Little, Big

That whole 'bootlegging for love' thing (as opposed to 'making a quick buck off someone else's work') reminded me of this passage from John Crowley's Little, Big, when the writer of a popular television soap opera reminds a country in the midst of a seemingly never-ending time of war, repression and hardship, that hard times will end, and that summer can begin anew.

"Later that night, in the Capital, the episode of Mrs. MacReynolds' death appeared on "A World Elsewhere." In other places the time of its showing varied; it was no longer in many places a daytime drama, often it was a post-midnight one. But shown it was, broadcast or cabled or- where that wasn't possible, where lines had been cut or transmission interdicted - smuggled into small local stations, or copied and carried overland by hand to hidden transmitters, the precious tapes beamed feebly to far small snowy towns. A walker on this night through such a town could pass along its single street and glimpse, in every living room, the blueish glow of it: might see, in one house, Mrs. MacReynolds carried to her bed, in the next, her children gathered, in the next, her parting words spoken; in the last house before the town ran out and the silent prairie began, her dead."

If you like contemporary fantasists such as Neil Gaiman and Susanna Clarke, and haven't yet come across Crowley - you won't be disappointed. He's not an easy read, at least not until you get used to his astonishingly lyrical descriptions, and graceful, elaborate sentence structure (his use of a semi-colon would make Lynne Truss weep with joy), but once he's got his hooks into you, he won't let go.

More people in cat costumes

Her sister's called 'Holly', apparently.
Originally uploaded by jamesandthebluecat.

Ah... Kate Bush. Recent covers by the Futureheads and Placebo (thanks typical teen) have set off a full-scale Kate Bush revival. In my flat, anyway. I used to love this picture of Kate hanging around someone's attic in a lion suit. I always thought there was some great story behind this image, but now I'm older and wiser, I suspect it may just be that she liked hanging around attics wearing a lion suit. And fair play to her. Like a sexy Aslan. Grrrr.

I had to explain what 'furries' were to the other Green Wing writers in our last meeting, and then explain that, no, I wasn't one, I just had a bit of a Cheetara crush in the eighties and left it there. Actually I'll stop now. I've already said too much.

Things Not to Ask In a Comedy Writers Meeting No. 4227: 'Have I got pen on my face?" Answers ranged from 'No. Seriously. Not a bit. Don't check." to "Yes, you've accidentally drawn on a huge Victorian moustache" to "Yes, and it's in the shape of someone else's face". None of which were helpful. It turned out the first answer was correct, if anyone cares.

Very pleased that at least two people have told me they've ordered that Balanescu Quartet CD as sampled in Music For Robots. You see! Music sharing works! The last five albums I bought were all through hearing stuff posted on various blogs, and in the case of two of them ( mirah and rilo kiley), that was the first time I'd heard of them.

Which is why I'm so pissed off someone's flogging Green Wing DVDs on ebay. You'll forgive me if I don't provide a link. I don't have any problem with stuff being streamed, or even downloadable off the web (although I should stress, Channel 4 may well feel differently). But actively trying to make a profit off something when all you did is copy someone else's work onto a disc is piracy, pure and simple. And if I'm ever walking through London and I see pirated Green Wing DVDs for sale on some grotty market stall, I will kick over your table and confiscate your money belt.

That said, I was pleased to note the DVD was described as containing 'all eight episodes' when there were, in fact, nine. So maybe, anyone thinking of buying it, go ahead....

Notting Fricken' Hill

People might know this already but... 'Notting Hill" was originally going to be about the Hugh Grant character trying to decide between two women: one a huge movie star (Julia) and the other a fairly ditzy, low-caste British chick (ended up being played in the film by the lovely, beautiful, looks-a-bit-like-my-friend-Ruth, Emma Chambers). Only by the time the film came out, there was no question of Hugh ending up with anyone other than Julia,. And Emma Chambers got rewritten as Hugh's sister. I still like to think about what that alternative film might have been like. Probably still shit, but you never know.

