One of the most common questions that writers are asked is the old chestnut "Where do you get your ideas from?"
In his excellent book on writing called, surprisingly On Writing, Stephen King revealed that he got his ideas from "a small, bloodthirsty elf who lives in a hole under my desk." Between you and I, I think he may not be telling the whole truth here, but then again, he is a fiction writer so we'll cut him some slack.
Harlan Ellison, the hugely talented but surprisingly little known author of more stories that you could read in a lifetime, is usually more specific, citing "Poughkeepsie", or sometimes "Schenectady" as the source of his vast inspiration.
The truth is, ideas come from all over the place, every minute of the day. You just need to know how to recognise them.
For example, taking Ellison's droll answers, what if he really did get his ideas in Poughkeepsie? Is there a shop? Does he have to bargain with some extra-terrestrial entity for them, perhaps exchanging the names and the addresses of his enemies for a story idea? Is there a refrigerator in a junkyard that when opened contains a solitary piece of paper with a daily idea on it?
I got to thinking about ideas this morning as I sat enslaved to my laptop, impatiently waiting for the clock to reach 09:00 so that I could try and get some Sheryl Crow tickets for a small gig she's playing in London on Valentine's Day. (I got them, by the way)
So what does Sheryl Crow have to do with anything? Well, I'm glad you asked.
About a decade ago Sheryl Crow released her second, eponymous album which contained a song called Home. It was one of those songs that the minute you hear it, you just know that it's going to be a favourite until the day you die. Home really spoke to me for some reason, and the lyrics planted a seed for a story which has been slowly (very slowly) germinating in my mind ever since. I have reams of notes as to where this story is going, who is involved, what will happen, why, where, when and how, but I have yet to find the time to actually write it.
The point is, though, just from listening to Crow's lyrics it prompted this whole reaction, this creation of a universe in which this woman, the 'star' of the song, lives and how she got there.
One of these fine days I'm going to write this damn story. Hell, I might even write a screenplay because I've been making this movie in my head for the last ten years.
In the meantime, though, enjoy this song that is dear to my heart.
"I found your standing there
When I was seventeen
Now I'm thirty-two
And I can't remember what I'd seen in you"
Sheryl Crow "Home"
Wednesday 30 January 2008
Monday 28 January 2008
Open Letter To A Word Thief
How pitiful you must be to take another's words and pass them off as your own?
How empty must your psyche be to have to appropriate another's thoughts to fill the void where clearly your own should reside?
How desperate for attention, and 'fame' must you be to steal the writings of another, to pretend to have thought and felt and done those things which you have not?
How very sad and pathetic must you be to have nothing of your own to say, or at least nothing you feel is of any value, that you must masquerade as another, to wear their words like a cheap, ill-fitting suit?
The truth, the ugly truth, is that you are a parasite, nothing more. A parasite who feeds on the worthy and the wise, who drains all that is good from your unwitting host, and who is so empty, so devoid of originality, so barren of ideas and thoughts and substance that you, thief, are nothing but a translucent facsimilie of a person.
Just a fake. A pathetic fake.
How empty must your psyche be to have to appropriate another's thoughts to fill the void where clearly your own should reside?
How desperate for attention, and 'fame' must you be to steal the writings of another, to pretend to have thought and felt and done those things which you have not?
How very sad and pathetic must you be to have nothing of your own to say, or at least nothing you feel is of any value, that you must masquerade as another, to wear their words like a cheap, ill-fitting suit?
The truth, the ugly truth, is that you are a parasite, nothing more. A parasite who feeds on the worthy and the wise, who drains all that is good from your unwitting host, and who is so empty, so devoid of originality, so barren of ideas and thoughts and substance that you, thief, are nothing but a translucent facsimilie of a person.
Just a fake. A pathetic fake.
Sunday 27 January 2008
Losing Anastasia
It's always difficult to give up something that you love, but when that something loves you and depends on you and asks nothing in return apart from your love then it's beyond difficult. In fact, it's positively heartbreaking.
That day I sat in the front seat of my car, the cardboard box with the flaps interlaced next to me and I fell apart for a good ten minutes.
Beside me, in the box, Anastasia knew that something was wrong, that today was different, and was adding her inquisitive meows to my quiet sobbing.
Stasia, as we used to call her, was the most beautiful Russian Blue cat, who together with her brother Rio had come into our lives as kittens, and had ram-raided their way into my heart.
The first day, they were overwhelmed by their new surroundings, and the moment they were set free on the floor they fled to the safety of the small space behind the cooker, where they stayed, peering down the dark, narrow gap between the oven and the cupboard next to it with a sense of wonder and apprehension.
Eventually, I coaxed them with a little food and a lot of gentle baby talk, and from then on we were firm friends,
Once, I had taken a long, deep bath, and had wrapped myself up in towels and was reading on the sofa when suddenly I heard a splash from the bathroom, followed by a frantic meowing. I rushed in to find Stasia standing on the bath mat, absolutely soaked and looking up at me with pleading eyes as if to say "what just happened?"
What had happened was that she had been doing her usual daredevil exploration of the rim of the bath, but as I'd forgotten to pull the plug after my soak, she'd lost her balance and taken a bath herself.
I sat for a long time, Stasia wrapped in a towel, drying her off while her brother looked on, talking gently to her, assuring her that everything was OK.
I loved that cat, both of them in fact, but there came a parting of the ways between me and my partner at the time, and while she could take Rio, her favourite, with her, I couldn't take Stasia with me, and so I found a good home for her, through word of mouth of my friends.
So, as we sat there, about to be parted, I took her in my arms and told her everything was going to be OK, that she was going somewhere that she would be safe, and happy, and that she would be loved.
She looked into my eyes as tears spilled down my cheeks and gave a single meow, as if to say goodbye.
I never saw her again, but have often thought about the brief time we shared. Yes, she was only a cat, but she was my cat, and I loved her dearly. Time has passed and she'll be in the great cattery in the sky now, but she did teach me a very important lesson.
It's always difficult to give up something that you love, so before you let it go, make damn sure you've made the right decision.
That day I sat in the front seat of my car, the cardboard box with the flaps interlaced next to me and I fell apart for a good ten minutes.
Beside me, in the box, Anastasia knew that something was wrong, that today was different, and was adding her inquisitive meows to my quiet sobbing.
Stasia, as we used to call her, was the most beautiful Russian Blue cat, who together with her brother Rio had come into our lives as kittens, and had ram-raided their way into my heart.
The first day, they were overwhelmed by their new surroundings, and the moment they were set free on the floor they fled to the safety of the small space behind the cooker, where they stayed, peering down the dark, narrow gap between the oven and the cupboard next to it with a sense of wonder and apprehension.
Eventually, I coaxed them with a little food and a lot of gentle baby talk, and from then on we were firm friends,
Once, I had taken a long, deep bath, and had wrapped myself up in towels and was reading on the sofa when suddenly I heard a splash from the bathroom, followed by a frantic meowing. I rushed in to find Stasia standing on the bath mat, absolutely soaked and looking up at me with pleading eyes as if to say "what just happened?"
What had happened was that she had been doing her usual daredevil exploration of the rim of the bath, but as I'd forgotten to pull the plug after my soak, she'd lost her balance and taken a bath herself.
I sat for a long time, Stasia wrapped in a towel, drying her off while her brother looked on, talking gently to her, assuring her that everything was OK.
I loved that cat, both of them in fact, but there came a parting of the ways between me and my partner at the time, and while she could take Rio, her favourite, with her, I couldn't take Stasia with me, and so I found a good home for her, through word of mouth of my friends.
So, as we sat there, about to be parted, I took her in my arms and told her everything was going to be OK, that she was going somewhere that she would be safe, and happy, and that she would be loved.
She looked into my eyes as tears spilled down my cheeks and gave a single meow, as if to say goodbye.
I never saw her again, but have often thought about the brief time we shared. Yes, she was only a cat, but she was my cat, and I loved her dearly. Time has passed and she'll be in the great cattery in the sky now, but she did teach me a very important lesson.
It's always difficult to give up something that you love, so before you let it go, make damn sure you've made the right decision.
Friday 25 January 2008
Words of Inspiration
There are some that believe that as a writer you shouldn't read anybody else's work for fear of it tainting your style, or that you may inadvertantly plagiarise another writer's words, thoughts or mannerisms.
Personally I think this is, if you'll excuse my French, a load of bollocks.
I love to read, and when I find somebody's writings that I love, whether they are a successful novelist, or an anonymous blogger, then I drink those words in like a hit of pure oxygen and let them permeate my entire being.
Reading provides me with such inspiration. Sometimes this is because I read something and think that I could have written it so much better, and this spurs me on to do just that, to be the best writer that I can. Other times a piece of writing may move me, or make me laugh, or cry, or happy, sad, angry or any one of the myriad emotions that I feel on a daily basis, and that is the most wonderful feeling. Plus, again, it spurs me on to want to evoke these emotions in others, in those who take the time to read my musings, my fiction, my unique perspective on things that only I will ever have.
Sometimes these feelings, these emotions can manifest in the unlikliest of places. I remember reading Stephen King's Cujo many years ago and being profoundly moved by, of all things, the death of the rabid Saint Bernard. This dog was technically the villain of the piece, and in lesser hands I'd have been cheering when the woman trapped in the car finally escaped with her young son. In King's hands, though, I felt the confusion, the involuntary loss of control, the agony of having a disease, in this case Rabies, take you over and change you into a monster, and I was genuinely moved when this dog was finally beaten to death, moreso actually than the death of the young boy that also occurred at the end of the novel. How's that for perverse, eh?
