Jack Buttons: Clown Detective: A series revolving around the undercover investigations of Detective Jack Buttons as he uncovers crimes in the circus. Due to his theatre arts degree Buttons is able to fit into the criminal underworld of the circus trade. He uses his skills of mime, acrobatics, face painting and lion taming to collar the corrupt denizens of the Big Top. His most notable cases are finding out who the Strongman's wife is having an affair with, solving the mystery of the missing conjoined twin and facing off with his arch nemesis 'the guy who shovels the elephant poop.'
Buttons will be played by Robson Green.
Joseph Merrick: Bounty Hunter: Discover the secret life of The Elephant Man as he prowls the mean streets of Victorian London apprehending rogues and ruffians for Scotland Yard. The lowlifes of London start to get wind of this dark avenger to the point where he is nicknamed...'Strange Head Man'. Despite his many physical deformities he is hailed as the hero that London needs but the one that they can't quite look at.
Joseph Merrick will be played by Dog the Bounty Hunter. No prosthetics required.
Hubbard P.I: A science fiction/cop show revolving around Scientology creator L.Ron Hubbard. Hubbard starts a detective agency so he can investigate an alien invasion plot that he believes is happening. His investigations lead him to discover that these aliens are targeting the rich and famous. Luckily the invention of his dianetics machine seems to quell the invaders and make them more peaceful. Hubbard will turn out to be a modern day messiah and also filthy rich.
The series will run for many years and become increasingly complicated and convoluted and then end on a controversial note when the last scene shows Hubbard waking up on the toilet. It is revealed that the whole series was a dream caused by Hubbard having a poo blackout.
Played by a bloated Michael Madsen.
Mormon Police: A cop show in which Detective Joseph Latter-Day investigates crimes against his religion (but not the law). Latter-Day with the help of his five secretaries/wives investigates high profile Mormon crimes such as infidelity, use of prescription drugs, drinking tea, coffee and alcohol, and dealing with the local homosexual in the sinful world of Wal-Mart.
The police chief will by played by a confused looking Mitt Romney. His only function will be to stagger into the back of tense scenes and bellow 'I was almost President'. He will then skulk off as everybody avoids eye contact with him.
Latter-Day will be played by Eric Roberts and a high turnover of female cast members due to Eric's constant sexual harassment of them. In one controversial episode Eric's penis will briefly appear in shot due to his fly being intentionally left open.The series never recovers.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Adventures in Camping Day 3: The Smoo Strikes Back
Smoo, Smoo, Smoo...It's a funny word right? Smoo, it's also a strange thing to name a cave and that makes the cave infinitely more interesting than if it was called Dave's Cave or the Cave of Dave. Catchier certainly but nowhere near as good as Smoo Cave. Anyway there was no-one called Dave in Smoo cave but there was someone called Colin and he was, well, he was...unique.
Colin by his own admission had spent too long in the cave. He was the guide for the Smoo cave tour, he also very possibly lived in it. We had arisen early on the third day of the trip in the hope that the tour was on so we could get it done and then move onto our next destination. As luck would have it, the tour was a go. The cave itself was pretty amazing, especially as to get into it we had to get into a dingy to get to the main cave. But what really sold the Smoo for us was our intrepid guide Colin who had the look of a man who often eats rats, not for sustenance but for fun. His speech patterns were also interesting as he had a habit of shouting out certain words usually at the end of sentences, for example when we told him we were from Forfar he said "If I'd known you were coming I would have got you to bring me some 'BRIDIES!'." It was weird but endearing. He also tried to talk to a German couple who were on the tour by shouting the odd German word which was really just him shouting words in a German accent such as "Ich bein ROCKS".
So with the Smoo cave finally checked off of our list we could make our way to our third and final destination, Gairloch. Before that though we stopped off in Ullapool for some lunch. Ullapool is basically just a giant homing beacon for bus tours or we just got unlucky and landed there on a perfect storm of bus tours. What I'm saying is there were a lot of bus tours there, in case I'm being a bit vague. After plowing through the happy snapping tourists we went to get some fish and chips where upon we came across a 'starer', some random guy who was ogling us the whole time we were there. I actually never saw him because I was staring at another group of four odd looking young guys. Only three of them noticed me staring however as the fourth was staring at another group of four young guys, one of them never noticed as he was staring at us....and so on.
We arrived in Gairloch about mid afternoon where it was grey and a bit wet which is basically how I remembered it being. I had spent six weeks in Gairloch many years previously doing teacher training during a particularly harsh winter. Nothing had changed.
I probably didn't take full advantage of Gairloch the first time I was there due to the bad weather and my hatred of people. When I wasn't at the school I spent the rest of the time gazing forlornly out of my hotel window mouthing silent abuse at the locals as they shuffled past my window.
However this time was different, I was with my friends and the sun came out so it was an altogether more pleasant experience. We had a coffee in a really nice coffee and books place and had a nice wander along the sea front until Fraser stood in some dog shit. Still a jolly fine way to spend the afternoon.
That evening we had our tea in the bar of the hotel I lived in the first time which was lovely and made me wish I had actually spent some time in it rather than peering into it with bitter resentment at all the people having a good time inside. After the food we drank and played pool (I won my first game ever which is an achievement I celebrated by carving a message about it into the fleshy part of my thigh with a rusty knife. You know, so I remember).
Then we retired for the evening back into our ridiculously small tent. And that was it really. Next morning we got up, took the tent down, quick bite to eat and we were off home. We'd spent three days out in the wilderness and survived. Nothing particulrary terrible had happened to us such as this:
We did spend most of the trip shouting 'OH JESUS CHRIST' anytime we came across odd looking locals which is not really the best way to introduce yourself.
Colin by his own admission had spent too long in the cave. He was the guide for the Smoo cave tour, he also very possibly lived in it. We had arisen early on the third day of the trip in the hope that the tour was on so we could get it done and then move onto our next destination. As luck would have it, the tour was a go. The cave itself was pretty amazing, especially as to get into it we had to get into a dingy to get to the main cave. But what really sold the Smoo for us was our intrepid guide Colin who had the look of a man who often eats rats, not for sustenance but for fun. His speech patterns were also interesting as he had a habit of shouting out certain words usually at the end of sentences, for example when we told him we were from Forfar he said "If I'd known you were coming I would have got you to bring me some 'BRIDIES!'." It was weird but endearing. He also tried to talk to a German couple who were on the tour by shouting the odd German word which was really just him shouting words in a German accent such as "Ich bein ROCKS".
So with the Smoo cave finally checked off of our list we could make our way to our third and final destination, Gairloch. Before that though we stopped off in Ullapool for some lunch. Ullapool is basically just a giant homing beacon for bus tours or we just got unlucky and landed there on a perfect storm of bus tours. What I'm saying is there were a lot of bus tours there, in case I'm being a bit vague. After plowing through the happy snapping tourists we went to get some fish and chips where upon we came across a 'starer', some random guy who was ogling us the whole time we were there. I actually never saw him because I was staring at another group of four odd looking young guys. Only three of them noticed me staring however as the fourth was staring at another group of four young guys, one of them never noticed as he was staring at us....and so on.
