Weather Chat

I recall last summer on a particularly warm afternoon, my car display showed twenty-eight degrees. It meant nothing to me other than it was a bit hot. I'm old skool. Still buy beer by the pint, milk by the pint and drive at 'miles per hour'. But, anyway, twenty-eight degrees and I'd heard people whinging about it being 'toooo hot.' Really? It's the British mind-set when it comes to the weather. If the next day the temperature drops to half that and the clouds hover (maybe some cumulonimbus) the very same people bemoan the British summer, banging on about how cold it is and that 'yesterday was our summer.' God help us if they have a 'bbq' planned.

Footnote: I often wonder what camels have to talk about since, most desert dwelling camels experience the same weather day after day after day. Presumably, eons ago, they had that conversation that went, "nice out, ain't it," but that quickly became the norm and so, with nothing to talk about, conversation didn't evolve. However, monkeys were a whole different thing. Living in rain forests they had ample opportunity to develop 'chat'...

"Pissing down again."

"Yeah, but it'll ease off. Oi... that's my banana!"

"Awright... keep yer hair on.... hang on, sun's out."

"Ain't gonna last though. It'll piss down again."

"Might not."

"Yeah it will. We live in a rain forest. Clue's in the flippin' name, ain't it?"

"That don't mean that it's definitely gonna rain, does it?"

"Yeah it does. It always rains in a rain forest otherwise they'd have called it a... a sun forest."

"Okay, but we get the sun too, don't we, so I'm just sayin'." 

"I know that, but it's mostly rain but if we didn't get no sun then them friggin' bananas wouldn't grow."

'What'cha mean? Nah, they're just there, ain't they? Nothin' to do wiv the weather."

'You got nuts for brains? Don't work like that. And stop scratching yer - "

"Wassup?"

"Hang on. Don't look now but... I said don't look, nob. There's one of them camel things over there."

"Camels?"

"Yeah... weird gits with dodgy backs wot got nothing to say."

So... if it wasn't for the weather perhaps monkeys would never have evolved to the extent that we now have the wonders of txtspk.

Fishing

We all have our preferred pastimes but, unless you're a trawlerman, isn't fishing just weird?

Man dangles rod with maggot on the end of a line in water for several days, pitting his wits against... a fish. Eventually after man has been in the freezing cold and icy rain to the point of near hypothermia, fish with the IQ of a... well, a fish I s'pose, grabs the maggot bait (which by now is probably stiffer than a Scotsman's caber) and is undone. 

Man then hoists fish out of water and gets a selfie with fish to demonstrate his superior prowess at duping fish. Then man chucks fish back into water... and does same thing again, namely dangles line in water. Fish lands back in water with cut lip thinking, "Shit, that was spicy. I ain't eatin' one of dem fings again." 

Five minutes later fish forgets his weird experience (he has the memory of a fish, after all) and goes after another of the dangling delicacies on the end of a line. Man, whose fingers are now as stiff as that Scotsman's caber since it is 3 a.m. in the morning and pitch black, feels the tug on his line and reels in exactly the same fish.

Thing is, he doesn't know it's the same fish because a lot of fish look similar (even the fish doesn't know he's the same fish) especially in the dark. Anyway, the two of them pose for another selfie, this time with fish doing a trout pout (even though he's a carp) and then man throws fish back in the water again. 

Of course, there may well be some extremely narcissistic fish that love to have their moment in the limelight and don't mind a few minutes deprived of oxygen for the sake of a moment's celebrity - the Rainbow Fish may well be such a creature. 

And what anglers do with their fish pix? Do they keep a collection on their ‘phones? Do they know each individual fish by sight from the photos? Also, if they do catch the same fish again is there some form of reunion?

   "Hey, buddy. How you doin'? Sorry about that. I didn't mean to yank you outta there so, uh... enthusiastically. Hey, didn't we meet about an hour ago? Yeah, yeah... I recognise you. Wanna another pic?"