The ability to instill such emotions through just the power of words is a real gift, and not many writers can successfully so this. It'll probably sound conceited that I hope I can ultimately be one of them, and believe that I can, but there you go, the writer's ego in full force! I wrote in an earlier blog that I don't do this for fame, fortune, or even recognition per se; I do it because I can't not do it, but equally I would like to think that occasionally my words will make a reader pause for a moment and feel genuine emotion, whether it be sadness, happiness, or even outrage if I'm in a particularly Devil's Advocate kind of mood and have been aiming to push buttons.
Ultimately I know that reading other writer's work helps me to improve, by inspiring me to be as good as, if not better, than they are. That said, I don't see fellow writers as competition. Quite the opposite, in fact. We are all cursed, or blessed depending on your point of view, with this compulsion to vomit our thoughts, fears, fantasies and memories onto the page, in the hope that it will mean something, to someone, somewhere.
Thank you for reading, and have an inspiring day.
Personally I think this is, if you'll excuse my French, a load of bollocks.
I love to read, and when I find somebody's writings that I love, whether they are a successful novelist, or an anonymous blogger, then I drink those words in like a hit of pure oxygen and let them permeate my entire being.
Reading provides me with such inspiration. Sometimes this is because I read something and think that I could have written it so much better, and this spurs me on to do just that, to be the best writer that I can. Other times a piece of writing may move me, or make me laugh, or cry, or happy, sad, angry or any one of the myriad emotions that I feel on a daily basis, and that is the most wonderful feeling. Plus, again, it spurs me on to want to evoke these emotions in others, in those who take the time to read my musings, my fiction, my unique perspective on things that only I will ever have.
Sometimes these feelings, these emotions can manifest in the unlikliest of places. I remember reading Stephen King's Cujo many years ago and being profoundly moved by, of all things, the death of the rabid Saint Bernard. This dog was technically the villain of the piece, and in lesser hands I'd have been cheering when the woman trapped in the car finally escaped with her young son. In King's hands, though, I felt the confusion, the involuntary loss of control, the agony of having a disease, in this case Rabies, take you over and change you into a monster, and I was genuinely moved when this dog was finally beaten to death, moreso actually than the death of the young boy that also occurred at the end of the novel. How's that for perverse, eh?
The ability to instill such emotions through just the power of words is a real gift, and not many writers can successfully so this. It'll probably sound conceited that I hope I can ultimately be one of them, and believe that I can, but there you go, the writer's ego in full force! I wrote in an earlier blog that I don't do this for fame, fortune, or even recognition per se; I do it because I can't not do it, but equally I would like to think that occasionally my words will make a reader pause for a moment and feel genuine emotion, whether it be sadness, happiness, or even outrage if I'm in a particularly Devil's Advocate kind of mood and have been aiming to push buttons.
Ultimately I know that reading other writer's work helps me to improve, by inspiring me to be as good as, if not better, than they are. That said, I don't see fellow writers as competition. Quite the opposite, in fact. We are all cursed, or blessed depending on your point of view, with this compulsion to vomit our thoughts, fears, fantasies and memories onto the page, in the hope that it will mean something, to someone, somewhere.
Thank you for reading, and have an inspiring day.
Wednesday 23 January 2008
Heath Ledger (1979 - 2008)
I awoke to the sad news this morning that Heath Ledger had been found dead in his Manhattan loft apartment, apparently from an overdose of sleeping pills. Whether this was deliberate or not, and for the record I don't buy the suicide angle, the fact remains that Ledger was one of the most talented actors of his generation, and had only just begun to make his very impressive mark in cinematic history.
Born in Australia in 1979, Ledger paid his dues in a variety of television roles before coming to prominence in the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You, a modern retelling of The Taming of the Shrew.
Roles followed in well chosen movies such as A Knight's Tale, The Patriot, Monster's Ball and The Brothers Grimm, but Ledger went truly stratospheric following his portrayal of gay cowboy Ennis del Mar in Ang Lee's powerful drama Brokeback Mountain, based on the short story by Annie Proulx.
He received a well deserved Oscar nomination for Best Actor, but ultimately lost out to Phillip Seymour Hoffman for his role as Truman Capote in Capote.
Ledger's final completed role was that of the Joker in Christopher Nolan's Batman : The Dark Knight, a performance that would have been sure to cement his reputation as one of the finest actors around, and one that will hopefully serve as a dignified and quality finale for his too-short career.
Heath Ledger (1979 - 2008) R.I.P.
Born in Australia in 1979, Ledger paid his dues in a variety of television roles before coming to prominence in the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You, a modern retelling of The Taming of the Shrew.
Roles followed in well chosen movies such as A Knight's Tale, The Patriot, Monster's Ball and The Brothers Grimm, but Ledger went truly stratospheric following his portrayal of gay cowboy Ennis del Mar in Ang Lee's powerful drama Brokeback Mountain, based on the short story by Annie Proulx.
He received a well deserved Oscar nomination for Best Actor, but ultimately lost out to Phillip Seymour Hoffman for his role as Truman Capote in Capote.
Ledger's final completed role was that of the Joker in Christopher Nolan's Batman : The Dark Knight, a performance that would have been sure to cement his reputation as one of the finest actors around, and one that will hopefully serve as a dignified and quality finale for his too-short career.
Heath Ledger (1979 - 2008) R.I.P.
Tuesday 22 January 2008
Four Days (a poem)
It was four days before they found me,
The water cold,
A still crimson pond,
The air heavy with decay.
It was four days before I could leave,
My spirit cold,
Watching, and waiting,
To be released from this world.
And so they came,
And they spoke in hushed tones,
And they lifted me up,
The water drained,
As if I were a newborn,
Carefully, clinically,
Gently.
It was four days before they found me,
The room cold,
And then I could go,
At last released from this world.
The water cold,
A still crimson pond,
The air heavy with decay.
It was four days before I could leave,
My spirit cold,
Watching, and waiting,
To be released from this world.
And so they came,
And they spoke in hushed tones,
And they lifted me up,
The water drained,
As if I were a newborn,
Carefully, clinically,
Gently.
It was four days before they found me,
The room cold,
And then I could go,
At last released from this world.
Monday 21 January 2008
Dressed To Sell (The Golden Age Of Singles)
If you walk into any record shop these days looking for the new single by a band, you’ll be lucky if you get presented with any choice beyond several versions of the song, most of which are completely unnecessary remixes, spread in various configurations across a series of five inch CD singles.
If you’re really lucky, you might get a poster included that’s been folded so many times to fit it into the five inch square jewel case that by the time you’ve opened it up the chances of it fulfilling its stated purpose of hanging on your wall are slimmer than getting a word in edgeways with Russell Brand.
If you’re really, really lucky you might get a series of postcards, or a set of faux Polaroid’s, or even a calendar that is inevitable so small that you can’t help but wonder if it was originally designed for distribution in Lilliput.
Occasionally you’ll get a vinyl release, but usually only in the case of up and coming indie bands that no-one has heard of yet, and quite probably never will (but for those few that do, the early fans can forever smugly ask “do you have the seven inch vinyl of so-and-so? No? Shame, I’ve got ten copies myself”).
Even then the packaging will undoubtedly be plain and uninspiring, more often than not just a standard cardboard sleeve with similar artwork to the CD release.
In the case of dance music twelve inch vinyl releases, the packaging is even blander, usually just a plain white card sleeve with a sticker advertising the artist and track name and very little else. True, it does the job, but there’s not the sense of excitement that we used to get in the latter years of the eighties when my favourite bands were putting out singles.
Back in the days before CDs appeared on the scene, a state of affairs that no doubt seems inconceivable to any of today’s music fans under the legal drinking age, there was much more creativity and imagination involved in the release of a new single, particularly in the rock music arena which I grew up in, where almost literally anything was possible.
The advent of a new single wasn’t just about what it would sound like, although pre-internet and MTV we would be eager awaiting getting our hands on new material, as the only chance we usually got to hear new music from a band would be if one of the local rock DJs managed to get hold of an advance promotional copy, it was also about what it would look like, and what it would come packaged with.
There were, of course, your fairly standard seven and twelve inch picture bags, but the record companies twigged early on that fans like myself were only too willing to shell out on multiple collectible versions of their favourite band’s singles, and so set their marketing departments the task of finding ways of feeding our addictions and filling their coffers.
The next step up from the bog standard picture bag was the gatefold sleeve, previously only the domain of rock albums like Iron Maiden’s Piece Of Mind with its gorgeous wraparound Derek Riggs artwork that the record companies knew would sell enough copies to justify the additional production expense.
Poison’s Nothin’ But A Good Time single came in a particularly eye-catching lime green gatefold sleeve adorned with dayglo pictures of the chicks-with-dicks themselves. Great song, garish cover, but this was the realm of the hair band and gimmicks like this did sell additional copies of the singles. I regularly bought all of the limited editions of many a rock band, not with thoughts that they may one day become valuable and provide me with a nice little nest egg (a good job too, as it turns out), but for the sheer joy of having all these unusual releases.
Poster bags were another popular format, which were understandably more common among the better looking bands, not only enticing us to buy additional copies of the single, but also giving us the means to plaster our walls with spandex-clad long-haired mascara-wearing men. Which was nice.
Picture discs offered a wide range of possibilities, and the various marketing departments didn’t disappoint, rising to the challenge of parting me from my hard earned on an ever-increasing basis.
There were of course the bog standard picture discs in seven or twelve inch format (or both occasionally) that would replicate the regular edition’s artwork, some of which were particularly effective.
Iron Maiden were one of my favourite bands in this medium, and luckily for me (and Steve Harris’s bank account) they produced picture discs of some variety for pretty much all of their eighties output, albums and singles alike.
