Contemplating taking Barney Thomson to the Edinburgh Fringe next year. Having said that, I've contemplated taking Barney to the Fringe on several previous occasions and have yet to do it, however it could be that the time is right.
I did the official Edinburgh Book Festival in August 2002. TPCKAM wrote to the director, Catherine Lockerbie, and asked if they'd take me. I'd been interviewed by Lockerbie for the Scotsman when the first Barney came out, and it may well have been her who wrote their review with the wonderfully quotably line "Gleefully macabre...hugely enjoyable black burlesque." I've used that one a few times since.
I appeared with Chris Brookmyre and Mark Billingham, and I was definitely the undercard, but it was fun. I didn't think I was too mince, however they haven't had me back. I ask every year, the first time they said no, but since they've just ignored me. I guess I don't blame them, it's not like they don't have a host of magnificent authors queuing up to appear. I need them a lot more than they need me. Still, it's hard not to harbour a grudge, and if ever the situation arises where I turn out to be the bad guy in a Bond movie who steals a nuclear submarine and targets somewhere populated with a nasty missile, I'll probably stick Charlotte Square on my list of potential destructees.
Anyway, in an effort to rise above petty jealousy and thoughts of reprisal, every year I contemplate doing the Fringe. Now, I don't contemplate sitting in a seat, reading from a selection of my books, while the audience - if there is one - doses quietly in the cheap seats. Although reading is obviously what I did at the Festival all those years ago, the thought of listening to an author reading his own book just seems slightly barmy to me, and really not a lot of fun.
My idea for the Fringe would be to perform The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson as a one man, one hour show. I'd narrate some bits, play all the parts when appropriate and when action was required. I think it would work as a show. Whether I'd be able to pull it off, thespianly, I'm not sure, but it's something I'd feel I'd have to try for myself.
The thought of appearing on stage for an hour doesn't scare me particularly, but it doesn't excite me too much either. I'd be doing it as a career move, to try to advance the Barney Thomson franchise, to make it more marketable. And so, every year, I talk myself out of it on the basis that if at some point in the six months between me booking the hall and actually having to perform the thing, something interesting like a movie deal or big publishing deal came up, I'd be stuck doing something that I didn't want to, and didn't need to.
There comes a time, however, when I have to give up on the big movie or publishing deal. Face the unacceptable facts. The movie might happen, but it's not around the corner. The publishing deal just isn't going to happen. If Barney's going to advance from the Lower Blue Square South 5th Division, then I'm the one who has to try to generate the interest. And so, once again, as I regularly do at this time of year, I'm contemplating the Fringe.
Contemplating spending a few months working on a stage adaptation, contemplating several months rehearsing, contemplating getting up on a stage for a week. With no people in the audience. There's a thought, and another thing to cultivate my inhibitions every year.
This time, though, I might just do it. For the moment, however, I'll probably just have a cup of tea and think about it for a bit longer.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Long Rewrite of Barney Thomson
Working through the final proof read of The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson. Have announced the publication date of the new version - 15th November 2008 - and placed the order at the printers. Now all I need to do is get the text straight and get the cover... The cover is due any day, apparently. I'm protected from writing to my cover designer and asking for an ETA by the fact that she doesn't speak much English and any e-mail would likely just lead to confusion. So I do my bit and will have to wait for the cover before I can do the high-budget promo for YouTube.
Have disconcertingly found rather a large hole in the plot, which I've never noticed previously. Well, not so much a hole in the plot. More of a goof. In the beginning everyone is talking about the serial killer who's on the loose. However, the killer has just announced him/herself by dispatching a body part of the victim to their family. With the obvious exception of the family who get their son's head returned to them, how does anyone actually know that any of the victims are dead? There are no bodies, obviously, as they're all hidden in a freezer somewhere. There might be a reasonable presumption that the victims are dead, however it's not a presumption in the book, it's taken as fact.
So, having spotted this, it would be an easy enough thing to alter for the re-release. However, despite changing the tense and the dialect, I feel that this would be going too far. Having written two film scripts based on the book and investigated all sorts of different plot threads, I could completely rewrite the entire thing.
I had this great idea of making Barney's mum much more of a Nigella type character, with a great joy in food and recipes and taste. She would get Barney to taste test all her stuff, maybe she'd even be a celebrity chef. Only with hindsight would we realise that Barney had been taste testing human flesh, and even then we wouldn't be absolutely sure that was what he'd been doing.
I love that very cinematic idea, which would also have been great for the book. The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson is a good story, but it could have been developed much more. However, I have to draw the line somewhere, and when deciding to reprint, long ago made the decision to draw that line at changing the story in any way.