Very odd hobby. I guess the only thing that would make this more interesting would be if, just occasionally, the fish threw the angler into the water... but they ain't that bright.

Psychic Cycles

I had a dream last night that I was one of those psychics, you know the type... the ones that take money off the gullible and then tell them stuff that they want to hear, about stuff they already know!

Anyway, in this dream, given that I’d discovered I might be psychic, I decided to have my own show. I even advertised its time and place in the local paper thus demonstrating my new found powers of prediction and being able to see into the future.

I took the stage on my first night as ‘Mystic Paddy’ and I have to say I was nervous - but I knew I would be. The crowd numbered well over 150, which means... there were nearer 200. I started my routine by dimming the light... well, I didn’t, the stage electrician did but the crowd loved it as I raised my hand in a signal to him and somehow they thought I had done something spooky already. They were up for spooky! Immediately I knew I was on a winner.

I then said, “I’m getting a letter... the letter ‘F’. Yes... the letter ‘F’ and there’s a dog... yes, a dog running down a path and there’s... “A simple everyday occurrence. Somebody had to bite. They did. 

Immediately a voice called out, “I’ve got a dog. Fido... he’s called Fido.”

It crossed my mind that this was too easy. People were willing to tell me stuff and pay me to hear it regurgitated back at them! I decided I had to make the performance more intriguing and suspenseful if it was that easy.

“Fido, you say? No... I’m not getting Fido. Definitely an ‘F’ though, and... wait, yes, an ‘E’ as well.”

Another voice from the audience. “My mother’s dog... Fergie... he died in a plane crash over two years ago. Is it....?”

“A plane crash?” A tad unusual for a dog, I thought.

“Yes... he was chasing sheep in a field in Australia when the flying doctor was trying to land and clipped him with a wheel.”

I took a deep breath and then paused for dramatic effect and said, “No, it’s not Fergie... " I raised my arms in the air and spread my hands wide as if embracing the audience. “Wait... yes, I hear something... "  The audience hushed. “... it’s an Irish accent... I closed my eyes tight and began to speak, as if in ‘tongues'... “Feck... get off that feckin postman yer fecker."

The audience was silent. I glanced to my left. One of the stage hands was making a drink sign with his hand.

“A tea,” I said, before I realised I hadn’t muted the mic.

“My uncle Tommy,” a woman’s voice shouted out. “He had an Irish wolfhound that was always attacking visitors. He passed on ten years ago. He was knocked down and run over by the postman.”

I jumped on the information straight away. “Ah, yes, I see him now. Laying there, his tongue hanging out as his last breath left him. A crowd around him, patting his shaggy grey coat -"

“It was summer,” the woman said. “Tommy never wore a coat in summer and sure I never remember him havin' a grey one anyway. And the bloody stupid dog was lickin' his face trying to get him to wake up.”

“Uh, yes... Tommy... " I had to style it out. “Tommy sends his love to you and your family and is glad the dog is well.”

The woman looked surprised. “Does he? I hated the bastard and I can tell you he was no family man. And I had the bloody stupid dog put down a week after the funeral. Sure if I hadn’t I’d never have seen any post again.”

I swallowed hard. “No, you’re right. It’s the dog that’s... yes, uh... sending his love and hopes you and the family are... you know, keeping well. Sometimes these messages get mixed when people and animals are close.”

I had to move on. “I feel a lot of energy in this room tonight.” I paused again. Then decided to proceed cautiously. “I’m getting a... the name Smith... yes, Smith. Is there anyone here by the name of Smith?” There wasn’t. “Wait... it’s definitely an ‘S’... Sue... Susanne... Sues... anne... ,” I said, which suddenly gave me three name options.

“Anne,” a voice said from near the front.

I wiped my brow and tried to focus. “Yes, Anne. I’m seeing... a mother... a father... they... "

Anne was nodding. She was around seventy-five years old so it was safe to assume her parents were not in the audience. “... they were close,” I said. I guess they had to have been at one time if they had a daughter.

