Archive for August, 2011
We are no longer approaching September; we are clearly on its doorstep. If September happens to come out, possibly to check if the milk has been delivered or to see what the weather is like, they will catch us perching on on the step. I will be peering through the letterbox when really all I want to do is run screaming, screaming, screaming into the street and hope that August comes back with a nice cold drink and a pat on the back.
Fat chance though. August hopped town as soon as it could leaving nothing but drizzle and disappointment. “Where’s my summer?” I shout, shaking my fist in the air. It doesn’t look back and it doesn’t care.
So let’s all gather round in a nice circle and look forward to all the things that Autumn has to offer such as conkers, a new television schedule, a chance to wear hats and all those new greatest hits albums close to the big chill at the end of the year.
August 31st, 2011
Having established my empire back in the late 18th century I think it would take a fool the size of Lincolnshire to claim that I wasn’t very good at selling things. I’ve been there through the highs and the lows and now that we’re back in the lows I should pass on some of my knowledge to those who require it. And here it is:
“You can sell anything to anyone with the help of some bears.”
Now we’re not talking some domesticated, Winnie the Pooh sort of bear. What I mean is one of the wilder, more unhinged bears. The ones with the big face and the large paws. Them ones. You get yourself a couple of them and the skys the limit and various other cliches.
Place whatever it is you want to sell inside a rather large cage then put the bears inside the big cage in a small cage. Cover the bears with a fruit-covered blanket to give the impression of space and open the door to allow people in to inspect what you’re trying to sell. If they don’t look interested or if they try to leave you shut the door of the big cage and threaten to unleash the bears unless they buy your product.
Simple and effect, this method can be used over and over for repeated success. Try it; you just might like it.
August 23rd, 2011
If one morning you woke up, as usual, and prepared to go to work, as usual, and had your breakfast and drank your coffee or tea, as usual, and put your coat and shoes on, as usual, and you get into your car, as usual, and turn the key. What, then, would you do if the car wouldn’t start?
Furthermore, if one would continue to ponder, if you went to open the hood of the car to check the engine and you discovered that the engine had, in fact, been stolen and replaced by one made out of dry pasta shapes, what would you do?
Would you call the police to report a theft?
Would you call your insurance company?
Or would you bag up the pasta, take it inside and, after work, collect the ingredients to make a lovely pasta sauce?
August 16th, 2011
I have today, whilst carrying a box, decided that a good idea for a short film would be a man carrying a box. Who is that man? I do not know. What is he carrying in his box? I also don’t know. There are many questions that need answering before Man With A Box can come to fruition. I hope that it does though.
I feel as though we need a project to re-energise the beans and re-group the members. After the collective shambles that was moving Chris into his new flat and how we almost destroyed each other I suppose we should return to what we originally did; wasting our lives on film.
I see a low budget. I see flimsy acting and non-existant scenary other than the streets, and everyone knows the streets come for free. I see it lasting only ten minutes and you both editing it in less than a day. The script is practically written.
Leave it to me; I’ve got this!
August 9th, 2011
Today somebody at work asked the question, “what is winter?”
It’s a good question. For some it sounds like a stupid question but to me I like to address it on all levels, so in order to do so I have written a short poem. I hope you enjoy it.
Winter
What is winter?
Is it just snow? No, it’s not.
It’s more than snow.
DEEP LIKE THE SNOW. I am.
The answers are within me,
Buried, also like the snow.
I will respond to them like echoes
Across snow-ridden clifftops.
Ah. So it is mainly about snow then.
That answers my question.
Winter is snow.
Oh, and Christmas too,
With a smidge of festoons added for good measure.
It came from the heart, so I told the heart to do better next time.
August 8th, 2011
Once upon a time two rising owl pop stars, Michael Owl and Owla Jackson, were driving in their tour bus around West Yorkshire. They had just finished a few dates in and around Manchester and they steadily found themselves approaching Pontefract, where nary a soul was located. It was quite dark now because people who aren’t famous have to utilise the dark. The driver of the small van stopped because the fog that was gathering was getting too thick and anyway they needed some more petrol. He upped and left poor Michael and Owla in the disturbing, creepy street surrounded by danger.
