I have the internets! Dear old internet, full of Java and html and... other technical sounding things. To be honest, I am much refreshed by my little spell off the grid, although a little disconcerted by how difficult it makes your life. Email has become the preferred mode of communication for every aspect of my university's staff, and it's been a stressful three weeks without it. I'm kidding, of course, I've just missed the porn.
But the portal is now open, and I can resume hawking my cerebral spittle into the big copper chamber pot of Blogger. Doesn't that sound wonderful?
In other news, I took on my dishwasher and lost. In the aftermath I've decided to shelve plans for my novel and begin a new project based on our turbulent relationship, and how we finally found other partners (I say, 'found other partners,' in Dishie's case it means 'found her way into the skip). Provisional title: Suds and the City. Excerpt below. See ya'll next week, and let's get some regularity round here!
Updated only when you aren't looking.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
dishwasher
“Work!” I bellowed, giving the dishwasher a resounding thump.
The dishwasher failed to comply.
“Work, you bastard!” I iterated, opening the dishwasher door and slamming it shut again.
The dishwasher rumbled thoughtfully, as if processing my request. Then it fell silent again.
“Why won’t you work? Why is everything so hard?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The dishwasher refrained from answering either question. The second of these, admittedly, was a little unfair, and I wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“…,” I said, and opened the door again. I pressed a few of the buttons, waited for the beeping to subside, and then closed the door again.
“…,” said the dishwasher.
I decided to change my tactics.
“…Please work?” I asked, in as servile a voice as I was able.
With lordly composure the dishwasher surveyed my harried face, my rumpled clothes. Its adamantine face remained unmoved, and it kept its peace.
There was silence for a time.
“I hate you,” I said softly. Perhaps it did not wish to encourage me, or was disappointed in my shallow conduct. Whatever the case the dishwasher decided to keep silent.
“I… I spoke to my step-mum earlier,” I continued quietly. I did not wish to speak, but it had to be said. Things could not carry on the way they were.
“She said… she said that it’ll cost an awful lot to get a guy out to look at you, and with all the money we’re spending on the bathroom…”
I waited. Nothing. I began to grow angry, left here in stillness.
“She said we should just get another!” I blurted. “I can just buy one and she’ll refund me!”
It studied me. I began to realise that it did not take me seriously. The threat had gone practically unnoticed.
“It shouldn’t finish like this. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way.”
The dishwasher clunked. It was a final exclamation on everything that had happened. There was nothing left to say.
The dishwasher failed to comply.
“Work, you bastard!” I iterated, opening the dishwasher door and slamming it shut again.
The dishwasher rumbled thoughtfully, as if processing my request. Then it fell silent again.
“Why won’t you work? Why is everything so hard?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The dishwasher refrained from answering either question. The second of these, admittedly, was a little unfair, and I wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“…,” I said, and opened the door again. I pressed a few of the buttons, waited for the beeping to subside, and then closed the door again.
“…,” said the dishwasher.
I decided to change my tactics.
“…Please work?” I asked, in as servile a voice as I was able.
With lordly composure the dishwasher surveyed my harried face, my rumpled clothes. Its adamantine face remained unmoved, and it kept its peace.
There was silence for a time.
“I hate you,” I said softly. Perhaps it did not wish to encourage me, or was disappointed in my shallow conduct. Whatever the case the dishwasher decided to keep silent.
“I… I spoke to my step-mum earlier,” I continued quietly. I did not wish to speak, but it had to be said. Things could not carry on the way they were.
“She said… she said that it’ll cost an awful lot to get a guy out to look at you, and with all the money we’re spending on the bathroom…”
I waited. Nothing. I began to grow angry, left here in stillness.
“She said we should just get another!” I blurted. “I can just buy one and she’ll refund me!”
It studied me. I began to realise that it did not take me seriously. The threat had gone practically unnoticed.
“It shouldn’t finish like this. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way.”
The dishwasher clunked. It was a final exclamation on everything that had happened. There was nothing left to say.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Contact at verbalslapstick@googlemail.com. I promise that it works now. It turns out that a: I can't spell 'Slapstick,' and b: I'm rubbish at making new email addresses anyway. Should all be taken care of now.
Interlude: in which a favoured interest comes to an end, and the writer has a brief think
On September 11th one of my favourite things on the Internet, the webcomic Scarygoround, will come to an end. *EDIT* Obviously the delay in publishing this post means that it is ALREADY over. Head to the site to read the hundreds of comments from wellwishers and fans remarking on its end.
I know my ol’ pal Nash is a Scarygoround fan, which ought to tell you everything you need about its quality. Scarygoround describes the very funny, slightly macabre and proudly odd exploits of possibly insane English rose Shelly Winters, the lives and loves of her friends, and the adolescent adventures occurring at the local secondary school Tackleford Grammar. It has been on the links tab on this blog since I started doing it. It’s just to the right, just over there. Go on, off you go, I shall wait.
I’m not as upset as I might be because John Allison, the man responsible for Scarygoround (and its spiritual prequel Bobbins) will be starting a new project on the very same website. I am eager to see what the new direction entails. I have a lot of faith in Mr. Allison, as he has been making me happy (in a quiet sort of way) for a few years now.
