Author: ivan

Le mojo c’est tombe en panne. I think that means it’s French. Does that mean it’s covered in bread? French bread? Like a Pret-A-Ris morsel? An idea sandwich that has gone slightly stale and sits limply alongside the novelty flavoured pasties on the shelf of the third fridge from the door in the motorway service station outside Llandudno (is there a motorway there? I’ve no idea. I’m fairly sure there is a Llandudno – even though I’ve never been there – I’m not going to fall for that whole tree falling in a forest malarkey AGAIN. It exists. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a service station on a motorway outside it. Assuming there is a motorway. GAH! Foiled! Curses! I shall have to change my secret pasty-drop-spot shelf. (S)pies are everywhere. (Sorry, sorry, sorry, that was dreadful)).

Anyhoo. Idea sandwiches. Must send that off to Steve Coogan vis a vis the third series. Although why Alan Partridge would appear in ‘Bread idol – the contintenal version’, I’m not sure. Although I do like the idea of the judges throwing granary rolls at each other.

Ok. Forget the sandwiches. I’ve had a slow few days, writing wise. I’ve been adjusting some key plot points, plus the obligatory jotting them down on paper, then in Storylines, then in my plotline document, and finally in my pseudo-first draft. At no stage has anyone leant over and said ‘my God, that’s genius’. No matter how much I waft my notebook about. Philistines. Philistines with their own lives and ringtones and cups of coffee.

I’ll show them. But maybe not just yet. I’ve got some more editing to do. You know how it is. Wouldn’t want them tutting. NO TUTTING! Or tsking. Tsking is very bad. Although now I’m forced to think about it, it’s probably better that there is no reaction at all. Or perhaps no reaction until I offer them a sandwich.

And (obviously) at no stage have I bothered to, you know, actually commit any sentences to paper / screen that were not full of dates and angst-ridden notes to myself. I’m fairly sure that Joyce didn’t have a notebook full of entries saying ‘why does Stephen do this?’. Although it would have made for a better film….(ducks, then crawls under the carpet for good measure).

Which is a very long winded way of saying it’s Wednesday. Should they make bread that tuts and tsks when it’s toasted? Musical bread? ‘Toast is burning, toast is burning, come save me, come save me…’ etc

Bread’s complimacated. Ideas more so. Give me back my mojo.

I’ve just had a supper of ginger nuts and baked beans.  And a rather cheeky Rioja.  Although why wine gets described as ‘cheeky’ is beyond me.  I’ve seen them make it.  ‘Footy’ or ‘cheesy’ or even ‘buniony’ would be more apposite.

For the record, I don’t really recommend it – ginger nuts and baked beans that is.  If you want to jump around in grapes then go ahead. I think ginger beans and baked nuts would have been better.  Or possibly more Rioja.  Definitely not ginger wine though.  Now that is ‘cheeky’.

None of which excuses the fact I’ve done no writing today except on this ere silly thing.

I feel morally obliged now to waste a good deal of time research possible uses for baked beans.  I suspect it is easier than writing.  Hell, I could even make my characters eat baked beans.  Kill two beans with one stone….

So.  I treated myself today.  I miss my vinyl .  For a couple of years now I’ve been meaning to get the kit to digitise my collection, which has been in boxes for the best part of five years now.  Anyhoo.  So one of these and one of these later, I am now the proud owner of…, well, a very pissed off mood.

By definition, my favourite records were played a lot.  So they’re in less than ideal condition.  In fact, some of them are awful.  So – not only do I not have some old tunes for reminiscing, I am (a) poorer and (b) robbed of the illusion that one day I could digitise my music and be instantly hip again.

I also have a somewhat confused recollection of my records.  I seem to own an awful lot of 7″ inch singles by bands I had entirely forgotten about (Gilded Lil?  Spraydog?  Velocette,  Kings of Infinite Space, 18 Wheeler, Travis (when they were good), Spacemaid, Kerosene, Urge Overkill (before they had that big hit)… and on and on and on) – a victim of both my habit of buying singles based on their covers or from helping out at too many small town gigs, getting drunk and buying all the merchandise (I still have a Speed Urchin t-shirt somewhere, which I doubt even the band have).

And the decent records, well, most of them have been replaced – either on CD or through iTunes.  Although neither can quite compensate for the sticker saying ‘Special Limited Edition Purple Vinyl’ or the truly hideous picture discs.  It’s also vaguely quaint to see band information without so much as an email address.  Although I don’t miss my fanzine days.  Much.

