Nothing to say

Now I understand where all the time went.

Today is the first day I have not been writing for over a month. I tell a lie, I didn’t write last Saturday either because I was at a book signing. Thank you to all you lovely people who bought books from me, I hope you all enjoy them. The day was such a success I have since had to refill my ink pen.

In fact, I tell another lie. I am writing today – this! I have no idea what it’s about, though. That’s the thing I suppose, that I feel I have to write something. Maybe it’s like a wish and the day you stop wishing for it, you stop believing it will ever happen.

But after 80,000 words in 24 days, I surely would have run out of things to say?

Yes, I suppose I have. But it’s always nice to say something, isn’t it? And the good thing about writing this is that I don’t have to think about it.

No plot. No story. Not even any jokes.

Sorry.

The one thing I do have though is music. New music - stuff I have downloaded but not had the chance to listen to, because I can’t listen music when I write. I know some writers can but to me music is art and art needs to be appreciated. On our wall we have a few pictures and they get looked at, studied even, every hour when I’m at work. Each time the eyes focus on something different in the picture which gives the words a break. Guess what? While I’m distracted, the next words get chance to organise themselves inside my head - all on their very own.

Music is the same. I can’t just hear it, I have to listen and that causes me a problem - because, unlike the pictures, lyrics stay and scratch their letters on my inner wall. And now we have a battle. Music verses the written word.

My written word.

I would so love those lyrics to inspire me rather than distract, but they can’t. Not even musical notes. Every one stays right in there, nudging its way to the fore of my here-and-now and dismissing my own creativity to the back benches.

Some statistics somewhere will show that singer-songwriters are failed poets. Likewise, poets, and possibly many writers, are failed musicians. Well, I’m saddened to announce: that’s me, in a sentence.

I would give my right testicle to be a musician. Both even.

To be able to put my slant on any song I have ever enjoyed, and sell it back to the world in my own name, would be the ultimate bliss. Furthermore, to write my own chords and words into something that flowed like droplets down a window pane - and then have the ability to play it on an instrument. Heaven wouldn’t even come close.

Yes, music is my first love, and always will be.

I’ve missed it over this last month. Welcome back.

In fact welcome, Christine Collister, I am really enjoying your new album and I have only just heard of you. And then you have another five albums for me to immerse myself in.

So much so, I’m going to be selfish and give it my full attention on my day off.

They shoot horses, don't they?

         Little England? That’s what they have labelled the area where I chose to live. God help us if it is.

And what a load of fucking of morons we are?

No problem to us who live in or near the Dordogne, we realise that ITV’s now flagship programme is just a piss-take. Little England, in my view, is actually far funnier than Little Britain. So now we have a second series, great.

But somewhere along the line, this slice of utter nonsense is seen by people back in UK with even less intelligence that the ones it portrays on the programme, and, just like the tardy soaps they waste their miserable lives on, they believe it’s real. And then, next thing we know, even more lunatics are deciding that moving to a foreign country with which they have no affinity, zero understanding and not even the remotest grasp of the language.

But what will they do when they get here. Something rational perhaps?

Surely?

A horse sanctuary? How sensible is that? Who the hell will fund looking after a dozen half-dead horses? The French wont, that’s for sure. A quote from Brian, its sponsor: ‘when you retire a horse, you don’t just stick in a field and forget about it.’

No Brian, you either put it down painlessly, or send it to a pair of prats like you who will spend your money feeding it, instead of ours. Until you run out.

Then we meet two more imbeciles, buying an even deader campsite with their retirement cheque, that’s been empty for 10 years. I wonder why? Yes, you can buy a Siberian mud hut for a fiver if you want. Nobody wants it, because it eats more money than a six foot horse.

When I was younger I set up a few businesses – and my first couple failed, miserably. The reason? It has a lot to do with lack of market-research.

That’s alone is what converts an idea into a business plan.

How arrogant that English people think they can just set up a business under the noses of the locals and make it successful when the locals can’t – just because they’re English?

It’s a good job the French are so busy laughing at the self-styled idiots to take offence by implementing a euthanasia policy for ex-pat's with a single figure IQ! .

Trumpy the spider-frog

Despite those who consider that we spend our daily lives entirely in the sun, we do get quite a winter here in SW France. And it’s just arrived. Well sort of. I mean, it was, oh deary me, nearly down to ten degrees on the weekend! So the time has come to move everything indoors away from the potential frost and cold mornings, including the geraniums, lemon trees and the exterior kitchen.

