My Blank Pages

Well, the car finally blew up. 

Cock. 

But, in an attempt to put a silver-lining on this particularly gloomy cloud, at least I've had the day at home to do some writing. Which I have singularly failed to do. 

Double Cock.

And then had some bad news from work. Which I probably can't talk about.

Cock The Thrice.

I've been thinking about this blog and the fact that it's branched off from talking about screenwriting and into the realm of "arsing about". Hope you don't mind being my guinea pigs. I'm quite enjoying the release and the chance to experiment. 

But, yes. Writing. Had more feedback from the producers. "Stuck Between Stations" is now morphing into a 60 minute comedy-drama from it's original sitcom origins. We're going for a sort of 'The Wire, but - y'know - with knob gags'. So, lots of intricate plotting ahead. But all I have right now are a collection of characters and 60 blank pages. 

Oh, dear. I'm watching one of the episodes of 'Futurama' that makes me cry. Excuse me. Make that 60 slightly damp pages. 

A Glimpse of the Future?

I had a dream of my perfect life last night. Just a glimpse. In it, I woke, had breakfast with my kids and took them to school/playgroup. I then stopped off at a small non-corporate coffee shop by my house and then went to a small office where I spent the morning writing. Bliss.

Then a 100 foot high Dr. Zoidberg from "Futurama" ate my car.

Bloody subconscious.

Kill Your Television. Then Your Heroes.

I’m working from home today as I managed to ruin two of my tyres this morning, while driving to the office like a cock. I’m a terrible driver. Less Lewis Hamilton, more Christine.

Still, big shout out to the Real Men at “Get Motoring” in Princes Risborough who put on my spare tyre for free, after I singularly failed to manage it myself.

I remember reading an article several years ago how some males are Men and others will always be Boys. Sean Connery? Man. Brad Pitt? Boy. I’m firmly in the Boy camp.

That last one might be the most unintentionally gay sentence ever written.

As God is obviously not a fan of my bank balance, my television blew up this week as well. We’re reduced to watching stuff on the 15” portable. Which wouldn’t be a problem, other than my kids have abnormally large heads. They sit two feet away from the screen and obscure everything for my Better Half and I.

So my “research” (Or “watching endless re-runs of Futurama and the Simpsons on Sky” to be more accurate) has taken a knock. And “24” starts next week!

But no television is probably a good thing for one simple reason. Iggy Pop advertising insurance. There’s something depressing to reach 32 years of age and still have people you respect let you down.

Ron Asheton, the Stooges' guitarist, died this week. They authorities say it was natural causes. I reckon he flicked on the telly, saw his lead singer extolling the virtues of online applications and keeled over in shame.

Your heroes will only end up disappointing you, kids.