And so I will treat the minor goof regarding the presumption of death on the part of the police and the media in the same way and leave it as originally written, as I will with anything else that occurs to me as I go through.
And so sadly, 'Is this your husband's penis?" the great first line of the film script that will never be made, will also not make it into print.
Have disconcertingly found rather a large hole in the plot, which I've never noticed previously. Well, not so much a hole in the plot. More of a goof. In the beginning everyone is talking about the serial killer who's on the loose. However, the killer has just announced him/herself by dispatching a body part of the victim to their family. With the obvious exception of the family who get their son's head returned to them, how does anyone actually know that any of the victims are dead? There are no bodies, obviously, as they're all hidden in a freezer somewhere. There might be a reasonable presumption that the victims are dead, however it's not a presumption in the book, it's taken as fact.
So, having spotted this, it would be an easy enough thing to alter for the re-release. However, despite changing the tense and the dialect, I feel that this would be going too far. Having written two film scripts based on the book and investigated all sorts of different plot threads, I could completely rewrite the entire thing.
I had this great idea of making Barney's mum much more of a Nigella type character, with a great joy in food and recipes and taste. She would get Barney to taste test all her stuff, maybe she'd even be a celebrity chef. Only with hindsight would we realise that Barney had been taste testing human flesh, and even then we wouldn't be absolutely sure that was what he'd been doing.
I love that very cinematic idea, which would also have been great for the book. The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson is a good story, but it could have been developed much more. However, I have to draw the line somewhere, and when deciding to reprint, long ago made the decision to draw that line at changing the story in any way.
And so I will treat the minor goof regarding the presumption of death on the part of the police and the media in the same way and leave it as originally written, as I will with anything else that occurs to me as I go through.
And so sadly, 'Is this your husband's penis?" the great first line of the film script that will never be made, will also not make it into print.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Amazing Fusionman
So Fusionman just flew across the Channel dressed as Buzz Lightyear. He was going to do it yesterday but had to say, 'Not today, Zurg,' because of the weather.
Fusionman. Hmm. And this guy is a grownup. As if jumping out of a plane at 8,000 feet and flying isn't cool enough. Because it is. What he is did is cool beyond words. I couldn't even do a stupid bungy jump. Millions of people wouldn't even consider doing a bungy jump. This guy jumps out of planes and flies, in a way that no one has ever flown before.
And yet, it's not enough. When someone says, 'Hey, that was incredible, who the fuck are you?' he can't just say, 'The name's Yves.' He looks them in the eye, straightens his shoulders and says, 'I'm Fusionman,' for all the world like Michael Keaton in Batman. (Apart from the fact that Michael Keaton obviously said 'I'm Batman' not 'I'm Fusionman'.)
What is he thinking?
Maybe, I'm thinking to myself on this sunny day in early autumn - (it's finally stopped raining in Warsaw. After dumping eight feet of water on the city, all in drizzle, in the last ten days, the clouds are empty.) - maybe, I'm thinking, this is what I need to get some respect. I don't mean professionally, it's too late for that. Too late for AuthorMan or The Amazing Mr Write. I mean, as a Dad.
Maybe the kids would have more respect if, rather than just being plain old Dad, or Daddy, or Oi You, Can I Have Another Sandwich, maybe if I had a supercool name everything would be better. There might be some respect around the house, rather than disdain, discord, accusation and war.
DadMan probably won't cut it. Neither will Mr Dad or Major MiddleAged. The Incredible Captain Dad stands a better chance. I might go for that one, if I can get it all on a t-shirt. I could try a few out, see which one works best. I could be BreakfastMan before school, Commander Lift Home after school, and The Amazing GetToBedAndStopTalkingGuy after dinner.
And then there's the outfit. I'll be turning up at the school with a big pair of red y-fronts over my trousers. Well, that'll get me the respect of my kids.
Fusionman, at least, kept his y-fronts in their rightful place.
Fusionman. Hmm. And this guy is a grownup. As if jumping out of a plane at 8,000 feet and flying isn't cool enough. Because it is. What he is did is cool beyond words. I couldn't even do a stupid bungy jump. Millions of people wouldn't even consider doing a bungy jump. This guy jumps out of planes and flies, in a way that no one has ever flown before.
And yet, it's not enough. When someone says, 'Hey, that was incredible, who the fuck are you?' he can't just say, 'The name's Yves.' He looks them in the eye, straightens his shoulders and says, 'I'm Fusionman,' for all the world like Michael Keaton in Batman. (Apart from the fact that Michael Keaton obviously said 'I'm Batman' not 'I'm Fusionman'.)
What is he thinking?