We arrived in Gairloch about mid afternoon where it was grey and a bit wet which is basically how I remembered it being. I had spent six weeks in Gairloch many years previously doing teacher training during a particularly harsh winter. Nothing had changed.
I probably didn't take full advantage of Gairloch the first time I was there due to the bad weather and my hatred of people. When I wasn't at the school I spent the rest of the time gazing forlornly out of my hotel window mouthing silent abuse at the locals as they shuffled past my window.
However this time was different, I was with my friends and the sun came out so it was an altogether more pleasant experience. We had a coffee in a really nice coffee and books place and had a nice wander along the sea front until Fraser stood in some dog shit. Still a jolly fine way to spend the afternoon.
That evening we had our tea in the bar of the hotel I lived in the first time which was lovely and made me wish I had actually spent some time in it rather than peering into it with bitter resentment at all the people having a good time inside. After the food we drank and played pool (I won my first game ever which is an achievement I celebrated by carving a message about it into the fleshy part of my thigh with a rusty knife. You know, so I remember).
Then we retired for the evening back into our ridiculously small tent. And that was it really. Next morning we got up, took the tent down, quick bite to eat and we were off home. We'd spent three days out in the wilderness and survived. Nothing particulrary terrible had happened to us such as this:
We did spend most of the trip shouting 'OH JESUS CHRIST' anytime we came across odd looking locals which is not really the best way to introduce yourself.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Adventures in Camping Day 2: The Smoo
Day 2:
Waking to the realization that it was my birthday, my 30th no less wasn’t the best way to start the day. Still, putting that out of mind we trailed downstairs to sample the breakfast delights of the Seaview B&B and also for another look at ‘foreheed and teeth’. The breakfast was good but unfortunately ‘foreheed’ wasn’t in that morning, probably still at home brushing her monstrous teeth.
After a quick shower I came out of the bathroom to discover that my friends were all wearing black t-shirts with a picture of me looking very camp from a wedding about ten years ago and with the slogan ‘Vagitarian’ plastered under the picture on it. It took me a good two minutes to realize they were wearing the t-shirts. I had to wear one too.
Since the sun was out we went down to the sea front of John O’Groats to see what was there. Still nothing. A wee museum, a closed hotel and something called the Coffee Experience which disappointingly turned out to be a Costa.
After that we were off again, our next destination was a place called Durness which was a bit of a drive so we decided to not waste time. We stopped soon after, wasting time, at Dunnet Head which was a spectacular location and then at a wee beach shortly after. As we were mingling around looking like a bunch of ruffians a small dog (that looked like a tiny lamb) came bounding up to us. It wasn’t immediately clear who it belonged to until a high pitched snooty call of ‘Ruby, Ruuuby!’ echoed around the dunes. A middle aged lady appeared and upon seeing four t-shirts with my face (and my real face) with the slogan Vagitarian she quickly beckoned ‘Ruuuby’ over and darted off as quickly as her legs could take her. We were making friends.
After a solid few hours of driving where we got to soak in some radiation from Dounreay, get stuck behind dozens of German campervans and find a beautiful beach that reminded me of the one from the movie ‘The Beach’ except that it wasn’t shit and pretentious (take that Danny Boyle), we finally arrived in Durness.
The reason we had chosen Durness was because Fraser had mentioned something called the ‘Smoo Cave’ that was there. Apparently it was quite a big cave (the biggest in Scotland at one point, now second biggest) and well worth a visit.
After making our way down to the Smoo Cave which was very impressive and can be read about here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smoo_Cave
Inside we noticed there was a tour on but because of recent rainfall it was off today. It was then that just inside the cave we say something dark and ominous swimming in the water. It’s name was…Colin!! Who you can read about in part 3.
After leaving Smoo disappointed but hopeful the tour would be on tomorrow we made for the campsite. As we were pitching the tent which belonged to Fraser he revealed that he had never actually been inside it and had only seen it from the outside when someone else had used it. From the outside it looked huge with a good sized porch area where we could all sit in our deck chairs. The sleeping area however was tiny, really only big enough for two but which we had to fit four which somehow we did, which involved sleeping in the most uncomfortable positions ever. We gently mocked Fraser for the rest of the day but since he was the driver we were quite nice to him apart from pissing in his sleeping bag, backpack, car and food. Bastard!
That night I got my tea bought for me including a Knickerbocker Glory .
It was one of my best birthdays ever. I was still 30 though, which was rubbish.
In part 3, Gairloch, dog shite, more Smoo and COLIN!!
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Adventures In Camping Day 1
30. It's not a particulary big number unlike say 172,5840,4912. Pretty big number right? But 30, that's nothing, unless it comes after a decade of being twentysomething. Then it's a huge monumentous number.
I'm 30. It's not fun.
Camping though, that's fun. Loads of fun. Combine it with a roadtrip. Double fun with a little fun cherry on top. So for my 30th, two friends (Lee and Fraser), my brother (Darren) and I (Sexy McSexface) went on a camping road trip around the North of Scotland.
Day One: It rained, obviously. Still a little bit of water wasn't going to deter us so we loaded up the car and off we went.
First stop: Aviemore for a bit of lunch. We went to a place called 'The Winking Owl' which was immediately christened 'The Wanking Owl' because we are so witty. (No owl has ever been caught wanking due its 360 degree viewpoint). Beyond that, the lunch was grand and then we were off again.
Next stop: Dornoch, for a coffee and a piss. That was it.
Stop No 3: John O'Groats where we intended to set up camp. We failed. Due to horrendous rain and gale force winds pitching a tent would have been impossible unless we wanted to awake the next morning in Orkney. So we decided to look for a Hostel instead which we found remarkably quickly. Unfortunately from the outside it looked like it belonged to someone who would mount the heads of lost travellers above the fireplace. Inside though it was quite pleasant apart from the woman behind the desk who told us we could stay in a B&B down the road for four extra bucks which was honest of her and now probably means she is out of business.
We quickly found a B&B called the Seaview (our room faced the opposite way from the sea). The receptionist had quite a unique look about her so she was nicknamed 'Foreheed and teeth' for the remainder of our stay. (Not to her face obviously, we're not monsters!). John O'Groats is a strange place as despite being a tourist destination it doesn't really have anything there. It's just miles of barren lansdscape that eventually gives way to the sea. It reminded me of Wuthering Heights to the point where I kept thinking I heard the warblings of Kate Bush echoing across the spooky landscape, although that may have just been the guy in the next room snoring who we could hear through the paper thin walls. We also heard him take a shit.
That evening we had some food which was served up by the aforementioned 'Foreheed and teeth' and then we spent the rest of the evening in the bar. Unfortunately the TV in the bar was on MTV so occasionally we would get glimpses of one of those awful reality shows about people who are famous for acting like inbreds. In this particular show we got to see some dumbass get her dumb ass waxed.
After that we retired to bed and hoped that the rain would stop so we could at least pitch the bloody tent. We would soon regret this way of thinking.