I find it pretty scary that the higher up the movie-making ladder Richard Curtis gets, the less control he seems to have over his films. Surely there must come a moment when you ask yourself... 'why exactly did I get into this?'

And for the record, 'Blackadder' was one of the finest sitcoms ever, and 'Tall Guy' was just a lovely, lovely film. I 'heart' Jeff Goldblum. I 'heart' him so much it hurts sometimes.

Matt and Sass are coming round for a roast in a minute, and though a lot of the wine went into the gravy, a lot more of it went into me. A little caveat there, for legal purposes.

Fine English Pants

Just got in, turned on the telly, and with no warning at all, there's that clip from Notting Hill where Julia Roberts says "I'm just a girl, standing before a boy-" I can't go on. Jesus, it even hurts typing this shit.

It actually took me a few precious seconds to pick up the remote, my hands were so palsied with anger.

God, I feel sullied. As though I were covered in actual sull.

Flatmate is away for a few days, so inbetween shouting at telly and blogging, am celebrating in traditional manner by running round with pants on head. Fully dressed though: there's nothing weird about it.

I discovered this evening that the pants-on-head routine was in fact invented by my uncle. He was telling me that he was on a long holiday with his kids, and another couple and their kids, and after four straight days of rain, all the entertainment he had left was to chase the assorted kids around with his pants on his head. He later arranged a game of hide and seek, as he'd found a great hiding space behind the boiler in the surprisingly roomy airing cupboard. The kids eventually gave up and everyone assumed he had just sloped off to the pub. In fact, as the airing cupboard was pleasantly warm, he had fallen asleep, and wasn't discovered until very late that evening, when someone went for a fresh towel.

My uncle's now a deputy head at a large junior school. He and my aunt are also responsible for one of my all-time favourite bits of real-life dialogue, which I've never been able to work into a script, because all the people involved need properly world-weary Welsh accents, or it doesn't work.

INT. WEDDING - DAY

AUNT: She can't have nails like that working in A&E. Not when you're scooping vomit out of a drunk's throat.
UNCLE: It's always 'vomit' with you, isn't it?

Pause

UNCLE: Or 'toilets'.

Fillums

Apparently Buenna Vista liked the pitch document for my screenplay, and now want to read the script proper, which is potentially quite exciting. I was considering giving it a third rewrite before handing it over, but decided against it. There's always a bit more rewriting to be done, but sometimes you just have to leave alone and hand it over. Also, if it gets to a meeting, I can guess which bit they might have a problem with, and have an according solution lined up. Me so crafty...

Writing this while watching the 'King Arthur' DVD, so if my spelling goes a bit wonky, you'll know Keira Knightly's turned up in her leather bikini. I highly recommend learning to touch-type if you're thinking of becoming a writer, by the way, as you can then do things like update your blog whilst watching crap films. I got an RSA level three, which means I can type impressively fast at meetings if need be, although sometimes I invent words like 'nyiblotep', which is possibly how H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos got started...

King Arthur so far: rubbish script, but some cool swordfights. More as it unfolds.

Interested to see a lot of non-neocon sympathisers at the CIA jumping ship before the Bushite purge begins. I love the idea of a load of liberal, Jon Stewart-loving spooks out on the streets looking for new jobs, like an army of John Cusacks from 'Grosse Point Blank'. Where the hell will they all end up? They'll probably go back to the temp jobs at Borders they were doing before they were trained in stealth killing/infiltration/regime change and so forth. Author events might liven up a bit, though.

This really is quite a poor film. Set dialogue to 'historical', for that is how we speak in this period of history in which we are living, ho yuss. My arse.

Aha, and here comes the Gladiotor theme tune rip-off. Ticking all the boxes so far.

Music For Robots has some Balanescu Quartet covers of Kraftwerk songs "Computer Love" and "The Model". Really quite beautiful, the sort of thing "The Baroque Cycle" would sound like if you put it to music.