My personal favourites were Derek Riggs’s awesome artwork for Aces High, which gave you the opportunity to have twelve inches of Maiden mascot Eddie’s grimacing face, topped off with a World War Two flying helmet, revolving forty five times a minute on your record player, and the Powerslave album, which faithfully recreated the detailed cover, one of my favourites.
London quartet Dogs D’Amour went one step further than this, combining the best of both worlds by having a gatefold sleeve into which the twelve inch pictures discs for their Satellite Kid and Trail Of Tears singles could be inserted. What made this stand out, however, was that each of the singles had a cartoon strip drawn by singer Tyla, who designed all of their covers, which when placed correctly into the gatefold sleeve enabled you to read the whole story.
In addition to the usual circular picture discs, there were a good number of shaped discs, which due to the limitations of the area available to actually score the grooves into the vinyl usually carried identical tracks to the seven inch release.
One of my favourite examples of the shaped picture disc was W.A.S.P.’s PMRC-baiting single Animal (Fuck Like A Beast), cut into the shape of the bloody buzz-saw codpiece modelled by Blackie Lawless on the cover of the regular twelve inch.
Another favourite, and for my money one of the most imaginative picture discs ever to be released, was Guns’n’Roses classic Paradise City. The vinyl itself came as an eleven-inch disc cut into the shape of a gun, which was cool enough anyway, but the icing on the cake was that it came complete with a snakeskin design cardboard sleeve in the shape of a holster. A bottle of Jack Daniels to the bright spark who thought that one up.
Though I wasn’t quite as keen on it as I was on picture discs, coloured vinyl occasionally tempted me to part with my cash. I had a myriad of coloured twelve inch records, including silver (Queensryche’s Silent Lucidity), gold (Ozzy’s So Tired), yellow and blue (the excellent Dan Reed Network’s two disc Rainbow Child release), white (somewhat predictably Whitesnake’s nineteen eighty-nine redux of Fool For Your Loving), red (Judas Priest’s Painkiller single) and even luminous green (I’m looking at you, Poison, for Your Mama Don’t Dance).
I was particularly enamoured, however, with a show of patriotism from Bon Jovi for their Lay Your Hands On Me release. Putting out no less than three seven inch coloured vinyls, in red, white and blue, I thought it was both a clever marketing ploy and a great addition to my stupidly large collection. As if three versions weren’t enough, though, they ensured that my wallet was thoroughly cleaned out by also releasing it on a shaped picture disc.
Black PVC sleeves were another reasonably popular ploy by the record companies to part me from my money. Maybe it was due to the inherent risqué factor of the shiny, sweaty material (after all I had trousers made from the same stuff), or perhaps just because my addiction to limited edition packaging was spiralling dangerously out of control, but I even picked up possibly the worst KISS single of all time, Crazy Crazy Nights, in a PVC sleeve.
The Cult went one step further by not only releasing their Sun King single in a twelve inch black PVC sleeve, but also affixing hologram sticker to the front which inevitably I thought was the coolest thing ever for several minutes after I bought it.
W.A.S.P. had to go just that little bit further again, of course, releasing their I Don’t Need No Doctor single in a special blood pack (a gimmick recycled by Slayer in nineteen ninety-one for their Seasons In The Abyss CD single), but my personal award for the most original and outrageous format of all time goes to Bay Area thrashers Vio-lence.
The band, known for their aggressive marketing, came up with the ultimate in offensive packaging, even managing to get the format banned from some record shops, when they decided to release their Eternal Nightmare single in a special ‘vomit pack’.
This was a clear plastic sleeve filled with vomit (actually vegetable soup and vinegar, but it still gave off enough of a vile aroma to induce the genuine article if you got too close, especially on hot days) into which the single could be inserted. Sadly for the band it did little to raise their profile, but it did guarantee them a place in the history of music marketing.
Sadly the days of interesting formats seem to have gone the way of 8-tracks, cassette singles and Michael Jackson’s career, but back at the height of my collecting frenzy I was happier than a pig in shit every time another limited edition came along.
I do wonder, though, if just as I mourn the loss of these wonderful curiosities, that as the record companies are finally embracing downloads we’ll soon be mourning the loss of the simple five-inch CD single.
If you’re really lucky, you might get a poster included that’s been folded so many times to fit it into the five inch square jewel case that by the time you’ve opened it up the chances of it fulfilling its stated purpose of hanging on your wall are slimmer than getting a word in edgeways with Russell Brand.
If you’re really, really lucky you might get a series of postcards, or a set of faux Polaroid’s, or even a calendar that is inevitable so small that you can’t help but wonder if it was originally designed for distribution in Lilliput.
Occasionally you’ll get a vinyl release, but usually only in the case of up and coming indie bands that no-one has heard of yet, and quite probably never will (but for those few that do, the early fans can forever smugly ask “do you have the seven inch vinyl of so-and-so? No? Shame, I’ve got ten copies myself”).
Even then the packaging will undoubtedly be plain and uninspiring, more often than not just a standard cardboard sleeve with similar artwork to the CD release.
In the case of dance music twelve inch vinyl releases, the packaging is even blander, usually just a plain white card sleeve with a sticker advertising the artist and track name and very little else. True, it does the job, but there’s not the sense of excitement that we used to get in the latter years of the eighties when my favourite bands were putting out singles.
Back in the days before CDs appeared on the scene, a state of affairs that no doubt seems inconceivable to any of today’s music fans under the legal drinking age, there was much more creativity and imagination involved in the release of a new single, particularly in the rock music arena which I grew up in, where almost literally anything was possible.
The advent of a new single wasn’t just about what it would sound like, although pre-internet and MTV we would be eager awaiting getting our hands on new material, as the only chance we usually got to hear new music from a band would be if one of the local rock DJs managed to get hold of an advance promotional copy, it was also about what it would look like, and what it would come packaged with.
There were, of course, your fairly standard seven and twelve inch picture bags, but the record companies twigged early on that fans like myself were only too willing to shell out on multiple collectible versions of their favourite band’s singles, and so set their marketing departments the task of finding ways of feeding our addictions and filling their coffers.
The next step up from the bog standard picture bag was the gatefold sleeve, previously only the domain of rock albums like Iron Maiden’s Piece Of Mind with its gorgeous wraparound Derek Riggs artwork that the record companies knew would sell enough copies to justify the additional production expense.
Poison’s Nothin’ But A Good Time single came in a particularly eye-catching lime green gatefold sleeve adorned with dayglo pictures of the chicks-with-dicks themselves. Great song, garish cover, but this was the realm of the hair band and gimmicks like this did sell additional copies of the singles. I regularly bought all of the limited editions of many a rock band, not with thoughts that they may one day become valuable and provide me with a nice little nest egg (a good job too, as it turns out), but for the sheer joy of having all these unusual releases.
Poster bags were another popular format, which were understandably more common among the better looking bands, not only enticing us to buy additional copies of the single, but also giving us the means to plaster our walls with spandex-clad long-haired mascara-wearing men. Which was nice.
Picture discs offered a wide range of possibilities, and the various marketing departments didn’t disappoint, rising to the challenge of parting me from my hard earned on an ever-increasing basis.
There were of course the bog standard picture discs in seven or twelve inch format (or both occasionally) that would replicate the regular edition’s artwork, some of which were particularly effective.
Iron Maiden were one of my favourite bands in this medium, and luckily for me (and Steve Harris’s bank account) they produced picture discs of some variety for pretty much all of their eighties output, albums and singles alike.
My personal favourites were Derek Riggs’s awesome artwork for Aces High, which gave you the opportunity to have twelve inches of Maiden mascot Eddie’s grimacing face, topped off with a World War Two flying helmet, revolving forty five times a minute on your record player, and the Powerslave album, which faithfully recreated the detailed cover, one of my favourites.
London quartet Dogs D’Amour went one step further than this, combining the best of both worlds by having a gatefold sleeve into which the twelve inch pictures discs for their Satellite Kid and Trail Of Tears singles could be inserted. What made this stand out, however, was that each of the singles had a cartoon strip drawn by singer Tyla, who designed all of their covers, which when placed correctly into the gatefold sleeve enabled you to read the whole story.
In addition to the usual circular picture discs, there were a good number of shaped discs, which due to the limitations of the area available to actually score the grooves into the vinyl usually carried identical tracks to the seven inch release.
One of my favourite examples of the shaped picture disc was W.A.S.P.’s PMRC-baiting single Animal (Fuck Like A Beast), cut into the shape of the bloody buzz-saw codpiece modelled by Blackie Lawless on the cover of the regular twelve inch.
Another favourite, and for my money one of the most imaginative picture discs ever to be released, was Guns’n’Roses classic Paradise City. The vinyl itself came as an eleven-inch disc cut into the shape of a gun, which was cool enough anyway, but the icing on the cake was that it came complete with a snakeskin design cardboard sleeve in the shape of a holster. A bottle of Jack Daniels to the bright spark who thought that one up.
Though I wasn’t quite as keen on it as I was on picture discs, coloured vinyl occasionally tempted me to part with my cash. I had a myriad of coloured twelve inch records, including silver (Queensryche’s Silent Lucidity), gold (Ozzy’s So Tired), yellow and blue (the excellent Dan Reed Network’s two disc Rainbow Child release), white (somewhat predictably Whitesnake’s nineteen eighty-nine redux of Fool For Your Loving), red (Judas Priest’s Painkiller single) and even luminous green (I’m looking at you, Poison, for Your Mama Don’t Dance).
I was particularly enamoured, however, with a show of patriotism from Bon Jovi for their Lay Your Hands On Me release. Putting out no less than three seven inch coloured vinyls, in red, white and blue, I thought it was both a clever marketing ploy and a great addition to my stupidly large collection. As if three versions weren’t enough, though, they ensured that my wallet was thoroughly cleaned out by also releasing it on a shaped picture disc.
