My eyes have gone funny, having spent the afternoon copying out faded, photocopied, tiny print from six or seven years ago. Well, my fingers were doing the actual copying, but my eyes were keeping close watch.
Odd day yesterday, with some very good news that promised also to be rather expensive. Only Barclays couldn't do a transfer of the wanted amount via the Internet. So I rang them.
"It needs to be paid in one go," I said.
"Well," said the helpful, friendly man. "You could do it in installments over the week."
Nor could they do a transfer of wanted amount over the phone - even after going through security checks and questions. So, though I was freelancing in an office, I trooped off to see them in person, at the place round the corner. Which was swarming with lost looking souls. Spent 20 minutes in the queue, to find they can't do a transfer of wanted amount at the counter. Queued to see a personal banker, to discover they can't do a transfer of that kind after 3 pm. It was 2.58 by their own clock.
"But by the time we've filled in the form..." said the smiling, friendly lady.
Gah!
Was at the bank as they opened this morning, and this time the transfer was one the counter could do. Spent some time filling in a form, only to be told it was the wrong bit of paper for transferring sums to another bank. But by half nine, all was done. Of course, the form had to be faxed off to somewhere and then processed from there. But by now it should all be done.
Should be. They said they'd ring me if there were any problems.
They said.
Still don't really believe this is happening. But when all transactions have been made, I will admit what it is I am spending my money on.
Then, last night, to the pub to discuss work-type things. As a result, I am now swamped in projects of one kind or another. And some very exciting ones, too. There will be, as ever, some announcement some time. But drank two bottles of fizz with the Doctor to celebrate.
Hmm. Realise none of the above is actually very revealing. But at least an air of mystery makes me seem interesting.
And now back to washing up sauncepans.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
Hoot crowd
So it's not another Bad Wolf. Already, of course, there’s talk among Droo authors about which things they’ve written this new show will be like, or whether it might mean More Books. My own mercenary first thought was, "definitely no UNIT year two, then..."The UN objected to the acronym UNIT anyway, as detailed in Droo’s magazine. Had a go coming up with other things it might stand for. Best so far is "You know it’s top secret".
Speak of which... The office continues to debate the new James Bond. Is he suitably dishy? Should he be blond? Can he act the right way? Wasn’t he once some bum northerner?
I reckon Craig is an excellent choice, and an excellent actor and all. It’s odd to criticise him as 007 based on his previous work. Sir Sean had a dark past of odd film roles; Brosnan played terrorists in Long Good Friday and Fourth Protocol; Dalton owed "everything to Flash"; Lazenby's acting career prior to OHMSS had consisted of hefting crates. Only Sir Roger Moore had a suitable background as the Saint and Lord Brett Sinclair. Oh, and Niven, too.
It is surely a Good Thing to have an able and versatile actor, who might just bring something new to the dour silhouette Bond can be.
Like every Bond flick since ever, this new one is promised to be darker, grittier, more real and more like Fleming’s books. I assume we’ll soon hear how Vesper Lynd is a new kind of Bond girl, not like the ones who just melt when he looks at her, and able to handle her own. And Le Chiffre is a new kind of villain, un-camp and with a proper MO...
In all this effort to be more like the books' sexist, misogynist dinosaur, they’re also saying they’re ejecting regulars like John Cleese and Moneypenny – though the later, er, is in the book:
"What do you think, Penny?' The Chief of Staff turned to M's private secretary who shared the room with him.
Miss Moneypenny would have been desirable but for eyes which were cool and direct and quizzical.
'Should be all right. He won a victory at the FO this morning and he's not got anyone for the next half an hour.' She smiled encouragingly at the Head of S whom she liked for himself and the importance of his section.'"
Ian Fleming, Casino Royale, p. 23.
The first bit of skirt in the Bond books, and note she’s a new kind of Bond girl, not like the ones who just melt when he looks at her, and able to handle her own...Saturday, October 15, 2005
Speculative fiction
Crap things writers do:
Deadlines are good; I don’t ever miss them. If there’s a deadline, the work gets done.
(With Time Travellers nearly on the shelves, I’m suddenly much happier about the thing, having hated the last couple of months actually writing it. Was delighted to escape, lolloping off to edit other people's stuff and write scripts. Scripts and anthologies involve other people, so there’s more showing off to be done. At least in the immediate. But now, having 288 pages written by me – and me alone – is something I’m already dining out on…)
And has any of it got done? Of course not.
What’s worked in the past is promising stuff to chums: “I’m writing a thing on-spec, and if I get it to you on Friday, could you look it over?” Not even at that stage yet, though. Hum ho.
Pitches, though, I can do. Pitched a whole raft of stuff to various souls this week, and have been asked to write up a few of them. Pitches are good because they’re showing off again. Keep it brief, make it different, leave enough space for the bosses to add their own stuff… and you might just win some new deadlines.
- Whinge about writing.
- Miss deadlines.
Deadlines are good; I don’t ever miss them. If there’s a deadline, the work gets done.
- Show off the whole bloody time.
(With Time Travellers nearly on the shelves, I’m suddenly much happier about the thing, having hated the last couple of months actually writing it. Was delighted to escape, lolloping off to edit other people's stuff and write scripts. Scripts and anthologies involve other people, so there’s more showing off to be done. At least in the immediate. But now, having 288 pages written by me – and me alone – is something I’m already dining out on…)
- Go on and on about some "great idea", rather than actually writing it.
And has any of it got done? Of course not.
- Find ways not to write, then grouse about not getting stuff written.
What’s worked in the past is promising stuff to chums: “I’m writing a thing on-spec, and if I get it to you on Friday, could you look it over?” Not even at that stage yet, though. Hum ho.
Pitches, though, I can do. Pitched a whole raft of stuff to various souls this week, and have been asked to write up a few of them. Pitches are good because they’re showing off again. Keep it brief, make it different, leave enough space for the bosses to add their own stuff… and you might just win some new deadlines.
- Fill up blogs and webpages with self-indulgent old tosh like this.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Unfortunate taste
So, as promised, those lions.
The Ghost and the Darkness is not the most brilliant of films and certainly not as good as William Goldman’s script, which I happened across first. It was going for a pound in a Greenwich bookshop and, when I finally read the thing, proved utterly mesmerising. Haunting, epic, funny and terrifying… You can understand Goldman’s despair (in the excellent Which lie did I tell?) at Hollywood’s failure to properly realise “Jaws directed by David Lean”.
The story is pretty simple, and based on real events. At the end of the nineteenth century, Prime Minister (and uncle) Bob Salisbury had to apologise to the Lords for delays in building a railway through Kenya. It seemed, he said, that two lions had appeared in the Tsavo area and, “conceived a most unfortunate taste for our porters.”
In charge of the construction was a chap called Patterson (played, in the film, by Val Kilmer), and it’s his job to get shot of the man-eaters. Goldman fleshes out the story expertly. I’d misremembered as Patterson’s own a brilliant bit where, sitting alone in his makeshift treehouse, he learns that lions climb trees…
Still, Patterson’s version is glorious, boy’s own stuff:
They weren’t at all what I’d expected, to be honest. Put back together from the rugs Patterson had made from their skins, the two lions are smaller and a bit more battered than they were in real life. But the thing that really surprises is that they’re not anything like the lions in my head (and in the film). Goldman named them “Ghost” and “Darkness” because of their manes.
Tsavo lions, however, are maneless.
The Ghost and the Darkness is not the most brilliant of films and certainly not as good as William Goldman’s script, which I happened across first. It was going for a pound in a Greenwich bookshop and, when I finally read the thing, proved utterly mesmerising. Haunting, epic, funny and terrifying… You can understand Goldman’s despair (in the excellent Which lie did I tell?) at Hollywood’s failure to properly realise “Jaws directed by David Lean”.
The story is pretty simple, and based on real events. At the end of the nineteenth century, Prime Minister (and uncle) Bob Salisbury had to apologise to the Lords for delays in building a railway through Kenya. It seemed, he said, that two lions had appeared in the Tsavo area and, “conceived a most unfortunate taste for our porters.”
In charge of the construction was a chap called Patterson (played, in the film, by Val Kilmer), and it’s his job to get shot of the man-eaters. Goldman fleshes out the story expertly. I’d misremembered as Patterson’s own a brilliant bit where, sitting alone in his makeshift treehouse, he learns that lions climb trees…
Still, Patterson’s version is glorious, boy’s own stuff:
"The hunter became the hunted; and instead of either making off or coming for the bait prepared for him, the lion began stealthily to stalk me! For about two hours he horrified me by slowly creeping round and round my crazy structure, gradually edging his way nearer and nearer. Every moment I expected him to rush it; and the staging had not been constructed with an eye to such a possibility. […]
I kept perfectly still, however, hardly daring even to blink my eyes: but the long-continued strain was telling on my nerves […]
About midnight suddenly something came flop and struck me on the back of the head. For a moment I was so terrified that I nearly fell off the plank, as I thought that the lion had sprung on me from behind. Regaining my senses in a second or two, I realised that I had been hit by nothing more formidable than an owl, which had doubtless mistaken me for the branch of a tree […]
The involuntary start which I could not help giving was immediately answered by a sinister growl from below."
Lieutenant Colonel JH Patterson, DSO, "The Man-eaters of Tsavo and other east African adventures".
The lions are now on display at Chicago’s Field Museum, and last summer I dragged the Doctor along to see them. She was born not far from Tsavo, museums are her thing, and anyway, I wanted to see them…They weren’t at all what I’d expected, to be honest. Put back together from the rugs Patterson had made from their skins, the two lions are smaller and a bit more battered than they were in real life. But the thing that really surprises is that they’re not anything like the lions in my head (and in the film). Goldman named them “Ghost” and “Darkness” because of their manes.
Tsavo lions, however, are maneless.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
I think we're beginning to materialise
I have made a Dr Who book and it is real.
Just this minute received 20 copies of Time Travellers, and have no one but the cat at whom to grin inanely. Guess the thing will start appearing in shops over the next three or four weeks...
Have already promised copies to more than 20 people, though.
Just this minute received 20 copies of Time Travellers, and have no one but the cat at whom to grin inanely. Guess the thing will start appearing in shops over the next three or four weeks...
Have already promised copies to more than 20 people, though.
Monday, October 10, 2005
I love the news
Vieing for the top-slot on the telly at the moment:
1) 20,000 dead in an earthquake.
2) Old plasticine lost in fire.
Admittedly the latter includes Morph, Chas and Gillespie, but it's not really the same, is it?
1) 20,000 dead in an earthquake.
2) Old plasticine lost in fire.
Admittedly the latter includes Morph, Chas and Gillespie, but it's not really the same, is it?
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Hc svnt dracones
A fun night last night, arguing through the details of A Project. We also had chips and covered a range of topics probably best not repeated here (though perhaps something on New Dr Who and religion some time soon...). The gate-crashing Doctor enjoyed herself, too, fetching drinks and generally making herself useful. Wifes are good.
To clear the cobwebs today, we fell up the hill for curry in Sydenham with S., and then the three of us went off to see monsters. It was a beautifully sunny afternoon, so the place was full of chirpy kids and families, and there were heron and ducks to coo at, too. Having spotted differences between the cumbersome brutes towering before us and modern science's wiry, birdie dinosaurs, we staggered up the hill for an afternoon pint, and accidentally fell into the small and tawdry museum.
There's some fascinating stuff in the cases, and the footage of weird stage acts is fun, but there's so much more that could be done with that place. The shop's not even got DVDs(!) Still, once the Doctor had begun perusing the bookshelves things began to get expensive. I bought a biography of Henry Cole - amongst other things, inventor of the Christmas card, and something of a hero. Also forked out for a lavishly-illustrated heavyweight on the Albert Memorial, which the Doctor fell in love with. Had to explain on the way home that it is not, in fact, cool. Still, there's apparently lots in it she didn't know about the eminent Victorian bloke she wants to write her own book about.
With my beer and some crisps, I will now be draft audience to a talk on Salman Rushdie. Husbands can be good, too.
