Chris’s bi-decade-ly visit to the dentist: after…

I'm as happy as these four jumping shadows about leaving the dentist. Although it has to be said that the guy second-from-right looks like he's just been shot after walking on his knees -- not a happy pose. I remember doing the second-from-left pose a few times to scare my brother when we were younger. I'd hide in the dark behind the wall outside the bathroom and then scare him half to death when he stepped outside. Happy days!

It is now after, and amazingly, after doesn’t hurt any more than before! And no, I’m not writing this through the haze of an alcoholic stupor – they just didn’t do anything yet apart from have a look. You may be aware that in my first post, written just minutes before I left the house, I made a few predictions about how the experience was going to transpire, and more or less let slip my howling fear of dentists and all things dentists are into (something I prefer not to ponder very often, but if forced to guess what music most dentists are into I’d hazard a guess and say either Elton John or, just maybe, Meatloaf. And who knows, perhaps a bit of Prince?).

Well, the thing is, that makes me feel a bit stupid, because now I sit here and tell you that all my predictions were wrong. In a bizarre twist of logic, not only were they all wrong, but none were even remotely close. There was no awkward long walk up some very narrow stairs – it was on the ground floor of a bungalow located in a car-park where you’d expect to see a vets, perhaps – and there weren’t even any other people in the Waiting Room to annoy me. Not one person. This fact was made stranger still – disturbing, even – by the receptionist lady insisting to me that they were fully booked up and “really very busy”; even adding to the gravity of the illusion by having a simultaneous slightly hot flush. Inexplicably, she was also wearing one of those black V-neck shirts like the bad Karate guys wore in Karate Kid (the chief sensei, or leader of which, was an ex-Special Forces Vietnam veteran, no less!). I resisted the urge to make a passing comment about this, one of my favourite films growing up – I had in mind something along the lines of “me and Mr Miagi will fight you all the way! Nothing will break us!” an invented quote which would have addedyet more drama to the film I feel – and went along with her highly developed fantasy; I even looked around the room as she had, pretending to glance at my fellow waiters, and even standing back a bit to let an imaginary person pass. I’m sure that it must get boring being a receptionist in an empty dentist’s practice, so inventing a virtual reality has got to help. I know it helped me when I worked as a picture framer a few years ago in a remote location in the fields of Cambridgeshire. I often imagined that hoards of zombies roamed the countryside and the place where I worked was a fortress where no zombie could penetrate, thus I had no choice but to stay inside and work for what I now know to be a pittance. It really makes it easier to enjoy your job when, at the same time, you feel genuinely lucky to be alive and not one of them.

A lion celebrates his happiness in true original style

Then came the form – a flaccid good-for-nothing series of black lines on poor quality paper. I was a new patient and so, predictably, protocol designated that I must fill out a pointless low-quality form which nobody would ever bother to read (of course, in the true spirit of pointless things, I only found out it was truly pointless well after I’d filled it out and I was in the dentist’s chair where she told me this very thing. This meant that I filled it out in good-boy style, like my first day of school – even going as far as to cross out a couple of words and rewrite them above in very neat capital letters, so as to avoid a detention. A tragic sign of what I prefer to call maturity rather than age). It pleased me that although I had suffered from a serious illness just a few years before, not one of the questions invited me to discuss this further. I enjoyed saying how I wasn’t on any medication and was petrified of going to the dentist’s (Are you scared of going to the dentist’s? Yes I am petrified). Actually I didn’t enjoy it, not once I had written it. Seeing the word petrified on paper really rammed the point home.

I haven’t done a very good job of setting the scene, have I? How selfish. So far I have given the impression that I had entered a building which may have been a vets, only to enter into discourse with a delusional receptionist who doesn’t know the difference between high and low quality paper. Well, allow me to try again: you are standing in a room which is very sparse – a large white room divided by a flimsy MDF wall (covered in a cheap veneer that makes it look like mahogany, sadly; it would seem like the man or woman who designed the forms was let loose on the interior decorating as well…). On the left wall there’s a door which is open invitingly. Straight ahead, but also in the corner of the room, is a closed door with no sign on it, but the voices coming from it tell me that this is where it all happens. As you relax, seated on an actually quite comfy red padded chair — it reminded me of Antiques Roadshow actually, and I didn’t thank it for that because then I was thinking of Bargain Hunt and I have always hated that show — you begin to get more at ease. The lack of signage on the doors is a welcome treat in this hellish place, you now realise; it screams “we’re casual!” and although it’s probably a lie, you embrace it. Then the door opens suddenly and a woman walks out. You immediately think she’s a secretary or a patient – she couldn’t be a dentist. She doesn’t have that grim look on her face that you remember from the braces of your childhood, and besides that she is smiling and having fun with the delusional receptionist.

It happens quickly: by the time the short-but-sweet exchange between the two has ended – the woman walking back to the open door-way – you realise that actually, this is the dentist. It must be. She’s turning her head to you and saying “would you like to come in, Mr…(insert your name here)”.

I was going to continue with that style of writing: let you go and sit in her chair and live it out yourself, suffer the hideousness of it all – I’d have got mean with you, I can tell you – but then I changed my mind. How could I do put you in that situation? If you’re anything like me, sooner or later you’d have started to laugh and be amused at being involuntarily thrust into this scenario, and then you’d maybe have started imagining a different scenario than the one I had put you in (and I know that some of you readers have a very vivid imagination…it would have lost all seriousness if you’d have done something naughty with it, and besides that, this is the dentist’s – no naughty scenario’s allowed. Seriously, this isn’t the time or the place).

Upon entering the room, I found myself bewildered. As bewildered – if not more – as the time, in the last year of Primary School, when I walked into the assembly hall for the yearly School Disco and discovered that the girls and the boys were no longer on opposing sides of the hall but actually all eerily together. The dentist lady, a tall Indian woman who looked way too young to be a dentist – I’d temporarily completely forgotten I was 31 during my short walk to the room – asked me to take a seat and didn’t even look at me menacingly. In the corner of the room sat the up-until-now mystery assistant nurse girl, looking like she didn’t hate her job in that compulsory manner I pointed out in the first blog post, and before me sat a small arm-chair. This was perhaps the most surprising / shocking / unconvincing thing about the room. I’d been expecting this monstrous chair with all kinds of unwelcoming apparatus jutting from it, but this chair lacked all of that. It was small and grey and benevolent, and behind it was a stool for the dentist to perch on. Above it all was one of those special round light’s which didn’t even hurt my eyes as I sat in the chair and commented on how this was all very different to when I grew up as a boy. The nerves talking. And that wasn’t even a pun, I promise.

As the chair made its electronic groan and eased me back into a disarmed lying position, I was alarmed that I was not alarmed. This alarmed me just a bit, but not enough to make me concerned or think about stripping all my clothes off and storming out the room while throwing a £60 note over my shoulder (see previous blog post. For efficiency’s sake, a £60 note worked best in this imaginary invention. It was only afterwards that I realised they didn’t actually exist).

“So, is there anything you’re worried about?” said the dentist. She even smiled and I even found myself believing it to be real. “You’d better tell me, we don’t ever have time to look at the forms!”

Told you they were pointless.

“There is actually…there very much is…” I said, and laughed. It was a full and real laugh, much like the one I’d made months before when disaster struck and landed in the sink, causing instant panic. I quickly concocted an elaborate lie about how none of what I was about to say was really my fault, then remembered I was a grown man and there was nowhere to hide and who was I kidding? “…I’m a bit worried about the half a tooth that fell out a while ago.”

“Oh.” It looks like a serious Oh but it wasn’t. Not compared to when they fitted head-gear on me when I was fourteen and I told my then-dentist that everyone in the school had mocked me one by one. “So how long ago was that? Three months ago, would you say, or more?”

I sighed. “Um…I’d say more…something like eight months.” It was a lie of course, it was more like a year.

She said “let’s have a look and see what we find then.”

I said I knew what she’d find and it’d be awful and both the nurse and the dentist agreed that was likely the case – there was no getting away from the truth. I quite liked their honesty and braced myself for when it wore off and they realised I was ONE OF THOSE PATIENTS. Actually I wished I hadn’t thought of bracing myself at the time. It brought back some crude and callous memories from way down deep…

And it was awful, what she found — I’m not making that up. In my hope and optimism, every time I’d looked at my reflection in the months previous I’d convinced myself that some of the tooth was still there and so really it wasn’t that bad. At least half, so I was safe. I’d even managed to forget that just the week previous to my appointment a rather large chunk of tooth had fallen out. I have the best excuse ever for being terrible at Maths – I’ve got Dyscalculia, woo! – but even I knew that if one half fell out, then followed by another quarter falling out, what was left was no longer a half in any way. Don’t think about that sentence too much, it might well remind you of those horrible GCSE questions which were devised only to damage people who are sympathetic with my inability to do numbers.

Did I say I can be a bit of a chocolate and cake fiend? Well, I certainly can. It’s something I have under control, honest, but also something that is inevitable when you’re put on a very restricted diet by your doctor. For a whole year I wasn’t allowed to eat anything with refined sugar in – including some fruits and natural products – and so when I started eating chocolate again I really enjoyed it and really took advantage. The enjoyment came back to me in one big haunting wave, now, as the dentist said: “it’ll need to be removed of course, but you knew that I’m sure.”

I nodded. “It had crossed my mind. So what’s next?”

“Next we yank your tooth out, right here right now.”

My face did a spasm. “…Yank?”

She laughed, and it was no wonder she got on so well with the delusional receptionist. “That was an attempt at humour, sorry.”

“Awesome. Well done.”

This seemed to please her.

“No, next we do X-rays,” she said, and in a flash she was shoving strange square metal things in my mouth and pointing a big white gun thing at me, before leaving the room in a hurry. Too much of a hurry.

It was over soon after that. First I got to look at the X-rays on the screen and learn a little bit about black shadows – the only kind of proper shadows, and ones that mark the presence of plaque if you’re at all interested – and second I got to choose either to wait for months for an appointment to have the remains of my tooth out and have my teeth professionally cleaned, or to pay £15 more and have it done before pain exploded and ripped through my body. I chose the latter — to pay more, I mean — I left, and I felt like a new man. A seasoned dentist-visiting-pro who could hopefully help to put others at ease in the future. Next time I knew I’d be able to wait with the best of them, whether they were invisible waiters or terrified real waiters like the man I had once been.

Chris’s bi-decade-ly visit to the dentist: before and after

There would usually be a dentistry-related photo above this caption, but really, who wants to look inside someone’s mouth? Instead here is an angry Badger, perhaps moments after a Set invasion.

Today it’s finally happening, again…the day has arrived and I am going to the dentist; there’s no way out of it (unless I bottle it at the last minute, which will incur a £60 fine. And you can be sure that I am still using this as a backup! Paying £60 to avoid a miserable thing is definitely worth it). It’s something each and every one of us has to deal with, and an experience which I absolutely despise — always have, always will. So, to chart this one, I’ve decided to do a before and after blog post about the experience. Yes, I’m going to drag you down with me — if you like. Do you really blame me?

See…I’ve had this very dull, barely noticeable, nagging tooth-ache for a while now. It’s not my fault, honest it isn’t. I really did register with a new surgery in July and it really has taken this long to get an appointment. I’ll hold my hands up and say that it took me about a year to actually pick up the phone and book that appointment — I am well aware I’m my own worst enemy — but at the same time, we’re all allowed a few rational fears, aren’t we? Because going to the dentist is never a nice experience. Especially when they start calling out the letters and numbers…

Here are my Predictions:

1) Someone in the Waiting Room is going to annoy me or frustrate me or irritate me. It probably won’t even be their fault, but at that moment I simply won’t care. The faces of the fellow waiters will probably annoy me to be honest; if they’re as worried as I am then they’re bound to get on my nerves even more, what with their expressions-of-woe. I can only hope that I am seated amongst waiters who are confident and unbothered by going to see the dentist. Although thinking about it, if that is the case that’s bound to annoy me mildly as well. Actually I may just have to wait outside. Failing that, I’ll crouch in the corner of the room and stare at the wall. Yes.

2) The dentist will act like he or she is pleased to see me, swiftly followed by them jokingly — or not — acting like actually they are not pleased to see me.

3) I will attempt small-talk as a poor and feeble attempt at distracting them from my teeth. Especially the one on the left — a molar? — which has half fallen out. I know this is not in my interest, but I can assure you right now that as this happens I won’t particularly care.

4) The nurse will be a trainee and, although it’s not his / her fault — though I am saying now that I think it’ll likely be a girlish woman — they will write something down wrong and this will mean the dentist has to stop looking in my mouth and help him / her sort it out. All the time I will be left there trying desperately to hold my mouth wide open.

5) The second I shut my mouth the dentist, who is not even looking at me at the time, will say “please open your mouth as wide as you can”.

6) The walk up to the room of terror will be long and drawn out. I anticipate obstacles in the way so as to increase the tension. I also fully expect to bump into a pregnant woman on her way down, and, as the stair-way is so narrow I will have to walk backwards down the stairs and wait for her to pass. Before going up, again.

7) I will be told off needlessly. I say needlessly because you know and I know that the dentist is not doing this for free. Yet, nonetheless, they will feel it is a good idea to bollock me for not having visited them when half my tooth fell out (6 months before I booked my appointment…I think).

8) I will call the dentist a bad name under my breath once going back down the narrow stairs. This time I will take full advantage of my right-of-way and make the life of the person coming the other way a right proper misery by being all slow and holding my face. I am not usually like this, honest.

Ways I’m going to deal with it:

1) I’m going to pretend that the dentist is just a really nice, really friendly hairdresser who, on this particular day, has decided — on a whim — to have the entire salon completely gutted and replaced with lots of stainless-steel equipment. A hairdresser who just likes to casually look in mouths every so often. Nothing to worry about then, nothing to fear.

2) When he or she starts calling out the letters and the names — I expect F to feature heavily, as usual — I’m going to cancel them out by saying, just in my head, the names of funny sounding pets. F8 might become Susan McSpoosan the Hamster, for example. Or maybe Bernard Nobanobazing the ferret. I anticipate this will make me at least smile and maybe even laugh. Obviously I don’t want to push this too far, because he or she might tell me to stop laughing and keep my mouth open. Worse, he or she might ask me what I am laughing at, which will only extend the period of time spent in that bloody chair. Yes, I definitely need to tread carefully here.

3) I’m going to tell myself that, at any moment in time, I can just say “Alright bollocks, that’s enough! I’m leaving! take my £60 or the clothes off my back and my arse if you like, just let me go right now.” Worse things do happen. This probably won’t have been the first time someone has stripped off and chucked their personal possessions at them and bolted out the door.

It is 13:42…it’s time for me to face my demons and go.

The Birthday post

If you want to, cry on your Birthday. If you're completely confused, it means you are really very young and set to grow up with more debt than your parents. Good for you!

31 years ago today, and thanks to my Dad’s rather eager sperm, my poor Mother – one big haired, blonde, Shirley Rita Pink of Harston, Cambridgeshire – was enduring one of the five most painful experiences of her life (three of those other occasions were giving birth to my brother and sister and I, the fourth was learning to drive – something which I am brutally reminded of whenever I get in the car on a day when she has decided to wear shoes which she wouldn’t usually wear for driving, and ideally shouldn’t. Only joking Mum, you’re a great driver! As long as you wear the right shoes…). Mum has never talked much about giving birth and how it was for her, other than to say that everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Spectacularly. And my Mum is a woman who does not mince her words, I can assure you (she always says exactly what she thinks about run-away success Strictly Come Dancing, and she should know — she used to be a ballet dancer).

While a lot of people actually have annoyingly hassle-free pregnancies, where everything falls into place and the pain and the stress is minimal, Mum really suffered with all her births, especially my older sister Natalie – so much so that it’s remarkable this version of me even exists. Just imagine, or don’t, as I prefer…had I been born a few months earlier or later I might have never ended up as a freelance writer who is frequently able to choose his waking hour. I might have become a banker, I might have become anything else. And I’ve always despised early mornings, so I am grateful.

See, not only was Natalie the world’s most miniature premature baby, but with that came all kinds of terrible complications; Natalie had breathing difficulties and heart problems galore, and the stress of it all did its fair share to kick my my Mum in good and proper, too.

So one thing I have never quite understood about Birthdays, is why the Mums get so little recognition. OK, so I did my bit and somehow naturally got myself in the right position so that the delivery wasn’t too much of a nightmare — at least, compared to my sister’s exotic escape — but I had no idea I was doing that, did I? It was pure chance. I was probably just fed-up of being in that position for too long and fancied a change, as babies do. It was Mum who bore the strain. Mum who had to carry me for many months, and Mum who had to get through the agonising pain of having to look at my Dad who was getting off completely scott-free, not me. That’s why I often feel a bit weird about celebrating my birthday — the day when Mum had a horrendous C-section, and forever after her body was never quite the same. Although clearly I don’t feel that weird about it, nor have I ever protested along with many other like-minded individuals about how there ought to be a special day for Mum’s everywhere, something more personal than just a collective and commercially lurid Mother’s Day. Because this morning I gratefully accepted a number of gifts, and not once did I turn to dearest Mum and say, “Here, I feel bad accepting all these nice things, why don’t you have them all? Why don’t you take that £50 note? Would you like some 85% dark chocolate?” What I will say is that it’s probably good that I didn’t offer her the Alan Partridge book to be honest. I really don’t think she’d appreciate it as much as I will, and she’s never been much of a fan of dark chocolate (she says it’s too bitter).

Putting all the giving birth stuff to one side for a moment – watch where you put that hypothetical Placenta, please… – one of the things I really like about modern birthdays is the Facebook thing. So what if most of the people on your friends list probably wouldn’t remember your birthday were it not for the fact that Facebook automatically makes all your friends aware of it, whether they like it or not. Does it really matter that the Birthday is spoon-fed to them? Not to me. I’m bloody awful at remembering birthdays so I appreciate any help I can get. While it’s true that Facebook certainly does an excellent job of guilt-tripping all your mates into writing something on your Wall, even if some of them rarely speak to you – who, really, can resist writing on the wall when every time they log in they see that little reminder in the corner of the screen? – the act of writing on someone’s FB Wall is still something special. Sacred, in a certain kind of way that transcends the seemingly too-easy simplicity of it all. At least to me. What makes it even better, I think, is when people take it upon themselves to invent an ingenious way to say Happy Birthday. I don’t want to single any one particular person(s) out here, but it’s definitely something which helps to make the world go round. On Birthdays, you should always forgive bad grammar and spelling mistakes. You should always thank everyone for bothering: thank you all for bothering!

Lastly, Birthdays are, to some degree, all about the cards and the presents and the feeling that today is something to be remembered — for example, today will be remembered as the day I got a great jumper from my girlfriend, and the day that Nana Pink rang up to actually sing the entire long version of Happy Birthday to you… down the phone at me, without stopping once to feel besieged by embarrassment — a fine attribute which I fear only comes with age. I don’t care what anyone says about being materialistic, or how militant you are about giving and receiving gifts: it just feels good to know that someone has taken it upon themselves to give you something from the bottom of their heart. For me it’s never been about the size or cost of the item, and it’s certainly never been about asking for something specific. For me it’s just nice to know that someone cares you did exit the womb on this day.

Update: It’s been pointed out to me that this post could be perceived as inaccurate and unfair, and that it makes out that many women have easy pregnancies when this is in fact not the case at all. It’s difficult for me to say any more, without having a comprehensive understanding of it all. What I will say is that this post is based purely on my own limited experiences and I am in no way suggesting that these are the same as everyone elses.

It’s war against leaves

This photo of a lonely leaf is testament to how brutal the war against leaves has become. I typed Leaf covered path into Google and couldn't find one suitable photo. There were many of half-covered paths, but none that portrayed the rare sight I'd seen this morning. Unless I imagined it, which right now is looking more likely.

Rejoice, for Autumn is here once again! A majestic time…a time of golden leaves tumbling in the wind, a time of magic, prosperity, and simple pleasures like walking over rustling leaves (and if you’re really daring, taking a proper run-up and kicking a carefully collected pile of said leaves all over the place just for the sheer hell of it – something which has to be timed properly if you live in a village like me, less a nosy old lady sees you and starts a rumour that there is a 30 year-old bearded hooligan on the prowl…).

Actually don’t rejoice. And don’t even ponder walking over rustling leaves, even less kicking them in a moment of childish pleasure. How can you when everywhere you go, the unfair victimization of leaves is taking place and there are no leaves to be found in any great number, like back in the good old days? At one time, for a period of many hundreds of thousands of years, leaves were allowed to fall wherever nature intended, bringing happiness and colour to the lives of people all over the place. But not so now — at least, apart from a few isolated and untouched path-ways, like the one I trod this morning on the way back from the Post Office. Now, leaves are seen by many bone-headed spoilsports as a natural enemy: a menacing force of nature that must be kept in check through whatever means are necessary.

