BACK TO THE BLOG FRONT.
“All I can say is fuck the formulaic; fiddle with the format!” advised the cat Shadow.
“Avoid alliteration, “ I said sternly. ”It’s practically as pathetic as punning.”
O.K…basic English…scrap the HOME/AWAY/TELEVISION/ READING routine; go for something completely different.”
I eyed him narrowly: “Completely different? How completely different?”
“Well…interesting would do for a start.”
“And when did you last proffer paw to pen?” I queried querulously.
“Now you’re being alliterative,” he said. “And petulant.”
I sighed. Seeking his opinion invites a masterclass in cat candour. Clearly this could become another of those lose-lose conversations to which I have become accustomed over the years.
“Might not the nice people who read me like the format?” I ventured.
“How many actually do read you?” he countered.
To avoid repetition I stifled another sigh and replaced it with a shrug.
Exactly,” he said, “You have no idea, have you? So how many blog comments do you get?”
I shrugged again; well you can’t avoid repetition all the time.
The long and the short of it is that I am not a Stephen Fry or a Dominic Holland. I seek not public applause and I appear not on television, twitter, facebook or the stage. I do not have a novel to flog and the last published comment on any of my blog posts came from old friend Anonymous John (oh, way back at Post 160, just after the death of my mother). I hope nice people are still reading my stuff, but am not aware if they do. I know my Leader does; but she, bless her, is a captive audience. I don’t think our children bother much; a prophet is never accepted in his own country and, whether I like it or not, the world moves on.
“Most comments come directly to me by email,” I said blandly.
“Good job you’re not Pinocchio,” he said, “or your nose would knock me off this chair.”
I risked another sigh. “All right, nowadays they don’t comment very often. Can we change the subject now?”
“Will you change the format?”
“And do what? Bullshit about my experiences at the Edinburgh fringe? Or my week on The Wright Stuff? Or my fellow panellists on QI? Or maybe plug the pantomime I shall be appearing in at the end of the year?”
“Now you’re being daft.”
“Nicely observed. So can we change the subject?”
“Bit of a surprise ol’ Harry Redknapp losing the Tottenham job.” he said.
“Well that really is a change of subject,” I murmured appreciatively. “Not very much of a surprise though, surely? He’s football through and through. A top manager. But it’s a dicey business and these are dicey times. I think he’s become a victim of his own success. Popular with the supporters, respected by the players and a tad too demanding of the owners, that has to be a farewell formula in today‘s climate.”
“Now you’re not being daft,” he remarked, without so much as a hint of sarcasm. “How about Roy Hodgson? Word on the roof says success.”
“Hmm. What do you think?”
“My heart likes the word on the roof but my head counsels caution.”
“Follow your heart but heed your head.”
He blinked and looked puzzled, evidently pondering from where such unlikely wisdom had come. I didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t ask.
The moment passed.
“Had any thoughts on the tele scene lately?” he enquired casually.
“Only that many current American cop series are reaching their end and seem determined to outdo each other‘s turbans under the bed story lines.”
“You’re not much for that besieged by terrorists stuff, are you?”
“Propaganda bred of paranoia,” I grunted. “A lethal combination. Christ knows what their writers would have made of the blitzes here throughout World War Two or the bombing of Dresden in February 1945.”
“They wouldn’t. It didn’t happen in America,” he said wryly.
“Too right. Anyway, I have become increasingly disenchanted with the international conspiracy to overthrow the greatest democracy ever to chew gum or drink coke. I don’t care whether the perceived villains are based in the Middle East, Russia, China, North Korea, Chile, Mexico or Heligoland, I just don’t believe they exist. Nor do I believe that doctors, scientists and police persons, even in America, tidily talk one after the other and leave the last word to the star of the show. It’s assembly line chit-chat, it’s not human.
“And when it comes to not human, there was a time when most fantasy was B picture material. That was before the film and television world joined the magic circle and special effects went into overdrive. Now screens big and small are seething with Grimm stories, fairytale tales, zombie epics, dragon sagas and dark age legends. It’s Shangri-La for spirits.”
“I thought you liked it…well…most of it.”
“I do, I do. But even phantom kill can become overkill if it’s overdone.”
“You could start watching the cookery programmes,” he said, “there’s more than enough of them still about. Or you could give up viewing and get yourself onto a reality show“
“Now you’re being daft,” I said.
“Touche,” he said. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Well, food is the word, little pal,” I said. “I’m thinking I might take a crash course in cookery, dress up as a ghost and appear on the box as the gourmet ghoul. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a sure-fire success and I think you’re joking,” he said.
“It probably would be and I am,” I replied.
He adroitly changed the subject.
“How did Neil’s Kickstarter campaign for Carmageddon go?” he asked in a purr that suggested he knew the answer.
“It went brilliantly,” I said. “Though I guess he’d rather it was thought of as the Stainless Team’s campaign. But yes, they reached their target, and more, thanks to loads of lovely well-wishers.“
“Great,” he said. “I saw the Hobbes video. You’d have seen me off sharply if I’d acted like that, wouldn‘t you?”
“I would,” I said. “And you wouldn’t.”
He nodded sagely. (How does he do that?)
“Anyway, it’s Ascot now and then it will be Wimbledon,” he said. “I expect to be snoozing for England soon.
“Join the club,” I said.
“Indoors or garden?”
“Wherever…Now…About this changing the format…
“I think you have, buddy,” he said gently. “I think you have…”
“All I can say is fuck the formulaic; fiddle with the format!” advised the cat Shadow.