“Get out and have a look will you,” said Michael, now realising his sentence was actually a question, “there must be somewhere we can go for a drink or something around here.” Owla, still dressed in the clothes from the night before but still looking stunning hooted, “I will do Michael but only if you tell me if there is anything fishy going on outside that I can see.” So Owla climbed down from the van and slowly walked around. Her tiny torch barely lit further than her wingspan. Just then a terribly loud noise was heard; thankfully it was just Michael tapping on the window. “Can you get me a Twix if you find a corner shop, cheers,” he whistled through the small crack in the door.
Suddenly another terribly loud noise was heard and this time not from the van. The fog parted a little and Owla could see an army of zombies parading through the streets of Pontefract. She ran back to the bus but Michael wouldn’t let her on. “Let me in you dick,” she screamed frantically trying to barge her way in. “Not without my Twix you’re not, you think I like this taste in my mouth?” With no other options Owla ran into the forest that was conveniently placed on the side of the road. Inside she felt slightly more protected but it was only a matter of time before the zombies approached. They could smell her fear and the pancakes she had eaten for lunch. The trees seemed to be suffocating her, drawing life from her, she wanted to run yet she couldn’t. On the verge of fainting Owla was drawn towards the peculiar sight of a medium-sized unicorn riding towards her. She thought it was a the oxygen being cut off from her brain; she was wrong.
“Owla Jackson! Well I never, fancy seeing you here,” said the unicorn, “I am your biggest fan did you know that?” Owla dusted herself down as the unicorn had brought a surprising amount of powered soil to that particular section of the woods. “My name is Uni. I came out because I heard the zombies were out showing off again.”
“You know about the zombies? Please, you have to tell me how to defeat them,” spluttered Owla. The unicorn took a short breath looking a little nervous. She coughed and shuffled backwards. “I do know of a way to beat them and I can help you, especially considering you’re a celebrity and all that. It’s a secret though and you have to promise you’ll keep it to yourself.”
“Of course I will,” said Owla, fully intending to keep the information to herself and only using it when necessary. “Zombies loves techno music, so much so that if you play it to them they cannot help but dance and then bugger off home. It’s great. That’s how I usually clear the area.” Owla smiled a huge smile and hugged the unicorn, to which she blushed. This was hidden beneath the layers of dense mist and acorns of black. They looked at each other with a sense of purpose and walked back towards the street.
The zombies hadn’t shuffled much from where they were. Owla turned to the unicorn, “okay, you’re on, but if you need any help you just let me know.” The unicorn nodded and whipped out her microphone and decks. “Okay now it’s time for a Pontefract party, we’re living it up like homeless kitties in a pasteurising plant. Can you hear me over in the corner!” The zombies stopped momentarily and groaned. “I’ll take that as a yes… HIT IT!” The unicorn then launched into the most mesmerising song that Owla had ever heard. Michael Owl, still hiding in the van, pressed his face to the windscreen as the music lifted through the air and cherished every moment.
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
The song lasted an hour. After sixty minutes there was a pause, and Owla walked over to the unicorn. “Are you okay unicorn, it’s just that you’ve been working for a long time and…
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
Another hour passed. Owla Jackson sat on the kerb and chewed the inside of her mouth. Another pause came after the second set of sixty minutes. Owla wasn’t taken in and refused to go over but then, seeing that this actually might be the end of the song, got up and…
“OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA! OWLA OWLA!”
After three hours the zombies had pulled so many shapes that they were tired and needed to go home for a nap. Owla stood up and hobbled over to the unicorn also feeling very sluggish. “Are you okay unicorn?” she asked half-asleep. The unicorn stared back with intense eyes, “that was the best moment of my life, Owla Jackson!” Deep down Owla was thinking that the best moment of the unicorn’s life was way, way longer than a moment however these semantics could wait. The unicorn was happy, the zombies had dispersed and just that moment the driver of the van came back clutching a thing full of petrol.