Mr. Allison’s reasons for finishing the comic are ones I can broadly support. He believes, as do I, that nothing can be extended forever without becoming diluted- that returning time and again to the same characters, the same formulas, is bound to run them dry, and taint the memory of what made them special in the first place.
He also has issues of readership to worry about. Scarygoround is how Mr. Allison makes his living; selling prints, commissioned artwork and merchandise related to the comic. It is therefore in more than just his creative interest that people read his work. Only a small fraction of those who view the comic actually buy the stuff that is on offer, and so if Mr. Allison is to stay in caviar Toblerone’s and keep up the payments on his rocket car, he needs to keep the number of readers as high as he possibly can.
Web comics rarely generate a sustained amount of publicity. This is not to say that people who enjoy them lose interest, but simply that people tend to get on at the ground floor or not at all. For a long running comic like Scarygoround it can be difficult to convince new readers to start without alienating the old. In print comics (and here I refer to the funnybooks, not the 'every day' comics you find in newspapers) a lull in the narrative that allows new readers to get on board without a lot of prior knowledge is called a ‘jumping on point.’ Because most long running comic books change writers and artists all the time their readers are quite used to peaks and troughs in the story. They are also used to continuity flying all over the place.
Web comics, on the other hand, have less room to work with. It is hard for artists to keep writing in start points without getting on the nerves of established readers, especially when the narrative only moves forward in daily increments.
So John Allison is hoping that the fans from Scarygoround will stick with him through the change, and that the new project will provide an opportunity for some new people to ride the bus.
Reading his thoughts on the necessity of attracting new readership, I had a short think about my own. I rest under no illusions; I know full well that Verbal Slapstick attracts only a few readers, mostly saintly and perspicacious friends who are generous in their support. I am grateful for their interest in what is essentially a vanity project. So far this endeavour has filled all my wants- it gives me a chance to write a bit, and think a bit, and provides a small audience for some of my other writing. A couple of people have read the last short story I wrote, which increases my general circulation by, I think, 200%.
Do I want more people to read this? Of course I do. It’s lovely to think people like what I write (and by extension, me) enough to swing past this part of the interwebs with any regularity. But I’m not in a situation like John Allison, in which I rely on my readers to provide part of my income. There is no need for me to reach any more readers, save to massage my own ego.
On the other hand, it would be nice to have more people commenting on the blog, especially anyone with ideas on what to talk about next. Also, the more people look at Verbal Slapstick, the more free criticism I get for my other scribblings. So perhaps I might start plugging this blog a little more. Would anybody mind? And if not, could they suggest ways in which I might go about it?
Sorry for this sudden bout of introspection. If you feel like some whimsy instead, I strongly suggest you give Scarygoround a try. The fact that it’s reached its end should not put you off. In fact, it strikes me as the perfect time to begin.
I know my ol’ pal Nash is a Scarygoround fan, which ought to tell you everything you need about its quality. Scarygoround describes the very funny, slightly macabre and proudly odd exploits of possibly insane English rose Shelly Winters, the lives and loves of her friends, and the adolescent adventures occurring at the local secondary school Tackleford Grammar. It has been on the links tab on this blog since I started doing it. It’s just to the right, just over there. Go on, off you go, I shall wait.
I’m not as upset as I might be because John Allison, the man responsible for Scarygoround (and its spiritual prequel Bobbins) will be starting a new project on the very same website. I am eager to see what the new direction entails. I have a lot of faith in Mr. Allison, as he has been making me happy (in a quiet sort of way) for a few years now.
Mr. Allison’s reasons for finishing the comic are ones I can broadly support. He believes, as do I, that nothing can be extended forever without becoming diluted- that returning time and again to the same characters, the same formulas, is bound to run them dry, and taint the memory of what made them special in the first place.
He also has issues of readership to worry about. Scarygoround is how Mr. Allison makes his living; selling prints, commissioned artwork and merchandise related to the comic. It is therefore in more than just his creative interest that people read his work. Only a small fraction of those who view the comic actually buy the stuff that is on offer, and so if Mr. Allison is to stay in caviar Toblerone’s and keep up the payments on his rocket car, he needs to keep the number of readers as high as he possibly can.
Web comics rarely generate a sustained amount of publicity. This is not to say that people who enjoy them lose interest, but simply that people tend to get on at the ground floor or not at all. For a long running comic like Scarygoround it can be difficult to convince new readers to start without alienating the old. In print comics (and here I refer to the funnybooks, not the 'every day' comics you find in newspapers) a lull in the narrative that allows new readers to get on board without a lot of prior knowledge is called a ‘jumping on point.’ Because most long running comic books change writers and artists all the time their readers are quite used to peaks and troughs in the story. They are also used to continuity flying all over the place.
Web comics, on the other hand, have less room to work with. It is hard for artists to keep writing in start points without getting on the nerves of established readers, especially when the narrative only moves forward in daily increments.
So John Allison is hoping that the fans from Scarygoround will stick with him through the change, and that the new project will provide an opportunity for some new people to ride the bus.
