple of days ago someone left a comment, which was basically to the effect that I should write stuff that panders to prejudice and fits the market demographic. They added that I should consider Aesop's Fables as a source of inspiration. Well I don't want you to think of this posting as sour grapes.

Ok so I have been turned down for a place at college, on the grounds that I have a mental illness. The exact words at the end of the interview were, 'I would offer you a place but I do not think you would be able to cope because of your mental illness.' Which is not only insulting and illegal, and shame of Leeds Metropolitan university, but is a jolly good thing. Because it means that I will not be 'drained, changed and rearranged, to match the thinking of my social betters'.

I have been pondering this business about structure in films: the three act drama. And frankly I can't help thinking that it is total bullshit. There is that scene in The Player, in which Richard E Grant turns up to pitch his script and becomes the tortured artist at the first sign of changes to his baby. Which contrasts later in the film, when the film has been made and he has been paid. And the reason I link this with the bullshit of formulaic scripts is that, the formula is only there to get you through the door. The best films drop the formula the moment they get into production. And the really great films don't have this three act structure at all. Yeah sure if you analyze them they can me made to conform.... But this is simply post-modernist deconstructivism at it's most destructive.

anyway....

Going to college was never part of the great plan, and I am off to Liverpool today to a poetry event. Yeah sure, I am hurt to have the door slammed in my face again, and I am hurt that once again prejudice is the reason for the slamming.... but what are you gonna do?

peace:)

Meh.....

2005-07-06T00:14:00.000+01:00

I have just spent an hour and a half prparing notes for this meeting with the BBC. I realise that the porducer said to bring notes tot he meeting but I have been hanging on for six weeks to find out what she has to say and I can't be arsed to piss about anymore.

yeah, yeah, I know.... you have to do what other people say.....

and maybe you do but equally I can't see the sense in turning up for a meeting where you spend the first half an hour going through stuff that could have been settled prior to meeting and having some clear understanding of where eqach other is coming from.

I made that mistake at the interview for college and I haven't got a place.... yerah, yeah, it is discrimination the reason I haven't but no matter..... I'll leave that sort of thing to the untalented to moan about and just get on with what I want to do.

peace:)

Ghosts

2005-07-04T23:26:00.000+01:00

I have finally got around to working on the script I intend to enter for the caught short competition.

It has been sketched out for a few days now, but actually taking this from my notebook and typing it up has proved slightly problematic. Mainly because the sketch I made started at the second scene, which meant that when I originally started, the first scene was not fully formed and thus I had a block.

The breakthrough came when I decided to cut the opening and just get straight into the action of the piece.

And I do admit that as things have developed I have been stealing scenes directly from Ivan's Childhood by Tartovsky. In the final draft I have decided that these should be tones down slightly, but the images of the mother and the well are too strong not to be used. Though I also would like to work in elements of another of my favourite films, The Innocents.

Other than that, I went to poetry night at the Beehive, which was nice.

peace:)

A Love Triangle

2005-07-03T23:33:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I mentioned that I had seen an actress who would resolve some casting difficulties with regard to a short film I am intending to make. Which isn't strictly true. The current problem is that she has a face that is just too beautiful and too nice, and her eyes are too expressive. Therefore when thinking about the script, I have had to go back to the drawing board.

I guess the problem is that I have three scripts on the go at the moment. But I have this urge that this actress should be in the film.

Therefore, I decided to make it four script on the go, and to dig out something I have been working on for the past six weeks.

The basic story is that boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy takes delivery of lingerie and decides to be girl, girl sees boy through letterbox and thinks he has another woman.... And then for various reasons the plot collapses becasue I can't decide on an ending.

One version of the story has boy overwhelmed with guilt and shame and telling the girl he is a rapist and thus scaring girl away.

Another version has girl becoming basically a fem-dom figure.

Yet another has girl dressing boy as girl and going to a gay-club, where boy is sexually assaulted.

And another has girl dress boy and they all live happily ever after.

For me I would like it to be the last option, since I see clothing and gender as largely issues of society and not as being set in stone. Though on another level the commisioning and money people will say that this ending lacks drama.

I guess the problem lies in the girl maintaining her dignity and the boy maintaining his whilst being a girl.... and the audience being challenged in their veiws of gender stereotyping.

peace:)

Author, Author

2005-07-03T11:02:00.000+01:00

I went to the theatre last night, and quite surprised myself at how much I enjoyed it.

I guess part of the problem is that I once dabbled in acting and therefore all other actors are never as good as I would have been. Meh.... that's not strictly true.....

Anywho....

The reason I went was because a friend had a play on: the evening consisted of three half hour plays. And it has to be said that although I did not entirely agree with the directing of his play, I did like it. And his was the only play that wasn't essentially a trial run for television.

Though there was one line, in the last of the plays, that so perfectly encapsulated the difference between male and female writers. The play was a pretty standard woman play, older woman with broken dreams, meets young student and decides to help her. The acting in the piece was absolutely delightful, and one of the actors may have solved a casting problem that I foresee coming up later in the week.

