Lassie's Stunt-Dog Jumped on Me

I have yet to see one completely unspoiled star, except for the animals - like Lassie.
-Edith Head, costume-designer-to-the-stars

It's early 2007 and I'm trying to chase after a girl who's a few years younger than me through some dodgy South Manchester suburb as dusk falls. It's hard to run when you're in a suit and business shoes with a long black overcoat and you've got a lap-top case strapped over one shoulder.

You should always dress up for a job interview.

Tonight I'm shadowing a door-to-door saleswoman as a working interview with CSC, a face-to-face marketing company in Manchester. At the office they'd given me a purposefully vague introduction to the work- I can't even remember what they told me it was I'd be doing. “Forward-thinking marketing”, or some psycho-babble that made it sound a thousand times more complex and yuppie-fied than it turned out to be: Going to people's houses, and getting them to change their gas and electric suppliers to CSC's.

That is Saleswoman's job.

“I joined this company when I was sixteen,” she snorted, “and within a year I was living in a penthouse apartment.”

Really, I thought. And you're, what, a supervisor? Who brings these people up? Don't they get taught not to brag? And why “Was living” ? Been demoted to the basement, maybe? Her attempts to seduce me into the job are having the opposite effect. I answered the ad because I wanted to promote ideas to people. That's how I interpret “marketing”. Pushing your way into ageing people's homes in an attempt to get them to pay for something is “sales”. Funny how the professionals of these fields don't seem to accept the difference. I know I'll be saying “no thanks” to the manager.

We leave one door after the home-owner seemed half asleep and completely disinterested. She didn't exactly force us away, though.

Saleswoman asks me, “What did you notice about her?”

“Um... her house was very- warm.”

“She was on drugs.”

We march further down the street. “Not this one,” Saleswoman says, passing one one of the semi-detached houses that already uses her supplier. She walk-runs up the next drive and simultaneously knocks on the door and rings the bell. A middle-aged woman answers hesitantly.

I'm starting to feel depressed from all the rejection, even though I'm not the one being turned down.

“You're eligible to pay less,” Saleswoman says, showing her a chart of complex figures. “Just give me a few moments and I'll explain it to you.”

In a few seconds, Saleswoman has managed to bully the home-owner into inviting us into her lounge, where I'm greeted by three large but playful collies. The closest jumps up to me and I catch her front paws and drop them down carefully again. The woman calls the dog's name. It's a girl. I ruffle the thick fur around the dog's neck, my fingers disappearing into the coat.

“They look just like Lassie,” Saleswoman says.

Home-owner tells us it's funny she should say that- it's funny that everyone says it- because parts of the new Lassie movie were filmed nearby in Yorkshire a couple of years ago. Dogs in films can't be overworked, she heard, so the film crew needed a few collies to act as stand-ins. One of her dogs- she points her out- got a walk-on part in the film.

She doesn't show us any proof of this and we don't ask, of course. She does give us proof of identification and home ownership as she fills out the paperwork, however, while I keep the dogs company for a few more minutes.

It occurs to me at that moment that there is a big distinction between the dogs and Saleswoman. Saleswoman has to be overtly nice to every potential customer- an act she has down to a tee- in order to get commission. In contrast, the dogs just want company. They are truly happy to see me and have no ulterior motives. “Unspoiled”, you could say.

As for me... although today has been an interesting experience, I still need a Goddamn job. Hence, the quest continues...

January Chaos

'I played a heap of snow in a school play. I was under a sheet, and crawled out when spring came. I often say I'll never reach the same artistic level again.'
Stellan Skarsgard 


Bollocks to blogging in three-month quarterly summaries. And you know what? Bollocks to magazine-style professionalism, and the constant niggle of 'how publishable is this, outside of this blog?' These thoughts do not matter right now. What matters is that I stop being a 'bell chod', as one of my readers put it, and update this blog more regularly. So here you go.