And please don’t give me any of the following excuses for why leaves need to be kept in check, because they won’t wash with me or any of my pro-leaf posse.

1) Leaves become slippery when wet, causing a health & safety hazard to people with dodgy legs or dodgy eyes, or even people who don’t always look where they are going: ancient hepatitis-carrying 2 pence pieces are also very much a health & safety hazard, don’t you think? It goes without saying you can’t easily trip up on them, of course – unless you happen to be wading across an oil spill where a lorry transporting tons of lethal pennies has recently crashed – but hepatitis, which causes swelling and inflammation of the Liver, is still awful, just look at Mick Hucknall’s face, where his Liver is located. Actually I just made that up. There’s nothing medically wrong with Mick Hucknall’s face, and as far as I know it his Liver is ginger but fine. Aside from that, people with dodgy legs and dodgy eyes should avoid leaves or face the consequences. Or at the very least tell the people they are with to steer them away from them. As for people who don’t look where they are going, if I was a meaner person I might say something here about hepatitis and who deserves to get it, but I won’t, because I’m nicer than that.

2) I own a business and every single Autumn, the leaves fall on the pavement outside it and make it troublesome for customers to make it to the front door without falling over and breaking a leg or an arm and suing us: grow up! How old are you, five? Actually forget I said that — I know five-year-olds who would kick you in the shins if you even suggested that you were like them. The point, if you still need telling, is that the leaves were there long before you. Just go and find a premise’s where there are no trees around for miles, will you? It’s a good job trees don’t get the hump with people and say “I tell you what, we’re sick of all our leaves being stolen, we’re not going to be the lungs of the planet anymore!”

3) Leaves make driving difficult: so does the rising price of oil, suicidal squirrels and the Great British phenomenon of suspension-killing pot-holes.

4) Only dull-coloured leaves fall where I live. If they were a brighter and more Autumnal colour like in the movies I might smile and feel happy when Autumn arrives. I might never have become the leaf-averted person I am to this day. Things would have been different, I’m sure of it: I suggest you take this up with the people responsible for planting trees in your area many generations ago. Except they will be long dead, so you’re better off writing a letter to their descendants, who will no doubt be so used to receiving such letters that they already have a letter ready to send back to you. Failing that, a psychologist might come in handy. Or just a lot of LSD.

And now we’re on the subject of people who have an aversion to leaves and feel the need to blast them away with those ridiculous blowing-machine-things – or even worse, those who hire small armies of organized, like-minded buffoons who callously spend their days staring at the ground like it might at any moment rise up and spit on them – another thing has occurred to me: the name leaves, as in leaves us alone, or leaf me be! You’d have thought, really, that with this word and these messages now being embedded in the consciousness of society, the last thing anybody would want to do is remove our amazing autumnal gift.

For me, and maybe it is just me, if you take leaves away that’s like pretending that Autumn doesn’t really exist. Why not just stick with picking on Winter instead? We all know that’s the real culprit.

Jealous of Ray Mears

Ray Mears wearing a suit with bow-tie: a situation infinitely less probable than Ann Widdecombe being photographed displaying a sexy smile

Imagine you are flying through the air; it’s something you do more or less constantly, but despite that it never gets boring. You’re a small bird with big dreams, and today you might well be feeling ‘blissful’. The tragic fact about how you feel, of course, is that you don’t really know how you feel, because your brain is much too small to afford you the luxury of such knowledge. What a shame. But what does that matter when you’re flying through the—

Something stops you and pain rushes through your wings, your beak, those small things you use to grip onto twigs with. You sqwuark, and you try and escape but it’s hopeless, and the more you wriggle the more trapped you feel. Somehow the air has become a kind of trap, and now you’ve really done it…you’ve wriggled so much that your head has got strangled and there is pressure all around it! Your wings aren’t doing much better either. Basically you’re a mess! Your poor little feet are stuck and mangled with a kind of black stuff, too. If birds knew swear words, right now you’d be saying “I’m fucked! I’m done for!” Instead, you are just struck with the frustration of being still when you could be hurtling through the air. That in itself is more than a bit of a bummer.

This was the horrific scenario thrust upon me when I turned over to ITV yesterday and found myself watching Wild Britain with the infamous outdoors-man known as Ray Mears. “The netting is designed to hold the bird firmly in place and doesn’t harm them at all,” said the remarkably un-feminine looking woman who was the warden of this nature reserve where all these horrendous traps were placed. “Sort of like a hammock, then,” said Ray, actually believing this utter nonsense. Yes Ray, if a nice relaxing afternoon in a hammock is spent after being fired from a cannon into it, where for hours afterwards you are forced to spend your time wriggling and writhing, convinced that as this feels pretty awful, probably only much worse things are to come…(the only good thing about being completely ignorant about your fate, of course, is that you don’t know how bad it might get).

But enough about the allegedly painless bird traps which Ray and nature reserve wardens all over the UK thoroughly endorse – people do much worse things I suppose, and just one of John Barrowman’s 360 degree spins on Tonight The Night is much more sinister. Really, I’m just jealous, very jealous, of Ray’s highly developed ability to enjoy the simple things in life. So will you be by the end of this blog post.

For example, another part of the programme featured Ray wandering through English rivers. How much was he loving this? Words cannot describe, but for the sake of cutting this short right here, right now, what the hell, I’m going to try. Probably the best way to demonstrate just how much pleasure Ray got from marauding through the river – in his tall wellies, quietly destroying thousands of years worth of marine life while paradoxically explaining how the rivers were under threat from the terrible world we live in – is to say how he went about creeping up on fish for the sake of pure enjoyment. That’s right, creeping up on fish. Why would anyone creep up on a fish, I hear you cry? Well, apparently fish are very good at keeping a look out through the clear water, just in case a predator approaches. When that predator is a six-foot-tall, slightly overweight nature enthusiast, I’m fairly sure that even the dimmest brown trout can detect that, so what Ray does is get down on his front and wriggle his way to the water’s edge. Following that he lies there smiling like a goon for a very, very long time — probably while his wife sobs at home, wondering if she will ever be made love to with the same kind of passion that her husband shows for limpets and toads.

Let's not even go there, OK?

And that’s what I mean by jealous: most people need to spend money to enjoy themselves, or at least spend time in the company of like-minded, alcohol swilling humans. But not Ray — alcohol can go to hell as far as Ray is concerned! Give him a small river, some wellies and the potential lure of some cherished memories and that’s enough for him.

Thinking about Ray Mears, and how long he’s been doing his thing on TV, how old is Ray, actually? Seriously, I only ever seem to see him on all the second-rate channels, where he looks about 35 — and has done for the last ten years — so I suppose it’s fair to assume he could be in his 60s by now and instead spends his time drinking the nights away in some fish-themed Las Vegas strip bar. What a terrible thought. Think I’d much rather imagine him smiling like a goon by the river bank instead.

Jogging: a total paradox of crap and brilliant (and Mel Gibson)

Well I hope she's proud of herself

I started jogging when I lived in Cologne, Germany. I don’t know the exact date, but I know it was sometime after my first major illness in 2006 – so probably mid 2007 or thereabouts; amongst all the visits to the doctors and the clinics were a few months when I somehow got strength from somewhere and decided to try and use it. Once I thought I could handle it I’d jog once a week just lightly, barely more than a walk. A kind of celebration, I suppose. I had never jogged or run before this point – as is preferable when the wounds of youth still rear their ugly heads frequently, telling you that if you do everyone will laugh at you, just like in P.E. at school – so I was anxious and actually quite scared about the idea of me running around a park when anyone else was in the same park, even if it was a really big park (we are all born with the innate ability to zone-in on a jogger who looks a bit weird, aren’t we?). Somehow though I managed to get through the trauma of starting — as with anything, with jogging, the hardest bit is the strangeness of actually getting off your arse and making it happen.

Although I don’t jog anymore, and most of the harsh memories of learning how to not be flat-footed have vanished – now there’s something I never thought I’d ever believe at the age of 14! – what I can say is this: jogging on its own can get pretty boring, however good it eventually feels (much stress on the word eventually). The concept is flawed from the outset and that’s all there is to it: 1) do it alone (you have to do it alone at first, as the shame of feeling deeply flawed at jogging outweighs any desire to do so with other people, even if they are equally as laughable as you). 2) run in a straight line. Has running in a straight line ever been interesting? Probably only if you’re Usain Bolt or a Greyhound knowing the second that it stops it will receive some of its favourite treats. 3) Do it in places where other people – thin and fat and with absolutely no right to cast any form of opinion – are and keep doing it until you don’t feel like an idiot. Not exactly a tempting offer. 4) pretend you are enjoying it. Nobody likes a grumpy jogger, and if you are going to get laughed or looked at, the least you can do is try and give the onlookers a taste of their own gloating medicine. 5) buy expensive shoes which hurt so much that you seriously wonder, just on the first attempt, if you will ever wear them again. You can’t wear them to do anything else either, unless you have a bedroom-related fetish involving Paula Radcliffe, a starting line and doing a poo where you’re not supposed to 6) run on pavement. All reputable joggers are made of the same stern stuff: they’d much rather suffer with crippling arthritis later on as a result of relentlessly battering their knees than run on grass or something soft. Goes without saying!

All this and jogging involves going outside, where, in the UK, it often pisses it down the moment you think Strange it’s not raining toda—

Then there is the pressure from other people. Both to stop and to carry on. I don’t know what’s worse. Is it worse to be surrounded by organic-orange-juice-drinking health fanatics at the pub who can’t shut up about the joys of jogging and how bad smoking is for pets as well as people? Or is it worse to sit amongst jogger-haters who have spent their whole lives forming a dread-ridden argument against anyone without shin-splints, in the hope that one day their depressing attitude will spread so widely that any kind of jogging or running might one day be banned? If Harry Hill was here he’d say “Fight!” and it would be a sight to behold, I’m sure. Yes, the joggers would be fitter and stronger, but don’t forget they’d also be much lighter. I imagine a beer-swilling, lycra-hating, mid-twenties pub-dwelling yob could easily go through a few of them just by swinging one arm.

But it isn’t all bad news with jogging! The thing jogging has on its side is Mp3 players and music. Just imagine, if we’d never had shell-suits and the 1980s, we would never have evolved to making Mp3 players either — a disturbing though for anyone who has ever got on a bus. Give that consideration the next time someone talks about hunting down Mick Hucknall and his family.

An ideal candidate for a future remake of Child's Play?

If you saw my brother and I standing together, you’d think that my brother might be like me, that he’d at least give jogging a go. But no. Despite looking like a parallel universe version of myself – similar beard, similar nose, very different hair but you can’t win them all, right? – he hates jogging with a passion. Which I wouldn’t mind…were it not for the fact that the git’s build is suited perfectly to any kind of running. Honestly, it’s a joke, and that’s one of the things which winds me up about some people the most. Maff can run for about 5 miles without hardly breaking a sweat, yet he chooses not to, because he finds it too dull to bear…

And let’s not even get started on those super-mums who can jog while also taking care of another life that sits there quietly perfect and not a bit of trouble.

Of course, before Mp3 players came about there were ways to make jogging more endurable. In the Mayan-themed 2006 film Apocalypto, director and general much-hated person Mel Gibson demonstrates with some degree of finesse just how interesting and exciting jogging/running can be if you really set your mind to it. Forced to run in sheer terror across a path of barren land where prisoners go to die horrible nasty deaths, the two main characters we’ve been following since the beginning of the film are shot at with bow and arrows by master marksmen who could do with a bit of fun to liven up their day; the name of the game being to cut the men down before they reach the crops on the other side, thus giving all the other evil Mayans something to talk about that night while they eat their raw goat colons and other such delicacies. By all accounts this shoot-the-runners thing is a fun and challenging game…when you’re the one doing the shooting. But what the two characters miss out on in fun, they more than make up for in exercise, and half way across the war-zone one of them decides to start running zig-zag to try and fool the marksmen, who, up until that point didn’t even know that anything other than straight lines existed (this is obvious from the looks on their faces). Not that exercise is much good when a razor-sharp arrow is about to go skewer one of your major organs – as proven by the several people who went before you who are still lying haphazardly about – but still, the game does at least give the mind the illusion that the body is getting fitter, and that’s got to count for something, right?

The Battle Down Under

No, this isn’t a blog post about the woman’s long and tiresome battle with stubborn tarantula-like pubic hairs. Nor is it an Anne-Robinson-style expose on the shocking lives of lice which live in the nether regions. I should probably delete that sentence but I’m feeling daring, so I’m going to leave it in. Also, if the first paragraph of this blog post can help motivate just one sufferer of pubic lice to go and do something about it, then it was worth writing (not that I have any experience with that…it was a friend…OK, going to shut up now).

What this is, actually, is a blog post about something far less menacing but equally serious: the two greatest Australian soaps of all-time – Neighbours and Home & Away. A debate which I remember raging through our house-hold during all of the 1990s…which one is better? How do you even begin to decide?

There was no doubt about it, though, in the beginning Neighbours was always slightly ahead. I’m not sure if it was thanks to Mrs Mangle’s ruthless streak, Charlene’s frizzy hair or Paul Robinson’s ability to make an evil conclusion out of even the most innocent episode, but it just always had a little extra something. That was, until Home & Away attacked with a vengeance. And once that had happened Neighbours and Home & Away fans all over the world were locked in intense rivalry over what to watch between the hours of 5 and 6pm…

Originally I was going to write an essay about this subject – it was the only way I could see myself getting anywhere near the bottom of this: the truth. But then a better idea occurred to me, and the following match-off was born.

For the sake of consistency and fairness, I have made comparisons between cast members of roughly the same age and constitution. Otherwise it’d be ridiculously unfair, like pitching Mrs Mangle’s earthquake-shaken, testicularly-wrinkled face against the blissful, youthful exuberance of some large-chested Home & Away filly like Marilyn (And by the way, there will be no breast-only face-offs or ‘her bum’s better than her bum!’ talking here. I wouldn’t abuse my favourite characters in that way. Instead it will be an intellectually fuelled combination of the two, with as much info as I can remember).

Alf: moments away from going off

The most worried man alive

Harold Bishop (N) versus Adolf Hitler, sorry, Alf Stewart (H&A):

Believe it or not but it’s a known fact that there is a dark cult of people – shadow movers, those who do not speaketh in daylight – who are secretly plotting to somehow resurrect the power of soap main-stays Alf Stewart and Harold Bishop, and have them fight it to the death. Role-play geeks like the ones that hang out in Games Workshop and are obsessed with computer games, you know the sort, there’s probably one within ten feet of your house. And I have to agree, it’s awful that these two never got to cross paths in soap-land, like the bad guys so often do in horror movies (Jason Versus Freddy, etc). What would Harold have made of Alf Stewart’s incessant chant of “Stone the flamin’ crows!”? What would Alf Stewart have made of Harold resurfacing in the soap years later with several hot babes in tow? Probably he’d have said Stone the flamin’ crows! but you get the idea. The point is that both Harold and Alf inhabited roles which nobody else could have. Nobody could have been called Jelly Belly in the same way as Harold Bishop. And nobody, not nobody, could have thrown youngsters out of the Surf Club with the kind of forceful rugged excellence that always-angry Alf possessed. One of the longest serving soap stars ever, Alf – played by Ray Meagher – went ape-shit at least once an episode, and the best times were undoubtedly when he didn’t. If there was a run of two or three episodes before he went berserk, you knew it would be good, leading to a shocking climax, but if you were lucky enough to go five or six or seven episodes without one, well, then you really knew things were about to go off. When they did, it was usually in the Surf Club or about the Surf Club, and it was always a moment to behold – something you could cherish forever. No wonder Ailsa had so many problems…imagine waking up to Alf’s angry face every morning!

Winner: Alf Stewart.

Steph Scully (N) versus Sally Fletcher (H&A):

Battle of the babes! Hmm…Steph Scully was a hard one to work out all right, and kept viewers guessing right from the very beginning in 1999 until her unforgivable departure in 2010. Conforming to many of the popular She just has to be a masssssssive lesbian! stereotypes — was a mechanic, a tomboy, and drove a motorcyle — Steff had all the boys hot under the swimming shorts, while also simultaneously getting all the girls to hate her – a sure-fire sign that they all secretly loved her after all. And Steph was pretty, wasn’t she? Not that she could compete with Home & Away’s Sally Fletcher in the looks department. Or that may just be my eyes. After all, Kate Richie’s breasts are renowned worldwide for being so large that looking at them too much causes the lens of your eyes to warp and buckle. It’s a miracle any Home & Away viewer can still see. Think yourself lucky that I have had the good gentlemanly taste to not include them here.

Going back to Steph, one thing any fan will know is that Steph had all the bad luck. A grand-scale of bad luck. Seriously, you’ve never seen or heard anything like it. In fact, Steph Scully was to relationships what a kick in the bollocks is to any man alive – usually with the kicking foot wearing the sharpest pointy shoes imaginable.

To say that Steph purely had bad luck is not doing her frequent mishaps – or fantastically debauched script-writing – justice. The kind of ultimate crash-test dummy for sick TV producers to experiment their darkest most disturbing fantasises on, Steph was subjected to everything bad about the world – and that was before making the ominous mistake of marrying vile nut-job Max Hoyland. In her time, Steph bravely battled breast cancer, was the victim of multiple cheating bastard partners, and managed to cheat on a few people herself. All this and she got pregnant. Not that pregnancy is a bad thing of course, it’s wonderful, but making Steph Scully pregnant was bound to end in disaster at some point. The only surprise was that Freddy Krueger himself wasn’t the father.

No stranger to the mistress of debacle herself, Sally Fletcher saw her fair share of misfortune – growing up from the age of eight on the show, into a woman who would become more known for her sex-tapes than her acting.

Winner: Steph Scully.

Susan Kennedy (N) versus Irene Roberts (H&A):

Ah…now we’re really talking. These two female heavy-weights were – and are – nothing if not staples of the soap. Blessed with morals, dignity, and enough female pride to make a man seriously question what the point in ever arguing against a woman might be, Susan Kennedy – wife of doctor Karl – has long been known as the street’s golden girl and put-righter of all things uneven…shortly before things spiral wildly out of control, thanks to her meddling. Played by real life Jackie Woodburne, her soap CV is handed out to people at counselling sessions, who are then instructed to do exactly the opposite of everything she ever does – a process which is bound to lead to eternal happiness. See, sadly for Susan, she couldn’t seem to take one step forward or even blink without bringing political, family or just good-old general chaos tumbling down all around her. In 2009 a shocking storyline saw Susan boldly offer to be a surrogate mother for her daughter Libby, while earlier story-lines had her suffer from every ailment under the sun, have multiple flings with many men – including a priest, which rocked the boat a bit – and split from her husband Karl so many times that any future partner would vomit at the thought of getting together with her, for fear that the smallest decisions would cause a seismic rift to tear all the way through Lou’s Coffee Shop.

And what she lacked in misfortune – which was unsurprisingly little – Home & Away’s Irene Roberts made up for with terrible mentoring skills and an aggravating ability to say “Luv” about fourteen times a minute. Seriously, it was as if someone could see the future, could see exactly how to mess it up, and gave Irene the privilege of doing so to every single person in the whole of Summer Bay. Time after time, people went like lambs to the slaughter to Irene for “good advice”. At the beginning it was great – the advice worked a treat, a lot like when Susan Kennedy got on her high horse of moral riches. But before long grim circumstances would surround the person, before they would either be killed, horribly maimed or forced to leave Australia.

Winner: it has to be Irene Roberts.

Drew, as played by Dan Paris: the team behind Neighbours out to be ashamed of themselves, and I blame them for this pathetically small and insignificant photo. Only a few online photos exist of this clumsy legend!

Drew (N…Libby’s husband…can’t remember his second name and in the interests of being completely inconsistent I am not going to Google it) versus any of the flaccid hunks that Home & Away could possibly ever produce.

This post might seem a bit biased towards Neighbours, but take a look through the history books yourself and you will see for yourself that flaccid is the only way to describe any of the Home & Away genetically modified hunks. Yes they are muscle-bound and blonde and good-looking, but charisma and charm? Not something found in the waters of Summer Bay. The husband of Libby, Drew was a star and a much-loved character on the show until he made the mistake of falling off his horse and dying an instant soap-ruining death (if anyone could fall off a horse with lethal accuracy, though, it was Drew. No doubt about it).