Ooh, Lancelot's tellling Arthur how he wants his funeral to proceed. Great stuff. Somebody needs to tell directors how to stand more than three feet away from the action, keep the camera level and maybe let a shot run for, ooh, maybe more than three seconds at a time.

'Who is this 'Arthur"? For fucks sake. All this stuff makes you realize all over again just how astonishing a job Fran Walsh and Phillipa Boyens did on the Lord of the Rings screenplay. Not like, a controversial point, but always worth repeating.

Still no Keira...

Hmmm...

Just been asked if I want to write for a new kid's show, which all sounds very nice, until I looked at the ten word pitch, which seems worryingly similar to a treatment (a sort of three page precis of a possible series) I sent to a number of companies six months ago.

The thing is, experience has taught me that in 99.9% of these cases, it's entirely innocent. People get inspiration from the same bit of news footage, or the release of an old film or whatever. Or it can be totally obscure: over one weekend three different Bob the Builder writers (I was one of them) sent concepts for stories about windmills, for no apparent reason. Fay and I wrote almost word-for-word a GW scene about spicy pizzas. Rob from GW (who disappointingly, no-one murmured at it French, but never mind) reckoned you could lock seven comedy writers in seven different rooms and six of them would come out with the same joke. Curretnly, the joke would be about breast-feeding, but I like to thing I'd write something involving subtle wordplay and an owl pellet. But I digress...

I should be getting more details on that kid's show soon. To be honest, now the initial rush of adrenalin has worn off, it's pretty unlikely anyone's ripped off my idea (and if they have, Agent Ginny can kick arse on my behalf). I'm more worried that my project, which I've been quietly tinkering around with for ages now, will have to be dumped.

If this kid's show's details come through though, and it has a toy dinosaur called Cretacia, and a red robot called Red Robot, I'm tooling up with guns and storming the foyer.

"Catch me if you can... hunt me if you dare!"

leopardlime
Originally uploaded by jamesandthebluecat.

Hairy comics genius Alan Moore seems set to reprise a load of old UK comic characters in a new comic called 'Albion', co-produced with DC. Link here. Let's hope this spells a revival for my fave comic character when I was about ten, The Leopard From Lime Street (image, by Mike Western, to the right).

Other UK heroes from the same period can be found on the excellent International Hero site.

Although, thinking about it, the Leopardboy's catchphrase (post title above) might be considered a tad unwieldy for these thrusting, aggressive modern times. Also... possibly a bit camp, out of context. Although when the context is a lad called Billy in a catsuit, one's frame of reference starts to look a bit shaky. I think Mr. Moore may have his work cut out.

Never look back, dear reader. Never look back.

Should also add: I've heard rumours about the Albion thing for a while, but got the article link off the really very good Gravity Lens, which should be bookmarked by all short-attention spanned geeks everywhere.

Return to Fraggle Rock

lighthouse
Originally uploaded by jamesandthebluecat.

Had one of those very pleasant, gently life-affirming weekends, which was a bonus, because when I picked up some post from my parent's, I had one of those tax bills which goes up a grand every time you look at it.

Lovely walk with parents and dog out to St. Anthony's lighthouse (aka Fraggle Rock) though. The photo was taken at the end of the walk and I could have got closer (and thefore the lighthouse less titchy) but I was knackered. Also, if you get too close, you scare the fraggles.

Technically it's about a mile across the harbour from Falmouth, but to get there by car you have to drive for about three days, and go over the King Harry Ferry. The bearded guy on the left of the photo below, by the way, is a fibreglass lifesize model of a person. There's another fibreglass chap reclining on the bench on the slope leading down to the ferry. My dad, being my dad, tried to start a conversation with both of them. Mum and I thought he was trying to be funny, but as it turned out we were giving him far too much credit.

fakebloke
Originally uploaded by jamesandthebluecat.

Apropos of nothing, I was idly thinking of one of the many temporary jobs that made my CV more a sort of Death of a Thousand Cuts. This one was a potpourri factory in Canterbury. Sounds like a nice, wafty middle-class job, but it wasn't. I used to come home reeking of lavender, with straw in my hair. I looked as though I had been hanging out in some really quite specialist bars, close to the cathedral, near where the evangelicals roam.