It is also the time for creatures to come in too, of which I was reminded last night when a mouse spent the entire night rummaging around under the bed. After waking up screaming in fear of this mighty beast, Wendy decanted into another bedroom while I slept on. Scratch-scratch, rustle-rustle, it went, possibly having a picnic with some left over sweeties. Eventually I succumbed to checking under the bed only to find it was not a mouse at all, but none other than a moth, noisily flapping its wings in an attempt to shake off a spider’s web which it was wearing like a coat. Despite the urge to stamp on the thing out of spite after it disturbing my beauty sleep, my kind heart compelled me to expel it from the window instead. Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken into account that it was unable to fly, due to its silk straight-jacket, as it plummeted helplessly to the bushes below to be gobbled up by lizards. C’est la vie. I did try.

Then this morning, with a mountain of writing to catch up with, I am at my desk at 6am when another beast catches the corner of my eye as it scuttles across the floor. Well, it doesn’t exactly scuttle, more sort of leaps. This time I see it clearly, a huge mass of grey hair that would befit the most toxicant of tropical arachnids. Even I felt the urge to raise my bare feet up onto the next rung. But spiders don’t jump do they? Any more than mice can fly? On closer inspection, this was actually a tiny frog who had amassed a ball of hair around it which had been shed to the floor by Louis the Pointless Pointer and stuck to its scaly skin until it looked like Donald Trump on a space-hopper! Now there’s an image you don’t consider every day? What that says about the state of our cleanliness, I am unsure!

This time of year also brings us into rugby season where grown men charge around in the rain knocking seven bells out of each other in the name of sport. Now it is common knowledge that the majority of these players are tree-trunks of men to the extent that some of their brains may even be subject to vertigo. So why does ESPN employ an elf to interview them? Yes, this tiny but perfectly formed little blonde Welsh girl, who would need a ladder to even sniff the jock-strap on some of these giants, gets to ask them personal questions, presumably through a loud-hailer like a celtic Stuart Little. Mind you she is married to Irish rugby lock Simon Easterby who is at least 100 feet taller than her and they just had a baby. Hollywood should use it as a script for a King-Kong sequel.

A few months ago I wrote of the absurdities of French rules, many of which had been brought in with little consideration for common sense. Well it appears that, somewhere in the bowels of Parisian government offices, someone has suddenly found some and decided to scrap the derisory ruling about having to carry breathalyser kits in cars. Yes, it was a stupid law, for a hundred reasons. But then we discover that the u-turn is not for reasons of intellectuality but for that of miscalculation, as they simply haven’t made enough kits to go round. This, for a country which has more bureaucrats than Jimmy Saville’s had ten year-old Cubans, seems a somewhat pathetic excuse. How difficult is it to count your own population, Monsieur ‘Ollande? Do you actually know your derriere from your elbau?

Then, as if the malady of incapability is catching, we hear that the British government have too done an about-turn, this time on the subject of pest control. Of course, I am referring to the badger cull, due to take place in the south Midlands of England, um, last month? After sending in an entire army of beardies to do the maths it appears that, although our aficionados can count beans, they are unable to count black and white nocturnal animals to within an accuracy of 50%. It would be laughable but for the outcome of this ludicrous oversight which will continue to threaten the beef and dairy industry of UK to near extinction.

Bringing me neatly on to a little announcement of my own. As many may know, for years I earned my living amongst the pedigree livestock industry and enjoyed every minute of it. So I feel that it is of some reward that I have now been drafted back into it in my career as a writer. Starting this week, I have a accepted a little project to author the History of Aberdeen Angus Cattle over the last half-century, a job which will keep me busy for some time. To compile this coffee-table styled doorstop of a volume will require extensive research and entail me travelling the land, interviewing many of the older generation who have been instrumental in the breed’s redevelopment. For those in the know, which I am sure Tony Neath will back me up, by the early sixties the Angus, along with the Hereford, was reduced to a size no taller than the afore mentioned Welsh bird, in-keeping with overseas demand from Argentina’s corned beef industry, but rendering it little use for much else. For the next 60 years some extremely clever men had to rebuild the genetics into the monster beast that is now the industry’s leading beef producer. Somewhere in the middle of that, a few ungainly long-legged animals resembling ‘black stick-insects’ were imported from Canada in the eighties and paraded, often by a younger me, to a throng of agricultural sneers. They say it’s great when a plan comes together, and I am looking forward to piecing this jigsaw into order and getting my teeth into the project, in more ways than one!

Meanwhile, in a moment of madness, I have volunteered for a couple of charity undertakings during the month of November both of which I am already beginning to regret. Firstly, I have teamed up with 300,000 other participants around the globe to endeavour to write a novel in 30 days for National Novel Writing Month. The rules are quite simple, it must be of at least 50,000 words long and possibly make sense. As I sit here, I am nearly half way through and struggling with the latter part of that requirement. The second, of equal irritation is that I have once again decided to join that band of merry men advocating awareness of men’s health issues and grow a moustache for Movember. Anyone who comes into contact with me in the next few week might find me rattling my begging bowl. You can run, but you can’t hide!