To clear the cobwebs today, we fell up the hill for curry in Sydenham with S., and then the three of us went off to see monsters. It was a beautifully sunny afternoon, so the place was full of chirpy kids and families, and there were heron and ducks to coo at, too. Having spotted differences between the cumbersome brutes towering before us and modern science's wiry, birdie dinosaurs, we staggered up the hill for an afternoon pint, and accidentally fell into the small and tawdry museum.There's some fascinating stuff in the cases, and the footage of weird stage acts is fun, but there's so much more that could be done with that place. The shop's not even got DVDs(!) Still, once the Doctor had begun perusing the bookshelves things began to get expensive. I bought a biography of Henry Cole - amongst other things, inventor of the Christmas card, and something of a hero. Also forked out for a lavishly-illustrated heavyweight on the Albert Memorial, which the Doctor fell in love with. Had to explain on the way home that it is not, in fact, cool. Still, there's apparently lots in it she didn't know about the eminent Victorian bloke she wants to write her own book about.
With my beer and some crisps, I will now be draft audience to a talk on Salman Rushdie. Husbands can be good, too.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Not just a comedy
Lost Museum has got 5 stars from Doctor Who Review. "It excels on every level," they say. Hooray!
That said, they also gave 5 stars to the previous Benny play:
As requested, I have sent Tom at Dr Who’s Magazine a picture of myself. The Doctor vetoed me sending any silly ones, which made finding something quite a challenge. Even when I'm actively not mugging like a loon, I still look like I am. (This may just be an excuse, though.)
Too unshipshape to manage Liadnan's birthday last night, which I only found out about last minute anyway. Glad he's taking it so well, and not slipping into a miasma of despair and glum poetry.
Oh, and received word that my friend the PVC Diva has set up a secondary LJ wossname, Thrifting Divas, for "them that likes charity shops and thrifting." Didn't realise she LJ'd in the first place, so have spent a happy time catching up with all her news.
I like charity shops, but only really for books. Too much a ridiculous shape to fit most cast-off clothes.
Off to the pub tonight, but It Is Work. If I keep repeating that, maybe I'll believe it.
That said, they also gave 5 stars to the previous Benny play:
"The Kingdom of the Blind is another triumph for Jacqueline Rayner. If only she could write all the Bernice plays."
Doctor Who Review: Kingdom of the Blind
Yes, if only.
As requested, I have sent Tom at Dr Who’s Magazine a picture of myself. The Doctor vetoed me sending any silly ones, which made finding something quite a challenge. Even when I'm actively not mugging like a loon, I still look like I am. (This may just be an excuse, though.)Too unshipshape to manage Liadnan's birthday last night, which I only found out about last minute anyway. Glad he's taking it so well, and not slipping into a miasma of despair and glum poetry.
Oh, and received word that my friend the PVC Diva has set up a secondary LJ wossname, Thrifting Divas, for "them that likes charity shops and thrifting." Didn't realise she LJ'd in the first place, so have spent a happy time catching up with all her news.I like charity shops, but only really for books. Too much a ridiculous shape to fit most cast-off clothes.
Off to the pub tonight, but It Is Work. If I keep repeating that, maybe I'll believe it.
Friday, October 07, 2005
I must be unwell
"Much of the story of Fitzrovia is of talent blighted, promise unfulfilled and premature death through drink."
Michael Bakewell, Fitzrovia – London's Bohemia, p. 5.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
We've got lions
Plus-oned the Doctor in to see The Constant Gardener last night. As well as rather liking that Ralph Fiennes, she was born in Kenya and knows much of its politics and whatnot from her parents.
Having "Nairobi" in her passport can cause problems. One week before 9/11, I took her on a day-trip to Paris (I had a full-time, proper-type job back then) where we quaffed wine, looked at nice windows and art, were dismayed by the response to a fire alarm, and staggered back to Gard du Nord a bit pished.
The Doctor continued ahead through passport control while I struggled with my bag. She got stopped and had her bag searched. The officious squit scrutinised her passport and asked "Why were you born in Nairobi?"
"That's where my mum was," she replied, bless her. Humour is bad in these situations.
Anyway, by this time I had turned up, figured there was a bag-searching thing going on, and had helpfully plonked my satchel beside the Doctor's, the flap wide open to show off my poor choice in books. The squit glanced at this, then at me.
"Is she yours?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I said, helpfully.
He nodded. "You can go."
The Doctor fumed all the way back to Waterloo. (Good name for our link to France, that. And you see a pub called "The Wellington" as you come out the exit, too).
I talked about the book of Constant Gardener a couple of months ago, and will one day enthuse here about Tsavo's lions. In the meantime, this should be the Kenyan national anthem. Forget Norway.
Having "Nairobi" in her passport can cause problems. One week before 9/11, I took her on a day-trip to Paris (I had a full-time, proper-type job back then) where we quaffed wine, looked at nice windows and art, were dismayed by the response to a fire alarm, and staggered back to Gard du Nord a bit pished.
The Doctor continued ahead through passport control while I struggled with my bag. She got stopped and had her bag searched. The officious squit scrutinised her passport and asked "Why were you born in Nairobi?"
"That's where my mum was," she replied, bless her. Humour is bad in these situations.
Anyway, by this time I had turned up, figured there was a bag-searching thing going on, and had helpfully plonked my satchel beside the Doctor's, the flap wide open to show off my poor choice in books. The squit glanced at this, then at me.
"Is she yours?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I said, helpfully.
He nodded. "You can go."
The Doctor fumed all the way back to Waterloo. (Good name for our link to France, that. And you see a pub called "The Wellington" as you come out the exit, too).
I talked about the book of Constant Gardener a couple of months ago, and will one day enthuse here about Tsavo's lions. In the meantime, this should be the Kenyan national anthem. Forget Norway.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Less is more
Long day of writing which hasn't produced very much. Have decided against most of what I've managed. The Thing is, on reflection, much better as it was...
Started three or four different attempts at a blog entry, too. Even dared to just paste in an old fanzine article from years ago. Reading the thing again (to take out people's names), what I remembered as witty and literate turned out to be rather lame.
Guess it's a good thing that I can see when my writing's a bit shit. Hum ho.
Started three or four different attempts at a blog entry, too. Even dared to just paste in an old fanzine article from years ago. Reading the thing again (to take out people's names), what I remembered as witty and literate turned out to be rather lame.
Guess it's a good thing that I can see when my writing's a bit shit. Hum ho.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Circuits and rings
People get weirdly proprietorial about weddings.
The Doctor and I (hitched 18 months ago) planned something entirely easy and hassle-free, and were both amazed by how difficult a few people wanted to make it. We've since burned bridges with people who weren't able to just turn up and have a good time, but there were all sorts of questions about venues and guests and food and music and last-minute changes to attendees... We spent months only dealing with people who couldn't (or wouldn't) come, and sorting out stuff that weren't working.
A month before the wedding, all that changed. I rang in from my glorious, surprise stag bash in Budapest to see how the hen night had gone. We were both wide-eyed and excited to discover that most of our chums were really up for the party. And that – disparate and unlikely a gang as our mates might be – it might all just work out fine.
As it did, too. Ours remains the best wedding I’ve ever been to.
Anyway, watched Panorama last night, and even the Doctor (who stalked round Windsor Castle on our honeymoon, muttering "Parasites!") felt sorry for Charles and Camilla. Practical decisions about venues and guests were headlined in the press as shocking conspiracy. Painful compromises, to ensure things were done "properly", were lambasted as gross impropriety. And then the Pope went and died...
The weekend was fun. On Saturday, the Doctor experimented (successfully) with home-made pizza, and we watched I Heart Huckabees. I didn’t know much about the film – reviews I can remember either loved or hated it, without really explaining why. We loved it, and the Doctor was quick to spot the debt owed to Barthes and the exploration of meaning. I especially loved the wild silliness of it – such as the small kid away in the back of one scene, playing basketball and sporting a cavalier beard and moustache. The sex scene is daft and dirty and wonderful, too. Laughed and laughed from beginning to end, and had to watch the free-wheeling music video twice.
Yesterday, a gaggle of manly, tough men took G. go-karting for his birthday. Meant a fair bit of deviousness, plotting and hanging-around, but the driving was brilliant.
Yeah, I could do this - unlike when I went target shooting last year – deftly over-taking m’colleagues at 50 mph, and no bumps or crashes or facing-the-wrong-ways to lose me points. More practised drivers of cars fared less well. Perhaps they were too worried about knocking their vehicles about. Me, I was perfectly controlled and all over the place. In fact – unheard of for me and physical activity – there was some debate afterwards about whether I came first.
(I deferred, of course, to the chap who signs my cheques...)
Oh, and it was a year ago on Saturday that I got commissioned for Time Travellers. So I've spent exactly a year beavering away from one Dr Who project to the next. Suddenly I've no Who-related deadline looming (immediately, anyway), and I've actually time to write Other Things.
Which is good, because there's this idea I've got...
The Doctor and I (hitched 18 months ago) planned something entirely easy and hassle-free, and were both amazed by how difficult a few people wanted to make it. We've since burned bridges with people who weren't able to just turn up and have a good time, but there were all sorts of questions about venues and guests and food and music and last-minute changes to attendees... We spent months only dealing with people who couldn't (or wouldn't) come, and sorting out stuff that weren't working.
A month before the wedding, all that changed. I rang in from my glorious, surprise stag bash in Budapest to see how the hen night had gone. We were both wide-eyed and excited to discover that most of our chums were really up for the party. And that – disparate and unlikely a gang as our mates might be – it might all just work out fine.
As it did, too. Ours remains the best wedding I’ve ever been to.
Anyway, watched Panorama last night, and even the Doctor (who stalked round Windsor Castle on our honeymoon, muttering "Parasites!") felt sorry for Charles and Camilla. Practical decisions about venues and guests were headlined in the press as shocking conspiracy. Painful compromises, to ensure things were done "properly", were lambasted as gross impropriety. And then the Pope went and died...
The weekend was fun. On Saturday, the Doctor experimented (successfully) with home-made pizza, and we watched I Heart Huckabees. I didn’t know much about the film – reviews I can remember either loved or hated it, without really explaining why. We loved it, and the Doctor was quick to spot the debt owed to Barthes and the exploration of meaning. I especially loved the wild silliness of it – such as the small kid away in the back of one scene, playing basketball and sporting a cavalier beard and moustache. The sex scene is daft and dirty and wonderful, too. Laughed and laughed from beginning to end, and had to watch the free-wheeling music video twice.
Yesterday, a gaggle of manly, tough men took G. go-karting for his birthday. Meant a fair bit of deviousness, plotting and hanging-around, but the driving was brilliant.
Yeah, I could do this - unlike when I went target shooting last year – deftly over-taking m’colleagues at 50 mph, and no bumps or crashes or facing-the-wrong-ways to lose me points. More practised drivers of cars fared less well. Perhaps they were too worried about knocking their vehicles about. Me, I was perfectly controlled and all over the place. In fact – unheard of for me and physical activity – there was some debate afterwards about whether I came first.
(I deferred, of course, to the chap who signs my cheques...)
Oh, and it was a year ago on Saturday that I got commissioned for Time Travellers. So I've spent exactly a year beavering away from one Dr Who project to the next. Suddenly I've no Who-related deadline looming (immediately, anyway), and I've actually time to write Other Things.
Which is good, because there's this idea I've got...
Saturday, October 01, 2005
What have I got in my pocket?
A leaving do last night for M. - who's not actually leaving, just not being full-time any more. M., who teaches and runs tours about art stuff, is always good for odd morsels of story. We chatted about the Courtauld, and its glorious "Don Quixote and Sancho Panza" by Daumier, which I fell in love with on a school trip half my life ago.
M. told me that in the 1830s, Daumier covered a court case as part of his politicising against Louis-Philippe's government (he'd already been to prison for drawing Louis-Philippe on the toilet). As now, drawing was not permitted in the court room. So Daumier spent the court case with his hands in his pockets, which he'd stuffed full of clay. Just by touch, he created busts of the principle characters...
Top fact! Admittedly, couldn't corroborate this story online (though I didn't google very hard). Will probably have to read a book or something. Golly.
(I was also spellbound by "Ratapoil" when I saw it in Washington last year. Brilliantly creepy, it's just the right size to walk off with under your arm, too.)
M. told me that in the 1830s, Daumier covered a court case as part of his politicising against Louis-Philippe's government (he'd already been to prison for drawing Louis-Philippe on the toilet). As now, drawing was not permitted in the court room. So Daumier spent the court case with his hands in his pockets, which he'd stuffed full of clay. Just by touch, he created busts of the principle characters...
Top fact! Admittedly, couldn't corroborate this story online (though I didn't google very hard). Will probably have to read a book or something. Golly.