One of the many delights of my job was an hour a day filling tiny bottles with a cheapo version of essential oils, then trying to label them. Of course the jars would be slick with oil, the labels wouldn't stick and I would start to wonder if a Fine Arts degree had really been that practical a choice.

Anyway, it occurred to me, now some years later: why didn't I just put the labels on first, then fill the bottles?

I ran away from that job. Literally. It was raining heavily one afternoon break, I was staring out into the carpark, rucksack already on one shoulder because you couldn't leave stuff in the staff room, and suddenly my feet moved and I was off. Didn't realize what I was doing until I was half-way down Sturry Road, which is the wrong place for any kind of existential breaththrough, especially with electricty pylons audibly crackling overhead, and gangs of feral youths circling on undersized BMX's. Anyway, I did the decent thing, and phoned the factory the next day to say I had got a prestigious position in an fashionable London-based advertising agency, so I couldn't work there any more. Which turned out to be an even worse move than it sounds, as my next job was in Waterstone's, and the nice lady from Accounts to whom I'd told this lie came in every day to buy her crime novels. Still, she never mentioned it, and I was careful always to talk to her in a thick Swedish accent, so I think I got away with it.

Spotted yesterday...

Jeremy Paxman, standing on Falmouth High Street trying to stop passers-by for an interview and looking increasingly grumpy as passers-by kept... passing by.

Don't take it personally Jeremy, it was a bit cold and rainy, and most Cornish people tend to have Things To Do. I don't, obviously, but by the time I'd ironed my Wolverine tee-shirt, he'd gone. I bet Michael Buerke would have stuck it out.

This is turning into Heat magazine, isn't it?

Some celebrity confusion in Falmouth is caused by my dad, who looks surprisingly like Alan Alda (Hawkeye out of MASH). It's not always obvious to people, but no-one's ever disagreed, once I've pointed it out. 'Oh yes' they say,'he does'. In surprise. The really surprising thing is that Alan Alda himself is an occasional visitor to Falmouth (I think he has friends in the nearby village of Constantine). He gets the bus and everything. People must nudge each other and say 'Isn't that....' and the person next to them says 'Nah, it's James's dad'. My dad's a chiropodist, so if one day you read an interview with Alan Alda, and he mentions his lovely holidays to Cornwall, blighted only by complete strangers asking him for advice on verucas, you'll know why.

Someone I met on the only stag do I've been to in my life worked on a film with Mel Gibson. They went for a pint, and all that happened was that people kept telling him (Mel Gibson) how much he looked like Mel Gibson. 'I get that a lot' said Mel Gibson. Apparently, for a right-wing, homophobic creationist who likes to pop up on US talk shows as an authority on why stem cell research is against the teachings of the bible (so are mixed-fibre tops, Mel, and you've worn a lot of them), he's very nice.

Rob Harley says...

Re my slightly inaccurate reporting of the Green Wing DVD release date:

"Perhaps if you'd just owned up and said you were woefully late for the meeting and missed just about everything to do with the DVD, that would have been more honest. If you'd said 'I'm sorry, GW fans, I've been completely rubbish. I've let you all down." perhaps they'd have respected you more."

I'm sorry, GW fans, I've been completely rubbish. I've let you all down.

I wasn't going to point out to people that Rob, as well as being an writer, is also a poseable funny monkey (actor) and plays the CEO of the hospital in Green Wing (also comperes the slave auction). And I still won't. But if you see in the street this week, run up to him and whisper 'Reduced font size' in a sinister French accent. He knows what it means. And he'll give you a fiver, I promise. Seriously. No he will.

Offer ends Friday 19th October.

Recycled geece

Went to the Maritime Museum in Falmouth last night, as they were exhibiting lots of sculpture pieces made from the remains of the Queen's Wharf (which burned down last year - very exciting, I'll see if I can find a photo). So, lots of interesting wooden things, including two giant clothes pegs (because just one would be useless wouldn't it?).