While Drew – ah, Kirk was his name – wasn’t around for too long before his sudden demise, he left a lasting gap in the hunk market that I doubt has been filled since. His funeral will always be remember for being the shortest funeral ever conceived, and Libby will always remain the most loyal soap star. At least, until she started having sex with everyone else on the street (but not before she sang at Drew’s funeral, probably making everyone slightly suspicious as she had never ever sung before…hmm…).

Winner: Drew Kirk.

A photo crying out for a bit of obscene photoshopping if ever there was one. Paul Robinson, doing his best to double as an alien from Mars Attacks. I'm not going to post a picture of flaccid hunks here. mainly because you should never type 'flaccid' into a search engine...

Paul Robinson (N) versus…anything Home & Away could chuck at them:

See what I did there? Yep. I couldn’t think of one person who has ever appeared in Home & Away who was even on the same planet of dastardly maliciousness as Paul Robinson – the twisted financially-minded megalomaniac who has made the demon smile his calling card. Never one to miss an opportunity to accidentally-on-purpose push someone down a flight of stairs, or by chance wander past a cauldron of burning hot oil while a small puppy walks unknowingly beneath, for the endless time that Paul – played by Stefan Dennis – has been in Neighbours, ever since the beginning, he has been pure soft-core evil at its very best. Among his list of terrible deeds are the aforementioned opportunistic murders – OK, we never saw the puppy incident but I’m sure the producers at least considered it – as well as numerous scams and plenty of absurd bouts of bad luck, followed by a bouncing back that Alan Partridge couldn’t even begin to fathom. My theory is that the makers of Home & Away simply didn’t know where the hell to begin with constructing a monster of equal measure, and who can blame them? So instead they made a valiant attempt to mask their ineptitude by having as many as a dozen bikini-clad babes in the surf club in any one shot. And by all accounts, it worked.

Winner: a dozen bikini-clad babes in the Surf Club in any one shot. That versus Paul Robinson’s face really is no competition.

Mrs M: destroyer of good moods

Helen Daniels (N) versus Mrs Mangle (N):

The battle to end all battles…the legends of all legends. In soap-land, it’s a well-known fact that the mere mention of Helen Daniels and Mrs Mangle still makes countless children and adults alike instantly wet the bed. Both carved out of wood and hell-bent on taking complete control of the world in their own unique ways (Helen by pure niceness, Mrs Mangle by her very nature).

Of course, this comparison is completely unfair on Home & Away, seeing as both members featured in Neighbours. I don’t care about this. So be it if fans of Home & Away come after me.

While doing a quick Google search for this one – I know that’s unfair too, but I really wanted to find out if Mrs Mangle was born with a real name like other human beings – I ran into a number of difficulties. Firstly, the internet suddenly stopped working, and secondly, Google point-blank refused to search for Mrs Mangle’s full name. It was then, only by chance and while sweating with a feeling of doom descending all around me, that I discovered the truth was far less sinister. Rather than the ghost of Mrs Mangle looking over anyone who dared speak or type her name, like some Bloody Mary kind of character, I found she was actually called Mrs Nell Mangel. Although I still insist that just then as I typed her name again the lights flickered…as if to warn…

Superstition aside, Vivean Gray was the actress charged with commanding this villainous and highly iconic role – a role which saw her frequently threaten and harass Madge Bishop in that loveable way that family’s found really enthralling while eating their dinner.

Going back to Helen for a second, don’t think that just because she was mostly nice she was always nice. That is simply not true, and demonstrated by her slew of epic mistakes – the blue-print that Susan Kennedy lived by, perhaps. The best of these hideous foul-ups was a rampant sex-romp with her daughter’s fiancé – quite a feat considering her nun-like nature that was the complete and utter opposite visual manifestation of the words sex appeal.

Winner: Mrs Mangel.

I’ve bought some cowboy boots and I’m not a cowboy and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. So there!!!

Wear them with pride and be a maverick trailblazer! Source: Wild Wild Western Wear

A few key facts:

1) in my daily life, I have absolutely no need for cowboy boots of any description – especially the quality-stitched, calf-length Mexican leather beauties that I recently ordered from UK cowboy boot specialist Wild Wild Western Wear. I’m a freelance writer, so technically I could probably go a few days without even using shoes, or even needing to use my feet (I frequently spend afternoons sliding about my home office on my small-wheeled chair of frictionless excellence, oh yes). Slippers would probably do me, to be honest if and when I was forced to enter the outside world (for example, I could customise them if need be, and make them a bit more industrial for the odd outdoor expedition). And everyone knows that slippers are the comfiest things around.

2) Adding to the irony, I am scared of horses and not too fond of cows either – slightly less than I am terrified of spiders, but it’s still a very real fear which haunts me every time I walk round the village and pass the field with the two sinister-looking behemoths which are always, always staring at me. Not all horses and cows, though (I don’t want you to get the wrong idea: it’s not like I’m one of these irrational people who harbours a complete distrust of all horses and cows, no matter what kind of look they have in their eyes) but some, and in particular ones who stare just like those children from the Christopher Reeve film Village of the Damned. Personally, I feel that’s a natural fear. Horses and cows are far bigger and more powerful than me, than any human, and I once saw a day-time TV show where a horse kicked a woman and its hoof sliced straight through her leg and almost cut it in two. This is why I especially fear the sporadic wrath of horses. It’s not their demeanour that worries me or even the way they look – I’ve stroked two or three in my time, hand shaking…never again – it’s just the way you never know what in the world they are thinking. And they have a LOT of time to think out there in their fields…some might say too much…Also, now I think about it in-depth, they adore carrots and I absolutely bloody hate them. I’ve never been able to trust people or things which are able to eat a raw carrot, and I doubt that’ll ever change.

3) By now, with all this talk of unconventional things – if you’re reading this anywhere but Texas or South America, at least – you have formed a strong positive or negative opinion about me. Either you’re a bit of a maverick, and you’re coming around to the idea of cowboy boots for the sake of it — congratulations! — or the unease you felt at the start of this post has now manifested into something borderline underlying hostile and you’re laughing at the thought of me slipping those puppies on and clonking my way down the street. Either way, I don’t blame you. As much as I love my new Justin cowboy boots and think that anyone who doesn’t like them is foolish and sad and not worthy of this world, I can see how you’ve come to that conclusion.

And let me tell you: actually doing it — committing and buying the boots — didn’t happen overnight. It took me months to come to my decision. Months, and a great deal of pondering…

It started out as a bit of a joke. I told my brother Matthew — we call him Maff — I liked the idea of cowboy boots, and he didn’t take me seriously. I don’t particularly blame him for this. I often make sweeping statements, and am not immune to making bold claims about what I would and would not like to do (not because I am arrogant, I don’t think, but because things tend to come into my mind and he’s often at the receiving end as they work their way out). Except this time it was different: over the next few weeks the idea of the cowboy boots returned again and again…and I started to wonder: should I actually just do it? Buy some of those ones like what you see in the old black and white and colour films which really would have been better off staying black and white, as the colour was so crap? So I started looking. My first quest saw me head into Cambridge town to peruse the shops in the city centre. In at the deep end…

But the city centre was utterly hopeless. A total let-down. While Cambridge can hardly be considered the most cutting-edge of shopping districts, all the shops were the typical UK fashion-conscious kind that moved with the times, bringing in the latest trend as soon as it was hot and then dropping it the second the new season started. No offense to the people who shop in them either, but the price range of most of their shoes was too cheap to include quality leather cowboy boots. So it was a sad affair, that day — that day which should have been exciting and full of anticipation. Without even walking into more than two of these shops — mainly I just stood outside feeling full of woe at the sight of the dreaded futuristic male Ugg boot — I knew pursuing cowboy boots in real life would be a futile task. OK, so all hope was not lost, some shops did sell boots that, if you had really bad eye-sight and absolutely no nerves in your hands, could sort of look like they were a similar style. But none of the boots I saw had the look and feel (or what I imagined to be feel…I hadn’t yet actually seen or felt cowboy boots in real life) of the boots I had seen in pictures. And it was with that that I returned home, to continue my mission by way of everything online…

Arriving home, my hopes for finding cowboy boots online were not high, and in many ways I didn’t like the thought of buying boots I couldn’t see and try on first. Call me old-school, but I’ve always believed in the try-before-you-buy concept. But once I’d started, I was away and completely consumed with the search for greatness. Soon, I had stumbled across a site called Wild Wild Western Wear, and was excitedly clicking on the Men’s cowboy boots section with a growing feeling of having found my calling after all.

Where great cowboy boots come from!

My God it felt good!

My God, it felt amazing…

Down to business. My first obstacle was colour: black and shiny or brown and more traditional? Stitching or no stitching? Traditional or modern? Numerous styles were on offer, from just £70 to a more serious £200 — there were ankle boots, full-length boots, and boots with outrageous designs all up the side, straight out of the wild wild west! Except this turned out to be the least of my worries, compared to my next lesson in frustration: working out what flippin’ size I needed…

This was turning out to be more dastardly than I thought…

I won’t bore you with the details, as chances are you’ll be right there with me on this one. All I need to say is that I have a pair of trainers that are size 12 and fit me snugly, a pair of shoes that are size 10 and are a bit loose, and another pair of shoes which feel like flippers and are a size 11. Obviously there could be various explanations for this anomaly. The first could be that the shoe manufacturers all have their own irritating take on sizes — loving nothing more than to sit back and watch the world of shoes shuffle about in a big chaotic, painful mess, much like the way aliens are said to experiment on the anus’s of some unfortunate backwoods people — and the second could be that my feet are just plain freakish, changing shape from one day and hour to the next. My only choice to move beyond this point, therefore, was to take a serious gamble with my cowboy boot future. To order some on a whim and hope they fitted me right (although the gamble was slightly reduced by the site’s conversion chart, which helped you work out the correlation between US and UK sizes).

Which is exactly what I did. Then, using the website’s online order-form, I made my purchase of size 11 Justin Boot 1560′s — “Chesnut Marbled Deerlite leather upper with medium rounded toe”, no less — and hoped for the best. Then I waited for a few days, wondering if I had just wasted £175 — plus postage and packaging. But still, what a way to waste it if I had, right?

They arrived a few days later, as promised by an email. And they didn’t fit. They did not FIT! After the excitement of unwrapping the spectacularly made boots and taking out the flush cardboard inserts, I slipped my feet in to discover that they were a size too big…it was no good, it was just no sodding good! A cowboy couldn’t wander about with too big boots, otherwise they’d become “sloppy”. I had done my research and didn’t want to end up as one of those laughed-out-of-town cowboy’s with the sad sloppy boots (sloppy means loose fitting, if you didn’t know). My quest had taken a detour and it wasn’t over yet.

I won’t lie to you, sending them back hurt me. Financially, I mean — as well as the emotional turmoil of having to box them up again when they should have been on my feet. Thanks to them needing to be signed for at the other end, and the customary insurance in case a gang of cowboy boot thieves descended, it cost £13 to get them off my hands and safely back to the company. Still, it was one step closer to my ultimate goal, and it had to be done. Bye bye, baby.

Five days later, and after corresponding with the ever-helpful staff at Wild Wild Western Wear, it happened, and once again the dream was alive and well: a package arrived, again, and this time it was guaranteed success all round, yeeeeee-ha! Instead of being easily able to slide the boots on, much like a too-big pair of wellies, a slight push was needed to get my feet in, and the fit was more or less perfect. I was a very happy man. Wild Wild Western Wear had done me proud.

And now I shall give you my top list of Things I have learned from my first few days in cowboy boots:

1) Don’t buy cowboy boots and expect to be able to turn corners straight away, because you won’t be able to. Cowboy boots take a bit of wearing in, and while in this somewhat precarious straight-line-only phase you may wish to walk about holding someone’s hand — unless you live in New York or the desert of Milton Keynes, where corners don’t exist.

2) Walking in heels is very strange, it turns your world upside down for a brief moment in time — at least it was like that for me: with a one-inch heel, it’s hardly like wearing a pair of stilettos, but still, it’s enough of a change that it’ll take some getting used to.

3) If you’re worried about getting mugged, you don’t need to anymore: because if you happen to get mugged while cowboy boots are on your feet, you can be sure that putting those boots into (or up) the intruder — particularly where the Sun don’t shine — will make for a swift get-away and howls of pain like you have never heard. Not all cowboy boots are pointed, but many are pointed enough that crowds will feel compelled to part as you make your way across ground.

4) Cowboy boots make a satisfying clinking-clunking sound. There’s nothing quite like it, and it’s a lot more stylish to walk in cowboy boots than strap bricks to the back of your shoes, trust me.

5) You’re going to get blisters while that leather breaks in. No wonder John Wayne walked a bit bow-legged…

6) You will be mocked, and lauded, in equal measure, but take no notice. Just like Mummy used to say when you were 10, “they are just jealous”.

7) You should feel free to wear cowboy boots on the outside of your jeans if you so wish — why not show off the incredible stitching? — but bear in mind that traditionally, men cowboys wear their jeans over the top. Not to mention wearing your jeans tucked in will make whole groups of strangers yelp with amusement. Not that you should care: after all, you look cooler than they do, that much is certain!

Wild Wild Western Wear are open on Thursday’s and Friday’s between 10am and 5pm. Saturday opening is 9am to 5pm.

They can be contacted on 01252 545521.

Note: the fact my cowboy boots were the wrong size to begin with was my fault and not Wild Wild Western Wear’s! Or it was the fault of the global shoe conspiracy I mentioned before. Either way the staff at the company are very helpful and should be able to help you out if you give them a ring before you order your first pair — which is what I didn’t do…

AND…if you enjoyed this, you’ll probably enjoy my debut novel. The Number 3 Mystery Book has received great feedback so far and is available on paperback (from me direct through the official web-site) and from Amazon UK and Amazon US as a digital copy for Kindle, ipad and all them other devices.

Why I will not say “bollocks to Gumtree”, even though as a sporadic job hunter I probably should

Optimism at its finest

This is definitely one of those articles where the writer in question — me — has something to get off his chest; something potentially big and angry — the text equivalent of that evil Vigo the Carpathian demon in the oil painting from Ghostbusters. And that’s why I need to be careful. Because although I’ve experienced the negative side of Gumtree on more than one occasion — the side which honestly makes you wish the Internet and Nigeria had never been invented — I’ve also made valuable connections and had a fair bit of luck using the site; I’ve got writing gigs through it which I’d never have acquired any other way, and some of them have led to long-term regular gigs which, wait for it, actually turned into MONEY. The problem is, it’s impossible to predict the outcome of using Gumtree, especially when it comes to looking for a job. Not only are you competing with hundreds — or thousands — of desperate others, but Gumtree possesses no vetting protocol that I am aware of. Such is the case that when you reply to an ad you could be replying to someone with the best of intentions who’d love to give you a chance, or you could be writing into a void, a trap, or just a cleverly worded scam designed to waste your time and steal your money. Great!

Gumtree’s main problem, it seems to me, is something they can control: their image. Unlike the more official job sites, which are frequented almost entirely by straight-down-the-line, bona-fide marketing and PR companies seeking a reputable work-force, Gumtree — much like its stylistically-challenged and infinitely more dodgy cousin Craig’s List — offers a space for those with quirky or slightly different jobs to reach out into the World. With its fun and user-friendly identity, there’s no denying that Gumtree can be a great way to find a potential employer, and vice versa. If only there was some way to avoid wasting hours of your time…

It’s happened to me about fifty times: I find what looks like an interesting job offer — spelt properly, and seemingly written by someone who realises the importance of taking longer than two minutes writing their ad — spend half an hour or so tailoring my cover letter accordingly, and then spell-check it to make sure everything’s perfect and there’s no reason for me to be rejected at the first hurdle. Then I do what I always do, and what I really should have learnt to avoid by now: I traipse through my computer files, trying to locate the appropriate version of Writer’s CV.

Then I hit send and wait. In the early days, before the ludicrous replies directing me to send funds to the ancestors of the lost city of Atlantis — they presumably still need a lot of help pumping the place dry — and before the requests for me to work for 4 hours for nothing, with the promise that I would be ‘significantly high rewared’ I was full of optimism and hope. I was sure a reply was on its way, or at the very least my reply would actually be read. These days I’m not so sure if they even go anywhere. Writing a Gumtree reply is now in the same box, for me, as finding £500 on the street or my National Insurance Payment invoice getting lost in the post. Fat chance of that.

Call me stupid, call me silly, but even with it all the way it is, I’m going to keep on traipsing through the job boards anyway. The most important thing is to never expect anything to come of it. After all, it’s usually with that kind of positive-negative attitude in mind that Gumtree surprises me and gives something back.

The kindness of strangers

Two of the kindest Hippos you could ever hope to meet. Do some research and you'll find that's really saying something: next to human beings who don't know how to control their umbrellas and bankers, Hippos are officially the most dangerous animals in the world. More dangerous, even, than an army full of machine-gun wielding Meerkats. Imagine that!

Think about it: when was the last time a total stranger did something kind for you for absolutely no reason? For me, it’s happened maybe three or four times. Each remains in some way special, and none will be forgotten.

One of those times sticks in my memory just because of the agonising pain. I was riding the ramp in the next village from me – you may or may not know by now that I rode a BMX for about fifteen years – when I fell awkwardly, put my left arm out and separated my shoulder. And now, I think it’s necessary to explain what, exactly, the difference between a regular dislocated shoulder and a total separation is, because with the former it’s not so bad; at least most of the time. Usually occurring from a sudden impact, the arm vulnerable to harm due to the sudden stunning force transferring directly through the rigid limb, a dislocated shoulder can usually be put back in fairly quickly and is acutely painful only for as long as it remains out of place. A separated shoulder, on the other hand, although occurring in the same way, is ten times worse by comparison. First the bone is wrenched, very abruptly, far out of the socket – so far it sticks out from under your skin like a dull knife trying to break the surface – and then the arm and everything surrounding the bone swells up instantly, preventing the bone from going back in. All the while the pain is exacerbated horrendously with the barest of movements. After ten minutes in this condition, you’re going to hospital, straight into the so-called Pulling Room (named by the nurses) where you will meet your maker. And lots of Gas & Air.

It’s true that nurses really do have some of the best senses of humour going.

The second I’d fallen I knew straight away, without even looking at my arm, what I’d done. Knew because this was probably the sixth time I’d done this very familiar thing, and although I’d only ended up in A & E three of those times, each one was awful in its own unique way. But this time…this was the worst by a long shot. The last time I’d done this same thing, the doctor had looked at my arm and told me that if I did this again, I’d need surgery.

So the last thing on my mind, sitting there mangled up with my bike, was anyone helping me. In that state of mind, I always instantly hated the world and everything in it. It just didn’t occur to me to try and get anyone’s help. I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I didn’t particularly care. The pain was taking over, and I suppose I was resigned to just sitting there and swearing until I passed out and there was at last some relief.

What made it worse – if there was a worse at that point – was not being able to stand up. With my left arm completely disabled and only feeling more painful with every passing second, there was no way I’d be able to move on my own out of a sitting position. More than anything I just wanted to stand up and vent my anger somehow, but that was impossible.

The family had clearly been watching me for sometime. A woman in her late thirties and man of similar age, standing there to the side of the ramp with their boy in front of them, looking at me. I couldn’t hear them but I guessed from their body language that they were discussing very quietly what they ought to do next. Absurdly, what I wanted more than anything was to tell them to piss off and leave me alone. But my anger soon vanished when the woman approached, bending down and reaching out towards my bad arm.

“Don’t,” I said, and she didn’t. Instead, the husband stepped forward, eased my bike away from me, and asked me what I thought I had done. I told them, they called for an ambulance, and I think I remember it alarming them all much more than it did me.

The ambulance men arrived fairly swiftly, although at the time I remember it felt like it took absolutely forever. Their professionalism was both a curse and a blessing. A curse because it meant they dealt with getting me onto my feet a little too efficiently, elevating the pain, and a blessing because nobody with a shoulder that separated is going to want to move anywhere fast.

When it came time to think about what to do with my beloved bike — a bike which although didn’t work as well as many, owing to my complete inability to be good at bicycle maintenance — I was mortified to discover that it wasn’t allowed to come with me. Ambulance policy dictated that all personal possessions too big to fit in the vehicle were simply left behind. I was in the process of mentally envisioning exactly how I was going to kick up one hell of a fuss – one handed, no less – when the family stepped in, offering to get my bike back home and take full responsibility of it, even though they were without a car.

After I arrived home some hours later, my arm firmly back where it belonged and a faint memory of four people wrestling it back in with a bone-crunching click…like a jagged pebble being dragged across glass…the bike was there, in the passage-way beside our house, just like they’d said. There was no note, no way for me to thank them, and I never did get to express how grateful I was for what they did that day.