Nannu Nannu

NaNoWriMo? Sound like something from that ancient TV series, Mork and Mindy?

Well, now you’re showing your age, eh?

In fact, that gag will be lost on anyone under 50, which is hopefully some of you.

NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month.

I half heard about it last year, but never really got to look at it closely. I also was doing too much other stuff to partake. Same applies this year – except, that I am dropping some of that stuff for a short while – and going to give it a go. Wohoo!

Many people have reasons to partake in an International event such as this, about 75,000 to be precise. But mine is quite simple.

I seem to have got stuck, for the first time in my writing career, with one book going forward - and that one has itself got stuck on Chapter 5. Don’t get me wrong, I can continue it, but I don’t feel it flowing. And if I don’t enjoy writing it and making myself laugh, then I am pretty certain nobody will enjoy reading it. Yes, stalling it may be costly, as it is a sequel to the memoir I released recently, and it was due out by Xmas. A few hundred sales missed, maybe. But if I wasn’t happy with it, it is best not released, surely. Not for now anyway. I would like to think I, as a cross section of independent authors, don’t do it solely for the money. Thank God. We wouldn’t get too fat if we did.

So, to this NaNo thing?

Yesterday I spent a few hours kicking some ideas around my brain.

Write about what you know, they say. Sound advice, especially if you want to scribe a whole novel in a hurry.

Sheep, I thought. I know about them.

Nah. Dismissed. Too specialist. But then I got round to thinking of other subjects and each time my warped mind kept seeing them played out by sheep characters.

Mad? Yes, definitely.

A sheep detective story? Well, I have already done a Cow one of the those.

Then on went the TV and all the rubbish that is shown to the masses – who all watch it religiously. X-Factor, Strictly, brain-dead soaps and mindless documentaries. Just like sheep really.

So then it came to me in a flash. Most of the world are actually sheep, but in human form.

Then bingo, an idea was born.

Within an hour, a story arose, and then an early night.

By today, I am chaffing at the bit and starting to write snippets.

But there is 6 days to go before the November kick-off, during which time this stupid story will fester, evolve and mutate.

So far, here is what I have come up with: A political romantic comedy erotic thriller-drama – with some sheep in it.

Warped I know. But after 50,000 words in 30 days, it may either be crazy or genius. Or possibly both. Or, more likely, neither.

I have never wished 6 days to pass so quickly in my life. Can I cheat and start now?

Nah. You can fool a lot of people, but never yourself. Someone said that once. Wise old owl that he was.

If you fancy a crack at it too, don’t be shy, go to http://www.nanowrimo.org and take up the challenge.

See you on the finish line.

Oh, and just because you are taking part in the biggest synchronised writing stint in the world, that doesn’t make you a sheep…does it?

Wonga no longer

Who the hell came up with the idea of Wonga.com? In case you haven’t heard of it, it is a website encouraging people to take out loans to buy stuff, and it is pretty obvious that their marketing is targeting Xmas.

For god’s sake people, what were you thinking? Why don’t they just call it Chavs-in-debt.com or extra-giro.com. Don’t these companies realise the reason why the world is in recession?

It’s due to irresponsible lending. Full stop.

That and greed by people wanting things right now, that they can’t afford.

Then we see an advert on TV for Experian. Now Experian, as some of you may know, has been around for 20+ years and was, once, a quite vital tool for lenders who would use it to check on borrower’s credit ratings and thus evaluate the risk.

But now we see them as offering a service to borrowers with the slogan as follows: “Improving your credit score can get you anything you want…”

What? So, although you haven’t paid your last bill, we can delete that information from the records, if you bung us a few quid…?

Isn’t that complete insanity?

The reason you have a bad rating is that somewhere along the line, you have not managed your money correctly. And that makes you a money lending risk, regardless of what smoke screen you put over it.

Surely, after 4 years in recession, with a pretty accurate understanding of what caused it, the government, or even the World Banks, should be monitoring some level of responsible lending? And outlawing this despicable activity?

They should be countering this with their own adverts showing the bailiffs hammering down a door and repossessing the 40 incher – on Christmas day – while the family are eating their Turkey-twizzler lunch in front of Eastenders.

With the slogan: “…if you buy things you cant pay for you will end up in jail with paedophiles and rapists, and you wont sleep for 3 years for fear of being rogered on your bunk every night!”

Can nobody see the problem in front of their eyes?

Snooze-paper

Recently I wrote that I rarely watch TV and, equally, I don’t read newspapers. In fact, having not been to the UK for over six months, I am sometimes a little out of touch with the tittle-tattle of the British media.

But this weekend, having returned from a wet business trip to Glasgow, Wendy thought she was being kind by bringing me a copy of the Saturday Telegraph.