Reading his thoughts on the necessity of attracting new readership, I had a short think about my own. I rest under no illusions; I know full well that Verbal Slapstick attracts only a few readers, mostly saintly and perspicacious friends who are generous in their support. I am grateful for their interest in what is essentially a vanity project. So far this endeavour has filled all my wants- it gives me a chance to write a bit, and think a bit, and provides a small audience for some of my other writing. A couple of people have read the last short story I wrote, which increases my general circulation by, I think, 200%.
Do I want more people to read this? Of course I do. It’s lovely to think people like what I write (and by extension, me) enough to swing past this part of the interwebs with any regularity. But I’m not in a situation like John Allison, in which I rely on my readers to provide part of my income. There is no need for me to reach any more readers, save to massage my own ego.
On the other hand, it would be nice to have more people commenting on the blog, especially anyone with ideas on what to talk about next. Also, the more people look at Verbal Slapstick, the more free criticism I get for my other scribblings. So perhaps I might start plugging this blog a little more. Would anybody mind? And if not, could they suggest ways in which I might go about it?
Sorry for this sudden bout of introspection. If you feel like some whimsy instead, I strongly suggest you give Scarygoround a try. The fact that it’s reached its end should not put you off. In fact, it strikes me as the perfect time to begin.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Notes on crashing your car
Moving home is always stressful, but I like to distil all the worry and menial labour that comes with trading domiciles into one super-woeful trip. By the time I’m finished packing the car resembles one of those impossibly difficult 3D jigsaw puzzles that menopausal women buy for adolescents at Christmas. This is not only a time saver, it also provides opportunity for a Viking funeral should you crash on the way to the new house. If ya gotta go, you may as well go surrounded by all your stuff, I say.
What it really means is that driving requires a little more care. Things that would normally not present much of a problem, something like a particularly sharp bend or a spot of sudden braking, now become more interesting challenges. Too much swerve on the corner and suddenly you’ve got half a leather office chair in your lap. Lots of people drive like they were taking part in a rally, but to my knowledge no rally racers fill the back of the car with mirrors and frying pans before setting off.
This all makes me a bit nervous, because I consider myself quite a careful driver. That statement sounds reprehensibly self-righteous, but it is born out of hard lessons and deep disappointment. A couple of years ago I had my first car crash, and since then I have been much more careful on the roads. You might think that this is a case of shutting the stable door when there’s an elephant in the room, or whatever the phrase is, and you’d be right. But if we learnt the lesson before we made the mistake, the mistake would not have been made. Probably.
If you tell someone that you have been in a car crash, they will immediately say: “Are you all right?” This, society teaches us, is the correct response to any tale of physical misfortune. Unless you are telling the story from a wheelchair or in a full neck-brace they can probably see that you look fine, but the statement has an implication of sympathy that is also required. (If you were telling the story from a wheelchair they presumably would have noticed, and begun the conversation with “Are you all right?” To which you would have replied, “Nah, I was in a car crash.”)
The conversation will then continue with further questioning, as your companion attempts to discover the particulars of your unhappy accident. At some stage in the proceedings enough of a picture will have been painted to allow the apportion of blame. This is the crucial step in the whole process, as it determines what course the rest of the conversation will run. If blame rests fully or partially with the driver being quizzed, then broad sympathy of the ‘what a bugger for you, on the other hand, it could have been much worse’ kind is in order. If blame can be completely attached to parties not present, then sympathy coupled with outrage is on the menu instead.
Here’s the thing though. It’s ALWAYS your fault, buddy. Let’s have a look at some of the most fundamental requirements of driving a car:
Number 1: You’re supposed to arrive at some sort of destination. This is the purpose for which cars were, in fact, designed. If you just drive around and around until you run out of petrol and have to stop you are technically driving, but it’s not really what the manufacturer intended.
Number 2: You aren’t supposed to hit anything. Anything at all. Ever.
So having a car crash contravenes at least these laws, and probably more besides. In fact there’s a pretty solid argument that’s says while involved in one, you aren’t really driving at all. You’re crashing, aren’t you.
No one likes to be blamed for anything, and for men in particular crashing your car is a basic failing. As previously mentioned driving is a masculine activity, and failing to drive effectively makes you look like a big sissy girl. And so most tales of automotive accident told by men allow for a certain amount of wiggle room, and other men respect that. Few blokes just come out and say. “I didn’t mean to crash into him… but then I crashed into him.”
My accident was the result of some scary driving from someone else (see, wiggle room). As I was pootling home one autumn evening someone overtook on the blind bend in front of me, nearly hitting the car immediately ahead of mine. The person ahead drove on for a few seconds and then suddenly emergency-stopped, which threw me completely off. My final thoughts ran something like this:
“Cor, that was close. Could’ve caused a nasty acci—OH MY COCKING CHRIST I’M GOING TO CRASH MY CAR!!”
I was not afraid; I can say that with absolute conviction. Instead I was angry, luminously angry at the world and myself. I knew in a split second that my little Italian car would be a write-off. It had crumple zones. Not just lines of weakness, or areas where crumpling might potentially take place- whole zones, dedicated solely to providing maximum crumplage. It was destined to fold up like a Ferrero Rocher in a lorry driver’s back pocket. I swore, fluently and eloquently, and then got out to see if the other driver was ok.