In part 2: Smoo cave, Ruby, Vagitarians and the TENT!!
I'm 30. It's not fun.
Camping though, that's fun. Loads of fun. Combine it with a roadtrip. Double fun with a little fun cherry on top. So for my 30th, two friends (Lee and Fraser), my brother (Darren) and I (Sexy McSexface) went on a camping road trip around the North of Scotland.
Day One: It rained, obviously. Still a little bit of water wasn't going to deter us so we loaded up the car and off we went.
First stop: Aviemore for a bit of lunch. We went to a place called 'The Winking Owl' which was immediately christened 'The Wanking Owl' because we are so witty. (No owl has ever been caught wanking due its 360 degree viewpoint). Beyond that, the lunch was grand and then we were off again.
Next stop: Dornoch, for a coffee and a piss. That was it.
Stop No 3: John O'Groats where we intended to set up camp. We failed. Due to horrendous rain and gale force winds pitching a tent would have been impossible unless we wanted to awake the next morning in Orkney. So we decided to look for a Hostel instead which we found remarkably quickly. Unfortunately from the outside it looked like it belonged to someone who would mount the heads of lost travellers above the fireplace. Inside though it was quite pleasant apart from the woman behind the desk who told us we could stay in a B&B down the road for four extra bucks which was honest of her and now probably means she is out of business.
We quickly found a B&B called the Seaview (our room faced the opposite way from the sea). The receptionist had quite a unique look about her so she was nicknamed 'Foreheed and teeth' for the remainder of our stay. (Not to her face obviously, we're not monsters!). John O'Groats is a strange place as despite being a tourist destination it doesn't really have anything there. It's just miles of barren lansdscape that eventually gives way to the sea. It reminded me of Wuthering Heights to the point where I kept thinking I heard the warblings of Kate Bush echoing across the spooky landscape, although that may have just been the guy in the next room snoring who we could hear through the paper thin walls. We also heard him take a shit.
That evening we had some food which was served up by the aforementioned 'Foreheed and teeth' and then we spent the rest of the evening in the bar. Unfortunately the TV in the bar was on MTV so occasionally we would get glimpses of one of those awful reality shows about people who are famous for acting like inbreds. In this particular show we got to see some dumbass get her dumb ass waxed.
After that we retired to bed and hoped that the rain would stop so we could at least pitch the bloody tent. We would soon regret this way of thinking.
In part 2: Smoo cave, Ruby, Vagitarians and the TENT!!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
It's safe to go back in the water. Snow, however...
It’s nice when you meet someone who is on the same wavelength as yourself. Finding out that you don’t have to explain your jokes, pop culture references and temper tantrums. It’s even better when you meet a member of the opposite sex on the same wavelength, a sexy wavelength. Although saying, “show us your wavelength” is not much of a come on. Unless they are on your wavelength in which case it is.
I digress.
Meeting like minded people is great. People who have similar interests, who get your sense of humour, people cursed with the same social retardation as you. That’s very liberating.
Recently I met up with an old flatmate of mine, the esteemed Mr Will Kirton. He was meeting other people too, people I didn’t know which made me a bit anxious. Within minutes of meeting these people though I realized I would get along just fine with them. They were all creative, witty, urbane people…like me. Of course I was much better looking.
Anyway, after Will and a couple of others went for a smoke I was left in the pub with a chap called Ali. We very quickly got talking about movies and what the basic ingredients for blockbuster movies are. We came up with four.
Explosions. Never underestimate explosions. Explosions are important.
Ladies nipples .
Sharks.
Skiing. This was Ali’s idea . I don’t really like skiing in films. Apart from this bit which Alan Partridge can describe better than me:
The final product of these four ingredients was….
Wait for it…
Drum roll…
SNOW SHARK!!!
It pretty much sells itself.
This was the idea we had within five minutes of meeting each other. This either shows we are creative geniuses or that we are complete buffoons.
Unfortunately it turns out that someone has beat us to it:
Yep, someone has already had the idea for Snow Shark and actually made the damn thing. Badly.
That is one seriously fucked up wavelength.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Coffee Shop Wanker
I’m writing this in a coffee shop. I could easily write it at home but that would mean that nobody would see what a pretentious wanker I am.
Plus there are no sexy baristas in my house, well apart from the one locked up in the attic but she’s seen better days.
Anyway, so here I am typing away with a determined look on my face, furiously bashing away on the keypad which I think makes me look passionate about what I’m writing but really makes me look as if I am sending an angry email to an ex-girlfriend. If anyone were to look across at me right now (which crucially no-one is) they might think there is a “writer”, someone who is working on the next big thing, the thing that will be considered the most influential piece of literature of the 21st century. Because really that’s what writers think, that’s why they leave the comfort of their own houses to trudge down to the nearest coffee shop to drink overpriced latte’s and listen to people at the next table talk about Dundee Cake (literally what the old dears next to me are talking about).
They do this because writing can be a lonely experience especially if it is something that you do for a living or just because you think you have something to say. So, the need to have people see you actually ‘write’ is quite a big deal. Because the chances of anyone but your friends and family reading what you have written is slim. Sure you can post links to your writing on Twitter, Facebook and on the side of cows but that is no guarantee people will read it. Your musings, insights, conspiracy theories and Doctor Who spec scripts will only mean something to you. They won’t change anyone’s life. Well, the rare writer will create something that will speak to someone in a profound way, like the way the Twilight books have ushered in the sexual awakening of chubby 15 year old girls.*
So, because I am seen writing in public, I can now say “I am a writer”. A proper one except I make no money off it and I haven’t really written anything of note apart from quarter of a bad novel, a couple of unmade scripts, the odd article for a student newspaper and these blog postings. The sexy barista I mentioned earlier has seen me typing away at least once a week and might assume I’m a writer and I intend to do nothing to change her mind. Actually she probably thinks I’m a total loser because it’s a beautiful day and I’m spending it in a coffee shop that is mostly frequented by the menopausal (they are now talking about incontinence). Also I bumped into her in a pub one night when I was drunk and made a total penis of myself. She doesn’t even make eye contact when she serves me anymore which at least means she can’t see the self loathing in my eyes.
*I don’t actually mean that the Twilight books are profound. Well maybe the bits where Jacob takes off his top.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Natalie Portman Doesn't Live Here
I want a theme tune.
No, seriously I do. Imagine walking into a room full of people you don't know and then your own personal theme tune kicks in alerting everyone to your presence. The theme tune would also let people know what kind of person you are. A jaunty upbeat number would suggest you were a fun easygoing person while anything dark and ominous meant you were to be avoided at all costs.
Why do I want this?
Because I'm a victim of television. For years I've been soaking in the conventions and cliches of television (and film) like a gormless sponge so that it's had a rather detrimental effect on my fragile mental state. Television has become my reality to the point where if I'm remembering something from my past in my minds eye it looks as if it was directed by the Coen Brothers. The cinematography of my memory is wonderful.
It's a problem in day to day situations too. I'm never too sure if someone is telling a joke because there is no laughter track to let me know. If someone is telling me sad news I find it hard to react normally because Coldplay isn't sound tracking the moment. I never even know when to nip to the toilet because reality doesn't have adverts.
