Monday, 28 July 2008

Fuck Travelodge, fuck them right in the ear...

You've all been wondering where I've got to. I know. I've seen you chatting about me on the gossip forums. One rumour had it I was in LA, vying to become the third bidder for Jamie Lynn Spears' baby, alongside Maddona and Angelina Jolie. In New York City, somebody said they saw me singing the blues*.

The truth is far uglier. I was, obviously, being held captive in a Travelodge. Allow me to tell my harrowing story.

I'm in Brighton for my brother's graduation. Some celebratory beers had been consumed the night before. I am in a Travelodge. It's eight o'clock.

At eight o'clock, someone starts drilling into the fucking wall of the next room. Did I mention it was eight o' fucking clock? And that they were drilling? My fury level chocked up to one.

I am, however, a reasonable man, so gathering together my sword cane and an old but perfectly servicable revolver, I went to make my way to the reception to make my grievance known.

I got as far as the door. I tried to open it. In this I failed. Hmmmm... I thought. Girlfriend** is called over to have a go. She is also unable to open the door. The lock is, politely, fucked. Fury meter: two.

I look around for a phone to call reception and let them know of our predicament. There is no phone in my room. A little context: I am on the fourth floor, stuck in a room with no phone and windows that do not open, presumably to stop you leaving and finding a better hotel. In the event of a fire I would be, and I am loathe to use the word again, but here it is anyway: fucked. Fury at three.

I get the Travelodge number from one of those hideously overpriced directory enquiry services on my mobile. Of course, Travelodge, for my convenience, have only one phone number. I call this one number, get the number of Travelodge Brighton. I specify which one, knowing that there are two.

They give me the wrong number anyway.

I get the right number from the wrong Travelodge.

I call reception.

They are on do-not-fucking-disturb. I have lost track of my fury meter at this point, but it's somewhere in the low hundreds.

Giving up on trying to sort this alone, and with but pence left on my phone, I called my Dad, who was staying several floors below. He eventually located some builders - the ones who were doing the drilling in the first place, irony of ironies - who proceeded to break the door the fuck down.

Now free, I rushed to reception in order to verbally assault the first person of any authority I came across.

The manager, of course, wouldn't be in until after lunch. Which was, coincidentally, after check out time. After all the angry people have left. A cunning ruse.

All the more cunning, we came back and moaned at him. He was a complete dick about it, and made that woooooooh handbag noise. Fuck him, and his company, right in the ear.

An aside: the builders, our eventual saviours, were staying at the Premier Lodge across town. Wise gentlemen indeed.

...

Also whilst in Brighton, I discovered a square block of frozen blood and fish heads about three feet across lying on the beach. Very popular with sea-gulls.


* Turns out it was just a man who looked like me. Possibly this man.















** Whose name isn't really 'girlfriend', but who wishes to retain her blogonmyity.

Monday, 14 July 2008

My amazing process...

Stage One in my tremendously well defined process consists of wondering around, saying 'hmmmmmm', and scribbling things in notebooks, as previously mentioned. Occasionally I will also stop the hoovering to yell some piece of particularly ingenious plotting to my girlfriend.

Stage Two consists of getting a bit stuck. But not badly.

I kind of boned myself at the outline on this. Not that it's a bad outline. It just started off very detailed and then teetered off. If I had been outlining the rainbow song, it would have been along the lines of "Red, and yellow, and pink and green, orange and some other colours that'll probably come out brown if you mix them together, googoocachoo", which I think we can all agree would have made nursery-school singalongs far more interesting.

But, but, but. Saturday was a really really good day for writing. First day on the script, and 17 pages written, which is just shy of a personal best. And I wrote the first few pages in a coffee house. I'm now part of a screenwriting cliché, and I'm happy with that.

Onwards to Stage Three: Three months of writers block. Every has to have their process.

Friday, 4 July 2008

Doing it for the kids...

So, by something of a landslide, the kids have it. The next thing I shall be writing is my spooky kids drama, with an option on Satyrs getting chucked out of Spearmint Rhino once that's all done.

Good points were made by all; my brother wanted me to do the commercial one as it would be the biggest challenge for me (he's right, and I run screaming from it), and David almost had me with his cunning double dare, I'm a sucker for that.

To answer a couple of points... Don't worry, Boz, I do have some heavy shit up my sleeves. No Lost style not having a fucking clue for me. No, no*. And Patroclus: I simply intended the script to appeal to only one child**, and hence my apostrophe was perfectly placed, thankyouverymuch.

Cheers all for the voting. Now to go off and write it.

Oh, it's called Memoria, by the way.


* Genuinely. No, really, I do. Promise.

** Always a dangerous possibility when I write something...