Anywho....

The line was:
'why dont you just turn up at her door: with a suitcase full of Marmite and M&S knickers.'

That is something that could only be written by a woman. Men don't think in that detail about women. And before you feel like arguing the point, I will say you ave to place the line in the context of the whole piece. The set -up for it was the older woman saying how meeting her husband had clipped her wings and stopped her from achieving her dreams, and lost her her best friend: who is now living in Austrailia.

peace:)

Where to Start

2005-07-02T16:52:00.000+01:00

I had high hopes for today, in terms of writing, and have achieved precisely nothing.

A fact reinforced by Word deciding to crash before saving the few lines I did actually manage. Not that the lost stuff was particularly worth saving, and it was perhaps lucky since I used a Yorkshire dialect word 'wuthering' to describe the back drop of the moors. It may interest you you know that wuthering means windy, and clearly whichever Bronte sister it was, I doubt she would be quite so remembered for a book called 'Windy Heights'

The annoying thing about this blockage is that I have the film script plotted out. I did it last night in the pub. But for some reason the bit I didn't do was the opening.

Now this is going to sound a little anal, but the thing I hate in a script is when you have to describe the character. I just don't see the sense in it. I mean in terms of, 'he has brown hair,' or 'she has dark eyes.' I dislike it because it is irrelevant. For one thing the casting director or whoever can deal with all that.

So I ground to a halt in trying to describe the main character. All you need to know is that he is a smartly dressed and clearly a success professional type.

Anywho...

Instead of writing I did some research.

Now this is going to sound a little pervy, but I went looking for a young boy. Since the film basically focuses on the relationship between a bullying father and his son, following the death of the mother.

I was also looking for pictures from 1980, to give me a better sense of time and place.

I came across the work of a fabulous photographer called Susan Hurley, and just had to share these picture with you.

This is the look of the boy I am looking for in the film:

Though this is a stunning portrait. The enigma of the smile is almost heart-breaking:

This is a Link to the website

Oh well....

I'll give it another try tomorrow

peace:)

Exciting News

2005-07-01T18:13:00.000+01:00

I got an email from Pauline today, my producer at the BBC.

She has read the script and so has one of her colleagues, and she is asking for a meeting.

Which is good.

Though she did say that she would send me some notes.

So now I am wondering what is going to happen. Obvioulsy I have my fingers crossed. And feel it is a good thing that it has been read by two people.... my thinking being that if she had read it and hated it then she wouldn't have had someone else read it. Though on the other hand she might have....

Stop thinking eeore.....

Honestly I can be such a moitherer.

peace:)

Dealing with Egos

2005-07-01T12:35:00.000+01:00

I had an email exchange with a friend yesterday concerning titles, and more specifically the titles of women.

This came about because they are to be the guest at the first Taking the Mic event that I am helping to organize. My preference is to bill them as Miss Fiona Durance, but she is not happy at 'Miss' being used. The reasons behind this is obviously the arguments of 1970's feminists that female gender labels relate to marital status and are therefore sexist. Whereas my use of the word relates to the traditions of Music Hall and post-feminist irony.

Clearly the main thing in all this is that she is the guest, but from my perspective the scantion of the advertising works better and the name stands out more clearly with the addition of the word 'Miss'.

You'd think that organizing a poetry event would be simple.

One thing that came out of Wednesday night was how blooming awkward people are. The event was advertised as an Interchange event for various historic reasons: but in truth it was not, principally because Interchange no longer exists.

Anywho....

The work of making this event happened fell onto the shoulders of three people myself, Kevin and Bruce, and as such it had been agreed that Kevin should do a fifteen minute guest spot before the Sheffield poets, and then there would be an Open Mic afterwards.

There is this woman called Diane, who is a very awkward character, you don't need to go into the history, but suffice to say she is in no small part one of the reasons Interchange folded.

The aim was that the event should end at around 10.30 but things were over running slightly. So while I was setting up the Open Mic I asked her if she would do two poems, she then went off on one saying that she wanted ten minutes, Kevin had had fifteen minutes so she wanted ten. The fact is that she is a sub-Pam-Ayres style poet doesn't come into it. So rather than argue with her, I made a compromise that she could have three poems. Which would mean that Bruce got less time.

In the event she did four poems.

Meh.... She'll only do it the once. If she turns up at the new event and tries that one, I'll pull the plug.

peace:)

Save Me from 'C'rap

2005-07-01T00:41:00.000+01:00

Not much happened today.

I went ot a new Open Mic event, but it turned out to be a kareoke night for the tuneless and a feast for idiots.

Sketched the bones of a short film.

And chatted with a potential collaborater.

Oh and finished uploading my poetry, though note the notes that accompany the poems.

peace:)

Poetic Truthes

2005-06-29T23:54:00.000+01:00

Well I am glad that is over.

Not in a bad way.

I have just got back from an open mic guest night, as part of an ongoing series of excahnge visits between Bradford and other poetry groups in the North of England. Tonight we played the home-leg with Sheffield.