Ironically however, the things I liked most on display were made of metal, and possibly weren't even part of the exhibit at all. Someone had made these metal geese out of (I think) old fuel tanks. If I had A) my own garden and B) more money, I'd definitely have a bunch of these.

In fact, I've taken the picture down now, as part of (I hope) a railing was projecting into the picture at an odd angle, looking for all the world like... well, something rude. Might just crop that pic and repost it later.

Seriously, once I'd noticed it, it was freaking me out. Pic still up on Flickr though, if any depraved people are desperate for a peek.

Flying boats

boats
Originally uploaded by jamesandthebluecat.

There's more stuff on display upstairs, but my attention was distracted (once again) by something completely different: the display of small boats hung up in the large space in the centre of the building. Impressive enough by day, but with the lights turned down, it's quite a surreal sight: a dozen pilotless flying boats, on their way to nowhere, like one of those scenes from the best kid's books that thrill you and slightly creep you out without you ever knowing why.

Homunculus in my bathroom

In the corner of the bathroom I share with my flatmate (on a one-at-a-time basis, naturally), sits a naked Cabbage Patch Doll. In fact, it doesn't so much sit as squat, choosing as its lair an upturned washing bowl propped between the sink and the wall.

Its black eyes stare glassily forward and I always forget it's there until I'm having a bath, and I've got past the 'ooh jesus too hot' stage and have sunk right down in the pleasingly oversized tub. That's the point where I think 'no, that really was too hot, and now I'm going to die', followed by a sense of enormous well-being and the benevolent forgiveness of those who have, in various times of my life, chosen to wrong me for no good reason. And then I look in the corner of the room and see Creepy-Ass Fat Chick Doll staring straight ahead, its little mind whirring as it plots its revenge on humanity.

It was in the front room at one point, perched humorously on the sofa, as if watching television. It was wearing clothes then, although I've chosen not to remember what they were. I gently placed it out of sight behind the door, where it stayed for a few days before re-emerging, naked, in the bathroom. There's a speckling of mould on its right leg now. At least I think it's mould. It could be a sign that it's going into some kind of developmental phase, and that it'll hatch soon.

Still, there's hardly any slugs in the bathroom now Matt's blocked up the crack in the tiles, although when leaving the house, one does have to step over little slug protest groups circling the patio, and waving tiny banners very slowly.

Ace advert

Another broadband-only bit, sorry, but this dancing Transformer ad is utterly fantastic. It's a bit dodgy, linking to an ad, as you feel you're just becoming another cog in the marketing machine. But when the ad's this good, it's okay to be a cog. And to balance out, I should say that this actually makes me want to buy That Particular Make of Car even less than before, because now it's going to be a massive disappointment if it doesn't actually turn into a robot and start to boogah.

In fact, watch this ad, then go out and specifically don't buy That Particular Make of Car, and morally we're even.

Animation, by the way was by the Vancouver-based company The Embassy.

Still on monsters

... the second draft of screenplay is now completed. A second after I pressed the Send button, so it could wing its way to Agent Ginny, I then thought 'hmm, was that in fact rubbish?'. I don't know, it's one of those endings that seemed good when I wrote it, but just a moment later...

The script definitely needs a extra kick towards the end. I've added what I hoped was an equivalent to that bit in Aliens when they think they're fine, they get back to the ship and then the Alien Queen jumps out and goes 'bleurgh' and they bat each other round for a bit, and then Ripley shouts 'Out you go, Bitchy' and she (Alien Queen) gets sucked out through the airlock. Interestingly, that's actually how the original script put it, so James Cameron really earned his paycheck directing that one (did you also know the original title was 'Lots of Alien'? Which was never going to work). The problem is, every action film now goes on for at least one action sequence too many, even top films such as Speed and Con Air, which, I'm sorry, is genius.