Chad Degroot talks getting stuff done

THE DEDICATION INTERVIEW

Chad Degroot talks getting stuff done…

NOTE: The following intro might make it sound like this is only interesting if you have some connection with BMX, but I can assure you that’s not the case. Everyone can learn something by reading this, so be sure to check it out:

The name “Chad Degroot” may not be one which you’re familiar with, but in BMX circles it’s a name that’s been synonymous with progression and determination to get cool things done for over twenty years. Known by many as one of the most unique technical BMX riders around (as well as one of the most versatile), Chad doesn’t – and never has – limited himself to just progressing on a BMX bike. And although Chad might cringe at what I’m about to say next, it’s the truth, ask anyone: without him and the tight group he rode with during the 1990s — when BMX went through probably its biggest technical-tricks revolution — BMX would never have evolved to become what it is today. Back then, I was just starting out myself, and Chad’s flatland skills alone blew my mind. After that he went on to ride ramps as well as anyone, and use his numerous tech-skills to full advantage on street, ramps and in even more videos…

THIS SOUNDS AWESOME, TAKE ME TO THE INTERVIEW!

Tense spider-versus-man encounter!

There was no caption for this photo I found on Google images, but if I were to write it it would probably say something like “shocked woman who has just seen a spider and, on closer inspection, noticed it had a siezeable penis too.” A confusing situation indeed. I have literally no idea if spiders have penises or not, and unless you are freakish in the mind I suggest you do not ponder it!

The title says it all. TAKE ME TO THE NEW SHORT STORYPLEASE MR PINK!

Jamie Oliver: Man On A Mission

Jamie back when Oliver Twist was more famous than him. Is it legal to get this excited about a fish? Unlikely.

At 10:22pm last night – May 31^st, 2011 – Jamie Oliver broke down on national TV and finally admitted he was part man, part vegetable, sent from the planet FOODALICIOUS to take over planet Earth and convert everyone on it into good-food-loving maniacs physically incapable of cooking any meal in longer than thirty minutes. I know, it was a bomb-shell for me to! But calm down, that wasn’t actually what happened; that was just what I thought he was going to say. In fact, he didn’t – it was worse. He didn’t say anything much. For a change, and not in a nice way – and probably for the first time since being born into the world – Jamie Oliver was completely and utterly speechless.

Yes, you may wish to read that last sentence again. Then you may wish to double check you haven’t altered another reality and come back and read this (for what it’s worth I can assure you you haven’t entered another reality, but can you trust me? For all I know I may have entered another one before I wrote this!).

Jamie probably thinking "being more famous than Oliver Twist is amazing, I won't deny it!" And no, if you were wondering, he was sent from the future and does not age.

Back to Jamie and his rage and upset-ness.

Let me tell you, I felt his rage. Jamie, you see, had just been shut down again on his quest to bring better food to the school-children of LA. And when Is say again, I actually mean again-again-again-again. I’d be the first to admit that I didn’t used to be the greatest Jamie Oliver fan, but all that’s been changing recently. After seeing how much passion and dedication Jamie has put into this latest series – not to mention the numerous obstacles he’s encountered while trying to do something essentially simple: give American school children proper good food – my mind is made up. Absolutely. Jamie is a good man and we should be proud of what he’s doing.

Writing essentials: what is head-hopping?

A typical photo of a man who has just finished a novel filled with head-hopping.

by pure chance today I had to write a few articles about writing techniques. One of them was about the perils of head-hopping, and since I had the material there I decided to re-work it into the following post:

Let’s start with a definition. Not a conclusive definition by any means, but it gives you a general idea of what we’re dealing with: head-hopping is when a writer jumps from one point of view to that of another during a novel…

I’M CURIOUS, PLEASE SHOW ME THE ARTICLE

New short story up…How to have sex

If you're single and anyone ever poisons you and you need an emergency solution, looking at this photo for about ten seconds should do the trick, right?

Disclaimer 1, a serious disclaimer: although this short story doesn’t contain any really graphic content — nothing even as graphic as a sex eductation lesson at school, actually — I should say that if you’re under 16, you probably shouldn’t be reading this article. Obviously I can’t stop you, but I have to at least try. I’d rather I didn’t get a barrage of emails from angry parents around the world.

Here we go, then.

I’ve written about everything else, why not this…

Disclaimer 2, a less serious disclaimer: it’s been so long since I had sex I can barely believe I am writing this article. There should really be a misinformation law against it, and who knows, in some countries there probably is. But fortunately I live in the UK where misinformation from national newspapers is completely legal.

I KNOW HOW TO HAVE SEX, BUT WHAT THE HELL, CAN A LITTLE EXTRA INFORMATION REALLY HURT?

Guess what? You can buy ‘The Number 3 Mystery Book’ now on Kindle!

It’s a strange feeling actually having a book for sale…right now, if I am honest, I still feel a bit numb about it all. But that’s OK. There’s plenty of time to (hopefully) get excited in the coming days and weeks.

You can buy it at Amazon here.

Right now if you own a Kindle and live in the USA, UK or Germany, you can have it delivered digitally for around $1.

As soon as I can actually keep my eyes open long enough I’ll sort it out for the ipad and other digital devices. Then, hopefully within a couple of weeks, it should be available in paperback too.

Watch this space for an index of Mystery Book related posts soon…

New short story up now: How I know that dogs can be embarrassed

Dear Reader,

I’ve had better weeks! Somehow, despite heavy legs and a powerful headache, I’ve managed to get a short story done. This small achievement can be seen by clicking the link below.

Goodbye and all the best. Now I’m off to rest up again and try and shake this…

——-

I’ve often wondered if animals are capable of being embarrassed in the same way human beings are…TAKE ME TO IT

What we can ALL learn from Rambo

Don't push me!

1) You don’t always need a thousand words to make your point. Three will do: “don’t push me!” Having lethal SAS skills also doesn’t hurt (you), but it’s not mandatory, don’t worry.

2) Violence solves everything. Anyone who says otherwise has clearly not seen the latest Rambo film, where the man himself single-handedly machine-guns several hundred evil enemies to pieces in a matter of literally seconds. Could the same have been achieved with mass conversation? Unlikely; you’d have to be pretty vengeful, and I’ve only ever met one person who came close (my maths teacher at primary school. When I was 8 she was seriously about 9 feet tall and the most bitter person you could ever not hope to meet).

3) The mean look is always in.

4) Never go anywhere without your hand-crafted machete. Not even the bathroom. ESPECIALLY the bathroom.

5) You can have a nick-name that sounds a lot like a nick-name for a dog and pull it off. But you have to be pretty ripped (see photo), or otherwise people are going to take the piss, and can you blame them?

6) Long words and intellect are all very well, but are they any good for running around in the woods and being harder than anyone else on earth? No. Rambo proves that there’s a career for everyone, even those who possess a killing instinct and don’t like working inside.

New in The Writing Process: Illusions — a post about the difference between short stories and novels

I’ve written a lot of short stories. I really like writing short stories; for me, it’s a way of exploring ideas…

GIVE ME MORE!

How I wrote my first novel

The very first novel I ever wrote was called The Fear Anomaly…

CONTINUED

Today is the day that Chris coins a phrase — and that phrase is ‘Writer’s Opening’

There’s a lot of talk about the so-called debilitating Writer’s Block — the condition which can floor a writer, disabling them from producing anything worthwhile. But what frustrates me, now I really think about it, is that nobody ever talks about what I have decided to call Writer’s Opening; if you ask me it’s just as much of a curse as the former! In fact, sometimes, when you get it really bad, it can be even worse…

Writer’s Opening — and I’ve named it this for the simple reason that an opening is the direct opposite of a block — has plagued me off and on for some time now. It’s symptoms are terrifying and are typically as follows:

1) The inability to stop writing.

The inability to stop thinking about writing. Everything you think about points to writing! You just can’t keep yourself away from a pen and paper or computer, and whenever you’re mid-way through an important conversation with someone, that is when it strikes you down.

2) Words forming themselves into sentences in your head without you giving them permission. In extreme cases, these words form what seem to be at the time almost revelatory pieces of writing. Pieces of real significance. There’s no way you can leave them to fade away inside your head, not those thoughts. They simply must be recorded, even if…

3) …they occur in the dead of night, pulling you out of a wonderful sleep.

End of symptoms.

Much as I joke, occasionally I really have been dogged by this. There have been times when I’ve woken up again and again and again, forced to record my thoughts down either on my mobile phone notes or on any paper I can find. It gets beyond a joke. Sleep? Forget it. You may as well just stay awake and write. Hope it leaves you alone eventually.

Or maybe it’s just me?

 

Amazon is a battle-ground

This is not going to be a funny post. I am not going to talk about how yesterday, I spent 45 highly frustrating minutes hiding like a spy in the utility room, trying to photograph the blue-tits as they attacked the bird-feeder outside, and how every time I made the slightest noise they all shuttled off, leaving me feeling embarrassed with just a blurry photo of something reminiscent of my sixth-form photography project, which was deemed ‘sinister in its abstract usage’. Nor am I going to talk about how it disturbed me today when, on the BBC News web-site, I came across a story about the new gigantic Boeing 747-8 plane, which immediately made me think of the Titanic and how that ended (I didn’t think of the Titanic because the plane also doubles as a boat, by the way, as it doesn’t. I thought of the Titanic because if you ask me, a huge great plane like that is just asking for trouble).

Instead I am going to talk about the battle-ground that is Amazon. The warriors, in this case, are not clad in armour but seated in front of computers across the land: they are independent authors, or indie authors, if you like (I personally don’t particularly like the term indie author; it makes me feel like I should be wearing tight jeans and sat here with a fashionable hair-cut I can neither comprehend or want, and that’s something which I’m just not into!). Definitely regression from what warriors of the past would have wanted for their kind in the future, but warriors nonetheless.

Because if you’re an independent/indie author on Amazon, you’d better be prepared to fight.

I think Amazon are basically good, let’s get that straight from the out-set. Yes they’re a massive corporate organisation who love nothing more than making stupid money and pretending they understand what it’s like to be a broke unknown writer, but at the same time, their platform is nothing less than essential for anyone wanting to sell their work in paperback or on the Kindle. That doesn’t mean I agree with everything the firm do –  I don’t. But as with anything in life there are positives and negatives. And remember: with rare exceptions, you care just as much about making money as Amazon do. Or, more accurately, you need to make enough money to keep you going, which you could argue is the same for Amazon with their ever-increasing overheads. You can try and argue against that point by saying that you’re just one person and they are enormous and have lost sight of their magnitude in pursuit of success, but the argument drowns as soon as you realise that humans are all essentially greedy. Soon as we have anything, we all want something more, even if the stakes are very low.

But enough with the pessimism, and back to the battle-ground.

One really incredible thing about Amazon is that they offer you the opportunity to interact with a readership. Not a spokesman, not a manager — YOU, the author. This is possible through their Author Central programme, which gives you a customisable page to woo readers with, or via their numerous discussion forums where you can reply to threads and start your own.

The problem is that it’s getting out of hand. In a big and potentially damaging way. And readers are getting sick and tired of authors shamelessly promoting their work — which you really can’t blame them for, if I’m honest, so am I.  To the point where now, I suspect that 75% of readers don’t even bother to click through to a book page unless they recognise the author’s name or the pitch was truly mind-blowing and they have to read that book. And to be honest, why should they? When almost every thread in a discussion is infected with someone — often out of context, with the most tenuous link imaginable — trying to sell their work, why should a reader waste their time on a complete unknown, let alone 6 hours reading their novel?

For the independent/indie author, it poses a real and difficult-to-process issue: do you risk continuous posting and hope readers will be intrigued enough — or broken down mentally enough — to check out your book, or do you hold off and hope that the other promotional work you do will pay off?

By the way, you can now buy The Number 3 Mystery Book for just 69p! Did I mention that?

There’s another dilemma, of course: if you don’t do enough promotional work and connect with your readers, then your work won’t actually find any readers.

What it comes down to, I think, is integrity. There’ll always be people who have no shame. People who really do think any publicity is good publicity. But at the same time, the real writers will eventually shine through. Until then we’ll all just have to hang on because it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

C

You have to love them…

I am round — a perfect circle. (Well, most of the time. But when I’m not I get away with it, just — you can manage that when you’re the envy of every hungry human-being in the room.)

READ ME EAT ME

Another short story? Why not: The Swingers

You’re walking down the street thinking about not very much at all…

WHY NOT, READING’S PRETTY COOL

New in The Writing Process: Look, listen, observe

A post about observation and writing.

———

Several weeks ago I saw a comment on Facebook…

LET ME READ THIS, PLEASE CHRIS

Chris does this thing they call ‘organisation’

Ask anyone who knows me Is Chris an organised individual? and they will look at you in a very funny way. And rightly so. My organisational skills are on par with my ice-skating skills: utterly useless and dangerous to be around.

Recently, a couple of people have pointed out to me that the blog is getting big, and sometimes it’s not easy to find what you’re looking for. So, I investigated, pretending that I was visiting the blog for the first time.

What I found horrified me. Pages with massive stories on without links! More pages with more posts on without links!

So I’ve done something about it. Starting with the Stories that are short page. I’ve now — after doing my head in with HTML… — made it so you can click on the links at the top and go straight to the story of your choice.

Rejoice!

More soon (I’ll be sorting out The Writing Process among other things, like making back to top links). Now I have to do some work and earn some money.

C

Blue Valentine (the movie): what’s your opinion?

You don’t have to go very far to see how different people’s opinions on domestic abuse are. They range just as wildly as anything. After I’d watched Blue Valentine — the Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams (from Dawson’s Creek) film which caused such a stir when it came out in 2010 — I found myself on IMDB wanting to see what other people made of the film. Considering what I’d just taken in, parts of which horrified me no small amount, I was mildly surprised by what I found: a few people wondering what all the fuss was / is about, as if domestic abuse is something which always comes delivered in a fist and nothing else.

I don’t want to spoil the film for those people who haven’t seen it yet, but I think I can get away with saying this: Blue Valentine has a certain impact which, irrelevant of your opinion, is unmistakable. While there is no blood and very little actual violence, what does resonate powerfully is the contrast between the two time-lines which run parallel to one another throughout the entire film. As you follow the couple’s relationship in its earliest days, pre-marriage, and at the same time see the effect of certain events years later, you can’t help but experience a wave of emotions. Or at least I couldn’t. Because of this, Blue Valentine is both beautiful and nightmarish and in places wonderfully tender. In short, you really do feel as though the relatively small number of moments we the viewers get to witness provide a formula which will stay with you. After I’d turned the film off, I found that the seed began to grow, the formula expanding, allowing me to see everything in-between that the movie had alluded to.

Also impressive is Gosling and Williams’s on-screen relationship. Even in its dullest moments they are scintillatingly believable together, and the performances all-round match-up just as well.

Inhabiting a genre which is unlikely to be crowded for a long time to come — in fact, thinking in terms of genre, I struggle to think of more than 5 other films which fit neatly in — Blue Valentine could have easily been forgettable and all-too-easily brutal. Instead, and thanks to probably one of the best dramatic performances in recent years — you’ll know the scene when you see it — I can see people talking about this film in 10 or 20 years to come, and, when they do, the style the film was shot in — as if an invisible documentary maker was following the couple round at all times — will remain weirdly memorable.

The conclusive post on alien existence and the unknown

This photo was taken by a kayacker on Lake Windermere -- using a camera phone -- in late 2010 / early 2011 (I think). It's authentic, according to the experts. The only problem is that the phone's file size was so small that they couldn't tell if it'd been Photoshopped or not.

The other evening I found myself in a situation which is all too common: me on the one side, defending my opinion on aliens and unknown creatures, and my friends on one side, attacking me with their full-force, largely ignorant-of-any-research-or-knowledge attitude. Their argument, though riddled with holes and generally resorting to the weakest form of reasoning, was, much to my irritation, a good one. One that has stalled seasoned experts in their tracks and left them sweating: “you don’t know anything for sure, so shut up!”

These kind of arguments are unsurprisingly common when you’ve just published a novel on Amazon which is very much about Cryptozoological animals and the unknown (as well as being a comedy with great feedback so far from a wide range of ages, if you didn’t know!). Due to my enthusiasm for all things unknown-and-alien-related, I have to endure at least one argument every week, sometimes more. It’s a hard life when you’re fighting what feels like an entire planet of disbelievers…

My problem is I never learn. I always resort to the same points. I’ve said them so many times, in fact, that now all I have to do is open my mouth and it all comes tumbling out.

(And yes, I know I’ve probably single-handedly stopped my very-infant career as a novelist in its tracks, but that’s a risk I am willing to take. It’s an easily calculated risk when your book sales will likely never allow you to buy more than one decent meal every month, right?)

So, the main points I always resort to. Oh, and before we go any further I should say that this isn’t really the conclusive post on alien existence and the unknown. I just wrote that to get your attention, and you have to admit it worked, don’t you?

My goodness I feel smug right now after writing that sentence. You should try it sometime.

So, the points I always bring up:

1) The universe is really quite big. End of point one.

2) We are just a collection of what we call ‘brains’ in bodies. These brains, incredible and fantastic as they are, see things in a certain way. What we see is not necessarily all of what is there, though (and I say this without any scientific evidence to back it up). It may, in fact, only be a fraction of what is there, or a large amount of what is there. The problem is, we can’t see what we can’t see. We’d need someone else to conclusively tell us, and even if they did we probably wouldn’t trust that someone (or something). But then again, it wouldn’t be our fault. It’d probably be a large slimy creature.

3) Our technology is powerful, wonderful, astonishing, but it’s a long way off from being good enough to examine large bodies of water with any real conviction: this point always causes a huge-argument-flair-up. I quite like it actually. But think about it: Loch Ness, for example, is freakishly enormous. It is 23 miles long, 1 mile wide at its most, 600 feet deep or thereabouts, and has a surface area of21.8 square miles. In other words, it’s a bit of a whopper. Now, forget your opinion on the actual Nessie sightings over the years, and let’s look at this logically. If you wanted to scan that amount of water for a creature the length of a couple of cars, say, where would you begin? You could start at one end and go slowly, hoping you uncover something in the murky green waters that resembles a creature, but would that be a wise idea? Unlikely. It’d take you a hell of a long time — it has taken a number of researchers a hell of a long time already, as you probably already know — and you’d almost certainly turn up nothing. Does this mean that the Loch is not home to some kind of large creature? Of course not. Just remember: your house is full of spiders which you will never see, but that doesn’t mean they’re not actually there.

Experimental air-craft built by Canada between 1958 and 1959

4) “If I don’t see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it.” I always love this one. It has to be possibly the stupidest thing anyone has ever said, apart from “I do love getting out of bed early in the morning”, “I love a bit of cabbage” or “Who is Led Zeppelin?” (I once met a man in Germany who had never heard of Led Zeppelin. And yes, I am being serious.)

Now, I haven’t seen Africa, or the first episode of Coronation Street, but I know that Africa exists, and that that first episode was indeed shot. I also haven’t seen the dog that walks around our village which my friend Dave says has a “human-looking backside”, but I know with reasonable certainty that this dog does indeed have a human arse (Dave doesn’t lie about things like that; and yes, why he was looking at a dog’s bum so much is highly questionable and I do try and stay away from him as much as possible, less I get infected).

…Or do I know these things? Well, in all likelihood, no, not if we’re going by the stupid rule that opened point 3 — I just have always assumed Africa must exist because there are flights there, and…well, it’s Africa! This is, of course, what makes it so difficult to work out whether we believe something abstract like a creature dwelling in a lake.

The fourth part of this point is imagine manipulation. Once anything is recorded — either digitally or in any other way — it becomes information, not proof. What this means is that anyone can video or photograph anything and then it’s perfectly understandable that someone else will stand up and say “That can’t be true, it’s been manipulated”.

Really, you can never know if anything is actually for sure, can you? Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith and decide whether you believe something.

4) Politics: you can disagree with me if you like, but I think that it all comes down to politics. Everything. The whole human-world is dominated by all kinds of people who want very different things. The knock-on effect of this is that one decision can make one person rich or another quite poor. Take looking for the Yeti as a good example. Yeti’s have allegedly been seen in the highest places in the world, such as the Himalaya (the original name, as opposed to the westernized one which adds an s). Unfortunately, though, looking for Yeti’s in the highest places in the world is tough for two very good reasons, and nothing like a leisurely tramp in the countryside: 1) the mountains border a number of countries –Nepal and Tibet to name but two out of six — and all the countries have different rules and regulations, and basically hate each other. Even now many of them don’t allow expeditions into places where sightings have occurred, and, if they do, they tend to have such strict policies enforced that finding anything of any use is close to impossible. 2) the terrain where sightings have occurred is extremely inhospitable — to the point where climbing it at such a high level would be suicide. This means that very often tracks can’t be seen, or if tracks are made — by any animal — they vanish before any evidence can be obtained.