To be honest I should have done more to publicise the visit but the past month has been rather traumatic for me at a personal level. But it has to be said that we did get thirty something people there and that the level of poetry was excellent.

I acted as MC for the event. A first for me.

The poets from Sheffield were: Matt Black.... very funy and spot on with his social obseravtion..... Carolyn Waudby..... beautiful in her delicacy..... Robin Vaughan Williams.... well travelled and not afraid to express the darkside.... and.... Elizabeth Barret.... almost painful in her honesty.

I love nights like this: challenging, funny, daring and truthful to the human spirit.

peace:)

Bring It On

2005-06-29T00:46:00.000+01:00

I'm blooming knackered.

Today I have been to a local school to aid the English department in introducing kids to poetry. I can't say I didn't enjoy the experience because I did. It didn't help that I was hung over from the night before, so that the first group pretty much took the piss. But I soon learned that the way to get around this problem was not to sit down. And for the next three groups I pretty much gave them my big guns and did a piece of a performance poetry stand up.

The thing that they found the hardest to accept was that in a poem you can say anything. I guess the alternative to being able to say anything is being allowed to say nothing, but even in saying nothing you are saying something.

And I did find that some of the stuff they came out with was worthwhile and interesting.

In fact there was a rather interesting moment later in the day.

I choose to get them writing Haikus and them stringing Haiku together top make a larger poem.

There was this kid who was basically a dickhead, and did that trick that boys do of being ignorant to be clever. While he was with the group the standard of the work was basically on the level of personal insult, which degenerated to the level whereby one of the poems produced was:

I'm not a racist
but there are too many pakis
and not enough whites.

which is a haiku. But as I pointed out, is this really something that you would wa\nt to put your name to? And hand in as a piece of work? We then got the argument, 'But Sir, you said that we could talk about anything.' And rather than argue the point, I went to the teacher organising the event, asked ofr the disruptive influence to be removed.

Suddenly the dynamic changed instantly. And three boys got together and produced a poem about football and England scoring a goal. Now on the face of it, it was simplistic but I felt a warm glow as I watched it happen. Seeing them counting out the syllables, discussing between themselves the correct word and coming up with a six stanza poem.... in short collaborating together to be creative. And it has to be said that they would have gone on longer but they ran out of time.

I showed it to the teacher, who read through the poem and saw it as one thing, until I pointed out that it was a series of Haikus.... and suddeenly the light dawned.

But beign a glutton for punishment, my mate Kevin rung up to say that there was a poetry evening in Hebden Bridge and wondered if I fancied going over there. Against my better judgement I agreed and we went and we had a very nice time.

Oh and this producer I met last week has given me some noted on the script I sent him, so I have to rework that.

Plus tomorrow there are poets coming up from Sheffield for a do I have helped organise.

I'm not sure when I will evber have time for myself.... which is nice.

peace:)

Going with the Flow

2005-06-27T23:54:00.000+01:00

First off, the link for the poems is: http://jeremy-young.blogspot.com/
I am still working on the skeleton of the blog so you will have to bare with me for the time being. But there is about 300 poems there, so you will have more than enough reading to be getting along with.

I have started to get feedback from the networking evening. I think I may have got a cameraman and so that is good, in that we can get on and actually make something. Plus I have got some positive feedback with regard to the script I have sent out. The problem is not so much with the script as with the pitch that accompanies it.

The actual script is a rather gentle comedy that relies on nuance and visuals, whereas the pitch is pretty much a nothingness.

I have a poetry gig tomorrow, bring culture to local school kids. I am pretty excited about it. Not least because it will allow me to pull out the crowd pleasers.

I guess it is the problem that stand up comics have. Once they go on television they have to write an entire new act. And poetry is pretty much the same, the material soon gets worn out. And in truth I haven't been writing much new stuff recently because I have been too busy doing other stuff.

Though putting my collected works on the website has been a bit of an education. Because I have suddenly rediscovered stuff that I had entirely forgotten about. And I have also found stuff that I have absolutely no idea what it is on about.

I suppose it is a question of taste. Because whenever there is a new gig coming up, you dig out stuff and there is always something that you consider and then drop, and once it gets dropped it disappears from consideration: until eventually you completely forget it.

This problem gets compounded by having the files saved as Word documents, it just becomes too much effort to open them.

Hey-ho....

peace:)

Building a Library

2005-06-26T20:04:00.000+01:00

My brain is a bit frazzled, I have spent the past day and a half putting my enitre poetry output on line. I guess I should have planned things before I started but being one to charge in and get on with things I am now having to sort it out. It's just that there are about 600 poems and that is a lot of links to write.

I have considered making it searchable chronologically as well but I think that can wait for now. Not least because in all the various moves I have had in the past few years, the date stamps have been wiped on some of the files and it not entirely clear if it is possible to list them exactly in order.

The process has been interesting though. I have rediscovered some gems I had quite forgotten. Also it appears that some files have gone missing. I think I know where they ahve gone, and I am only really concerned about one of the poems, which begins with the line: "What will happen when India joins the EU?

