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Dick Whittington and the Pirate King – Panto This Week in Great Wyrley

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November 10, 2012

Great Wyrley is the venue this week for the latest in a long line of excellent pantos from Aldridge Musical Comedy Society. Dick Whittington and the Pirate King is on Thursday 15 to Saturday 17 November (plus a Saturday matinee).

A sequel to the popular and award winning 2010 production, Dick Whittington, the Pirate King sees our hero in a quest to find the Goblet of Deadbeard and defeat the Pirate King. With musical numbers such as Don’t Stop Believing, Time Warp and Master of the House, expect nothing less than great entertainment. There’s even a bit of Chas & Dave’s Rabbit and The Funky Gibbon to add to the fun. All tastes catered for.

Tickets are £10/adult, £5/children with over 60s/£8. There is also a 2+2 family ticket for £25.

The show is being staged at Great Wyrley Performing Arts School Theatre. Hall Lane, Great Wyrley. Tickets can be obtained by calling 01543 480626 or by going to the AMCS website www.aldridgemcs.co.uk – Barring that, email me via this site or Twitter, and I’ll get someone to call you back.

Cheers.

Nick

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Another Competition Win / Stories Published.

Filed under: News — 4 Comments
November 5, 2012

I was delighted to receive an email to say I’d won the Darker Times Fiction, monthly competition for October. I entered two pieces and my story – The Original Mandlebury Ghost Hunt won first prize and the other, Table Decoration, was one of the runners-up.

Both will be in a soon to be released anthology and are available now online on the Darker Times Fiction website.

Darker Times Fiction is run by Jessica Grace Coleman, an author based in Staffordshire, England. It’s excellent. Go and check it out and enter the monthly competition, yourself.

Link to my winning entry – The Original Mandlebury Ghost Hunt.

Link to my runner up – Table Decoration.

Note … Table Decoration is of a very dark nature. Be warned.

Darker Times Fiction can be found at this link.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Christmas, Checkouts and a Cretinous MP

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 16 Comments
November 4, 2012

A worse horror than Halloween.

Last week I spoke much about Halloween, witches and the like. Well, that silly state of affairs is over now, but not so the horror in our supermarkets. You see, no sooner have the shelves emptied of vampire costumes and the last pumpkin has been gouged to pieces, a new terror is unleashed upon us.

Yes, I was strolling through my local Morrisons the other day, turned a corner, thus leaving tinned vegetables behind and walked right into it.

Oh no … The Christmas Aisle.

Come on, we’re only just out of October. And no, I wasn’t imagining it. I looked and there they were – rows of mince pies under the banner of Stock up in Time for Christmas. Looking at the boxes, I then saw the use-by date and noticed it said November 29. Now where’s the bloody point in that and how is this stocking up for Christmas? Your mince pies will be green and mouldy come the time you tell the kids about a fat man climbing down the chimney while also warning them not to speak to strangers.

Christmas. The season of goodwill to all retailers is upon us.

And while I was in the supermarket …

I made a fatal mistake the other day. I only had about half a dozen items in my shopping basket and was weak. I gave in to temptation and made a stupid decision in using the automated checkout.

Now I hate these things. I’ve never been the same since the traumatic experience of having an argument with one. It was when they were first introduced and I’d bought two books and a newspaper.

I’d scanned one book, then the other, only the computer checkout didn’t recognise a reduction in price if you bought the two together. Therefore, I called the customer service guy who rectified the fault. Then, before scanning the paper, I made the mistake of placing my hand on the bagging area.

‘Unexpected Item in bagging area’, the computer droned.

‘It was me.’

‘Unexpected item in bagging area.’

‘IT WAS ME!’

‘Please remove item from bagging area.’

‘I have. I’m dancing around the aisle now,’ I banged my fist on the bagging area.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area.’

‘Arrrgggh! IT’S ME!’

Another call to customer services and the guy ambled back with mild resentment and attitude.

Right, I was ready to roll. Scan the newspaper – Blip.

‘Place the item in the bagging area.’

‘I have.’