I'm exaggerating obviously but because I'm used to seeing how things pan out on TV and films I kind of expect my life to do the same.
For example, I had to move from Glasgow back to my hometown of Forfar a while ago. I didn't particularly want to, I was going back to live with my parents and plus I didn't have a job. Despite these setbacks I managed to remain positive about the whole situation. How did I manage this?
Garden State
Yep, I figured going back home will just be like the film 'Garden State'. It will be quirky and odd and I will learn some valuable life lessons along the way all to the sound of cool indie bands like The Shins . Plus Natalie Portman lives there. That's right I'm going back home to meet Natalie Portman.
Natalie Portman doesn't live in Forfar.
I knew that of course but because everything worked out OK for Zach Braff in Garden State I assumed things would work out in a similar way for me. They didn't. I haven't learned any life lessons or if I have I've ignored them because they didn't fit in with my myopic world view. Also no-one I know here likes The Shins.
And as for Natalie Portman. I haven't met anyone like her. Or perhaps I have but didn't realise because my eyes didn't lock on to her across a crowded room to the point where everything started moving in slow motion to the warblings of Chris Martin. How am I supposed to meet 'the Natalie Portman-esque one' if reality doesn't clue me in using the cliches of Hollywood, HOW?
Anyway, my time in Forfar is coming to a close as I plan to move to Edinburgh soon (in a four episode arc) and I don't really care if it doesn't resemble something out of my favourite TV shows or films (as long as it isn't Trainspotting).
By the way this is the theme tune I want...
I have no idea why!
No, seriously I do. Imagine walking into a room full of people you don't know and then your own personal theme tune kicks in alerting everyone to your presence. The theme tune would also let people know what kind of person you are. A jaunty upbeat number would suggest you were a fun easygoing person while anything dark and ominous meant you were to be avoided at all costs.
Why do I want this?
Because I'm a victim of television. For years I've been soaking in the conventions and cliches of television (and film) like a gormless sponge so that it's had a rather detrimental effect on my fragile mental state. Television has become my reality to the point where if I'm remembering something from my past in my minds eye it looks as if it was directed by the Coen Brothers. The cinematography of my memory is wonderful.
It's a problem in day to day situations too. I'm never too sure if someone is telling a joke because there is no laughter track to let me know. If someone is telling me sad news I find it hard to react normally because Coldplay isn't sound tracking the moment. I never even know when to nip to the toilet because reality doesn't have adverts.
I'm exaggerating obviously but because I'm used to seeing how things pan out on TV and films I kind of expect my life to do the same.
For example, I had to move from Glasgow back to my hometown of Forfar a while ago. I didn't particularly want to, I was going back to live with my parents and plus I didn't have a job. Despite these setbacks I managed to remain positive about the whole situation. How did I manage this?
Garden State
Yep, I figured going back home will just be like the film 'Garden State'. It will be quirky and odd and I will learn some valuable life lessons along the way all to the sound of cool indie bands like The Shins . Plus Natalie Portman lives there. That's right I'm going back home to meet Natalie Portman.
Natalie Portman doesn't live in Forfar.
I knew that of course but because everything worked out OK for Zach Braff in Garden State I assumed things would work out in a similar way for me. They didn't. I haven't learned any life lessons or if I have I've ignored them because they didn't fit in with my myopic world view. Also no-one I know here likes The Shins.
And as for Natalie Portman. I haven't met anyone like her. Or perhaps I have but didn't realise because my eyes didn't lock on to her across a crowded room to the point where everything started moving in slow motion to the warblings of Chris Martin. How am I supposed to meet 'the Natalie Portman-esque one' if reality doesn't clue me in using the cliches of Hollywood, HOW?
Anyway, my time in Forfar is coming to a close as I plan to move to Edinburgh soon (in a four episode arc) and I don't really care if it doesn't resemble something out of my favourite TV shows or films (as long as it isn't Trainspotting).
By the way this is the theme tune I want...
I have no idea why!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Don't Mention The Lesbians
I was recently rummaging around the cupboard in my room when underneath the mangled corpse of a hooker I found a blood stained copy of Morvern Callar by Alan Warner. I will start by saying it's a book that bored me to tears but I have kept a hold of it, in fact I have kept every book that I was forced to read at Uni. Why? For the precious happy memories of Uni life that they illicit in me. One of those memories I am about to share right now except it's not exactly a happy one.
Cue Lost flashback whooshing sound effect:
There was a girl, (there's always a girl), in my first year Scottish literature class that I took a bit of a fancy to. She will remain nameless for her sake. She was different to a lot of the girls that I knew, she was the very definition of Manic Pixie Dream Girl, if you're not familiar with this term then think of the type of character Zooey Deschanel plays in every film, that was her. Not that she looked like Zooey Deschanel, I mean she was pretty but not Hollywood pretty.
I had tried to strike up a conversation with her many times but had always been thwarted by my crippling lack of confidence. Then one day in a stroke of luck she arrived late to tutorial and the only available seat was next to me, the lucky girl! Once she struggled vainly and in quite a bit of panic to find any other seat she admitted defeat and cautiously sat next to me. My first thought was 'She wants me' for reasons that made no sense even to me. After she got the jacket off and her book, writing pad and pen out I decided to make a move, any move really, so I said the first thing that came into my head and that was "funky pen". I have never used the word 'funky' again. Thankfully she appreciated the comment as it was indeed a funky pen. It was a sparkly pink colour with feathers branching out the top...OK, really it was a fucking ghastly pen but she was weird and aloof so she got away it.
Now that she had given me a hint of smile I felt much more confident and was ready to start spouting nonsense when mercifully the tutorial started. Now, I was very quiet in tutorials in first year, only talking when I was asked a direct question (by second year however you couldn't shut me up, I was like a solo Jedward). In this occasion however I thought maybe I can impress the girl by saying something insightful about the book, about that bitch Morven Callar. Forty-five minutes in I still hadn't said anything and was getting desperate so when the topic of the sexual subtext between Morvern and her female pal came up I jumped right in. What I said is a blur, I think the words 'lesbian orgy' came up but the rest is a mystery. Whatever I said must have been terribly outrageous because the tutor sat open mouthed for a second before calling it a day. Suddenly realising what had happened I at least thought it can't get any worse...it did!
The girl hastily put her things away and threw her jacket on before turning to me and saying 'I wish I hadn't sat next to you'. Then she left. Epic fail.
Some good did come out of this though as the incident was so horribly etched in my mind that I decided to write a terrible sitcom pilot called 'Rosco' (how vain!) in which the incident was written out pretty much exactly as it happened. It's the only funny thing in the script. In fact it's probably the funniest thing I've ever written.
I still like lesbians.
Cue Lost flashback whooshing sound effect:
There was a girl, (there's always a girl), in my first year Scottish literature class that I took a bit of a fancy to. She will remain nameless for her sake. She was different to a lot of the girls that I knew, she was the very definition of Manic Pixie Dream Girl, if you're not familiar with this term then think of the type of character Zooey Deschanel plays in every film, that was her. Not that she looked like Zooey Deschanel, I mean she was pretty but not Hollywood pretty.