Anne nodded again.

“Uh... a grandmother and grandfather...” I said, pushing it further. They definitely couldn’t be in the audience.

Anne smiled and nodded some more. I had a connection but needed to know what to do with it. “I see a bicycle... ". One of the family surely had to have had one. The connection spanned well over a hundred years which took us past the motor car. “Your parents or grandparents had a bicycle, Anne. I sense it. They are sending you energy and kindness.”

Anne wiped a tear away. “My father... he had a bicycle... for work.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes... I see him now. He loved his bike and used to ride it all -"

“But they took it away... when... when he was jailed,” Anne said.

“Err... jailed?”

“Jailed for running over a customer... he was a postman and... "

Her voice trailed off as she broke down.

I woke with a start. I don’t usually remember dreams that vividly!

(N.B. No dogs were hurt in the making of this dream. Stunt dogs were used. It should be said that no humans were hurt either.)

The Scouts

I was in the scouts when I 'were a lad.' 2nd Wimbledon Scout Group. I have no idea whether there was a 1st Wimbledon scout group or a 3rd Wimbledon scout group. I never saw them but surely there had to be or it would have been pointless calling our lot the 2nd Wimbledon. 

We were allowed to carry knives... in public. Yes, six inch hunting knives, strapped to our waists in a sheath and on full public display. I am not sure why we had these blades as I never stabbed anyone. In fact I never did anything useful at all with it. Occasionally we had to carve a tent peg out of a branch but since I lived in a house in Wimbledon, a single tent peg was completely unnecessary. And the local camping shop, Millets, was in Wimbledon Broadway so if I ever needed a tent peg (when you're 10, you don't) I could have bought one from my paper round money. 

These days I would have been arrested for carrying a knife with intent to carve a tent peg (and probably for wearing stupid baggy shorts, a weird neckerchief and for mumbling bollocks like DYB DYB DYB, DOB DOB DOB.)

So I managed to get through that period of childhood without stabbing anyone, or getting arrested, and completely oblivious as to how I got into the organisation in the first place and what exactly it was for in Wimbledon! With hindsight, I now believe we were a street gang, like the CRIPS and the BLOODS in LA and, with our superior weaponry, we must have eliminated the 1st and 3rd Wimbledon 'gangs' to become the dominant local outfit.

Car Washes

So, I need to discuss car washes. (Discuss as in feel free to comment if you have any views on car washes at all!) Now, when I refer to ‘car washes’, I don’t mean those automated ones where you sit in an enclosed space for five minutes wondering if you have lined your car up correctly and it will come out in one piece. No, I mean the ‘hand wash’ ones where only one person speaks English and everything is conducted in hand signals.

You get beckoned forward and you creep slowly along to a point where suddenly the guy shoots out a hand in a firm STOP signal. You switch off the engine and sit back while people start spraying your vehicle with high powered jets of water; then it gets soaped up using giant sponges. At that point you get beckoned forward again, but after moving just seven inches you suddenly get the abrupt STOP hand-sign again. Nobody in the world knows why you have to move forward only seven inches and then stop again. After more vigorous soaping, water bombardment and random spraying - some weird stuff contained in a giant flask is sprayed all over the vehicle windscreen, bodywork and wheels, and you have no idea what it is because you can’t wind down the window and ask as you might end up with a ‘facefull’ of it and then have to watch in your rear-view mirror as your skin peels off - you get beckoned forward again 

By now you’re really nervous because you don’t know whether you should be going seven inches or driving forward positively. However, the expression on the ‘beckoning bloke’s’ face as you are inching along - a kind of ‘FFS, mate, get a move on, ain’t you ever driven a flippin’ car before’ look - encourages you to be a bit more ambitious until he pulls out the STOP hand again. You stop, switch off the engine while the car gets jetted some more, but just as you are beginning to relax, you get the ‘seven inch’ manoeuvre thrown at you again. You ease forward, stop again but then you don’t know whether to switch off the engine or leave it running. You leave it for a minute and then decide to switch off but just as you do, you get the hand signal to move forward. This time you pass through a giant ‘hairdryer’, not sure at what speed you should be going. Once through there, an army of blokes with chamois leathers descend on your car like war zone rioters and begin flanneling it down. You realise the ordeal is nearly over and begin to chill… until you spot the missed bit - two droplets of water just waiting to trickle down your side mirror. 