Maybe, I'm thinking to myself on this sunny day in early autumn - (it's finally stopped raining in Warsaw. After dumping eight feet of water on the city, all in drizzle, in the last ten days, the clouds are empty.) - maybe, I'm thinking, this is what I need to get some respect. I don't mean professionally, it's too late for that. Too late for AuthorMan or The Amazing Mr Write. I mean, as a Dad.
Maybe the kids would have more respect if, rather than just being plain old Dad, or Daddy, or Oi You, Can I Have Another Sandwich, maybe if I had a supercool name everything would be better. There might be some respect around the house, rather than disdain, discord, accusation and war.
DadMan probably won't cut it. Neither will Mr Dad or Major MiddleAged. The Incredible Captain Dad stands a better chance. I might go for that one, if I can get it all on a t-shirt. I could try a few out, see which one works best. I could be BreakfastMan before school, Commander Lift Home after school, and The Amazing GetToBedAndStopTalkingGuy after dinner.
And then there's the outfit. I'll be turning up at the school with a big pair of red y-fronts over my trousers. Well, that'll get me the respect of my kids.
Fusionman, at least, kept his y-fronts in their rightful place.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Gel Scissors Quaff Perm
As I wrote last week, the original title of The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson was The Barber’s Surgeon’s Hairshirt. I confess that I arrived at the title The Barber Surgeon’s Hairshirt by going through the dictionary, writing down every word that I could find that related in any way whatsoever to hair or barbershops, threw them up into the air and picked the ones that looked the most interesting when they landed. (In the end it was between The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt and Gel Scissors Quaff Perm, and I went for the former.)
The entirely arbitrary nature of its conception aside, it’s a pretty good title, which I only ditched as I was sending the book to publishers who had already rejected it, and I wanted the manuscript to pass the initial check against a database of Rejected Mince From the Slushpile. (Actually, I don’t know if publishers keep a database of Rejected Mince From The Slushpile, but I was working on the basis that they did.)
So when the second Barney Thomson book came around I used the title again. This time it actually had some relevance, given that Barney ended up in a monastery, he was consumed by remorse, and the subject of hairshirts even came up without it being a stretch. Piatkus didn’t like it however, and asked for a new title.
The obvious title would have been A Prayer For Barney Thomson. Unfortunately I didn’t think of that as a title until the third book in the series, which was odd given that the reason I thought of it was because I had read, years earlier, A Prayer For Owen Meany and really enjoyed it.
Piatkus asked for a title that included Barney Thomson and referenced hairdressing in some way. Oh for God’s sake, I thought at the time, you don’t have to treat the audience like they’re that stupid. But I didn’t say that. I went away and thought up twenty other titles and sent them an e-mail. I can’t remember most of those titles, although I knew that they were all rubbish. Thirty-Three Murders and A Funeral I think was one of them. Genocide of the Monks, that was another. They would have been terrible titles. In the middle of all this mince, I threw in The Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson. I thought it was terrible as well, but I knew they’d take it, as it met the conditions. Which they did.
Should I ever need to publish another edition of Barney no.2, I think I'll go back to my original intention and call it The Barber Surgeon’s Hairshirt. That’s a title worth keeping.
For that second book someone at Piatkus did actually suggest the name The Final Cut. We rejected this, as The Final Cut seemed a bit premature for the second book in the series. I’m now using it for the seventh book, which makes more sense. This book, when I originally wrote it for the German market, was known as Limited Edition, as the story is set amongst marketing executives in London.
I thought of all this today when I saw in the shop just along the road from our house in the Warsaw suburb where we live, a packet of beer flavoured crisps, marked Edycja Limitowana.
Beer flavoured crisps. The culmination of thousands of years of civilisation. Must be time for First Contact.
The entirely arbitrary nature of its conception aside, it’s a pretty good title, which I only ditched as I was sending the book to publishers who had already rejected it, and I wanted the manuscript to pass the initial check against a database of Rejected Mince From the Slushpile. (Actually, I don’t know if publishers keep a database of Rejected Mince From The Slushpile, but I was working on the basis that they did.)
So when the second Barney Thomson book came around I used the title again. This time it actually had some relevance, given that Barney ended up in a monastery, he was consumed by remorse, and the subject of hairshirts even came up without it being a stretch. Piatkus didn’t like it however, and asked for a new title.
The obvious title would have been A Prayer For Barney Thomson. Unfortunately I didn’t think of that as a title until the third book in the series, which was odd given that the reason I thought of it was because I had read, years earlier, A Prayer For Owen Meany and really enjoyed it.
