Fresh Blood

Hello. My name is Kid C. I’m quite new around here but I’ve already developed a typing speed of 60 wpm. My Mummy and Daddy are very happy I’ve arrived and my intentions appear to be to sleep all day and p-a-r-t-y all night. 

I’m a Mac and I’m 16 Hours Old. In your face, Gates.

More Mischief

I like music. It can be a great force for good. Except “You’re So Vain” by Carly Simon. Yesterday, I started thinking about the paradox in the chorus, my brain got stuck in an infinite loop and I lost the whole morning. Apparently, the original ending of ‘Terminator Salvation” featured John Conner playing the song until Skynet crashed.

But music can also be rubbish. I don’t know if you’ve witnessed the car crash that is ‘Billy Brit’. It’s the BNP’s attempt to appeal to ‘Ver Kids’. Their plan was to take a simple, shop bought puppet and have it sing nursery rhyme level songs about white power. 

Yes. Really. 
Anyway, the key words in that paragraph are “shop” and “bought”. So, Tim at Bloggerheads went to a shop and bought the same puppet. And this is what he did:
Text Book. The particular highlight for me is the slight Aussie twang on the words “Daaaaark Skinned”.

#theBNParetwats – The Gift That Keeps on Giving

You remember the whole BNP hashtag fun’n’games? Well, it seems that the BNP election flyers have a correspondence address on them.

Originally, I’d planned on gathering a whole lot of flyers, manufacturing a papier mache mosque and sending it to the address. Unfortunately, the Better Half – possibly knowing me too well – got hold of our flyer and binned it before I could begin work. That and I have a very short attention span.

You’ll know that I’m a lover, not a fighter, and I was wondering why someone would turn to the BNP. Perhap they thought – incorrectly – that they’d run out of options. Maybe they needed to be educated. So, logically, I thought I’d provide them with some options and some education.

So, I’ve made this and posted it to them:

It’s a traditional Japanese origami game called Pakupaku, I believe, but you’ll probably remember it from school where you’d write the names of people you fancied in it.

I’ve gone for bright shiny colours to gain their interest. I’ve written in suggestions to try and expand their horizons. Ideas for things to do, nuggets of trivia, films to watch and music to listen to (What little white supremicist music I’ve heard must mean that Nick Griffin’s CD collection is shit)

1. St. George was probably Turkish
2. Watch a Spike Lee film. Ease in gently with “Inside Man”.
3. Buy a kd lang album. You can’t catch gay!
4. Try a curry. They’re really nice!
5. Go for a drink with a gay man. They know lots of hot chicks!
6. Listen to some Public Enemy. They’ve got a good beat!
7. Churchill originally suggested a United States of Europe.
8. Have some cake. I find I always hate less after some cake

Now, I wouldn’t dare suggest that you should waste their time by doing something similar and posting it to The National Office, Admail 4148, London, EC1A 1UY.

That would be silly and childish.

A New Project

You’ve done the writing you planned to do, the Better Half has taken the kids out for a while and there’s nothing on the television. What’s a boy to do?

It’s obvious. You make the world’s biggest Kit Kat.

If I wasn’t in a steady relationship, I’d suspect that I’d really need to get laid. 

Hippo Breeding Programme

I’m trying to start a Hungry Hippos Breeding Programme.

Next, I’m going to breed a herd of Buckaroos, create a cavalry of Action Men and annexe the local playground.

The Day I Inconvenienced Tony Jordan

I have the worst sense of direction on the planet. I have an ‘A’ Level in Geography. True, I can hold court on the finer points of glacial moraines and oxbow lakes (pay attention in class when taught about these, kids, because you’re going to need that knowledge later in life!), but this has not helped my navigational skills one iota.

Which goes some way to explain why I turned up 15 minutes late to the Red Planet Workshop with Tony Jordan. I apologised and mumbled a joke about how I was using Zen Navigation to get there (just follow a car that looks like it knows where it’s going). He was very gracious and he laughed. And it reminded him of a time when…. 
Tony Jordan has a story for every occasion. I’m a big fan of people like that. And he swears like a docker. I’m a big fan of people like that as well.
And there was cake.
He told me – told us – that we could write. That’s why we were there. Aces.
Jason Arnopp’s covered pretty well what we can talk about here
So, Tony is interested in what we want to write next. “Imagine you’ve got three months to live and you can only write one more thing. Something that you want to be remembered for. That’s what I want to see.”
What did I take away from the morning? Tony (See? I called him Tony!) didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Write what you want, not what you think people want to read. Don’t get bogged down in technicalities. Be nice to people on the way up. But, Christ, it’s the way he tells it! 
I’ve been struggling with the writing recently. With a full-time job, pregnant partner and psychotic children, I’m constantly tired. I’d hit a wall. I’ve been working on a new draft of a script for a producer for weeks now and I’d only managed to make it to page 18.
After the workshop, I jumped in the car, put my foot down (I was an expert in the minor roads of Bedfordshire by now) and made it home in record time. I burst through the door, immediately fired up the laptop and wrote 7 pages in 3 hours. OK, I immediately fired up the laptop and went onto Twitter. But then I did the writing. 
The passion’s back. I love what I do. I love what I’m trying to do. And, just for that, I thank Tony Jordan. If I play my cards right, I’ll hopefully have a lot more to thank him for.
Did I mention there was cake?

My Stalker

I’ve had to leave the house. I’m sat in a coffee shop, sketching this post out in my Moleskine notebook while I sip a latte. I sometimes think that if I met the 18 year old version of me, he’d punch me in the head. 

What has driven me from my home? Why do I no longer feel safe under my own roof? 
My stalker. 
He sits there for hours at a time. I can feel his gaze, hot on the back of my neck. I turn around and I see him through the window. Staring. Right. At. Me. 

Scientists bang on about how intelligent squirrels are with all their problem-solving skills, but nobody seems to have noticed that they have evolved to the point where they can take part in Staring Contests. And win.
Though that might be more of a reflection on me than the squirrel. 
“You’re just imagining things,” the Better Half tells me. But she always says that when I’m intimidated by woodland creatures. Fluffy bastards.