Still at least it keeps me out of trouble.

peace:)

Deceiving the Eye

2005-06-25T19:15:00.000+01:00

The one job I hate is editing.

Well not so much editing, since this is always quite a pleasurable thing, the process of going back through a finished piece of work and finding new angles or new ways of saying things.

No, what I don't like is spell checking.

I guess I am not the only one who doesn't see the obvious spelling mistakes. For instance 'you' instead of 'your'.... In other words the things that the spell checker will miss. I think that they are so annoying because when I am editing I am looking for sense.

There has been some work done studying language recognition. And one of the interesting aspects is the providing the first and last letter of the word is correct, a reader will not notice the order of the letters in the middle.

Tihs is waht I maen. Can you raed tihs?

As a writer the problem with this is that the person you send the work to is looking for a reason not to read the full script, and since we are all lazy, spolling mistakes is an easy way to feel superior.

peace:)

Kindred Spirits

2005-06-24T20:05:00.000+01:00

On a more cheerful note.

I went to a poetry reading this afternoon, it was lunchtime event as part of the Bradford festival. I would like to report that there were thousands of people there but as with the way of things, there wasn't but it was a rather pleasant way to spend an hour.

And it was also nice to see people that I haven't seen in a while since the Interchange writer's group folded.

peace:)

Air Pollution

2005-06-24T20:04:00.000+01:00

I went for an interview at the college yesterday, and succeeded in talking my way out of an offer. Well I say that, since it is not confirmed, but I just have that feeling.

Anywho....

One of the questions was about TV, and whether or not I would want to work in TV.

Now the thing is I don't own a TV, I have never owned one, and don't want one. This is partly a political because I see it as a way of pumping shit directly into your head: consider the current war in Iraq if you don't understand. But, because it is so pervasive, despite not owning one: I am aware of the programs that are shown. This process is made so much easier these days because of the formulaic nature of the programs, and the reliance of encapsulating puns for the title of most shows. In fact. I would suggest that simply by reading the TV page in a newspaper you will be able to watch a whole night's schedule, without having to put yourself through the hypnotic tedium of actually watching the programs.

I didn't phrase it exactly like this, but I think he got the message.

And there is a serious point here. Because the TV companies are constantly going on about the way in which the audience's are falling. And yet rather than go back to character driven drama and comedy shows: i.e. what the audience what to watch: they do what newspapers have done by dishing up celebrity. The one thing they have not noticed is that newspaper sales are declining. It is the triumph of marketing and focus group demographics.

And the really stoopid thing is that the shows that catch, Desperate House Wive's for instance is a character driven show. I mean by this, that you care about the characters, and sure, sensational things happen but it does not rely entirely upon sensation.

It did make me laugh when he said that I was living in the past when I mentioned shows like, Our Friends in the North, Boys from the Blackstuff, Warriors, Queer as Folk etc. In fact he told me I was living in the past and that those type of programs don't get made now. But then having heard the writers of these shows being interviewed, they were told exactly the same thing, and they only got to be aired against strong opposition by the very same executives that now hold them one as examples of the type of ground breaking drama that they are wanting to make.

peace:)

Music Maestro

2005-06-23T09:43:00.000+01:00

I'm feeling really rather tender this morning, yeah I know, I shouldn't drink so much.... meh....

I was just looking through the bumph and business cards and came across an idea that this guy gave me. He is a musician and he wants to make two films. The first involves the Jumblies and Edward Lear, which he thought might interest me because I am a poet. My heart sank when he said this because he then said the dread word animation, and instantly images were conjured in my mind of Tim Burton films: which quite frankly bore the shit out of me.

The second project looked more interesting.

It is a film based on a German/Austrian composer's music and a play. The play is described as very philosophical and highbrow, or at least this is what the guy told me. Though having looked at his synopsis, it is just the usual German mysticism that read one way can make you sound intellectual with friends, and read another leads to the gas chamber.

You know the sort of thing.

A dead child appears to the mother and tries to lure her through the curtain of life.

Anywho....

Aside from the actual project. I am quite interested in doing the second film. But here's a tip.

I said to the guy, 'do you have the music that you could send me?' 'No,' he says, 'I have it on CD, and I am sure you could buy a copy.' So then I said, 'what about this play? Can I have a copy of that.' 'Oh' he said, 'I'm not sure about that, I will have to check with the translator. Though I know you can get a copy of it in German from Amazon.'

Yeah right on, doctor... You expect me to pay for a CD and a book in an unreadable language, so that I will write you a script for a film that will probably never be made.... That sounds like a good use of my time.

peace:)

A Night with the Stars

2005-06-22T23:09:00.000+01:00

I have been to the networking evening in Leeds. It remains to be seen what came of it. I know that I am fairly pissed, 4 1/2 pints of Stella, but I did get to talk to a few people, and I am fairly hopeful that it may lead to waht I was hoping.