My first sound-off is to remind you (again) that, in the space of one month, I have had a few publishing successes. Stray Branch, a literature publication, accepted a story. My poem found it's way into Aphelion- another lit magazine (both online), and also my letter was featured in the Oldham Evening Chronicle- my local newspaper. I intend to carry on this way: reeling out material and getting it published.

It was fairly easy to keep this up: I was pretty much stranded inside when 15cm (9 inches) of snow was dumped all over the town of Oldham, bringing it to a standstill. This disruption also occurred from Land's End to John O' Groats. Just to remind those living underground. I'm 27 and I've never seen snow like it.

I wondered up the hill behind my house while it fell- the whole of Greater Manchester is normally visible from Heartshead. In fact, on a clear day you can see the Clwydian mountain range on the North Wales coast some 50 miles away. I marched up the track to Heartshead's summit, trudging through iced puddles, the snow falling so thick it looked like mist. Each snowflake was twice the size of a cornflake. The eroded path forked, heading into two parts of oblivion. There is a beacon tower up there, known as Heartshead Pike, that has stood since 1863. It's not quite on the summit, but it's a good a place as any to get a panoramic vista. On that day, however, I got half-way up the track before realising I couldn't actually see anything in front or behind me. And if anyone was going to get lost on a hill like that, it would be me. So I backtracked. I took a few decent pictures on my phone when the visibility cleared up further down the road.

January's high-point number two occurred when I was updating my LinkedIn account. I suppose you could call LinkedIn 'the business version of Facebook'- a social networking site without the socialising. I searched the site using my Hotmail contacts and found a girl I'd pulled in 2004 when I was at uni. She was from down south, and was visiting friends in Manchester at the time. She kinda looked like Eady from the film Heat (the one DeNiro, erm, 'gets with'), only said lady is fitter.

It turned out that she worked for the TV company BSkyB. I was studying media at the time, so we swapped Email addresses and she promised to pass my CV on to the production team, for what it's worth. Back to 2010: I connected to said lady on LinkedIn. She's now BSkyB's head of trade marketing.

Has anyone else pulled any high-profile people? Comment below!

Speaking of business- now the snow has passed and I have loads of annual leave to use up before the business year ends, I won't be in work much. So stay tuned for more bizarre accounts of what I've been dumb enough to get involved in.

My First Rejection Letter

'I take rejection as someone blowing a bugle in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat.'
-Sylvester Stallone

Recently I received my tenth publishing acceptance- a letter in the local newspaper The Oldham Chronicle. I figured that to celebrate this momentous occasion, I should offer up another piece of personal history- my first rejection email from an editor.

Mushaboom was an obscure music publication that ran in Manchester. In summer 2008 they advertised for contributions to their magazine, asking for writing or artwork. Granted, I thought, they are probably looking for music-related work only. But surely it won't hurt to send a few of my own pieces out- a few non-fiction stories about life's trials and tribulations might diversify the magazine. And if they don't like it, they can say 'no thanks.' This was mistake number one.

Well, they did say no thanks, in so many words. I sent five pieces, one after the other. One included an attempt to draw parralels between the challenges of adolescence and the challenges of adulthood, using examples from my own life. It was such a bad piece that I have since deleted it from the internet. Sending five stories at once was mistake number two.

Moral of the story? Research the publication before submitting work.