Police called, car moved, details taken, I did what everybody does after a stressful situation: I called me mum.
*CLICK*
“Hello?”
“Hi Mum, it’s me.”
“Hello, you. What’s up?”
“I’ve been in a crash, Mum.”
“Oooh, no! Was it an accident?”
(Only my mother needs to confirm that I am not intentionally ramming people with my car.)
“Yes, Mum.”
“Hmm… was it your fault?”
“No, see, there was this guy overtaking coming the other way…”
Wiggle room, see? What, you thought just because I wrote it I was exempt? Who am I, Jesus?
What it really means is that driving requires a little more care. Things that would normally not present much of a problem, something like a particularly sharp bend or a spot of sudden braking, now become more interesting challenges. Too much swerve on the corner and suddenly you’ve got half a leather office chair in your lap. Lots of people drive like they were taking part in a rally, but to my knowledge no rally racers fill the back of the car with mirrors and frying pans before setting off.
This all makes me a bit nervous, because I consider myself quite a careful driver. That statement sounds reprehensibly self-righteous, but it is born out of hard lessons and deep disappointment. A couple of years ago I had my first car crash, and since then I have been much more careful on the roads. You might think that this is a case of shutting the stable door when there’s an elephant in the room, or whatever the phrase is, and you’d be right. But if we learnt the lesson before we made the mistake, the mistake would not have been made. Probably.
If you tell someone that you have been in a car crash, they will immediately say: “Are you all right?” This, society teaches us, is the correct response to any tale of physical misfortune. Unless you are telling the story from a wheelchair or in a full neck-brace they can probably see that you look fine, but the statement has an implication of sympathy that is also required. (If you were telling the story from a wheelchair they presumably would have noticed, and begun the conversation with “Are you all right?” To which you would have replied, “Nah, I was in a car crash.”)
The conversation will then continue with further questioning, as your companion attempts to discover the particulars of your unhappy accident. At some stage in the proceedings enough of a picture will have been painted to allow the apportion of blame. This is the crucial step in the whole process, as it determines what course the rest of the conversation will run. If blame rests fully or partially with the driver being quizzed, then broad sympathy of the ‘what a bugger for you, on the other hand, it could have been much worse’ kind is in order. If blame can be completely attached to parties not present, then sympathy coupled with outrage is on the menu instead.
Here’s the thing though. It’s ALWAYS your fault, buddy. Let’s have a look at some of the most fundamental requirements of driving a car:
Number 1: You’re supposed to arrive at some sort of destination. This is the purpose for which cars were, in fact, designed. If you just drive around and around until you run out of petrol and have to stop you are technically driving, but it’s not really what the manufacturer intended.
Number 2: You aren’t supposed to hit anything. Anything at all. Ever.
So having a car crash contravenes at least these laws, and probably more besides. In fact there’s a pretty solid argument that’s says while involved in one, you aren’t really driving at all. You’re crashing, aren’t you.
No one likes to be blamed for anything, and for men in particular crashing your car is a basic failing. As previously mentioned driving is a masculine activity, and failing to drive effectively makes you look like a big sissy girl. And so most tales of automotive accident told by men allow for a certain amount of wiggle room, and other men respect that. Few blokes just come out and say. “I didn’t mean to crash into him… but then I crashed into him.”
My accident was the result of some scary driving from someone else (see, wiggle room). As I was pootling home one autumn evening someone overtook on the blind bend in front of me, nearly hitting the car immediately ahead of mine. The person ahead drove on for a few seconds and then suddenly emergency-stopped, which threw me completely off. My final thoughts ran something like this:
“Cor, that was close. Could’ve caused a nasty acci—OH MY COCKING CHRIST I’M GOING TO CRASH MY CAR!!”
I was not afraid; I can say that with absolute conviction. Instead I was angry, luminously angry at the world and myself. I knew in a split second that my little Italian car would be a write-off. It had crumple zones. Not just lines of weakness, or areas where crumpling might potentially take place- whole zones, dedicated solely to providing maximum crumplage. It was destined to fold up like a Ferrero Rocher in a lorry driver’s back pocket. I swore, fluently and eloquently, and then got out to see if the other driver was ok.
Police called, car moved, details taken, I did what everybody does after a stressful situation: I called me mum.
*CLICK*
“Hello?”
“Hi Mum, it’s me.”
“Hello, you. What’s up?”
“I’ve been in a crash, Mum.”
“Oooh, no! Was it an accident?”
(Only my mother needs to confirm that I am not intentionally ramming people with my car.)
“Yes, Mum.”
“Hmm… was it your fault?”
“No, see, there was this guy overtaking coming the other way…”
Wiggle room, see? What, you thought just because I wrote it I was exempt? Who am I, Jesus?
Sunday, 6 September 2009
The signal is down
I know, I know, it's another post explaining that there is no post. But it's not my fault this time I swear! I'm writing this on a purloined iPhone as my new house has no internet connection and they won't let me back in the university library yet. FML. There are two shiny blog posts waiting patiently on my laptop, all buffed and shined for their big day on the interwebs. If it doesn't look like I'm getting a connection this week I'll pop them on a memory stick and go round someone else's house or something. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves, or go and read Nash's blog, you know that's REALLY what you want to read.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
It's flatpacked with goodness!