(I was also spellbound by "Ratapoil" when I saw it in Washington last year. Brilliantly creepy, it's just the right size to walk off with under your arm, too.)
Friday, September 30, 2005
Settling in
Done, delivered, freeeeeeeeee!
Went to "Look at me", last night, then wine and fish and chips. The night before, as we watched some of her birthday present, the Doctor mocked me for scribbling down a bit that tickled me:
Went to "Look at me", last night, then wine and fish and chips. The night before, as we watched some of her birthday present, the Doctor mocked me for scribbling down a bit that tickled me:
"[Descartes has] become a symbol of a pure intellect, but I find him a sympathetic figure. He started life as a soldier - he wrote a book on fencing - but he soon discovered that all he wanted to do was think. Very, very rare, and most unpopular.
Some friends came to call on him at 11 O'clock in the morning, and found him in bed. They said, 'What are you doing?'
He replied: 'Thinking.' They were furious.
To escape interference, he went to live in Holland. He said that the people of Amsterdam were so much occupied with making money that they would leave him alone. However, he continued to be the victim of interruptions, and so he moved about from place to place. Altogether, he moved house in Holland 24 times.
In the end, he was run to earth by that tiresome woman, Queen Christina of Sweden, who carried him off to Stockholm to give her lessons in the new philosophy. She made him get out of bed early in the morning and as a result he caught a cold and died."
Kenneth Clark, Civilisation, 8. The Light of Experience.
(Wikipedia says that, "letters to and from the doctor Eike Pies have recently been discovered which indicate that Descartes may have been poisoned using arsenic.")Thursday, September 29, 2005
The Sontaran Experiment...
...is pretty damn cool. And as Sarah-Jane says, right at the end of episode one, "Links!"- The Quest for Truth
The European Commission representation in the UK (yes, them) has a myth-busting section. It's fab, and includes this damning rejection of lies about bosoms. - Lushury
M'colleague B Woodhams saw this and thought of me. The git. - Bus ting
Another not-great review of Day in the Life, where mine is just "heart-warming". Disagree with a lot of what's said, and I'll have you know that (my own) "tedious commute across London" swings past Rose's house (though the explicit reference to that got cut).
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Briefly...
Draft of the Settling finished, and going through people's notes. Also pitched something somewhere else (more of which if it happens), and listened to the first episode of Thicker Than Water, which fell through my letterbox this morning. Top stuff, with a TARDIS scene that's really rather moving.
The Doctor is suffering, submerged by a cold. Despite not being able to speak, she's still bossed me about. Quite a trick.
Nice time in the pub last night, though we're all old and rubbish and left by 10. Much appreciation of my new, spanking haircut, with girls wanting to run their hands through it. So that worked, then. L, sweetly, asked permission. Though not from me...
And the thing in the book that threw me yesterday?
The Doctor is suffering, submerged by a cold. Despite not being able to speak, she's still bossed me about. Quite a trick.
Nice time in the pub last night, though we're all old and rubbish and left by 10. Much appreciation of my new, spanking haircut, with girls wanting to run their hands through it. So that worked, then. L, sweetly, asked permission. Though not from me...
And the thing in the book that threw me yesterday?
"His name was George Mouse; he wore wide suspenders to his wide pants".
John Crowley, Little, Big, p. 8.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Settling bill
The Secret Project I’ve not been talking about here for weeks finally got announced. In fact, the script for Dr Who and the Settling is due in on Friday. Pretty much there, and lots of sitting-on-trains this weekend helped.
Swansea was great fun, and I got to walk down the bit of street from The Unquiet Dead. Not that I’d have recognised it, were it not for my local guide. Telly people are clever.
Spent most of my time in the convention fringe (i.e. the bar) catching up with old friends and making many new ones. Bit vague on things after my excitement that the bar was still serving after midnight… Am told I get bigger the more I drink.
Sunday was mostly nodding and smiling while the hangover faded to black. May have talked myself into some more work. We’ll see.
Then to Bristol in the evening, which took forever. Like last Sunday, there were no trains. Ng. The best mate, who’s just bought a house in St George’s, took me for medicinal beers and a curry. Ended up watching Team America until 3 in the morning.
Yesterday, got to chat to the sister for a bit, then greasy spooned and headed for home and the neglected Doctor.
As well as scripting, I also finally got round to The Gallifrey Chronicles, which is everything lovely that everyone’s said it is. Not sure I understood all of it – a mixture of my booze-battered brain and not having entirely followed the previous books in the run. And I glowered sternly at the occasional, overly-indulgent bits, such as a description of 26 things the Doctor is, one for each letter of the alphabet. But great fun, chock full of wondrous, wild ideas, and actually rather moving. The git.
Now reading Little, Big, which put odd images into my head on the bus this morning. I’ll explain that one tomorrow.
Oh, and happy birthday M. See you in the pub shortishly.
Swansea was great fun, and I got to walk down the bit of street from The Unquiet Dead. Not that I’d have recognised it, were it not for my local guide. Telly people are clever.
Spent most of my time in the convention fringe (i.e. the bar) catching up with old friends and making many new ones. Bit vague on things after my excitement that the bar was still serving after midnight… Am told I get bigger the more I drink.
Sunday was mostly nodding and smiling while the hangover faded to black. May have talked myself into some more work. We’ll see.
Then to Bristol in the evening, which took forever. Like last Sunday, there were no trains. Ng. The best mate, who’s just bought a house in St George’s, took me for medicinal beers and a curry. Ended up watching Team America until 3 in the morning.
Yesterday, got to chat to the sister for a bit, then greasy spooned and headed for home and the neglected Doctor.
As well as scripting, I also finally got round to The Gallifrey Chronicles, which is everything lovely that everyone’s said it is. Not sure I understood all of it – a mixture of my booze-battered brain and not having entirely followed the previous books in the run. And I glowered sternly at the occasional, overly-indulgent bits, such as a description of 26 things the Doctor is, one for each letter of the alphabet. But great fun, chock full of wondrous, wild ideas, and actually rather moving. The git.
Now reading Little, Big, which put odd images into my head on the bus this morning. I’ll explain that one tomorrow.
Oh, and happy birthday M. See you in the pub shortishly.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
The cost of secrets
A retired chum tells me that posting a letter used to be cheaper if you didn't seal the envelope and only tucked the flap in. Wanting a bit of evidence for this top fact, I googled the following.
"On 1st October 1870, the first official postcards in Britain were issued by the Post Office. [...] The officially produced Post Card carried a prepaid stamp to the value of 1/2 d, a new postal rate for open correspondence. The postal rate for letters in a sealed envelope remained at one penny. At half the standard postal rate, the Post Card was immediately popular, and 675,000 were sold on the first day of issue."
David Simkin, "Seaside photography - the picture postcard"
Wonder when that stopped being the case. Wonder if my legion of readers can supply the answer. Oh, go on. It works for Neil Gaiman.Wednesday, September 21, 2005
It can be very nasty...
...being interviewed, but I seemed to survive my first ever go. Mr D Darlington of Dr Who's Magazine had a beer waiting when I arrived, which helped soften the blow. Hopefully, somewhere in the ums and ahs and going-off-on-tangents, I said something intelligible about wanting real and lasting consequences...
Got a postcard from one E Robson this morning, who reports that,
Am just over half way through proofing History of Christmas, and the cover is apparently due on the Internet shortly. Also finished a very readable, very damning book on cost-benefit analysis and the way it's misused in the US to curtail regulation of health, the environment and so on.
Got a postcard from one E Robson this morning, who reports that,
"In Stockholm everybody stops at around 3 O'clock for coffee and cake. It is therefore the most civilised city in the world."He also took my advice and went to the Vasa museum, which is cool - even if it makes the (also cool) Mary Rose look a bit scrappy. I'm off to Sweden myself in November.
Am just over half way through proofing History of Christmas, and the cover is apparently due on the Internet shortly. Also finished a very readable, very damning book on cost-benefit analysis and the way it's misused in the US to curtail regulation of health, the environment and so on.
"How can bizarre, hypothetical calculations about tiny sums of money stand in the way of using our knowledge and resources to do the right thing? ... A large, and growing, chunk of our collective resources is already allocated to the militaryon the basis of passionate claims about moral imperatives. Those who care about civilian objectives have to answer in kind, not imagine that they can win the debate with careful spreadsheets and subtle tradeoffs."
Frank Ackerman and Lisa Heinzerling, "Priceless - on knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing", p. 223.
I'd love to see the same sort of study focusing on public spending in the UK. I suspect it'd make similarly harrowing reading.Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Another final thought
Delighted to see Jerry Springer The Opera has managed a reprieve, after the insidious campaign against it. Christian Voice's latest, charming, argument is that those staging the play will "sacrifice community cohesion".
It's not exactly the tolerant, forgiving attitude, is it? Those who object to the play don't have to go see it, nor do they have to like it, and this campaign of hatred is missing some pretty fundamental points.
The portrayal of Jesus and his family in the opera is not meant to be literal or true. There are explicit warnings to that effect within the opera itself. Instead, it's a fevered imagining by (the character of) Jerry Springer, reflecting his own preoccupations, fears and guilt. It's tasteless and over-the-top, but that’s the point: Springer’s treatment of ordinary people and their problems is just as despicable.
In Act One, Springer is seen cynically exploiting the real misery and crises of his guests, mistreating his staff, and refusing to accept any sort of responsibility for what happens on his show. This is a bloke who even gives airtime to the Klan.
Act Two is not, then, putting Jesus on trial; it's Springer's own soul that's at stake. The Jesus and his family we see are clearly all distorted versions of guests we met in Act One, their sordid, tawdry problems warped to Biblical, operatic proportions.
So what’s worse, a guest “entertaining” a baying crowd by declaring his infidelities to his heartbroken wife, or a twisted dream of Jesus claiming to be “a bit gay”?
The conclusion Springer reaches through his absurdist dream seems to be that he can’t shirk responsibility for his guests, that he can’t stand to one side, passing objective comment as the fighting ensues. He has to get his hands dirty. Forced to justify himself, forced to broker some kind of peace between the warring deities, Springer is left to ask some pretty serious moral questions about our – all of our – obligations to one another.
As a morality play, then, I’d argue Jerry Springer The Opera actually serves to bolster community cohesion. Instead of the pat moral summary at the end of (the real) television show, the opera poses complex questions… ones we have to think about for ourselves. If it’s not the “uplifting morality” story that some Christians might be used to, surely it deserves merit for appealing to exactly those people who wouldn’t go near anything smacking of self-congratulatory moral worth.
Jesus himself taught morality by telling stories that questioned people’s values. The parables are so well-known that it’s worth remembering how controversial they were in their time. Imagine a modern version of “The Good Samaritan”, where it’s not Pharisees and the rich who stroll past the man in need, it’s our own moral guardians and public leaders. And rather than help coming from a Samaritan – the sworn enemy of the people Jesus was telling his stories to – what would we feel if the “good” man was (considering criticism of the opera) gay? Or a Nazi, or a terrorist?
(Actually, typing that last bit made me think of how ordinary people become terrorists – is it just that they’re shown a concern by extreme groups that’s otherwise lacking in “civil” society?)
I don’t have a problem with mocking religion – it’s healthy to question authority. Yes, I’d rather the mocking was done well, with intelligence and wit, but like Life of Brian before it, Jerry Springer The Opera achieves that, and puts forward shrewd insights in amongst all the funny stuff. For which it should be celebrated.
And though some people will object to their gods getting teased, I’ve no time for any deity not man enough to take it.
It's not exactly the tolerant, forgiving attitude, is it? Those who object to the play don't have to go see it, nor do they have to like it, and this campaign of hatred is missing some pretty fundamental points.
The portrayal of Jesus and his family in the opera is not meant to be literal or true. There are explicit warnings to that effect within the opera itself. Instead, it's a fevered imagining by (the character of) Jerry Springer, reflecting his own preoccupations, fears and guilt. It's tasteless and over-the-top, but that’s the point: Springer’s treatment of ordinary people and their problems is just as despicable.
In Act One, Springer is seen cynically exploiting the real misery and crises of his guests, mistreating his staff, and refusing to accept any sort of responsibility for what happens on his show. This is a bloke who even gives airtime to the Klan.
Act Two is not, then, putting Jesus on trial; it's Springer's own soul that's at stake. The Jesus and his family we see are clearly all distorted versions of guests we met in Act One, their sordid, tawdry problems warped to Biblical, operatic proportions.