I’m really annoyed.  I very rarely treat myself to something big, and this is a big lemon.  And to make things even more fun, I’d also forgotten that the boxes had been got at by some mice in a previous existence, so there’s little nibbled bits of paper all over the floor as well.

In the grand scheme of things, not a biggie.  But still.  Argh. And no closer to replacing  Afghan Whigs – ‘My World is Empty Without You’ as my favourite song to get upset about.
Of course, the one redeeming factor is that it’s all hugely ironic.  And therefore goes in the ‘credit’ column for the novel.  I’ll just explain that to the bank one day….

Any thoughts on what to do with an Austrian turntable that’s so retarded it doesn’t even have a switch to change speeds (you have to lift the plate and move the belt.  WHAT was I thinking?)?

… is how you get to make really good friends with the people that really matter in life.  Mr Vacuum Cleaner.  Little Miss Iron.  Mr Kettle.  Mrs Pot.  Sometimes they breed or you forget what you’re doing until you’re doing the ironing with the teapot and trying to retract the cord on the iron.

Seriously.  Is there a better way to discover teas of the world or keeping a (relatively) clean house than pretending to write a novel crafting away over the minutae of imaginary people’s lives….

I’m eating some Christmas presents as compensation.  They don’t make socks as tasty as they used to.  They used to stitch the chevron pattern on men’s socks with licorice, for when times were hard.  I saw some ‘dairy licorice chews’ in Marks and Spencers yesterday (hand-rolled on the thighs of Dervla Kerwan’s nan, no less) which sounded just about the most disgusting thing imaginable.  And speaking as someone who likes to put jam and mustard on vegeburgers (quite possibly because I’m not a vegetarian) I think this is high drama indeed.

My little spreadsheet of word count vs days is beginning to wilt a bit.  Perhaps I need to find a different measure of success.  Like getting an agent.  La la, I can hear the badgers singing.  Perhaps I should simply load up my Stephen King editing specs and laser out all the adverbs from my writing.  And then start taking out bank statements.  And before you know it I will be KING OF THE WORLD!!!  Through the removal of adverbs I will cripple humanity.  Slowly.  DAMN!  I must exterminate myself.
Any writers out there care to share how they measure a good day?  Is it simply a case of counting the mugs of tea?

A very interesting and busy week, in which I have been excited no less than four times.  Four!  And one of them wasn’t even imaginary!

Ok.  Four was an exaggeration, but it’s been a good week, which, as is the nature of these things, means I haven’t had time to blog for the benefit of my one reader.  Speaking of which – rather pathetically, I was more pleased with the first comment received on this blog (thanks Julia) than with winning the best business website of the year in 2005.

But not as much as two hours spent with one of my best friends talking through some plot points on the novel.  And being reminded that understanding what motivates your characters is vital to keeping your readers with you, particularly when the characters are a little, um, odd.

And not as much as illustrating a point at work (a ‘business’ point, as opposed to a CBB point, or a point-to-point or a pied-a-terre or mangetout or debating whether Kevin Costner’s career peaked at The Untouchables (it did, it so did)) by doing a cockney geezer walk.  It wasn’t a 2.0 walk either.  It was an old school walk, much like George, the hofmeister bear (apparently created by the same man who invented the Honey Monster which must have been a tremendous stretch for him – after all, who could have thunk of TWO men in oversized furry suits with funny walks and stupid voices).  I did, however, dispense with the hat.

Did you follow the bear today?

Don’t hate me for what I am I not
Don’t hate me for what I didn’t say
Don’t hate me for what I didn’t do

Hate me because of I…

Wine, whine away my tears
my eyes red and conscience said.
I played my part, I played my part.
Bottle green and thoughts unseen
of feelings mean and feelings keen.
Upset as my applecart
by your sudden change of heart.
I shrank my world
and drank my tears away.

Your soul’s up for auction, no known reserve,
Blank out the people, hold your nerve.
Shoot stares, shoot the breeze
laugh along with the latest web wheeze.
You never meant it to get to this,
news, cameras, commentary axis.
Money.  Your demons want it more than you
sell yourself for your Jimmy Choos
they are more you than you.
Kiss your children, sell your eggs
make the tabloids, shag the dregs.
It’s not your style but now what’s left
but hammer down and the devil’s cleft.
Sell your hole and sell your soul
make your price and pay your toll.

Tired is as tired does,
A rumble tumble bumble buzz.
Lazy days and boring ways
easy meat and easy lays.
So it says.