Black PVC sleeves were another reasonably popular ploy by the record companies to part me from my money. Maybe it was due to the inherent risqué factor of the shiny, sweaty material (after all I had trousers made from the same stuff), or perhaps just because my addiction to limited edition packaging was spiralling dangerously out of control, but I even picked up possibly the worst KISS single of all time, Crazy Crazy Nights, in a PVC sleeve.
The Cult went one step further by not only releasing their Sun King single in a twelve inch black PVC sleeve, but also affixing hologram sticker to the front which inevitably I thought was the coolest thing ever for several minutes after I bought it.
W.A.S.P. had to go just that little bit further again, of course, releasing their I Don’t Need No Doctor single in a special blood pack (a gimmick recycled by Slayer in nineteen ninety-one for their Seasons In The Abyss CD single), but my personal award for the most original and outrageous format of all time goes to Bay Area thrashers Vio-lence.
The band, known for their aggressive marketing, came up with the ultimate in offensive packaging, even managing to get the format banned from some record shops, when they decided to release their Eternal Nightmare single in a special ‘vomit pack’.
This was a clear plastic sleeve filled with vomit (actually vegetable soup and vinegar, but it still gave off enough of a vile aroma to induce the genuine article if you got too close, especially on hot days) into which the single could be inserted. Sadly for the band it did little to raise their profile, but it did guarantee them a place in the history of music marketing.
Sadly the days of interesting formats seem to have gone the way of 8-tracks, cassette singles and Michael Jackson’s career, but back at the height of my collecting frenzy I was happier than a pig in shit every time another limited edition came along.
I do wonder, though, if just as I mourn the loss of these wonderful curiosities, that as the record companies are finally embracing downloads we’ll soon be mourning the loss of the simple five-inch CD single.
Saturday 19 January 2008
Scampi, Chips and Inspiration
I took my mum out for lunch today.
Nothing special in that, you might think, but every time I drive the hundred miles to visit her and take her out for a few hours, the way she reacts and the smile it brings to her face is better than winning the lottery. Well, I think so anway.
You see my mum has Mutliple Sclerosis, and has suffered for two decades now. She is largely confined to a wheelchair, and lives in a care home where a team of wonderful people treat her like a princess and where nothing is too much trouble.
I've never once heard mum complain about her condition. Yes, she gets frustrated from time to time, and the look she gets in her fiercely intelligent eyes that are beoming ever more deeply entombed in her failing body breaks my heart every time.
When she was younger, mum was a showjumper. She won several local competitions in Nottingham, where I'm from, and I have clippings from the local papers showing a pretty, smiling young woman atop a variery of huge horses, a grin always splashed across her face.
For the last ten years in particular, though, she has lost her mobility, and the simple pleasure that a stroll on the fresh air brings, things that I know I take for granted, and that many of us who are fortunate enough to be fit and healthy don't even give a second thought.
Having watched this happen, I have on many occasions felt completely helpless, unable to do anything to stop this most peculiar of diseases that affects every single sufferer in a unique way. Mum had a friend who had suffered for years,and yet to look at him you would have never known anything was wrong, save for an almost impercetable limp. Conversely, an ex-work colleague of mine was a squash playing, active middle-aged man who went from the height of fitness to the prison of a wheelchair in six short weeks. Like mum, I never once heard either of them complain.
Sitting across the table from her today, I felt something that I've often felt, and that is that mum is hands down the most inspiring person I know. Save for my monthly visits she has systematically had everyting she loved taken away from her. She hasn't ridden for years, but can't even get out to see a horse these days. She used to love to read, and has always encouraged me to write, her response to virtually everything that happens in life being "you should write a story about that," but now can't concentrate on a book long enough to finish a single page, never mind an entire novel.
Sometimes she even has trouble remembering my name, or that of my partner Deborah, and then there will be a moment of clarity where she is acutely aware that her mind is full of holes, and the funny thing is that we can both laugh about it.
Mum is such a gentle, generous kind-hearted person, that I truly hope that I can be even a fraction as good a person as she is.
So, where is this post going? Well, nowhere really. I just wanted to share my mum with you for a few moments, and make public my admiration and love for this remarkable woman who brought me into the world, and who despite having been dealt a bad hand, never complains about it.
Instead she looks forward to, and treasures, the time that we share, whether it's tucking into a plate of scampi and chips, or feeding the squirrels at our favourite place in the grounds of Nottingham University.
In all honesty I don't know whether I could cope as well as she does if our situations were reversed, but the fact that she doesn't bitch and moan about the things she can't do, but instead treasures the things that she, and we, can do is a source of inspiration to me, and for that, mum, there are no words that this writer can put down that could ever do you justice.
Nothing special in that, you might think, but every time I drive the hundred miles to visit her and take her out for a few hours, the way she reacts and the smile it brings to her face is better than winning the lottery. Well, I think so anway.
You see my mum has Mutliple Sclerosis, and has suffered for two decades now. She is largely confined to a wheelchair, and lives in a care home where a team of wonderful people treat her like a princess and where nothing is too much trouble.
I've never once heard mum complain about her condition. Yes, she gets frustrated from time to time, and the look she gets in her fiercely intelligent eyes that are beoming ever more deeply entombed in her failing body breaks my heart every time.
When she was younger, mum was a showjumper. She won several local competitions in Nottingham, where I'm from, and I have clippings from the local papers showing a pretty, smiling young woman atop a variery of huge horses, a grin always splashed across her face.
For the last ten years in particular, though, she has lost her mobility, and the simple pleasure that a stroll on the fresh air brings, things that I know I take for granted, and that many of us who are fortunate enough to be fit and healthy don't even give a second thought.
Having watched this happen, I have on many occasions felt completely helpless, unable to do anything to stop this most peculiar of diseases that affects every single sufferer in a unique way. Mum had a friend who had suffered for years,and yet to look at him you would have never known anything was wrong, save for an almost impercetable limp. Conversely, an ex-work colleague of mine was a squash playing, active middle-aged man who went from the height of fitness to the prison of a wheelchair in six short weeks. Like mum, I never once heard either of them complain.
Sitting across the table from her today, I felt something that I've often felt, and that is that mum is hands down the most inspiring person I know. Save for my monthly visits she has systematically had everyting she loved taken away from her. She hasn't ridden for years, but can't even get out to see a horse these days. She used to love to read, and has always encouraged me to write, her response to virtually everything that happens in life being "you should write a story about that," but now can't concentrate on a book long enough to finish a single page, never mind an entire novel.
Sometimes she even has trouble remembering my name, or that of my partner Deborah, and then there will be a moment of clarity where she is acutely aware that her mind is full of holes, and the funny thing is that we can both laugh about it.
Mum is such a gentle, generous kind-hearted person, that I truly hope that I can be even a fraction as good a person as she is.
So, where is this post going? Well, nowhere really. I just wanted to share my mum with you for a few moments, and make public my admiration and love for this remarkable woman who brought me into the world, and who despite having been dealt a bad hand, never complains about it.
Instead she looks forward to, and treasures, the time that we share, whether it's tucking into a plate of scampi and chips, or feeding the squirrels at our favourite place in the grounds of Nottingham University.
In all honesty I don't know whether I could cope as well as she does if our situations were reversed, but the fact that she doesn't bitch and moan about the things she can't do, but instead treasures the things that she, and we, can do is a source of inspiration to me, and for that, mum, there are no words that this writer can put down that could ever do you justice.
Friday 18 January 2008
The Perfect Crime 101
I'm an avid reader of crime stories, from the heavy procedural fare like Patricia Cornwell's Scarpetta series to the easier reads of James Patterson's Alex Cross and Women's Murder Club novels.
Equally I love a good yarn on television, whether the alien-conspiracy laden X-Files or the more gritty series like the BBC's Messiah, the original of which was based on Boris Starling's excellent book, and the fifth instalment airing this coming weekend.
What fascinates me most about these stories is how the detectives track down the bad guys, what techniques and methods they use, how they spot the inevitable mistake that the killer makes, and how they prove the who, what, why, when and how of everything.
It does make me wonder, though, whether the rise in popularity of shows like CSI, whether it be New York, Miami, Las Vegas or Barrow-on-Furness, and the reading public's thirst for Cornwell and Patterson (who incidentally seems to be the most prolific author in the history of literature, putting out a new hardcover every six weeks or so thanks to his unique methods of collaboration) is not only entertaining us, but also providing a crash course in 'how to get away with it' for the ne'er do wells out there.
Case in point, I've just finished the latest Patterson offering, 7th Heaven (the seventh book in his insanely popular Women's Murder Club series), and thanks to the descriptions of how they investigate arson, together with the revelations of just how the perpetrator (don't worry, I won't give anything away) managed to get away with their crimes for so long, I know exactly which mistakes not to make, and how to avoid leaving evidence should I ever decide to go on an arson spree of my own.
Twenty or thirty years ago, it wasn't common knowledge (thanks largely to there being much less television available for consumption) that you could avoid leaving fingerprints by wearing gloves, or that traces of your DNA could be left at crime scenes that, years later, could be used to prove that you-dunnit.
Thanks to all of the crime books I've read, both fictional, and non-fictional, including those by the likes of Robert Ressler, the FBI agent who invented the term 'serial killer' and was the basis for the character of Clarice Starling in Thomas Harris's The Silence Of The Lambs, I feel confident that should I decide to chuck it all in one day and become a criminal, then I'd have a good headstart in avoiding the authorities, and could conceivably get away with my crimes until the day I died.
