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 21^st 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.

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!

Writers Block

Uuummm....yeah...so...

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.

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.

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.

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.