Don’t get me wrong: I think that 98% of what’s claimed to be evidence of extra-terrestrial life / evidence of unknown animals is a lie. I just don’t think we can or should rule out that unknown 2%, do you?

Never underestimate people: 1) you have to love them readers

All too often I read an interview with an independent novelist and see something along the lines of: I did it all myself. The writing, the editing, even the formatting!

The exclamation point is justified. After writing a book entirely on your own, and spending what may be years — in any case, countless hours — huddled over your laptop or pad of paper, you can put whatever the hell you want at the end of a sentence like that. I believe you’ve earned it.

But one thing I don’t think you should do is keep your work entirely to yourself before you publish. For some reason — or maybe several reasons — many independent writers feel that they can produce a decent piece of work without having it vetted before it goes out into the world. I won’t lie, there may have been a time when I thought similarly, but after my experience with The Number 3 Mystery Book, where more than a couple of people played a vital role in reading and reviewing, I wouldn’t dream of releasing a novel any other way.

As I’ve mentioned in the Thanks section of the book, people like Duncan Kerr, Will Fairweather and Yasmin Selena — herself a talented writer — did an amazing job of pointing things out which I could never have spotted. For example, even though he’s not a writer, Dunc pointed out the contrast between light and dark in the book, and that the piece as a whole might benefit some from being made a bit smoother, while Will spurred me on during one month where I was beginning to think the whole thing was a waste of my time. At the end of the writing process, Yasmin was amazing. She read the novel in just a couple of days and gave me detailed feedback on everything from spelling and grammar — it wasn’t perfect… — to style and flow. And that isn’t it by a long shot. There were many other people besides that who played a part. (And I could go on all day about the many fine people who have already read / are presently reading the book and enjoying it.)

I wasn’t going to write this post — I’m conscious that I don’t want to ram my novel down peoples’ throats — but now I have I hope it might help some people. Just know one thing: you can only get better by showing others your work. Never be ashamed of what you have produced, and chances are that someone out there will love it too.

More coming soon on the marketing campaign surrounding my book. People have been asking me how that’s going, so I’m going to give it to them. For now, goodbye!

Breakout

When I decided I wanted to become a ‘real’ freelance writer, I had absolutely nothing to lose. My bank account was zero — it would have been less than zero, but my bank manager refused to give me an overdraft of even £10… — I had no other work commitments, and my days were spent writing a novel and only writing a novel (well, sometimes I watched TV, but mainly I just threw myself into the book as a way of keeping myself busy). Anyone who says you don’t need money is lying and has money. Without it, life can be very grim indeed…

At the same time, I feel utterly ridiculous about complaining. The area where I live is about as middle-class as it gets. Sure, the remains of working-class Britain are all around me — in the park with the 1980s play-area which stands like a grim reminder and is rarely used, for instance — but nobody in my street is going to starve.If they are it’s their own stupid fault — Waitrose is 15 minutes away for anyone who can be arsed.

So, I had nothing to lose. And it was then that I came up with a tactic for getting freelance work. Or, what some might call A CRAZY SCHEME. Rather than answering numerous Gumtree ads — a technique which had proved relatively pointless, because, as any fledgling writer knows, it’s almost impossible to get paid for writing when you’re completely inexperienced in the professional field — I decided to go straight for the business jugular: the companies out there that might want a writer like me.

So that’s exactly what I did. I wrote a basic form letter, adjusted it as I landed on various web-sites — I began with furniture-making companies, as I noticed many of them had utterly rubbish content which could be greatly improved — and sent a lot of emails.

By a lot I mean thousands. I can’t remember how many exactly, but it had to have been at least 3,000. In the end I lost count.

What happened next?

I received emails, and not all of them were friendly.

In fact…around 70% of them were along the lines of “please don’t ever contact us ever again.”

Emphasis on the ever.

I won’t lie, I was disheartened. It came as a blow. Had I expected a thousand people to write back demanding I start writing content right away? No. But equally I hadn’t anticipated such a barrage of negativity. It wasn’t like I was selling Viagra or printer cartridges made out of organic Amazonian tree-matter. Or Japanese-lady-boys.

Thinking about it now, the Amazonian tree-matter thing isn’t such a bad idea after all…

Then, one day, a week or so after those manic days of emailing, something amazing happened.

If I’d have had access to a large boat I’d have gone to the front — along the way grabbing any woman who was available, and wasn’t scared of water, of course — and done a Titanic “I’m the King of the world!”

I had to read the email twice. It was just too…positive. This email was very different to the others. It wasn’t a Yes, exactly, but it also wasn’t a direct No. Instead, it was something in-between. In the long-run, it transpired that it would be the start of a great working relationship between me and a fine furniture-making company — one who I have now written numerous articles and web-site copy for.

The lesson? Persistence pays. Don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise. They are completely and utterly wrong.

Unless they’ve been trying to shift Viagra…

The strange anomaly that is the ‘clique’

According to one dictionary definition I’ve found – and from what I’ve seen they all say more or less the same thing – a clique is determined as the following:

clique [kliːk klɪk]

n

a small, exclusive group of friends or associates

[from French, perhaps from Old French: latch, from cliquer to click; suggestive of the necessity to exclude nonmembers]

cliquish adj

cliquishly adv

cliquishness n

Sometime, I don’t know when, the term ‘clique’ became something very negative. Something to frown upon. I understand why, of course, but from where I’m standing, when you get right to the root of it, it’s anything but.

One thing I think we all need to admit is that every single one of us is part of a clique. Unless you’re willing to seal yourself in a room and exist without any form of communication whatsoever, it’s impossible not to be.

Why do I think this point needs making? Because all too often I hear people talking about how something is “clique-ey” (the wrong terminology according to the above examples; I have to admit, though, that until today I had absolutely no idea that you could do something cliquishly!) in a negative way. Like it’s something they could never be a part of.

Wake up: the reason you feel like that, if you feel like that, I’m guessing, is probably because you’re not in the clique you’re observing. If you were then you’d feel all warm and fuzzy and Acknowledged. Loved. Isn’t that why we hang around in groups? Isn’t that why all of us carefully select — inadvertently, subconsciously, however it may be –  some people and not others? Humans are pack animals, it’s the way we’ll be until some immense evolutionary change takes place, for the good or the better, so next time you find yourself hating a certain clique, look at it from another perspective: that of someone who is on the inside peering out.

Vin Diesel says “You can live without tea! And you WILL, or I’ll beat your ass!”

Vin easily winning the International What's The Strangest Pose You Can Manage Which Mainly Involves Your Right Arm? Competition

The third paragraph in this article — no, don’t read it right now, just hold on, we’ll be there in less than a minute — might sound exactly like something pseudo-meaningful Vin Diesel would say in one of his films – and yes, I’m being vague because I have no idea what those films might be…that’s my macho credibility, if I had any, right out the window, then – and in fact you’d be right in thinking it’s meaningful. Meaningful meaningful and nothing pseudo about it, as it goes. Because while it’s of no significance to Vin Diesel or anyone else, really, it is of great significance to me. And if you can’t write about that kind of thing in your blog, where indeed can you write about it? (Feel free to comment or email me with useless suggestions. It seems when I don’t say that I get a barrage of them, so who knows, maybe it might work better this way around?)

And yes, I’m sick of the name Vin Diesel too. And the word meaningful. Don’t worry, there’s a slim chance that I’ll ever subject you to either word any time soon. Unless he makes a film which I am likely to watch, and I lose my thesaurus. So yeah…after a quick scan on Rotten Tomatoes it seems we’re pretty safe, then…(and don’t worry, I guard my Thesaurus with my life. So would you if you’d paid £35 for it).

The Vin-Diesel-style paragraph in question, deep manly voice optional, of course: (Massive points deducted if you’re reading this and wondering what happened in paragraphs1 and 2. In fact, go and slap yourself round the face, please.)

Some things you do in your life you do because you feel you have no choice. Other things are done because you have too much choice, your brain gets scrambled, and you end up picking one at random – playing Russian Roulette. Then there are the things in between which just inexplicably happen. The result of a reaction built on a vague series of events. With me, eight months ago, an event happened which was partly my decision, and partly down to necessity.

And that event, dear reader, was giving up tea. Completely. No more caffeine. No decaf either.

Breaking it right down 100%.

For at least one year.

For health reasons.

To make me feel better. To give me more energy.

Oh, the horror of it.

But before I go any further, allow me to demonstrate how crucial tea was to my every-day life.

Being a freelance writer, nobody tells me when to take a break. Cool, right? I can make tea when I wish, and, if I want to, even indulge myself in ITVs Loose Women while drinking several cups (where I always learn a great many things which always seem useful at the time, but are rarely suitable to be included in my clients articles).

And the thing was, I was a late-tea-developer, which in many ways made it even worse. Having found my beloved tea far later than most – at around the age of 18, when I should have been more concerned about getting girls and looking in the mirror and realising my short hair, combined with large nose, made me look horrendous – I had at least a decade’s worth of time to make up for. And make up for it I did!

I drank tea in the morning: 4 cups at least. I drank 2 at lunch-time, and in the afternoon…well, maths was quite literally never my strong-point, but I really did lose count. The eagle-eyed of you will notice how I didn’t state how many cups of tea I used to drink in the evening…

But anyway, the point is that when it came time to quit tea for good – replacing it with the awful-sounding “Peppermint Tea” – I was what you can only describe as highly dependant. Imagine whichever character Ewan McGregor played in Trainspotting crossed with one of the most irritating contestants in The Apprentice and you’ll come somewhere near seeing how my decision-making process was.

And to begin with, I won’t lie, it was…

Actually much easier than I thought! I was going to invent some unsettling story there, but in the end honesty seemed favourable. I mean, seriously it was easy, much too easy…and considering my history it made no sense.

OK, so the first day was tricky, but in the main it was the routine I missed more than the actual tea itself. That was what I had come to realise.

8 months on? I’m still on the Peppermint Tea and sometimes, I’m not sure, but I think I come close to enjoying it (even if after 5 cups your breath does actually smell alarmingly like stale wee…). And you know what? I don’t see me going back to my old ways any time soon. That’s right, my days as an addict are over. I’m nobody’s gimp, not anymore.

I’ll definitely drink regular tea again, there’s no way I’m staying off it forever completely, but the point is I’ve broken that habit.

And that? That makes me very happy indeed, because for once — to end it as Vin might — I realised that we own our habits. It’s our job to beat them and show them who’s the boss, you know.

New in ‘short stories’…Today I did it: I actually PUT UP A TENT

I think I like this tent because it doesn't look like my nightmare vision of a tent. But then again, it may be using its unique image to lull me into a false sense of security before punishing me severely for crimes against tents. People, keep your eyes OPEN!

 

Tents baffle me. This is a story about my bafflement!

I DON’T MIND IF I DO, TAKE ME TO IT!

The curse of the monkey-arms

Meet Brian: the kind of neanderthal man who would, a long time later, eventually evolve into the blueprint for the modern secondary school Science teacher through just a couple of steps

My granddad does it, my dad definitely does it — sorry, Dad — and, based on what small amount of information I have been able to covertly mine from assorted family and photo albums, I’d hazard a guess that every single male in the Pink family ever has walked with monkey-arms.

That’s right: the arms hanging limp…the palms facing not inwards towards the body — as is the norm with modern humans other people are lucky enough to be related to — but the direction walked away from…

Evolution is amazing, though, isn’t it? Forget the science and the religion — it just blows my mind. However it happened, whatever force created it, is irrelevant to where we are now (or at least to this blog post; don’t bother emailing me to start an angry evolutionary debate unless it’s a good one, please people!). The fact that we are here at all, right now, going about our business and pretending to rule the world, is stupendous.

Now, you’d think that after hundreds, if not thousands of years, the monkey-arms would have slowly become obselete. Faded away. But no, people. In my family and maybe yours too, this is one stubborn evolutionary character trait that simply refuses to die.

For years I’ve been fighting the monkey-arms-thing on a deeply personal level, trying to integrate with the rest of society so that if I ever have off-spring they will not be cursed with the same fate as me, and tragically it would seem that the whole 30 years of war have been a feutile battle…

Becaue today, while walking past a particularly reflective enormous shop window and making the mistake of glancing in it, I saw that despite countless conditioning sessions — whenever I walk around I try and fight the monkey-arms and train my skeleton into accepting a new way of being — I am still, essentially, cursed more than ever.

That’s right: all that conditioning did nothing. In fact, I may have even gone backwards.

And the worst thing is that I have a beard, which only adds to the neanderthal image…

It’s a good job I’m self employed and hate looking at mirrors.

And, if you were wondering, I would shave it off, but I also have a larger-than-average nose.

One thing’s for sure: I think I’d rather have a beak and a beard than look like a twelve-year-old going to a fancy-dress party.

 

 

Why do we watch horror films?

Either a cannibal caught slightly unawares or...a great stand in for Richard O' Brien of The Crystal Maze fame

To say that films like The Hills Have Eyes or The Exorcist are, as I have sometimes heard horror films described, “Like something out of our worst nightmares” is missing the point in a big way, I think. I don’t believe that’s giving horror films the psychological credit they truly deserve. Because in nightmares, even our worst ones, the horror is temporary and the effect is transient; assuming we’re talking about the every-day usual kind which we’re all familiar with, and not nightmares associated with sleeping disorders such as Night Terrors, there’s very little permanent about them. As terrible as they can be, and as lingering as the effect of them occassionally is, after a while they lose their power. In time they morph into shadows of their former selves, and the more you think about them, the less you can actually remember being there, being afraid, or even what, specifically, the nightmare was actually about. Soon, you can’t even remember what gave them their power in the first place. Years later, they’ve faded completely.

I mean, think about it: how many nightmares can you actually recall with any degree of clarity?

Horror films, though…they’re different. In a horror film, everything is permanent. Unlike in a nightmare, you can watch and re-watch this terror as much as you like and every single aspect of it will manifest just as perfectly as the first time; there are no exceptions to this rule. It’s a nightmare you can immerse yourself in at will, and one which presents itself in the same way for everyone. There’s no need to explain to someone how this particular nightmare unfolded or what will happen next. And the best thing — if you want to call it the best thing — ? The nightmares just keep getting more real and even worse. Now technology and special effects have caught up with our imagination, there isn’t any power they can’t possess. The result: their capacity to scare the crap out of us is infinite.

And now, or within the last 20 years, something utterly astonishing has happened: for the first time in history, films have actually exceeded what our nightmares are capable of producing.

If I was a nightmare I’d be pretty pissed off, I think.

I’m sure that even if you don’t watch or like horror films, you’ll have heard of The Hills Have Eyes. The brainchild of a younger, trail-blazing Wes Craven (Scream, A Nightmare on Elm Street), the film marked a turning point in horror cinema when it was released in 1977. After that, nothing was ever the same again.

I won’t go into detail about the plot, but in it — both the original and the 2006 remake — an American family make the mistake of taking a short-cut through the desert while en route to San Diego, California. After their vehicles are mysteriously thrown from the road, it soon becomes clear that the unforgiving foreboding landscape around them is not as lifeless as it first appeared…

Spoiler alert:

A man is burned alive in front of his family: you see everything. A young woman is sexually assaulted by the kind of man who you wouldn’t want to meet in any kind of alleyway — no matter how wide or bright — but would get an enormous round-of-applause on Britain’s Got Talent, thanks to his being so hideously ugly. People are shot, heads explode, and the violence…it’s relentless, brutal, and presented with the kind of production value which makes every moment feel genuine. The politicial context is also not for the faint-hearted; chances are that if I was American, I’d be feeling guilty about my government.

Basically, you can tell yourself it’s all acting, all effects, but this bloodbath, as you watch it, is all too real.

Now, just watching this film, I feel wrong. It isn’t even that I enjoy watching it.

But the point is I do watch it. Through all the atrocities and the gore I don’t turn it off. For whatever reason — and this isn’t one of those BBC News features, so don’t expect a cold, rational, reliable psychological evaluation — I feel victory during parts of it: my base animal self wants to scream and run; when the lead character triumphs over the evil cannibals, or when it looks like something might go right for a change. (Which is short-lived, but you knew that, right?)

My guess is that we all get something different out of horror films: some of us find them intense in a good way — a way of exploring darkness, maybe, without having to actually live it ourselves. Some people like the humour or being able to live out the “what would I do if that was me?” scenario.Some people just love the giddy excitement of it all, and that’s fair enough too. You can’t beat a bit of giddy excitement.

One thing is certain: horror films are not going anywhere. Now we’re seeing what our nightmares might be like, if we’d ever be able to harness their power and expand that split-second into something more permanent, there’s no way we can’r ever be addicted.

What’s this? Yes! A new short story: The Intruder

You can read it here

STOP THE PRESS! (Unless you’re The News of the World, in which case it’s a bit late to be shouting that.)

A vision of BEAUTY: I could have posted a photo of a double-yoke egg but I didn't want to be accused of blowing anyone's mind

You can buy a single egg with not one but two yokes inside! This isn’t some warped optimistic vision created by a late-night cheese-eating expedition, oh no: this is plain and simple scientific fact. You see dear reader, according to my dear mother, who is an expert on such things, you can walk into “any good supermarket” and source these wondrous evolutionary creations entirely at your leisure (or “leesh-yur”, if you’re American). Buy a dozen, go on! Or even buy two-dozen! (But no more than that, please. Spare a thought for other double-yoke-lovers, you cruel-cruel person you.) I dare say you can even demand someone bring you some of these beauties and it won’t be met with too much hostility. After all, if a paying customer should be allowed to demand anything it is a single chicken’s egg with two yokes!

But wait…it’s not all fun and games. Because after some quick research — very quick and highly inconclusive, that is — I have discovered that some degree of manipulation must be at work here. Either countless innocent chickens are being poked with electric cattle-prods or shouted at — how loud would you have to shout at a chicken (or a gang of chickens) to make it lay a double-yoke egg? — or somewhere along the line human intervention is doing its devious work, again.

And the question then is this: where do you draw the line? Three yoke eggs? Five yoke eggs? Or might a day come when egg-whites become endangered and legions of egg-white-loving chefs decide to rise up against the masses and go on strike, making countless dishes of food extinct overnight?

Personally I’m not too bothered about egg-whites disappearing. I’ve always liked the yokes the best.

Never underestimate people: 2) when emails come out of nowhere

If I'd have been an email-reading puppy, I'd have been this happy

You write a novel, you hate your novel, you love your novel, you edit your novel, you’re scared by your novel.

But mainly: you don’t know what the hell you feel about your novel.

Wait, yeah, you do know: If you’re novel was a person who came knocking on your door, you would floor it instantly.

…and then you actually do it. You find someone to format it — a pain — and you upload your book on Amazon, or wherever else you see fit.

Then you start the promotional stuff. This, in a bizarre kind of a way, is the fun — if terrifying — bit. Free of the woes of editing, you’re able to tell the world about your book. Yeah, woo! You don’t need to hide anymore. The book is real now. People can read it, consume it, and, with any luck, love it as much as you do (OK, not as much as you do. Much as you went through stages of hatred towards your book — to put it mildly… — a bond exists between you and it that no other human being will ever be able to appreciate).

When I started promoting The Number 3 Mystery Book I expected I’d send out countless emails and nothing would happen (read about anything Number 3 related here). My pessimism in this case is hilarious, if not downright odd — I am, and have always been, exceedingy optimistic about everything in life (you have to be to write a book; either that or just very, very bored). But what you have to remember, when promoting your novel, is just that: it’s your novel. To those people you’re contacting, you’re just another stranger who has written a book.

Let’s not talk statistics…let’s just say that most novels that are written are absolutely awful. So why do you think that a stranger should take you seriously?

So…because I didn’t expect anything at all, I felt completely free when I started sending my promo emails out. This made me happy and allowed me to keep on going, which was essential. So, as the days passed and no replies came in, I wasn’t at all bothered. In fact, if anything, I treated it like a race: how many emails can I send out before I get a response?

Then a reply came through which knocked me totally sideways. It was from the owner of an LA based website (ABLE Foundation), and her name was Jihan Cazares.

Jihan’s email was nothing less than amazing, and I quickly learned that the ABLE Foundation was very much in line with the concept of my novel, and with my aim to spread awareness about disabilities while also creating a book which would entertain. Not only was she extremely positive about my novel — I had sent her a rough description and a link to the page on Amazon US — but she wanted to know more about it and was even asking about if I’d be doing paperbacks (which I am…more on that in the very near future). Jihan may not have realised this at the time, but that email really mattered to me. To have a total stranger get back to me so quickly — and with the kind of friendly, enthusiastic tone usually reserved between good friends — was mind-blowing. Not only did it make me feel as though my book could potentially have mass interest, but it made me realise that it isn’t all about the sales. Sometimes it’s just about an email, a smile, and a spring in your step.

