typingnotwriting

The World's First Rock n Roll Star

2009-09-28T03:27:00.000-07:00

Jack Kerouac – the name is a perfect union of the real and the romantic; earthy everyman honesty coupled to a distinctly European sense of the exotic. It’s a name you can roll around like a mouthful of deep red wine – Jack Kerouac. He sounds like your old drinking buddy down the bar. He sounds like an existentialist philosopher. He was both of these things and more, but, more importantly, Jack Kerouac was the world’s first rock n roll star.

The history books will tell you that rock n roll properly exploded into the public consciousness when Elvis first swivelled his pelvis on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956. The nation’s youth heard the wake up call and responded in kind, adopting the same outsider rebel stance that had beamed into their living rooms. A self-conscious sense of image had suddenly flowered in the hearts and minds of American youth. Before rock n roll, the sons and daughters of Uncle Sam all looked like miniature versions of their parents; pipes, side-partings and sensible cardies for the boys, twin set and pearls for the girls. After Elvis and his electrifying wake-up call blasted a canyon-sized gap in the generations, these model citizens in waiting were replaced overnight with a tribe of slick and sneering aliens who had seemingly crash landed from the Planet Bebop.

A year later, with impeccable timing, Kerouac’s “On The Road” was published – the bible of the self styled Beat Generation. Although seemingly riding on the back of the current adolescent obsessions for fast cars, sexual abandon and wild music, the lifestyle described in On The Road was a memoir of a life Kerouac had lived some ten years previously. By the time America had woken up to the idea of a nation’s white youth bopping to a back-beat born of black culture, Kerouac had already trail-blazed the width and length of the country several times over in search of personal epiphany, strung out on Charlie Parker jazz and Benzedrine.

The early Beats were in many ways the first punks; buzzing off cheap amphetamines, forming their own communities, rejecting the conformity of their fathers and the conservatism of post-war America. Like the punks, the Beats celebrated the marginalised and the disaffected and imbued them with an heroic sense of style.

After celebrating the rock n roll lifestyle ten years in advance, Kerouac’s next book predicted the hippy movement. Instead of serving up more juvenile delinquent high jinks, “Dharma Bums” gazed into the crystal ball of the zeitgeist and offered a meditation on anti-materialism and Eastern Mysticism, visualising thousands of young Americans leaving behind the 1950’s consumer capitalist dream in favour of a simple life of self sufficient spirituality; that which the children of Timothy Leary later called “turning on, tuning in and dropping out”. A decade later it all came true, the term “hippy” being interchangeable with “beatnik”. Twelve months after that, the King of The Beats was dead, choking to death on a can of beer at the age of 47 whilst watching The Galloping Gourmet on his mother’s TV.

There have been over 250 songs that mention Kerouac, from artists as diverse as Tom Waits, Dexy’s Midnight Runners and The Beastie Boys. His freewheeling persona and romantic spiritual hobo image has wandered like a tattered ghost throughout the last forty years of rock n roll, influencing everyone from Bob Dylan to Pete Doherty. In the States, his brooding matinee idol looks are used to sell everything from postage stamps to jeans. Every year a new generation of artists setting out on the road of self-expression and self awareness picks up his pages and finds their blood stirred for ever by the transcendental power evoked through his writing. Jack Kerouac – visionary, mystic, proto-punk, madman, angel, romantic drunk; a weaver of dreams and imagination, an inspiration for a generation.

A WASTED JOURNEY

2009-08-04T04:02:00.000-07:00

FADE IN:

FULL SHOT. ROADSIDE - DAY

A young HITCHER in his mid twenties stands at the side of

the road with his thumb stuck out. He holds a sign in

the other hand - a piece torn from a cardboard box that

has LONDON written on it in black marker.

Cars swish past him without stopping.

A battered old Toyota Corrolla stops. The passenger window

comes down. We hear music thudding from the car. The

young HITCHER leans in and exchanges words. He opens the

passenger door and gets in. The car moves off.

INT. TOYOTA CORROLLA - MOMENTS LATER

The driver is a rough looking scally in his mid thirties.

He wears a tracksuit and a baseball cap. Pink Floyd's

"The Wall" is playing, loud.

SCALLY

What you off down there for then?

HITCHER

See our kid.

SCALLY

Ah right. Live there does he?

HITCHER

Yeh.

SCALLY

Poor bastard.

HITCHER

Yeh. He likes it though.

SCALLY

Does he? I worked down there for

a bit. Strange set of cunts, I

thought. What part does he live

in then?

HITCHER

St Johns Wood.

SCALLY

Ah right. It's nice there though

innit.

HITCHER

Yeah, it's alright. Where were

you?

SCALLY

Hackney. Right shit hole.

HITCHER

Never been there.

SCALLY

You dont fuckin wanna mate. Like

Holderness Road minus the fuckin

glamour.

HITCHER

Good as that?

SCALLY

Oh fuckin better.

(Beat)

HITCHER

Floyd. Nice one.

SCALLY

You into em?

He turns up the stereo.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

I fuckin love em me. Got

everything they ever did. Proper

fuckin head tunes.

HITCHER

Oh aye. Good for a smoke.

SCALLY

I'm glad you said that.

He points to the glove compartment.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Old Holborn tin in there. Knock

one up man.

HITCHER

Oh nice one.

He opens the glove compartment, pulls out the tin. Opens

it up to reveal a packet of King Size Rizlas and a packet

of weed.

The SCALLY offers a cig from a packet on the dashboard.

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Ta.

He starts rolling a joint.

EXT. ROAD. - CONTINUOUS

The car rushes past a sign onto the M62. We hear Pink

Floyd banging out.

INT. TOYOTA CORROLLA - LATER

The HITCHER takes a deep pull on the spliff and passes it

to the SCALLY.

SCALLY

Cheers man.

He tokes hard on it.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Yeah, fuckin Hackney mate. Right

rough spot. Good laugh though.

Spent a few months down there.

HITCHER

What was you doing?

SCALLY

Doing an house up. Well, doing a

few houses up. Flats and that.

Belonged to this Turkish bloke.

HITCHER

Painting em?

SCALLY

Yeah, painting, bit of re-wiring

and that. They all live in right

little pokey gaffs down there

dont they? All one bedroom flats,

fuckin tiny they were.

HITCHER

Yeah thats London innit. Charge

a fuckin fortune for em an'all.

SCALLY

Fuckin fortune is right. Couldn't

believe it when he told me how

much he rented em out for. A

fuckin grand a month some of em

man.

HITCHER

Fuckin hell.

SCALLY

I know. Robbin cunt.

He takes a good toke and passes it back.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Good bloke though. Sorted us out

with some nice smoke.

HITCHER

Yeah?

SCALLY

Oh aye. Well, they get all the

best gear dont they, them Turks

and Moroccans and that.

HITCHER

Yeah I suppose they must do.

(Beat)

SCALLY

What does your kid do down there

then?

HITCHER

He's at drama school.

SCALLY

What, like an actor?

HITCHER

Yeah. Well, learning to be one.

SCALLY

Has he been on the telly?

HITCHER

Nah. He's just training like.

SCALLY

How do you train to be an actor

then?

HITCHER

I dont know.

SCALLY

Fuckin love to do that, me.

HITCHER

Would yer?

SCALLY

Oh aye. Fuckin love films me.

Oh yes, listen to that!

He turns up the stereo as a guitar solo screams.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Have you seen The Wall?

HITCHER

The film? Yeah, seen it a couple

of times.

SCALLY

Ever watched it tripping?

HITCHER

I haven't no. Bet it's fuckin

mad innit?

SCALLY

Oh aye. Right on top. I nearly

fuckin lost it one time. Thought

the room had turned into a fuckin

fish tank.

HITCHER

A fish tank?

SCALLY

Yeah, like a big fuckin aquarium.

Thought me mate had turned into

one of them fishes, what they

called, them bastards that eat

you alive.

HITCHER

Pirhana?

SCALLY

Yeah, fuckin pirhana. Thought he

was gonna fuckin gobble me up

man. Eat me alive. Big fuckin

teeth on him like razor blades.

The HITCHER laughs.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Oh aye, but it want fuckin funny

man. His face was like a fuckin

fish, y'know big googley eyes and

that. Fins growing out the top of

his fuckin swede.

The HITCHER laughs again and passes the spliff over.

HITCHER

That's fuckin ace.

SCALLY

Not for him it want. Freaked the

fuck out of me. I wellied the

cunt over the head with a golf

club.

The HITCHER explodes with giggles, wipes his eyes.

Composes himself.

HITCHER

Oh fuckin hell. Was he alright.

SCALLY

Was he fuck. Had to go to

Infirmary.

The HITCHER explodes into giggles again.