To be honest I did my normal thing. I took up a stance in a position in which I felt comfortable and waited for people to come to me.

Though it was interesting to note that this was a typical arts thing. In so much as the beautiful poeple were there at the start, they floated around like butterflys and by the end only the cynical and the drug were left.... of which I am one.

yeah I know... film is all about beautiful people.

But ultimately it is us ugly bastards that leave a mark.

Still I am just sober enough to foolow up on the mails I promised. And it does ahve to be said that it was a very pleasant and enjoyable evening.

There is some more stuff to write.... but I am having problems focusing.... mainly due to the 14.5% wine I am quaffing.....

peace:)

Plugging Away

2005-06-21T16:29:00.000+01:00

I am feeling really rather pleased with myself, as I have finished the script for the short film I was working on to take with me on Wednesday to the networking evening.

I should explain that one of my favorite films is Paris, Texas because of the driving sequences. I like the fact that it uses film to show things happening and doesn't resort to non-stop chattering as a way of defining plot and character. And I have attempted to do the same. The only difference is that it is the story of a man with an electric bike who has to ride around until the battery goes flat.

There is more to it than that, but, in essence it is the story.

Though the most pleasing aspect is that it does have three acts.

I also like the way in which I have tried, in the second act to show his relationship with his wife through the visual imagery of what happens to his dinner over the course of the evening.... He of course not being there to eat it because he is riding around the countryside.

I have called it Throttled, which I thought was a very good play on words and an arresting title.

It's only eight pages long and should run to about 10 or 12 minutes, which is perfect for a short film, I think.

Oh and you may remember that I mentioned the rivalry between writers. I mentioned the networking evening to a friend and he said he wouldn't be coming because he had fallen out with someone from the film company organizing the event and that he didn't think it a good idea. Which did make me laugh, since that is one of the reservations I have about the event, and this woman that I was seeing. But the fact is you never know until you try and what's the worst that can happen?

peace:)

An Evening with Burke and Hare

2005-06-20T22:20:00.000+01:00

I just nipped out for half an hour to the Beehive. They had a guest speaker, the poet in residence at Radio 3 no-less, Mario Petrucio or some-such. I didn't stay.

For one thing to sit in a room full of candles on a boiling hot summer night was not my idea of fun, plus the people there were all far too ernest for my taste. Though the main reason I didn't stay was the sheer affrontery of his reading poems that he claimed to have written himself about the disaster of Chernobyl, when in fact they were taken from the accounts of survivors.

I know this because I listened to a program on Radio 4 in which they interviewed the actual survivors and as soon as he read the first poem, it brought images in my mind of the actual interview with the actual wife of the actual man who had actually died of radiation poisoning.

Yeah, I am sure that people will rave about him, and say how wonderful he was, but I just felt cheated that he couldn't do better than to rob the graves of people who gave up their lives so that millions would not die.

peace:)

The First Hurdle

2005-06-20T21:38:00.000+01:00

I used to go to a writers group, but as is the way with all flesh, that group has now folded. But, not before I got a chance to meet Maggie and listen to sections of her book.

Her story is certainly a tragic one. She was brought up in a Catholic orphanage, then drifted into a world of prostitution, domestic violence and continual dicing with suicide before finally finding herself. Part of this process was the writing of the book.

The great thing is that the book is written in her voice and she does not hold back on the detail.

She is the subject of a television documentary called Survivor, that will be shown in July. And part of the program involves her taking a trip to London to meet the Catholic Arch-Bishop, who apologized for the physical and mental cruelty inflicted upon her by the nuns.

My mate's missus is helping her with the book. And asked me what I thought of the letter she had written in order to try to get an agent. This is something I often wrestle with, since selling myself is not one of my strong points. And it does have to be said that the letter didn't mention the apology or the television progam.

Yeah I know, I'm a hypocrite.... But I did point out that she needed to really sell the book in the letter. Since it is no good asking for the book to be published, you need to make them snatch it off you.

peace:)

After You.... Not

2005-06-19T23:17:00.000+01:00

Now you may have picked up on my new positive attitude of late. I have been getting on with things, and churning it out.

Though it has to be said the actual churning out of the work is only half of the life of the writer. Perhaps as important is networking. And to this end I have applied to go to a meeting of film makers on Wednesday, because I do have two short films that I want to see made.

I was feeling very positive about this, until I received an email today.... from someone who I wish to see making films.... Saying that if I went to this event, they would not be going. They gave no reason as to why they would not be going.... Other than they did not think it a good idea that we should meet.... At least from their point of view.

This did throw me slightly, because I am not the sort to put my needs before the needs of others. But the fact is, I have given into this kind of bullying in the past and it has meant that I have not got anywhere.

So, I have decided to go, and if this person is there, they are there.... kay-serra, serra ra....

peace:)

Saturday's Off

2005-06-18T21:20:00.000+01:00

I rarely work at the weekend. There are too many distractions.

Not that I have been entirely idle.