So what’s worse, a guest “entertaining” a baying crowd by declaring his infidelities to his heartbroken wife, or a twisted dream of Jesus claiming to be “a bit gay”?
The conclusion Springer reaches through his absurdist dream seems to be that he can’t shirk responsibility for his guests, that he can’t stand to one side, passing objective comment as the fighting ensues. He has to get his hands dirty. Forced to justify himself, forced to broker some kind of peace between the warring deities, Springer is left to ask some pretty serious moral questions about our – all of our – obligations to one another.
As a morality play, then, I’d argue Jerry Springer The Opera actually serves to bolster community cohesion. Instead of the pat moral summary at the end of (the real) television show, the opera poses complex questions… ones we have to think about for ourselves. If it’s not the “uplifting morality” story that some Christians might be used to, surely it deserves merit for appealing to exactly those people who wouldn’t go near anything smacking of self-congratulatory moral worth.
Jesus himself taught morality by telling stories that questioned people’s values. The parables are so well-known that it’s worth remembering how controversial they were in their time. Imagine a modern version of “The Good Samaritan”, where it’s not Pharisees and the rich who stroll past the man in need, it’s our own moral guardians and public leaders. And rather than help coming from a Samaritan – the sworn enemy of the people Jesus was telling his stories to – what would we feel if the “good” man was (considering criticism of the opera) gay? Or a Nazi, or a terrorist?
(Actually, typing that last bit made me think of how ordinary people become terrorists – is it just that they’re shown a concern by extreme groups that’s otherwise lacking in “civil” society?)
I don’t have a problem with mocking religion – it’s healthy to question authority. Yes, I’d rather the mocking was done well, with intelligence and wit, but like Life of Brian before it, Jerry Springer The Opera achieves that, and puts forward shrewd insights in amongst all the funny stuff. For which it should be celebrated.
And though some people will object to their gods getting teased, I’ve no time for any deity not man enough to take it.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Why I died
Took forever to get down to Winchester yesterday to see my folks, due to the usual joys of trains. The coach from Woking came in (for some reason) at the south end of town, so I got to point out to the Doctor the carpark that was once Winchester's other train station (and the one that Sherlock Holmes used). Much discussion of the damnable Dr Beeching, which seems all the more pertinent in these apocalyptic days where petrol for cars threatens to be as much as £1 per litre.
Laughable, really, when compared to a litre of milk (84p), six large, free range eggs (99p), or a loaf of bread (91p). (Source: Sainsbury's)
Petrol Direct also made me laugh.
Anyway. Had a huge and lovely lunch and caught up on family stuff. Then to the pub with a friend while we waited for the trains we'd been promised would be working again at half four to be working again.
This morning, I saw Revolver (review should be live soon). Verdict: well, I feel especially professional for staying till the end. Which was more than some.
Went to see O afterwards, who is well enough to be bored and restless. We had soup.
My death last week has been officially announced. Now to get on with writing something that hasn't...
Laughable, really, when compared to a litre of milk (84p), six large, free range eggs (99p), or a loaf of bread (91p). (Source: Sainsbury's)
Petrol Direct also made me laugh.
Anyway. Had a huge and lovely lunch and caught up on family stuff. Then to the pub with a friend while we waited for the trains we'd been promised would be working again at half four to be working again.
This morning, I saw Revolver (review should be live soon). Verdict: well, I feel especially professional for staying till the end. Which was more than some.
Went to see O afterwards, who is well enough to be bored and restless. We had soup.
My death last week has been officially announced. Now to get on with writing something that hasn't...
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Other people's news
Everybody else has news: B's dog died; O's in hospital, still waiting for an operation; M's going to be a daddy, sometime next March...
My uncle and auntie are over from the States, and last night we fell in to a proper, smoky pub and got drunk. Saw some people I used to know and work with, too, and caught up on gossip and chips.
Phil has sent me a world of notes on something I'm writing but Still Cannot Speak Of. Damn him, everything he's saying is right.
So there'll now be some stuff about the importance of discipline.
My uncle and auntie are over from the States, and last night we fell in to a proper, smoky pub and got drunk. Saw some people I used to know and work with, too, and caught up on gossip and chips.
Phil has sent me a world of notes on something I'm writing but Still Cannot Speak Of. Damn him, everything he's saying is right.
So there'll now be some stuff about the importance of discipline.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Impressive living
Got sent a link to Joe Ford's (mostly) positive review of A Life Worth Living. Glad he enjoyed it, though I (obviously) disagree with him on some points. Joe also gives "a major thumbs up" to the number of "unknown writers" in the book. Hooray! Really pleased the effort is appreciated (and not just by the writers themselves).
New writers mean more work for the editor, because of the additional time taken reading submissions, making suggestings, getting the stories into shape, and so on. They also mean competition for the few enough gigs. It's far easier to just employ someone you know is reliable, a "name" whose inclusion can be a selling point.
Still, Big Finish published my first ever published fiction ("The Switching"), and I'm absurdly, toadyingly grateful for that. And new writers - either new to writing, to Dr Who, or just to Big Finish - also play a big part in History of Christmas and (though contributors have yet to be announced) Something Changed.
Reckon I've paid off my debt now.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Corpsing
A fun day being a number of dead bodies. Practising in the mirror yesterday, I'd been hoping to emulate John Turturro's "Do. Not. Seek. The. Treasure!" in O Brother, Where Art Thou? Think it probably ended up more the noble and learned Baron, Lord Greenback.
Anyhoo.
Be sure to grab yourself the new Dr Who Magazine. Not that I'm biased or anything...
Anyhoo.
Be sure to grab yourself the new Dr Who Magazine. Not that I'm biased or anything...
"Simon Guerrier's 'How You Get There' is in another league than the other stories in the anthology, and the opening four pages are the best thing in the collection. The story illustrates the theme of the small kindnesses that make life worth living, as the Seventh Doctor takes a bus journey to save the world. If the other stories were of this standard, the book would be something special."
Matt Michael, "Off the Shelf - Short Trips: A Day In The Life",
Doctor Who Magazine 361 (12 October 2005), p. 65.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Catching it
What I said yesterday, in the spoilery paragraph? Forget it. Blimey. Episode 20. The Doctor couldn't watch all of it.
Trafalgar Square was brimming with people at lunch, to celebrate the cricket. So brimming I couldn't actually get out of the office. Odd to see so many people so pissed so early in the day, too. Haven't seen that since... oh, since we won the rugby two years ago.
Trafalgar Square was brimming with people at lunch, to celebrate the cricket. So brimming I couldn't actually get out of the office. Odd to see so many people so pissed so early in the day, too. Haven't seen that since... oh, since we won the rugby two years ago.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Losing it
Spent Saturday working on things-we-still-can't-speak-of, and think I've now caught up with the two weekends I spent larking. But we'll see. I may just have written crap.
As a reward for a day's work, the Doctor and I followed our neighbour to a party down the street, which was already well underway. The punch involved vodka, schnapps, oranges and lemons. Went down very easily. And there was beer and chatting and new friends to be made.
Yesterday, however, was not fun. Coca-cola and aspirins had me in an okay state by mid-afternoon, but the Doctor really suffered. Think we've both overdone it with work and activities recently. We were promising each other never to drink again, and all that sort of thing.
Anyway. I watched "Century Falls", which is an example of the kind of the great kids' telly they're not interested in making any more. Spooky, strange and morbid, it has a village of freaky old people trying to take over the brains of an unborn baby, while freaky children risk death exploring their psychic powers. It's surprisingly humourless for Russell T Davies - although that may be because some of the quirkier stuff (about the lead girl being fat, for example) is under-played in "grittily real" style, so comes across a bit flat. But I was hooked.
Also still hooked on "Lost" - we're now up to episode 19. Probably done by the end of the week.
Selfishly, it's a similar wheeze to something I was working on myself (though my idea was set indoors, with a cast of just four - so evidently the UK TV version). But Lost is brilliantly written and played, and constantly surprising. Locke remains my favourite character, although all the characters are good. Think they've missed a trick, though, in... well, highlight to read what might be considered a spoiler:
They've missed a trick in not killing off a regular character yet. We've had deaths of people whose names we're not even sure of, but both Charlie and Shannon have both been killed onscreen - brutally, suddenly, unexpectedly. And then, just when we're reeling from the full, extraordinary shock of that, they've had a miraculous resurrection. And then there's Claire's lucky escape from Ethan - whose death means the whole abduction can be put to one side. I hope that's not what happens - it'd feel like the show was pulling its punches.
I harbour concerns that the producers are making it all up as they go along, and that - like X-Files and Twin Peaks before - interest will wain the more questions get posed without any kind of proper resolution. I'm hoping it's all been worked out, that the mysteries all add up to some overall plot... The way the back-stories overlap, I'm hoping the future all ties together, too. Basically, I'm hoping that, having earned my commitment, the show now won't let me down...
As a reward for a day's work, the Doctor and I followed our neighbour to a party down the street, which was already well underway. The punch involved vodka, schnapps, oranges and lemons. Went down very easily. And there was beer and chatting and new friends to be made.
Yesterday, however, was not fun. Coca-cola and aspirins had me in an okay state by mid-afternoon, but the Doctor really suffered. Think we've both overdone it with work and activities recently. We were promising each other never to drink again, and all that sort of thing.
Anyway. I watched "Century Falls", which is an example of the kind of the great kids' telly they're not interested in making any more. Spooky, strange and morbid, it has a village of freaky old people trying to take over the brains of an unborn baby, while freaky children risk death exploring their psychic powers. It's surprisingly humourless for Russell T Davies - although that may be because some of the quirkier stuff (about the lead girl being fat, for example) is under-played in "grittily real" style, so comes across a bit flat. But I was hooked.
Also still hooked on "Lost" - we're now up to episode 19. Probably done by the end of the week.
Selfishly, it's a similar wheeze to something I was working on myself (though my idea was set indoors, with a cast of just four - so evidently the UK TV version). But Lost is brilliantly written and played, and constantly surprising. Locke remains my favourite character, although all the characters are good. Think they've missed a trick, though, in... well, highlight to read what might be considered a spoiler:
They've missed a trick in not killing off a regular character yet. We've had deaths of people whose names we're not even sure of, but both Charlie and Shannon have both been killed onscreen - brutally, suddenly, unexpectedly. And then, just when we're reeling from the full, extraordinary shock of that, they've had a miraculous resurrection. And then there's Claire's lucky escape from Ethan - whose death means the whole abduction can be put to one side. I hope that's not what happens - it'd feel like the show was pulling its punches.
I harbour concerns that the producers are making it all up as they go along, and that - like X-Files and Twin Peaks before - interest will wain the more questions get posed without any kind of proper resolution. I'm hoping it's all been worked out, that the mysteries all add up to some overall plot... The way the back-stories overlap, I'm hoping the future all ties together, too. Basically, I'm hoping that, having earned my commitment, the show now won't let me down...
Friday, September 09, 2005
Awalto
Just got home to find three copies of The Lost Museum CD amongst the post. Listening to it now, and just grinning and grinning.
Simon Robinson, who had the horror of making my script sound good, has... well, made it sound bloody amazing. I believe the term is "Woot!"
Simon Robinson, who had the horror of making my script sound good, has... well, made it sound bloody amazing. I believe the term is "Woot!"
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Yes, I have read a poem
A splendid fellow plus-oned me into a press screening of Serenity last night, which is truly magnificent and deserves to do wonders. No spoilers here - just go see the thing. Trust me on this.
A year ago, while the Doctor was off travelling and I hurried to meet the deadline on A Life Worth Living, another chum passed on the box-set of the original TV series. I'd noble ideas about watching an episode a day over lunch, maybe another one each evening for tea, and otherwise getting on with my urgent work.
Not a chance. Watched the whole thing in a day. Damn, it's good: lively, funny, sexy, scary, ambitious, surprising and just plain rude...
(Still met the deadline, though. I'm quite good, too.)
Finally picked up my own copy of the series last week (a snip at £18, upstairs in the Oxford Street HMV). Will bliss myself out watching it again while I wait for the movie to come out proper.
A year ago, while the Doctor was off travelling and I hurried to meet the deadline on A Life Worth Living, another chum passed on the box-set of the original TV series. I'd noble ideas about watching an episode a day over lunch, maybe another one each evening for tea, and otherwise getting on with my urgent work.