SCALLY (CONT'D)

Cut his big fishy head open.

HITCHER

Oh, jesus ... fuckin hell.

He shrieks with laughter and then composes himself again.

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Sorry.

SCALLY

No, it served him right. Fuckin

tropical man eating cunt.

They both laugh.

EXT. M62. A LAY-BY - LATER

The Corrolla pulls into the lay by and the HITCHER gets

out.

P.O.V. OPEN PASSENGER WINDOW OF CORROLLA. - CONTINUOUS

The SCALLY peers out.

SCALLY

This do you mate?

HITCHER

Yeah, nice one. Cheers mate,

fuckin brilliant.

He offers the spliff back through the window.

SCALLY

Keep it for the road mate. I'll

roll another un.

HITCHER

Aw, cheers man.

SCALLY

No bother. Have a safe un.

He moves off, tooting his horn. Pink Floyd fades into

the distance as he zooms away.

The HITCHER watches him go. He sits down on the grass

verge by the side of the lay by and smokes the rest of

the spliff.

FULL SHOT M62. A LAY-BY - LATER

The HITCHER stands with his thumb out. Cars pass.

EXT. M62. A LAY-BY - LATER

A small gold Honda Civic pulls up a few feet in front of

the HITCHER. The HITCHER picks up his bag and trots over

to the window, which remains closed. He peers in. Opens

the passenger door.

A greying man in his late fifties at the wheel. Glasses

and a beard. He doesn't look round.

HITCHER

Where you headed mate?

MAN

Just up the way here.

HITCHER

I'm off to London.

MAN

Yes.

(Beat)

HITCHER

That alright? London?

MAN

Get in.

The HITCHER gets in. The car moves off and joins the

traffic.

HITCHER

Nice one, thanks very much.

(Beat)

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Been stood there ages. Well,

feels like ages.

(Beat)

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Still, least it's not raining,

eh.

The MAN just drives, doesn't answer. Doesn't glance round.

(Beat)

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Where you headed?

(Pause)

MAN

I've been on a wasted journey.

HITCHER

Ey? You what? I mean ... pardon?

MAN

I've been to Wales.

HITCHER

Wales?

MAN

I went to see my Uncle. But he

wasn't there. So my journey ...

was a wasted one.

HITCHER

Oh right.

(Pause)

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Did he know you were coming?

MAN

It's very frustrating. Now I'm

afraid I dont know what I'm going

to do.

HITCHER

Well ... er ... can't you ring

him up? See where he is, like?

MAN

I trained for six years to be an

accountant.

HITCHER

Did yer?

MAN

I did. Six years. Studied hard.

Passed my exams earlier this year.

My final exams.

HITCHER

Oh, nice one. Well done.

MAN

But now my Uncle wasn't there and

so that's six years down the drain.

Six years of my life. Wasted,

you see.

(Beat)

MAN (CONT'D)

I dont know what I'm going to do.

(Pause)

HITCHER

Mate, I'm sorry, I dont follow

yer. How is it wasted?

MAN

Well, you see, I borrowed some

money from the firm. Unofficially.

Inadvertantly ... borrowed some

money. Do you see?

HITCHER

Er ... alright.

MAN

I'm not a thief. Please don't

think that.

HITCHER

Oh no, I didn't, I mean, I dont.

I mean ...

MAN

I was going to put it back. All

of it. But before I got the

chance, I was discovered. My

father. He found out what I'd

done.

HITCHER

Yer Dad?

MAN

My father, yes.

HITCHER

Is it like ... the family firm?

MAN

No.

(Pause)

MAN (CONT'D)

So my father said I had to go and

see my Uncle and he would deal

with me. But when I got to Wales

he wasn't there. So ... six years

training. Wasted.

(Pause)

HITCHER

Deal with yer?

MAN

Yes.

10.

HITCHER

How do yer mean ... deal with

yer?

MAN

Unless I can prove to my father

that I have been caned across my

bottom I will lose my job.

HITCHER

You what?!?!

MAN

But my problem is I don't know

anyone well enough to ask them to

do it for me.

He turns to look at the HITCHER for the first time.

MAN (CONT'D)

Do you see my problem?

(Pause)

HITCHER

Caned?

MAN

Hard. Across my bottom. Until it

bleeds.

(Pause)

They drive on in silence.

HITCHER

You're gonna have to stop the

car.

MAN

I'm sorry?

HITCHER

Stop the car. I'm gonna be sick.

MAN

I can't just stop ...

HITCHER

I'm gonna fuckin puke. Stop the

car.

MAN

Do you want to go for a cup of

tea? I'll buy you ...

HITCHER

STOP THE FUCKIN CAR - NOW!

(MORE)

11.

HITCHER (CONT'D)

STOP THE CAR OR I'LL PUKE UP ALL

OVER YOU AND ALL OVER YOUR BASTARD

CAR.

MAN

I dont think ...

The HITCHER raises his foot and smashes it hard into the

glove compartment.

HITCHER

I SAID FUCKIN NOW!

EXT. ROADSIDE - MOMENTS LATER

The Honda Civic pulls over onto the hard shoulder. The

HITCHER tumbles out of the passenger side and kicks the

door shut. He stands up and starts kicking at the car,

battering the roof with his fists as it attempts to nose

it's way back into the traffic.

HITCHER

GO ON FUCK OFF YOU FUCKIN DIRTY

OLD CUNT! I'LL KILL YER! I'LL

FUCKIN KILL YER, YER SICK BASTARD!

The car manages to squeeze back onto the motorway. It

drives off.

HITCHER (CONT'D)

CUNT!

The sound of a HGV horn, long and loud above the roar of

the passing traffic. The HITCHER looks across to the

oher side of the motorway.

FULL SHOT - HGV LORRY PARKED UP ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE

MOTORWAY.

We see the LORRY DRIVER waving from the open window.

He's beckoning the HITCHER across.

The HITCHER waits for a gap, then runs to the central

embankment. Waits for another gap then runs to the lorry

and around to the passenger side.

He climbs up and into the lorry.

INT. HGV LORRY - CONTINUOUS

LORRY DRIVER

You alright mate.

HITCHER

Oh fuckin hell. Fuckin hell.

LORRY DRIVER

What happened?

12.

HITCHER

That bastard ...

The HITCHER is panting, in shock.

LORRY DRIVER

Who, that car?

HITCHER

Him ... fuckin pervert over there.

LORRY DRIVER

Him who's car you were leathering?

HITCHER

He wanted me to fuckin cane him.

Can't believe it.

LORRY DRIVER

CANE him?

HITCHER

He's a fuckin pervert ...

LORRY DRIVER

Alright, calm down ... give

yourself a minute ...

The LORRY DRIVER shifts the HGV into gear and moves off

onto the Motorway.

EXT. MOTORWAY - CONTINUOUS

The Lorry drives along the motorway.

INT. HGV LORRY - MOMENTS LATER

HITCHER

Fuckin hell thanks for stopping

mate.

LORRY DRIVER

You alright now?

HITCHER

Yeah. Yeah, I'm sound. Ta.

LORRY DRIVER

What happened?

HITCHER

That bloke. He wanted me to cane

him. Can't believe it. Can't

fuckin believe it.

(Beat)

LORRY DRIVER

Who is he?

13.

HITCHER

Fuck knows. He picked me up.

Just near Goole.

LORRY DRIVER

And he asked you to what? Cane

him?

HITCHER

Yeah. Across his arse. Till he

bled, he said.

(Pause)

LORRY DRIVER

Jesus.

He laughs.

HITCHER

I know. Fuckin mad innit.

LORRY DRIVER

He just asked you, outright?

HITCHER

Yeah.

LORRY DRIVER

What, out of the blue, like?

HITCHER

He said he'd been on a wasted

journey. Said he had to be

punished.

LORRY DRIVER

Punished? What for?

HITCHER

Said he'd nicked some money from

his job and got found out. Had

to prove he'd been punished.

That's what he said.

(Pause)

LORRY DRIVER

How much did he nick?

HITCHER

You what?

LORRY DRIVER

How much money did he rob?

HITCHER

Fuck knows. Why?

14.

LORRY DRIVER

You should have said gis half of

it and I'll kick fuck out of yer.

Give him a proper treat.

HITCHER

Fuckin hell.

They laugh and then drive on in silence. The HITCHER

reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cig packet. It's

empty.

HITCHER (CONT'D)

Have you got a cig please mate?

LORRY DRIVER

I dont smoke.

(Pause)

LORRY DRIVER (CONT'D)

Where was you going anyway?

HITCHER

London. To see me brother.

LORRY DRIVER

Right. Well I've just come from

there.

HITCHER

Where you going now?

LORRY DRIVER

Back to Hull.

HITCHER

Oh fucking great.