“Avoid alliteration, “ I said sternly. ”It’s practically as pathetic as punning.”
O.K…basic English…scrap the HOME/AWAY/TELEVISION/ READING routine; go for something completely different.”
I eyed him narrowly: “Completely different? How completely different?”
“Well…interesting would do for a start.”
“And when did you last proffer paw to pen?” I queried querulously.
“Now you’re being alliterative,” he said. “And petulant.”
I sighed. Seeking his opinion invites a masterclass in cat candour. Clearly this could become another of those lose-lose conversations to which I have become accustomed over the years.
“Might not the nice people who read me like the format?” I ventured.
“How many actually do read you?” he countered.
To avoid repetition I stifled another sigh and replaced it with a shrug.
Exactly,” he said, “You have no idea, have you? So how many blog comments do you get?”
I shrugged again; well you can’t avoid repetition all the time.
The long and the short of it is that I am not a Stephen Fry or a Dominic Holland. I seek not public applause and I appear not on television, twitter, facebook or the stage. I do not have a novel to flog and the last published comment on any of my blog posts came from old friend Anonymous John (oh, way back at Post 160, just after the death of my mother). I hope nice people are still reading my stuff, but am not aware if they do. I know my Leader does; but she, bless her, is a captive audience. I don’t think our children bother much; a prophet is never accepted in his own country and, whether I like it or not, the world moves on.
“Most comments come directly to me by email,” I said blandly.
“Good job you’re not Pinocchio,” he said, “or your nose would knock me off this chair.”
I risked another sigh. “All right, nowadays they don’t comment very often. Can we change the subject now?”
“Will you change the format?”
“And do what? Bullshit about my experiences at the Edinburgh fringe? Or my week on The Wright Stuff? Or my fellow panellists on QI? Or maybe plug the pantomime I shall be appearing in at the end of the year?”
“Now you’re being daft.”
“Nicely observed. So can we change the subject?”
“Bit of a surprise ol’ Harry Redknapp losing the Tottenham job.” he said.
“Well that really is a change of subject,” I murmured appreciatively. “Not very much of a surprise though, surely? He’s football through and through. A top manager. But it’s a dicey business and these are dicey times. I think he’s become a victim of his own success. Popular with the supporters, respected by the players and a tad too demanding of the owners, that has to be a farewell formula in today‘s climate.”
“Now you’re not being daft,” he remarked, without so much as a hint of sarcasm. “How about Roy Hodgson? Word on the roof says success.”
“Hmm. What do you think?”
“My heart likes the word on the roof but my head counsels caution.”
“Follow your heart but heed your head.”
He blinked and looked puzzled, evidently pondering from where such unlikely wisdom had come. I didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t ask.
The moment passed.
“Had any thoughts on the tele scene lately?” he enquired casually.
“Only that many current American cop series are reaching their end and seem determined to outdo each other‘s turbans under the bed story lines.”
“You’re not much for that besieged by terrorists stuff, are you?”
“Propaganda bred of paranoia,” I grunted. “A lethal combination. Christ knows what their writers would have made of the blitzes here throughout World War Two or the bombing of Dresden in February 1945.”
“They wouldn’t. It didn’t happen in America,” he said wryly.
“Too right. Anyway, I have become increasingly disenchanted with the international conspiracy to overthrow the greatest democracy ever to chew gum or drink coke. I don’t care whether the perceived villains are based in the Middle East, Russia, China, North Korea, Chile, Mexico or Heligoland, I just don’t believe they exist. Nor do I believe that doctors, scientists and police persons, even in America, tidily talk one after the other and leave the last word to the star of the show. It’s assembly line chit-chat, it’s not human.
“And when it comes to not human, there was a time when most fantasy was B picture material. That was before the film and television world joined the magic circle and special effects went into overdrive. Now screens big and small are seething with Grimm stories, fairytale tales, zombie epics, dragon sagas and dark age legends. It’s Shangri-La for spirits.”
“I thought you liked it…well…most of it.”
“I do, I do. But even phantom kill can become overkill if it’s overdone.”
“You could start watching the cookery programmes,” he said, “there’s more than enough of them still about. Or you could give up viewing and get yourself onto a reality show“
“Now you’re being daft,” I said.
“Touche,” he said. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Well, food is the word, little pal,” I said. “I’m thinking I might take a crash course in cookery, dress up as a ghost and appear on the box as the gourmet ghoul. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a sure-fire success and I think you’re joking,” he said.
“It probably would be and I am,” I replied.
He adroitly changed the subject.
“How did Neil’s Kickstarter campaign for Carmageddon go?” he asked in a purr that suggested he knew the answer.
“It went brilliantly,” I said. “Though I guess he’d rather it was thought of as the Stainless Team’s campaign. But yes, they reached their target, and more, thanks to loads of lovely well-wishers.“
“Great,” he said. “I saw the Hobbes video. You’d have seen me off sharply if I’d acted like that, wouldn‘t you?”
“I would,” I said. “And you wouldn’t.”
He nodded sagely. (How does he do that?)
“Anyway, it’s Ascot now and then it will be Wimbledon,” he said. “I expect to be snoozing for England soon.
“Join the club,” I said.
“Indoors or garden?”
“Wherever…Now…About this changing the format…
“I think you have, buddy,” he said gently. “I think you have…”
1 comment:
Anonymous John waits with barely contained impatience for each updating of your fascinating blog anecdotes, so with Faithful Mo and Anonymous John what more could any Author desire?
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