Not a chance. Watched the whole thing in a day. Damn, it's good: lively, funny, sexy, scary, ambitious, surprising and just plain rude...
(Still met the deadline, though. I'm quite good, too.)
Finally picked up my own copy of the series last week (a snip at £18, upstairs in the Oxford Street HMV). Will bliss myself out watching it again while I wait for the movie to come out proper.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Ng'othruok
What seems like a lifetime ago, a tatty, home-made comic discussed,
The "in different languages" is especially heart-warming. It could do with a pronunciation guide, though, And in some kind of playable-audio wossname.
"a word of chameleonic genius, the semantic equivalent of the Scrabble blank."It's funny, I'd never wondered until now what Wikipedians had come up with. And I have work to catch up with and deadlines pressing, so the results turn out to be an ever more guilty pleasure. Ah, bliss.
The "in different languages" is especially heart-warming. It could do with a pronunciation guide, though, And in some kind of playable-audio wossname.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Better than the movies
Cleared up this weekend's revelries, then off to the Imperial War Museum. Had time for two exhibitions - "Great escapes" (£6 each, until 31 July, 2006) and "Secret war" (free and permanent) - before seeing the brother-in-law on to his bus.Both exhibitions start with dashing movie clips and displays of books and games, before telling the true stories that inspired the Hollywood myths. There's a wealth of information, and with my current spy-fever, it was great to have so much about the history of MI5, MI6, the Special Operations Executive and SAS. "Great escapes" especially had the kids in mind, so there was a fair amount of stooping to read the hidden information boards and take part in forging travel documents and listening to possible tunnelling... Glad it was quite quiet, to be honest.
If there was anything missing it was accounts of enemy escapees and spies. I remember my grandparents telling me about Germans who kept English money in their pockets when they came on bombing raids. If they were shot down, they had enough to survive on but never any change. The pubs were on the look out for young men buying single pints of beer with pound notes. That was a fortune back then.
"Secret war" did better, with details of a German spy ring foiled in the First World War, and brief mention of Kim Philby and Anthony Blunt. Still, it all seemed a bit one-sided - though I can't really be surprised if the Imperial War Museum shows some imperialist bias.
But stories of why Oxbridge's finest went over to the other side, and how they were eventually found out are just as thrilling as tales of our pluckly lads working behind enemy lines. And have inspired just as gripping films, books and drama serials.
If not, at least yet, any board games.
Speaking of imperialism, we saw Team America last night. Laughed and laughed - and won't ever watch Thunderbirds now without thinking of puppets that swear, explode, puke and shag. The Doctor, who chose this when we couldn't find Vanity Fair in the shop, inevitably liked the bit with the panthers best.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Old lady
First thought this morning: I'll never wake up with a twenty-something again. Until my tawdry mid-life crisis kicks in, anyway.
(The Doctor is 30 tomorrow.)
(The Doctor is 30 tomorrow.)
Friday, September 02, 2005
'I'll see what I can do!'
Christ.
The news just gets more and more appalling. Reeling from the stories and images, so just some random thoughts, really.
(So many people have more insightful things to say. Here's just one of them.)
Anyway, President Bush says the initial, shoddy response to the crisis, and the total absence of any kind of emergency infrastructure, is "not acceptable". There speaks a man who doesn't even know what "unacceptable" means.
Among the mailing lists and news sites struggling to understand what's happened, I got passed on this editorial from the Taiwan News:
The news just gets more and more appalling. Reeling from the stories and images, so just some random thoughts, really.
(So many people have more insightful things to say. Here's just one of them.)
Anyway, President Bush says the initial, shoddy response to the crisis, and the total absence of any kind of emergency infrastructure, is "not acceptable". There speaks a man who doesn't even know what "unacceptable" means.
"The incident in the already crippled city came after Louisiana's governor said 300 'battle-tested' National Guardsmen were being sent to quell the unrest.'They have M-16s and are locked and loaded. These troops know how to shoot and kill and I expect they will,' Kathleen Blanco said."
BBC News, "Bush vows to step up Katrina aid"
"Yee-ha", she might have added.Among the mailing lists and news sites struggling to understand what's happened, I got passed on this editorial from the Taiwan News:
"New Orleans may go down in history as the first major city in an advanced country to be lost to the process global warming [...] We sincerely hope that the Bush administration will take the call from Hurricane Katrina and reconsider its energy and environmental policies and replace ostrich-like escapism with leadership in the global effort to deal with the crisis of global climatic change."
Taiwan News editorial, "Katrina calls, Bush should listen"
Odd, probably-inappropriate thing: I'd been raving to a mate about Kim Stanley Robinson's "Forty signs of rain" only a week ago, which is about the US administration being forced to acknowledge the effects of climate change as one of its major cities is flooded out.The follow up, "Fifty degrees below" is out on Monday, and couldn't be any more timely.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Conflict builds character
Finally watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night, which I’d been meaning to get to for ages, it having been highly recommended by several trustyworthy sources. Loved Adaptation, which I’d been told it was quite like - though that isn’t actually true.
But bloody hell, that was a bit good. I can see why a friend was totally freaked, describing it as a very bad trip. Beautiful and sad, it really struck a chord – especially with the stupid, tetchy arguments-about-nothing getting between two people who really spark off each other. In fact, it’s so easy to identify with the Joel and Clem’s relationship, it’s little wonder the film’s so affecting.
The cast are all excellent. Jim Carrey’s consistently at his best when down-playing these constricted characters, unable to express themselves properly. It reminded me of him in both Man in the Moon and the Truman Show. Like Robin Williams, he’s absolutely brilliant when he can resist the obvious clowning around. Perhaps Carrey should sport a beard for his serious work, too.
Not sure the prologue works, though, with Joel and Clem meeting again as strangers. Were we meant to think that was them meeting for the first time, and I’m just being too clever? As it was, it gave away the resolution – that some vague recollection is spared.
But it’s a brilliant film, and incredibly unsettling. It’s not just the amnesiac procedure that’s invasive, the men conducting it prove to be equally, creepily icky in taking advantage of their patients.
But bloody hell, that was a bit good. I can see why a friend was totally freaked, describing it as a very bad trip. Beautiful and sad, it really struck a chord – especially with the stupid, tetchy arguments-about-nothing getting between two people who really spark off each other. In fact, it’s so easy to identify with the Joel and Clem’s relationship, it’s little wonder the film’s so affecting.
The cast are all excellent. Jim Carrey’s consistently at his best when down-playing these constricted characters, unable to express themselves properly. It reminded me of him in both Man in the Moon and the Truman Show. Like Robin Williams, he’s absolutely brilliant when he can resist the obvious clowning around. Perhaps Carrey should sport a beard for his serious work, too.
Not sure the prologue works, though, with Joel and Clem meeting again as strangers. Were we meant to think that was them meeting for the first time, and I’m just being too clever? As it was, it gave away the resolution – that some vague recollection is spared.
But it’s a brilliant film, and incredibly unsettling. It’s not just the amnesiac procedure that’s invasive, the men conducting it prove to be equally, creepily icky in taking advantage of their patients.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Smiert spionen
On the instructions of my younger brother, the advice of my brother-in-law, and because I'd always meant to anyway, I've been reading more John le Carre, and pursuing Harry Palmer on DVD.
Funeral In Berlin is fab, though without John Barry's music, it lacks some of the cool of The Ipcress File. Also, the back of DVD case gives the whole plot away. The stark ruin on Berlin, contrasting drear on the East and devil-may-care fun on the west, really beefs up the atmosphere - though making the London scenes a bit dull.
I'll seek out Billion Dollar Brain next, but won't bother with the two 90s films, which I remember lacking the essential style and verve of the 60s films.
The spy genre really suffered as a result of the cold war ending - I still reckon James Bond films would be better if they were set back in the 1950s. You can just imagine Q's latest, incredible gadget: "Information is stored on this shiny disc, and read by a beam of light we call a 'laser'...".
The book, recently made into a film, is about a a mild-mannered government employee investigating the savage murder of his wife, and carrying on the work she began to expose a gross, corporate conspiracy in the medical world. It's interesting that in this, the intelligence service seems to be in the pocket of the profiteers, and are - unlike in Smiley and Ned's day - the villains. I'm not quite sure I understand why,
Funeral In Berlin is fab, though without John Barry's music, it lacks some of the cool of The Ipcress File. Also, the back of DVD case gives the whole plot away. The stark ruin on Berlin, contrasting drear on the East and devil-may-care fun on the west, really beefs up the atmosphere - though making the London scenes a bit dull.
I'll seek out Billion Dollar Brain next, but won't bother with the two 90s films, which I remember lacking the essential style and verve of the 60s films.
The spy genre really suffered as a result of the cold war ending - I still reckon James Bond films would be better if they were set back in the 1950s. You can just imagine Q's latest, incredible gadget: "Information is stored on this shiny disc, and read by a beam of light we call a 'laser'...".
"[Latimer] had made a corner for himself in what was known as the 'Mad Mullah Department,' studying the intricate and seemingly indecypherable web of Muslim fundamentalist groups operating out of the Lebanon. The notion so beloved of the amateur terror industry that these bodies are all part of a superplot is nonsense. If only it were so - for then there might be some way to get at them! As it is, they slip about, grouping and regrouping likes drops of water on a wet wall, and they are about as easy to pin down."
John le Carre, "The Secret Pilgrim", p. 178.
The Secret Pilgrim attempts to reconcile the cold war past with the unknown future of the intelligence service. It's the autobiography of Ned (James Fox's character in the film of The Russia House) - from an over-eager young intelligence officer almost killing the wrong man, to a cynical and world-weary negotiator glad to retire from a rampantly corporate world. The final episode, where Ned tries to appeal to Sir Anthony Bradshaw's conscience on the small matter of his "having HMG by the balls" is a precursor to The Constant Gardener, which I'm about four fifths of the way through now.The book, recently made into a film, is about a a mild-mannered government employee investigating the savage murder of his wife, and carrying on the work she began to expose a gross, corporate conspiracy in the medical world. It's interesting that in this, the intelligence service seems to be in the pocket of the profiteers, and are - unlike in Smiley and Ned's day - the villains. I'm not quite sure I understand why,
"Where there's tuberculosis, you suspect AIDS... Not always, but usually."
John le Carre, The Constant Gardener, p. 252.
Will have to ask one of my clever, medical friends...
I've also been reading the first volume of Queen and Country, which updates the excellent Sandbaggers telly series, which I got through last year. Tough and gutsy like it's original, it does show some basic errors with London geography and idioms - though I'm told these get improved on later in the run.
Also reading Y: The Last Man, which is cool, too. Hoorah for good comics.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Things to see and do
A long weekend of fun activities, prior to the Doctor's birthday.
Tate Modern's Frida Kahlo exhibition was fun, though the Doctor didn't like the portraits with monkeys. We were both impressed by Moses, which made me think of Joseph Campbell's "The Hero With A Thousand Faces", which I read earlier this summer and which interlinks different religions, mythologies and psychoanalysis of dreams into one great (if overly-generalising) gestalt.
We'd been meaning to get to Theatre of Blood for ages, and it was brilliant. The Doctor burrowed into my shoulder for some of the gorier bits, and I was surprised how funny it proved was. The special effects and illusions were expertly done, too. Still trying to figure out if they really rolled away the barrel of wine away with Tim McMullan curled up inside it - I can't see how they can have done it otherwise.
We also met up with chums, ate very well, had a picnic, and saw various films - Casablanca, The Hunger, and The Rising. Comments on those to follow.
We're now working our way though Civilisation and Lost - four episodes in to each, and loving them. The fourth episode of Lost was the one to really hook me. Lock's miraculous recover is just such a wonderful thing, and a perfect contrast to all the death and destruction and freaky weirdshit.
Tate Modern's Frida Kahlo exhibition was fun, though the Doctor didn't like the portraits with monkeys. We were both impressed by Moses, which made me think of Joseph Campbell's "The Hero With A Thousand Faces", which I read earlier this summer and which interlinks different religions, mythologies and psychoanalysis of dreams into one great (if overly-generalising) gestalt.
We'd been meaning to get to Theatre of Blood for ages, and it was brilliant. The Doctor burrowed into my shoulder for some of the gorier bits, and I was surprised how funny it proved was. The special effects and illusions were expertly done, too. Still trying to figure out if they really rolled away the barrel of wine away with Tim McMullan curled up inside it - I can't see how they can have done it otherwise.