‘Place the item in the bagging area.’

‘I HAVE.’ Bang of fist – again.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area.’

‘Arrrgghhhh!’ And another call for customer services.

Don’t you just love automated services? But it doesn’t end there. Last week, as this picture will show, I tried again.

Sorry for the poor quality, but it was taken on my phone and at an angle as I didn’t want people staring. I hate to make a scene, you know.

Anyway, I’d scanned my veggies, newspaper and loaf of bread. However, I ran into trouble when it came to my French Bread Stick.

Yes, that’s it. Big, aren’t they, and one of a few items in a supermarket, impossible to bag.

‘Place the item in the bagging area.’

WTF? How the hell can you place a French Stick into a tiny carrier. You can’t. It’s not possible. Regardless, the machine wouldn’t let me move until I did so. Therefore, I touched the bagging area to try to fool it, only to knock my bag onto the floor, scattering all my goods.

Arrrrggh! Fume. Rage. I hate those bloody machines.

Then, the thing wouldn’t let me pay. It still wouldn’t accept that I couldn’t bag my French Stick so it locked the terminal and I had to wait for an assistant.

Christ! I’d have been served quicker if I’d stood in the longest checkout queue behind ten pensioners with full trolleys who all wanted to stay behind for a chat.

A checkout lady came to me, showing all the personality of an auditor on mogadon.

I grinned. Pointed. ‘I really hate these machines.’

She reset it, showing what it must be like to live without a sense of humour.

Automated machines. No wonder people resort to shoplifting.

A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.

A few months ago, I told the tale of a car park in Leicester which is supposedly the final resting place of King Richard III. The car park was built on the site of an old Abbey and it is there, the one-time child murdering, Uncle Dickie, is thought to be buried. I spoke those months ago about the silliness of it but apparently, they think they’ve found him now. Also, once identified by DNA, they are going to bury him again.

What? He was buried. He’d been underground over 500 years. What was the point digging him up only to stick him under the ground again? Have they nothing better to do in Leicester?

No … don’t bother answering that.

Here is the old duffer, being terribly over-acted by Sir Lawrence Olivier during the death scene from the film, Richard III, based on a play by some guy named Shakespeare.

Trying to eradicate history.

I’ve kept quiet about this for weeks but no more.

I’ve watched and read about the Jimmy Saville scandal with interest (God, that sounds like an opening from a letter to my local paper). I know the guy isn’t alive to defend himself but from the testimonies I’ve heard, I’m in no doubt he was a very bad man. Thing is, people are now trying to wipe out all trace he existed by changing street signs, removing plaques, etc. A huge effort, in fact. It’s a pity that effort wasn’t put in over the years bringing him to justice when alive. I don’t blame the girls one bit but I do blame all those who now say they suspected him all along. It’s like everybody knew. In fact, I feel like I’m the only person who didn’t know Jimmy Saville was a paedophile.

It’s a shame though. I’ll never be able to watch those boy scouts on the roller coaster without wondering if Jimmy asked them to promise to do their duty.

Whatever the conclusion, this should always remain one of the best TV moments ever.

Knob of the week.

I haven’t had a knob of the week for ages. I stopped when most of my subjects were all knobs and I just incorporated them into the other stories. However, as a headline for Tory MP, Philip Davies, knob of the week, says it all.

Davies showed himself to be an idiot of the utmost degree by suggesting the disabled and people with learning difficulties should expect to get less pay as they could never be as productive as more able folk.

I did think of arguing the case against his remarks, even coming up with some clever and satirical putdown for such ridiculous comments from an MP. However, I think in this case, basic name-calling insults will suffice.

CRETIN!

No spooks in this house.

As I was saying earlier, Halloween has gone and not only that, I didn’t get one kid trick or treating at my door this year. Great. I knew that Jim Fixed it for Me, badge would come in useful one day.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – A Little Devilment and the Dreaded Ageing Process.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 8 Comments
October 28, 2012

Happy Halloween.

Boo!