So it was, after having written up about the absurdity of the case of Andrew Mitchell, something which should have been settled with a handshake, I then get chastised for presenting a one-sided rant from a friend who was staunchly defending the police-force. She does have a point and I have no intention of undermining their good work or their struggles with government shortcuts.

But on re-reading the case in this paper, I still stand by what I said: that it is irrelevant nonsense, a storm in a teacup, used for political gain. And, in general politics don’t interest me.

Neither does this newspaper, because the first 10 pages – yes ten bloody pages – are full of stories about politicians doing something highly unmemorable, like having an argument with a train guard.

Who cares?

Why can’t these idiots confine their mud slinging to their designated workplace instead of inflicting us with their thinly disguised wrangles. Should all this really be reported for us to read?

Admittedly, this edition came from Scotland, so many of the stories are about Alex Salmon and his marginal ideas on independence. Of this I care even less that the class-obsessed stories from Westminster. News of a £7 million settlement to that criminal Rebekah Brooks enrages me slightly, but then a report on the SNP conference causes me to start glazing over.

By the time I get to the crossword page, I have fallen fast asleep and am snoring like a runaway train.

Thankfully, when I awake, I have 50 supplements, the weight of which must have exceeded Ryanair’s baggage allowance, and I can drool over a review of the new McLaren 12C Spider. For once hasn’t been written by his holiness, J Clarkson.

All in all, I consider this pile of trash an emphatic waste of money, but am thankful that at least we will be able to light the fire for the next three months.

Grow up, you plebs

I don’t watch much TV in the summer but last night the rainy autumn evening drove me indoors. No problem, I enjoyed an entertaining game of rugby but then that was followed by Newsnight, and within minutes I started screaming and throwing things at the plasma.

It’s a few years since I watched this programme and I recall it used to be reasonably intelligent. What happened? When did it become just twisted bunch of nobodies discussing things in detail that are completely irrelevant. I recognise this, as it is something I do myself daily. But I would like to think my opinions carry a little bit of common sense, if not common belief.

The subject is Andrew Mitchell, that cocky politician who, after yet another media witch-hunt, has just resigned. Good, They all should, if you ask me, and let my dog run the country. He couldn’t do much worse.

But it is the reason he has been forced to resign that beggars belief.  

‘You called me names!’ says a lowly worker. ‘I’m telling on you, and they’ll listen to me, because I’m a prefect, I mean, policeman-librarian-milk monitor-important person.’  

Yes I called you names, because you were acting like a fucking moron, says the Mitchell, and calling people manes is what I do for a living. I called you a pleb. It’s a derogatory term for someone who does a job that requires common sense, and that person is not applying any. Like you, for instance.

We’ve all wanted to say it. Stop acting like a prick and go and catch some proper criminals instead of hiding behind the red tape that gives idiots like you an academic position with a uniform in the name of the law.

Don’t agree?

Come on – a traffic warden in your locale with a big ego who hands out a ticket, 2 minutes after yours expires? A bouncer, bus conductor or museum security guard has hassled you in the last week, I bet?

Because, Ladies and Gentlemen, many of these sad people who hide behind that uniform do it purely for power.

Recently I was aggressively searched by a jumped-up little twat at Luton airport who insisted on putting his hands down my trousers in the name of security. So intense was his antagonism that I am convinced he wanted me to smack him, just to get himself yet another settlement. And he came very, very close. These people are out there – specifically for this excuse – I am convinced.

Don’t get me wrong, we need a good police force, and every manjack should help them do their job by abiding by the law. But surly part of their training should be to withstand personal insults, and focus on people doing wrong?

I swear profusely, every hour. Mainly at myself to be fair, but sometimes at the weather, my dog, my computer, even Wendy. The dogs can’t answer back, nor can the clouds, but Wendy may retaliate a little and when she does, I apologise. Event over.

When I was a kid you and you called someone a name, even a policeman, you got a clip round the ear and were made to take it back.

So when was it that a uniform became a cloak that a worker could use to entice financial gain?

Surely part of the job interview would say: “NOT EVERYONE LIKES BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO BY A UNIFORM, SO YOU MAY GET A LITTLE VERBAL ABUSE FROM TIME TO TIME. IN THE INTEREST OF EVERYONE, BE BIG ENOUGH TO IGNORE IT, PLEASE. AND TRY NOT TO ANTAGONISE PEOPLE…EH?”

I can just see PC Pleb now, heading off to work on Downing street rubbing his hands, mind full of social uprising, begging for insults from the country’s ruling classes. ‘You can’t ride you bike there, Sir. It’s against the rules, Sir. Stand away from the bike, Sir!’

I’m not condoning arrogance. Andrew Mitchell had no business to talk down to anyone, but for god sakes, shake hands – and apologise. And get on with your job.

Instead of filling my autumn TV screen with discussions by morons with the combined intellect of a wool-sack, using childish actions for political gain.