We also met up with chums, ate very well, had a picnic, and saw various films - Casablanca, The Hunger, and The Rising. Comments on those to follow.
We're now working our way though Civilisation and Lost - four episodes in to each, and loving them. The fourth episode of Lost was the one to really hook me. Lock's miraculous recover is just such a wonderful thing, and a perfect contrast to all the death and destruction and freaky weirdshit.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Des idées napoléoniennes
Long weekend of running about doing things. Bought shoes, a coat and trinkets for the Doctor's imminent birthday. Caught up with various chums I've not seen in ages. Seen some top telly pilots, been to a wedding, to Whitstable and the dentist, and for curry. Done various bits of writing and reading, too, which I'll talk about another time. And approved two covers for things what I've written, which will turn up on the Internet soonish.
Napoloeon III (1808-1873) was a rum sort of fellow, and probably the most interesting bit of my History A-level. A couple of fun things about him turned up in a book I read earlier this summer. For one thing, he inspired the classic Tube map:
(Oh, and in checking Wikipedia for the link, I love what it says about his son: "The Zulus later claimed that they would not have killed him had they known who he was.")
Napoloeon III (1808-1873) was a rum sort of fellow, and probably the most interesting bit of my History A-level. A couple of fun things about him turned up in a book I read earlier this summer. For one thing, he inspired the classic Tube map:
"Napoleon's anxious draftmanship indirectly benefitted London, repaying the city's hospitality to him. When he finally presented the Prefect of Paris, Baron Hausmann, with plans for redesigning the French capital, the main thoroughfares were highlighted in primary colours, in red, yellow and green, according to their importance. This unheard-of finishing touch was taken up by later planners and designers, most notably the Mondrian of the Tube, Harry Beck."
Stephen Smith, "Underground London: Travels beneath the city streets", p. 204.
And then there's this:"[Napoloeon] spent two years in London, from 1838 to 1840. This was at the time of the Chartist riot, when the movement for universal suffrage which had begun in provincial England culminated in disorder and panic in the capital. Louis Napoleon was sworn in as a special constable and paced a beat in the West End, in the company of the cook from the Atheneum."
ibid.
So Napoleon III was on the same side as the Duke of Wellington - who'd been put in charge of London's fortifications against the seditious, democratic mob. Which is a bit weird - like Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing both being on the same (baddie) side in Star Wars.(Oh, and in checking Wikipedia for the link, I love what it says about his son: "The Zulus later claimed that they would not have killed him had they known who he was.")
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Second coming
The new issue of DWM includes the results of the 2004 readers' poll. It's the first time I've ever had something of mine in the running (well, I've been in anthologies that did good, but that's someone else's glory).
Anyway. The Coup came second last in a group of 17. Ho hum.
"At least I can only get better," I told the Doctor, with my usual, tough resolve.
"Or," she replied, "next year you could come last."
Anyway. The Coup came second last in a group of 17. Ho hum.
"At least I can only get better," I told the Doctor, with my usual, tough resolve.
"Or," she replied, "next year you could come last."
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Hello there
There's been a couple of occasions in recent weeks when I've had to remind people that blogs, newsgroups and mailing lists don't count as private conversations. Nor are they conversations-in-public that others might accidentally eavesdrop, like something overheard on a train journey. No, they're readily accessible and searchable, and stored for posterity. You can't really get more public, as conversations go.
In fact, email should probably come with the same kind of warning. It's so easily forwarded to the wrong people (and accessed by IT and management at work) that numerous mates have been stung by blowing-off-steam messages and bitchy one-liners getting sent to the people they're sniping at. I once had a brilliant dinner where people compared catastrophies having hit REPLY instead of FORWARD, or where things they'd emailed months ago suddenly being sent round the office.
So, a rule of thumb: these things get read, and they're likely to get read by the people you're talking about.
Still, I've been surprised by the numbers of people who mention this 'ere blog to me - either taking me to task for things they don't agree with, or wanting to know more about things I've mentioned fleetingly, or wanting to know why I even bother. Blimey, these things really do get read.
Oh, and incidentally: tough, patience, and not really sure yet.
In fact, email should probably come with the same kind of warning. It's so easily forwarded to the wrong people (and accessed by IT and management at work) that numerous mates have been stung by blowing-off-steam messages and bitchy one-liners getting sent to the people they're sniping at. I once had a brilliant dinner where people compared catastrophies having hit REPLY instead of FORWARD, or where things they'd emailed months ago suddenly being sent round the office.
So, a rule of thumb: these things get read, and they're likely to get read by the people you're talking about.
Still, I've been surprised by the numbers of people who mention this 'ere blog to me - either taking me to task for things they don't agree with, or wanting to know more about things I've mentioned fleetingly, or wanting to know why I even bother. Blimey, these things really do get read.
Oh, and incidentally: tough, patience, and not really sure yet.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Let meaning choose
Writers can be very, very dull on the subject of writing. There are myriad books, websites and blogs detailing aspects of The Craft, debating the use of the serial comma, or ranting against particular phrases, quirks of punctuation and things-they-should-still-teach-in-schools. There's an awful lot of smug, not actually practical, no-you're-wronging involved.
As I often have to explain as part of my job, there's no general consensus on style. Really. While correct spelling has been agreed for hundreds of years, punctuation is still largely a matter of taste. For every style guru who'll insist on one rule, there’s another expert who'll vehemently disagree.
Kingsley Amis put it very nicely: there are those to be scorned because they know/care less about punctuation and grammar than you do, and those to be scorned because they know/care more; that is, there are berks and there are wankers.
I've just been sent this link to Orwell's "Politics and the English Language", which feels disturbingly topical for something sixty years old. It's a manifesto for clarity in writing and thinking, and everyone should read it. You don't need to know the difference between a noun and an adjective, nor why the split infinitive is perfectly acceptable English, nor any rules for hyphens, semi-colons and commas. These will all come, of their own accord, just so long as your meaning is clear.
As I often have to explain as part of my job, there's no general consensus on style. Really. While correct spelling has been agreed for hundreds of years, punctuation is still largely a matter of taste. For every style guru who'll insist on one rule, there’s another expert who'll vehemently disagree.
Kingsley Amis put it very nicely: there are those to be scorned because they know/care less about punctuation and grammar than you do, and those to be scorned because they know/care more; that is, there are berks and there are wankers.
I've just been sent this link to Orwell's "Politics and the English Language", which feels disturbingly topical for something sixty years old. It's a manifesto for clarity in writing and thinking, and everyone should read it. You don't need to know the difference between a noun and an adjective, nor why the split infinitive is perfectly acceptable English, nor any rules for hyphens, semi-colons and commas. These will all come, of their own accord, just so long as your meaning is clear.
"A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus:And he will probably ask himself two more:
- What am I trying to say?
- What words will express it?
- What image or idiom will make it clearer?
- Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?
- Could I put it more shortly?
- Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?"
Friday, August 12, 2005
Recent reads
Didn't get very far with Albion before giving up, I'm afraid. Which is a shame, because since the end of For Tomorrow, I've been looking for a comic to follow. Or, more accurately, borrow. By the end of issue 2 of Albion, I was just left feeling I'd missed something, and couldn't be arsed to wonder what.
So, since I was helping myself to someone else's bookshelf anyway, I picked up We3 because it had a cool cover. Blimey. That was a bit good - even the Doctor was hooked, getting cross over my shoulder 'cos she was reading faster than me. Hooray for a good comic! Seems like ages since I last read something that wasn't, ultimately, a disappointment.
Am now reading The Men Who Stare At Goats. Loved Ronson's Them, and again this manages to mix the geekily-observed funny with the liberally-minded terrifying. It can be funny, with Prudence Calabrese explaining how she got into psychic "remote viewing" and appeared on TV to reveal details of the Martian satellite flying alongside the Hale-Bopp comet, and then terrifying when Prudence discovers that her and her colleagues' predictions may have influenced the 39 people who killed themselves to join the said alien vessel.
And to finish, another chum has started a blog, it's hardly rocket science, which promises to deal with the challanges of the Brit surviving abroad. Already it has made me laugh, especially this bit:
So, since I was helping myself to someone else's bookshelf anyway, I picked up We3 because it had a cool cover. Blimey. That was a bit good - even the Doctor was hooked, getting cross over my shoulder 'cos she was reading faster than me. Hooray for a good comic! Seems like ages since I last read something that wasn't, ultimately, a disappointment.
Am now reading The Men Who Stare At Goats. Loved Ronson's Them, and again this manages to mix the geekily-observed funny with the liberally-minded terrifying. It can be funny, with Prudence Calabrese explaining how she got into psychic "remote viewing" and appeared on TV to reveal details of the Martian satellite flying alongside the Hale-Bopp comet, and then terrifying when Prudence discovers that her and her colleagues' predictions may have influenced the 39 people who killed themselves to join the said alien vessel.
"'It's kind of stressful to talk about,' she said. 'I don't really know what to say.'
'I guess you weren't to know that all the excitement would, uh, lead to a mass suicide,' I said.
'You'd think that if you were a remote viewer you should have been able to figure that out ahead of time,' said Prudence."
Jon Ronson, The Men Who Stare At Goats, p. 121.
Of course, Prudence is also revealed (on page 97, and then again on page 100) to have been a big fan of Dr Who...
Just getting to the stuff about the torturing of Iraqi prisoners, which is even more weird and awful all at once. Still, it's so full of weird stories, I can't help wondering it's not a massive exercise in counter-intelligence.
Thinking of that, a few chums outside of the Smoke continue to ask the same questions: What is London like since the bombings? Or, What's changed? Or, Do you feel like you're living under siege?
Well no, not really. It's not that different, though there are a lot more police around. I've seen people having their bags searched as I've walked to work, and I've had to open my bag a few times for security people to peer in to. But, well, for all this talk of there being another one due any time, I think there was more grim anticipation before July 7th. No, things are just carrying on...
Hmm. I was going to type something about "things carrying on as if normal", but that reminds me of Salam Pax from ages ago:
"A BBC reporter walking thru the Mutanabi Friday book market (again) ends his report with :It wouldn't be very British, would it?
'It looks like Iraqis are putting on an air of normality'
Look, what are you supposed to do then? Run around in the streets wailing? War is at the door eeeeeeeeeeeee!"
And to finish, another chum has started a blog, it's hardly rocket science, which promises to deal with the challanges of the Brit surviving abroad. Already it has made me laugh, especially this bit:
"The thing is, I come from England. Although we have very poor weather, and our teeth can be pretty gross, termites don't figure in our indigenous fauna."Right. Off to the pub.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
If you are wise you'll listen to me
Back from a long weekend across the border in Cornwall. Had a great time, though I am entirely knackered out. Hate the fact I can’t sleep on trains, and – as discussed before – driving is not my idea of a laugh.
Hired a fat-arsed little Meganne at Plymouth, which really wasn’t built with a gallumphing six foot three me in mind. Kept knocking the windscreen-wipers into action with my knee, and clutch control is a sod when you have to twist your ankle round to reach the pedals. The laughably steep West Looe Hill - with cars parked all up what’s barely a single lane and vans bombing down towards you - was Not Fun.
Have dreamt three nights running of being packed into a box I don’t fit, with the lid being pressed shut over my protruding ankles and feet. Can’t imagine why.
Still, all worthwhile. Wedding on Saturday was shockingly good, with fireworks and bands, and scallops-wrapped-in-bacon. We have also made some new friends. Felt overly sober, though, having Behaved 'cos of driving duties. As a result, my "dancing" was, I’m told, worse than usual. That’s quite an achievement, actually.
On Sunday we were off to chums in a converted mill (well, a converting mill, since there's still work to be done) just outside Bodmin, where there were more pals and Pimms and a feast. Around midnight, those who were staying had to contend with a bat who wanted to join the party. Eerie, sweet things, bats, utterly silent as they zip about overhead. Eventually directed the thing in the direction of an open window, and retired about oneish.
The pals who'd left, it turned out, fared worse – their car broke down and they didn't see home till gone five. As I said, cars can pretty much sod off.
The Doctor, meanwhile, performed wonders as an ace navigator all weekend – especially clever since she’s not a driver herself – and ensured there were beers and wines waiting when driving chores had been done.