In fact, who's to say that there aren't people out there, who thanks to their intensive training via the written word and television screen, have actually committed 'the perfect crime'? We'll never know, of course, because then it wouldn't be perfect.
Makes you think though, doesn't it?
Equally I love a good yarn on television, whether the alien-conspiracy laden X-Files or the more gritty series like the BBC's Messiah, the original of which was based on Boris Starling's excellent book, and the fifth instalment airing this coming weekend.
What fascinates me most about these stories is how the detectives track down the bad guys, what techniques and methods they use, how they spot the inevitable mistake that the killer makes, and how they prove the who, what, why, when and how of everything.
It does make me wonder, though, whether the rise in popularity of shows like CSI, whether it be New York, Miami, Las Vegas or Barrow-on-Furness, and the reading public's thirst for Cornwell and Patterson (who incidentally seems to be the most prolific author in the history of literature, putting out a new hardcover every six weeks or so thanks to his unique methods of collaboration) is not only entertaining us, but also providing a crash course in 'how to get away with it' for the ne'er do wells out there.
Case in point, I've just finished the latest Patterson offering, 7th Heaven (the seventh book in his insanely popular Women's Murder Club series), and thanks to the descriptions of how they investigate arson, together with the revelations of just how the perpetrator (don't worry, I won't give anything away) managed to get away with their crimes for so long, I know exactly which mistakes not to make, and how to avoid leaving evidence should I ever decide to go on an arson spree of my own.
Twenty or thirty years ago, it wasn't common knowledge (thanks largely to there being much less television available for consumption) that you could avoid leaving fingerprints by wearing gloves, or that traces of your DNA could be left at crime scenes that, years later, could be used to prove that you-dunnit.
Thanks to all of the crime books I've read, both fictional, and non-fictional, including those by the likes of Robert Ressler, the FBI agent who invented the term 'serial killer' and was the basis for the character of Clarice Starling in Thomas Harris's The Silence Of The Lambs, I feel confident that should I decide to chuck it all in one day and become a criminal, then I'd have a good headstart in avoiding the authorities, and could conceivably get away with my crimes until the day I died.
In fact, who's to say that there aren't people out there, who thanks to their intensive training via the written word and television screen, have actually committed 'the perfect crime'? We'll never know, of course, because then it wouldn't be perfect.
Makes you think though, doesn't it?
Tuesday 15 January 2008
Because I Can't Not Do It
I've always written.
Pretty much from the first moment I picked up a pen I've been committing words to paper, and in the last decade or so the computer screen, and I've never once considered why it is that I do this.
Part of it I think is my inability to just sit and do nothing. Even if I'm watching a movie, then to me it's not just a form of entertainment, but a lesson in how the written word, in this case a script, is constructed and translated into a series of moving images using people as a mouthpiece.
Likewise reading. Though I derive immense pleasure from diving into and getting lost in a good book, there's always part of my brain that's analysing the plot, the characters, the language used, and thinking that there's nothing I love more than writing myself.
I get asked a lot where I find the time to write, and my answer is usually the same. I basically don't really watch television, save for those programmes that I know I want to see, or that I've read or heard about and want to check out, but I rarely just turn on the tube to see what's on.
This does mean that occasionally I'll miss something special, but in my mind, if it's that good then word of mouth will get to me through some medium or other and then I can pick it up on DVD and watch it at my leisure.
Friends and colleagues occasionally ask me why I write. It's a good question. After all, chances are that nobody is ever going to read much of what I produce, but that's not why I do it. I don't write for posterity, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me smile that maybe somebody will happen across one of the blogs that I write, this being the main one at the moment, or will pick up of the books I've published and for a short while be entertained by my words.
Last year I wrote a book on horror movies called To Die For : 25 Saturday Night Fright Flicks about two dozen and one of my favourite genre flicks. In a few weeks I'll be launching this into the world, via the likes of amazon and play and lulu, and again I'd be lying if the thought of someone reading it and nodding to themselves at my thoughts while they read it didn't make me smile.
Likewise the semi-autobiographical account of rock music in the 1980s that I'm currently working on. It's not going to change the world, but after I'm dead and gone (hopefully not for a good while yet!) it'll at least prove that I was here, and provide a record of one person's experiences, passions and thoughts on what was a very important time of their life. One of my peers might even give it to their kids and say "This is what it was like when I was a teenager."
That feeling of leaving a legacy, though, isn't why I write. The honest answer, and the only one that I have really, is that I write because I can't not write. It's what I am, who I am and what I'm all about.
Maybe you're out there reading this and for a few minutes will be entertained, or be distracted from the trials and tribulations of your life, and maybe you won't. Either way, just by committing these words to the ether it's fulfilling me, so even if nobody even knows about this particular corner of cyberspace that I'm slowly fillng up, then it doesn't matter, because just by writing this I'm happy, and feel as though I've achieved something creative and positive today.
If you're out there and reading this, thanks for stopping by, and have a good day.
As you were. :-)
Pretty much from the first moment I picked up a pen I've been committing words to paper, and in the last decade or so the computer screen, and I've never once considered why it is that I do this.
Part of it I think is my inability to just sit and do nothing. Even if I'm watching a movie, then to me it's not just a form of entertainment, but a lesson in how the written word, in this case a script, is constructed and translated into a series of moving images using people as a mouthpiece.
Likewise reading. Though I derive immense pleasure from diving into and getting lost in a good book, there's always part of my brain that's analysing the plot, the characters, the language used, and thinking that there's nothing I love more than writing myself.
I get asked a lot where I find the time to write, and my answer is usually the same. I basically don't really watch television, save for those programmes that I know I want to see, or that I've read or heard about and want to check out, but I rarely just turn on the tube to see what's on.
This does mean that occasionally I'll miss something special, but in my mind, if it's that good then word of mouth will get to me through some medium or other and then I can pick it up on DVD and watch it at my leisure.
Friends and colleagues occasionally ask me why I write. It's a good question. After all, chances are that nobody is ever going to read much of what I produce, but that's not why I do it. I don't write for posterity, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me smile that maybe somebody will happen across one of the blogs that I write, this being the main one at the moment, or will pick up of the books I've published and for a short while be entertained by my words.
Last year I wrote a book on horror movies called To Die For : 25 Saturday Night Fright Flicks about two dozen and one of my favourite genre flicks. In a few weeks I'll be launching this into the world, via the likes of amazon and play and lulu, and again I'd be lying if the thought of someone reading it and nodding to themselves at my thoughts while they read it didn't make me smile.
Likewise the semi-autobiographical account of rock music in the 1980s that I'm currently working on. It's not going to change the world, but after I'm dead and gone (hopefully not for a good while yet!) it'll at least prove that I was here, and provide a record of one person's experiences, passions and thoughts on what was a very important time of their life. One of my peers might even give it to their kids and say "This is what it was like when I was a teenager."
That feeling of leaving a legacy, though, isn't why I write. The honest answer, and the only one that I have really, is that I write because I can't not write. It's what I am, who I am and what I'm all about.
Maybe you're out there reading this and for a few minutes will be entertained, or be distracted from the trials and tribulations of your life, and maybe you won't. Either way, just by committing these words to the ether it's fulfilling me, so even if nobody even knows about this particular corner of cyberspace that I'm slowly fillng up, then it doesn't matter, because just by writing this I'm happy, and feel as though I've achieved something creative and positive today.
If you're out there and reading this, thanks for stopping by, and have a good day.
As you were. :-)
Sunday 13 January 2008
Living In The Past?
With the recent one-off Led Zeppelin reunion (and despite the intense speculation about whether they'll repeat the exercise and do a world tour, my money's on Robert Plant now wanting to call it a day while they're ahead), it seems that rock music is well and truly back in vogue. Well, for the next ten minutes or so, anyway.
For me, though, having grown up through the whole hair metal scene of the 1980s, rock has never been out of vogue, and just the sound of a power chord, or a distorted riff puts a smile on my face.
Back then my record collection expanded at a frightening rate, thanks largely to the various second hand vinyl shops in my hometown of Nottingham, and included such artists as Bon Jovi, Ratt, W.A.S.P., Iron Maiden, Def Leppard and a myriad of other long-haired, tight-trousered men (the genuine female rock star was a rare commodity indeed), some of whom have become household names to this day, and others who were merely legends in their own booze-sodden lunchtimes.
These days I find that I'm still playing many of these old rock records, and even though some of the artists are still putting out new albums, it's the old stuff that I really connect with, something that is both a blessing and a curse for the bands concerned.
The blessing is that I'm still enamoured with them, and in many cases as well having originally bought the album as a twelve inch slab of vinyl, I've also shelled out for the very same album on CD, and then often gone for the third bite of the cherry when the more popular one's have received the special edition anniversay treatments, laden down with b-sides, demos and tracks that weren't considered good enough for inclusion the first time around.
The curse, however, is that no matter how good their new albums may be, they'll never gain entry to that special place in my heart that their 1980s albums reside, and probably never will. The reason for this is simple, and was neatly summarised by KISS's Paul Stanley in the liner notes for his band's latest DVD box set, Kissology 3, a romp through various live shows from the band's older days.
After the original line up of KISS got back together in the mid 1990s, they recorded a new album together, their first for the best part of twenty years, and he and the rest of the band assumed that the fans would be over the moon and take it to their hearts. However, the majority of KISS fans, myself included, merely saw it as a pale shadow of their previous efforts, and even now consider it to be one of their weaker efforts.
Stanley hit the nail on the head, though, when he admitted that he later realised that it was nothing to do with the quality of the new material that missed the mark, but rather the fact that we, the fans, had grown up with band's earlier output and had a lot of memories invested in and attached to the songs.