I had tried to strike up a conversation with her many times but had always been thwarted by my crippling lack of confidence. Then one day in a stroke of luck she arrived late to tutorial and the only available seat was next to me, the lucky girl! Once she struggled vainly and in quite a bit of panic to find any other seat she admitted defeat and cautiously sat next to me. My first thought was 'She wants me' for reasons that made no sense even to me. After she got the jacket off and her book, writing pad and pen out I decided to make a move, any move really, so I said the first thing that came into my head and that was "funky pen". I have never used the word 'funky' again. Thankfully she appreciated the comment as it was indeed a funky pen. It was a sparkly pink colour with feathers branching out the top...OK, really it was a fucking ghastly pen but she was weird and aloof so she got away it.
Now that she had given me a hint of smile I felt much more confident and was ready to start spouting nonsense when mercifully the tutorial started. Now, I was very quiet in tutorials in first year, only talking when I was asked a direct question (by second year however you couldn't shut me up, I was like a solo Jedward). In this occasion however I thought maybe I can impress the girl by saying something insightful about the book, about that bitch Morven Callar. Forty-five minutes in I still hadn't said anything and was getting desperate so when the topic of the sexual subtext between Morvern and her female pal came up I jumped right in. What I said is a blur, I think the words 'lesbian orgy' came up but the rest is a mystery. Whatever I said must have been terribly outrageous because the tutor sat open mouthed for a second before calling it a day. Suddenly realising what had happened I at least thought it can't get any worse...it did!
The girl hastily put her things away and threw her jacket on before turning to me and saying 'I wish I hadn't sat next to you'. Then she left. Epic fail.
Some good did come out of this though as the incident was so horribly etched in my mind that I decided to write a terrible sitcom pilot called 'Rosco' (how vain!) in which the incident was written out pretty much exactly as it happened. It's the only funny thing in the script. In fact it's probably the funniest thing I've ever written.
I still like lesbians.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A Pointless List about TV. I Wouldn't Even Bother Reading It
Since its the new year...Happy New Year by the way...I thought I would write one of those review of the year things for 2010. I pretty much hated the majority of 2010 apart from that few days in the summer I spent in Spain but even that wasn't entirely pleasant, what with the sunburn, weird eye infection and the night terrors...yes, actual night terrors where I basically let out small garbled screams until the friend I was sharing with had to wake me up much to his amusement and my extreme embarrassment. I blame the heat and the demons in my head.
Anyway since my life was an unsatisfying mess last year I have decided to instead list one of my rare pleasures in life...good TV shows. Mostly because the only other list I could think was of top ten sexual fantasies I've had and also because I don't get out much. So without further ado here is one of those shitty little lists which you can enjoy, disagree with or completely ignore.
1. Misfits
Misfits should be rubbish, what with it being described as a cross between 'Skins and Heroes' which makes it sound hellish, twice. Thankfully though it is infinitely better than both those shows. It's funny, sexy, clever and extremely violent. It also gets extra credit for throwing the C word out once an episode...you know, cunt! It's also visually gorgeous, using full use of its budget to create little cinematic treats each week. The second series had its faults, the time travel stuff made no sense and Curtis and Kelly's powers were ignored for the majority of the series. Minor quibbles aside it was a fantastic run and I anxiously await the third series where a group of carnys with powers turn up...oh wait, that was Heroes. The cunts!
2. Sherlock
An updating of Sherlock Homes to the present day really shouldn't have worked. It should have become just another detective show with a brilliant but tempremental super sleuth as its star like Inspector Morse or A Touch of Frost. But co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (whose 3 part documentary on the History of Horror was also fantastic) really dove into the original stories and put a fresh spin on them which managed to seperate it from the abundance of other detectives clogging up the channels. Benedict Cumberbatch (a name more ridiculous than Sherlock Holmes) and Martin Freeman (Tim) really shone as the titular pair, capturing the essence of the characters better than Downey JR and Jude 'the prick' Law ever did. Plus great cliffhanger too.
3.The Walking Dead
Zombies...on TV...every week!
4. Eastbound and Down
Kenny Fucking Powers went down Mexico way in his further fall from grace in the hilarious but too short second season. One of the biggest bastards in television history still manages to stay surprisingly likeable thanks to Danny McBride having so much fun as the foul mouthed steroid using egomaniac.
5. Doctor Who
Yeah, I know, its for kids but its such a generally good natured programme that also wants to terrify children that you can't not love it. Doctor Who felt genuinely fresh this year after the departure of showrunner Russell T. Davies who seemed to be winging it in the last few episodes he wrote. David Tennant was a hard one to lose but new boy (literally, he's only about 13) Matt Smith breathed fresh life into the character and new showrunner Steven Moffat (hey, its the Sherlock guy) added a fun fairytale vibe with some cracking timey wimey stuff. It's a pity Karen Gillan's Amy Pond is a shouty bore, still she is easily the sexiest ginger since Maggie Thatcher.
So that was my top 5 shows of 2010. Next time: My top 5 times I cried myself to sleep, number 1 is right now, goodnight.
Anyway since my life was an unsatisfying mess last year I have decided to instead list one of my rare pleasures in life...good TV shows. Mostly because the only other list I could think was of top ten sexual fantasies I've had and also because I don't get out much. So without further ado here is one of those shitty little lists which you can enjoy, disagree with or completely ignore.
1. Misfits
Misfits should be rubbish, what with it being described as a cross between 'Skins and Heroes' which makes it sound hellish, twice. Thankfully though it is infinitely better than both those shows. It's funny, sexy, clever and extremely violent. It also gets extra credit for throwing the C word out once an episode...you know, cunt! It's also visually gorgeous, using full use of its budget to create little cinematic treats each week. The second series had its faults, the time travel stuff made no sense and Curtis and Kelly's powers were ignored for the majority of the series. Minor quibbles aside it was a fantastic run and I anxiously await the third series where a group of carnys with powers turn up...oh wait, that was Heroes. The cunts!
2. Sherlock
An updating of Sherlock Homes to the present day really shouldn't have worked. It should have become just another detective show with a brilliant but tempremental super sleuth as its star like Inspector Morse or A Touch of Frost. But co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (whose 3 part documentary on the History of Horror was also fantastic) really dove into the original stories and put a fresh spin on them which managed to seperate it from the abundance of other detectives clogging up the channels. Benedict Cumberbatch (a name more ridiculous than Sherlock Holmes) and Martin Freeman (Tim) really shone as the titular pair, capturing the essence of the characters better than Downey JR and Jude 'the prick' Law ever did. Plus great cliffhanger too.
3.The Walking Dead
Zombies...on TV...every week!
4. Eastbound and Down
Kenny Fucking Powers went down Mexico way in his further fall from grace in the hilarious but too short second season. One of the biggest bastards in television history still manages to stay surprisingly likeable thanks to Danny McBride having so much fun as the foul mouthed steroid using egomaniac.