You watch the chamois bloke on your right side and you’re thinking, “C’mon, mate. You gotta see that… surely, you must. You can’t miss it.” He continues to chamois vigorously but somehow misses it and you say nothing because after all the water that’s been sprayed over your vehicle, it kind of seems ‘picky’ to complain about two solitary drops, even if they are irritating the hell out of you! Then, for no reason at all, someone comes along and starts painting your tyres black! They don’t even ask what colour you fancy. I guess it’s the old Henry Ford legend, “You can have any colour you want as long as it’s black.” 

And then the final touch. One of the guys knocks on your window; you wind it down and he hands you one of those scented ‘Christmas tree’ things that is supposed to make the inside of your car smell nice, but actually makes it smell like somebody’s conducted a chemical experiment in your vehicle that went wrong, and if you did hang it from your rear-view mirror it would knock ten percent off the value of your car the minute you drove away from the car wash! 

In fairness though, these guys do a good job. Not their fault I have no clue what’s going on!! 

Spanish Pursuit - The Making of a Book

Spanish Pursuit is the latest novel in The Pursuit Series of books and once again follows the adventures, or mis-adventures, of its central character, Matthew Malarkey. This one is set mainly in Spain but with an opening part that starts in England, Ascot, to be precise. 

A question I am often asked is how did a particular book come about? That question covers a lot of subjects including the idea, the locations, the characters and the methodology. I’m sure different writers have different ways of thinking about their books and various methods of creating them, so I can only talk about the things that contribute to the end result from my experience and, in this case, related to Spanish Pursuit. However, there was a similar pattern to the production of the first three books in this series too. So, if you bore easily, look away now!

The idea for Spanish Pursuit kicked in after I attended Royal Ascot a couple of summers back and enjoyed an afternoon’s racing and an extremely pleasant hospitality event. My visit was on Ladies Day (you don’t have to be a lady to attend!). Many racecourses define specific days and, perhaps fuelled by the liberally poured Champagne that was on offer and the pink race badges on display, I got to thinking ‘what if you showed up on the wrong day?’ No reason at all why, ordinarily, such a thought should enter my head, but I write light humour (with a serious angle too) so my imagination kicked in.

Another factor in this element was the other guests enjoying the hospitality areas, all of them anonymous to me apart from the friends I went with. I began to think about the mix of people - maybe some were wealthy enough to do this all the time; perhaps for some it was a one-off day out, a break from the normal work or childcare routine; some of the guests may have been ‘famous’ in their own way, in their communities or their chosen professions (I didn’t actually see any real ‘celebs’), or have achieved great things in life either professionally or personally. The point was, I didn’t know but we were all thrown together that day by one common desire - to have fun and enjoy a part of the great British sporting culture.

That interaction and the possibility of getting the date wrong then created a basic idea for the story (something I will leave alone here as it is better for a reader to discover for themselves). From there it was a matter of developing a plot, planning and the intricacies that go with that. That’s never done on the ‘once upon a time’ basis - by that I mean, you can’t write a book by starting at page one, like we used to do at school as 6, 7, 8 year olds. You have to know where a story is going and, often, with the initial idea, you don’t. It may never go anywhere.

The Spanish Pursuit story took a different direction after I visited Madrid. My visit there had nothing to do with my book (as yet untitled at that point - books can remain untitled late into the process; you are writing the story, not the book) - and was simply a business trip connected to a company I was working with. But, having spent a brief period in the city, I loved the environment and the buzz and, when I returned home, I began to think that the story should go to Madrid. I flew to the city again much later on in the writing process, this time to research city locations properly as it was not sufficient to rely on impressions created by a visit that was unrelated to the story. That last visit was hugely informative and, as a result, a number of city centre locations appear throughout the story which anyone who has visited Madrid might recognise.