This is the reason that while I still play a hell of lot of the 80s rock music that I grew up with, I have little interest in, say, the new Iron Maiden album, which while technically excellent and proficient, doesn't have the emotional baggage, for better or worse (but mostly better) that stirs my soul when I hear the old stuff.
For this reason, I sincerely hope that those Led Zep fans clamouring for new material from Messrs Page, Plant and Jones are left wanting, as irrespective of whether they were to go on to produce the best songs of their career, there will always be that vital, nostalgic ingredient missing.
Living in the past? Perhaps. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, because, after all, the past is where I grew up.
For me, though, having grown up through the whole hair metal scene of the 1980s, rock has never been out of vogue, and just the sound of a power chord, or a distorted riff puts a smile on my face.
Back then my record collection expanded at a frightening rate, thanks largely to the various second hand vinyl shops in my hometown of Nottingham, and included such artists as Bon Jovi, Ratt, W.A.S.P., Iron Maiden, Def Leppard and a myriad of other long-haired, tight-trousered men (the genuine female rock star was a rare commodity indeed), some of whom have become household names to this day, and others who were merely legends in their own booze-sodden lunchtimes.
These days I find that I'm still playing many of these old rock records, and even though some of the artists are still putting out new albums, it's the old stuff that I really connect with, something that is both a blessing and a curse for the bands concerned.
The blessing is that I'm still enamoured with them, and in many cases as well having originally bought the album as a twelve inch slab of vinyl, I've also shelled out for the very same album on CD, and then often gone for the third bite of the cherry when the more popular one's have received the special edition anniversay treatments, laden down with b-sides, demos and tracks that weren't considered good enough for inclusion the first time around.
The curse, however, is that no matter how good their new albums may be, they'll never gain entry to that special place in my heart that their 1980s albums reside, and probably never will. The reason for this is simple, and was neatly summarised by KISS's Paul Stanley in the liner notes for his band's latest DVD box set, Kissology 3, a romp through various live shows from the band's older days.
After the original line up of KISS got back together in the mid 1990s, they recorded a new album together, their first for the best part of twenty years, and he and the rest of the band assumed that the fans would be over the moon and take it to their hearts. However, the majority of KISS fans, myself included, merely saw it as a pale shadow of their previous efforts, and even now consider it to be one of their weaker efforts.
Stanley hit the nail on the head, though, when he admitted that he later realised that it was nothing to do with the quality of the new material that missed the mark, but rather the fact that we, the fans, had grown up with band's earlier output and had a lot of memories invested in and attached to the songs.
This is the reason that while I still play a hell of lot of the 80s rock music that I grew up with, I have little interest in, say, the new Iron Maiden album, which while technically excellent and proficient, doesn't have the emotional baggage, for better or worse (but mostly better) that stirs my soul when I hear the old stuff.
For this reason, I sincerely hope that those Led Zep fans clamouring for new material from Messrs Page, Plant and Jones are left wanting, as irrespective of whether they were to go on to produce the best songs of their career, there will always be that vital, nostalgic ingredient missing.
Living in the past? Perhaps. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, because, after all, the past is where I grew up.
Friday 11 January 2008
A Dream Within A Dream
“Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?” – Edgar Allen Poe
I was pleasantly surprised over Christmas to find out that one of my favourite movies of all time has at long last been given the Special Edition treatment on DVD, albeit only as an Australian release.
Picnic At Hanging Rock is a strange, ethereal movie, and one that many of my friends who I’ve raved about it to over the years have subsequently watched and failed to see what all the fuss is about. A definite Marmite movie, or perhaps that should be Vegemite, given its Australian heritage.
Originally released in 1975, the story revolves around a group of schoolgirls from a very prim and proper boarding school in the Australian outback who go on their annual Valentine’s Day outing in 1900 to Hanging Rock to enjoy the titular picnic. However, while they are they four of the girls wander off to explore the upper slopes of the Rock and three of them (and later a teacher who goes to look for them) disappear without trace.
On the face of it Picnic appears to be a period piece wrapped up in a mystery, but following the source material closely, the 1967 novel by Joan Lindsay, director Peter Wier breaks with convention by never actually providing a resolution to the question of what happened to the girls.
Far from harming the movie, however, it is this lack of closure that sets Picnic At Hanging Rock apart and ensures that the story lingers in your mind long after the credits have finished rolling.
Author Lindsay was deliberately vague in the opening paragraph of her book as to whether the events were based on fact or were fictional, and it is this ambiguity, that remains largely unanswered to this day, that had caused admirers of the movie to debate this point ever since, and to search for clues within both the film and the original text with which to solve the mystery.
I first saw this movie by accident when it was shown late one night on television, and have been both captivated and haunted by it ever since. Weir evokes a wonderfully dreamy and at times unsettling atmosphere, largely due to his inventive use of slightly slowing down much of the film stock, and allows the story to unfold at a very sedate pace.
Having seen it several times over the years, I am still unsure as to what my thoughts are as to the reasons for the disappearance of the girls, which thanks to the combination of an impressive screenplay by Cliff Green and Weir’s breathtakingly beautiful visuals could feasibly be anything from them having fallen down any one of the many deep holes that lurk within Picnic Rock’s myriad dark and twisting pathways, to extra-terrestrial abduction, and all points in between.
Joan Lindsay did hint in one interview that the story was a mixture of actual events and her imagination, and had no qualms in disclosing that the book almost wrote itself, coming to her in dreams over a period of a few weeks, all of which fuels the speculation that at least part of the tale was drawn from events in her youth. In addition, there is a stone monument located near Picnic Rock that serves as a memorial for three girls that went missing near the rock in the mid 1800’s, and who later turned up murdered, but there is no such closure in either the book or the movie.
Ultimately Picnic At Hanging Rock is a delightful, if slightly unsettling, viewing experience that never fails to captivate me for its two hour running time, and is deservedly considered as one of the movies that firmly put the Australian film business on the map in the 1970s. Still screened each year after twilight on Valentine’s Day at the base of the Rock, this is a movie that lodges itself in the subconscious and remains with the viewer for a long time.
As a final note, I must mention that there was originally a final chapter to the book explaining what supposedly happened, and which Lindsay wisely removed from the finished manuscript. While an interesting theory (which I won’t reveal here), in my eyes it actually serves to destroy much of the power of the book that stems from the unresolved mystery. I prefer to ignore this explanation and instead revel in the eternal mystery that the film presents.
I was pleasantly surprised over Christmas to find out that one of my favourite movies of all time has at long last been given the Special Edition treatment on DVD, albeit only as an Australian release.
Picnic At Hanging Rock is a strange, ethereal movie, and one that many of my friends who I’ve raved about it to over the years have subsequently watched and failed to see what all the fuss is about. A definite Marmite movie, or perhaps that should be Vegemite, given its Australian heritage.
Originally released in 1975, the story revolves around a group of schoolgirls from a very prim and proper boarding school in the Australian outback who go on their annual Valentine’s Day outing in 1900 to Hanging Rock to enjoy the titular picnic. However, while they are they four of the girls wander off to explore the upper slopes of the Rock and three of them (and later a teacher who goes to look for them) disappear without trace.
On the face of it Picnic appears to be a period piece wrapped up in a mystery, but following the source material closely, the 1967 novel by Joan Lindsay, director Peter Wier breaks with convention by never actually providing a resolution to the question of what happened to the girls.
Far from harming the movie, however, it is this lack of closure that sets Picnic At Hanging Rock apart and ensures that the story lingers in your mind long after the credits have finished rolling.
Author Lindsay was deliberately vague in the opening paragraph of her book as to whether the events were based on fact or were fictional, and it is this ambiguity, that remains largely unanswered to this day, that had caused admirers of the movie to debate this point ever since, and to search for clues within both the film and the original text with which to solve the mystery.
I first saw this movie by accident when it was shown late one night on television, and have been both captivated and haunted by it ever since. Weir evokes a wonderfully dreamy and at times unsettling atmosphere, largely due to his inventive use of slightly slowing down much of the film stock, and allows the story to unfold at a very sedate pace.
Having seen it several times over the years, I am still unsure as to what my thoughts are as to the reasons for the disappearance of the girls, which thanks to the combination of an impressive screenplay by Cliff Green and Weir’s breathtakingly beautiful visuals could feasibly be anything from them having fallen down any one of the many deep holes that lurk within Picnic Rock’s myriad dark and twisting pathways, to extra-terrestrial abduction, and all points in between.
Joan Lindsay did hint in one interview that the story was a mixture of actual events and her imagination, and had no qualms in disclosing that the book almost wrote itself, coming to her in dreams over a period of a few weeks, all of which fuels the speculation that at least part of the tale was drawn from events in her youth. In addition, there is a stone monument located near Picnic Rock that serves as a memorial for three girls that went missing near the rock in the mid 1800’s, and who later turned up murdered, but there is no such closure in either the book or the movie.
Ultimately Picnic At Hanging Rock is a delightful, if slightly unsettling, viewing experience that never fails to captivate me for its two hour running time, and is deservedly considered as one of the movies that firmly put the Australian film business on the map in the 1970s. Still screened each year after twilight on Valentine’s Day at the base of the Rock, this is a movie that lodges itself in the subconscious and remains with the viewer for a long time.
As a final note, I must mention that there was originally a final chapter to the book explaining what supposedly happened, and which Lindsay wisely removed from the finished manuscript. While an interesting theory (which I won’t reveal here), in my eyes it actually serves to destroy much of the power of the book that stems from the unresolved mystery. I prefer to ignore this explanation and instead revel in the eternal mystery that the film presents.
Wednesday 9 January 2008
Donkeys, Elephants and the American Way
This week has seen the second round of selections for the US Presidential Candidates, despite the fact that Dubya doesn't officially step down from office for another year and a week.