5. Doctor Who
Yeah, I know, its for kids but its such a generally good natured programme that also wants to terrify children that you can't not love it. Doctor Who felt genuinely fresh this year after the departure of showrunner Russell T. Davies who seemed to be winging it in the last few episodes he wrote. David Tennant was a hard one to lose but new boy (literally, he's only about 13) Matt Smith breathed fresh life into the character and new showrunner Steven Moffat (hey, its the Sherlock guy) added a fun fairytale vibe with some cracking timey wimey stuff. It's a pity Karen Gillan's Amy Pond is a shouty bore, still she is easily the sexiest ginger since Maggie Thatcher.
So that was my top 5 shows of 2010. Next time: My top 5 times I cried myself to sleep, number 1 is right now, goodnight.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Festival Wanderer
I enjoy my own company yet don't do well on my own. Simple tasks become Herculean efforts when I have to fend for myself. For example, I can't cook so every time I venture into the kitchen it usually results in bitter resentment directed towards the inedible unidentifiable slop slowly sliding off my plate. Thankfully very few people see these hideous offerings so my mistakes go unnoticed. Its a different story however when I have to be on my own in public. Making mistakes in front of complete strangers is something that sets me on edge. I'm not sure why, maybe I shat myself in public when I was younger and have blanked it out but it always subconsciously enters my mind the minute I leave the front door.
Anyway, I recently went down to Edinburgh for a jaunt round the festival. I was meeting a chum in the afternoon and we were going to see another friends free fringe show. I decided to go down in the morning and spend the day wandering around in search of any shows that caught my eye. I quite like the fringe now that I don't live in Edinburgh. When I did I found it to be a massive pain in the hoop especially when walking home from work. There were always aggressive half naked nutters handing out flyers advertising their shows, most of which could barely be considered entertainment, more like painful exercises in seeing how long it would take before you had to shout out 'this is bollocks!' just to keep yourself from going mental at the sheer awfulness of coked up art students trying to do avant-garde comedy about the romantic coupling of Hitler and a horse.
So, arriving in Edinburgh it was nice to wander around taking in the familiar sights, the festival buzz, even the nutters weren't too bad. Slowly I began to realise that I wasn't really stopping anywhere, instead I was just walking past things, occasionally slowing down to peer in venue doorways and busy pubs. It was then that I remembered that I hate going into pubs and shows by myself. I never know what to do with myself, I hate just standing or sitting, staring into nothingness. Occasionally you get lucky and they have a TV but normally its showing football which I don't follow so I just stare at it pretending I'm enjoying it but instead hoping they'll change it to something else, anything else, even Loose Women.
Eventually I got so tired of aimless walking that I went to a pub called Lebowskis which had no festival shows. After ordering a pint I picked up a newspaper from the bar. It was between The Sun and The Times, I went for the latter just in case I came across a page of breasts and was branded a pervert loner by the sexy barmaid. She was sexy too and Spanish and a woman. Winner! I sat at a table nearest the bar which was a bad choice as the barmaid was also serving food and had to slide past me to get back to the bar. I felt like I was in the way, I probably wasn't but the thought of being a nuisance, an eyesore to people coming in and seeing my uncomfortable coupon made me rush my pint which made me look even more awkward.
Five minutes later I was out in the street again. I had a couple of hours to kill before meeting my friend so to avoid another traumatic solo pub experience I went to Princes St gardens and sat in the sun. I felt much more relaxed doing this since other people were doing the same. I felt like I was doing nothing wrong, making no mistakes, it was great. Apart from the dog that was watching me, and that seagull and the old couple and the pretty girl with the big busters and...I shat myself.
Anyway, I recently went down to Edinburgh for a jaunt round the festival. I was meeting a chum in the afternoon and we were going to see another friends free fringe show. I decided to go down in the morning and spend the day wandering around in search of any shows that caught my eye. I quite like the fringe now that I don't live in Edinburgh. When I did I found it to be a massive pain in the hoop especially when walking home from work. There were always aggressive half naked nutters handing out flyers advertising their shows, most of which could barely be considered entertainment, more like painful exercises in seeing how long it would take before you had to shout out 'this is bollocks!' just to keep yourself from going mental at the sheer awfulness of coked up art students trying to do avant-garde comedy about the romantic coupling of Hitler and a horse.
So, arriving in Edinburgh it was nice to wander around taking in the familiar sights, the festival buzz, even the nutters weren't too bad. Slowly I began to realise that I wasn't really stopping anywhere, instead I was just walking past things, occasionally slowing down to peer in venue doorways and busy pubs. It was then that I remembered that I hate going into pubs and shows by myself. I never know what to do with myself, I hate just standing or sitting, staring into nothingness. Occasionally you get lucky and they have a TV but normally its showing football which I don't follow so I just stare at it pretending I'm enjoying it but instead hoping they'll change it to something else, anything else, even Loose Women.
Eventually I got so tired of aimless walking that I went to a pub called Lebowskis which had no festival shows. After ordering a pint I picked up a newspaper from the bar. It was between The Sun and The Times, I went for the latter just in case I came across a page of breasts and was branded a pervert loner by the sexy barmaid. She was sexy too and Spanish and a woman. Winner! I sat at a table nearest the bar which was a bad choice as the barmaid was also serving food and had to slide past me to get back to the bar. I felt like I was in the way, I probably wasn't but the thought of being a nuisance, an eyesore to people coming in and seeing my uncomfortable coupon made me rush my pint which made me look even more awkward.
Five minutes later I was out in the street again. I had a couple of hours to kill before meeting my friend so to avoid another traumatic solo pub experience I went to Princes St gardens and sat in the sun. I felt much more relaxed doing this since other people were doing the same. I felt like I was doing nothing wrong, making no mistakes, it was great. Apart from the dog that was watching me, and that seagull and the old couple and the pretty girl with the big busters and...I shat myself.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The charmer and the slapper
I was slapped recently. On the face. By a girl.
It was a strange situation, partially remembered through a drunken haze. Did I deserve it? Did she overreact? Does violence solve anything? I don't know. I'll let you decide while I spin my own one sided interpretation of events that paints me in a good light. Can't say fairer than that, can you?
I was in a pub talking to a friend minding my own business. The chat was animated and engaging. I was gesticulating wildly, my hands windmilling around as I made my point...innocently. From out of nowhere this girl appeared by my side. She was wearing a hat, specifically a beret which made her look like a character out of Allo, Allo. She was also wearing thick colourful rimmed glasses. Both these things immediately told me she was someone that liked to draw attention to herself while confusingly also using them to hide the majority of her face. She leaned in to talk. I figured she would say this only once...
"You won't get a girlfriend using your hands in that aggressive manner" she said.
My first thought was "Huh?", my second was "stupid hat!". She then started to drone, a monosyllabic whine in my ear about my aggressive hands or the "women repellents" as they would now be known. At some point she left to go smoke (out of her arse! Zing!). I tried to return to the conversation but I was now perturbed. Was she right? Were my hands the cause of my singledom. No, I thought, if anything my right hand was the solution to my singledom. I was on the defensive now but as I refuse to admit to my own faults I came to the conclusion she was mental. I used science to work that out and a couple of vodka cokes.
