April Ridiculousness

“Tell me I've lived a good life. Tell me I'm a good man.”
-Private Ryan (Matt Damon), Saving Private Ryan

Napoleon Complex kicked in big-time in April. I'd spent most of March writing constantly like a maniac- and I hadn't done much working out. I hadn't done much of anything else either, wanting to knuckle down and hammer out some serious wordage. But writing is mostly a solo affair- it's just you and your pen / keyboard, scratching around in the caverns of your mind trying to compose something, hoping that somebody will give a fuck and read it once you've finished it. It's no wonder so few people choose to do it.

When April came, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then I drank an array of different whiskies- Glen Farclas, Talisker, Johnnie Walker Black Label- and also some Wild Turkey Bourbon. I felt better for it as I watched An American Werewolf in London (impressive DVD extras include behind-the-scenes footage of the puppeteering performed during the main transformation scene. It's a cinema moment that I doubt anyone will forget).

I also watched the twisted brilliance that is Meet the Feebles. Before Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson created this depraved and formerly banned tale of a cheating hippo going on a violent rampage, a rabbit with AIDS, a shady, duplicitous walrus and a journalist fly that loves to dish the dirt- in more ways than one. A hilarious outing. Check it out.

As I mentioned- I wanted to work out. Loads. I still do, and I find that writing and gym seem to clash a lot- I'm always thinking about how far behind I'm getting on one whenever I do the other. So after March's lit-frenzy, I've been to the gym a few times. I've been working out since I was seventeen, in one form or another, be it weights, boxing, Muay Thai or Mixed Martial Arts. I'm 173cm tall (that's something like 5'8 for those still catching up with the 1980s), which no-doubt spurs me to build muscle to compensate. Besides, if you ever watched Gladiators on ITV, how could you not want to grow up like one of them? I'm keen to catch up- and tone up- to what I was, after sitting still for so long.

Another reason for hitting the weights- I'm booking a lads' holiday soon. Obviously, I want to look my best in the sun. I keep meaning to go away with mates, but things keep getting in the way... It's being booked imminently, though. So I have until the end of July to get ripped out. Tuna sandwich for lunch, then.

Here's a third reason for going to the gym- I twisted my knee at the start of the month in a ridiculous wrestling match at my mate's house. Typical, isn't it? Two years of grappling training and I fuck myself up throwing an amateur around. I tried a knee support for a couple of weeks- a tubular bandage that helped me to straighten my leg. I wore it that much that the quadrilateral muscle on top of the thigh, used to extend the lower leg, started to diminish. So the quad machine is getting hammered every time I hit the gym between now and the holiday.

When I'm not writing, learning how to kill people with my bare hands, cruising Greater Manchester for MILFs, watching crazy Australian films or sat at this desk writing, I like to read. Believe it or not. In December I started reading Don DeLillo's epic Underworld.

On the surface, it's about a group of people who are all connected by one baseball- the ball hit by Bobby Thompson of the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951. This instance- a factual event- became known as “The Shot Heard Around the World.” In the novel, various people come into contact with the ball, and we see segments of their lives in an almost vignette fashion as the ball moves from person to person. The book spans four decades, ending some time in the 90s. It takes in the Cuban missile crisis, dissects consumerism (one character is a waste management executive and sees everything as trash while it sits on the shelf) and even has Lenny Bruce himself doing stand-up. What more could you ask for? It's a textbook example of fine descriptions and realistic, engaging dialogue- the kind of writing you feel compelled to read out loud and impress on others. And I found it for four quid in Oxfam! Winner!

So anyway- in April I finally finished the novel, after reading it in sporadic bursts from December onwards. I then dived straight into The Nature of the Beast by Janni Howker. Does anyone remember reading this in third year in English? A quality piece of teenage fiction that has stood the test of time. Kind of.

As I'm thoroughly bored of going around the same circles with street-fighting, pint swilling women (I'm digging a hole here- they are probably reading this) I decided to make a few lifestyle alterations recently. In 2006 I joined a salsa class at what was Che bar in Manchester. It was overcrowded and there were always too many men, so I slung it. Four years later, I decided to give it another shot. Che bar is now Parrot Bar, and as it doubtlessly no longer has any South American connotations they are unlikely to be running classes. I scouted out a few other groups.