It’s Halloween this week, or as paedophiles call it – Christmas. Halloween is a night in the past when Evil Ex-Wife saying “I’m going to get dressed up,” took on a whole new meaning. I have to admit, I never got the fuss about Halloween, though back in the days of Myspace, I did get loads of Halloween greetings come October 31. Don’t know why. Maybe I simply had more than your average count of witches and worshippers of Satan amongst my friends in the cyber-world.

And now, thinking of witches, I was suddenly struck by a thought …

Whatever happened to Gothic Girl?

You may remember my disastrous trips to a local chip shop where Gothic Girl used to serve/poison me. I’ve only been there twice in the past six months and on both occasions, she wasn’t there. The first occasion could be explained. It was early May – Beltane. She’d most likely be celebrating but once again when I visited in the summer, she was absent.

Oh no. What if she was rumbled as a witch? I’d best go and check the local ponds. If I see a stool with a young woman head down in the water while strapped to a chair, I’ll know for certain.

I need to see her. I want to know if she has a cure for grey hair in one of those potions of hers.

On the subject of grey hair …

It was my birthday the other day. Yes, I’m now forty-nine. One away from a major milestone or as some would call it – two-thirds of the way through life. Still, I shouldn’t complain. I don’t think I do too bad for my age and maybe I should be grateful about how I look. You see, my hair is still mostly brown and more important – there. I have, however, noticed over the last year that it is taking slightly longer to grow at the same time more ends up stuck to the bath. The thatch is not as thick and more noticeably, receding at the temples. This I can get away with as the wild abandon style I adopt, covers that up. Even so, I noticed when looking in the mirror just now, more white hairs than I’m used to. Arrgghhh! Therefore, I spent about ten minutes pulling each white hair I could see. That was until I pulled one then looked and saw it was still there. Double Arrggghhh! You have white hairs, then go and pull out a good one by mistake. Not only that, it was around the thinning area I spoke of earlier. Oh no. I’ll soon look like Doctor Who did when the Master zapped him, ageing him to over 100.

Calm, calm, calmer. Deep breaths – and relax.

Ahhh … the ageing process. Isn’t it wonderful.

I remember birthdays when I was a child. You’d be up at the crack of dawn and then relish every magic moment. It meant so much back then but only in reality because you got lots of presents. As the years passed and you grew older, the special nature seemed to disappear a little bit every year until you reach where I am now and couldn’t give a toss. God, I’m a miserable bastard sometimes. These days I think birthdays just turn into something you are obligated to do, and that’s not because nobody threw me an 18th, 21st or even 40th birthday party, either. But at least when you are young, birthdays are supposed to be something to look forward to. Then you reach 30 and for some reason, it’s dreaded in a way like your life is almost over. Then you get to 40 and that seems even worse. Why? I didn’t feel any different to when I was 18.

So now, I’m one off the 50. Blimey, life is now going to feel like the holiday which seems to go much quicker once you reach the second half of the week. But at least at 50, I still have 20-30 years left, so it’s nothing to worry about. Or is it?

Hang on a minute … I remember 30 years ago as if it were yesterday. For example, I still think of Ultravox as a contemporary pop group. What do you mean, who the fucking hell are Ultravox? They’re a sort of contemporary group … from about 30 contemporary years ago.

There they are, still touring. But hang on. Even they look ancient now.

But, I digress. Another 15 years on top of 50 and I’m drawing a pension. This is when I’m supposed to do all the things I want to do, but am unfortunately too old and knackered to do so. Look, I hate bloody gardening, so don’t even suggest it. And after 65, you have a few years of all that, ‘I never know how I had time to go to work,’ crap. Then 70 arrives. Oh. – My – God! By then I’ll have rediscovered religion before it’s too late and just be praying, ‘Please God, for pity’s sake, give me another ten and I’ll be good. I’ll go to church, I won’t swear … often. Just leave me for a little bit longer, just so I can have my allotted time. Okay? Thanks.’