I edited the form for the interview next week, so at least it is in a readable state, and sent it to the course director. I admit that in a couple of places I was deliberately provoking, since I have heard quite a bit about him, and he seems to be an interesting character.

I have also sent one and bit acts of the new play to the West Yorkshire Playhouse, as I noticed on their website that the have readings on a Thursday, and I can't see why my play should not be one of those under consideration. I also find it helpful to here other's reading my work, because you get a better sense of what works and what doesn't.

And even more surprisingly, to me at least, is that I have applied for a networking evening next week. I have this determination to make a film. I have contacted a friend who has a camera but I don't hold much hope in that direction that I will get enough say in the film I want to see. This isn't me being a control freak, it is more that I need to find someone with whom I can develop a relationship that is ongoing and productive. Besides it can't do any harm to go along and mix with a new group of people.

This new passion for short films comes from looking at this website: Film Network

There are some excellent films on this site, my personal favorite is a very black comedy called Hilarity.

peace:)

Acceptance Across Media Boundaries

2005-06-17T23:57:00.000+01:00

Two seemingly disparate things came together today.

The first is that the interview form was sent back to me because I hadn't answered all the questions, allowing me the opportunity to correct the spelling and grammatical errors. And the second is that I went to the theatre.

Now I wouldn't describe my night at the theater as a disappointment exactly. I did have issues with the actors, in that they did not fit the word to the action and the action to the word, i.e. the physicality of the performances was not good and the acting started and stopped with the beginning and end of the line. This was not helped by the blocking of the movement and the tendency of the direction to work against stillness.

But what struck me was the sheer amount of swearing.

Now I am not one to pass the opportunity to cuss, indeed my vocabulary of swear words is both wide and widely used, but I couldn't help thinking that although it was in keeping with the characters, the actual usage was too much.

Why this fits in with the college application form was that one of the 'new' questions related to the question of regulation and taste. Film and television are both heavily regulated industries and the question of foul language is one that vexes the censor and is cause for complaint: indeed films are certificated on release.

The example I used on the application form is a poem that I have written called Bleaching a Mouse. That relates the events of when I did actually bleach a mouse to kill it. And I pointed out that is one of more popular and memorable poems, but that it would not be allowed on film, since despite relaxations on sex and violence the censor has cracked down on depiction of cruelty to animals.

I have drawn no conclusion as yet with regard to swearing in the theatre vs the restriction of film. I would suggest you might be able to use the 'c' word on stage in circumstances that would not be acceptable on film.... how many times have you seen it used in film? And it can't be because it is not in common currency because it is.... I use it often.

I guess the honest truth is that I noticed the swearing because I didn't really care about what happened to any of the characters, and perhaps that was the point.

peace:)

For the Love of Art

2005-06-17T01:13:00.000+01:00

I have written the first act of my new play and as per usual it didn't end where I thought it would and it didn't contain things that I had planned, though it did contain better things than I had expected.

I checked through the form I sent to the college yesterday, and found loads of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I did wonder if I should worry about this, and decided not to since I had spent the best part of three hours writing it.... it was 7 pages long.... and they can read the essence of what I had written, and if they are worried about the mistakes then they are pedants and not worth my time.

Since I am still in the mood to take the bull buy the horns, and Pauline at the BBC hasn't yet read the play, I emailed her this morning with a list of actors that I would like to play the parts. I know she has worked with at least one of them, because he was in a play she produced last week. I thought it would be a good thing if she had some sense of the voices and the tome of the voices whilst she read the script.

Oh and I have another guest lined up for the Open Mic we are planning. A very talented lady, and what is more she didn't ask about money, but true to the spirit we are looking to promote expressed her infinite enthusiasm to be asked to perform and jumped at the chance.

Which as I say makes her a true artist in my book. Since she is doing it not for the dosh or the fame, but principally because she has something to say.

peace:)

I'm a Chirpy Chappie

2005-06-16T22:36:00.000+01:00

Yay:)

I'm a happy little bunny:)

I have an interview for the screenwriting course next week.

Yeah I'll cock it up.... but the fact is, I got my shit together and I have an interview:)

peace:)

Writer's Claws

2005-06-16T15:45:00.000+01:00

Anyone who tells you writers are not competative, is a liar.

Another conversation from last night stemmed from my doing a bit of name dropping. As you may or may not know I have a mentor producer at the BBC, who is currently considering a script.
The last I heard was that she would be reading it two weeks ago.
And I happened to mention it to a writer friend, who had a producer at the BBC, but at present doesn't. And he informed me that my producer was currently on maternity leave and was not expected back for another 10 months.
Which at the time was shocking news.

Anywho....

When I got home I emailed her to check this was not the case and to find out what was happening. It turns out that she has been busy working on projects and organising a conference.
Ok she still hasn't read the script but no matter.

The other piece of competition relates to an Open Mic event that I am helping to organise.

There is another event that happens on a tri-monthly basis in Bradford, which aims at a completely different crwod to that which we are hoping to attract.

Anywho....