LORRY DRIVER

I can drop you off at the next

service station if you want.

HITCHER

No, thats alright, at. I'll go

home. Fuck it.

LORRY DRIVER

Whatever you want mate.

They drive on.

EXT. MOTORWAY - MOMENTS LATER

The lorry signals and moves into the middle lane.

INT. HGV LORRY - MOMENTS LATER

15.

P.O.V. PASSENGER WING MIRROR - MOMENTS LATER

The HITCHER is staring out of the window. The LORRY DRIVER

glances across and looks into the WING MIRROR.

The HITCHER notices him glancing across.

INT. HGV LORRY - CONTINUOUS

The HITCHER looks across at the LORRY DRIVER who is now

gazing straight ahead at the road.

The HITCHER turns to look out of the window again.

P.O.V. PASSENGER WING MIRROR - MOMENTS LATER

The HITCHER sees the LORRY DRIVER glancing across and

staring into the WING MIRROR again.

INT. HGV LORRY - CONTINUOUS

HITCHER

What the fuck are you looking at

mate?

LORRY DRIVER

Ey? You what?

HITCHER

You keep looking at me. Fuck are

yer looking at?!?

LORRY DRIVER

I wasn't looking at yer I was ...

HITCHER

Yes yer fuckin was. Fuckin staring

right at me.

The LORRY DRIVER laughs.

LORRY DRIVER

I wasn't, I was ...

HITCHER

Don't laugh at me you cunt.

LORRY DRIVER

Ey! Now fuckin behave yourself

or I'll ...

The HITCHER opens the passenger door and leaps out.

LORRY DRIVER (CONT'D)

JESUS FUCK! NO!

The screech of brakes and the sudden sounding of a horn.

FADE OUT:

Do You Think You'll Get To Heaven?

2009-08-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

Remember me when you're asleep

This life will be the death of me

Lay me down and pray your soul to keep

Say goodnight and fall asleep

Push me aside when it's light and you're full awake

You can make these days all dissipate

Don't let me in try not to break

Just forget me and keep awake

And you think you make it better

But you don't

And you think you'll get to heaven

But you wont

Now I'm old and left and on my own

The car crash never happened no

Poor survivor left and all alone

You're average and you're on your own

And you think you make it better

But you don't

And you think you'll get to heaven

But you wont

Neighbourhood Watch

2009-08-02T15:08:00.000-07:00

Wrap yourself tightly so the rain can't touch you

Pull over the covers so the wind can't get through

I remember your dark hair scraping on your neck

Don't stand out there in the cold and wet

Our average contents don't add up to much

Neighborhood

I got friends in high places but they don't stay in touch

Neighbourhood

Your smell on the t shirt sleeping there beside me

Twenty four hours still I've seen no sleep

Have you locked all your windows bolted all the doors?

Hang up your troubles with your sickness clothes

Our average contents don't add up to much

Neighbourhood

I got friends in high places but they don't stay in touch

Neighbourhood

Welcome back to the house

It's been empty without you

And I get disconnected when I'm on my own

I look beaten and rough, I've been smoking too much

And my head's on the floor cos I've run out of luck

Our average contents don't add up to much

Neighbourhood

What's The Word

2009-08-02T14:59:00.000-07:00

What purpose served by the tongue of a snake

What good is an insect that shines

What good eyesight when left in the dark

And you're being tripped up all the time

Come on now brother

What's the word

We should not have a care

In the world

Who is it screaming in the dead of the night

And where are all the second hand stars

Who'll call you home with a kindly refrain

When you're lost and you've drifted too far

Come on now brother

What's the word

We should not have a care

In the world

Well all the birthdays they come in at once

And the money I've got is not enough

Send me a letter to say you're OK

And let's start up from where we left off

Come on now brother

What's the word

We should not have a care

In the world

Weekends

2009-08-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

Cars are on the front way

These shoes were made for walking

And our year projected saving plan just blew

The weekend has come round once more

The horses are all set to score

And all girl groups are coming back in vogue

Turn them up, they're on the radio

Bars were packed to bursting

And our pockets they were burning

But that Billy Hill is no good friend of mine

Sixteen to one and I am doing fine

Stumbled home from door to door

Avoiding all the ale house war

And trying to keep my eyes down on the ground

I'm so glad the weekend's coming round.

No Cause For Alarm

2009-07-21T04:50:00.000-07:00

As I sit typing this in me attic, an alarm is tearing the air to shreds outside. It sounds like a house alarm - one of those relentless WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW air-raid siren type affairs that are like a three minute warning for impending Armageddon. Except this warning has been going on for about twenty minutes now, giving Armageddon plenty of time to rumble down upon us, wreak it's merry havoc and depart for the next planet, leaving a charred and devastated wasteland in it's intergalactic wake. Obviously no-one is paying the slightest bit of attention. I've just glanced outside expecting to see a fleet of emergency vehicles and a crowd of aghast on-lookers being shepherded behind police lines, but there's no-one there except a middle aged woman walking her dog, seemingly oblivious to the cacophony raging around her. Even the dog doesn't seem alarmed. No-one gives a flying fuck about neighbourhood distress signals. Whoever invented Neighbourhood Watch obviously discounted the act of listening as any sort of aid to local security vigilance.

And still this bastard noise goes on and on. If the house is actually being burgled I imagine the intruder has had time to strip the place of valuables, pack his van up, park it safely round the corner, return to the scene of his crime and cook himself a three course meal followed by a long luxurious soak in the bath. He'll probably have time to curl up on the couch and read a couple of good novels before making good his escape. There was a time when you could leave your back door unlocked. Now you might as well leave it unlocked and left wide open. At least you wont annoy the neighbours when you get turned over.

I'm just as much to blame as anyone for this uncaring descent into wilful ignorance that's picking apart our very social fabric. But I have an excuse. I know who's house alarm has gone off. It's the bloke across the road. And I know for a fact it's not a burglar. It's his cat. It keeps setting the alarm off by going in and out the cat-flap. He is seemingly unwilling to get his alarm looked at, so I think it's down to me as a good neighbour to help solve his problem.

Now where did I put that air rifle?

Goodnight Colleen

2009-07-19T15:29:00.000-07:00

Goodnight Colleen

It's time to sleep

And there's not much more to say

I could try again with calmer words

But you're not listening anway

When next we see the morning light

Could have dreamed up something pure and right

The excuses that you so detest

All be drifting on the sea of rest

Goodnight Colleen

My eyes are hot

And my mouth is dry and dumb

Your anger burns my shoulder blades

But my stomach's cold and numb

When next we see the morning light

Could have dreamed up something pure and right

The excuses that you so detest

All be drifting on the sea of rest

Drifting on the sea

Goodnight Colleen

When next we see the morning light

Could have dreamed up something pure and right

The excuses that you so detest

Will all be drifting on the sea of rest

Drifting on the sea

Goodnight Colleen

Grass Wont Grow Til Spring

2009-07-19T15:17:00.000-07:00

The lines of our communication

Pulled down and left to die

And all those spoken words unspoken

Fall over and collide

One to waste a shipwreck

Two to fly in style

My favourite girl came home last week

And I can't raise a smile

If I could see where we went wrong

I would not change a thing

And the sky just keeps on crying

And the grass wont grow til spring

I started up a mountain

But there's too high left to climb

On your own you're lethal

But by yourself you're mine

I wont be the first to break down

I wont be the one to crack

One to throw a life away

Two to bring it back

Put your ear down to the ground

You can hear the prisoner sing

And the sky just keeps on crying

And the grass wont grow til spring

If you set your sights on payroll

You could buy a well heeled hat

Take holidays on speedboats

Get old and rich and fat

The days are drawing colder now

The way ahead unclear

I stayed in bed all yesterday

And dreamed about next year

Well the New Year has come around

With the promise that she brings

And the sky just keeps on crying

And the grass wont grow

The sun just wont start shining

And the grass wont grow til spring

It Is What It Is

2009-07-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

It's a magazine on an unmade bed

And a broken pair of shoes

Endless days of don't go home

Thunder in the afternoon

It's a freezing bath at 3am

And the meal you couldn't eat

The sudden truth that struck you blind

And the sickness of deceit

It's the clothes you thought you'd thrown away

And the job you couldn't start

The light left on inside the house

When you thought the house was dark

It's the distant line of snow-kissed trees

And the sobs that rack your chest

It's the deathly hush that greets you

When you wake already dressed

It's a bridal march and cherish set

And a recognition truce

It's a summer drive in someone's car

Your best laid plans cut loose

And how can you miss me if I don't go away?

How can you hit me if I'm not in your way?