So, thanks Jihan!

Love Sex?

Call me a Thicko, but to begin with I didn’t get this ad at all. I just thought ‘well she looks quite happy’ and then ‘I suppose they just didn’t have room for the baby she must have had after not using contraception’. Then I realised I’d mis-read the line at the bottom (one day you’ll wish you’d had a Durex condom) and simultaneously saw the bulge. Didn’t I feel like a wally!

You really have to wonder what’s going on when you see a Durex advert on TV.

Already, you see, without you even really knowing it, your brain has just done a pretty impressive thing (unless you quite literally have just awoken from a coma which you’ve been in since 1921). Upon reading the word Durex, the left side of your brain, in its infinite wisdom, will have thought Right then, this is mine to take responsibility of, I’m having this puppy! Impressive, right? I mean, it doesn’t matter how lazy your brain has a habit of being, it will have done this all on its own. Unless you’re exceptional, which in this case isn’t much to be proud about, so wipe that smile off your face.

While all this was going on, don’t be thinking that the rest of your brain was just hanging out waiting for some complex calculation to do or some nice memories to process; no, at the same time, the right-hand side of your brain was doing its bit too: that’s to say it was assessing the tone of the word Durex. And if your right-hand side of the brain is anything like mine – whether you be male or female – then it will have made the following assessment: Ooh, it’s sexy time!

Anyway, enough about sexy time for now, and back to the point.

Seriously, enough about sexy time.

That’s better.

So…

What’s going on with Durex? To my mind, you advertise on TV for one of two reasons: 1) you’re looking to completely reinvent your image in a last-ditch attempt to get your message to the masses or 2) you’re in a highly competitive business, like cars. (Or 3) in fact: you own a massive global corporation and spending crazy amounts of money on enormous TV ads is really fun when you think about it.)

Durex? They’re not really either. I mean, how much can you re-invent a condom brand, short of putting rocket blasters on your rubbers or making them play your favourite kind of music? (Actually quite a good idea, now I come to think of it. Although saying that it might feel a little bit weird…playing out of your vagina….especially if it was Susan Boyle or something heavy like Zeppelin. Let’s not even mention Jedward…) And secondly, am I the only person who can’t think of another condom brand off the top of his head? And nobody be smart and say “Tesco value!” please.

All this analysis and speculation brings me to one double-faceted conclusion: either Durex have caught wind of another company who are ramping up their efforts to become the world’s leading condom brand — Alan Sugar and Tom’s secret plan alongside Tom’s amazing back-pain reducing chair, perhaps — or condoms are just generally going out of fashion. And who knows, that may well be the case – not that fashion matters: water balloons will always be popular even if safe sex isn’t.

And now we come to the advert itself…

Imagine what would happen if you asked the team behind horrendous poor-excuse-for-a-hip-young soap Hollyoaks to re-invent a Durex commercial. And now imagine that, during the excitement of the team being told they had been awarded this prestigious contract, someone with an obsession for late eighties film series Cocoon snuck in, locked an employee in the toilets, stole their highly, irritatingly fashionable clothes — please do not question their motive — and somehow managed to convince the director that they had a really great idea for what should happen at the end of the advert (a bright white glow appearing between the standing-up-sexy-couple). This is what the new Durex advert looks like, as of 2011.

What have Durex got in store for the future? Who knows, but I have a feeling this advertisement isn’t the last we have seen of them…

New short story now up, again…The terrifying opinion of (do the sinister music in your head, now)…du-du-duuuuuuuu: Mum!

The first time I sent a manuscript to a publisher, I didn’t know what to think. I’d heard the horror stories all right: the months of waiting — if I was one of the lucky ones — ending in that excruciating form rejection letter. Or worse, form rejection slip…

I’M GOING TO TAKE THE PLUNGE, CHRIS, WHAT THE HELL, LET ME READ IT!

Meet ‘Help’, yet another short story…

Help

Yeah, if you’d hit that massive hard wall of glass in the background then you’d struggle to open your eyes for a bit too

I was a curious boy – curious about everything, obsessed with fossils, and birds of prey, and insects, and my grandmother’s magical fantasy garden…

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Catching grasshoppers

When I was young, me and my brother — yes, I’m feeling like breaking some grammar rules today — spent a lot of time catching grasshoppers and crickets. I can’t remember how we learned this particular skill — a skill which my dad didn’t possess, and I can’t remember anyone showing us — but it was highly addictive and something which we both took very seriously. While our parents wandered around nearby, doing quintessentially adult things like thinking about the future and planning when to go shopping — two things which lost all credibility in our minds, as we focussed on this thing very much in the present — me and Maff stalked these most majestic of insects. And we were successful, really successful. Using a careful and highly strategic method which never failed, we caught grasshoppers and crickets over and over again.

Up until today, I hadn’t thought about any of this in years.Looking back, though, there seems to be no dividing line between that childhood and this life; no time when it stopped being important to do things like this. It makes me wonder how important catching grasshoppers and crickets really was to us as kids. The more I think about it, the more it seems that we took it for granted — just something which we did without any real effort, without even trying. Yet now I think of that time as special. Funny how things gain gravity all at once, such a long time later.

For these reasons and also just for the sheer hell of it, today, it being a bright, sunny day — the kind of day when grasshoppers would be loving it — I decided to see if I still had it in me (not the juvenile passion for doing all things that is exciting — I certainly hadn’t lost that). I knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as when I was 9 or 10, but what I didn’t realise was just how much I had forgotten in the last 20 or so years…

I probably shouldn’t be too surprised about that, seeing as how I can barely remember what I ate for dinner. But still, I really thought it’d be easier than it was.

It wasn’t easy, it was really, really hard. Just as predicted, the meadows at my local nature reserve — I am lucky to live not far from an amazing, immense space which glows in the Summer and the only downside is that you can’t go there at night as there are doggers — were heaving with life; the kind of intense, thrumming sound which is around you wherever you are, but that stops with eerie abprutness the second you take the smallest step forward.

“It was like I had the eyes of an eagle!”

After five minutes: nothing. I couldn’t even see any crickets or grasshoppers, let alone attempt to catch one. Where, before, the long yellow grass had looked serene, swaying in the breeze, now it just pissed me off. There was a moment at the ten minute or so mark where I considered abandoning my mission. But then I got a grip of myself. “You can’t turn around and just give up,” I said, trying to ignore the walkers who were passing behind me, probably wondering what I was doing prancing about in the grass all hunched over and concentrated. “If you could do it when you were 9 or 10 then you can damn well do it now!”

It was time for a re-assessment of my approach. What I had been doing obviously wasn’t working. Taking a step back, I tried to think like a grasshopper/cricket. Only joking, that’s taking it too far. But I did consider more deeply how to go about my task (I did briefly try to locate the long-lost memories of me successfully managing my task, but this did not last long, as it involved traipsing through the quagmire that is puberty. No thanks).

This time I was more careful. Everything was more thought out, less adult, and my footsteps caused less of a disturbance. Soon I was following grasshoppers and crickets of various sizes as they sprung from one long grass to the next.

And now, amazingly, I could see them amongst the grass. Before they’d been camouflaged and hidden. Now I could spot them from a distance. It was like I had the eyes of an eagle! A very bored eagle, but an eagle nonetheless.

I spotted an impressively-large grasshopper clinging to that long bit of grass next to the hundred-thousand or so others, you know the sort. This one was different, and I mean that literally: it was a scramble of browns and reds, with large hind legs and a kind of knowing expression on its face. Or maybe it was just the way it held itself.

Cautiously, I stepped forward and knelt down in front of it, being as careful as I could to avoid squashing the long grass behind me — the grasshopper’s expansive home, no less — with my gigantic human arse. As I brought my cupped hands down towards it there was a moment where we were both still as the most still thing. Then, swiftly, I closed my hands around it, expecting it to escape, as they always had done before, at that very last moment.

Except this time was different. I had finally done it: the impossible had been achieved. For just a few seconds, my little friend scampered about inside. Then I opened my hands ever so slightly and watched her crawl slowly out then vanish in an instant.

I tried to catch some more after that and failed. It didn’t matter. I had done what I had come for. I was in the sunshine. I was happy.

More stories like this over at Stories that are short.

Alternatively, if you enjoyed this post and want to read my new novel you can find it at Amazon UK here and Amazon US here (paperbacks are on the way soon, I PROMISE — email me if you need more details).

A big surprise

A bird of prey feeling very proud, as one of the rare bird's with discernible shoulders should

Yesterday afternoon at 4pm I was writing, mood: relatively content. Freelance writing, in the spare room which used to be our garage back when Chesney Hawkes was singing his blisteringly successful number 1 single ‘I am the one and only,’ and everyone down our street proudly wore a different coloured shell-suit (mine was purple with green and pink bits). As is usual at around 4pm, my Greyhound Jojo was beginning to get lively. This is very much the habit in our house. Greyhounds, despite their love of speed and darting about, tend to sleep a lot, only to become more active in the afternoon in the lead-up to food-time. This craving for activity is further encouraged by the fact that at around about 5:30pm, Jojo’s Master — and my dad — returns home from work. Basically, if you have four legs and an obsession with sniffing which is only just a bit less fantastic than your Master — easily the best thing in the entire world, even better than sniffing other dogs’ bums — this is the absolute most exciting time of the day.

So I stopped writing to watch my mum play ball with Jojo — something which happens like clock-work in the afternoons, and is carefully timed so that there will be an hour or so afterwards for Jojo to rest (because the moment her Master comes in she’ll go mad and run about, which Jojo never realises is a bad idea until the moment she pukes all over the carpet). A five or ten minute break is nothing less than essential when your working day is largely spent alone, imagining things. I highly doubt I needed to tell you that.

The game of ball, yesterday, was of medium quality. I say ‘medium’ because Jojo’s bal-catching capabilities are, at times, second-to-none. On a good day she can catch the ball after its first bounce every single time and predict where it’s going even before it’s thrown. On a medium day she misses it more often, and scampers about like a small horse who has just learned how to play.

I heard the noise but Jojo didn’t — no surprise; Greyhounds aren’t alert unless they see something, and besides that, she was too busy recovering from the game and enjoying having her belly stroked by mum. It was by the fence, whatever was making the noise. As I wandered over I had in my mind that it was a small bird scuttling about in the bush there, above my head, but as I scanned the smaller bushes and ground I saw it was a baby pigeon.

As anyone who frequently reads this blog will know, I am a bird lover. While many people cite the pigeon an annoyance and a bird which we can do without, I have always marvelled at them. Pigeons are, after all, one of the most intelligent birds there are, not to mention they have a powerful memory and sensory perception — something which by far not all garden birds possess.

So there was the pigeon; it’s fluffy head and naive wandering quality something sweet in an otherwise routine day. For about five minutes I chased it around in-between the small plants and bushes, trying to either scare it into flight or pick it up so I could set it free. The pigeon wouldn’t go with either option. It just wanted to strut up and down by the fence all day. And that would have been fine, if it wasn’t for Jojo having something territorial against it.

I had some success getting the pigeon to take flight in the corner of the garden, but this was to be short-lived, and led to it scrambling with confusion up against the study-window. From the way it did this I could see it was no more than a week or so old. All birds get confused by windows, it’s a fact, but this pigeon lost bright white feathers as it landed, unsure of which direction to head next.

I’d decided to grab the pigeon whether it liked it or not when I looked to my right and saw Jojo break away from mum. In the time it took me to register this, Jojo had grabbed the pigeon, sinking her teeth all the way through it. I stepped back and put my head in my hands, walked to the other side of the garden. Mum shouted at Jojo and told her to put the poor animal down but it was already too late. More than anything at that moment, I didn’t want Jojo to put the pigeon down. Cruel as it sounds, I wanted the pigeon to go now, to die quickly, for it to be smooth and finite. I just couldn’t stand the idea of being left with no other option but to finish the job myself.

We spent 10 minutes trying to free the bird from Jojo’s mouth. 10 minutes, but her mouth was like a vice. When I finally did get the pigeon out it was without its right wing. I buried it in the front garden, the poor thing.

I was in a rage after that. I rarely get in a rage, but this, all this, seemed like everything bad and doomed and broken about the world. I blamed myself for the death of the bird. Myself and my mum for allowing Jojo to murder it and not taking her inside the house while I dealt with the pigeon. As upset as I was about what I had just witnessed, I wasn’t angry with Jojo for what she had done. It tainted the day, this thing. Nothing is quite the same when death has left its mark before your eyes.

But on the bright side, at least it wasn’t some kind of rare bird of prey. That really would have pissed me off.

Tonight I’m going to see what all the fuss is about

The drama…the excitement…the forbidden passion and the endless teenage sexual tension — not to mention the vampires, did the vampires cross your mind yet by any chance? — no, I’m not talking about jumping in a time machine and going back to my first day at my local Youth Club (and I’m very glad about that. I’d never, ever want to be 15 and tormented by tits — both the hideous bullying variety who have fully-grown-man side-burns well before their time, and the splendid female kind — ever again). This is serious. Tonight will be the night that my life changes forever. And that’s exactly what I’m scared about.

For tonight will be the night I put aside every part of my brain saying a million variations of Chris, seriously, don’t do this, you will regret it and actually watch Twilight.

No, this is not a joke. Yes, this is a serious statement. I’ve heard all the bad words — “Stephanie Meyer can’t write! How on vampires-on-Earth did her book ever get made into a film?” — and all the good words — I don’t need to say much more than the words I love Robert Pattinson, do I? (And for the record, that wasn’t me just declaring my love for the man, that was supposed to be the exasperated voice of every teenage girl on the planet.)

See, I’ve decided that in order to move on with my life I need to get this out of the way. Once I have then I can get back to panning Twilight…

…Unless I find I actually quite like it…

Watch this space. Or don’t.

Frankly I’m giving myself the creeps now.

Breaking-Otter-News

Three things which crossed my mind as I saw this on today’s BBC News:

1) Does this fat, deeply unbothered animal look, to you, like it’s just returned from the brink of extinction?

2) Otters have very human-looking faces. This one resembles a man in my village who only ever wears a white vest and is known universally as “the village thug”.

3) It’s hardly surprising Otters became nearly extinct. Look how short this one’s right arm is! I’d also give up collecting food and fending off predators if my right arm was this short and I was this fat and very few people cared I even existed. (Unless this otter is a dwarf-otter?)

And while I’m at it, here’s a joke I know Frankie Boyle would approve of, from yesterday’s BBC News:

 

Post 98: Don’t be a (s)nob, buy a Big Issue

My local Big Issue seller and I have what I like to think is a somewhat unique relationship — that is, I bother to acknowledge his existence (whether I am buying a Big Issue or not) and he bothers to acknowledge mine (likewise), while for the most part the majority of people wander by without a second glance in his direction, some actively avoiding his gaze and others even taking the trouble to cross the street. But don’t get me wrong here, I can understand why people avoid the guy — I won’t deny it, I have avoided people like him in the past, for whatever reason — and I also highly doubt that he stands there eagerly expecting me to walk past and spend £2. All I’m saying is that from the look he gives me when he hands my Issue over, I am willing to bet that this moment means something, however small that something might be. I like to think I’m someone who he doesn’t look at and think What an arsehole.

I don’t buy The Big Issue for his personal charity or self-esteem, of course, or to make myself feel better and like more of a good person — I do it because The Big Issue is actually a good read and I’m always up for supporting a good cause if I can. That’s really all there is to it.

I see it like this: the way our lives eventually turn out is, to a large degree, dependant on thousands of unique combinations which are wildly out of our control. Our lives are also dependant on numerous other factors which are established well before we are even born and are nobody’s real choosing — things like history, soco-economic standing and family status. Things which just are the way they are. Yes, people who grow up as orphans or are abused for years probably have just as much power to change their circumstances as anyone else, but don’t miss the point: really, the gap between how some people end up on the streets and how you ended up in your high-paying, high-flying job is much smaller than you think. Flick a switch and everything really can change.

If you like to read and want to support people who are genuinely trying to help themselves, The Big Issue is a fantastic place to start. If someone took a risk and gave you a chance and it paid off for you, why not give it a go and help someone else out?

(This post is not affiliated in any way whatsoever with The Big Issue!)

Crimes against sleepage (and if you think I care that sleepage isn’t a real word, you are very much mistaken)

I'm sure it's obvious to anyone that this couple have made the fatal mistake of trying to put the covers on the bed TOGETHER. They will not make this mistake again. Mainly because this is the last time they will be sleeping together!

Out of all the mundane things in life which I absolutely hate doing – most of them unavoidable and inevitable things, such as waiting to fall asleep (POINTLESS and ANNOYING!) or putting on poorly designed socks which actually cause you real physical pain (EVIL! JUST PLAIN EVIL!) – putting the covers on my bed is easily in the top ten. You may think Well, if that’s all he’s got to worry about then he should shut his bearded face, that’s nothing! and you’d be right I expect – especially if you’re the proud owner of a new puking baby which refuses to shut up crying, in which case you have my sympathy, but really what did you expect? – but at the same time, there’s bound to be millions of lucky people out there with baby’s who don’t puke or cry all the time and who can relate perfectly to this woe of mine (they do not have my sympathy — because to me this kind of Omen-like-child seems to go against everything that babies ought to do. Except for when they’re changing a nappy and find an alarmingly colossal brown stinking sloppy gift in it. In that case the notion of unprotected sex must lose its appeal, I expect. It’s losing its appeal for me just thinking about it…).

Now onto why I dislike this putting-the-bed-covers-on-my-bed-thing, and here’s where my argument starts to unravel itself at alarming speed…can you tell I’m just writing this as I go? Ah, the beauty of being your own Editor!

…the reason it is such a hated task, for myself, is really because of all the stuff in my hovel that surrounds my bed – yep, it’s true, very little of the whole annoying drama is actually my bed’s sole fault. But still, if we were in some surreal LSD-induced court-of-law and I was taking my bed to court for crimes against sleepage – my mattress an imposing flat defendant with pipe-cleaner arms and legs, being represented by its more legally-minded friend the pillow in a battle-of-words which could potentially result in the worst sentence of all: being dumped in a skip or even set on fire! – I would argue that if the bed wasn’t there then the mess wouldn’t either. Ha! A pretty much water-tight argument if I do say so myself (still, I do hope I never end up in that court-of-law…)

Until I take my bed away…

The point is that someone needs to come up with an invention to make putting the covers on the bed and duvet a hell of a lot easier than it has been for the last however-many-thousand years (nobody say “Women!” or “Bedmakers!”) Cpink the blog does not endorse sexism or making fun of Bedmakers). Dragon’s Den is waiting . That new vampish, manly one with the big square shoulders and the worryingly deep voice is waiting to see your pitch…

When a cretin dispenses financial advice

"Really dad? Two plus two equals five? Yes! I always knew I was right and everyone else was wrong!"

As a child I had immense difficulties with telling the time (or, more precisely, learning to tell the time. This was in the years just before every child had a Casio digital watch and when, tragedy of tragedies, calculators weren’t allowed to be used in school, even if you were showing all the signs of your head exploding and your trousers going sodden from numeracy-induced-fear). Thing is, just picking one thing which I had trouble with as a child feels a bit unfair on all the other things. So, to be completely fair to all the things I was terrible at while growing up, here is a short but comprehensive list of all the ones I can remember (yes, my memory was about as good as my adding up…):

1) Anything to do with numbers, which, when you’re anywhere between 2 and 12 years old feels like just about everything (and, really thinking about it, probably is).

2) Lots of things to do with logic. I won’t list them here; just think of all the things the average dog struggles with and you should be on about the right track.

3) The dreaded times-tables. Yes, I know I’ve already mentioned numbers, but my attempts at learning the times-tables were so utterly disastrous — thank you Mrs Brown for making it even harder by being nine feet tall and a smorgasbord of pure evil — that it’s only right I make it a point on its own.

4) Understanding why the hell the entire world needs to revolve around numbers. (something I am still highly uncertain about; if/when I procreate, I hope to pass this natural healthy skepticism onto my off-spring, so as to ensure that they do not become that most dreaded of things: du-du-duuuuu…an academic! Only messing! Nothing against academics, it’s just that it really wouldn’t be fair to give an academic severe problems with maths, would it?)

Now, you’d think that as someone with such a hideous mis-grasp of numbers – something that has, if anything, evolved into an ever-worse black-hole of inescapable un-knowledge, thanks to my Dyscalculia – there would be no chance in HELL that I would ever be in a position to dispense any kind of financial advice.

BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG! For today was the day that I did that very thing. Such is the life of a freelance writer. What could I do? Turn it down by saying “sorry, I’m abysmal at maths, I had better not”? I don’t think so. Part of  being a successful freelance writer is also being able to lie as well as a con-man, don’t you know.

Note: seriously, don’t worry! There’s no need to tell everyone you know that there’s a totally inept freelance writer on the loose! I wasn’t allowed to roam free and use my own brain to compute the information for the article. All I had to do was re-write something someone else who has a clue had already written. And seriously, I am pleased about that…

Villagers lose legal-battle over tree with penis-shaped branch

February 18^th, 2009 Last updated 19:24

Villagers lose legal-battle over tree with penis-shaped branch

Villagers in Ecton, Northamptonshire, today lost their battle to have an offending tree branch removed. The decision to leave the eye-height branch untouched, which had been the subject of debate and controversy for some time, was made after Northampton Crown and County Court cited the case as “a dubious waste of Northampton’s legal resources.” The case, led by a committee who don’t wish to be named, is said to have cost in excess of £55,000 so far.

Northamptonshire County Council were first made aware of the so-called “perverted tree” in 2001 when a petition by villagers surfaced with over 1500 signatures.

The spokesowoman for the group said: “we won’t be satisfied until the offending branch has been removed and destroyed. We intend to pursue this case for as long as it takes and an appeal has already been made.” Northamptonshire County Council declined to comment.

You can always trust the BBC News to come up with compelling headlines, can’t you?

Now here’s a test: which of these headlines from past and present do you think genuinely come from the BBC?

Can Donkeys breakdance?

Wiltshire cash machine attacked by woman wielding shoe

Meet the man who eats broken glass with his cereal

New research on whales may hold clue to erectile dysfunction

Could being mugged actually be good for you?

If you’re screaming But Donkeys can breakdance! I saw one once on Blackppol beach! then what can I say? I’m jealous! Note: seriously, Donkeys cannot breakdance. Unless there is some bizarre urban-inspired mating ritual which I am unaware of, which is quite possible (but probably not in Blackpool, to be honest) — I’ve never been anywhere near mating Donkeys and I hope that never changes…

If you said Wiltshire cash machine attacked by woman wielding shoe, you would be 100%  right – and I think you’ll agree that you have to admire the dedication of any villain capable of such a thing. And no, you definitely shouldn’t eat broken glass in the morning. Also, if you see a beached whale, it’s probably pretty pissed off and embarrassed; please leave it alone or you may end up as the one with erectile dysfunction.

And if you were wondering if being mugged is good for you, I can tell you for a fact it isn’t! (Unless your name is Bernie Ecclestone. In which case it might shut your money-grabbing mouth up for five minutes — maybe — and wake you up to the genuine problems encountered by real human-beings every single day.)

To see a story very similar to the one described above, click here.

New short story in: This Bank Holiday I plan to not get in any fights!

I’m off for a few days…no computer access and I am looking forward to it. Here’s a story to pass the time…I thought I’d put it up on the home-page as some people don’t make it to the page linked below.

For more STORIES THAT ARE SHORT, you know where to go.

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After reading that title, I suppose you might think Did you get into a fight on the last Bank Holiday, then?

The answer is no, no I didn’t. I didn’t get into a fight on any other weekend either. But I did almost get into a fight on a week-day — or a School Night, as I can’t help but still think of week-days (I blame my mother for the creation of this particular mental deficiency) — recently. It was all because I had decided to be more assertive when out and about.

My mistake was being assertive with someone who is always out and about: I won’t call him a vagrant, as one of the definition’s for vagrant is as follows and you can see how this does not apply:

        1. One who wanders from place to place without a permanent home or a means of livelihood.

        2. A wanderer; a rover.

        3. One who lives on the streets and constitutes a public nuisance.

        The man in question doesn’t qualify, however, seeing as:

        1. He doesn’t wander, he stomps angrily or else just sits and shouts.

        2. See above.

        3. I have never seen him be a nuisance to any other member of the public. He seems to only be a nuisance to me as I walk past (this one I’m not 100% on, seeing as this only represents about 0.000001% of my average week. But it definitely feels like it, so I reckon that counts).

        No, instead of a vagrant he was more of a Roamer — someone who leads a wandering unsettled life.

        Also, every time I see him he’s holding an iphone of some description, which definitely rules Tramp out (this is not Las Vegas, after all). Which makes my own phone look positively out-of-date, I should say. When Roamers start wielding powerful machines like these, it is time to start worrying.

        Let’s hope his iphone isn’t internet enabled and his favourite past-time — when not harrassing passerby, of course — isn’t reading blogs from people residing in the Cambridge area!

        Anyway, less of all that, the point is I was being assertive and I was at a gig. My brother’s gig, to be exact. He plays in a band called 50 Metre Moving Target (he is in one of those bands which change their name constantly but when you see them your face, in surprise, does a funny thing and you go Wow, actually they’re really quite good! I’m not even that biased, check them out and you’ll see what I mean).

        My problem with being assertive at this gig was that there was really nowhere I could be actively assertive. Short of asking those men next to me at the urinals to move over 4 inches so I could be allowed to inhabit my own personal space — a taboo I didn’t feel comfortable with, what with the inches reference — there really wasn’t much of an opportunity for any of that (and I don’t drink either, so how assertive can you be while holding a pint of Diet Coke in your hand? It just doesn’t work to stand at the bar banging a fist on the counter and saying, just shy of aggressively, “Oy, mate, I’m waiting for a pint of Diet Coke here, hurry the hell up!”)

        So I decided to venture outside. This was allowed — my brother and his band-mates didn’t mind it, seeing as there were a few other acts on before them which were all total crap. Ha. Not really. They were all quite good actually (and included a group of guys and girls from the Chech Republic — much easier than spelling out the country — who were expertly performing what I dubbed “Peasant Rock” as I left the place).

        I should also say that I wasn’t specifically leaving the pub to be assertive. It was more a combination of assertiveness being the theme of the time and me wanting, very badly, to get my hands on a Wispa.

        Fortunately for me there is a mini-supermarket opposite the pub which has both a plethora of chocolate (all melting, but you don’t know this until you’ve actually got it out of the shop, where it suddenly dies on you and dares you to take it back, but you never dare to because you feel somewhat foolish) and loads of room outside which once had trolleys when people used trolleys, and now doesn’t and is spacially ideal for those with no fixed address. Nothing generally against those with no fixed address, though, I’d do the same and who knows, in another life I might well find out (Sainsbury‘s would be my supermarket of choice, seeing as they always have dapper outside areas).

        This time, however, I had a feeling that the tramp — he was a tramp at this point, as I had not seen his iphone — was going to be less one who just sits and stares at you, and more a man after my own heart: an assertive one. I quite liked this actually, so as he got up and started speaking to me I put my hand in my pocket.

        Almost immediately I knew I had made a grave mistake. On closer inspection — I was now a couple of metres from the automatic doors — I saw he had a furious look in his eyes. Extra furious, on top of that already disconcerting God-I-bloody-hate-the-world look. Also worrying was his tone as he demanded my change. It reminded me a lot of the wonky-eyed, slightly-too-enthusiastic butcher we had in our village when we were growing up. He wouldn’t allow my mum to leave the shop without taking his finest cut of meat and he always took too long to cut what looked like a tender piece of meat. Please, no jokes.

        By the time the tramp had spouted the second or third demand, I was all demanded-out. So I told him No. “Don’t demand money from me,” I said, with an echo of Jeremy Kyle somewhere in there which was too late to take back. “Because that is not going to work.”

        This only seemed to spur him on more. I could see my mistake and remembered the effect JK so often had on his so-called ‘guests’.

I darted in quick through the swoooshing doors before he could say another word. I quickly found myself lured by other chocolate bars not of the Wispa persuasion. Then commenced a difficult 5 minutes as my inner-Wispa-desire fought hard with the part of my mind which held memories of all the other chocolates.

        But the Wispa won, fortunately. I’d never have forgiven myself otherwise.

        Upon leaving, the exact scenario I had envisioned happened; the vagrant — in the shop I had developed sympathy for his plight and felt bad for calling him a tramp — gave me hell for not giving him change. I made a noise at him which wasn’t even close to any kind of word, but he seemed to get the point, because he looked even more furious than he had.Very,

        It was then, when he kept badgering me, aggressively demanding I give him money — that I had to give him money — that I told him to “piss off and leave me alone.” Which I thought was fair under the circumstances. He clearly didn’t, though. He paused and then looked at me like someone had just whispered into his ear what swear-words were all about.

        Two minutes later I was back inside the safety of the crowded pub, wondering things which cross your mind when you are standing alone and forced into making observations to bide your time (wondering why some peoples necks were taller than others and what that might actually mean, if you were interested).

        Something hit me from behind. Just the door. I assumed it was someone trying to come in and subtly notify me that I was standing in their way. It wasn’t, it was someone — the angry Roamer — kicking the door in and shouting at me…something. It sounded like a challenge and he had all the gestures of a good hip-hop video going on, but without the scantily clad girls shaking their electric-gold hot-pants.

        Obviously I didn’t take him up on his challenge. For one thing, I was with about 10 mates and a pub-full of people, and for another, the guy’s fury scared me a bit to be honest.

        Not that it was really my decision not to challenge him. He stomped angrily away quickly, with his iphone, looking over his shoulder, and by then I had my Wispa out and was onto other matters, like wondering why I still had a Pay as You Go.

New short story: Armed and quite LITERALLY dangerous

Really, I’d like to be able to get on the train just ONCE without things turning weird…

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In my last post I said something like I was going to try not to get into any fights on the Bank Holiday Weekend…

OH, GO ON THEN, MAKE MY DAY!

 

Fraccing (Hydraulic Fracturing): get out and STAY out

Hydraulic fracturing — or ‘fraccing’, as it’s more commonly referred to — is the process of obtaining natural gases from deep within the Earth; high-pressure water, sand and chemicals are pumped in, rock splits, tiny explosions happen, and gas — massive volumes of gas, the likes of which is hard to comprehend or put across in words — is immediately released, rising to the surface where it is captured. Of course, there’s a lot more to it than that, but going into much more detail would seem needless, what with the immense amount of information already out there about it. Really, though, all you need to know is that it is an extremely efficient and new-school approach to harvesting natural gas. An approach which, according to today’s East Anglian News  is already in its infancy here in the UK.

And you should be worried. Very worried. Because while fraccing is ultra-efficient and a template for what could potentially be a supreme long-term natural gas solution, right now it is dangerous, ramshackle and flawed — a combination of grave warnings which, when rolled into one, create a horrific prospect at a time when we ought to be heading in a better direction than where we have come from. And that’s not just my opinion: it’s an irrefutable fact. For further proof of the highly dubious nature of fraccing, one need only type the phrase into any search engine and click on any number of the troubling articles that the search has brought up. That’s not to say that everything about fraccing is bad news, of course, it’s just that what bad news there is has a habit — constant and unwavering, no matter what the aspect — of dwarfing the limited positive attributes which are known to exist.

Click the picture to read the article at The Ecologist

Personally, the idea that fraccing may become frequent practice in the UK more than just worries me: it genuinely disturbs me, for a number of reasons. Some of which are as follows:

1) At fraccing sites across the United States, ground-water networks have become repeatedly contaminated. Contaminated may be too kind a word, actually. On countless occasions wildlife drinking and swimming in the affected water have been poisoned. Alongside this, and no less unsettling, people have experienced a wide range of health worries — we’re talking everything from brain lesions to skin complaints and anything in-between. Fraccing and people simply do not mix.

2) None of the aforementioned occurrences have been deemed noteworthy enough to stop hydraulic fracturing from happening in new locations. While public concern has slowed down the process and petitions have proved somewhat effective, fraccing will not be stopped. This machine is much too determined and greedy to be stopped by a few hot and bothered citizens.

3) The short history of fraccing tells us that once fraccing is here, it’s here to stay. Natural gas is extremely valuable. Once a site is found, there is virtually nothing on Earth which can stop it being mined.

Fraccing should and will leave a bad taste in your mouth. Remember that taste. It’s not going to go away any time soon. Do not stand for it.

 

The mysterious secrets that women keep (and men, well, me at least, will never understand…)

Sadly, when I typed 'average looking woman' into Google, this image came up. This doesn't look very average to me. But then, when the majority of the internet is plastered with too-thin women, maybe this is average.

I’m not going to get into a religious or evolutionary debate here – and besides, everyone knows that you need at least two people to debate something, which is fortunate for me – but I will say that however it was that man and woman came to be, and whatever some disillusioned people may still think, woman came out on top. All things considered, the fact that we live in a male-dominated world stupefies me, really — I just find it hard to believe that things are still that one-sided. I often lie awake at night wondering how the trains would be running if women had been in charge since the start (not to mention whisks; if women had been in charge of them since day one then I highly doubt we’d have had to endure the tedious annoyance that is hand-whisking things for over a hundred years). So, let’s quickly examine several traits generally associated with both sexes (and please don’t email me in a rage stating how I have generalized. I will simply agree with you wholeheartedly while not bothering to reply to you. Thanks. Also don’t email me to say I hate men. I am one, or at least I was last time I checked. Yep, still am).

Men:

1) Will not ever ask strangers for directions (if they do — and I am talking from experience — they like to dress it up as a friendly conversation, dropping the question in nonchalantly, so as to drive on with a degree of male pride intact. Which does not work, ever).

2) Will not ever look at instructions. Instructions are THE ENEMY.

3) Will not ever accept help from strangers or friends when trying to build something. In this case, EVERYONE IS THE ENEMY, including and not limited to the Sky, inanimate objects both near and imagined, and even ones pathetic, constructually-impotent self (I do believe it is the first and last time I will ever use that expression, but I may be wrong).

Women:

1) Are better than they should be at multi-tasking. Let’s just leave it at that…

2) Possess the universally, language-transcending, irritating ability to always have the last word.

3) Are attracted to human-beings such as Rod Stewart. Rod Stewart. And the thing is, you just can’t blame ten million women fancying Rod Stewart on ten million brain injuries, either — although it would explain a lot — which suggests that something much more sinister has to be going on. But then I would think that…I’m a man, with a deep and entrenched obsession with not being able to work out Rod Stewart’s unbelievable face.

Delving deeper into the murky quagmire of enormous differences that exists between the sexes is the fact that male body’s resemble some kind of ultra-elaborate joke where body parts have been randomly slapped on willy-nilly, pun-intended – an ugly wrinkled dangly thing here, a pair of ancient-looking hanging round things there. It doesn’t matter which angle you approach it from: women are streamlined, gorgeous creatures which can dance badly all they like and still, somehow, come off with a degree of integrity and sexual allure, while men on the other hand…

…but still, at least we look at Rod Stewart and go “Oh, bloody hell…”

But it’s in the secrets that women keep that things get really interesting. For, since the dawn of time – or at least since fish grew breasts and discovered they really liked winding fish-with-dangly-bits up – they have had their own unique code of practice which men find impossible to understand. Which, surely, is the point?

Forget the point for a while. Some of which are as follows:

1) Leaving wisps of black, ambiguous hair clinging to the toilet bowl after some odd, unthinkable ritual. These strange ritualistic happenings can also be found in bathroom bins, adding even more so to the mystery.

2) Farting — modern-day equality demands that I use the term most commonly used by men, as opposed to the far less abrasive one passing wind — with just as much raging stinkage as any man, but somehow always avoiding suspicion as the perpetrator (it’s almost as if they can throw their farts like a ventriloquist expertly throws his or her voice).

3) Being not hungry in the slightest one minute, then absolutely starving the next (which always happens after you have just asked them, several times, if they wanted to change their mind, and they said “stop asking me if I want to change my mind!”).

Or maybe it’s just me.

 

The horror of people who can’t be bothered to shake hands

Shaking hands can be awkward enough without you both being naked as well!

I’m not sure who sat back one day and said to him or herself “Say, I know what a great way of greeting people would be…I’ll take their hand in mine and move it up and down firmly when we first meet!” but it certainly did the trick (and I for one am glad that they weren’t inebriated or high at the time, otherwise we might have been doing things like politely cupping each others testicles for the rest of all-time – not something you’d ever want to do. Especially if you’re meeting someone who’s just run The London Marathon…anyway, let us swiftly move on). Ever since that fateful day in whenever-the-hell-it-was, arms and hands have been moving up and down across the world, and people have felt a particular satisfaction with meeting one another, which surely must have made greeting dastardly mother-in-laws much easier than it otherwise might have been. It may be one of the less interesting greeting gestures around – I think you’ll agree it’s not a patch on the dramatic greetings of the Wolof, from the Gambia Senegal, who love nothing more than to spit in each others faces with sheer exquisite glee – but it’s definitely a lot safer than catching AIDS. And that’s not a joke. Thanks to many lesser-known ethnic groups both greeting with spitting and also rubbing saliva into manky old wounds, AIDS has been known — according to my limited research — to spread like wild-fire, along with a number of other nasty diseases such as Tonsilitis, Swine Flu and many more than I have time to name-check here. Again, that’s not a vicious rumour, or me singling anyone out for the sake of it — the sad fact is that ancient customs have been known to kill people.

(Note: Those who are feeling even more adventurous may wish to hire an elderly woman to spit in the face of an infant once it is born, as is also a particularly loved past-time for the Wolof of West Africa. But Cpink wouldn’t advise it, and if you do decide to hire her, make sure that that she’s fit enough she can run away at speed. Preferably without shattering her hip.)

And shaking hands really isn’t hard. In the western world, and providing you don’t wander into some odd part of say, Hull or Bedford, you meet someone, put your hand out, and instinct and natural conditioning takes care of the rest (hopefully without one of you being either limp-wristed or overly aggressive). It’s simple, no fuss, easy-to-do greeting stuff which even the thickest of people have managed to learn to perfection. You’d really think It can’t go wrong.

But then again, don’t forget this is human beings we are talking about…we’re ingenious at taking something brilliant like the world and completely screwing it up.

Why, then, do some people deliberately, or so it would seem, opt out of what is really a non-opt-outable part of every-day culture? And nobody email me to say that not shaking hands is the right of an individual. If you feel like that, why don’t you dig a hole in the ground or start wearing a sign on your chest which says I DON’T AGREE WITH SHAKING HANDS, SORRY? That would at least make it fair, so that everyone knows where they stand.

There are exceptions, of course. Some of which are as follows:

1) You have just done a massive great slimy poo. Oh, it’s hideous. It’s come out of some slippery sixth dimension and is not fit for this world. And you have not washed your hands, you filthy muck-hound you! Whether that’s because the taps weren’t working or you did such a big poo that it quite literally made you forget your good senses, it’s irrelevant: shaking someone’s hand in this scenario is not a good idea, and if you do it you should be ashamed! The only problem with that being that muck-hounds aren’t generally ashamed. Really, they ought to be locked up.

2) For whatever reason, you really hate the person you are meeting (they had an affair with your girlfriend or they once broke your pelvis in five places when they drove a shopping trolley into you at the supermarket, the worst part being that it wasn’t even half full, for example). What better way to demonstrate this hatred with perfect clarity than to make them feel exceedingly awkward by not shaking hands? Excellent.

3) You don’t own a right hand, or right arm. As in they are not attached to your body, rather than you forgot to buy one last time you went to The Arm & Hand Shop. In this case, only the cruellest other person would put their right hand out and you would be absolutely within your rights to punch them in the face if they did so.

Otherwise, shake the damn hand, please. It’s really not that hard. Let’s try and keep it simple!

 

Chris’s new experiment…

Where to begin…so much to say…

That was my attempt at doing tension. I hope you liked it.

I’ll keep it biref. It’s 12:30am and I am KNACKERED. Can you tell?

How about this: I have a brand-new blog up.

What’s it about? Well…hold on to your hat. Hold on to anything near you. But make sure it’s fastened down.

It’s about football.

That’s right, FOOTBALL. That thing which I have never been able to understand.

And it’s serious. Over the course of the next few months — up until May 2012, to be precise — I’m going to be recording my journey as I learn about football. The blog will be, and is, a blog for anyone. Even if you don’t like football I hope you’ll still take something from it.

Really, it’s about facing something you’re scared off and just going for it. And believe me when I say I am SCARED.

Right now there are three posts up, and you can read the intriductory one by clicking here.

I’ll still be blogging here, of course, you don’t get rid of me that easily!

Chris

Independent author interview: a man called Roger Knowles

Click the pic, go to Amazon.