80 arrives. Shit, bugger, balls and blast! Now what am I going to do? Should I sell my soul to the Devil? No I flogged that years ago for a cheap thrill with a girl in the cake shop. Just give me a couple more years. PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I carry on going and just about make it to 85 then realise what the term, borrowed time, means. 90 plus and it’s a case of ‘Look, I’m not being greedy, but I’d really like to make it to a hundred. I never managed to get one in cricket, so this would be adequate compensation. I think you’d agree. I wont get into trouble. I’ll try not to piss myself, dribble over people or even molest that nice nurse who looks after me (Look, she sat on my hand. Okay?). I won’t even ask for a telegram from the Queen (I never send her one, anyway). Just let me go about my business quietly and I won’t go bothering anybody. Honest, honest, hon… Croak!!!!!!!!!

Only Joking … I’m still here.

What do you mean … unfortunately? Hah!

Anyway, I’m off to prepare for Halloween and look for Gothic Girl. See … I’m all dressed up and ready.

Cheers.

Nick

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Interview with … er, Me.

Filed under: News, Writing Stuff — 5 Comments
October 24, 2012

I have been interviewed by writer, Rebeccah Giltrow, the result of which can be found on her excellent site. So, if you want to hear what I have to say about my works and writing, in general – read on here.

Link to ‘Rebeccah Writes,’ and my interview.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – BDSM, Bigotry and a Bad Trip to the Dentist.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 6 Comments
October 21, 2012

A bit like pulling teeth.

No, this isn’t another bit about people on the Jeremy Kyle Show who have bad teeth. The reason I’m posting a retro picture from a 1980s advert for toothpaste is that I had to go to the dentist the other day. The thing is … dentists – I hate going. The whole procedure is so invasive. On top of that, I’m sure my dentist hates me and took my ex-wife’s side when we divorced. Every time I go, he is far too rough with the scale and polish. Then there’s having a filling. He says having anaesthetic is dangerous these days and I need the drilling without one. I think he’s lying. Come on, I have reason to be worried. Even his name – Mr Carver. It send shivers. I insisted on a jab in the end though, then spent the rest of the day dribbling tea down my shirt as a result.

Still, I needed the filling done and all went well this time, apart from after Mr Carver finished and he asked if I needed to rinse my mouth.

‘Yes please,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have a cup of tea, that pink stuff is disgusting.’

Hmmmm. You know when you’ve said the wrong thing. Talk about no sense of humour. Mind you, with him being a dentist, perhaps it was the two sugars I asked for in my drink which he objected to?

Join the 21st Century, Mrs Wilkinson.

It amazes me that in this age of equality (and supposedly, common sense), there are still narrow-minded bigots clinging onto outdated beliefs based on biblical teachings that are most probably works of fiction.

Michael Black and John Morgan had booked into the Swiss Bed and Breakfast in Cookham, only to be turned away by religious nut, Susanne Wilkinson when she found out the couple were gay.

Quite rightly, John and Michael have received a payout as compensation for being discriminated against but church groups are still smarting. They say Swiss B&B was also Mrs Wilkinson’s home. Yes, she may live there, but when you chose to run your home as a business, you lose the right to impose illegal bigoted stances.

Jumping on the bandwagon and defending Mrs Wilkinson was BNP slime-ball, Nick Griffin. Now there’s a guy, I’m sure even Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t want to be associated with. Slick Nick tweeted in her defence. I took a look at his page and replied, though he hasn’t reacted to me. I did find it amusing and ironic, though to see Nick Griffin use the terms vile and filth … about other people.

Pot, kettle, black?

The Swiss B&B – Not open to homosexuals, lesbians, unmarried heterosexual couples or just about anybody who isn’t a believer of the bullshitting work of fiction, commonly known as the Bible.

And another own goal for God.

Poor George Pratt. All the 11-year-old wanted was to join the Boy Scouts. Unfortunately, he has been refused by the 1st Midsomer Norton Group in Somerset. The reason for this discrimination is that George is an atheist and will not compromise his beliefs. The Scouts say to join, you must pledge allegiance to the Almighty.