I was now in an arguei...discussing mood so I went out to find her. It wasn't hard, there she was standing right at the door looking french. She was chatting to a guy who looked mightily pissed off at her. Turns out she had said that he had a crap arse or something. Who was this force of pure evil? She needed to be stopped.
Jumping into the conversation I questioned what she meant when she said that I won't get a woman because 'she' found my hands aggressive. So this meant that she spoke for all womanhood, some kind of uber-woman. Smugly (really smugly) she said "but I am a woman". So I went for the low blow and said "Debatable".
SMACK!
It stung for a bit but my comment stung much harder. She was now flustered. Every time she brought up the aggressive hands I would just point out she was the one hitting folk. Argument over, here endth the lesson. I'm not proud of the comment but it won me the arguement by getting her angry so it was a necessary evil.
I wonder how I would have reacted if a beautiful leggy blonde had said I was never going to get a woman instead of some beret wearing fool. Would it would have been a different story? I would probably be crying right now, scooping ice cream out of a tub with one of my aggressive hands while coming to the conclusion that I was doomed to die alone. But it wasn't so I'm not.
For the record I don't have aggressive hands, they are actually very small and gentle (perfect for holding hands and stroking kittens)... I'm doomed to die alone.
It was a strange situation, partially remembered through a drunken haze. Did I deserve it? Did she overreact? Does violence solve anything? I don't know. I'll let you decide while I spin my own one sided interpretation of events that paints me in a good light. Can't say fairer than that, can you?
I was in a pub talking to a friend minding my own business. The chat was animated and engaging. I was gesticulating wildly, my hands windmilling around as I made my point...innocently. From out of nowhere this girl appeared by my side. She was wearing a hat, specifically a beret which made her look like a character out of Allo, Allo. She was also wearing thick colourful rimmed glasses. Both these things immediately told me she was someone that liked to draw attention to herself while confusingly also using them to hide the majority of her face. She leaned in to talk. I figured she would say this only once...
"You won't get a girlfriend using your hands in that aggressive manner" she said.
My first thought was "Huh?", my second was "stupid hat!". She then started to drone, a monosyllabic whine in my ear about my aggressive hands or the "women repellents" as they would now be known. At some point she left to go smoke (out of her arse! Zing!). I tried to return to the conversation but I was now perturbed. Was she right? Were my hands the cause of my singledom. No, I thought, if anything my right hand was the solution to my singledom. I was on the defensive now but as I refuse to admit to my own faults I came to the conclusion she was mental. I used science to work that out and a couple of vodka cokes.
I was now in an arguei...discussing mood so I went out to find her. It wasn't hard, there she was standing right at the door looking french. She was chatting to a guy who looked mightily pissed off at her. Turns out she had said that he had a crap arse or something. Who was this force of pure evil? She needed to be stopped.
Jumping into the conversation I questioned what she meant when she said that I won't get a woman because 'she' found my hands aggressive. So this meant that she spoke for all womanhood, some kind of uber-woman. Smugly (really smugly) she said "but I am a woman". So I went for the low blow and said "Debatable".
SMACK!
It stung for a bit but my comment stung much harder. She was now flustered. Every time she brought up the aggressive hands I would just point out she was the one hitting folk. Argument over, here endth the lesson. I'm not proud of the comment but it won me the arguement by getting her angry so it was a necessary evil.
I wonder how I would have reacted if a beautiful leggy blonde had said I was never going to get a woman instead of some beret wearing fool. Would it would have been a different story? I would probably be crying right now, scooping ice cream out of a tub with one of my aggressive hands while coming to the conclusion that I was doomed to die alone. But it wasn't so I'm not.
For the record I don't have aggressive hands, they are actually very small and gentle (perfect for holding hands and stroking kittens)... I'm doomed to die alone.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
My shit cop show
Flicking through the TV channels I often look for new and interesting programmes that will stimulate my mind or alternatively I will look for programmes that contain boobs. It really all depends if I have trousers on. So there I am (wearing trousers) tapping the remote through the channels when it becomes apparent there are a lot of cops shows or procedurals as some people call them. You've got the 3 CSI shows where they solve crimes using forensics and snappy one liners like "He's been decapitated...he's probably dead!". There is Bones in which a woman with a large transparent head solves crimes by looking at the victims bones. There is Lie To Me in which Mr Orange can read body language and facial expressions and totally knows when you're fibbing. They are gimmick shows where the detectives use their one skill to solve every crime imaginable. So since there is a market for unique crime solvers I've decided to create my own. It's called Stool.
Stool follows the brilliant but tortured detective Neil Stool who solves crimes by looking at murder victims post death shit (for those that don't know when you die it is very common for the body to have an involuntary bowel movement. Isn't death hilarious!). Stool will use his brilliant understanding of feces to deduce who murdered the victim...somehow.
Using unorthodox techniques he sniffs, prods and when really stumped licks the poop with the tip of his tongue because he's a maverick and he doesn't give a shit. Except he does and he licks that shit. A lot. Throughout his investigations he keeps praying that he will be able to catch the elusive 'Public Toilet Killer' who offed his best friend who was out cottaging. The 'Public Toilet Killer' then violently defecates on the victim because he's a sadistic and immoral bastard. He'll be played by one of The Goonies probably Corey Feldman. Definitely Corey Feldman.
Stool will be played by Lou Diamond Philips whose intense and constipated performance will win him many awards and acclaim. His boss and mentor will be played Danny Glover in a tongue in cheek performance where he will mutter the immortal words "I'm too old for this shit!" every week. He will then burst into uncontrollable laughter until he...he...shits! There will also be a hot female detective who is trying to bed Stool played by one of the girls from two girls, one cup. The cup will not appear.
I think it's a winner or it might be a lot of shit. I'm 29 years old.
Stool follows the brilliant but tortured detective Neil Stool who solves crimes by looking at murder victims post death shit (for those that don't know when you die it is very common for the body to have an involuntary bowel movement. Isn't death hilarious!). Stool will use his brilliant understanding of feces to deduce who murdered the victim...somehow.
Using unorthodox techniques he sniffs, prods and when really stumped licks the poop with the tip of his tongue because he's a maverick and he doesn't give a shit. Except he does and he licks that shit. A lot. Throughout his investigations he keeps praying that he will be able to catch the elusive 'Public Toilet Killer' who offed his best friend who was out cottaging. The 'Public Toilet Killer' then violently defecates on the victim because he's a sadistic and immoral bastard. He'll be played by one of The Goonies probably Corey Feldman. Definitely Corey Feldman.
Stool will be played by Lou Diamond Philips whose intense and constipated performance will win him many awards and acclaim. His boss and mentor will be played Danny Glover in a tongue in cheek performance where he will mutter the immortal words "I'm too old for this shit!" every week. He will then burst into uncontrollable laughter until he...he...shits! There will also be a hot female detective who is trying to bed Stool played by one of the girls from two girls, one cup. The cup will not appear.