Piatkus asked for a title that included Barney Thomson and referenced hairdressing in some way. Oh for God’s sake, I thought at the time, you don’t have to treat the audience like they’re that stupid. But I didn’t say that. I went away and thought up twenty other titles and sent them an e-mail. I can’t remember most of those titles, although I knew that they were all rubbish. Thirty-Three Murders and A Funeral I think was one of them. Genocide of the Monks, that was another. They would have been terrible titles. In the middle of all this mince, I threw in The Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson. I thought it was terrible as well, but I knew they’d take it, as it met the conditions. Which they did.
Should I ever need to publish another edition of Barney no.2, I think I'll go back to my original intention and call it The Barber Surgeon’s Hairshirt. That’s a title worth keeping.
For that second book someone at Piatkus did actually suggest the name The Final Cut. We rejected this, as The Final Cut seemed a bit premature for the second book in the series. I’m now using it for the seventh book, which makes more sense. This book, when I originally wrote it for the German market, was known as Limited Edition, as the story is set amongst marketing executives in London.
I thought of all this today when I saw in the shop just along the road from our house in the Warsaw suburb where we live, a packet of beer flavoured crisps, marked Edycja Limitowana.
Beer flavoured crisps. The culmination of thousands of years of civilisation. Must be time for First Contact.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Another Wet Day in Warsaw
Do you think the guy who invented the phrase ‘credit crunch’ gets paid royalties every time someone says the words ‘credit crunch’ on tv? Every night he sits in front of the news and as soon as the newsreader or correspondent says ‘credit crunch’, he turns to his family and says, ‘I came up with that. Yep, that baby’s all mine, I don’t mind telling you.’ And his wife and kids all roll their eyes and make vomiting noises and curse the day their dad invented the phrase.
I remain, and always will, a novice at the Bob Dylan game. I listen to the music and that’s about it. Don’t read the books, don’t travel the world watching the concerts, don’t collect unofficial bootlegs. I’ve seen him twice in concert and have 430 Dylan songs on my iPod. Since it’s the case that two years ago I had no Dylan songs on my iPod - well, to be honest, I didn’t even have an iPod two years ago, but if I'd had an iPod, it would’ve had no Dylan songs on it - it’s slightly freakish to have so many now, but not that freakish.
When I was making the lead character of Lost in Juarez a Dylan addict, I exaggerated my own Dylan obsession. Turned the 430 iPod songs into 1256, and the two concerts I’ve been to into 157. This seemed freakish enough for someone who was supposed to be genuinely addicted to Dylan, in the way that people are addicted to alcohol or fish suppers. Typically for me, at the time I didn’t really do much research. I didn’t check out how often your average Dylan freak goes to see him in concert, or how many Dylan songs it was possible to have on your iPod if you were a ferocious bootleg hunter, much in the way that I’m not. Typical authorial laziness on my part.
(The spellchecker on my laptop says that authorial isn't a word, but it is. The spellchecker on the Mac acknowledges this.)
There’s a strand running on the Dylan message board All Along The Watchtower at the moment, discussing how many times people have been to see the man. There’s someone on there who has seen Dylan over three hundred and fifty times. Another guy says that he met a bloke at a recent gig who had been close to 500 times. To see Dylan. Live.
Holy crap! Those are scary numbers. And it’s made me realise how un-addicted to Dylan Lake Weston must appear to any Dylan fans who read the book. Non-Dylan fans, of course, would read it and think, ‘Wow, a character who’s seen Dylan 157 times, that’s freakish, what a weirdo.’ Of course, however, real life is much, much weirder.
For the second edition - which at current rate of sales will be due some time in the third millennium - I’ll be sure to alter the text so that Lake can have a gazillion Dylan tracks on his iPod and have seen the man in at least one thousand concerts. As Dylan has averaged over a hundred a year for the past eighteen years or so, this isn’t impossible.
There’s probably a lesson in all this about properly researching a subject before writing about it....but I just can’t work out what it is...
I remain, and always will, a novice at the Bob Dylan game. I listen to the music and that’s about it. Don’t read the books, don’t travel the world watching the concerts, don’t collect unofficial bootlegs. I’ve seen him twice in concert and have 430 Dylan songs on my iPod. Since it’s the case that two years ago I had no Dylan songs on my iPod - well, to be honest, I didn’t even have an iPod two years ago, but if I'd had an iPod, it would’ve had no Dylan songs on it - it’s slightly freakish to have so many now, but not that freakish.