What a load of bollocks. It’s bad enough to have to say you’ll do your duty to the Queen to get into the scouts, but at least (unfortunately) a monarchy exists, not like this biblical nonsense. What bearing should that have on a kid wanting to join a youth organisation?

I never progressed to the scouts. I was in the cubs but left after being asked to dress up as a girl for a part in a drama play by a very suspect scout leader. He kept trying to play with my woggle.

A slap in the face for hard work.

Computer company owner, Maneesh Sethi, from San Francisco has employed a woman to keep him from straying onto Facebook while at work. He pays personal assistant, Kara, a wage to slap him every time he goes onto the social network suite. However, I bet Kara wasn’t expecting to come into work the first day and find this …

Personal Assistant … is that what they’re calling BDSM in the workplace, now? Perhaps more companies should try it.

On a different note, you would not believe how many sites I had to trawl to find a clean BDSM picture. Not only that, I got a virus from doing so, too.

And on an even more vague observation, does anybody else get fed up of Live Jasmin popping up every time you want to watch pre-recorded porn on the internet?

Disgraceful scenes.

Saw the appalling treatment given to England’s Under-21 black players by the friendly Serbs the other day. Monkey chants throughout the game followed by thuggish behaviour by a sorry load of sour losers. Of course, the Serbians deny this. A bit like they’ve denied genocide in the past. I’d like to think this is the minority and most Serbs are a decent lot. Unfortunately, there weren’t many in the stadium in Krusevac the other night.

And on the subject of football …

Stoke City footballer, Peter Crouch has been banned from driving after clocking up 21pts for persistently speeding. It’s nice to know the lumbering England forward knows the meaning of speed once in a while. Not only that, 21 points is way more than his team Stoke will achieve before Christmas.

There’s Peter Crouch …

And here’s wife, Abbey Clancy.

Hmmmm … Is it his good looks, stunning personality, or just the kudos for her of being a wag for the fame and the money?

At least the anaesthetic has worn off now …

And my teeth are fine. Not only that, there was hardly a mention in this post about Jeremy Kyle’s orally challenged guests. However, as I have said in the past, my site statistics show that is what half of you have Google searched before arriving at my page. Just to look at pictures of bad teeth. Christ, I’m going to have to satisfy demand again.

There, happy now?

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Happy Birthday to the Roast … With a Few Cretins Thrown In.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 6 Comments
October 14, 2012

I think I’d best say one thing about the Sunday Roast …

Yes, four years ago this week, way back in the good old days of Myspace, I posted my first roast. Up until then, I’d been content to write about anything that took my fancy, blogging whenever it did. Yesterday, I was reminded of the birthday when I took part in two workshops at the Birmingham Book Festival and it was while going to one of the same in 2008, I found I had loads of things to write about. It was too much for one post so I bunged them all in one pot-pourri and called it The Sunday Roast.

As I say in my About Me, section, the Roast ran every week for two years, then on and off during 2011 when Myspace went down the toilet. Finally, the Roast began here once more, earlier this year. The old blogs are still there on Myspace, but it would take you a week to navigate the mess on that site.

Therefore, something I can do (as I have the original word documents stored on my computer), is re-publish this …

From the very first Roast (12 October 2008).

I had a dream about my younger kids last night. They were playing on some climbing frames and I was calling for them to come off so we could go home. It was one of those dreams where you think things are real until you wake and then question if it was true or not. However, after a few seconds, I knew this one was a dream when they actually came after only the second time of calling.

Rascals – Circa 2008.

All work and no play make some writers … very dull boys, indeed.

As I have mentioned, I attended two writing workshops yesterday. However, as I was also going out in the evening, I wouldn’t have time to have done this roast had I not prepared it Friday night. And it is on the subject of writing workshops that I now wish to speak.

I love them. They are usually very good and I gain something from each I go to. The downside is, you sometimes come across some right arty-farty writers who are so far up their own arse, they could give themselves an enema.

Take the one I did last year. It was a great workshop at the Birmingham Museum Collection Centre – where all the exhibits are kept when not on display. There are literally hundreds of thousands of things, all in mothballs … including a collection of mothballs. Anyway, we were sent out to explore, choose an object and write about what inspired us.