First up- Copacabana, a bar in Manchester's Northern Quarter. I wasn't too impressed with the class- once again, it was overcrowded and male-heavy. They also taught us to step out-of time to the music, which I think most dancers will agree, is pointless.

A quick peruse online led me to Salsology, a dance class near to Copacabana. Miles better. Students get separate tuition for their first lesson, to learn the basic steps and get them up to speed. Then you get to dance with the opposite sex- and there's usually an even number. Occasionally there's not been enough women, but sometimes it's the other way around. In fact, Salsology is a pretty good place to go for older women. Okay, okay. That's what I go there for. Happy now?!

Another reason I go there: In salsa, the man needs to take control of the woman. He needs to guide her to move in certain dirctions. If the man doesn't lead, the dance falls apart. When learning salsa, there's two mistakes that dancers make. Men can be hesitant, and can mess it up by expecting the woman to move without his guidance, and women can go wrong by taking control away from the leader (man), by moving without his encouragement. Sociologists could have a field day at a Salsa class. Admittedly, I'm doing it to man-up.

After the class, we usually head to Copacabana for drinks. There's no place like this Latin bar at night- the wooden décor gives a beach-hut feel, and most of the customers seem to be Latin-American. The music, I'd describe as contemporary Latin- slightly influenced by rap and R'n'B, but played with a lot of the traditional instruments like the guitar.

I can't remember whether the music is played through automatically from a sound system somewhere, or whether there's an actual DJ. A DJ booth isn't something you'd really notice. The reason for this is possibly that it's packed from about 9:30pm onwards, and everybody is there to dance. Nobody goes to get pissed. That's really separates Copacabana from the crowd of other city bars- you're not going to get chatted up in Copacabana. You're going to be offered onto the dance floor. Don't worry if you don't know what you're doing and you've never had a salsa lesson in your life- the place is way too laid back for anyone to care about mistakes.

I'm keen to check this place out on a Saturday- I'll let you know what happens.

Before I go to the class I make sure I stock up on the finest American BBQ food in town. SouthernEleven opened in the Food Court on 29th March, and for the first few weeks they were giving away free samples to passers-by. I passed by. I was hooked. So far I've munched through tender pulled pork, chicken thighs, smoked brisket sandwich (twice), an avalanche of fries and a tsunami of BBQ beans. They also have a selection of tasty sauces characteristic of the Deep South. It seems to be a standalone venue, so people in the rest of the world will have to do without. For the moment. So unless you frequent the awesomeness of Manchester city centre, you're missing out big time.

http://www.southern11.co.uk/SOUTHERN11/Home.html

In another attempt to break the mould, I eschewed the weekend bar crawls in favour of a speed-dating event. The night was held in Manchester's Circle Club, a very upmarket joint in a secluded area of the city.

I expected it to be two rows of seats facing each other- men on one side, women on the other, with a whistle being blown every two minutes and one gender moving down the seats, “dating” us one man at a time. This is your traditional speed-dating format, but Circle went for a “lock and key” event. I stepped into the club and was given a key on a lanyard, as were the rest of the men. Women were given a padlock on theirs. As an ice-breaking device, we were to find a matching pair, thus unlocking the padlock. You can imagine the innuendo this encourages. “It's too big. It won't fit... well, it goes in but it won't move... maybe next time hey?... Wow, I sure am opening a lot of locks tonight!”

A successful unlocking allows you to go to the event organiser (who happened to be the hottest woman in the building), and we each receive a raffle ticket. At the end of the night, the raffle is drawn and prizes are won- including a box of quality street, if memory serves me correctly. The winner that night decided to share them all out. Bravo. After all, we didn't really go there to win a competition, did we?

You're going to ask how well I did, aren't you? Go on, ask me if anything happened.

Well. I dished out the banter. I did my god-damn best. And I gave my number out to a few girls. I can't describe a speed-dating event without pointing out my own weaknesses here, but I stopped short of asking for numbers. I shouldn't have. Nobody rang. There's a certain comfort zone that giving my number exists inside. Asking for someone else's is outside it. Gotta stretch out of that comfort zone.

Let's end on a high note.