Compared to the election process over here in the UK, the campaigning for which tends to last for about six weeks or so before the country turns out in pitifully small numbers to decide who will mismanage the government for up to another five years, the US system is mind-bendingly complex.
For starters, the voting public don't directly take part in the election of the President. Instead they choose 'electors' (collectively known as the Electoral College) who then pledge their allegence to the most popular candidate in a particular State. Each State then has a certain number of electors, depending on its population, and the winner of the popular vote then usually gets all of the Electoral College votes.
Still with me? Then consider this:
There are 538 electors spread over the various States, so this actually means that a candidate can get into the White House without actually winning the popular vote, as happened with Dubya in the 2000 elections.
So, the bottom line is that we've had two of these popularity contests so far, called either Primaries or Caucuses, so strap yourself in for many more as election year hots up and this ridiculously drawn out process grinds on for a few months yet before we actually get into the main event between the two candidates (or more, depending on whether an independent candidate suddenly turns up, such as Michael Bloomberg, the billionaire mayor of New York), when the mud will really start to fly and the gloves come off.
I suppose it shouldn't really surprise us that it takes the US so long to go through this torturous procedure. After all, this is the nation who can make a ninety minute football game last in excess of four hours.
However, there is one positive outcome that is definitely assured, and that is the removal of George W Bush, one of the most reviled and unpopular Presidents in the history of the United States. Surely whoever replaces him at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue can't be any worse than Dubya, can they?
Compared to the election process over here in the UK, the campaigning for which tends to last for about six weeks or so before the country turns out in pitifully small numbers to decide who will mismanage the government for up to another five years, the US system is mind-bendingly complex.
For starters, the voting public don't directly take part in the election of the President. Instead they choose 'electors' (collectively known as the Electoral College) who then pledge their allegence to the most popular candidate in a particular State. Each State then has a certain number of electors, depending on its population, and the winner of the popular vote then usually gets all of the Electoral College votes.
Still with me? Then consider this:
There are 538 electors spread over the various States, so this actually means that a candidate can get into the White House without actually winning the popular vote, as happened with Dubya in the 2000 elections.
So, the bottom line is that we've had two of these popularity contests so far, called either Primaries or Caucuses, so strap yourself in for many more as election year hots up and this ridiculously drawn out process grinds on for a few months yet before we actually get into the main event between the two candidates (or more, depending on whether an independent candidate suddenly turns up, such as Michael Bloomberg, the billionaire mayor of New York), when the mud will really start to fly and the gloves come off.
I suppose it shouldn't really surprise us that it takes the US so long to go through this torturous procedure. After all, this is the nation who can make a ninety minute football game last in excess of four hours.
However, there is one positive outcome that is definitely assured, and that is the removal of George W Bush, one of the most reviled and unpopular Presidents in the history of the United States. Surely whoever replaces him at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue can't be any worse than Dubya, can they?
Tuesday 8 January 2008
From Hair to Eternity....
I'm currently writing a book on the 1980's rock scene, and in particular how if affected me as a teenager living in Nottingham, England (home of Robin Hood for those of you on foreign shores, but don't even think of mentioning Kevin Costner!).
This has been a long gestating project, some three or four years in the planning, during which time I've written something like 60,000 words of notes on various topics, and which I'm finding now that I'm actually about two-thirds of the way through the first draft, was an invaluable exercise.
So, how does one go about researching a book on rock music?
Well, for me it mainly involved revisiting some of the publications of my youth, most notably Kerrang! magazine which any rock fan brought up in the eighties will know was the holy grail of all things rock and roll in those days. Today it's still an OK magazine, but many of its writers have grown up, like me, and now write for Classic Rock magazine, and so I too have moved on to these more mature pastures, though I like to think that aside from retiring from the mosh pit several years ago after nearly crippling myself (don't ask!), I still rock every bit as hard as I used to. (Well, nearly....)
Wading through some hundred and fifty issues that the magical wallet-lightener known as eBay forced upon me (yeah, right), memories of the old days came flooding back - the first time I went to a genuine rock gig (Iron Maiden, 1986, Nottingham Royal Centre), the first time I saw Guns'n'Roses (1987, in a small club venue called Rock City, again in Nottingham), my first stage dive (not sure when, but I'm pretty sure it was at an Onslaught gig at Rock City) - I could go on (and frequently do, particularly when I get together with my old friends) but you can read all about it sometime later this year if all goes to plan.
The other grinding, tedious, boring task (Who am I kidding? It's been a blast) I put myself through was watching dozens of old rock videos on YouTube. For all its faults (like the world needs footage of another dumbass stapling a ten dollar bill to his forehead, or another teenager showing me just how much better at Guitar Hero III he is than I'll ever be), this is probably the greatest thing that YouTube has given my generation. The ability to dial up virtually any of the old school rock videos is so addicitive that just the other night I found myself glued to the screen for several hours as I played one after the other after the other.
However, to save you trouble of weeding through the hundreds on offer, I proudly present a list of five of my favourite hair metal clips for you to track down...... enjoy!
David Lee Roth - Just A Gigolo
Zodiac Mindwarp - Prime Mover
KISS - Let's Put The X In Sex
Twisted Sister - We're Not Gonna Take It
Poison - Nothin' But A Good Time
This has been a long gestating project, some three or four years in the planning, during which time I've written something like 60,000 words of notes on various topics, and which I'm finding now that I'm actually about two-thirds of the way through the first draft, was an invaluable exercise.
So, how does one go about researching a book on rock music?
Well, for me it mainly involved revisiting some of the publications of my youth, most notably Kerrang! magazine which any rock fan brought up in the eighties will know was the holy grail of all things rock and roll in those days. Today it's still an OK magazine, but many of its writers have grown up, like me, and now write for Classic Rock magazine, and so I too have moved on to these more mature pastures, though I like to think that aside from retiring from the mosh pit several years ago after nearly crippling myself (don't ask!), I still rock every bit as hard as I used to. (Well, nearly....)
Wading through some hundred and fifty issues that the magical wallet-lightener known as eBay forced upon me (yeah, right), memories of the old days came flooding back - the first time I went to a genuine rock gig (Iron Maiden, 1986, Nottingham Royal Centre), the first time I saw Guns'n'Roses (1987, in a small club venue called Rock City, again in Nottingham), my first stage dive (not sure when, but I'm pretty sure it was at an Onslaught gig at Rock City) - I could go on (and frequently do, particularly when I get together with my old friends) but you can read all about it sometime later this year if all goes to plan.
The other grinding, tedious, boring task (Who am I kidding? It's been a blast) I put myself through was watching dozens of old rock videos on YouTube. For all its faults (like the world needs footage of another dumbass stapling a ten dollar bill to his forehead, or another teenager showing me just how much better at Guitar Hero III he is than I'll ever be), this is probably the greatest thing that YouTube has given my generation. The ability to dial up virtually any of the old school rock videos is so addicitive that just the other night I found myself glued to the screen for several hours as I played one after the other after the other.
However, to save you trouble of weeding through the hundreds on offer, I proudly present a list of five of my favourite hair metal clips for you to track down...... enjoy!
David Lee Roth - Just A Gigolo
Zodiac Mindwarp - Prime Mover
KISS - Let's Put The X In Sex
Twisted Sister - We're Not Gonna Take It
Poison - Nothin' But A Good Time
Sunday 6 January 2008
Cats and Canvas
I don't tend to watch much television, preferring to spend my time with movies, books or being creative, but every now and again something catches my eye that demands my attention.
One such programme was an episode of BBC2's superb Natural World series (which currently airs on Fridays at 8pm) about the snow leopard. I'm a big fan of wildlife programmes, and whenever I find myself complaining about the exorbitant license fee that the BBC charges each year for the 'pleasure' of watching their mostly humdrum output, I invariably counter my own argument with the rationale that programmes such as Planet Earth, which was, and is, quite simply the most incredible series that's ever been made about the world's wildlife, would never get made if not for this mandatory levy.
As it happens, the precursor to this hour long insight into the near-mythological snow leopard was a brief segment in the Planet Earth series which focused on a quest to obtain footage of the elusive cats which yielded only the briefest of glimpses. This time, Pakistani journalist Nisar Malik, who ordinarily is more at home covering the conflict in Afghanistan, applied his unparallelled geographic knowledge of the country to lead a small team on an eighteen month quest to learn more about the snow leopard.
Watching the programme, I found myself amazed, surprised and inspired, all in the space of the fifty minute running time. Amazed due to the absolutely gorgeous footage of these beautiful animals - by sheer chance they discovered that the female they were tracking had a year old cub, and so we were priviledged to observe her teaching him to hunt, and to the, at times, touching way in which they interacted with each other. Surprised, because as Malik observed, when most people think of Pakistan they automatically get a mental picture of the country as an unstable nuclear power on the world's political stage, but in reality the people are peaceful and welcoming, and the country itself, with its huge mountaint ranges, is quite simply one of the most beautiful places on the planet.
The inspiration from this programme came, funnily enough, not from the leopards, but from a solitary shot of a Markhor, a member of the goat family with unusual spiraling horns, standing on a steep rocky slope, silhouetted against a vast grey sky.
For quite some time I've had an unfulfilled urge to paint using oils. I'm an enthusiastic photographer, which is why the shot of the Markhor caught my attention as the composition and the power of the simple image leapt off the screen, and so something inside me finally snapped and I found myself heading into town to pick up the necessary tools to try and replicate this stunning image in oil paints.
Once back home, I set up my new easel, prepared my palette (which only consisted of two colours, black and yellow) and froze the frame of the Markhor on my television. I lightly sketched the outline, and the picked up my brush and just dived head first into the painting.