When I was making the lead character of Lost in Juarez a Dylan addict, I exaggerated my own Dylan obsession. Turned the 430 iPod songs into 1256, and the two concerts I’ve been to into 157. This seemed freakish enough for someone who was supposed to be genuinely addicted to Dylan, in the way that people are addicted to alcohol or fish suppers. Typically for me, at the time I didn’t really do much research. I didn’t check out how often your average Dylan freak goes to see him in concert, or how many Dylan songs it was possible to have on your iPod if you were a ferocious bootleg hunter, much in the way that I’m not. Typical authorial laziness on my part.
(The spellchecker on my laptop says that authorial isn't a word, but it is. The spellchecker on the Mac acknowledges this.)
There’s a strand running on the Dylan message board All Along The Watchtower at the moment, discussing how many times people have been to see the man. There’s someone on there who has seen Dylan over three hundred and fifty times. Another guy says that he met a bloke at a recent gig who had been close to 500 times. To see Dylan. Live.
Holy crap! Those are scary numbers. And it’s made me realise how un-addicted to Dylan Lake Weston must appear to any Dylan fans who read the book. Non-Dylan fans, of course, would read it and think, ‘Wow, a character who’s seen Dylan 157 times, that’s freakish, what a weirdo.’ Of course, however, real life is much, much weirder.
For the second edition - which at current rate of sales will be due some time in the third millennium - I’ll be sure to alter the text so that Lake can have a gazillion Dylan tracks on his iPod and have seen the man in at least one thousand concerts. As Dylan has averaged over a hundred a year for the past eighteen years or so, this isn’t impossible.
There’s probably a lesson in all this about properly researching a subject before writing about it....but I just can’t work out what it is...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Low End Of The Quarterback Rating
I’ve been wondering how to make the website more statistical. Men need statistics. They need things ordered and numbered. They need league tables. They need averages. Batting averages, bowling averages. Number of goals scored. Strike rate. Quarterback rating.
The NFL quarterback rating is a great one. The calculation itself is some ancient algorithm combining all the definite stats they can take on a player in a game, throwing them into a computer and then arriving at a completely useless arbitrary number. You can’t just look at the way a guy played and decide if he was any good or not, you need it quantified. They can’t be too far off introducing the same thing to our football. Number of passes on target, shots on goal, strength of shot, quality of faked facial injuries, head butts, number of occasions caught mouthing fuck on tv.
It’s probably the main reason why soccer has never challenged baseball and American football in the US. It just doesn’t lend itself so easily to statistics.
The obvious way to quantify a website is to have a counter off to the side somewhere. This site has a counter facility, but on its own it seems pointless, so I’ve never turned it on. At the moment the invisible counter is running at 35,495 hits since last October. On one level that doesn’t seem so bad. On another, it averages out at just over a hundred a day, which seems rubbish. Then again, even if it was 350,495 or 3,500,495, unless it was being quantified against other sites, as a figure it’s completely useless.
There would need to be a crime writer’s league table, but then I’d probably be embarrassed. Rankin and all that lot probably get that number of hits in a day. I’d be near the bottom, or in the equivalent of the Blue Square South Lower Fifth Division. I’d have other crime writers calling me and taunting me with chants of what a shitey home support.
I could have a table of the number of books I sell each month, but that would only be adjusted twelve times a year, so wouldn’t exactly make for enthralling, end-to-end statistical fun. And I’d also have to admit how many books I sell each month...
The Amazon rankings are the great, instant writing statistic of our time. Constantly changing and an inescapable draw for the desperate author and publisher. A worthless task transferring that information to the website, however, and it’s not as if Barney Thomson ever troubles the top 100. Hard to get excited about moving up 1,345 places to number 4,312. Briefly, last week, however, The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson was ranked one place above the last Rebus novel, Exit Music. I know this because they were both in the top 100 Mysteries chart. I immediately sent Rankin an e-mail saying, ‘you fat bastard, you fat bastard...’
(There are two explanations for that last statement. One is that Rankin and I are great buddies and are always having a bit of a laugh. The other is that I’ve never met Rankin in my puff, he will likely never even have heard of me, and of course I didn’t send him that e-mail... And yes, it’s the latter...)
So, all in all, for the moment the site will probably remain a statistical desert, unencumbered by ratings, counters, charts or numerical analysis. And even if sales and number of hits were worth reading, I still wouldn’t put them on. No, I need to find something more insubstantial, like quantifying my mood or the weather or the quality of the toast that I’ve just eaten with my first cup of tea of the day.
The NFL quarterback rating is a great one. The calculation itself is some ancient algorithm combining all the definite stats they can take on a player in a game, throwing them into a computer and then arriving at a completely useless arbitrary number. You can’t just look at the way a guy played and decide if he was any good or not, you need it quantified. They can’t be too far off introducing the same thing to our football. Number of passes on target, shots on goal, strength of shot, quality of faked facial injuries, head butts, number of occasions caught mouthing fuck on tv.