This week saw the launch of Shadows, the new book by the Oldham Writing Café. The Café is a group of writers who meet in Oldham. I'm a member. In the meetings, we read out work, give out feedback and share info on upcoming literature events and competitions. There's usually a writing exercise, where we each produce a short burst of text in a limited time. You'll notice some of them on here. The book launched at Gallery Oldham on Thursday, where we read out segments of the book to an audience (of mostly very old women).

The book, a series of short stories by each writer in the group, was published just as I joined. So none of my work is in there. But I read out a section of a story written by a group member who had since passed away. The section I read was about a nurse preparing to meet her extra-marital lover. Her husband knows she's playing the field, but he doesn't confront her. Instead, he watches her as she chooses out her best lingerie and puts it on. I thought the old biddies in the front row were going to have a heart attack.

I also met the Mayor and local rap group Double A. A good day all in all.

And that's April. Am I living a good life?

Coronation Street Screenwriter Mark Lwellyn

People don't want to pay 8 or 9 dollars to go see a problem that they have in their life, on screen. They pay to get away from that. That's why they watch soap operas.
-Omar Epps, American Actor

15th April 2010- ITV's flagship show, Coronation Street, is fifty years old today. To Mark this, “Corrie” screenwriter Mark Lwellyn is giving a talk at Gallery Oldham for the event “Script to Screen”. Out of curiosity I'm there, surrounded by mostly middle-aged women. In all honesty, I hate the soap opera format. I think real life is usually dull enough, without sanitising it for a pre-watershed audience, but hey- ten million viewers clearly don't agree. Mr. Lwellyn dishes out many nuggets of information that impress even a hardened soap-opera-opposer like myself...

Coronation Street is made by production company Granada Television. The founders of Granada named it after their favourite holiday destination, the Spanish province of Granada.

They decided to shoot the programme in Manchester because it rains a lot up here in the north. That would justify lots of cost-cutting indoor film shoots. Shooting indoors is also easier.

Not long into the talk, two teenage girls leave the room. “Eastenders fans,” quips Mr. Lwellyn.

Coronation Street was originally going to be called Florazel Street. Nobody liked this name, so the staff were asked to choose between Coronation Street and Jubilee Street. Jubilee got the majority, but somebody sent the wrong result to the heads. And the rest is history, as they say.

Corrie's theme tune, which I once saw quite accurrately described as a “mournful dirge” in one TV magazine, is called “Capri”. The composer named it so while writing the tune on holiday in Capri. (it sounds like everyone has great holidays at Granada, although it seems like everyone works through them anyway). He was given a one-off payment of £6.

Regular viewers will notice that characters always die between September and Christmas. That's because the actors' contracts are renewed around this time of year. If they don't continue their contract for whatever reason, the character has to go too...

The first Coronation Street screenwriter was paid £30 a week. Today, writers may get a script for half a show and they could be asked to finish it off.

The show's purchaseable memorabilia included a jigsaw of the show. Mr. Lwellyn holds up the box- it looks about 30 years old.

On some of the sets, the bricks are from my home town of Oldham. On the actual street, the cobbles are fake. Producers are planning to get rid of the actual street and replace it with real bricks- a lot of viewers have HDTV, which would show up the falseness!

Aside from the sets, the show is sometimes filmed in Ashton-Under-Lyne, Prestwich and Didsbury.

After Fred Elliot's death, there was a scene in which his family scattered his ashes. The production crew used Shake-n-Vac.

This week is Annual Coronation Street Week in Toronto. The show is massive in Canada; there are also big audience figures in Dubai, Australia and New Zealand. Kiwis love the show so much that they nearly ousted a Prime Minister when he had Coronation Street's slot moved to the middle of the night.

Coronation Street is a show about working-class people. There isn't much glamour in the programme. Likewise, the lifestyles for the actors aren't on a par with Hollywood either- in fact, they seem quite the opposite. Actors get a script for each episode. Mr. Lwellyn holds up a script. It looks about sixty pages long. The cast shoot six days a week on set. On the seventh day, they learn their lines. Actors are allowed to go on holiday, but they can't get a sun tan unless their character has gone somewhere warm as well. On the subject of continuity, full books exist on each character detailing everything they have done. Regular viewers will pounce on any mistakes that the writers make.