Owla gave the unicorn a signed photo as a thank you for her gracious act. “What time are you playing tonight?” asked the unicorn. “I think we’re on at 7pm and I hope that I will see you there,” said Owla with a wink. The unicorn laughed heartily like a pirate and ran off into the forest. Owla headed back and sat in the van next to Michael, who had fallen asleep after the first hour of the unicorn’s song. “What should we do now, Owla?” he asked. Owla thought long and hard and as the van drove away she said, “we should drive away in the van.”
The End.
August 7th, 2011
It’s been a while since the last Logical Dreamscape, so you’d expect my subconscious to come back with a belter. Belter is quite a strong word though. Something more apt would probably be, “uh uhhhhhhh huh ah” because let’s face it nothing will ever top the Rachel Stevens dream.
Me, Kev and Marshall are stood in the lobby of a reasonable tall building. We’re all running around like giddy children. When the lift comes down however I’m the only one who gets in; both Kev and Marshall wait for the next one. The lift I’m in is far too small for me so I have to lean over to one side which hurts my neck. Everyone else in the lift is dressed in ballroom attire, all huge gowns and suits and top hats. How a top hat fit into such a small space I’ll never know.
Eventually I reach the floor and get out. It’s a flat where Chris lives but it looks nothing like where he actually lives. It’s one of those studio apartments with only a tiny toilet. All the walls are still painted white. There’s a modest kitchen in the bottom left-hand corner and the living room is in the top left. We all go into the flat. I remark that it must be very handy have a Tesco so close to where he lives. Both Kev and Marshall look at me confused. When we look across to where the kitchen was there is a checkout and a queue of people waiting to buy their shopping. Instead of regular shopping the only items available are bits of clothing and equipment from the emergency services, such as a police riot helmet and a fire extinguisher.
We decide to leave. I almost fall through a hole in the sink but use a scouring pad to save myself.
What does it all mean?!?
August 3rd, 2011
If, like me, you enjoy live music then you will be drawn to places where live music is being played. The size of the venue may differ. The price of the tickets will slide up and down depending on who you’re seeing. There is a constant that remains though wherever you go and whoever you’re with. With live music comes the gig stereotypes. There are many different types that you will come across but for your benefit the main offenders are listed below for your pleasure:
1. Smoochy Couple – so you’re trying to watch and the couple stood immediately in front of you from the point where the band or the artist comes onto the stage right up to the end will slosh and swoon and swap saliva for the entire duration. They’re not there for the music; they’re there to piss you off. If they wanted to sit in the dark they could have saved money and stood in the alley round the back. I might suggest this the next time it happens.
2. Mr Trendoid – he has crap hair, a striped t-shirt and tight jeans on. He will cop off with the most attractive woman in the room. He may even have arranged the gig itself. In a perfect world he would have been glassed on the way in.
3. KERAZY Girls – giddy, young, reeking of perfume and looking like, bless, prototype French prostitutes, these brazen, bronzed and buxom ladies will gather together in large groups within your field of vision. They are the most excited people in the room even though a lot of the time they don’t have a clue who it is they have come to see. It doesn’t matter; they’re there to be seen not to see. It’s the trendiferous factor. They’ve heard of Band A from their clueless friends or read about Band A in NME and, noticing they’re playing soon, purchase tickets. They fling their arms about and push their way to front. Hell, they may even be willing to drop on their knees and offer a blowie. Who knows.
4. Talkative Friends – nobody is expecting you to stay silent like a nun the whole time you’re there, but you will come across two friends who, probably stood just to the side of the smoochy couple, will chat constantly. You will half hear their conversation whilst the band stops one song and starts another. Their heads will duck back and forth, desperate to share something that clearly couldn’t wait until the end of the encore. Occasionally they’ll both laugh, neither one taking in what is happening right in front of them. Their persistence, whilst admirable initially, makes you want to punch them even more after five minutes.
You can’t change anything. No matter what you do they will turn up and they will try to ruin your life. My only advice is to learn to embrace their foibles and accidentally knock their drink over when they’re too drunk to notice.
August 2nd, 2011