Easy. You had things such as this …

And this …

And even this …

No problem with so many exhibits in this Aladdin’s Cave. No problem, unless you were Richard (real name changed). He came back and declared to the entire group that he had scoured the museum, looking for that special thing. In the end, he found it. There – waiting for him at the end of a dusty corridor. One, lonely, empty shelf. It was the only empty shelf in the museum but he chose it as his inspiration not because of what it held, but for the potential of what could be stored there.

Thing is, all the others in the group played a game of Emperor’s New Clothes and pandered to this pillock, clapping hands and commenting, “How clever,” and “How original.” I did bite my tongue at such pretentious crap but really, all I wanted to scream was “FUCK OFF!”

And that’s the downside of being a writer. Generally, most the people I meet are of a similar mind to me. However, in some writing circles there seems to be a huge desire to turn it into some kind of minority interest. Spouting complete bollocks while pretending they are the next literary or poetic genius, when really, they have absolutely nothing to say.

And that reminds me of something which was also in that very first roast …

Once again, from the Sunday Roast (12 October 2008)

I took part in my first ever poetry workshop this weekend. It was okay but I lost interest toward the end when it evolved into a self-indulgent discussion on “What is Poetry?” It would have been better if it wasn’t for the fifty-something woman who thought she was the bee’s-knees of poetry. In she floated, wearing a silken neck-scarf and arriving twenty minutes late. Next thing, she let her phone ring – twice, then proceeded to thrust her opinions without actually showing anything productive or original, herself. I must admit, I never trust women who wear silken neck scarves, indoors. What are they trying to hide? I think in the case of this one, it could have been her Adams Apple.

Blimey, I was bitchy back then, but things at these events never change. You see yesterday, as I was waiting for one of this years workshops, I spied a guy in his sixties waiting in reception and immediately, I could tell. I’d got him earmarked him as the potential knob and he didn’t let me down. The woman leading the workshop had only just begun to speak before this buffoon interrupted.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘could you explain a little about the layout of the session?’

The workshop leader looked perplexed. ‘I’m just about to do so.’ She’d only been speaking thirty seconds.

The idiot did it again a while later, asked if we should do something or other. Did he want to get up and lead the workshop? We had by now got an explanation for him being such an arse. He was a priest. Say no more. Then the best. Some poor lass, trying to do her job came round to take a few photos for the festival website. Guess who objected? Yes … Father Fuckhead.

‘I don’t want my photo plastered over the internet.,’ he spouted, full of pompous self-importance. When somebody said that the photographer had spoken about making sure he wasn’t in the shots, the priest wasn’t convinced. ‘But can I trust her to do that?’

Look, Mr Priest. If you don’t want you bloody photo taken during a workshop, leave the room.

Cretin.

Yet again from the very first Roast (12 October 2008)

I wasn’t going to bother reprinting this one but also from that first ever Sunday Roast, was this next bit. Not only that, it was my opening line.

I have to hold my hands up and say I haven’t had too much time for blogging this last week or so. Even when I have found some time, I have been struggling to get online as my eldest son keeps hogging the computer … in my room. I had to tell him to go just after midnight yesterday. Well, I did want to go to bed so I think I was justified.

As I say, I wasn’t going to include that because it is mundane and pretty boring. However, as I was compiling much of this on Friday … at eleven o’clock at night, he turns up and before I know it, has plonked himself at my computer.

Some things never change, do they?

Cheers.

Nick

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Detriment

Filed under: Poetry — 2 Comments
October 12, 2012
Take a sharp knife.
Slice down the middle.
Pour salt in-between.
Let the floodgates open.
No amount of analgesic
will mask the pain inside.
The loss,
the wound,
the overwhelming sense of grief.
Desperate to live,
but it’s hard with a chunk of flesh
nowhere to be seen.
Ripped clean,
leaving a gaping, blooded hole.
Stem the flow
and stitch the cut,
the torture chamber, empty.
Not today.
No painkillers,
just pain.
Feel the hurt
and continue to mourn
the passing.