Elizibeth Dawn, who played Vera Duckworth, never learned her lines. She kept her script pages hidden in saucepans during the kitchen scenes.

Bill Waddington (playing Percy Sugden) had complicated words written into his cap. When he needed to check his lines, he'd appear very solemn and take his cap off, looking down into it. In some episodes, those shot on hot days, you could see that the ink had leaked and the print showed backwards on his bald head.

I catch up with Mr. Lwellyn after the talk and I mention I'm working on a few scripts. I ask him for advice for budding writers and he suggests checking out the BBC Writer's Room (http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/). He also suggests visiting local actors groups- Oldham Lyceum could be a good start, he says. (http://www.lyceumplayers.co.uk/) These groups might be able to act it out on stage so I could see what my script looks and sounds like. Oldham Colesium may also advise me (http://coliseum.org.uk/)

All in all it was a fascinating talk. I've got an interest in all things media-related, so I enjoyed it. I'm still not going to watch the show though, or any other soap. No matter how much the rain keeps me indoors.

Freed Up at the Green Room

Thursday, May 20th.

I pick some pineapple of the fruit platter at the entrance of The Green Room, a bar on Manchester's Witworth Street. Tonight's event is Freed Up, a night for new and established poets. Barry White plays through the speakers, reverberating off the bare brick walls; the bar is built into the arch of a railway viaduct.

Compare Dominic Berry starts the night by breathing heavily into the microphone. The crowd hushes to watch him. He's playing a fox being hunted by a pack of dogs- his opening poem graphically describes a kill in this “sport”. After the recital he warns us that the ban on fox hunting could be overturned by the new coalition government. He suggests we fight it. I think he's right to.

On a lighter note, he tells us, it's Freed Up's 4th birthday! Tonight's poetry theme is “Adventure”. Each poet is given 4 minutes to perform their piece.

Poems of the night include subjects such as a naked freefall skydive and eating a whole cucumber. (Two different poems by two different poets.) One of the most contemporary poems is written completely as Facebook statuses from a group of people sat on Everest's summit, updating their pages while getting hammered off cheap booze. Quite bizarre and pretty funny too.

Next month's event is Thursday, 17th June. The theme, if you fancy performing, will be “The Dark”. So get writing.

England's World Cup "Chances"

“Wit in the face of adversity! Good! You've learned something from the English...”
-Andrew Wyke (Laurence Olivier), Sleuth, 1972

Sorry to piss on everyone's chips here, but I just wanted to throw a little realism into the swelling patriotism that England is feeling. The FIFA World Cup is 17 days away. The flags are flying. (Nobody's really offended by this, by the way, but that's a side thought. Unless, of course, they are very strange. It's just a flag.) Most of us are looking forward to the England games. Even I am, even though I'm not remotely interested in football. Most of us are thinking maybe, just maybe, this will be our year- the year the England squad lifts the World Cup trophy.

But it won't be. Look at the facts.

'06- Portugal beats England on penalties at the quarter finals. Italy wins the tournament.

'02- Brazil beats England on penalties at the quarter finals. They win the tournament.

'98- Argentina beats England in the knockout stage.

I could go on. Portugal, Brazil and Argentina “were once part of the Spanish and Portuguese Empires”. (Rangel, Carlos (1977). The Latin Americans: Their Love-Hate Relationship with the United States. ) Now check this out. In Portugal, they have the Waltz and the Fandango. In Brazil, Samba. In Argentina, Tango. Salsa is popular throughout Latin America, Spain, Portugal, France, Eastern Europe and Italy.

What does England do? Morris dancing and country dancing. How many of us do this? I'll guess at none under 50 years old for the former, and none over 10 for the latter. I can find no evidence that dancing is even on the British National Curriculum any more.

England has a squad of clumsy, diving accident-prone luddites. English footballers- from the FIFA England squad to your local five-a-side- have never changed their ways, never honed their footwork beyond what they have been used to in England. And they won't. Because the aforementioned countries have dance engrained in their culture, because people of these nationalities grow up seeing and experiencing dance, they seem to have a practical understanding of footwork and balance- and it appears to cross over to the football pitch.