I think it's a winner or it might be a lot of shit. I'm 29 years old.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Ah, Mr Slow!
When taking stock of your life (especially if you are currently jobless and living with your parents again as I am) it's interesting to look back at moments that have come to define you.
When I was in P7 I had to draw a picture of a Wild West setting. Having drawn the right amount of fingers on each of the cowboys I then proceeded to sketch the landscape. I believe I drew a palm tree in the background. Despite my geographical inaccuracies I finished the picture by drawing a sun in the right hand corner. Believing I was the smartest 11 year old in the world I decided that I would just draw the sun as a golden orb in the sky. No heat rays or squiggly lines emanating from it. It looked better as a gold circle, more real somehow. I finished and sat back quite smugly awaiting the teachers approval.
Her name was Miss Norrie, young, attractive but not an object of lust in those pre-erection days plus she was a rumoured lesbian. As she glanced over the picture I saw her features change from mild indifference to a deep set frown. Damn, I knew the palm tree was wrong. I saw her finger jabbing furiously at the image of the sun. "Whats this?" she said. "Its the sun" I replied, thinking maybe she lives in some sunless apocalyptic hellhole (or Brechin as it was more commonly known.) She then proceeded to chastise me for making the sun so bland. No heat rays or squiggly lines was a big no-no for her. It didn't convey the full majesty of the sun. I just thought it might have been an overcast day. She was having none of that and then like that she was gone, on to the next kid to destroy their artistic hopes and dreams.
It doesn't sound like a defining moment in my childhood and to be honest it wasn't. However it did mean that from then on everytime I drew a sun I always made it a giant flaming ball of hate. The sun was now a monster to me, on the verge of happily wiping us all out everytime it farted a solar flare in our general direction.
So you see its the little things that shape us. Its the same reason I don't like maths. In P5 Mrs Adamson drove me to tears in front of the class because I got my seven times table mixed up. From that point on anytime I had to count I would break out in a cold sweat and shout out random numbers like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
Of course I had great teachers, Mrs Moir, Mr Davidson (who played a mean Kumbaya on the guitar) Mrs Reid and Mr Simmons all helped define me as person, its only years later that I realise that. Thinking of those teachers made me acknowledge that being a teacher was not for me.
I had dabbled in teacher training briefly. Three months learning the do and dont's and then six weeks in a secondary school in the isolated village of Gairloch. I was to teach English despite my atrocious grammer and punctuation, something which I had manged to ignore throughout my English degree. It was during my first solo lesson that I realised it wasn't for me. Thinking back to the good teachers I had I discovered I wasn't one of them. I'm too sarcastic and tend to look at things negatively despite my cheery facade. The defining moment came when I imagined all the moon faced half asleep pupils in front of me in some sort of Battle Royale tournament. I had already picked out a clear winner, a quiet lad who was busy carving the word 'die' in to his desk. I could clearly see him casually decimating the rest of his classmates while spouting off dreary poetry over their mangled twitching bodies. This was most certainly the road to madness so teaching was out the window.
I never once regretted quitting teaching because I knew I would become one of those cynical alcoholic ones who just did it for the long summer holidays. I am grateful that I never got to become one of those teachers who berated a child for their crappy picture of a sun which resulted in that child one day writing a second rate whine in his first blog posting. I am happy I broke the cycle.
As for the title of this posting, well that was what a French student teacher called me while I was trying to count to thirty in French. Numbers and foreign languages, merd! Normally an authority figure calling me slow would upset me but in this case I laughed out loud. Why did this not affect me, who knows? Maybe it was because he was a thin geeky man child who looked like he was furiously masturbating under the table. I'm not bitter, honest. French prick!
When I was in P7 I had to draw a picture of a Wild West setting. Having drawn the right amount of fingers on each of the cowboys I then proceeded to sketch the landscape. I believe I drew a palm tree in the background. Despite my geographical inaccuracies I finished the picture by drawing a sun in the right hand corner. Believing I was the smartest 11 year old in the world I decided that I would just draw the sun as a golden orb in the sky. No heat rays or squiggly lines emanating from it. It looked better as a gold circle, more real somehow. I finished and sat back quite smugly awaiting the teachers approval.
Her name was Miss Norrie, young, attractive but not an object of lust in those pre-erection days plus she was a rumoured lesbian. As she glanced over the picture I saw her features change from mild indifference to a deep set frown. Damn, I knew the palm tree was wrong. I saw her finger jabbing furiously at the image of the sun. "Whats this?" she said. "Its the sun" I replied, thinking maybe she lives in some sunless apocalyptic hellhole (or Brechin as it was more commonly known.) She then proceeded to chastise me for making the sun so bland. No heat rays or squiggly lines was a big no-no for her. It didn't convey the full majesty of the sun. I just thought it might have been an overcast day. She was having none of that and then like that she was gone, on to the next kid to destroy their artistic hopes and dreams.
It doesn't sound like a defining moment in my childhood and to be honest it wasn't. However it did mean that from then on everytime I drew a sun I always made it a giant flaming ball of hate. The sun was now a monster to me, on the verge of happily wiping us all out everytime it farted a solar flare in our general direction.
So you see its the little things that shape us. Its the same reason I don't like maths. In P5 Mrs Adamson drove me to tears in front of the class because I got my seven times table mixed up. From that point on anytime I had to count I would break out in a cold sweat and shout out random numbers like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
Of course I had great teachers, Mrs Moir, Mr Davidson (who played a mean Kumbaya on the guitar) Mrs Reid and Mr Simmons all helped define me as person, its only years later that I realise that. Thinking of those teachers made me acknowledge that being a teacher was not for me.
I had dabbled in teacher training briefly. Three months learning the do and dont's and then six weeks in a secondary school in the isolated village of Gairloch. I was to teach English despite my atrocious grammer and punctuation, something which I had manged to ignore throughout my English degree. It was during my first solo lesson that I realised it wasn't for me. Thinking back to the good teachers I had I discovered I wasn't one of them. I'm too sarcastic and tend to look at things negatively despite my cheery facade. The defining moment came when I imagined all the moon faced half asleep pupils in front of me in some sort of Battle Royale tournament. I had already picked out a clear winner, a quiet lad who was busy carving the word 'die' in to his desk. I could clearly see him casually decimating the rest of his classmates while spouting off dreary poetry over their mangled twitching bodies. This was most certainly the road to madness so teaching was out the window.
I never once regretted quitting teaching because I knew I would become one of those cynical alcoholic ones who just did it for the long summer holidays. I am grateful that I never got to become one of those teachers who berated a child for their crappy picture of a sun which resulted in that child one day writing a second rate whine in his first blog posting. I am happy I broke the cycle.
As for the title of this posting, well that was what a French student teacher called me while I was trying to count to thirty in French. Numbers and foreign languages, merd! Normally an authority figure calling me slow would upset me but in this case I laughed out loud. Why did this not affect me, who knows? Maybe it was because he was a thin geeky man child who looked like he was furiously masturbating under the table. I'm not bitter, honest. French prick!
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