Another element in the now evolving ‘Spanish’ angle was a region of southern Spain, Murcia, which I had been to once before and visited again once the story had a solid outline. Again, I won’t refer in detail to the location as it is part of the story and is referenced in the credits. However, I did traipse around some remote areas in order to get a feel for the scenes I had visualised and recorded my explorations on my phone and Go Pro camera (audio and visual). This was important in the research process as it helps you recall in much better detail, when it comes to writing, what you actually experienced - heat, humidity, smells, how you feel in the environment etc. I relied quite a bit on this method when writing Diamond Pursuit and did a lot of similar research in Ibiza, where that book is set.

The actual writing is an interesting process (I think so anyway and if you’ve got this far, maybe you do too!) I mentioned the ‘once upon a time’ theory (no idea if it’s a real theory in writing circles, but it occurred to me as a good description) and, I think people will understand that it would take forever if you tried to write in a purely linear way. That’s not to say that once you have a good story outline that, for example, chapters 7 to 15 won’t be written in a straight, direct method, one after the other - and mostly they are, but it’s not unusual to have written what turns out to be chapters 38, 39 and 40 well before some of the earlier ones. Why? Because you know where the story is going. How? Planning.
Some of my planning involves writing notes on my mobile. Sometimes the basis of a whole chapter will evolve in this way or it simply might be notes based on observation. A particularly good way for me to do this, I’ve found, is to call into a pub early evening, buy a beer and find a quiet table at which I can be undisturbed and write down whatever pops into my head - related to the story, of course!

Another useful practice I find is to create a chart with the character names and create links between them to see who is connected and why they are connected. On a similar note, I have a scene in Spanish Pursuit where several people are seated at a round table, and I wanted to describe their positions in relation to one another (may seem odd but there was a point). To visualise this I drew a circle and placed ‘X’ to denote a position and then a name attached to that. It helped me write the description more easily.

Timelines are an important check to ensure the story is credible. It may seem at odds with writing but I use Excel spreadsheets/workbooks to create timelines - something happens on Tuesday 7th July (I give them actual dates at this stage in order to make a timeline work but the dates don’t necessarily appear in the draft, although the day more than likely will) and then the character is doing something else on Wednesday 8th. Is it feasible that he/she could do this, be there, have accomplished that, in that timeframe? It has to be realistic. This can be fine-tuned down to hours as well in order to time events. In Spanish Pursuit I also used years as a measure in order to cross reference characters’ ages and significant events in their lives. You don’t want stupid errors like... ‘she met him’ and they developed a relationship but it turns out that a poor timeline meant that he was 15 and still at school and she was 38 at that point! A slight exaggeration in this case but used to illustrate the importance of timelines.

And speaking of characters, I’m often asked who they are. Well, they are nobody and somebody at the same time! ‘Nobody’ because they are fictitious, figments of the imagination and ‘somebody’ because you take elements of the characteristics and personalities of people you know or have met and apply them to your fictional characters... and then exaggerate those aspects. But once you have shaped your characters, they actually take on the personalities you have given them and they evolve over chapters and then books. This is particularly evident to the writer when creating dialogue. Although I will know what the scene is about, writing the dialogue becomes easy because the characters interact and just ‘say it.’ Yes, I know people will say, “yeah, but they’re characters in your head so you are saying it,” but my point here is that there is minimal effort required for the dialogue because, perhaps much like an actor’s, the brain slips ‘into’ that character’s mindset.

Anyway, once all of the above has been done and the first draft has been completed, then comes the checking - cutting out words, paragraphs, fine tuning and rewriting ‘chunks.’ Often an early part of the book might need changes because it doesn’t quite fit with something near the conclusion; or something might need to be added near the end to reflect a small detail that occurred in the first chapters; loose ends have to be cross checked too. Whole chapters might need a rewrite. Getting to the last full stop in the first draft is not the end by a long shot!