Here's the editor's reply:


hello

i run a MUSIC fanzine and am looking for ARTICLES. you are sending me diary entries. i think you have missed the point slightly. i have no idea why you have sent these to me, you dont think i'm going to print lengthy, banal accounts of your exploits in chav bars with common as shit women. i also think it was inappropriate of you to send graphic details of your inadequete sex life.

if you have sent me these because you think you are a writer, you have failed to grasp the two basic elements of any writing; genre and target audience. you clearly have no idea what an article is because you sure as hell haven't written any and you clearly haven't checked what publication you are writing for. it's an independent music fanzine, in other words its about music. not explicitly i grant you, it also includes creative writing and articles on literary or arts based themes. this may not be overtly obvious from the myspace but a short email inquiry would have made it so.

if you think your myspace blog constitutes creative writing, you are very sadly mistaken and should stop wasting your time. your talent does not lie in writing, let me tell you this as both literature student and reader. i have no problem with you documenting areas of your life for your own amusement/satisfaction etc but the fact that you are a) putting this stuff on the internet b) sending it to me you want people to read it and.....what? feel sorry for you? like you?? i personally found it amusing to begin with but am now sick of you inundating my bastard inbox with the affairs of your boring life. you sound like the last person on earth i would ever wish to talk to and you need to grow up, get over something that happened when you were 15 and stop letting it define who you are now. high school is tough, its like that for most people, the difference is most people realise it is part of growing up and don't use it in later life to make themselves sound complicated and tortured.

I had a sneaking suspicion that this response might be a little unfair. It was a bit of a wake-up call that people can be uncomfortable with graphic depictions of drug abuse and mind-bendingly bad sexual encounters, but seriously? Did I deserve to be shot down with such ferocity? I put the response on Facebook to gage people's reactions.

Tracey Pearson
anyone who has a story to tell and a fucking good one at that doesnt make them a bad writer.. just because some little editor of mag has a degree doesnt make them a good writer.. maybe she got lucky and shagged the boss..tight skirt n little titties.. im aiming that at americans or southereners... she has no life or she'd be out here with the rest of us drinking .. fucking .. and having a bloody good time but obviously shes stuck at the office and has time to reply a lenghty email that she really doesn't care about.. good night missus editor have a good life and remember to feed ur cats u barmy twit!!!! love u matt xxxx
11 August 2008 at 01:21 ·

Matt Tuckey
You also might notice that this so-called editor wrote her reply with a complete lack of capitalisation. And where the hell did she grow up, if she went to "high school"? It can't be anywhere near Manchester, England- the place where her "music fanzine"'s base of readers allegedly lives.

It can't be denied though, I may have spent too much time in chav bars. And don't get me started on the women...
11 August 2008 at 07:45 ·

Chris Moorcroft
Correct me if im wrong here but isnt the point in both music and writing about expressing yourself? Who said to pulp, the streets the killers and the arctic monkeys to stop wasting their lives trying to deal with something that happened to them when they were 15 and stop writing songs about tarts and life experiences. I dont even know what you wrote but from the pretentious "i have a literature degree" response, this person is clearly clueless about how the real world works and where great writing derives. Take no notice fella, i have seen your work and know it bond from a more real and honest place than this "editor" can deal with. Perhaps we should all stop making social comment and stay up until daft o clock in the morning masking ourselves behind internet postings which are totally unnecessary when a simple "dear sir, we regret to inform you that your postings are not what we are looking for" would do. I dont think its Matt who needs to grow up here or am i too bitter and twisted and need to deal with my life without wasting my time commenting on internet postings?!
11 August 2008 at 11:13 ·

Vicky Monk
Sorry to jump in but have you got her email address? I say you get everyone to inundate her with lyrics to their favourate songs by the above artists with the footnote of 'obviously you are right, no body was interested in what Richard Ashcroft had to say, thats why he has been in the same successful band since he was 18! P.S. Have a look on the cover of NME, and you might spot the reason you dont work for a proper music publication. They are artists, not novelists, and if you actually wish to be successful in the music industry I suggest you rapidly learn the difference before your boss is replaced by someone who actually knows what they are talking about!'

Rant over, back to work now lol! x x
11 August 2008 at 11:33 ·

Matt Tuckey
EMAIL ADDRESS SUPPLIED

Be my guest, but if I get my balls chopped off by a bitter, post-menopausal editor, I may feel slightly worse...