Unanswered Prayers

2009-07-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

Come down, throw me a sign

Disappear in steady dark

Your pale room, my egg shell skull

Your glass is empty let me make it full

Been a twenty four year wait

Seen places on the way

All thoughts you kept inside

All the thoughts that you gave away

Wait for the cavalry

With one eye on the clock

Wait so long to seize the pearl

Started up now I don't think this can stop

We've all had unanswered prayers

Sometimes I wish that I was small again

Beneath the stairs

Come down throw me a sign

Disappear in steady dark

Plumes of smoke round your door

Went there once, now I can't go there no more

We've all had unanswered prayers

Sometimes I wish that I was small again

Beneath the stairs

East Coast Situation

2009-07-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

London could be good for me

Paris even better

Watch her face just fall apart

When she reads this letter

But oh no tears

No last minute plans

Making my exit as fast as I can

East Coast

Caught the Sunday Ferry Boat

A lifetime left to spare

The evening sun had burnt my back

Didn't even care

But oh now what's this

That's sticking in my throat

"You are in my head now"

Was all she wrote

East Coast

East Coast.

Ghostwritten

2009-07-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

On the edges of a waking dream

Stumble broken thoughts

Lunatics with wild ideas and

Pictures that distort

Just lean over me and take my wrist

Take this cold away

Breathe your warmth into my hand again

Say what I want to say

Ghost

Inside a cool blue wasted space

A moments stolen peace

No city heat or traffic noise

Just still unbroken sleep

Just lean over me and take my wrist

Take this cold away

Breathe your warmth into my hand again

Say what I want to say

Ghost

Beside a silver frozen lake

A figure dressed in pale

Casts a stone, stands to watch it sink

Turns and walks away

Just lean over me and take my wrist

Take this cold away

Breathe your warmth into my hand again

Say what I want to say

Ghost

Carver

2009-07-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

She looks up and laughs from back of car

I draw some wings and cut them out

Late that evening went down to the waterside

Sat down by the waterside, mapping it out

Send me flags

Send me tickets

I can't get my back up off my bed

England's so cold

Was it you that told me

That my arms are laden down with lead?

Loved that story the sacks and the teeth

Carved it well upon my chest

Spoke well of you, speak well of me

Because your story is the best

Send me flags

Send me tickets

I can't my back up off my bed

England's so cold

Was it you that told me

That my arms are laden with lead?

Premier League : And They're Off ...

2009-07-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

The new season is nearly upon us and the Premier League managers are frantically trying to get all their their houses in order before the big kick off. But whose head will roll first?

STEVE BRUCE

Steve has been flashing the cash like a man with no arms, making bids for every man and his dog. This either signals a serious bid for Europe, or simple desperation to not join the Geordies in the fizzy pop League. I preferred the other manager who looked like Mick McManus, so I hope Bruce gets the bullet and they re-instate the other bloke. He was much funnier.

Odds : 7-1

MARK HUGHES

No pressure Mark! Given the amount of money sloshing about in the blue half of Manchester, the best thing Sparky could do would be to get himself the elbow as quickly as possible. The severance pay would then enable him to buy every other team in the League and still have change for a jumbo jet. And a small island in the Maldives.

Odds : 3-1.

CARLO ANCELOTTI

Given Chelsea’s recent track record of offing gaffers, Ancelotti’s arse could be forgiven for twitching, despite his recent arrival. Common sense says that he has a clean slate and will be given every chance to deliver the goods for his Russian overlord. However, sense isn’t that common in football. His best bet would be to get rid of the sulkers in the team, even that would only leave him with Joe Cole and the kit man.

Odds : 5-1

ALEX FERGUSON

Like the statues on Easter Island, Fergie remains a craggy and impervious fixture at the English Champions. Despite threatening retirement more times than Frank Sinatra, old Bacon Face will probably still be managing United from beyond the grave, his coffin propped up on the touchline, the furious sound of gum chewing and watch tapping coming from within.

Odds : 250 – 1

RAFA BENITEZ

Judging from the way he managed to oust Rick Parry from the board of directors last season, it would seem that Rafa’s word at Anfield carries more weight than … However, that tell-tale glint of madness is never far from the Spaniard’s eye and if Fergie starts the mind games early doors, we could well see Rafa crumble like a Digestive in a hot mug of tea well before Christmas.

Odds : 6-1

ARSENE WENGER

Despite having a policy of not signing anyone over the age of twelve and not attempting to win anything again ever, Wenger seems to have his feet nailed to the floor under the Emirates table. Mind you, if he did get sent his notice he would probably claim to have been looking the other way and not seen it.

Odds : 25-1

ROY HODGSON

Good old Woy. Managed to drag Fulham back from the brink of adversity and push for a place in Euwope. Sacking Hodgson would be as cruel and as pointless as snatching a teddy bear off a toddler and throwing it in a muddy puddle. Safe as cottages.

Odds : 12 - 1

MARTIN O’NEILL

Despite being hotly tipped for the Old Trafford role in the event of Ferguson spontaneously combusting on the touchline, O’Neill clings grimly to Aston Villa like a Page 3 girl clings to Ashley Cole’s leg as he emerges from a West End Nightclub. As always, Villa will start off like a house on fire and then finish like a sandcastle washed away by the tide.

Odds : 10-1

OWEN COYLE

Like an apprentice juggler newly recruited to a travelling circus, Coyle will be forgiven for every trip, fumble and fuck up. Guaranteed to keep his job purely cos the board are painfully aware that no other fucker would ever dream of moving to Burnley.

Odds : 20-1

PAUL HART

Given that Portsmouth are about to be snapped up by another gang of Arabs with bulging pockets and lofty ambitions. Paul may as well pack his kit bag now and stand by the side of the road with his thumb held out and a sign saying JOB CENTRE, PLEASE. Never mind. He’ll be welcomed with open arms at Southampton.

Odds : 3-1

TONY PULIS

Dour, no-nonsense Tony, with his blunt persona and his route-one tactics would be more suited to a position in the Traffic Planning Department in Stoke On Trent City Council. Has the backing of the fans, which counts for fuck all these days, but at least if he gets the boot he’ll have plenty of mates down the Job Centre.

Odds : 8-1

HARRY REDKNAPP

Harry and Spurs go together like a boiled egg and soldiers. Despite them being another club with a revolving door on the manager’s office. Big H is the Pearly King of Norf Lahndan, and it’s hard to see him being shifted from the Tottenham Hotseat. Barring some major scandal involving bungs, birds or boozing, Harry should be sweet as a nut

Odds : 5-1.

GIANFRANCO ZOLA

Little cuddly Zola seems to be able to charm the pants off everyone he meets. Even opposing fans seem to have taken a shine to him. The Hammers seem to be one of them clubs who have no lofty aspirations for anything other than playing decent football and avoiding the drop, both of which they seem to manage year after year. As such, the diminutive Italian will probably stay in East London. Unless someone makes him an offer he can’t refuse. Or he makes them one.

Odds : 10-1

ROBERTO MARTINEZ

David Whelan seems to be one those old-fashioned football chairman, a local tycoon made good who takes the sensible long term view and backs his chosen manager through thick and thin. No-one ever seems to leave Wigan on bad terms, so it’s hard to see how Martinez can fuck this one up. I suppose he could always ring Paul Jewell up at Derby and ask him for a few tips.

Odds : 15-1

MICK McCARTHY

On the face of it McCarthy is as dull as ditch water and as flat as a Yorkshire Pudding, but he does have a happy knack of winding people up. His relationship to Wolves Football Club is a bit like a randy pensioner chasing a nurse in a rest home - he seems to have spent ages trying to get it up. Will have at least one season’s grace. Most likely to say “bollocks” in his post match interview on MOTD.

Odds : 12 – 1

ALEX McCLEISH

Big Eck! McCleish should know all about pressure at the top, given his managerial experience at International level. But let’s not forget that that level was with Scotland, a nation who would be currently hard pressed to beat the South Khuzestan Girls Team. Besides, he’s ginger, which always plays havoc with the colour contrast on my telly. And they’ve just signed Lee Bowyer. So I hope they get rid.

Odds : 5-1

SAM ALLARDYCE

Big Sam wont be shifted from Blackburn. Unless of course a big club offers him a big deal. Or someone offers him a big brown envelope and there’s some big scandal. No, actually, on second thoughts forget that. I don’t want him sending any big misters round.

Odds : 17-1

COLIN MOYES

Every season there seems to be talk of Moyes moving on to a bigger or better club than Everton but for some bizarre reason he seems to like it on Merseyside. Andy Burnham, the Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, called him “fine example to everybody in government of stability and making the right decisions for the long term” Given that a vote of confidence from this government is like being handed the Black Spot by Blind Pugh in Treasure Island, expect Moyes to be on his peddler by late August.