I am leaving out the detail of spell checking, grammar checks, cutting out overuse of certain words and detailed editing as, frankly, it’s dull stuff, but essential. Obviously, a lot of help is relied upon from others in this regard and credit is given in the book. The only fun part of the post-writing process is getting the artwork sorted for the covers. I like to have my book covers specially designed and, although I have some input and final approval, I rely on the skills of the designer to interpret the ‘feel’ of the book and, most importantly, to apply their own creativity to produce the end result. After all, that’s their profession.

So, after over eighteen months in its creation, Spanish Pursuit finally became a real book. In writing humour often you ask readers to suspend belief and let their imagination run with it - bit like science fiction. Spanish Pursuit is a fun story but does contain a serious story line that underpins each of the misjudgements Matthew Malarkey and his compatriots make.

It is available now and more information can be found on www.pursuitseries.com

A Modern Biblical Tale

And so it came to pass that a herald was sent to speak to the multitudes. But there was a ban on multitudes in place so the herald said, “Nobody told me.”
The herald was nothing if not clever and decided to set up a video conferencing network, determined to speak to the people. So a link was created to ‘nosdra-damus/armourgeton.org. When it was done and thousands had logged on, those ‘working’ from home, Government Ministers and ‘clergypeople’ amongst them, the herald began to deliver a message to the multitudes.
“Have none of you learnt a lesson from the Golden Calf?”
“Don’t know that one,” said an attendee. “I usually drink in Wetherspoon pubs. What’s it like?”
The herald frowned. “This ignorance is what I have come to expect. You have strayed from the path, your eyes focussed on self gratification and false houses of worship. The Golden Calf, Exodus thirty-two, the worship of false idols.”
“Wait a minute. Exodus Thirty-Two. That’s a night club just off the Edgware Road, innit?” the Minister for Arts, Heritage and Tourism said.
The herald rolled his eyes and ignored the remark, knowing that such a job was completely irrelevant with the banning of multitudes. “Exodus, thirty-two point four, to be precise, tells you what happens when you turn from the path and worship false idols. You, all of you, people, politicians, priests... you have set up your gods of Mammon, your false worship of wealth and gratification, your smart phones, laptops, games consoles, your pubs and bars, your box sets, your Love Island and Eastenders drivel and even your churches where you hang false images and listen to messages from people who claim to represent the true path but peddle only their own control agenda. And now you are reaping what you sow... I mean sewed. A plague has been sent amongst you and until you repent and turn your face back to the path, it will continue to... ”
As the herald’s voice grew louder and more intense, he began to rent his robes.
“Uh... why are you renting your robes?” said a female voice.
The herald focussed his gaze on the camera. “I’m not. These are my own robes. I need no other clothing. Turn away from the falseness of such things, fashion and bedecking yourselves in the finery of gold and silver and ye... I mean, you, will be saved.”
“Hang on, why should we believe you?” said a former MP of a minor party. “You’re a footballer. Just because you ain’t playing at the minute, you’re just attention seeking.”
The herald looked puzzled. “What? A footballer?”
“Yeah, you’re Nosdra Damus, the Real Madrid defender.”
Again the herald rolled his eyes. “That’s Sergio Ramos, you fool. Yet again you demonstrate that your focus is only on false idols. I warn you, turn away from the true path and more plagues will be sent amongst you so that you will be smitten –”“I already like you,” said a high ranking bishop.
“... Smitten from the face of the Earth.”
“Bit harsh,” a voice shouted out. “I mean, if whoever you represent thinks that the only way to get respect and regard is to force people to follow the path you talk about with threats, they can’t be much of a nice guy. I mean, freedom of choice works better, doesn’t it?”
The herald leant forward to say something and then sat back, nonplussed by the remark.
And then, as if by divine intervention, the network link crashed, a computer virus infecting the whole system and rendering it useless.