I'm surprised, and highly appreciative, of everyone's responses. I'm also a little bit nervous about sending work to any other publications...
11 August 2008 at 18:11 ·

Vicky Monk
From what Chris said to me you have nothing to worry about. Not everyone in the industry is a jumped up middle aged nutter! There are unfortunately too many people who work across different types of media tend to be full of self worth and rate themselves so highly that they think their opinion is the only one that is valid. Trust me, by the sounds of things she will last a whole 5 minutes before she is shot down in flames by someone who actually knows what they are talking about, and until then, lets give her a complex and annoy the life out of her! Manners dont cost anything, and by the sounds of things it wont be long until she speaks to the wrong person like that leaving her career to self distruct!
11 August 2008 at 18:26 ·


A few weeks after this I noticed that one of my Facebook friends had booted me out. He was a decent guy, but it turned out he was the boyfriend of said 'editor' and possibly cofounder of the 'publication'. I've never spoken to him since.

Eventually I scraped myself up off the floor after receiving such devastating lambastation and started sending material out to publications again. I have since had work published in Flash Fire 500 (twice), Gemini, Writer's Bloc, BadHap, The Oldham Chronicle (twice), The Manchester Evening News, Ophelion, and I have had a piece accepted into the fall / winter 2011 issue of The Stray Branch (so there'll be a bit of a wait before you see that).

As for 'Mushaboom'- their MySpace now says 'Mushaboom was a cult folk/alternative night that ran for 2 years in Manchester.' So neither the magazine, nor the apparent folk night, are running any more.

Metric vs. Imperial

Recently a writer calling himself 'Lancashire United' wrote in to my local newspaper, The Oldham Evening Chronicle. I'm going to quote his entire letter (13/1/10), just so you can grasp my motivations to act.

*

INCHES NOT CENTEMETRES
'I read in the Chronicle that the EU has granted The United Kingdom permission to continue to use imperial measurements. The standing joke about Great Britain becoming part of the United States of Europe seems to be getting frighteningly real.

'Well within my lifetime, England was the bulldog of the world, respected around the globe for engineering, manufacturing, and service, but gradually we have become the tail of the dog, being a dumping ground for every other country following Brussels decrees.

'I sincerely hope that the BBC and Granada Television read the item, and realise that we are still English (just about).

'In recent times we have been receiving the weather reports in cms and meters. It is bad enough getting the weather in Celsius, but to hear that there will be a snowfall of 15cms is totally meaningless to most of us, and is yet another piece of enforced metrication.

'I fear for our once great country.

'LANCASHIRE UNITED'

*

I responded, and my letter (following) was printed 15/1/10.

*

METRIC OR IMPERIAL?
'Lancashire United's letter (13/1/10) requesting that we all revert back to imperial measurements is typical of the naïve and ignorant views that damage this town. The idea that the rest of the world no longer respects us because we are starting to use the metric system is utterly ridiculous. The whole of Europe uses it because it is simple and uniform. I am 27. In my lifetime I have never been taught imperial measurements. I have a good grasp of the metric system: my education was funded by LU's taxes. It would, however, be helpful if the media industry supplied us with both imperial and metric measurements for temperatures (and weights and lengths). But to say we should abandon 'new' methods because he doesn't like them is unrealistic. Does LU know what year it is?

Matt Tuckey
Oldham

Quarterly Summary 4

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

-The Doors, The End

Well. The end of an era. Not only is 2009 in the past- quite a ridiculous year, to say the least- but the entirety of a decade is now behind us. The last few months, to which I'm dedicating this piece, have been typically mixed. Sometimes life has been disheartening, sometimes fantastic, but mostly things have been slightly weird. That's life in the 21st century, I'd say.

BBC
In the last Quarterly Summary I mentioned I'd applied to the BBC's Trainee Broadcast Journalist scheme. Suffice to say, they turned me down. They didn't say why. I was one of hundreds who applied, but I still enjoyed the application procedure (even though I had to call them to unlock my online application as something went wrong with the computers, meaning I had to hammer the application out at the last moment, submitting it with 26 minutes left on the deadline. But life is empty without the application of pressure).