Thing is, I just want to write a screenplay that's smart, and exciting, and commercially viable. I firmly believe you can do all three, although you wouldn't think so from the absolute shower of arse that's currently available in my local video rental place. Why does leaving those places without having taken a vid out always make me feel slightly guilty? It's an odd thing.

Not that this makes any sense, as no-one's read the script yet, and the chances are so far against it ever being made, you just have to hope someone'll buy the option (ie stop anyone else making it) for a few squid. It's odd though, as the stuff I've been most inclined to think 'no that's silly' and take out, is often the stuff that people respond to best.


Ah well, let's see what Agent Ginny says.

Monster Snorkel

Was going to put up a picture, but Flickr's misbehaving again, so you'll have to go to this link and scroll almost half-way down...

Listen, and you can hear the paradigm shifting...

Worrying reports from Angela at clutching at straws that the film 'The Grudge' contains a scene where a monster attacks someone despite that person CLEARLY being under her bedcovers, and thus claiming monster immunity as per the Freedom from Monsters/Blanket act of 1906 (updated by the controversial Duvet Amendment of 1976).

Will update when further reports come in.

No Ronan Keatings allowed

The internet is rapidly becoming a one big machine that exists purely to enable me to assemble the greatest cover versions of all time. There's a fantastic MP3 blog called Copy, Right?, which currently has a french girls' choir covering Air's 'Sexy Boy", and a wondrous thing it is to behold. Or possibly behear. I appreciate this is annoying if you don't have broadband, so just take your laptop over to Matt's, like I did in my dial-up days. He won't mind.

What else? Rodeohead has the best bluegrass medley of Wonky Eye's greatest hits. This somehow moves beyond being a mere novelty cover (although I like those too) into a genuine reinterpretation, although it is funny too, so everyone's happy.

And finally, in the same vein of 'taking what is essentially quite a silly idea and then treating it with enormous seriousness and professionalism', the Orb's Back to Mine mix CD contains Schneider Tm and Kpt's version of the Smith's 'There is a light that will never go out", turning it into a glitchy, spectral vocoded hymn to a new century. If you live in Falmouth, I'm taking the CD back to the library about three-ish, so if you pop in later than that you can take it our for about sixty pence. Result! A local blog for local people.

I'm still rooting through my comics purchases from London. Something I missed as a monthly comic, but just bought as trade paperback is the She-Hulk collection Single Green Female written by Ben Slott, in Jennifer Walters (Bruce Banner's cousin) resumes her previously forgotten legal career. Sort of a green Ally McBeale with superheroes, and really very entertaining.

Somewhere on the net is Rufus Wainwright and Ben Fold's cover of 'Careless Whisper'. I'd put a link up, but I couldn't find it last time I looked, and if it wasn't playing on my stereo right now, I'd think I imagined the whole thing. Anyway, the joy of the hunt is in the chase, and all that.

Me no scripty today

Sitting in the Talkback offices, and their Final Draft (scriptwriting program) is kaput, so I thought I'd update blog instead. Had meeting about GW DVD, which will have commentaries (hurrah) and cool extras (hurrah) but will take a while to do (boo) and probably won't be out until August-ish (double boo). So everything I wrote previously was rubbish, and far from being at the beating heart of a new media empire, I am in fact a spod who know nuffin about puffins.

Meetings with actors was interesting though, just asking which bits they enjoyed, and what they want their characters to do next (not go off a cliff would be the obvious answer for three of them). We'll try and build in their suggestions if possible-

Just to interrupt, my mobile just beeped to let me know I had a text message, and for some reason I took my watch off. Why did I do that? My watch is lying on the desk now, staring at me in puzzlement, and I can't blame it.

Yes, actors. The short version is that though we pretend to listen to what they say, actors are basically all poseable funny monkeys, and must dance to our twisted tune. That's the short version, and I'm going to pretend it's true. They did have some interesting ideas though, so we'll see what scripty magic we can work...