In an effort to stretch my twisted limbs, on Monday we went for a two-hour walk with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory waiting at the end of it. Really enjoyed the film. A clever chum had pointed out the worlds of Dr Who represented by (the utterly fantastic) Deep Roy, James Fox and Annette Badland. I also wonder whether Grandpa George was specifically cast to look like Roald Dahl... Not so upset by the Christopher Lee segments as others (such as Gaiman) have been. Felt it gave the film some depth – and made it more than just some lurid, occasionally sickly, eye-candy.
Anyway. Back home last night to cat-sick and house chores and work. Got quite a lot done of the stuff I took away with me. Had taken Time Travellers proofs to read on the train, and sadly kept laughing at my own jokes – and worse, at my own turns-of-phrase. Think it all hangs together, though.
A world of secret projects still needs battling, though. Best get on with it.
Hired a fat-arsed little Meganne at Plymouth, which really wasn’t built with a gallumphing six foot three me in mind. Kept knocking the windscreen-wipers into action with my knee, and clutch control is a sod when you have to twist your ankle round to reach the pedals. The laughably steep West Looe Hill - with cars parked all up what’s barely a single lane and vans bombing down towards you - was Not Fun.
Have dreamt three nights running of being packed into a box I don’t fit, with the lid being pressed shut over my protruding ankles and feet. Can’t imagine why.
Still, all worthwhile. Wedding on Saturday was shockingly good, with fireworks and bands, and scallops-wrapped-in-bacon. We have also made some new friends. Felt overly sober, though, having Behaved 'cos of driving duties. As a result, my "dancing" was, I’m told, worse than usual. That’s quite an achievement, actually.
On Sunday we were off to chums in a converted mill (well, a converting mill, since there's still work to be done) just outside Bodmin, where there were more pals and Pimms and a feast. Around midnight, those who were staying had to contend with a bat who wanted to join the party. Eerie, sweet things, bats, utterly silent as they zip about overhead. Eventually directed the thing in the direction of an open window, and retired about oneish.
The pals who'd left, it turned out, fared worse – their car broke down and they didn't see home till gone five. As I said, cars can pretty much sod off.
The Doctor, meanwhile, performed wonders as an ace navigator all weekend – especially clever since she’s not a driver herself – and ensured there were beers and wines waiting when driving chores had been done.
In an effort to stretch my twisted limbs, on Monday we went for a two-hour walk with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory waiting at the end of it. Really enjoyed the film. A clever chum had pointed out the worlds of Dr Who represented by (the utterly fantastic) Deep Roy, James Fox and Annette Badland. I also wonder whether Grandpa George was specifically cast to look like Roald Dahl... Not so upset by the Christopher Lee segments as others (such as Gaiman) have been. Felt it gave the film some depth – and made it more than just some lurid, occasionally sickly, eye-candy.
Anyway. Back home last night to cat-sick and house chores and work. Got quite a lot done of the stuff I took away with me. Had taken Time Travellers proofs to read on the train, and sadly kept laughing at my own jokes – and worse, at my own turns-of-phrase. Think it all hangs together, though.
A world of secret projects still needs battling, though. Best get on with it.
Friday, August 05, 2005
You can believe he has secrets
Off to the pub tonight, with lots of things I can't talk about. Like the new Dr Who, I tell myself.
Since getting back from Bristol I've begun writing up something I can't talk about, started a big, new project I can't talk about, been okayed for something I can't talk about, and invoiced for something I can't talk about. Yet. And there's a whole load of stuff of mine coming out in the next few months, and I shouldn't be talking about any of that yet, either.
This, of course, is where the Internet is a dangerous temptation. And having a blog even worse. I have to content myself with sharing my secrets with the wife and cat. Lucky them.
At least I'm not alone in this. I guess it's a Writer Thing that you only talk about Old Stuff, while anything you're actually doing (and interested in) is embargoed until months after you've handed it in and forgotten all about it.
Sharing details of these top secret projects with those in the same boat doesn't lighten the load, either. Oh no. It's not just that it means shouldering more salacious details that can't be passed on, I'm also terribly envious of what they've got out in the world just now...
Eddie Robson, for example, is similarly writing things he can't talk about yet. Still, I found out today he has his own blog, which is typically brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do. And I should be collecting his new book on Film Noir tonight, which I did proofing duties on and so have already read. And it's brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do, too. Damn him.
Matthew Sweet is also writing something he can't talk about yet. But he's on the telly next week dishing dirt. And in the Times today, and all that sort of thing. Gah!
And Joe Lidster is writing things not to be spoken of, and said he'd kill me even for the merest mentioning. So that's just between you and me, eh?
Since getting back from Bristol I've begun writing up something I can't talk about, started a big, new project I can't talk about, been okayed for something I can't talk about, and invoiced for something I can't talk about. Yet. And there's a whole load of stuff of mine coming out in the next few months, and I shouldn't be talking about any of that yet, either.
This, of course, is where the Internet is a dangerous temptation. And having a blog even worse. I have to content myself with sharing my secrets with the wife and cat. Lucky them.
At least I'm not alone in this. I guess it's a Writer Thing that you only talk about Old Stuff, while anything you're actually doing (and interested in) is embargoed until months after you've handed it in and forgotten all about it.
Sharing details of these top secret projects with those in the same boat doesn't lighten the load, either. Oh no. It's not just that it means shouldering more salacious details that can't be passed on, I'm also terribly envious of what they've got out in the world just now...
Eddie Robson, for example, is similarly writing things he can't talk about yet. Still, I found out today he has his own blog, which is typically brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do. And I should be collecting his new book on Film Noir tonight, which I did proofing duties on and so have already read. And it's brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do, too. Damn him.
Matthew Sweet is also writing something he can't talk about yet. But he's on the telly next week dishing dirt. And in the Times today, and all that sort of thing. Gah!
And Joe Lidster is writing things not to be spoken of, and said he'd kill me even for the merest mentioning. So that's just between you and me, eh?
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Did I really write that?
Just back from Bristol, where the Doctor and I looked in on friends' new babies. Got a bit drunk last night, which was fun, and also went to the obligatory museums. The Doctor liked the slavery stuff at the Industrial Museum, and the Georgian House was cool, too, though had an awful lot of steps when you're lugging a heavy bag. Both museums were nicely free.
Have been reading Tom Reilly's revisionist history of Cromwell in Ireland, for reasons which may one day come to light. Lots of detail, though it's sometimes quite repetitive. I can also see where the Amazon reviewer is coming from about the Reilly favouring secondary sources over primary... but there's really no need for how savage that review is. Academics, eh?
Popped in to the Big Finish offices on Friday and got to hear the first few minutes of Lost Museum. Golly. Had a Ron Grainer moment. Oh, and Christmas is in - I think it works. And proofs of Time Travellers are in the post.
Have been reading Tom Reilly's revisionist history of Cromwell in Ireland, for reasons which may one day come to light. Lots of detail, though it's sometimes quite repetitive. I can also see where the Amazon reviewer is coming from about the Reilly favouring secondary sources over primary... but there's really no need for how savage that review is. Academics, eh?
Popped in to the Big Finish offices on Friday and got to hear the first few minutes of Lost Museum. Golly. Had a Ron Grainer moment. Oh, and Christmas is in - I think it works. And proofs of Time Travellers are in the post.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Lost in his own museum
Adrian Salmon's characteristically splendid cover for my Benny play has now been released into the interweb. Woo!The play features a number of rabbiting Aliens* played by m'self and my wee brother. I can exclusively reveal that the the small, bald, purple, pointy-eared Alien in the foreground of the cover was performed by my brother.
Our director was keen afterwards to point out that Tom was the better actor. Grr!
Or perhaps that should that be Ang!
[* Though, in the script, they were described as "locals" not aliens. It's Benny and Jason who are the aliens.]
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Some humbugs
"The disadvantages involved in pulling lots of black sticky slime from out of the ground where it had been safely hidden out of harm's way, turning it into tar to cover the land with, smoke to fill the air with and pouring the rest into the sea, all seemed to outweigh the advantages of being able to get more quickly from one place to another - particularly when the place you arrived at had probably become, as a result of this, very similar to the place you had left, i.e. covered with tar, full of smoke and short of fish."
Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, p. 134.
I've been slowly rereading the Hitch Hikers books (whenever there aren't the Doctor's newspapers about for taking to the loo) and the above bit really struck a cord.I don't like driving. I can drive, and not too badly, neither. But it's like washing up, or proofing technical and policy documents. I'd just rather not, if that's all right. It's tedious, repetitive and it's not often I fit around the steering wheel anyway. And I hate the attitude - especially in London - that driving's a war of attrition, where you try and out-do as many other road-users as you can, without letting them nip in front. Me, I'm quite content to sit on a slow wending bus, reading or daydreaming silly titbits for stories, or even just staring out the window...
Of course, keen-driving pals and family members have already explained - and in depth - why I Am Wrong on this, too. And in the manner they also sometimes explain that, 'Simon, quite a lot of Dr Who is not very good...'.
Yes. I know. But I reckon they'd still agree that the whole driving experience would be a lot more agreeable if not so many people were utterly sold to it. Drive when you have to, not when you can.
Anyway, for going to a chum's wedding in a few weeks' time, I've just had to hire a car. Had to apply for a credit card, too, because (unlike the last time I did this, two years ago), you can't hire a car without one.
Credit cards, and their whole mantra of "Hey! You, lucky fellow, could owe us lots of money!', can sod off too. Not had a credit card since my earliest days as a student - a period with an inevitable moral lesson on the virtues of self-will. Which has all been paid off, what with it having been - Christ - a decade ago.
One of the security questions on ringing to activate the card (which a cynic might view as an underhand method of attempting to sell more product to someone who's just signed up to your services, and getting them to pay for the call while they're at it) was age next birthday. Not 'How old are you?' but 'How much worse is it going to get?'
Cheers for that. Almost a year to go, and I'm already dwelling on it. Humbug 3: Cannot be arsed with birthdays either.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Any colour you like
Some pontificating, when I should be doing writing I was meant to have finished on Friday.
Had a very nice day at a wedding yesterday, chatting to people I've not seen in ages and people I'd not met before. There was some excitement at Baker Street on the way, though, with the police trying to keep people out of the way as they dealt with a group of violent, shouty blokes. We assumed BNP - though comparing notes with other likewise delayed wedding guests, it wasn't an exclusively white group. There's something particularly brilliant about the BNP being a multi-cultural organisation...
But just why? As the Doctor said, this is hardly what the police or London in general needs just now. Assuming it was all some sort of response to terrorist bombings... Well, what is it we call people whose sole purpose is to spread a little more misery and fear?
What makes me most angry about this and all the shit over the last few weeks is that it's easy to make things worse. Any fucker can hit out, smash stuff, damage other people. Mending them again takes years of dedication and exams and long hours doing shitty placements as a junior doctor. Making things better needs effort and brains and compassion and all the kinds of virtue you'd think were essential to anyone's utopian vision. But bollocks to the idea that al-Queda and the BNP are working for a better world. Vicious tantrums yes, practicable ethical framwork? No, it seems it's always the easy option.
It's no show of strength to break things, it's a sign of weakness.
Bah.
Had a very nice day at a wedding yesterday, chatting to people I've not seen in ages and people I'd not met before. There was some excitement at Baker Street on the way, though, with the police trying to keep people out of the way as they dealt with a group of violent, shouty blokes. We assumed BNP - though comparing notes with other likewise delayed wedding guests, it wasn't an exclusively white group. There's something particularly brilliant about the BNP being a multi-cultural organisation...
But just why? As the Doctor said, this is hardly what the police or London in general needs just now. Assuming it was all some sort of response to terrorist bombings... Well, what is it we call people whose sole purpose is to spread a little more misery and fear?
What makes me most angry about this and all the shit over the last few weeks is that it's easy to make things worse. Any fucker can hit out, smash stuff, damage other people. Mending them again takes years of dedication and exams and long hours doing shitty placements as a junior doctor. Making things better needs effort and brains and compassion and all the kinds of virtue you'd think were essential to anyone's utopian vision. But bollocks to the idea that al-Queda and the BNP are working for a better world. Vicious tantrums yes, practicable ethical framwork? No, it seems it's always the easy option.
It's no show of strength to break things, it's a sign of weakness.
Bah.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Lemon Avenue flying straightly
Went to the Nelson and Napoleon exhibition on Wednesday, and met up with some old chums me and the Doctor hadn't seen in ages. The exhibition is fun - with some great and violent Gillray prints, recruitment posters exorting all good Englishfolk to "hate the French, damn the Pope", and even the underpants Nelson was wearing when he got shot. There's also a rather groovy interactive tabletop wossname, where as a digital map shows the battle in progress, you can touch the screen with your finger for more information on each of the boats.