Next week I am moving out. Warm, fuzzy Norwich calls me back for at least one more year, and so I am gathering my belongings and headin’ out East. This means I can finally escape from the tyrannically benign regime of my parents (how DARE they cook all my meals and give me lifts everywhere) and be my own man again. The next blog post will therefore be written in the smoking crater that was once my new living room, surrounded by a fallout of empty takeaways and bottle caps.
The best thing about moving into a completely new place, even better than the possibility you’ll move in next to a sex-starved thirty something millionaire businesswomen, is flatpack furniture. Yes, the humble flatpack provides the most complete satisfaction a man without missing hands can enjoy.
Unpacking flat pack furniture (or ‘flacking’ to the more experienced) is a manly art, right up there with urban warfare and driving a digger. It combines some of them most masculine activities from start to finish:
1. Driving to get the furniture. While driving itself can be viewed as a masculine enterprise (especially if you lean into the corners and make nneeeooow noises), it is the furniture store itself that provides a rarely visited environment for manly skills. Aside from the expected heavy lifting you may also be placed in charge of a large and unwieldy trolley, giving you the opportunity to powerslide a grossly overloaded vehicle through the populated intersections between aisles. Again, nneeeooow noises can be deployed for maximum drama.
2. Driving back with the furniture. Driving again, but this time, driving under adverse conditions. On the United Nations scale of Invention and Improvisation Under Adverse Conditions, fitting 50 square meters of wooden and metal surfaces into a 2 square meter Peugeot rates just under repairing your tank under concentrated artillery fire. Your friends or significant other, now jammed into the passenger footwell under 30 kilos of mdf, will surely agree, as will the policeman who pulls you over for having 2 meters of metal piping sticking out of your open boot, secured with a single frayed bungee cord. “Yes sir, extremely original use of folding down the seats. You’re practically in the A-Team.”
3. Assembly. You are the mighty creator! From chaos, you have made order, stopping only for a cup if tea every fifteen minutes and that brief period when you realised you’d put the first bit together backwards! The assembling of flatpack furniture gives the illusion of concentrated mental and physical effort, whereas all you are really doing is re-assembling an object that someone else has designed and then deconstructed in the simplest way. The instructions on furniture from IKEA are simple enough not to require words; instead they rely on the same visual code used by Lego, with an androgynous jelly-baby man standing by looking purposeful. You’re basically putting together a giant Lego kit, except hopefully it won’t smash to pieces if you put any weight on it.
4. Unnecessary tool deployment. OK, so technically all it needs is the Allen key that was provided in the box. Still, it’s better to be prepared, which fully justifies you lugging every power tool you own round to you mum’s, just in case. And if it needs a screwdriver, why not use an electric one? It’s a timesaver, not just an excuse to hold something that looks a bit like a laser gun and makes exciting noises when you squeeze the trigger.
5. Acceptance of thanks. Some people do not enjoy the construction of flatpack furniture. These poor, uninitiated souls are normally female, and must NEVER be allowed to do so, lest they discover its joys and realise there is absolutely no skill to it, and that there was really no need to invite you over and make you all those sandwiches. In the meantime you can simply accept their thanks with noble composure, and a look that quietly says ‘financial compensation would normally be expected for the type of service I have just provided, but I have let it slide because I am that sort of man.’
Flatpack furniture is much maligned as being lower quality than your standard, pre-assembled stuff. But I put together an extendable dining table and chairs last week and let me tell you, whoever designed that table was a tupping genius. Despite involving sliding parts and pivots in the actual build, it was so easy to assemble that even your common or garden ignoramus like myself could put it together. And as I sat on my new chairs, contemplating how hideous the sofa in my new living room is, I felt the stirrings of pride warming my buttocks. And I’ve still got a coffee table to go. All is right with the world.
The best thing about moving into a completely new place, even better than the possibility you’ll move in next to a sex-starved thirty something millionaire businesswomen, is flatpack furniture. Yes, the humble flatpack provides the most complete satisfaction a man without missing hands can enjoy.
Unpacking flat pack furniture (or ‘flacking’ to the more experienced) is a manly art, right up there with urban warfare and driving a digger. It combines some of them most masculine activities from start to finish:
1. Driving to get the furniture. While driving itself can be viewed as a masculine enterprise (especially if you lean into the corners and make nneeeooow noises), it is the furniture store itself that provides a rarely visited environment for manly skills. Aside from the expected heavy lifting you may also be placed in charge of a large and unwieldy trolley, giving you the opportunity to powerslide a grossly overloaded vehicle through the populated intersections between aisles. Again, nneeeooow noises can be deployed for maximum drama.
2. Driving back with the furniture. Driving again, but this time, driving under adverse conditions. On the United Nations scale of Invention and Improvisation Under Adverse Conditions, fitting 50 square meters of wooden and metal surfaces into a 2 square meter Peugeot rates just under repairing your tank under concentrated artillery fire. Your friends or significant other, now jammed into the passenger footwell under 30 kilos of mdf, will surely agree, as will the policeman who pulls you over for having 2 meters of metal piping sticking out of your open boot, secured with a single frayed bungee cord. “Yes sir, extremely original use of folding down the seats. You’re practically in the A-Team.”