You probably haven’t heard the name Roger Knowles, but that’s not to say his is not a name worth knowing. Like thousands of people taking advantage of the groundbreaking, easily accessible technology now available to writers world-wide, Derby-based Roger is part of an independent movement far bigger and ultimately more astonishing than anything dreamt about as little as 20 years ago. Using portals like Amazon, he’s getting his work into the hands of anyone owning a Kindle. It may be doing the publishers’ heads in, but who cares, right? All’s fair in e-books and war.

Get Naked! Sorry Roger...I couldn't resist it...

Roger and I became acquainted through an online forum and, while I haven’t met the man in person – who is certainly a character – I have read one of his recent works – Broken Cats and Cowboy Hats – and enjoyed it; largely because I don’t write thrillers, and always enjoy reading books which approach things a bit differently to the way I do. With that in mind, and always one to jump at the opportunity of doing a blog post with minimal effort – can you really blame me? – I asked the man if he’d like to answer a few questions on this blog. He said yes. The result is as follows…

One: Your novels contain technical shifts in POV (point of view) which many authors find less than easy. What do you enjoy about jumping between time frames and what draws you to writing from the perspective of multiple characters instead of just one?

I’ve never liked the POV rule, feeling that as long as the reader can understand what’s going on, the rule’s irrelevant. Yes, I know – try telling an agent, publisher or editor that! But as I have no interest in conventional mainstream publishing, I can do what I like [Roger put a smiley face here, but you'll just have to imagine that, as WordPress seems to harbour a serious dislike of smiley faces]. I don’t especially enjoy jumping between time frames, but I wanted to try different approaches with different books, and I thought that approach best suited ‘Broken Cats…’

Two: Broken Cats and Cowboy Hats is an unconventional thriller to say the least. What are your influences (literary and other)?

I must have some buried in my subconscious, but, consciously, I honestly don’t know of any. Having said that, I have the attention span of a young child on E numbers, so I like short chapters. For that reason I’ll happily read early James Patterson. And for his ability to tell a good if improbable story, I enjoy Lee Child and his Jack Reacher books – yes, I’m a bit lowbrow. Non-fiction wise, I’m a fan of Bill Bryson and the PC incorrect Jeremy Clarkson. I know admitting to liking the latter is like saying you’re a Jeffery Archer fan, but I can’t help that – he makes me laugh. Non-literary – my mother was a house-mother in a children’s home when I was in my teens, so I lived with severely disadvantaged kids for a few years and saw that even the basically good ones could easily go wrong.

Three: Could you give us some insight into what you did before writing novels and how that helped when you decided this is what you want to do?

My previous life involved writing long and complex investment reports for discerning clients along with pieces for the financial Press. I guess this taught me brevity, which I hope is reflected in my novels – I dislike long descriptive passages – sorry Mr Dickens.

Four: Although your work is obviously fictional, do you draw inspiration from any real locations?

Not really, though I have used one or two locations from my home town, Derby. One of my books, ‘The Association’, actually uses Derby as the location in one section – pure laziness, requiring no research.

Five: Some people are under the impression that books always take years to create. In reality those who write know that that isn’t always the case. How long do you spend working on a first draft and what do you think the advantages and disadvantages of writing at speed are?

On the first draft, probably about a week, but I’d stress that the end result is always extremely poor quality. The main advantage, I think, is the opportunity to get ‘the bones’ down as they emerge from the brain, and to quickly reveal aspects that don’t make sense in one way or another, which can then easily be dealt with in later drafts. Disadvantages? For me, none, but I know many writers have everything carefully planned before they put pen to paper, and for them, that’s the right way.

Six: ‘Write a thriller’ seems to be something on a lot of people’s to-do lists. What advice would you give to someone who has always harboured a secret desire to write one but has never quite got round to it?

Pick up a pen or switch on your computer and write/type ‘once upon a time’ then keep writing/typing until ‘the end’ appears on the page.

Seven: I like to wear stone masonry ear-defenders while I write. Do you have any strange or surprising tactics for shutting the outside world out and getting on with what you need to accomplish?

I use headphones with my MP3 player, using alpha-wave producing classical tracks.

———

Roger has another book out — this time romantically inclined — which is called To Be A Man. You can buy it or read the reviews by clicking here.

September 11th, Twin Towers &Time To Reflect

There are already enough stories of what happened 10 years to this day that writing this, in many ways, I feel like I’m pointlessly re-treading old ground, digging up unwilling ghosts of the past which are already tired and fed-up and wanting to be left in peace. Ones which are already today the intense focus of the world’s media, struggling to break free of the hyperbole surrounding the (presumable) death of Osama Bin Laden and whatever conclusion that apparently comes to; stories of watching — yet not really seeing — the first plane hit, then being unable to properly comprehend what happened just moments after with another. What felt like seconds. Seconds the world changed forever, yet stayed the same in what can only be described as an appalling lack of learning. In minutes, death, terrorism and vengeance were the new words on the street, and instead of really considering what it must have been like for those who lost relatives and friends on that terrible New York day — something which would come after, with a spate of TV documentaries that came worryingly late and only after a great deal of angry propaganda — the media went on a rampage with religion in its sights. Find the enemy, snuff it out.

That was how I felt before I opened Facebook. Concerned, as I mentioned, that a celebration of the recent Osama Bin Laden death-documentary might potentially eclipse that of the events of 10 years ago, I was in no rush to look at Facebook. Yet when I did I found a brilliance of strength and mass of positive messages that swamped anything referring to the man they say who started it all. I’m sure that won’t be the complete picture, after all, my Facebook isn’t your Facebook and yours is like nobody else’s. Each and every one of us have a slightly different group of friends with a slightly different political persuasion. Thanks to this, there is no universal forum which contains an equal measure of opinion and insight; much less one we could all agree was a measure of that fact. Everything we all see is either one way or the other, which means that some will have woken up to a barrage of positive messages, and others will have found themselves confronted by conspiracy theories and less than tasteful attitudes to the event of this day.

Whatever you think, today isn’t the time to rant on about it: please keep it to yourself. Instead, think of those who died, and think of those who lost others — for which today is a tragic reminder of never-ending despair. Let’s be as ONE today, and let’s try and open our minds up to love, instead. Yeah, I sound like a hippy, but you know it makes sense.

There has already been enough blame and enough tragedy and enough finger-pointing. Save it for another day, if you must, and let us remember those who passed away with the honour they deserve.

You don’t have to pray or kneel or be religious in any way. All you need to do is close your eyes for a second and use your head.

Autumnal love

Sometimes it's good just to look straight up

Before I started writing this post I had a precise idea of what I wanted to say — an assembly of images, sights and natural textures to pick and choose from, and navigate around. And now I sound like Dawson, from hit emotional overload Dawson’s Creek; what can I say, that’s just the way it was. It was, now I think about it, that kind of burning-with-desire intensity of thoughts that makes you arrogantly and honestly believe that you can capture any thought, feeling or emotion and put it neatly into words so that the whole entire world can visualise it as perfectly as if they were right there, as if they had lived it many times and were as familiar with it as anything else in their life. I’d dribbled my brand-spanking-new Adidas football all the way to the shop in the next village — by no means an impressive feat by the average rambler’s standards, or a fit-old-lady’s either, but not bad for me — for my new project over at Learning To Love The Beautiful Game and then I’d come home, turned my computer on and thought Right, where was I?

This was when the floundering around started. Now, in a magic twist of annoyance, all I had were a slew of epic, indecisive, jumbled up perceptions — each of which seemed to skirt around the real meaning of what this beautiful time of the year really means.

To begin with I had wanted to write about the way that many people think the Summer is the best time of year. I wanted to say how Summer may be hot and exotic and novel — sometimes, although I’m not sure we quite reached the throws of exotic this year — but it lacks depth somehow…or maybe character. Then I wanted to write about that bit before Autumn really begins. The bit you can easily miss if you don’t sleep with your windows open. The turning of the seasons which happens literally over-night and marks the atmosphere with an almost sacred touch. Then — told you I kept changing my mind — I wanted to write about the smells of Autumn in all their unique indecipherable measures. The ones which make Summer look quite dull and lifeless. You know the ones. Those which smell of the Earth and the sky and the rain — all the elements combined, almost like a time-travelling experience from the ground to the clouds and then back again like the cycle of precipitation which happens minutely in every second. Especially if you live in Scotland.

In the end I just decided to reminisce. But I think you probably guessed that by now.

If you liked this, you may like my debut adventure/comedy novel, The Number 3 Mystery Book, available on Amazon (for Kindle and ipad etc) now, and paperback very soon…

The Number 3 Mystery Book — buy your paperback now

Black and white ex-racing greyhound Jojo loves The Number 3 Mystery Book so much, she'll frequently spend hours in her doggy-den, mulling over the captivating storyline. In this photo, her morose expression conveys her sheer inability to fathom why anyone else wouldn't want to read it too. (In their doggy-den or otherwise.)

Last week, finally, it happened: a very disgruntled post-man — complete with small red van, like the demonic real-life becoming of postman Pat — turned up at the door holding a massive box; the kind of box which surely must be urban legend in the post-office, and which post-men and women alike no doubt spend their whole lives fearing they might ond day get lumbered with. I quickly recovered from the shock of this event FINALLY happening and learned why he was so disgruntled: the box weighed an absolute ton — in it, 100 paperbacks of my debut novel (which is 14.5cm x 20.5cm and a perfect-bound laminated paperback, just like you see in the shops). If you haven’t already, read the synopsis and see reviews here, where you can also buy the digital version.

The paperback cover has smaller title writing, as seen in the photo above with Jojo posing

And it’s about time this self-publishing venture of mine really kicked in. 3 months ago I made the very brave statement that “in 3 weeks my books should be available in paperback.” A total impossibility as it turned out; first there was the formatting to do, and then there were graphics to sort out. Aside from that, a human-being must also sleep…still, let’s not dwell on that point, it’s a time for being smug and it won’t come again for a while, that much is certain. Instead, let me tell you how you can get your hands on a copy and other important details. Then you can be smug, too. Don’t say I never give you anything.

INDEX

* Why you should buy this first-run, limited-edition book

* Can I have a signed copy?

* OK Chris, you’ve broken me. I live in the UK, how do I pay?

* Oh dear…but Chris, I am a luddite…does that mean I have to wait until either someone

leaves it on the train or it ends up in a library or a bin?

* But Chris, my problem is I don’t live in the UK. It’s the end of the world!

And just when I thought everything in my life was going right…

* …Is there a web-site for the book? I’m intrigued and would like to know more

* Links to more about the book

* Thanks

Why you should buy this first-run, limited-edition book

Because if you don’t you are making the biggest mistake of your life, of course. But aside from that, and the fact that if you don’t buy it your children won’t ever discover it in the book-shelf — which would mean them missing out on a vital part of English culture, which would be all your fault! — this first edition might one day be worth something. I know, I’m getting carried away here, but let’s say I make the big-time, or the semi-big-time, or just the semi-semi big-time, right? Or I get involved in a road-rage incident with the Pope or something and that gets me on This Morning. Well, in that case these might become valuable. Or at least sought after. It’s all very good and well not buying one now, but don’t come crying to me when you need to pay that last thirty grand on your mortgage in twenty years’ time!

Can I have a signed copy?

Yes! And that’s not me saying that out of vanity. Lots of people have already asked for this — without me even mentioning it — and although my right hand is now almost perpetually spasmed from all the signing, I’m sure I can make an exception for you.

OK Chris, you’ve broken me. I live in the UK, how do I pay?

Here’s how you do it: if you have a Paypal account then it couldn’t be simpler. Simply sign in and click the Send Money button as depicted below:

Once you’ve done that, you get this:

As you can see, now you are here. From this point on it’s very simple: enter the amount of £9.50 (£2.50 of that is for UK postage and packaging — the book on its own cosst £7.50) and the email address chrispink49@googlemail.com and hit Continue.

And I repeat, £9.50 includes postage and packaging, so you’re not going to get stung for anymore, I assure you.

On the next screen you’ll have the option of adding a message in the box provided. If you would like me to write something in the front of the book, no matter how ridiculous or formal — excluding death-threats or malicious notes like  “Here’s a book for you. YOUR DUMPED!” — write the exact words in this box and I will get it done. It is a promise.

AND I DO NEED YOUR ADDRESS! so if your Paypal account doesn’t automatically send this, be sure to include this in the message box as well.

Oh dear…but Chris, I am a luddite…does that mean I have to wait until either someone

leaves it on the train or it ends up in a library or a bin?

Sorry, yes.

Only messing! Of course not, as long as you never ever again suggest it might end up in the bin — that really wasn’t very nice. So yes, I also accept cheques too. Please email me if you would like my address, and I will tell you and only you it. You have to be careful, you know. That bloke Dom off of Cowboy Builders is always going on about it.

But Chris, my problem is I don’t live in the UK. It’s the end of the world!

And just when I thought everything in my life was going right…

Seriously…calm down. It’ll be OK. If you don’t live in the UK, you need to email me and tell me where you live. Then I can calculate the postage costs and we can go from there. There, isn’t that better? (And don’t panic, the postage costs are reasonable. Examples below.)

US: £5.40 / $8.40

Germany: £3.40 / Euro 3.90

France: £3.40 / Euro 3.90

It is. Just one last thing…

Isn’t there always…

…Is there a web-site for the book? I’m intrigued and would like to know more

Ah, in that case I forgive you. There IS a web-site for the book, actually — it’ll be taking all the money, which will be nice — but sadly, seeing as I lack any technical computer skills whatsoever, I am still trying my best to work out how to upload the damn bloody thing. As soon as it is up, I will post an update here.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Links to more about the book

All Number 3 related book things are on this blog here

Feature here on Fiction Fierce

See the synopsis here

Thanks

One last thing: thanks again to the many amazing people who helped make my first novel a reality. It wasn’t an easy journey, but people like Phil Thomas, Robin Bright, Jack McCourt and Yasmin Selena — whose brand-new blog about writing and short stories is up here and you really ought to read it — made it a hell of a lot easier than it might have been otherwise. I couldn’t have done it without any of these people, not to mention the many great friends who are showing support on Facebook and Twitter right now. You’re all most excellent.

Lastly, as you know, there are only 100 copies of this first edition in existence. I’m reserving copies for quite a few people, but they can’t be held forever, so the sooner they are paid for the sooner they can be despatched.

Thanks for reading and hope to hear from you soon,

If you have any other pressing questions, feel free to contact me at: chrispink49@googlemail.com

Chris

2 things to do if you feel like…

1) Take a chocolate bar to bed with you — and you can wipe that smug smile off your face, you: by that I definitely do not mean in the seedy way (is there a seedy way?! I don’t know…), I just mean carry it with you up the stairs, or to the back of your bungalow, and into your room with you to enjoy. By eating, of course.

When in bed, just before sleeps, eat just half the bar (or less if it’s a massive one, you greedy pig you!). I know this goes against everything your parents and the world ever told you about how to treat your teeth, but don’t worry. It’s not going to do too much damage, providing you don’t make a habit of it. Use your own discretion.

Now HERE’S the best bit: before bed, put the chocolate bar on the bed-side table. Or on the floor. Anywhere but the pillow or the bed. That would be a mistake. Then, upon awakening, you will be greeted by one of your most favourite things, and for a second or two it’ll fill you with warmth and be an amazing new surprise. Already your day is off to a brilliant start!

2) Watch comedy classic Zoolander. For some reason, I’ve heard a few people call Zoolander childish and rubbish, when, in fact, it is a magnificent piece of work (as a friend recently reminded me. Thank you friend). Well, what can you do? You can’t please everyone all the time, even with genius. But trust me, if you haven’t seen it, do. It’s something your sense of humour can’t afford to miss.

 

What happened to old-school human bravery?

The beginnings of bravery: the Midwife

According to generations of historic films, it goes like this: in the ancient times of battle and uprising – an aspect of life now largely replaced by IKEA furniture and panicking about your broadband connection’s speed, unless you happen to be a paramedic or a fire-man/woman, in which case you panic desperately about your 3G coverage – bravery wasn’t just an option, it was a way of life; as ingrained as the notion that all witch’s should be burned, or that when night falls, evil spirits lurk and the bras must come off buxom maidens (Knight: “If you remove thy bra, it will protect the village from evilest spirits! Plus I suspect it will also feel quite good.” Damsel: “I’ve heard that one before…). So, when you weren’t trying your damnedest to forge the softest, thinnest make-shift condom you could from the wood of a tree – please…spare a thought for the whores of those first few hundred agonising experiments… – you were eating food which you almost certainly knew would kill you as it had killed many of your relatives and friends, or dabbling in things which magic (now science) said might curse you if you got your toad’s legs confused with your lizard’s entrails. Basically, the moment you opened your eyes, you were locked in a fierce battle not only with your senses, but with everything you could touch or see or hear. About the only time – and this is me purely hypothesizing here – you got any real rest from being brave was when you dreamed about nice things like fields of golden corn and maidens running all smiley through it, the dream climaxing in you both simultaneously defending the maiden from a dragon while making love heroically. Though of course you didn’t ever tell anyone about those particular dreams in such detail…well, apart from the heroic climactic part. That bit you really rammed home. For one they’d think you delusional – have you ever seen someone run through corn smiling, maiden or otherwise? It’s really painful – and for another they’d consider your intellectual interpretations so grotesquely advanced and modern that the friendship would end abruptly. A savage blow to the head, presumably, brains spilling out. Nothing personal of course, that was just the way it was.

Today it’s fine to dream about anything. Dream it, do it, everyone else is, why should you be any different? In fact, dreams now play second-fiddle to CGI — as well as philosophical apes and films so realistic that there really isn’t any point in getting excited about eating chocolate anymore – it’s far easier and less taxing to just watch a sultry Galaxy commercial. That’s not to say that bravery isn’t still an integral part of every-day life, it’s just that things have changed. There is no going back. I really can’t see the average supermarket trolley boy dying with the same amazing dignity that William Wallace exhibited on that stone when his number was up (unless he or she works at Morrisons or Londis or a Poundstretcher with a particularly spacious car-park. Bred into a constant struggle to do better and work harder than almost anyone else on Earth, these down-trodden, resented-by-society workers are, from a very early age, made to contend with things like run-away trolleys and impossible to live-up-to sell-by-dates, not to mention the whole country constantly saying how they will never be as good as Waitrose etc, which would be enough to fuel the fire of even the slackest career-minded person. Which tends to explain why the previous supermarkets have both a much higher suicide and success rate – you tend to go one way or the other).

Try and be brave, go on, I dare you. Take a walk down the shops. Deliberately get in the way of those mums who always gang up together and block the entire width of the pavement. See what happens. I’ll tell you what’ll happen: one of them, or two of them, or all of them, if you’re really unfortunate, will tell you to Piss Right Off – right in front of their children, who are all more than capable of displaying their hatred for you with their small fingers. There will then be a moment when you think I’m not having this! I have every right to this pavement as well as you do. But you won’t do anything about it. You’ll then suddenly think of Google. Or Bing if you prefer to champion the underdog. The point is, without the internet you don’t know what to do. Really, without the internet what do any of us know what the hell to do? Think about a skinny black child growing up in the worst drought of our time in Somalia right now. He never thinks of Google. He’s more brave and daring every time he breathes than any of us out here and you know it.

Aside from all that, it’s probably true that for most of us, being brave has just got boring. As a people we are over it. A few thousand years of bravery is enough to break the backbone of any civilisation, and we’ve just had enough. Really, what’s the point if you don’t actually have to? We don’t need to be brave anymore, for the most part. Usually there’s a way to prevent us having to experience this daft archaic emotion, a way to get around the problem with technology. Being brave is what we used to do before the age of the internet; now we sing “I’ll catch a grenade for ya,” without really thinking the idea through properly (are modern boy-bands – sorry, ‘male groups’ – actually aware of what a grenade’s purpose is?). Unless you want to try and actually get out of your comfort-zone without the internet, of course. But why would you want to bother? It’s much easier just to talk about it – that’s what Facebook is for, after all.

Despite my ranting, we all know I’m missing a lot of modern-bravery out here: the mid-wives, the Policemen, those that risk their lives so we can continue to live our lives – all of these people exhibit incredible bravery which is hard to comprehend by engaging body and soul in Loose Women (the TV show…you’d probably know true bravery if you engaged in enough loose women…). Next time you hear about someone doing something brave, planning something brave, even if it’s dangerous, especially if it’s dangerous, spur them on. Make it clear that they have to do it (unless it might actually kill them, in which case back off a bit). It’d be nice if bravery continued to exist in a thousand years’ time, I think. And we are not going to get there by watching The Only Way Is Essex, that much is certain…

Note: I watched The Only Way Is Essex for the first time the other night. It was better than I expected. Some of the stuff they come out with…