I heard a news reporter mention something similar to this theory on TV after the 2002 World Cup. He mentioned it was possible that the England squad might look into what makes Brazilian football so skillful, and try to take on some of their techniques. I didn't see it reported again. In 2006 England lost, again, to a salsa-dancing country.

Given this theory, it seems amazing that England even won a World Cup in the first place. 1966 must have been an off year for the Latin nations. Maybe 2010 will be too, but I'm not holding my breath. I'm preparing for a quarter-final defeat to a country more graceful than our own.

Poetry Pillow

Friday, May 7th saw Manchester's “Poetry Pillow”- an open-mic night at An Outlet, a cafe deli on Dale St. in the Northern Quarter. Compares Dominic Berry and Steve O' Connor (both wearing pyjamas including Spiderman boxers) explained the running of events: each poet has three minutes to perform their poem. After all the poets (around seven in total) have read their poems, Dominic and Steve will run through the names (one each alternately, a good quirky touch) to remind us all- then we cast our vote on the best poem of the night.

Many people had typed up their poems ready for reading out- certainly a technique I'd use if I was performing- although some poets had memorised their pieces.

Hats off to winner Oz- her poem about her nose was light-hearted and well received. Dominic held open the “Pillow of Wonder”, from which Oz was awarded a wind-up minature space hopper and a DVD.

The next Poetry Pillow will be Friday, 4th June, 7:30, at the same venue.

Obsession

Here's a poem / writing exercise from a recent writer's group. The poem was to be written on the theme of “obsession”. The stanzas were to have a series of end-words- we were to rhyme them. They were:

Ice
Add

Faster
Pace

Play
Remain

Bring
Lose

In the timed exercise, here's what I came up with.

Wild Turkey Bourbon the name of my vice,
I drink it straight, no need for ice.
No mixer either, that would be bad,
neither coke nor lemonade must you add.

Diluting will only make you drink faster,
at Fifty percent, that would just spell disaster.
It commands respect, and this isn't a race,
so get drunk responsibly at a sensible pace.

You've worked all week, now time for play,
So pour out a shot, let it take you away.
Soon the logic will evacuate brain
til only ridiculous drunkenness remains.

The bottle and glass all you need to bring
and paper towels, in case of spilling.
Your mind the only thing you're likely to lose,
I need one more line- where is my muse?

Bartholemew's Bedroom

Writing exercise from a recent writer's group meeting: Describe a character. Then describe his bedroom, allowing the reader to see more of the character without him being present in the scene.

Bart is 22. He's a graduate, scraping around for work. He's intelligent, but he's angry at all that is around him. He lifts weights and runs a lot. He's lost a lot of jobs due to his temper.

The room is messy, his bed unmade. Next to his Hi-Fi, rap and rock CDs are piled up against the walls from the floor. There is another pile, DVDs, and the spines show mostly action movie titles from the 80's, like Aliens and Predator. On top of his DVD player, an open DVD case for Falling Down is propped up. A few books are scattered around- a sci-fi anthology sits on a shelf, next to a book about the 1972 Olympic massacre. An ab-roller sits in the corner of the room, along with some hand-weights and a weight bar.

The floor has not been hoovered in a long time. Maybe never.

The clutter is organised, though, not unkempt, just overcrowded, like he would need a whole house to comfortably store what he's fitted in the room.

Bill sheets are pinned to a cork board on the wall. Sky News plays on a small TV with the sound down, and Dr. Dre plays through the stereo.

His cupboard door is open- the contents of the small wardrobe are so crammed that the door won't close any more, and the suits' shoulder pads are crushing against each other, forced against the jeans and shirts.

I'd have written more on this- describing the walls of the sixties-built house, the irregular shape of the room caused by the chimney shaft, the way the wallpaper hasn't been changed in a long time and the edges are falling away from the wall. In some places the wallpaper has been picked at or drawn on with a biro. Maybe Bart did this. Maybe it was a previous inhabitant. I'd have described way the worn carpet matched the walls- not by colour, but by giving a hint of outdatedness, and how these elements contrasted with the modern Ikea furnishings- the cereal bowl that should have been washed up before the remnants dried on hard.

I'd be interested to know what you think of this character. Comments, as always, are welcome...