© Antony N Britt

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The Sunday Roast – The Day of Living Dangerously

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 4 Comments
October 7, 2012

Accident-prone … Me?

Ugh! I’ve been ill these past couple of weeks. Starting on that day out in London, my sore throat developed into a full blown cold as reported last week and continued for much of this one. I am, thankfully, over it. Yesterday morning was the best day for ages. I felt bright, cheerful and raring to go at the monthly meeting of the Walsall Adult Writers. Then I walked into this …

Yes, that’s my loft ladder, left open while I was putting stuff up there and when I came upstairs with more things, I didn’t notice it as I was too busy reading while walking … and then smacked my head against the trap.

Ouch!

Yes, there was blood and maybe getting into the bath twenty minutes later wasn’t a good idea but it had stopped by then.

Thing is, as I’d decided I was going to blog about it, I needed a photo, which is the one you’ve just seen. However, my camera was downstairs so after lowering the hatch once more, later in the evening, I went to get it. I was returning upstairs (You know where this is going, don’t you), switched on my camera, didn’t look where I was walking and hit the bloody thing for the second time in one day.

Okay, on this occasion there was no injury and my staircase didn’t resemble a scene out of Saw, but I was disorientated. I retreated back downstairs to grab a drink from the kitchen.

Now, a lesson also to learn is that when it is dark and you have to go through your living room to reach the said kitchen, it’s a good idea to turn on the light, especially when the kitchen is in darkness, too. And if you’ve forgotten that you left the kitchen door like this …

Not my day, really. I suppose I am a little accident-prone. Still, I can relax now. All I have to do is write this roast. Oh yes, I also have to repair that loose floorboard. Now where’s the hammer and those nails?

The Sun always shines …

I was in the queue at the local shop a while back. In front of me, a man was complaining as the Sun newspaper he’d bought an hour before, had most of the middle of it, missing. He should think himself lucky. Some poor bugger’s going to find himself reading pages 19 to 54, twice.

Steptoe and Son – Ride!

Remember these?

Today, where your local rag-man drives around in a van, you may be excused for thinking the likes of Steptoe and Son, were a thing of the past. But not so.

On quite a few occasions, and mostly in the neighbouring town of Bloxwich, I’ve seen a horse and cart driven around to collect scrap. However, it isn’t grown men as I found out recently, they are being operated by kids. I was in a massive queue. The tailback was immense but slowly, cars were overtaking the offending vehicle holding everybody up. Imagine my annoyance when I did too and saw this.

Yes, astonishing. To drive a car, you need to spend hundreds on lessons, pass a test and then get fleeced by greedy insurers who want all your savings just so you will be allowed to drive. On the other hand, by the evidence of this photo, any pizza-faced moron can grab hold of a horse, stick a couple of reins on it, whip it half to death and leave the roads full of shit as they can’t be bothered to pick it up.

How is this allowed to go on? There are strict guidelines for driving a motorised vehicle which is entirely in your control yet people are allowed to ride on the roads pulled by a creature that can be totally out of their control.

Something is not right there.

Still doesn’t add up.

Last week, I spoke of 30-year-old maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest who was a silly sod and ran off with his 15-year-old pupil. In his defence, he does say that he took it literally when somebody asked him to work out how many times 30 goes into 15.

Has Cinderella been in my garden?

Well, judging by the evidence – no.

The other day, I got up, yawned, walked downstairs and avoided walking into a door. I stared out of the kitchen window and imagine my surprise as I saw this …

Okay, that’s weird. It’s not like my garden is a right of way so how in the name of sanity did that training show get there? The thing is, it gets weirder. I was due out the house and didn’t have time to investigate. By the time I’d got home, it had gone.

WTF? It’s my back garden. So some bloke has lost a bloody shoe and tries to think. Oh, now where did I leave it? I know, it was in Nick’s back yard.

Also, next day I looked out and there was a pack of half-eaten sandwiches.

Am I missing something; has somebody stuck up a sign saying Picnic Site and not told me?

By hook or by crook.