Odds : 4-1

GARY MEGSON

Possibly the dullest manager of the lot, even duller than Pulis and McCarthy. As such, he will go totally un-noticed by everybody throughout the entire season, including the chairman, the players and the fans. A bit like a chameleon sitting on a cardboard box on a municipal rubbish tip in the middle of winter.

Odds : 33-1

PHIL BROWN

A god among men who will win the Premier League. Pundits will eat their words and sales of St Tropez will soar.

Odds : 2,000 – 1

Can't Buy Me Love

2009-07-06T16:45:00.002-07:00

This is a pilot for a comedy drama me and me mate Jonathan Owen put together for the BBC about a feller who wins the lottery and doesn't tell anybody. In time honoured tradition, they seem to have fucked it off. I still like it, so I thought I'd stick it up here for someone's amusement. Mainly me own, probably.

FADE IN:

EXT. BUILDING SITE - AFTERNOON

Phil is up a ladder with a mastick gun, applying the final touches to a polyurathane window frame.

His work mate, Terry, appears at the bottom of his ladder.

TERRY

Phil!

Phil looks down.

PHIL

What?

Terry makes a tipping motion with his hand to indicate a cup of tea.

PHIL

Alright, one minute.

He goes back to carefully applying the mastick.

INT. PRE-FAB WORK HUT - MOMENTS LATER

Phil enters. Three other men are playing cards round a table. Phil goes over to the kettle and makes a brew.

MACCA

You in Phil?

PHIL

What's the stake?

MACCA

Fiver.

Phil pulls two notes out of his pocket and looks at them - a fiver and a tenner.

PHIL

Yeah go on then, deal us in.

He stirs his brew and goes over and takes his seat.

CUT TO:

P.O.V. PHIL'S EYES KNOTTED IN CONCENTRATION. HE SURVEYS HIS HAND - A PAIR OF SEVENS IS THE BEST HE CAN MUSTER.

INT. PRE-FAB WORK HUT - CONTINUOUS

TERRY

Right lets see em.

They put their cards down in turn.

MACCA

Flush.

TERRY

Pair of Queens.

BRIAN

Jacks. Shite!

MACCA

Phil?

Phil shakes his head and throws his hand in.

PHIL

Yours Macca.

Macca chuckles and gathers up the fivers on the table.

MACCA

Come to Daddy.

Terry gets up and opens the door to the hut.

He looks outside.

P.O.V. OMINOUS GREY SKIES - CONTINUOUS

Terry puts his hand outside. It starts to rain.

TERRY

Ah, bollocks.

EXT. BUSY STREET - LATER

Phil is riding his bike home.

He stops outside a Co-op, dismounts and locks his bike to a rail with a chain lock.

INT. LOCAL CO-OP QUEUE - MOMENTS LATER

Phil stands patiently with his four cans of Carling Black Label and his Meal For One Chicken Tikka Curry In A Bag.

He arrives at the check out. The young girl scans his purchases and pops them in a bag.

CHECKOUT GIRL

Five ninety eight please love.

PHIL

Ten Benson as well please.

She turns and gets the cigarettes. She swipes them and pops them in the bag.

CHECKOUT GIRL

Eight fifty one. Anything else?

Phil looks at the tenner in his hand.

PHIL

Aye, go on, gis a lucky dip for tonight.

She turns to the Lotto machine and produces a ticket. Phil hands over his tenner. She rings it in and gives him his ticket and change.

CHECKOUT GIRL

Forty nine pence.

PHIL

Thanks love. Tara.

CHECKOUT GIRL

See you later.

Phil exits the shop.

EXT. BUSY STREET - CONTINUOUS

Phil pauses, lights a fag up and walks over to where he left his bike. He's busying himself with putting his lighter and fags back in his jacket pocket.

Then he looks up.

His bike has gone. Just the chain lock on the pavement, neatly snipped in two.

Phil picks up the two halves of the chain lock in disbelief. He looks up and down the street.

PHIL

Bastards!

EXT. BUS STOP - MOMENTS LATER

Phil pulls his jacket over his head as he smokes his fag. A bus arrives and stops. Phil dots his fag and gets on.

INT. BUS - CONTINUOUS

Phil digs into his jeans and pulls his loose change out.

PHIL

How much is it to Buckingham Street?

BUS DRIVER

Sixty five pence mate.

Phil checks his coins.

PHIL

How far can I go for forty nine?

BUS DRIVER

I haven't got any fares for forty nine pence mate.

PHIL

Well that's all I've got, so how far will it get me?

BUS DRIVER

It's forty five to the garage at the corner of Blenheim.

Phil empties all his money onto the tray.

PHIL

There you go.

The bus driver punches out a ticket, tears it off and hands it over.

Phil moves down the bus.

BUS DRIVER

Oi!

PHIL

What?

BUS DRIVER

Your change.

PHIL

Keep it.

BUS DRIVER

Not allowed.

He holds the two copper coins out at arms length.

Phil looks in baffled bemusement, trudges back and accepts his four pence.

He takes his seat.

P.O.V. BUS WINDOW FROM INTERIOR - CONTINUOUS

We see the rain streaked streets of a typical sink estate pass by - boarded up shops, kids playing football in the street etc.

INT. BUS - MOMENTS LATER

The bus slows to a halt.

BUS DRIVER

This is you mate.

Phil rises and joins the bus driver at the front of the bus.

He looks out at the garage and the surrounding streets.

PHIL

Ah come on mate, Buckingham Street's only up there.

BUS DRIVER

I know where Buckingham Street is son. But like I told you, Buckingham Street is sixty five pence.

PHIL

Come on, don't be tight, let us off up there.

The doors hiss open.

BUS DRIVER

Get off the bus please.

Phil produces his two two pence coins. He holds them up to the driver.

PHIL

Can't I bribe yer?

BUS DRIVER

You what?

PHIL

Every man has his price.

BUS DRIVER

Yes. And my price is sixty five pence. Now get off my pissing bus.

Phil grins and shrugs. He hops off the bus.

EXT. COUNCIL ESTATE STREET - CONTINUOUS

Phil waves as the bus moves away.

PHIL

Keep in touch!

He pulls a can of lager out of his bag and cracks it open, pulls his jacket over his head again and strides on through the rain.

P.O.V. TV SCREEN - PLAYSTATION FIFA 2007 FOOTBALL GAME. HULL CITY V LEEDS UTD. WE SEE A MINIATURE PIXELATED CITY PLAYER SWIVEL ON A SIX-PENCE AND FIRE HOME A GOAL PAST THE HAPLESS LEEDS UTD GOALIE

PHIL

Yes! Get in there! Who are yer! Who are yer!

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - EVENING

A typical batchelor pad. A photo of Phil with a young lad of about eleven or twelve is on top of the TV set.

A plate with the remains of Phil's curry is on the floor alongside a pair of trainers and wet socks. A newspaper. Three empty Carling cans and an overflowing ashtray.

Phil is playing football on his playstation.

His phone rings.

Phil feels on the couch behind him with one hand, eyes still locked on the screen, trying to control his player with the other hand.

He can't locate the phone.

He looks around and sees it about ten foot away.

He leans over to get it and answers, the phone tucked under his chin.

PHIL

Hello? Oh, alright Mick.

A roar from the TV tells us that Leeds Utd have scored in the brief moment that Phil has lost control.

PHIL

Twat! No, not you Mick. Even though you are one, like. No, I was hammering the white shite. What? Nowt like, just staying in and larking games. Nah. Skint mate. Totally pink lint. What? Hang on Mick.

Phil lets the phone drop from his chin and lifts the controller up in his hands as another roar from the TV ackowledges another score.

GAME COMMENTATOR

Oh, that was magnificent!

PHIL

Oh you Leeds faced wanker.

He slings the controller on the floor and picks the phone up again.

PHIL

Mick? Yeah, sorry, about that. I think I need to buy another couple of centre backs. But you can't get owt decent for less than about ten million. What?

PHIL

Nah, I told you, I'm staying in mate. No coin. Can't even afford a pretend footballer, let alone a few pints.

Phil listens as Mick natters on the other end of the phone.

PHIL

Yeah? Is she? What, now?

INT. BUSY PUB. - CONTINUOUS

Mick is on his mobile, playing the bandit. He is around the same age as Phil, dressed in casual clobber, bald head, bit of a scally.

MICK

Mate, I'm stood looking at her. Her and that Karla McKenna and a couple of others.

He looks across at a group of girls laughing around a table. They are late twenties, well dressed, all made up.

MICK

Oh yes, as a butchers dog mate. What? Oh piss off, I'll lend you a few bar. Yeah, no bother. Just sling yer jacket on and get down here pronto. Gladdy and Dave are coming out an'all. Yeah. I'll have one waiting for yer.

He hangs up and presses a few buttons. The reels come in. He looks at them. Nothing.