It’s probably the main reason why soccer has never challenged baseball and American football in the US. It just doesn’t lend itself so easily to statistics.
The obvious way to quantify a website is to have a counter off to the side somewhere. This site has a counter facility, but on its own it seems pointless, so I’ve never turned it on. At the moment the invisible counter is running at 35,495 hits since last October. On one level that doesn’t seem so bad. On another, it averages out at just over a hundred a day, which seems rubbish. Then again, even if it was 350,495 or 3,500,495, unless it was being quantified against other sites, as a figure it’s completely useless.
There would need to be a crime writer’s league table, but then I’d probably be embarrassed. Rankin and all that lot probably get that number of hits in a day. I’d be near the bottom, or in the equivalent of the Blue Square South Lower Fifth Division. I’d have other crime writers calling me and taunting me with chants of what a shitey home support.
I could have a table of the number of books I sell each month, but that would only be adjusted twelve times a year, so wouldn’t exactly make for enthralling, end-to-end statistical fun. And I’d also have to admit how many books I sell each month...
The Amazon rankings are the great, instant writing statistic of our time. Constantly changing and an inescapable draw for the desperate author and publisher. A worthless task transferring that information to the website, however, and it’s not as if Barney Thomson ever troubles the top 100. Hard to get excited about moving up 1,345 places to number 4,312. Briefly, last week, however, The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson was ranked one place above the last Rebus novel, Exit Music. I know this because they were both in the top 100 Mysteries chart. I immediately sent Rankin an e-mail saying, ‘you fat bastard, you fat bastard...’
(There are two explanations for that last statement. One is that Rankin and I are great buddies and are always having a bit of a laugh. The other is that I’ve never met Rankin in my puff, he will likely never even have heard of me, and of course I didn’t send him that e-mail... And yes, it’s the latter...)
So, all in all, for the moment the site will probably remain a statistical desert, unencumbered by ratings, counters, charts or numerical analysis. And even if sales and number of hits were worth reading, I still wouldn’t put them on. No, I need to find something more insubstantial, like quantifying my mood or the weather or the quality of the toast that I’ve just eaten with my first cup of tea of the day.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Don't Mess With You Don't Mess With The Zohan
Rubbish Parents Take Kids To Completely Inappropriate Film Shock. I’m no stranger to taking the kids to the cinema to see something they probably ought not to at their age. When all the kids films are dubbed into the local language, generally you have to stretch the parameters. I draw the line at Saw IV and Hostel perhaps, but anything with a 12 certificate is usually fair game. I am also occasionally suckered in by the trailer.
Nearly happened with Wanted. From the trailer Wanted looked like any old action movie, not unlike Jumper perhaps, from earlier in the year, which the kids had been to and enjoyed. As it turned out, Wanted was only similar to Jumper in that it was total mince. Fortunately we checked it out first, realised it was an 18 with more blood than Terry Butcher had on his face in that game against Tunisia, and the kids never got anywhere near it. A load of utter nonsense, anyway. All that loom stuff. A loom? And Angelina Jolie? What were you doing making a film that encourages young men who are bored at work and who haven’t achieved anything with their life, to pick up a gun and start shooting people? That’ll be the UN Ambassador in you.
So this weekend’s disaster was You Don’t Mess With The Zohan. The most cringe-inducing hour TPCKAM and I have sat through in parenthood. We left long before the end of the movie, but long after we ought to have done. Kept thinking/hoping that the scenes of outrageous sexual innuendo would end shortly and they’d get back to the Israeli/Palestinian gags. (Like you take your kids to the cinema for the cutting edge Middle Eastern humour.) But you know you’re in the wrong movie with your kids when you’re hoping that the terrorists are going to turn up and start shooting, just to get away from the sex.
However, the innuendo kept going. I think we were both probably embarrassed walking past a packed cinema, our kids in tow. Here we were, the obviously rubbish parents, with the eyes of the audience on our backs, judging us for being irresponsible enough to have taken them there in the first place. Finally, however, we put the innocence of our kids ahead of our own mortification and left. Not before time.
Fortunately, conversations since have indicated that they didn’t really get any of it. That would be conversations which they started. TPCKAM and I instantly went into denial and pretended that we’d never been to the cinema. No way were we starting any conversations. "So kids, when the white shampoo dribbled out the bottle onto the woman’s tongue, you know what that meant?" No, heads in the sand from now on, and get in the queue for Bambi 3. "Zohan? Don’t know what you mean. Nope, don’t remember any film with no stinkin’ Zohan."