Bob the Builder script meetings were always very satisfying, as none of the actors were taller than six inches, and if they got demanding, you could put them in a drawer. They also had magnetic feet (true) so you could always find them where you last left them, although it meant they couldn't go A) ice-skating or B) up ladders (also true, though magnetic feet technology may have moved on since I was last at the studios). I always got distracted by meetings with animators, as they always have lead fantasy figures blu-tacked to their monitors (I think it's a rule), and as I am an utter utter geek, conversations would go along the lines of 'So, within the confines of the armature, I'm guessing we'll need to jump cut to any scene oooh is that one of the new Confrontation minis, they're gorgeous aren't they, have you seen the new steampunk stuff Privateer Press are doing?'. Which can make meetings overrun a bit.

Actually I know a bit about puffins. Due to the dense musculature required to flap their stubby little wings at the required rate to achieve takeoff, one can get much more meat off a puffin than off a bird of equivalent size, such as a small pigeon.

Seriously, why did I take my watch off? That's really weird.

Letter from Jen.

Dear Sir,

I am outraged and saddened to note that you have me listed as being an archivist at the British Film Institute on your 'Blue Cat' website. I think you will find that you jolly well know that I in fact work for the British Board of Film Classification. Please print a retraction immediately.

Farewell Sirrah, and do not fail to realise that any further inaccuracies in any forthwith hitherto and unforeseen references to myself will be duly recorded and recited to you verily and loudly in a public space.

* * *

Sorry Jen. Consider the previous inaccuracy retracted, with my humble apologies. Let this be a lesson to you all: never misclassify an archivist. She will struggle, mightily, and her fury will be terrifying to behold.

I'm feeling slightly unwell at the mo, due probably to an impromptu and booze-fuelled school reunion. Well, three of us, but it still counts (Rodney, in the unlikely event you're reading this, Sass and I are sorry we missed you, and we love you, and if we were the sort to pray, you'd be in those prayers). But yes, shapes and colours are making me feel decidedly unwell today. And another long train journey tomorrow. A bit short-notice this one, so I wasn't able to book a lovely cheapo first class ticket, and will therefore be forced to mingle with the Great Unwashed, and try not to shudder too dramatically at the hissing noise coming from their personal stereos, and the rustling of their tabloids. Or shout 'Officer, arrest that man!" in a surprisingly shrill voice at someone who's just opened a packet of Wotsits.

Meeting the young 'uns, and ignoring them.

Met Christina Bunce's Professional Writing group at Falmouth College of Arts yesterday, and they seem a lovely, sparky bunch. They put up my pointless wittering for well over an hour anyway, and you can't ask for more than that. It's a difficult thing, to start handing out advice, as A) you can sound like a pompous arse, and B) any advice given on how to get into writing for TV is going to be at least five years out of date, and therefore effectively useless. So it's always going to boil down to 'read a lot' (that should have been point 1a in the previous post) and 'write a lot'. Anyway, they seem pretty groovy, and I'm sure they'll do well. Though if they so well any of them start to present any kind of threat to my career I will destroy them utterly. DESTROY THEM! Just so they know.

Course has a great writing site called bloc, which is well worth a visit, if you're looking at getting into writing.

I went to a few workshoppy things when I was, well, not starting out, because I'm still starting out, but at least still trying to work out what I wanted to do. And straight away, you could tell half the advice was utter bollocks. One co-writer of a pretty successful comedy series (which I liked very much, but no I'm not going to say what it was) told the assembled audience that each of your characters had to embody one particular emotion, and then be as extreme as possible. That was how sitcoms works. And I thought 'quoi?'. Shurely shome mishtake? Others were more useful though, especially when you get actors to read your stuff out loud, which pretty much makes you want to go home and hack it about with a red pen, which is rarely a bad thing. I use a screenwriting programme called Final Draft, which is pretty groovy, and has the option of a voice-synth thing that reads your dialogue out in different voices. Which is very useful. If you were writing a show about Stephen Hawking and some Daleks. And one day maybe I will.