Publicity
Local newspaper The Oldham Advertiser features a full page dedicated to one watering-hole every week, presumably as a publicity-drive for the town's night-life. A while back their photographer found me in Milan, a pretty classy bar close to my home. My picture appeared in the paper, circulation 87,000.

Area 51
For the serious dance music enthusiast in Manchester, Area 51 should be showing up on your radar. Opposite the once-high-class-now-overpopulated Deansgate Locks, a series of terraced bars, the club is home to the best house music night in the city. A few months ago I saw Jason Herd play to the crowds of Area 51. Herd, along with Jon Fitz, Make up dance music producer duo Herd 'n' Fitz. Their big hit was 'I Just Can't Get Enough' in 2005.

I Am Not in Bizarre Magazine
In autumn last year I posed naked for a fledgling Manchester publication called Hive Magazine. I was photographed, with fellow volunteer Sara, a student who'd responded to the same advert. We posed infront of various Manchester landmarks- the Gmex Exhibition Centre, Manchester Central Library, Beetham Tower- the tallest building in the city, The Urbis Museum- an uber-modern exhibition centre featuring works about city life and The Manchester Wheel, a 60-metre- high ferris wheel.

The magazine folded due to lack of advertising, but I still had copies of the pictures on my computer. They've been on Facebook for a while.

A few months ago Sara sent the pictures to a magazine called Bizarre, which- for want of a better description- features the craziest pictures from around the world. The magazine was interested in publishing the photographs, but as they'd been reduced from the original size for Facebook, they had lost their resolution. Bizarre were asking for the originals. Nobody from Hive wanted to claim ownership. Hence, my inevitable surge through the heights of international fame will have to wait...

Nunchucks
I'm not sure what it was that made me commit to the five-hour round-trip of Greater Manchester. I had a book to read, and a bus pass. And something had posessed me and convinced me that my life would be better with a pair of nunchucks- the two-sectioned hand weapon from China and Japan, made famous by Bruce Lee. He's holding them on the poster for Enter the Dragon.

I'd seen them a few years ago in sport shop Decathlon in Stockport, which is a major trek due to the shit-ness of Greater Manchester's transport system. But I had a book to read, and nothing pressing to do. I also wanted to see if they stocked any Mixed Martial Arts clothing.

When I arrived I found they stocked no MMA gear but I got the 'chucks, and I've been watching Youtube instructional videos. I'm becoming a dab hand in the Eastern ways, and it's great for upper-body conditioning. And yes, I have twatted myself on the head numerous times during practice.

Christmas
Yeah, I had a nice time. All went well.

New Year
I brought it in at Manchester's Birdcage. Imagine 2001 Odessy club from Saturday Night Fever stylistically interbred with the 'El Paraíso' club from Carlito's Way and you get a hint of the kind of place it is. Overly metallic, classically 'disco' and slightly camp (but still certifiably straight), the club provides cabaret entertainment to rival the Kit Kat Club (minus the Nazis.) Oh, and it's also heavily populated with fine women. I'm at a loss, however, to explain why I arrived home wearing a black, Zorro-style eye-mask.

To Conclude
I recall these incidents to remind myself of the highs. It's all too easy to dwell and wallow in negativity- the women who have said no, the publications that have turned me down (notice no section on published work?) the fact that, now approaching 28, I still live in my parent's house- a place where logic and reason seem absent- but people need reasons to be positive. Keeping a record of every 'up' seems to help.