So there are two things about You Don’t Mess With The Zohan. The first is that it’s my own dumb-witted stupidity that we took the kids. That wasn’t Adam Sandler’s fault. The second thing, which is attributable to Adam Sandler, is that the film is really, really dreadful.
I suppose it takes balls the size of Zohan’s to make a puerile comedy about the Arab/Israeli conflict, but good movies are not made by large balls alone.
Not any more.
Nearly happened with Wanted. From the trailer Wanted looked like any old action movie, not unlike Jumper perhaps, from earlier in the year, which the kids had been to and enjoyed. As it turned out, Wanted was only similar to Jumper in that it was total mince. Fortunately we checked it out first, realised it was an 18 with more blood than Terry Butcher had on his face in that game against Tunisia, and the kids never got anywhere near it. A load of utter nonsense, anyway. All that loom stuff. A loom? And Angelina Jolie? What were you doing making a film that encourages young men who are bored at work and who haven’t achieved anything with their life, to pick up a gun and start shooting people? That’ll be the UN Ambassador in you.
So this weekend’s disaster was You Don’t Mess With The Zohan. The most cringe-inducing hour TPCKAM and I have sat through in parenthood. We left long before the end of the movie, but long after we ought to have done. Kept thinking/hoping that the scenes of outrageous sexual innuendo would end shortly and they’d get back to the Israeli/Palestinian gags. (Like you take your kids to the cinema for the cutting edge Middle Eastern humour.) But you know you’re in the wrong movie with your kids when you’re hoping that the terrorists are going to turn up and start shooting, just to get away from the sex.
However, the innuendo kept going. I think we were both probably embarrassed walking past a packed cinema, our kids in tow. Here we were, the obviously rubbish parents, with the eyes of the audience on our backs, judging us for being irresponsible enough to have taken them there in the first place. Finally, however, we put the innocence of our kids ahead of our own mortification and left. Not before time.
Fortunately, conversations since have indicated that they didn’t really get any of it. That would be conversations which they started. TPCKAM and I instantly went into denial and pretended that we’d never been to the cinema. No way were we starting any conversations. "So kids, when the white shampoo dribbled out the bottle onto the woman’s tongue, you know what that meant?" No, heads in the sand from now on, and get in the queue for Bambi 3. "Zohan? Don’t know what you mean. Nope, don’t remember any film with no stinkin’ Zohan."
So there are two things about You Don’t Mess With The Zohan. The first is that it’s my own dumb-witted stupidity that we took the kids. That wasn’t Adam Sandler’s fault. The second thing, which is attributable to Adam Sandler, is that the film is really, really dreadful.
I suppose it takes balls the size of Zohan’s to make a puerile comedy about the Arab/Israeli conflict, but good movies are not made by large balls alone.
Not any more.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Bob Dylan #45
I think it's fair to say that Bob Dylan is like Marmite. (I mean that you either love him or hate him, rather than that he's gooey brown slime that tastes strongly of faeces.)
Despite the similarity, there are many differences, and here's the most crucial. If the person across the table from you is eating Marmite, you just have to sit and watch them eat Marmite. You don't have to taste it, you can't smell it, all you have to do is look at them like they're weird.
On the other hand, if while the weirdo across the table is eating Marmite, you happen to be listening to Bob on the cd player without headphones on, they also have to listen to Bob. They have no choice.
That's why it's better to like Bob Dylan than Marmite.
I've added a Dylan Song of the Week page to my website. I acknowledge that this is entirely gratuitous Dylanism. In all likelihood I will update the Song of the Week much more regularly than once a week, but I thought Song of the Day might be pushing it a bit and Song of Every Three or Four Days seems clumsy. As did Song of this 72 Hour Period or Song of the Half-Week or Song Of An Indeterminate Period Which Is Likely To Be In The Region Of Every So Often But Not Quite As Much As Really Regularly.
I've started with You Ain't Goin' Nowhere because, I reckon, even people who like Marmite like this song.
Despite the similarity, there are many differences, and here's the most crucial. If the person across the table from you is eating Marmite, you just have to sit and watch them eat Marmite. You don't have to taste it, you can't smell it, all you have to do is look at them like they're weird.
On the other hand, if while the weirdo across the table is eating Marmite, you happen to be listening to Bob on the cd player without headphones on, they also have to listen to Bob. They have no choice.
That's why it's better to like Bob Dylan than Marmite.