3. Assembly. You are the mighty creator! From chaos, you have made order, stopping only for a cup if tea every fifteen minutes and that brief period when you realised you’d put the first bit together backwards! The assembling of flatpack furniture gives the illusion of concentrated mental and physical effort, whereas all you are really doing is re-assembling an object that someone else has designed and then deconstructed in the simplest way. The instructions on furniture from IKEA are simple enough not to require words; instead they rely on the same visual code used by Lego, with an androgynous jelly-baby man standing by looking purposeful. You’re basically putting together a giant Lego kit, except hopefully it won’t smash to pieces if you put any weight on it.
4. Unnecessary tool deployment. OK, so technically all it needs is the Allen key that was provided in the box. Still, it’s better to be prepared, which fully justifies you lugging every power tool you own round to you mum’s, just in case. And if it needs a screwdriver, why not use an electric one? It’s a timesaver, not just an excuse to hold something that looks a bit like a laser gun and makes exciting noises when you squeeze the trigger.
5. Acceptance of thanks. Some people do not enjoy the construction of flatpack furniture. These poor, uninitiated souls are normally female, and must NEVER be allowed to do so, lest they discover its joys and realise there is absolutely no skill to it, and that there was really no need to invite you over and make you all those sandwiches. In the meantime you can simply accept their thanks with noble composure, and a look that quietly says ‘financial compensation would normally be expected for the type of service I have just provided, but I have let it slide because I am that sort of man.’
Flatpack furniture is much maligned as being lower quality than your standard, pre-assembled stuff. But I put together an extendable dining table and chairs last week and let me tell you, whoever designed that table was a tupping genius. Despite involving sliding parts and pivots in the actual build, it was so easy to assemble that even your common or garden ignoramus like myself could put it together. And as I sat on my new chairs, contemplating how hideous the sofa in my new living room is, I felt the stirrings of pride warming my buttocks. And I’ve still got a coffee table to go. All is right with the world.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
The Stooge/ notes on writing
I finished a short story. It's called The Stooge, and it's not very good. I am not fishing for compliments with this, there IS an awful lot wrong with this story. Firstly it is very over-long and needs some savage editing. I do my best work when I'm tidying things up- so much so that the initial writing of a story is often only a framework, a necessary hump to get over before I can start the more enjoyable work (for me) of some polishing. This story was also an exercise in starting and finishing something against a deadline, even if it was something that worked best only as an idea (truth be told, I got bored of writing this early on. I do that a lot). But I set myself a task and I finished it, so a big shiny medal for me, and a story to read for you:
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AbGepPqkfWHSZGhxZ2RrNmRfMWd2bnE1NGRo&hl=en
If I were you (and boy, do I ever wish), I would copy and paste it into MS Word, and then block it and double space it. It'll mess up the speech a bit, but never mind.
Notes on the names: I only make up names for characters that have an ongoing significance for me. When I'm doing a writing exercise, I just unashamedly thieve them from other sources. 'Stephen Katz' was the pseudonym of Bill Bryson's funny but slightly unbalanced travel companion in 'Neither Here Nor There,' an excellent and well paced travelogue. Most of the other names are comic book characters (I do that a lot too). Try and spot them all... if you're some sort of obsessive.
If you have any thoughts on the story, email me at verbalslaptick@gmail.com and let me know. One thing, I need help with plotting, sentence structure and characterisation- proof reading is not required. This piece is probably FULL of mistakes, but I only finished it five minutes ago and can't be bothered to read over it, so I don't consider it a big deal.
In other news, I'll try and get a post done in the middle of the week, to say thanks for waiting on me.
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AbGepPqkfWHSZGhxZ2RrNmRfMWd2bnE1NGRo&hl=en
If I were you (and boy, do I ever wish), I would copy and paste it into MS Word, and then block it and double space it. It'll mess up the speech a bit, but never mind.
Notes on the names: I only make up names for characters that have an ongoing significance for me. When I'm doing a writing exercise, I just unashamedly thieve them from other sources. 'Stephen Katz' was the pseudonym of Bill Bryson's funny but slightly unbalanced travel companion in 'Neither Here Nor There,' an excellent and well paced travelogue. Most of the other names are comic book characters (I do that a lot too). Try and spot them all... if you're some sort of obsessive.
If you have any thoughts on the story, email me at verbalslaptick@gmail.com and let me know. One thing, I need help with plotting, sentence structure and characterisation- proof reading is not required. This piece is probably FULL of mistakes, but I only finished it five minutes ago and can't be bothered to read over it, so I don't consider it a big deal.
In other news, I'll try and get a post done in the middle of the week, to say thanks for waiting on me.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
A week off (sort of)
No post this week, unless something really witty strikes me (unlikely) because I’ve got a short story on the boil, and I need a kick up the arse to finish it. So the plan is: finish it this week, then plonk it somewhere on the interwebs so you can read it, if you feel like it. Hopefully stating my intentions will encourage me to finish it and stop fannying around. It’ll only be 15,000(ish) words long, but I need a bit of encouragement and structure to get my writing in gear before my MA starts.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Nostalgia
I had my first Harry Potter conversation a little while ago. And it was good. I sat down with a few friends and had a long reminisce about key points of the series, favourite moments, stupid names of spells and that sort of thing.