I was told last night that the organiser of this event had gone off on one because our event is going to be in gay-pub. And how he was uncomfortable about being around gays because he felt that he was being leered at. Which is of course laughable.
Not least because I am not even sure if the venue is a gay-pub. I know the landlord is as bent as a nine bob note, but I can't see that matters in the slightest.... and just because the Landlord is gay it doesn't follow that the drinkers will be.

And the other irony is that everyone whitters on about the mantra of inclusion but then continues with their petty prejudices.... me included:)

peace:)

The Creation of Self

2005-06-16T12:36:00.000+01:00

One of the issues to come out of the discussion last night was the question of race and writing. This came up because one of the writers talking about their work was a chap called Taj. I have known him for about two years, through various poetry events.

He has recently had a play on at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. It is an 'Asian' play in so-musch-as the characters are Asian, but rather than it being a play that deals with suicide bombers, racism, politics, arranged marriages etc.... it was set in a pool hall and was more about.... well more about a group of friends in a pool hall.

Afterwards over a pint I got chatting with him, and we discussed the issues of race/upbringing/culture and writing. This is always a tricky point for me, because I am not a leftie (and therefore hind-bound to the conventional notions of out-of-date wooly Liberal thinking) , and I do firmly believe that we are all the product of our upbringing and that no ammount of banner waving political correctness can change that.

The most dangerous area that we entered was in relation to talking about DW Griffiths' film, Birth of a Nation. Which to me, who has read a fair ammount of American history and understand the myths on which the film is based, and the historical perspective from which these myths were created, is not simply a piece of racist filth. Nor is it a film that can simply be seen as an example of ground-breaking cinema in terms of the technique.

Sure it is a film that needs careful handling.

But the simple truth is that the incestuous nature of Southern society prior to the civil war, and the sheer depravity of slavery was always going to lead to a situation in which violence was the pre-dominant virtue. One needs only to consider the Northern Senator who was beaten to within an inch of his life by a Southern Senator on the floor of Congress to understand that the Southern States did not have the mindset that allowed debate (not least because without slavery they would have been bankrupt, not because slavery was a positive institution, but because the slaves themselves were capital in a business sense. And because they had little or no manufactuiring industry). Plus there is the issue of Cuba and Central America, which entered American political life in the period when a mathmatical equation was sought to balance the Free and Slave states. A period which was to reach it's bloody epitome in the bleeding of Kansas.

I'm not sure he got the subtlety of my arguement.

Though on a related point. Years ago I had a Sikh mate called Angus. Who was very pleased when I pointed out to him, that in the region from which his family originally came, 40,000 men from the army of Alexander the Great, had deserted. Which he took as an explanation for why his wife had green eyes. Whether or not she is descended from one of these ancient Greeks, who can say.... but it is a myth that suited him to believe.

peace:)

Dramatic News

2005-06-15T22:04:00.000+01:00

I went to a talk at the university tonight on writing plays.

It was very interesting and very useful.

I took they things from it.

1) That inspiration comes in the writing and not in the planning. That the heart is found in the fifth draft and not the first. And that dullness can be made interesting if you can get the characters right.

2) I am not the only one who hates theatre audiences for being too middle class. Nor I am the only one who writes from a position of hatred at being unaccepted.

3) That I should get on with things. The reason I am not a great play write has more to do with the fact that I haven't got a complete stage play, than it does with my lacking talent.

It was also nice to meet up with some people that I haven't seen in ages. And to do a little name dropping.

peace:)

On Love

2005-06-15T18:09:00.000+01:00

I have mentioned the disastrous recent affair. One of the reasons for my withdrawal was that during the time I was seeing this person, I didn't write a single love poem. I wrote a great deal of poetry but there was no straight love poetry. And this realization came as a shock. I did, and do still love this person, yet for some reason I could not or cannot express this in words.

Which kind of leads to the question of what a love poem is. Because as I tried top explain to her, I would have written poems to her, but I wanted to avoid cliche. Yet a classical love poem is usually no more than a string of cliches, and it is these cliches that convince whilst wooing.

Another puzzle is that on any empirical scale the women is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful I have known. And she certainly provided enough subject matter on which to lay an emotionally charged packet of words. Yet when I tried, what came out was far from love, and perhaps more closely aligned with it's mirror: hate.

My reason for bringing this up is twofold.

The first is that I have just listened to a talk on the radio in which it was proposed that one of the reasons we fall in love is because the other person promotes in us the side of ourselves that we find most appealing. They in effect call the character on which our myth is built to the centre stage.

This was certainly not the case with this person. Since whenever I was with her, when faced with the choice between my base instincts and my higher self, I always choose my base instincts, since that way she could not under-cut me.

The other reason is more prosaic. The love poems that I have written that I like the most, are always written when I have not been in a relationship. They generally come out of experiments with form and style, and usually they are not written as love poems at all.... And it is other's that have labeled them so at public readings.

This is not surprising. Because the moments when we feel the pull of love most intently, are those times at which a pen is least likely to be at hand.

peace:)

.... from your elbow....