Judge Jules and Ratpack at The Warehouse Project

'The Judge Won't Budge.'
- Radio 1 stab

The building is massive. The former Boddingtons brewery, that used to pump out a stench of cooking malt and hops as revellers poured out of the bars and clubs of Manchester, has now been renovated into a club in its own right. The Warehouse Project, capacity 1800, feels like a throwback to what I'd imagine the 'illegal rave' events of the 1990s were like: I wasn't old enough to go. By the time I'd reached 18, bar culture, posing and cold pretentiousness had replaced the sense of togetherness that clubs were renowned for. It isn't just the club that's been renovated: Manchester's clubbing scene has been injected with new life, through this venue.

The woman in the fur bikini rips me off. £5 for a tiny bottle of 'Pure Gold' poppers? Whatever. Why not. It might take off the chill: away from the main stage the club is sparsely populated and freezing. The hall near the DJ booth, however, is rammed with people, a sea of hands pumping in unison through the colourised vapour and the nineties hard core. Above them, projected logos for Radio 1 and Smirnoff Vokda slide across the brickwork. I take a big Pure Gold hit through each nostril and pass the bottle to mates Toby, Kev and Duressa. My head is an aeroplane, and has just taken off. The smell of poppers and vapour hangs in the air. But the ceiling is so high that the usual BO smell found in clubs densley packed with revellers is strangely absent here- even at the turbulent stage-end of the club.

Radio 1 DJ Judge Jules, distinctive in his trademark wraparound sunglasses, appears behind the decks, doused in a red mist. His music set, which includes a remix of LaRoux's In For The Kill, is incredible and it lifts me even higher.

Everyone was searched on entry, but it's obvious that some people have evaded security checks and are wired, sweating profusely and dancing like depraved lunatics. Good for them, I think.

As the music styles edge towards hard house, dipping our enthusiasm, we wander into the Smirnoff Movie Theatre. In this side-room a few spaced-out clubbers, sitting in the rows of benches, are watching a projection of Star Wars.

We pass through into the main room again. 90s Old Skool Rave group Ratpack are performing a live PA: their remix of Liquid's Sweet Harmony. I'm too young to remember them in their prime, but a friend of mine at uni introduced me to them when he downloaded a shitload of music for me. The CD he gave me featured this particular track. It is piano house music at its finest, and the venue lends itself perfectly.

Welsh DJ Mark E G, seemingly the most drug-addled DJ of the night, ups the tempo with a single 15-minute happy hardcore track. He shows his love of the music he plays by throwing his t-shirt on the floor, climbing ontop of the 2-metre speakers, throwing himself off and thrashing around on the floor of the stage, moving in time to the bassline, tongue lolling. His hair, heavily gelled into thick neat spikes, remains immaculate.

A few hours later, the Smirnoff movie theatre has replaced Star Wars with what I figure to be the Bill Murray movie, Lost in Translation.

In a separate hall, away from the echoing music, the lights are harsh and one side of the perimiter is lined with around thirty portable toilets. There's a constant, sporadic slamming of doors as people walk in and out of the cubicles, the sounds deflecting off the high stone walls.

On arriving home I take off the semi-transparent red Smirnoff golf visor that some randomer gave me and try to sleep. It's broad daylight.

The Knife Job

The Knife Job

TITLE CARD: THE KNIFE JOB

INT. COLLEGE BUILDING: DAY
Two lads, both 17 years old, wearing tracksuit pants and hoodies, sit in a corridor with their backs to a large window overlooking the college grounds. In a few moments, one of these may be a killer- an ASSAILANT. The other is already the INSTIGATOR.

ASSAILANT
I saw him ride off on it. There was a car boot sale last week as well… I only found out yesterday. There’s no way he didn’t sell it. I mean, it’s just a bike, but still…

INSTIGATOR
If people find out that you knew it was him and you just let him off, they’re going to think you’re a mug. And how are you going to push to all those people without a bike? You’re not old enough to drive. You gonna get on the bus with all that weed?

ASSAILANT
They could come to mine.

INSTIGATOR
And have queues of druggies outside your door? Will your mum like that?