MICK

Bastard.

He feels in the coin tray at the bottom of the bandit, Nothing. He drains his pint and moves to the bar.

CUT TO:

INT. BATHROOM FULL OF STEAM - MOMENTS LATER

Phil is singing in the shower.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Phil sprays deodourant under his armpit

CUT TO:

INT. WARDROBE - MOMENTS LATER

Phil's hand selects a polo shirt from his wardobe.

CUT TO:

INT. HALLWAY - MOMENTS LATER

Phil laces up a pair of trainers.

CUT TO:

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Phil retrieves his jacket from the back of the couch.

We hear the front door slam.

CUT TO:

P.O.V. TV SCREEN - CONTINUOUS

The score shows HULL CITY 1 LEEDS UTD 6

GAME COMMENTATOR

And this is becoming something of an embarrassment ...

INT. BUSY PUB. - LATER

Phil, Dave and Gladdy are sat round a table. Mick returns with four lagers. He sets them on the table and sits down.

GLADDY

You beauty.

PHIL

Yeah cheers Mick.

Mick slides in next to Phil and slips him two twenty pound notes.

MICK

Here you go.

PHIL

Aw, Mick, you're a life saver. Next week alright?

MICK

Yeah no problem. Whenever. Had a proper result today.

PHIL

Winner?

MICK

Treble.

He raises his finger to his lips in a "silence" gesture and tilts his head towards the other two who are arguing.

GLADDY

So you're seriously telling me you wouldn't give her one?

DAVE

Nah. Dunt do owt for me.

PHIL

Who you on about?

GLADDY

That Jodie Marsh. He reckons he wunt shag it.

DAVE

No way.

GLADDY

Bollocks. You'd crawl over broken glass to wank in her shadow.

DAVE

I aren't about that Gladdy. I don't want a bird like that.

GLADDY

A bird like what?

MICK

One that he can't deflate afterwards.

DAVE

I'm serious. I don't want just a shag. I want a proper relationship. Summat proper that'll last. Like that, look.

He points across the pub.

CUT TO:

INT. TABLE AT FAR CORNER OF ROOM. - CONTINUOUS

We see an elderly man kiss his elderly lady companion afectionately on the cheek. She giggles and pushes him away.

CUT TO:

INT. PHIL, MICK, GLADDY AND DAVE TABLE - CONTINUOUS

DAVE

There you go, that's what its all about.

GLADDY

Who, Les and Peggy?

DAVE

Absolutely. True love. Thirty years of happiness. Can't beat it. Made for each other.

MICK

Yeah, like him out of Queen and that bird off Eastenders.

GLADDY

Freddy Mercury? He was an arse bandit wan't he?

MICK

No yer soft twat, the other one with all the hair, like a poodle on his head.

PHIL

Brian May.

MICK

That's him. Went out with her off Eastenders. Perfect match. She even had the same hair do as him.

DAVE

It's a wig that.

GLADDY

What's a wig?

DAVE

Her out of Eastenders.

MICK

Are we on about the same bird here?

DAVE

Landlady out of Eastenders?

MICK

Yeah, Anita Dobson.

DAVE

I don't know what her name is in that, but she definitely wears a wig, I read it in one of our lasses magazines.

PHIL

Serious?

DAVE

Oh aye. Worn it for years apparentley. Can't tell can yer?

GLADDY

No.

DAVE

Mind you, I'm always too busy looking at her tits.

Dave cups two large imaginary breasts.

Phil looks puzzled.

PHIL

Anita Dobson ant got big tits.

DAVE

Mebbe not now she ant, but I still imagine her when she was younger, in that Carry On Camping.

He mimes the famous Barbra Windsor chest exercise "bra popping" scene in Carry On Camping.

MICK

That's not Anita Dobson, that's Barbra Windsor you dopey twat!

DAVE

Is that her real name?

MICK

No, she's ... oh forget it. Forget it.

Phil sees Ellie has gone to the bar and is waiting to be served. He is entranced. The lad's banter fades into a background murmur.

GLADDY

I said I'm not a frigging cactus!

MICK

It's no good, he's left the village.

Gladdy waves his hand in front of Phil's staring eyes. Phil suddenly becomes aware of him.

PHIL

Ey? What? What's up.

GLADDY

Oh hello nice of you to join us.

Gladdy waves his empty pint glass.

GLADDY

Scream em in Phillipo!

Phil drains his pint and stands up.

PHIL

Same again?

GLADDY

Thought you'd never ask.

MICK

Get us some nuts as well. Dry roasted.

PHIL

Alright.

Phil pushes his way to the bar and stands beside Ellie.

INT. BAR - CONTINUOUS

PHIL

Alright?

She does a double take, then smiles.

ELLIE

Oh hiya. Dint recognise you without yer hard hat.

PHIL

Ah well I only wear it on special occasions.

ELLIE

I think it suits yer. They all love it when you and your mates come in. Like a Diet Coke break.

PHIL

Don't tell Macca that, you'll never get rid of him.

Ellie laughs.

ELLIE

So what happened today? Gone all health conscious have we?

PHIL

Beg your pardon?

ELLIE

You dint come in for your bacon butty. What's up, you watching your figure?

PHIL

Well someone's got to ant they.

The barmaid approaches Ellie.

BARMAID

Yes love?

PHIL

Here I'll get you this.

ELLIE

Oh no you're alright, I'm in a round.

PHIL

That's OK - what you having?

ELLIE

Oh well if you're sure. Malibu and coke.

PHIL

(to barmaid)

Malibu and coke.

ELLIE

And a vodka and slimline tonic, an amarretto and lemonade, and a bacardi and coke.

PHIL

Right.

BARMAID

Owt else.

One of Ellie's pals, Marie, suddenly taps Ellie on the shoulder.

MARIE

You been served El?

ELLIE

Er ... well, yeah.

MARIE

Get Janine and Kelly a Cheeky Vimto.

PHIL

(wearily to barmaid)

And two Cheeky Vimtos.

The barmaid turns to get the drinks. Phil's putting a brave face on.

ELLIE

Sorry about that, it's just ... well, it's me mate's birthday. They're all on one.

PHIL

Hey, don't worry about it. You can get me one next time.

ELLIE

I'll put a bit more sauce in your buttie shall I?

Before Phil can answer, the barmaid returns with the drinks.

BARMAID

Do you want a tray?

ELLIE

Yes please.

The barmaid puts them all on the tray and Ellie picks it up.

ELLIE

Thanks for the drink.

PHIL

Yeah. No bother.

Ellie takes the tray of drinks back to her table.

BARMAID

Sixteen seventy four.

Phil is gazing at Ellie's back.

BARMAID

Hello?

Phil snaps back to attention.

PHIL

Sorry?

BARMAID

Sixteen seventy four. Please.

PHIL

Right. Oh, and er four pints of lager.

BARMAID

What lager?

PHIL

Cheapest.

CUT TO:

INT. PHIL, MICK, GLADDY AND DAVE TABLE - MOMENTS LATER

Phil returns with four pints of lager. Dave and Gladdy are sat there, Mick is missing.

GLADDY

...So they walk along the beach for a bit and then he stops and he says "Hey Bob you'll never guess who I'm shagging."

Dave laughs the hollow laugh of someone who doesn't get the joke.

Beat.

DAVE

So who is he shagging?

GLADDY

Oh never mind.

PHIL

Are we staying in here all night or what?

GLADDY

Dunno. Think Mick wants to go to casino.

PHIL

Bollocks to that. I've gotta be on a bus at half nine in morning.

GLADDY

On a Sunday? Where you going?

PHIL

Where d'yer think? Church, same as always.

DAVE

Which church do you go to Phil?

PHIL

Er, St Nick's.

DAVE

That's me Nana's church.

PHIL

Is it? Well if I see her I'll say hello.

DAVE

Ah, that's nice of yer Phil.

PHIL

I'm a nice bloke Dave. What does she look like?

Dave looks puzzled.

DAVE

What, now? Dunno. She's dead.

Phil splutters on his pint and exchanges a look with Gladdy.

PHIL

Where is Mick anyway?

Gladdy mimes slotting coins into a bandit.

PHIL

Oh right. Silly question.

GLADDY

Where you really going?

PHIL

What tomorrow? Got the bain ant I. Got to be at Lady Muck's for half ten.

GLADDY

You going all the way up there on a bus?

PHIL

Well I did consider hiring a hot air balloon but I thought it might be a bit ostentatious y'know what I mean.

DAVE

Where's yer car?

PHIL

Donald ducked. So I got to be up early. Which means I aren't going to no casino.

GLADDY

You might win.

Phil catches sight of Ellie walking out with her mates and a group of blokes. One of the blokes puts his arm round Ellie's waist and whispers in her ear. She giggles as they all exit. She turns and glances back at Phil just before she disappears.