Ha Haaaa! Hook-handed Abu Hamza has been extradited and you lot over there in the States have to foot the bill for his upkeep now.

It’s ridiculous how long it’s taken for this low-life scum to be kicked out. Come on, authorities, sort the bureaucracy and make it simpler.

Still, he’s gone after eight years. Three in prison and five to get him through the metal detectors at Heathrow Airport.

And back in calamity corner …

I told at the beginning of my attempts at head-butting the loft hatch. I was worried at first as there was quite a bit of blood but it soon stopped. I did make a mess of a nice white towel though and after I’d used it, forgot and left it at the foot of the stairs. Now imagine this. I’m chopping some meat to prepare a meal and the bell goes. I walk to the door, see the blood-soaked towel and think, Oh, I must wash that. I pick it up, open the door and all my visitors see is me with a large knife in one hand and a blooded towel in the other.

Brilliant. Don’t think I’ve ever got rid of Jehovah Witnesses so quick.

Cheers.

Nick

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Locked In – Night Writing at the Locksmith’s House.

Filed under: Writing Stuff — 2 Comments
October 2, 2012

I must have a liking for all night events on a weekend. A fortnight ago, I was ghost hunting at Woodchester Manor. Last Saturday, it was writing while deprived of sleep inside a historical building while taking part in an event laid on by the excellent Birmingham Book Festival. Unlike two weeks ago, I wasn’t actively seeking ghosts but still found many as there were plenty to experience with all the exhibits on view. And that’s what a ghost is, an image or echo of the past.

The Locksmith’s House – Willenhall, is a museum dedicated to the town’s once thriving lock-making industry. A working forge, period décor and furniture; who could not be inspired by such surroundings?

The Locksmith’s House – Willenhall. As seen during the day.

Many writers find they work well during the early hours. Let’s face it, this is a time when the kids, allegedly, are in bed and lucid thoughts can hopefully prevail over the weapons of mass distraction during a typical multi-tasked day. In fact, as a writer of so much dark fiction, it’s only once the house goes quiet that I can finally rest at ease – before the screaming begins on my laptop. Therefore, what better than a few hours after midnight in surroundings a little different to that which you are used to.

On Saturday, the setting was excellent and the group of writers assembled, were the nicest bunch I’ve ever done a workshop with. We were well-led on this night-time literary feast by Anna Lawrence-Pietroni, author of the novel, Ruby’s Spoon. Good, useful exercises, all managing to stimulate the mind and inspire creativity. As well as writing, the evening included a demonstration in the art of making a sliding bolt and other items at the forge. There was also a tour of the house plus toasting bread in front of an open fire at nearly four in the morning.

Middle of the night feast. Toast made the traditional way.

Being a writer whose tales often include a higher than average body count, I was delighted by the array of ready-made murder weapons at my disposal, should I choose to write historical fiction. The bolt from the forge, any number of tools and even the toasting fork would prove painful, positioned in the right place. There was also the gas lighting. Surely some devilment could transpire from a little tampering with a valve or two?

Those gas lights were a high point for me. They were something I’d never seen before. Holding a taper (burned too near the end for my liking) then hearing the pop as the ball ignites was an experience surely destined for a place in a short story, somewhere in the near future.

As for the writing? I have to admit, I found it hard going that night, which is unusual for me. I’d been struggling with a bad cold and nearly thought of crying off but am glad I didn’t. Besides, I’d already paid and I’m mean when it comes to cash.

I noted down many ideas for stories during the night but did flag as the hours grew long and dawn approached. This wasn’t through tiredness. My cold had, unfortunately, decided it was time to raise the temperature a bit and by the last exercise, my head was spinning and not with multiple plot lines, either.

There was a bed in the house, but this was for display purpose, only.

This is the second night writing event I have done and it surpassed that of last year. Hopefully, there will be more to come in the future. The Birmingham Book Festival is a fantastic event and one which writers local and beyond ought to have firmly written in their planners. I’d recommend it to all. You may even find a few ghosts of your own.

Cheers.

Nick

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