I suspect I need to clarify this with yet another disappointing knock to my street cred: I really liked the Harry Potter series. They were great kids books. I doubt very much that I’d have bothered reading them if I’d encountered them as an adult, but I was eleven when I read the first one (so there!) and Harry Potter aged much as I did- same year in school and all that.
Admittedly his schooldays were a lot more interesting: nighttime wanderings and lost uncles and broomstick rides. Whereas mine consisted largely of long breakfasts at the local Tesco’s, scheming on girls and trying to avoid being exposed as a wuss in P.E. (Never get near the ball, shout a lot, try and partner with people noticeably shitter than you.)
I hadn’t really thought much about the Harry Potter books since I finished the last one. By then I was on the cusp of adulthood (and what a long and ever receding cusp that seems to be), and the plot holes seemed a little wider than they had before, but I had enough affection for the characters to carry me through. Say what you like about ol’ J.K. but she can certainly hurry a plot along, and she’s got a nice flair for ramping up the tension in big set pieces. (Mrs. Rowling, if you are reading and wish to reward me for this plug, I would like a million pounds, or whatever you earn in interest in a four hour period. Whichever is greater.)
I don’t watch the films, because they’re rubbish. So not only is there nothing to remind me of the books unless I choose to read them again, there’s also nothing to take the shine off. Harry Potter will remain where he belongs, well in the realms of nostalgia.
Dara O’Briain once said that “Nostalgia is just heroin for old people,” and I can see his point. Just because the present is difficult (and I’m not denying it is), doesn’t mean the past was much better. A return to ‘past values’ is naïve- if the values are worthwhile to implement NOW then they ought to be, and crucially shouldn’t have been allowed to slip in the first place. If you miss the best bits of yesterday than bloody well live like it was then instead of now, and set yourself as an example to others.
The nostalgia I’m on about refers to the collective remembrance of a shared experience. It is, by implication, positive (negative memories inspire reminiscence of a different sort). This does not mean, however, that there is any real desire to have the past back, is there?
Perhaps you are familiar with, or have even taken part, in the following conversation. It is oft overheard in pubs and living rooms, anywhere where 15- 25 year olds can associate with added alcohol. It runs like so:
Person 1: Do you remember [TV show from childhood]?
Person 2: Oh God, yeah. [catchphrase from show]!
Person 3: Did you have the toys as well?
Person 1 : Yeah, I had the [generic merchandising item].
Person 2: I was never allowed to have them. My mum said they were too expensive.
Person 1: Did they get banned at your primary school eventually?
Person 3: Oh, yeah.
Person 2: I can still sing the theme song!
[Persons 2 and 3 sing the theme song in its entirety, Person 1 looks vaguely embarrassed]
Person 1 (after sufficient time has elapsed): What about [TV show from childhood]?
Person 2: Haha, yeah!
All: [Catchphrase from show]!
This scintillating dialogue can go on for up to an hour as its participants bathe in the balmy waters of childhood. Channel 4 have made essentially a whole industry out of its ‘100 Greatest such-and-such’ programmes, that appeal to our collective history and the fact there is fuck all else to watch on a Sunday night.
Let’s be clear: something doesn’t have to be very good to be remembered fondly. It just has to tug the right strings, for whatever reason. I used to love Power Rangers. If I watched it with fresh eyes I’m sure I’d see it for what it really is: a pile of cynical, consumerist wank designed to prey on the aggression of small boys and translate it into huge sums of cash. But I can still remember all their names.
The collection of texts grows ever broader. I give it ten years before a major television channel plays ‘100 Greatest Video Games’ to a prime time audience. By then there will be few twenty-something males who haven’t been directly influenced by computer games. I can already spark off a twenty-minute pub natter about The Legend of Zelda.
So what will people don the rose tinted spectacles for in future? Will people in 2050 talk fondly of mobile phones (obsolete now video links are beamed directly into one’s eyes) or cars (replaced by mobile sofas piloted by robotic baboons)?
More importantly, will people still be talking about Harry Potter? An interesting thing about the conversation transcribed above is that it seems to be generation specific. No one fifteen years my junior will remember Thundercats the way I do. If I try and show it to them, they’ll think it’s shit. It’s OK. It was shit. I’ve listened to my dad talk starry-eyed about Trump Town but I can say with utmost certainty that no one born today or after will ever give a shit about Windy Miller. It’s OK. He was rubbish as well.
Will Harry Potter stand the test of time? Will people two generations away talk with delight about the series to strangers on trains, prospective lovers, old friends? I certainly hope so, not because my invested interest in the books is so strong, but because it will give me a way to connect with those generations, because I doubt they’ll give two World Bank Hyper cents about The Legend of Zelda. The best thing about art ( do I mean ‘art?’ I don’t know) is that not only does it reach people, it gives them a way to reach other people. THAT is what nostalgia should be- a pathway to a remembrance that we can all share.