2005-06-15T09:47:00.000+01:00

One of the things that did interest me recently, was on Monday I went to the poetry evening at the Beehive. And, one of the poets read a short poem, that worked but there was something about it that wasn't quite right. It was suggested that he read it backwards. And for some strange reason it really worked, and even more perversely it worked in a narrative sense too.

I have wondered about this, and the only thing I can think of is that poetry tends to be contructed line by line, and only when you reach the end to you have a clear sense of what you were trying to say. Therefore, by working backwards it is like the retracing of steps, until you reach the blank of the first line.

So I thought I would give it a try.

This is a poem called Underclass.
It was written when I was homeless and working in a chocolate factory with illegal immigrants.... some of whom were later to die in the Morcambe Bay cockling tragedy... I don't know this for sure.... but I have good reason to suspect that is what happened.

The structure of the poem is meant to be 'look up, look down, look up' .... i.e. that if you don't look down, you will not see the reality.... and comes from that saying by Oscar Wilde, 'we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars.'

Anywho....

Underclass
Emerging from storm clouds,
the moon sweps into a sea
of midnight blue.

The immigrants appear,
bussed at high speed
from bedsits.

The moon is cold
with a dusting of clouds
gently lapping at the rain.

and backwards

Underclass
Gently lapping at the rain,
with a dusting of clouds
the moon is cold.

From bedsits,
bussed at high speed
the immigrants appear.

Of midnight blue,
the moon sweeps into a sea
emerging from storm clouds.

I just picked the poem at random, but the technique does bring a definite change of tone and mood.

peace:)

Stuff

2005-06-14T23:39:00.000+01:00

I went to Wicked Words in Leeds.

It was in some ways a successful evening. I got a few more names and email addresses for the Taking the Mic project. And I got to speak to a few poeple that I have been meaning to speak to. And for the first time I got up and read my poems without hiding behind a piece of paper.... yeah sure it is the same poems that I have been reading for the past few weeks, and to be honest I am getting a little bored with them.... well bored isn't exactly the right term.

I realised what it was as I was walking home. It's that I don't have anyone to share these little triumphs with. I go out, I do my best and then I come home to the same four walls. Though I guess that the flip-side of this is that I don't have to put up with the shit that a woman would bring.... i.e non-stop talking about her 'issues'.

I didn't stay for the guest, Nik Tochek. I'm not a fan of his work, and the fact that he was there with a keyboard player was enough to make me come home. I am not particualrly a purist, but I can honestly say that I have never seen anyone whose poems are improved by having them set to music.... and I have never seen anyone who can make a Yamaha organ sound anything other than amateur. And besides, he was ignoring me as much as I was ignoring him.

Still when I got home, there was an email from Pam at the BBC to say that she would give me a referance for the college application. Which was nice.

The trouble is that at the moment I just want the various projects resolved one way or another. In fact what I want is that by the end of the week I have an answer one way or another.... a rejection would be better than this not knowing.... at least then I can either get on with the projects.... or go and look for something else.

peace:)

Thinking Allowed

2005-06-14T18:03:00.000+01:00

I've been blogging for over year now, first on modblog, and then on Xanga: between them those two blogs got 40,000 visitors, which I think is a minor triumph.

I am kind of a little in two minds about whether to keep this just for me and whoever finds it, or to go all out and be a visitor whore. For now I think I will keep quiet about things.

The last blog, on Xanga, seemed to upset a great many people. Not that I set out to be offensive, but, and I guess anyone who has blogged for a while will know this, the style of writing is pretty direct. And there is also the issue of it being 'your' space. Ok you might argue that that gives extra responsibility about what you actually write. But it would be an argument you will be having on your own. I shan't be joining in. I shall be too busy saying what I have to say.

Don't get the idea that I am reckless. It's just at the end of the day, I am not trying to change the world, only having a voice.

I say all this, which is only really thinking aloud, because one of the reasons for the move is that the Xanga site stopped being a daily record of my thoughts etc, because huge chunks of it were removed because of a disastrous relationship that I found myself caught up in.

note to self: avoid women who think they are clever.

Anywho....

I just wanted to get that off my chest.

I'm off out to Wicked Words in Leeds to do a bit of versifying.

peace:)

News of my Death... yadda, yadda....

2005-06-14T13:40:00.000+01:00

I thought I would give this a try.

You don't need to know the details of why I closed down the Xanga site.... Not least because I am not entirely sure myself, but when you're a nut....

Anywho....

The past few days have been a bit strange, because I have found myself thinking, 'that's interesting, I shall blog that when I get home.' And then thinking, 'But eeore, you don't have a blog anymore.'

Well I do now precious.....

And what's more I have a blog that is clean and fresh and not bunged up with nastiness and all the angsty stuff that the other's got filled with. Which is probably the reason for my move to a new site. Since according to my stars, I should adopt a new sunny outlook on life and stop being so cynical.... yeah right on Doctor.....

Oh well.... I guess the only thing that remains to be said is 'Hello.'

peace:)