ASSAILANT
The Dibble will. That’s why he took it. He wants all my… my customers. And if I can’t push weed I’ll have no money… McD’s doesn’t hire people like me. There is NOTHING out there.

INSTIGATOR
You've had benefits before. They give you coin for college, yeah? And you shouldn't be paying your mum keep til you're eighteen. You want to sort that shit out.

ASSAILANT
My bird will fuck me off if I’m not dealing.

INSTIGATOR
Ahh. I feel you know. Well. Don't be taken for a chump.

ASSAILANT
I won't. I’m gonna have to shank him, but I don’t know how to get away with it.

INSTIGATOR
I do.

Instigator hands Assailant a knife.

INSTIGATOR
It’ll have to be a knife job. It’s totally safe. For you, I mean.

ASSAILANT
What about cameras?

INSTIGATOR
There are none. Four computers got taxed from the media block last week; I don’t know nothing about that though.

ASSAILANT
Me neither.

INSTIGATOR
That's why they’re installing a shitload of CCTV next week. It’ll be all over the campus. So he's got to go now.

ASSAILANT
Okay. How are we gonna do this?

INSTIGATOR
Go in through- hang on, have you not been here before?

Assailant shakes his head.

ASSAILANT
I always push at the back gate. I never meet people inside.

INSTIGATOR
The guy lunches in the canteen. Wears a man bag. Bleached blond hair. Can’t miss him.

Over Instigator’s instructions, Assailant’s soon-to-be actions are played out. Note: The visuals have no sound other than Instigator’s voice.

EXT. COLLEGE CAR PARK
Assailant walks through the yard, looking around at the campus buildings.

INT. CANTEEN

Note: This scene should ideally be shot in a full canteen where the customers are unaware of any filming occurring. This should result in a realistic 'shocked' response from the other diners. Perhaps long-shots or wide-shots from a static high angle might give a CCTV feel.

A LAD stands up from his table. He has bleached blond hair and a man bag. He walks off.

Unsuspecting, another lad walks from the serving counter and takes his place. He sits down with a tray of food. He also has bleach-blond hair but is taller and older and looks nothing like the first lad. OLDER LAD doesn’t carry a bag of any kind.

Assailant steps into the lunch area wearing the same clothes, including a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. He looks suspicious, dangerous, but nobody will make eye contact with him.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
He’ll be eating in the middle table. He’s a boring bastard, as well as a fucking thief, so he sits in the same place every day eating the same scran.

Older Lad sits exactly where Man Bag Lad was sitting. Man Bag Lad walks out of the canteen.

Assailant strides up to Older Lad, drawing the knife from the hoody pocket. Assailant stabs Older Lad in the chest and neck several times in quick succession. Older Lad spits food and blood over the table and food tray.

Diners- not actors- will hopefully react in horror.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
Hold on to the shank, whatever you do. I’ll sort that out.

Assailant panics, dropping the blood-soaked knife. He looks at the diners nervously, then walks briskly off-frame.

Cut to a wall sign: ‘Courtyard Theatre’.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
Go right past the Courtyard Theatre.

Confused, Assailant strides hurriedly left past the sign.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
You should see a building with a big J on the front of it.

INT. COLLEGE ENTRANCE-DAY
Assailant is plastered in his victim’s blood. A RECEPTIONIST glances at him, shocked. She says nothing. Assailant looks around, nervously. He avoids eye contact with the woman. He realises he’s gone wrong somewhere.

POV SHOT- ASSAILANT
A whip-pan shows the automatic doors, a careers guidance room, a library, the reception area and the corridor back to the canteen.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
Get past that and you’re home safe, man.

STILL IN POV ASSAILANT
A SECURITY GUARD runs at Assailant- from the canteen to the end of the corridor, to the camera. When only his face fills the screen (just before the guard is able to arrest him), we CUT TO BLACK.

INSTIGATOR (V/O)
What could go wrong?

CREDITS ROLL.