Phil follows them out with his eyes. He is visibly deflated.

There is a sudden chugging noise from the fruit machine - the steady clatter of coins hitting the tray. It goes on and on.

The lads all look across at Mick. He looks back at them and winks, gives the thumbs up.

Phil drains his glass.

PHIL

Yeah. I might.

He holds his glass up to Gladdy.

PHIL

Scream em in.

CUT TO:

MONTAGE OF THE LADS IN THE CASINO - ROULETTE WHEELS SPINNING, CARDS BEING DEALT, FRUIT MACHINES WINKING ON AND OFF, DRINKS BEING SUNK ... MICK SCOOPING UP A LOAD OF CHIPS ... GLADDY SLUMPED IN A CHAIR ASLEEP ... PHIL PUTTING A LOAD OF CHIPS ONTO A SINGLE NUMBER ... WATCHING IN BEFUDDLED DISMAY AS THE COURIER SCOOPS ALL HIS CHIPS AWAY.

CUT TO:

EXT. STREET IN THE MIDDLE OF TOWN - NIGHT

Mick and Phil staggering up the street, holding each other up. They sing together :

MICK AND PHIL

Silverware! We don't care! We'll follow Hull City everywhere! Silverware! We don't care! We'll follow Hull City everywhere! Silverware ....

(to fade)

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BEDROOM - MORNING

The radio alarm clock on the bedside table bursts into life - a cheesy local radio station playing some inane jingle.

ADVERT MAN

Yes that's right! There's never been a better time to buy!

ADVERT MAN

At Hanson Electrical, quality comes as standard and satisfaction is guaranteed! But hurry! These offers cannot last - get down to Hansons today and we'll make you an offer you can't refuse!

Phil's hand shoots out from under the covers and hits the SNOOZE button. The jingle is cut dead.

Phil rouses himself from under the sheets. He pulls himself up into a sitting postion and gapes and yawns.

He sits rubbing his eyes for a few seconds and slumps back, staring into space.

Then he suddenly bolts upright and starts scrambling among the stuff on his bedside table.

He locates his wristwatch and looks at it.

9 : 50 am.

PHIL

Shite!

He bounds out of bed and starts throwing on his clothes, which are scattered around the bedroom.

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

A hastily dressed Phil finds his jacket slung over the back of the couch. He digs out his mobile and punches in a number.

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

BARRY is driving through the city centre. Slim Whitman plays on the Cd player. His mobile is mounted on the dashboard in front of him. It buzzes. The display reads PHIL R. He presses a button and adjusts the ear piece in his ear.

BARRY

Now then.

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

PHIL

Alright Barr, listen can you gis a lift up to Kirkella?

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

BARRY

Yeah, course I can. When do you wanna go?

BARRY

What, right this very minute? Well, it's a bit ... oh right, I get yer, yeah, alright, alright, calm down. Stand outside, I'll be there in five.

He looks into the rear view mirror. We see an old lady sat in the back, knitting.

BARRY

Fancy a ride to Kirkella, mam?

BARRY'S MAM

What about Arthur and Alice?

BARRY

We'll see them after. Come on, it'll be nice.

Beat.

BARRY'S MAM

Our Janice used to live up that way. Some nice houses up there.

EXT. PHIL'S HOUSE. - MOMENTS LATER

Phil is hopping from foot to foot, looking up and down the street anxiously.

We see Barry's car turn into the street. Phil moves into the road and waves.

The car stops and Phil gets in.

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

PHIL

Aw, thanks a million for this Barry.

BARRY

No bother my mate.

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

The car moves off.

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

Phil looks at the CD player.

PHIL

What's this shite you've got on?

BARRY

It's for me Mam.

Phil looks at him askance. Barry tilts his head backwards to indicate his Mam in the back seat. Phil turns round.

PHIL

Oh, hiya Elsie. Didn't see you there.

BARRY'S MAM

(to Barry)

Who's that?

BARRY

It's Phil! You remember Phil, Mam.

BARRY'S MAM

Is he one of them Kosovans?

BARRY

No, it's Phil! Remember Mally Reynolds, who used to bring us fish round? That's Phil's Dad!

BARRY'S MAM

I don't like fish. Never liked fish. Gives me heartburn.

PHIL

(to Barry)

Sorry Barry, was you taking her out somewhere?

BARRY

Nah. Just driving her round.

(he lowers his voice to a conspirital mutter)

She's gone downhill a bit since you last saw her. Not the full shilling, yer with me?

PHIL

Ah, right.

Phil is suddenly jabbed from behind by a knitting needle.

PHIL

Agh!

BARRY'S MAM

And you keep your hands where I can see them. Dirty bloody foreigner!

BARRY

Mam! Behave!

He reaches down into the well near the gear stick and takes a sweet from an open packet.

He hands it over his shoulder to his mother.

BARRY

Ere y'are, have a cough goodie.

It's taken from his hand.

BARRY'S MAM

Don't give him one.

BARRY

I won't. Just do your knitting we'll be there in a minute.

BARRY'S MAM

Shouldn't even be in this country.

PHIL

How long's she been like this?

BARRY

About six months, off and on. She has good days and bad days, you know what I mean.

BARRY'S MAM

Dirty thieving bloody Arab.

BARRY

This is a good day.

INT. LARGE MODERN FITTED KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER

A young boy, SEAN, sits at the table, cross armed and sullen. He is dressed ina tracksuit. A man of around 45, COLIN, is sat opposite him, cleaning golf clubs.

A woman in her mid thirties enters - KAREN. She stomps over to the large oven, opens it up and takes out a baking tray with croissants on them.

She transfers the croissants into a bowl and bangs them angrily onto the table.

KAREN

They're red hot.

She looks up at the kitchen clock. It says 10:15 am.

KAREN

Five more minutes and if he's not here he can piss off.

SEAN

How can he piss off if he's not here?

KAREN

Less of the language, you, else you wont be going anywhere.

Sean rolls her eyes and picks up a knife. She opens the tub of Olivio which is on the table.

KAREN

You don't need butter, there's butter already in them.

Sean puts the knife down and folds his arms again. He looks at Colin, who rolls his eyes and smiles.

INT. TAXI - MOMENTS LATER

BARRY

Where's your car then?

PHIL

Garage. Cam shaft went.

BARRY

Oh shit, that's a dear do innit?

PHIL

Three hundred bar. Right pain in the ring.

BARRY

Ouch.

PHIL

Aye. And they wont give me it back til I give em the coin. Half tempted to tell em to keep the bloody thing.

BARRY'S MAM

Where's Arthur? Where's Alice?

BARRY

Won't be long Mam.

(to Phil)

Where does she live again?

PHIL

Westella Road.

Barry whistles through his teeth.

BARRY

Nice. Done alright for herself ant she?

PHIL

It's all his innit. Colin, the man with the Midas touch.

BARRY

What's he like? Wanker?

PHIL

Nah, he's alright, to be fair. It's her. You'd think she'd be happy swanning about in his beamer like Lady Shite, but she's got a face like a permanently smacked arse.

He gets another dig from a knitting needle from behind.

PHIL

Agh!

BARRY'S MAM

Mind your bloody language!

PHIL

Sorry Elsie!

BARRY'S MAM

Kosovan bastard.

Phil rubs his shoulder and points out of the window.

PHIL

Ere y'are Barry, this next right turn here.

EXT. WIDE ROAD WITH LARGE EXPENSIVE HOUSES EITHER SIDE - CONTINUOUS

The taxi turns into a large gravelled drive that leads up to a large detached house in an immaculate expanse of garden.

EXT. COLIN AND KAREN'S DRIVEWAY - CONTINUOUS

The taxi comes to a halt and Phil gets out.

EXT. COLIN AND KAREN'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

Karen's angry face appears at the window. She disappears.

EXT. COLIN AND KAREN'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

As Phil approaches the door, it swings open and he is confronted by an angry Karen.

KAREN

Are you taking the piss?

PHIL

What? I'm not that late am I?

KAREN

Ten o'clock Phil. Ten til five thirty. That's the deal.

PHIL

Well I'm here now aren't I. Where is he?

KAREN

Getting his bag.

She turns and shouts into the house.

KAREN

Sean! Sean!

She turns back to Phil and looks beyond him to Barry's taxi.

KAREN

Who's that?

PHIL

Barry.

KAREN

Yes, I know that - who's that sat in the back?

PHIL

His Mam.

Barry waves from the taxi. Karen doesn't wave back.

KAREN

(to Phil)

Stay there.

She turns and stomps back into the house.

KAREN

Sean!

Colin appears at the doorway carrying a bag of golf clubs. He is decked out in expensive golfing gear.