Still, it's all rather "clean" and serious, with very little of the bloody misery of ship-life and war on show. There's little of what the Doctor refers to as "social history" (which, I think, means that it would have been better and more vivid if it could have been more like the excellent Master and Commander).
Yesterday, oblivious to bombings, we went to see Henry IV part 2. Although excellently staged and performed, it's not as exciting or engaging as part 1 - a bit like Kill Bill, I said in the pub afterwards. We're going to watch the third part of the trilogy on Sunday, care of the DVD of Olivier's Henry V that my in-laws got me for my birthday.
Speaking of DVDs, Jonathan Clements passed this on.
Still, it's all rather "clean" and serious, with very little of the bloody misery of ship-life and war on show. There's little of what the Doctor refers to as "social history" (which, I think, means that it would have been better and more vivid if it could have been more like the excellent Master and Commander).
Yesterday, oblivious to bombings, we went to see Henry IV part 2. Although excellently staged and performed, it's not as exciting or engaging as part 1 - a bit like Kill Bill, I said in the pub afterwards. We're going to watch the third part of the trilogy on Sunday, care of the DVD of Olivier's Henry V that my in-laws got me for my birthday.
Speaking of DVDs, Jonathan Clements passed this on.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
We are history
The fab new issue of Dr Who's Magazine has details of authors and stories for History of Christmas. You can get yourself a copy of the very-spiff-indeed magazine from Panini's website.
Some titles have changed since DWM went to press, and I've still got the running order to work out. So here's details as they currently stand:
- "The Anchorite's Echo" by Scott Andrews
- "Presence" by Peter Anghelides
- "Set in Stone" by Charles Auchterlonie and John Isles
- "Be Good For Goodness' Sake" by Samantha Baker
- "Home Fires" by Jon Blum
- "Danse Macabre" by Joff Brown
- "The Thousand Years of Christmas" by Simon Bucher-Jones
- "St Nicholas's Bones" by Xanna Eve Chown
- "Ode to Joy" by Jonathan Clements
- "The Gift" by Robert Dick
- "The Revolutionarries" by John S Drew
- "Rome" by Marcus Flavin
- "The Prodigal Sun" by Matthew Griffiths
- "Christmas on the Moon" by me
- "Comforts of Home" by Pete Kempshall
- "She Won't Be Home" by Joseph Lidster
- "Nobody's Gift" by Kate Orman
- "The Innocents" by Marc Platt
- "The Long Midwinter" by Phillip Purser-Hallard
- "Not In My Back Yard" by Eddie Robson
- "Callahuanca" by Richard Salter
- "The Feast" by Stewart Sheargold
- "The Church of Saint Sebastian" by Robert Smith
- "The Lampblack Wars" by Matthew Sweet
- "Faithless" by Ben Woodhams
Mooning
36 years ago today, Neil Armstrong clambered down from the lunar module of Apollo 11 and fluffed his lines. Google Moon - brother to the quite astonishing Google Earth - is celebrating this anniversary in style. Check out the extreme zoom, and I especially like the news (in the FAQs) of the forthcoming Copernicus initiative.
I am writing about Apollo 17 at the moment, as it happens. The last two blokes to stand on the moon's surface blasted off back home on 14 December 1972. And nobody's been back since. It's odd that by the time I got born a few years later, people had stopped going to the moon.
Other odd stuff, and yesterday I had to explain to m'colleagues the difference between a wiki and a Wookiee.
I am writing about Apollo 17 at the moment, as it happens. The last two blokes to stand on the moon's surface blasted off back home on 14 December 1972. And nobody's been back since. It's odd that by the time I got born a few years later, people had stopped going to the moon.
Other odd stuff, and yesterday I had to explain to m'colleagues the difference between a wiki and a Wookiee.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Humphrey Belcher's cheese cauldron
Spent a fine and chappish weekend in Brighton doing stag things, where I was Not Good at both raft-building and croquet. The latter was not assisted by the state of the pitch, which was dry and ungrassy and too fast. I'd expected much teasing on this expertise yesterday, as I detailed my adventures to the Doctor - she after all calls me 'Shire boy' at the best of times. But I'm assured me she's quite the croquist (if that's not the word, it should be). It's an elementary skill of the vicar's daughter, I guess - along with topping up drinks and making canapes. She is a good wife, and I have made sacrifice of household chores today in her honour.
Caught the sun quite nicely, too: there's a satisfying, high contrast arc of white on the fleshy bit between my thumbs and forefingers.
I'm just 100 pages from the end of Harry Potter, having fallen into it by accident last night. Best one since Azkaban, I think - tighter written, better plotted and generally just funnier and scarier by turns... I love the feeling of haring through a book because you can't put it down, while at the same time not wanting it ever to end. The heading for this post, incidentally, is from page 187.
Good things happening on my own writing front, too. An email today confirmed things are all go on.... something exciting that will be announced in due course. And, on the train down to Brighton while chatting to a chum, the line, 'Well, I saw a light on...' popped into my brain unbidden. Not the most awe-inspriring revelation, I know, but it perfectly clears up all the bother I'd been having with something I'm working on, so yay. Explained what it's for to the Doctor last night as we meandered to last orders up the road. When it got to that line, she laughed. So that's all okay then.
Well, anyway. This isn't working, is it?
And nor would be sneaking off now for another chapter of Potter. But...
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Cover up
Amazon are boasting the cover to fellow first-timer Nick Wallace's Fear Itself. It's beautiful, and I am sorely envious.
Picked up the lovely-looking DWM special today. And a card for Joseph Lidster, who is apparently quite old. Amazingly enough, there's going to be a little drinking tonight to celebrate.
Oh, and I also bought a sandwich and a rhubarb yoghurt which was nice, too.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Toxteth O'Grady
I have a horrible bloody cold. It just isn't right when it's so hot and sunny and lovely outside.
Years ago, I asked the old man (who knows such things) why we even have snot:
Somewhat to my surprise, though, I managed to tie proper bow-ties. Blimey. And despite the raw, red nose, the Doctor seemed to approve of the outfit. She, of course, looked quite brilliant.
Back to work yesterday after some days of due to head being full of snot. Almost through all the Christmas stories. Oh, and I'm being interviewed on Friday about UNIT. Then off to a stag weeked for, by complete coincidence, one of the cast members.
Years ago, I asked the old man (who knows such things) why we even have snot:
Well, it is a long story, but in essence, this is how it goes: the nose is the air contioning unit for the lungs. It works a bit like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. When you breath in, the nose spins the air into a spiral as it goes down the nose. All the bits of dust, earwigs, germs etc get spun by centrifugal force to the edge and become stuck to the mucus lining the nose. The mucus, with its trapped bits, is moved from the front to the back of the nose by thousands of tiny whiskers, which are beating together all the time. The whole thing behaving like moving fly-paper. The central core of clean air goes down to the lungs, while the mucus goes down to the stomach. There, the bugs and bits are destroyed, and the mucus broken down into glucose, and transfered back to the nose by the blood, where it is turned back to mucus again.Even sitting out in the sun for hours on hasn't sorted it out. Bleurgh. Was picnicing at posh opera, thanks to some well-connected chums. Lovely day - though getting home turned into a bit of a faff, and only possible due to great kindness of other people.
Sometimes the system doesn't work. Allergy makes little white blood cells diffuse into the mucus, and this can make it turn yellow or even pale green. The cells are not really white, just whiter than the red ones. Some germs excrete coloured dyes, mostly green, and these can poison the little whiskers, so they won't beat. The mucus doesn't move along; the water in it evaporates, and it gets very sticky and snotty. If it gets snotty enough, germs can even grow in it. So it all get a bit complicated, especially as acid in the air, and other pollutions, can damage the little whiskers too.
So now you know! A potent source of acid in the air is from exhaust fumes of cars and lorries and so on. There is a hole in the ozone layer over Switzerland. If you are south of about Birmingham, you are under this hole. The hole allows ultra-violet light through, and this light reacts with the exhaust fumes to make them more toxic to the nose. So London is a good place to live!
Somewhat to my surprise, though, I managed to tie proper bow-ties. Blimey. And despite the raw, red nose, the Doctor seemed to approve of the outfit. She, of course, looked quite brilliant.
Back to work yesterday after some days of due to head being full of snot. Almost through all the Christmas stories. Oh, and I'm being interviewed on Friday about UNIT. Then off to a stag weeked for, by complete coincidence, one of the cast members.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Top hat
More lyrics from Great, which I am now writing a full, proper feature about. One day it will be available on DVD. Yes, one day...
Get a big top hat if you want to get ahead,
It doesn't really matter if you're not at all well-bred.
You're certain to be treated as a great success,
By adopting an inordinately tall head dress.
As the Queen once said to Albert,
'We are not amused by that.
But one thing tickles my fancy -
That's Brunel's big... top hat.'
Get a big top hat if you want to get ahead,
He always has it off when he's lying in bed.
He wears it to the opera and the London zoo,
And he'd feel undressed without it sitting on the loo.
He went to the Crimea,
The guns went rattatat.
They shot off all the Balaclava helmets,
But they couldn't hit his big... top hat.
Get a big top hat if you want to get ahead.
He wore it on the happy day he first got wed.
He wore it on the honeymoon day and night,
And he asked her if it fitted and she said, 'Just right'.
His wife, she was delighted.
He said, 'I'm glad of that.
I wouldn't like a woman who said "No, no"
To my bloody great big... top hat.'
Get a big top hat if you want to get ahead,
It doesn't really matter if you're not at all well-bred.
You're certain to be treated as a great success,
By adopting an inordinately tall head dress.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Keeping buggering on
As Liadnan says:
Screw you, whoever you are. London's still standing. And if it burns to the ground, we'll just build it again. We've done it before.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Coke and aspirins
I am hungover as a bastard, and don't quite remember all of last night.
The Doctor took me to the World's Most Photographed exhibition, and there was a pint of beer and quite a lot of wine and even a vodka martini involved. Really am getting too old for this. Hangovers should not last into the afternoon. Though I have somehow acquired an umbrella.
There were lots of interesting snaps - including one of Adolf Hitler looking a bit of a knob in his lederhosen, and an extraordinary one of Muhammad Ali as St Sebastian. That said, the Greta Garbo ones all looked much of a muchness to a philistine like me, and all from one brief period at the height of her career.
The cat has been sympathising with my delicate state this morning. Just a moment ago he snuck in from the garden with another toad. The little sod.
I am now halfway through a bottle of coke and in the midst of some Christmas stories. The authors should get announced in the next issue of Dr Who Magazine - in about a fortnight - so I'll not name names just yet. Though I notice there's a blog or two dropping the subtlest of hints. Tut.
Oh, and blimey, London is going to host the Olympics. Bugger. Probably means lots of work for me to do tomorrow.
The Doctor took me to the World's Most Photographed exhibition, and there was a pint of beer and quite a lot of wine and even a vodka martini involved. Really am getting too old for this. Hangovers should not last into the afternoon. Though I have somehow acquired an umbrella.
There were lots of interesting snaps - including one of Adolf Hitler looking a bit of a knob in his lederhosen, and an extraordinary one of Muhammad Ali as St Sebastian. That said, the Greta Garbo ones all looked much of a muchness to a philistine like me, and all from one brief period at the height of her career.
The cat has been sympathising with my delicate state this morning. Just a moment ago he snuck in from the garden with another toad. The little sod.
I am now halfway through a bottle of coke and in the midst of some Christmas stories. The authors should get announced in the next issue of Dr Who Magazine - in about a fortnight - so I'll not name names just yet. Though I notice there's a blog or two dropping the subtlest of hints. Tut.
Oh, and blimey, London is going to host the Olympics. Bugger. Probably means lots of work for me to do tomorrow.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Design by Beethoven
BBC News is reporting on the logo for the UK's presidency of the EU. It's an odd sort of non-story, where some people like it, some people don't, some people couldn't care less.
I especially like the last line:
I especially like the last line:
But John Williamson of brand consultants Wolff Olins was scathing about what he said was a sugarcoated image of countries "flying in harmony, shoulder to shoulder".
"This presidency is about re-writing the rules of Europe," he said.
"The difficult decisions that have to be made, the tension, the debate - that's what has to be symbolised somehow.
"Picasso and Beethoven must be turning in their graves."
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