I'm a big believer in just going for it when it comes to being creative. If it feels like the right thing, then just do it. Outside of art class at school, some twenty years ago now, I have never painted single thing in my life (aside from emulsioning various walls over the years), so as I began to see the paint form the picture on my televsion screen, I felt a growing sense of satisfaction, and a real feeling that in some way I was experiencing what 'proper' painters describe as the feeling of expressing themselves.
Once I'd applied black paint to the canvas to depict the mountainside and the Markhor, I picked up the yellow brush and began to fill in the sky. Why yellow? I'm not sure, it just felt right, until I accidentally mixed it with the black, that is, and found myself with a potential disaster on my hands.
However, I soldiered on, and by experimenting with the accidental mixture of colours, found that I had inavertently created the effect of a raging fire behind the silhouetted Markhor, and was hit again with that feeing of expression, and very satisfying it was too.
As for the finished painting, I'm really pleased with it. Considering it's my first effort, and in a medium that I had no experience in whatsoever, I think I've produced something that I can be proud to hang on my wall, and more importantly, unlike the many photographs that I have framed on my walls, and those of friends, this is an absolutely unique work of art. Even if someone offered me a million pounds for it, I don't think I could sell it, not only because it's my first, but because even if I replicated the circumstances of its creation perfectly, I could never paint it exactly the same way.
So, I guess the only thing left to do now is reveal my, ahem, masterpiece. My first, but definitely not my last foray into oil painting, I present "Markhor On Fire Mountain".
One such programme was an episode of BBC2's superb Natural World series (which currently airs on Fridays at 8pm) about the snow leopard. I'm a big fan of wildlife programmes, and whenever I find myself complaining about the exorbitant license fee that the BBC charges each year for the 'pleasure' of watching their mostly humdrum output, I invariably counter my own argument with the rationale that programmes such as Planet Earth, which was, and is, quite simply the most incredible series that's ever been made about the world's wildlife, would never get made if not for this mandatory levy.
As it happens, the precursor to this hour long insight into the near-mythological snow leopard was a brief segment in the Planet Earth series which focused on a quest to obtain footage of the elusive cats which yielded only the briefest of glimpses. This time, Pakistani journalist Nisar Malik, who ordinarily is more at home covering the conflict in Afghanistan, applied his unparallelled geographic knowledge of the country to lead a small team on an eighteen month quest to learn more about the snow leopard.
Watching the programme, I found myself amazed, surprised and inspired, all in the space of the fifty minute running time. Amazed due to the absolutely gorgeous footage of these beautiful animals - by sheer chance they discovered that the female they were tracking had a year old cub, and so we were priviledged to observe her teaching him to hunt, and to the, at times, touching way in which they interacted with each other. Surprised, because as Malik observed, when most people think of Pakistan they automatically get a mental picture of the country as an unstable nuclear power on the world's political stage, but in reality the people are peaceful and welcoming, and the country itself, with its huge mountaint ranges, is quite simply one of the most beautiful places on the planet.
The inspiration from this programme came, funnily enough, not from the leopards, but from a solitary shot of a Markhor, a member of the goat family with unusual spiraling horns, standing on a steep rocky slope, silhouetted against a vast grey sky.
For quite some time I've had an unfulfilled urge to paint using oils. I'm an enthusiastic photographer, which is why the shot of the Markhor caught my attention as the composition and the power of the simple image leapt off the screen, and so something inside me finally snapped and I found myself heading into town to pick up the necessary tools to try and replicate this stunning image in oil paints.
Once back home, I set up my new easel, prepared my palette (which only consisted of two colours, black and yellow) and froze the frame of the Markhor on my television. I lightly sketched the outline, and the picked up my brush and just dived head first into the painting.
I'm a big believer in just going for it when it comes to being creative. If it feels like the right thing, then just do it. Outside of art class at school, some twenty years ago now, I have never painted single thing in my life (aside from emulsioning various walls over the years), so as I began to see the paint form the picture on my televsion screen, I felt a growing sense of satisfaction, and a real feeling that in some way I was experiencing what 'proper' painters describe as the feeling of expressing themselves.
Once I'd applied black paint to the canvas to depict the mountainside and the Markhor, I picked up the yellow brush and began to fill in the sky. Why yellow? I'm not sure, it just felt right, until I accidentally mixed it with the black, that is, and found myself with a potential disaster on my hands.
However, I soldiered on, and by experimenting with the accidental mixture of colours, found that I had inavertently created the effect of a raging fire behind the silhouetted Markhor, and was hit again with that feeing of expression, and very satisfying it was too.
As for the finished painting, I'm really pleased with it. Considering it's my first effort, and in a medium that I had no experience in whatsoever, I think I've produced something that I can be proud to hang on my wall, and more importantly, unlike the many photographs that I have framed on my walls, and those of friends, this is an absolutely unique work of art. Even if someone offered me a million pounds for it, I don't think I could sell it, not only because it's my first, but because even if I replicated the circumstances of its creation perfectly, I could never paint it exactly the same way.
Friday 4 January 2008
Snow, or the lack thereof....
It seems that every year, once Christmas is out of the way, we begin the countdown to the inevitable warning from the Met Office that Britain is about to experience 'severe weather conditions'. Regular as clockwork, we had our first warning yesterday that we were, if you believed the hype, about to be hit with the beginnings of the next ice age.
This always makes me smile, as over here in the UK, every time that we get so much as a millimeter of snow on the ground the country grinds to a halt. While it's true that every so many years we do get a major snowfall, the last being the winter of 2002 when it took me over five hours to travel the 20 miles home from where I worked at the time, these actual severe weather conditions are rarer than an honest politician.
Since then, however, we've had nothing to get worried about, but still every year we get the warnings.
When I was younger we lived in Canada where, as those of you in that part of the world will attest, it wasn't uncommon to pull open your curtains of a winter (or spring or fall for that matter) morn and be confronted with six feet of snow.
Did we panic? Not a chance. Instead we merely (or rather, my Dad merely) grabbed a shovel and dug through the drifts at the front door until we could see daylight again. As far as the roads went, snow chains were a way of life and everybody just got on with it.
Not so here in the UK, though. An inch of snow and trains are cancelled, flights postponed, and roads become vast car parks as we struggle to cope.
Anyway, as I awoke this morning, hoping to see at least a snifter of the white stuff I was already prepared for the inevitable disappointment. Still, at least it wasn't raining.
This always makes me smile, as over here in the UK, every time that we get so much as a millimeter of snow on the ground the country grinds to a halt. While it's true that every so many years we do get a major snowfall, the last being the winter of 2002 when it took me over five hours to travel the 20 miles home from where I worked at the time, these actual severe weather conditions are rarer than an honest politician.
Since then, however, we've had nothing to get worried about, but still every year we get the warnings.
When I was younger we lived in Canada where, as those of you in that part of the world will attest, it wasn't uncommon to pull open your curtains of a winter (or spring or fall for that matter) morn and be confronted with six feet of snow.
Did we panic? Not a chance. Instead we merely (or rather, my Dad merely) grabbed a shovel and dug through the drifts at the front door until we could see daylight again. As far as the roads went, snow chains were a way of life and everybody just got on with it.
Not so here in the UK, though. An inch of snow and trains are cancelled, flights postponed, and roads become vast car parks as we struggle to cope.
Anyway, as I awoke this morning, hoping to see at least a snifter of the white stuff I was already prepared for the inevitable disappointment. Still, at least it wasn't raining.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
Notes from the Asylum - the beginning
Hello there.
If you're reading this then it means one of three things.
1. You're me, which seems unlikely, as that position is already taken (though you never know how fast or covertly this cloning technology is progressing - perhaps you ARE me, and I'm actually a passable imitation of myself).
2. You've accidentally stumbled across yet another blog on the net, and it just happens to be mine! In which case, welcome, and please drop by from time to time as I waste valuable minutes of your life with my thoughts on life, the universe and, while not everything (which would take far too long and I'm sure you have better things to do), then at least some of the things that I find interesting, funny or annoying (though I warn you, it may well consist of a disproportionate number of the latter).
3. It's several months or years from now and my resolve to finally stop being a slave to the gods of accountancy (well, somebody has to do it, and for the time being it might as well be me) and actually put my writing talent to good use and make a living from it has come to fruitition. Having too much much time on your hands you've decided to go back to where this long-running saga began and see what my very first entry was. So here it is. Satisfied?
I suppose I should tell you all about myself, but where's the fun in that, eh? Instead why not keep dropping by and discover who I am and the things that I do (well, not everything, a man needs a little privacy) in bite-sized chunks.
Until next time....
If you're reading this then it means one of three things.
1. You're me, which seems unlikely, as that position is already taken (though you never know how fast or covertly this cloning technology is progressing - perhaps you ARE me, and I'm actually a passable imitation of myself).
2. You've accidentally stumbled across yet another blog on the net, and it just happens to be mine! In which case, welcome, and please drop by from time to time as I waste valuable minutes of your life with my thoughts on life, the universe and, while not everything (which would take far too long and I'm sure you have better things to do), then at least some of the things that I find interesting, funny or annoying (though I warn you, it may well consist of a disproportionate number of the latter).
3. It's several months or years from now and my resolve to finally stop being a slave to the gods of accountancy (well, somebody has to do it, and for the time being it might as well be me) and actually put my writing talent to good use and make a living from it has come to fruitition. Having too much much time on your hands you've decided to go back to where this long-running saga began and see what my very first entry was. So here it is. Satisfied?
I suppose I should tell you all about myself, but where's the fun in that, eh? Instead why not keep dropping by and discover who I am and the things that I do (well, not everything, a man needs a little privacy) in bite-sized chunks.
Until next time....
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