I've added a Dylan Song of the Week page to my website. I acknowledge that this is entirely gratuitous Dylanism. In all likelihood I will update the Song of the Week much more regularly than once a week, but I thought Song of the Day might be pushing it a bit and Song of Every Three or Four Days seems clumsy. As did Song of this 72 Hour Period or Song of the Half-Week or Song Of An Indeterminate Period Which Is Likely To Be In The Region Of Every So Often But Not Quite As Much As Really Regularly.
I've started with You Ain't Goin' Nowhere because, I reckon, even people who like Marmite like this song.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson (10th Anniversary Edition)
Having delayed the release of The Final Cut until next year, I really ought to be getting on with the task of turning the original manuscript - which was known as Limited Edition, then published in Germany as Der Herr Der Klinge - into the last book in the Barney series. Before that, however, The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson needs to be reprinted, as the previous print run is almost over.
When I first wrote the book in the summer of 1995, the prose was in the past tense, there wasn't too much Glasgow dialect and the book was entitled The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt. Sent it around every publisher on the planet, got some decent reaction, but it wasn't picked up. However, I was encouraged enough to give it another go, so repackaged the whole thing. Changed the title, changed the tense to the present tense - because I had just read a book in the present tense, no recollection of which one, and had enjoyed it - and upped the dialect content.
The tense and dialect stayed for the next two books, although I grew to dislike them. For the fourth, I returned to little dialect and the past tense. Not sure if anyone really notices other than me. Anyway, I have wanted for several years to get the first three into the same shape as the remainder of the series. With the reprint of Long Midnight, the chance has come to start the process.
I have already rewritten the book, converting it back to its original form. Everything is more or less the same, except most of the verbs, of course. And the gonnae and dinnae and wisnae, they are mostly gone. I hope that the dialogue still has the flow and feel of Glasgow chat, that's what I'm looking to achieve. So I've left in the heid the ba's and dunderheids and bampots.
There will be a new cover too, although it has yet to be produced. This is the original new cover idea, but it's not really bold enough.
Noticed that Brookmyre and Bateman and the like have a particular type of cover at the moment, which is obviously in vogue. As an illustration, this is the cover of Brookmyre's latest.
My cover designer took a look at them, hated them and thought she could do better. So, we wait and see.
The new/old version of The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson should be released before Christmas, that's the plan. It will more or less be the tenth anniversary of it's initial publication, but I just can't bring myself - despite the heading on the blog - to do the marketing and call it the Tenth Anniversary Limited Edition, or add in a new chapter and call it the Writer's Cut or Long Midnight Redux.
It just is, as Bill Belichick likes to say, what it is.
I won't be reverting to the original title. However, having not used the title with the first book, I then used it for the second book, only for the publisher to refuse it and insist on the much blander Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson. Possibly, I may revert to The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt for the monastery book - as it's appropriate after all - if and when the time comes.
When I first wrote the book in the summer of 1995, the prose was in the past tense, there wasn't too much Glasgow dialect and the book was entitled The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt. Sent it around every publisher on the planet, got some decent reaction, but it wasn't picked up. However, I was encouraged enough to give it another go, so repackaged the whole thing. Changed the title, changed the tense to the present tense - because I had just read a book in the present tense, no recollection of which one, and had enjoyed it - and upped the dialect content.
The tense and dialect stayed for the next two books, although I grew to dislike them. For the fourth, I returned to little dialect and the past tense. Not sure if anyone really notices other than me. Anyway, I have wanted for several years to get the first three into the same shape as the remainder of the series. With the reprint of Long Midnight, the chance has come to start the process.
I have already rewritten the book, converting it back to its original form. Everything is more or less the same, except most of the verbs, of course. And the gonnae and dinnae and wisnae, they are mostly gone. I hope that the dialogue still has the flow and feel of Glasgow chat, that's what I'm looking to achieve. So I've left in the heid the ba's and dunderheids and bampots.
There will be a new cover too, although it has yet to be produced. This is the original new cover idea, but it's not really bold enough.
Noticed that Brookmyre and Bateman and the like have a particular type of cover at the moment, which is obviously in vogue. As an illustration, this is the cover of Brookmyre's latest.
My cover designer took a look at them, hated them and thought she could do better. So, we wait and see.
The new/old version of The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson should be released before Christmas, that's the plan. It will more or less be the tenth anniversary of it's initial publication, but I just can't bring myself - despite the heading on the blog - to do the marketing and call it the Tenth Anniversary Limited Edition, or add in a new chapter and call it the Writer's Cut or Long Midnight Redux.
It just is, as Bill Belichick likes to say, what it is.
I won't be reverting to the original title. However, having not used the title with the first book, I then used it for the second book, only for the publisher to refuse it and insist on the much blander Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson. Possibly, I may revert to The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt for the monastery book - as it's appropriate after all - if and when the time comes.
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