I did manage to blank one of the Prof Writing students in the streets the very next day though. I'm so rubbish. I think it was the American guy called Charles, and chances are he's got more important stuff to worry about at present, but Charles, if it was you, I realised about a second too late. Apologies.

In a last-ditch attempt to put off new readers, I'm going to mention my compost heap. Inspired by the Horticulture blog, I went out to turn mine over with a fork. Fantastically, the stuff at the bottom really does have the consistency of christmas cake crumbs. There's a bit in one of the Narnia books about soil having a rich, loamy, cakey quality, and it's always seemed like a excellent comparison. Apart from the Health and Safety implications, obviously. The odd thing is, I'm not even particularly into gardening. I just like all those old egg shells and apple cores and bits of cardboard turning into something you can use all over again. I'll probably bag it all up and take it over to my parent's so they can use it to grow yummy sweetcorn and new potatoes next year. Food out of the ground and onto the plate in under five minutes. Magic.

It's aaaaaall fine.

Apparently, some Americans had an election. Last thing I heard, that nice Mr Kerry was on course to- oh. Commiserations.

Keith at Teaching the Indie Kids to Dance Again has made a very eloquent plea for the election result to be an inspiration rather than a reason to despair. Easy for me to agree, as I'm an Atlantic away, but he's made his case very well. Chin up, my American friends.

For the first time today, I visited the first class lounge at Paddington station, as I had an hour to wait for my train. Don't hate me - travelling up from Cornwall to London is so expensive, if you have a weeks or so's notice, upgrading to first only costs about a tenner. It really is fantastic though, Just down the side of platform one, past the statue and through the nondescript, wouldn't-know-it-was-there-if-you-didn't-know-it-was-there door. Therein lies a Hogwartian secret world of padded leather armchairs, free coffee, biscuits and a bowl of apples. And grumpy people in suits who look a bit confused that some scruffy lanky get in a Cheers t-shirt has invaded their inner sanctum, but no-one called the police or anything (I wish they would, just once, just to make me feel important).

I was reliably informed by a someone last night that a GW scene I thought had been scripted had in fact arisen entirely spontaneously from an improvisation session. I felt quite bad for a moment, thinking 'blimey, really should give actors more credit'. And then I remembered that the reason I had thought that scene was scripted was because I Had Fucking Written It.

I'm talking to a professional writing course tomorrow, for all the good that'll do them. However, a couple of people have asked me for advice on how to get to the dizzying heights I have achieved (where every night in my beachhouse Latina babes read to me selected passages from The Chronicles of Narnia, while I laughingly smash Faberge eggs with a mallet just to have something to rub in the faces of the poor). Anyway, advice basically boils down to this:

1. Write something.
2. Rewrite it until it is good.
3. Send it off to someone who is in a position to actually pay you money to write more (i.e. not me).
4. Make sure you have some way of paying the rent while you repeat sections 1-3.

I'll be padding it out a bit, but that's the gist.

Watching "The Man who Banned Harry Potter", about the UK toyshop franchise evangelical chap who's... well, it does what it says on the tin. He's currently being confronted by some very smart, very articulate kids, some of whom are themselves Christian. And... he's just lost the argument. Lovely.

You have to admire someone who'll ban the Harry Potter wand as a bad example to kids, but (as the Guardian points out) will stock toy guns. Genius. Hopefully he'll go into politics soon.

So very tired.

Back up to London tomorrow. So look at the photo of the sunlight on the sea off Cape Cornwall again. Gorgeous, isn't it? Ten pounds in monopoly money if you can spot the lighthouse.

I've been reprimanded for not mentioning before that I live across the harbour from Fraggle Rock lighthouse. I really do, it's very cool. Of course, Fraggle Rock isn't made anymore, so they had to lay off all the fraggles.

They all hang around bus shelters now, doing odd jobs for cash in hand. And of course they're such musical people. Can't hold their drink though.

Because their hands are sewn together. D'you see?

I miss fraggles.

Ner-night.