Man, these posts are getting pretty sentimental. Right, starting next week, I’m moving into a squat and doing a shitload of 2cb every evening, then being targeted and cynical about everything, including you fucking squares reading this.
I suspect I need to clarify this with yet another disappointing knock to my street cred: I really liked the Harry Potter series. They were great kids books. I doubt very much that I’d have bothered reading them if I’d encountered them as an adult, but I was eleven when I read the first one (so there!) and Harry Potter aged much as I did- same year in school and all that.
Admittedly his schooldays were a lot more interesting: nighttime wanderings and lost uncles and broomstick rides. Whereas mine consisted largely of long breakfasts at the local Tesco’s, scheming on girls and trying to avoid being exposed as a wuss in P.E. (Never get near the ball, shout a lot, try and partner with people noticeably shitter than you.)
I hadn’t really thought much about the Harry Potter books since I finished the last one. By then I was on the cusp of adulthood (and what a long and ever receding cusp that seems to be), and the plot holes seemed a little wider than they had before, but I had enough affection for the characters to carry me through. Say what you like about ol’ J.K. but she can certainly hurry a plot along, and she’s got a nice flair for ramping up the tension in big set pieces. (Mrs. Rowling, if you are reading and wish to reward me for this plug, I would like a million pounds, or whatever you earn in interest in a four hour period. Whichever is greater.)
I don’t watch the films, because they’re rubbish. So not only is there nothing to remind me of the books unless I choose to read them again, there’s also nothing to take the shine off. Harry Potter will remain where he belongs, well in the realms of nostalgia.
Dara O’Briain once said that “Nostalgia is just heroin for old people,” and I can see his point. Just because the present is difficult (and I’m not denying it is), doesn’t mean the past was much better. A return to ‘past values’ is naïve- if the values are worthwhile to implement NOW then they ought to be, and crucially shouldn’t have been allowed to slip in the first place. If you miss the best bits of yesterday than bloody well live like it was then instead of now, and set yourself as an example to others.
The nostalgia I’m on about refers to the collective remembrance of a shared experience. It is, by implication, positive (negative memories inspire reminiscence of a different sort). This does not mean, however, that there is any real desire to have the past back, is there?
Perhaps you are familiar with, or have even taken part, in the following conversation. It is oft overheard in pubs and living rooms, anywhere where 15- 25 year olds can associate with added alcohol. It runs like so:
Person 1: Do you remember [TV show from childhood]?
Person 2: Oh God, yeah. [catchphrase from show]!
Person 3: Did you have the toys as well?
Person 1 : Yeah, I had the [generic merchandising item].
Person 2: I was never allowed to have them. My mum said they were too expensive.
Person 1: Did they get banned at your primary school eventually?
Person 3: Oh, yeah.
Person 2: I can still sing the theme song!
[Persons 2 and 3 sing the theme song in its entirety, Person 1 looks vaguely embarrassed]
Person 1 (after sufficient time has elapsed): What about [TV show from childhood]?
Person 2: Haha, yeah!
All: [Catchphrase from show]!
This scintillating dialogue can go on for up to an hour as its participants bathe in the balmy waters of childhood. Channel 4 have made essentially a whole industry out of its ‘100 Greatest such-and-such’ programmes, that appeal to our collective history and the fact there is fuck all else to watch on a Sunday night.
Let’s be clear: something doesn’t have to be very good to be remembered fondly. It just has to tug the right strings, for whatever reason. I used to love Power Rangers. If I watched it with fresh eyes I’m sure I’d see it for what it really is: a pile of cynical, consumerist wank designed to prey on the aggression of small boys and translate it into huge sums of cash. But I can still remember all their names.
The collection of texts grows ever broader. I give it ten years before a major television channel plays ‘100 Greatest Video Games’ to a prime time audience. By then there will be few twenty-something males who haven’t been directly influenced by computer games. I can already spark off a twenty-minute pub natter about The Legend of Zelda.
So what will people don the rose tinted spectacles for in future? Will people in 2050 talk fondly of mobile phones (obsolete now video links are beamed directly into one’s eyes) or cars (replaced by mobile sofas piloted by robotic baboons)?
More importantly, will people still be talking about Harry Potter? An interesting thing about the conversation transcribed above is that it seems to be generation specific. No one fifteen years my junior will remember Thundercats the way I do. If I try and show it to them, they’ll think it’s shit. It’s OK. It was shit. I’ve listened to my dad talk starry-eyed about Trump Town but I can say with utmost certainty that no one born today or after will ever give a shit about Windy Miller. It’s OK. He was rubbish as well.
Will Harry Potter stand the test of time? Will people two generations away talk with delight about the series to strangers on trains, prospective lovers, old friends? I certainly hope so, not because my invested interest in the books is so strong, but because it will give me a way to connect with those generations, because I doubt they’ll give two World Bank Hyper cents about The Legend of Zelda. The best thing about art ( do I mean ‘art?’ I don’t know) is that not only does it reach people, it gives them a way to reach other people. THAT is what nostalgia should be- a pathway to a remembrance that we can all share.
Man, these posts are getting pretty sentimental. Right, starting next week, I’m moving into a squat and doing a shitload of 2cb every evening, then being targeted and cynical about everything, including you fucking squares reading this.
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