COLIN

Alright Phil.

PHIL

Col.

He nods at the golf clubs.

PHIL

Nice day for it.

COLIN

Yeah, well, I ant been for a bit. Thought I'd best keep me hand in.

He walks to a large silver Lexus and opens the boot, slings in the golf clubs.

COLIN

You should come with us one Sunday.

PHIL

Yeah I might do.

COLIN

Springhead. I'll sign you in. Nice little course. Nowt too challenging.

PHIL

Just as well.

COLIN

What's your handicap?

PHIL

Sorta Stephen Hawkings level

COLIN

Stephen Hawkings?

Beat.

Colin looks puzzled and then he smiles and points at Phil.

COLIN

Like it.

Colin pulls on a pair of driving gloves and gets in the Lexus.

Sean exits the house carrying an Adidas holdall. Karen follows close behind.

KAREN

And don't be losing your temper and getting sent off again. Showing me up.

SEAN

Yeah whatever. Hiya Dad.

PHIL

Alright mate.

They turn and head for Barry's taxi.

KAREN

Half past five! Phil!

PHIL

Yeah, you said.

They pass the Lexus. Colin winds the window down.

COLIN

Go get em Buster!

SEAN

Yeah.

Phil smiles at Colin then looks down at Sean as they near Barry's taxi.

PHIL

Buster?

SEAN

(rolling his eyes)

Don't ...

They get into the taxi.

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

SEAN

Alright Barry.

BARRY

Alright mate. Hey Mam, shift over, let Sean sit down.

She does so. Sean squeezes in next to her.

BARRY'S MAM

(leans down conspiratorily to Sean)

I'm glad you're here Arthur. These two are up to summat. I can tell.

She indicates Phil and Barry, who exchange bemused looks.

BARRY'S MAM

They must think I fell off a bastard Christmas tree.

Barry starts the car up and they set off.

EXT. FOOTBALL PLAYING FIELDS. - LATER

Numerous games are in play as Barry's Taxi draws up near the touchline. Sean and Phil get out.

Phil leans in and offers Barry a fiver.

INT. TAXI - CONTINUOUS

PHIL

Here y'are Barr.

BARRY

Piss off!

PHIL

No, come on, take it mate, you're losing money by running me around.

BARRY

Don't be soft.

PHIL

Are you sure?

BARRY

Put it away daft twat. Get us a pint next time you see us.

PHIL

You're a star. Cheers Barry.

He smiles at Barry's Mam in the back.

PHIL

Tara Elsie.

She sniffs dismissively and taps on the window to Sean.

BARRY'S MAM

Goodbye Arthur! Lovely to see you again. Give my love to Alice.

Phil looks at the large trail of knitting that swamps the seat around her.

PHIL

(to Barry)

What's she knitting?

BARRY

A jumper for our Julie's bain.

PHIL

How old's the bain?

BARRY

Six months. It should fit him by the time he leaves school.

Phil laughs and bangs the top of the car.

PHIL

Tara Barr.

BARRY

Laters.

The car drives off.

EXT. FOOTBALL PLAYING FIELDS. - CONTINUOUS

Sean is running towards his game.

SEAN

Come on Dad!

CUT TO:

MONTAGE OF KIDS PLAYING FOOTBALL, PARENTS SHOUTING ENCOURAGEMENT, GOALS GOING IN, DOG RUNNING ONTO THE PITCH, REF BLOWING WHISTLE ETC ETC ... WE SEE SEVERAL SHOTS OF A RED FACED BLOKE SCREAMING AGGRESSIVELY AT HIS SON, THE REFEREE, OTHER PLAYERS ETC ... PHIL LOOKS AT HIM AND SHAKES HIS HEAD IN BEMUSEMENT ... CUTS AWAY TO OTHER BITS OF ACTION ON THE PITCH - CONTINUOUS

CUT TO:

EXT. FOOTBALL PITCH - MOMENTS LATER

Sean receives a pass and sets off up the touchline, dribbling round attempted tackles and sending opposing players the wrong way with neat little body swerves etc.

A big lad comes sailing in over the top of the ball, studs showing and goes right through Sean, who crumples to the floor.

PHIL

Referee! Fucks sake!

The ref comes running over and whips out a red card. He holds it up in front of the big lad, who stands defiantly, hands on hips.

REFEREE

Right! You - off!

BIG LAD

What for?

REFEREE

You know what for - get off.

Sean jumps to his feet and lashes a boot out at the big lad.

SEAN

You fuckin wanker!

The big lad evades the boot and Sean lunges for him, but Phil is on the pitch and dragging him back.

PHIL

Sean! Leave it! SEAN!

The referee holds the red card up to Sean.

REFEREE

You an'all - off!

The big lad's Dad comes stomping over. His face is purple with fury, he's spitting aggression.

BIG LAD'S DAD

Oi! What you doing? What you sending him off for?

REFEREE

Dangerous play, they're both off!

SEAN

I dint do owt!

REFEREE

You retaliated.

PHIL

Well wouldn't you have done? He nearly took his bastard leg off!

BIG LAD

It was a fair tackle!

PHIL

Fair tackle? How was that a fair tackle?

The Big Lad's Dad gets right in Phil's face.

BIG LAD'S DAD

You wanna control that lad of yours mate. He's a fuckin disgrace.

PHIL

Are you for real?

BIG LAD

Tosser!

Sean flies at the big lad again. Phil drags him back and holds him. Sean's shirt rips at the collar.

The referee blows his whistle repeatedly.

REFEREE

Off! I said off! Pair of yer!

Phil marches a seething Sean away from the pitch.

The Big Lad's Dad come marching after him.

BIG LAD'S DAD

Ey! You! Fuckin fanny!

PHIL

(to Sean)

How many times have I got to tell yer? Don't retaliate!

SEAN

He nearly cut me in half! Look at me leg!

Phil glances down. Sean's legs is bleeding.

PHIL

I dont care Sean, you can't kick em back. You'll just end up losing out.

BIG LAD'S DAD

Oi! Wanker! I'm talking to you!

PHIL

You've got to learn to how to be the bigger man. Turn the other cheek.

BIG LAD'S DAD

EY! DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON ME, YER TWAT!

The Big Lad's Dad catches up with Phil, claps a hand on his shoulder and spins him round.

BIG LAD'S DAD

I SAID ...

Phil sticks the nut on him, full in the kisser. He goes down like a bag of shite.

His son stands over him.

BIG LAD

Dad! Dad, get up!

Phil turns away and drags Sean with him. Sean laughs and points.

INT. MCDONALDS - LATER

Sean is sucking moodily on a milkshake. Phil drinks a cup of coffee.

PHIL

How's the leg?

SEAN

Alright.

PHIL

At least it's stopped bleeding.

SEAN

Yeah.

PHIL

I'm gonna be in right bother with your Mam.

SEAN

You should be used to it by now.

PHIL

What's that supposed to mean?

SEAN

Nowt.

Beat.

PHIL

Listen I'm sorry about your shirt Sean. I'll get you another one.

SEAN

Don't worry about it. Colin'll get me one.

PHIL

I said I'll get you one. Alright?

Sean shrugs.

Phil looks at his watch.

PHIL

We'd better get going.

SEAN

Why? We dont have to be back while half five.

PHIL

I know, but we've got to get a bus.

SEAN

A bus? Where's yer car?

PHIL

Knackered.

SEAN

Still? It's been knackered for about three weeks!

Phil finishes his coffee and stands up.

PHIL

Come on.

SEAN

I ant finished me shake.

PHIL

Bring it with yer.

Sean sighs and gets to his feet. He picks his bag up and slouches towards the door.

PHIL

Oi!

SEAN

What?

Phil points to the tray with the debris of the food and wrappers.

PHIL

Clear your crap up.

SEAN

They have servants who do that.

PHIL

Do as you're told.

Sean tuts loudly but does as he's told.

Phil opens the door for him.

PHIL

Come on.

EXT. BUS STOP - MOMENTS LATER

A bus draws up. Phil and Sean get on.

EXT. ANOTHER BUS STOP - LATER

A bus draws up. Phil and Sean get off.

EXT. COLIN AND KAREN'S HOUSE - LATER

As Phil and Sean get to the front door it's opened by Karen. She is pointing to her watch.

PHIL

Yeah yeah, alright, I know.

KAREN

Don't yeah yeah alright me Phil. We have set times that we agreed on.

Sean walks past Karen. Phil remains on the step.

SEAN

See yer Dad.

PHIL

Ta ra mate. See yer next week!

KAREN

Not if you can't keep to the agreed times you wont.

She turns and yells to Sean.

KAREN

And don't be on that computer! Maths homework!

SEAN

(shouting over his shoulder as he disappears into front room)

I ant got any.

KAREN

I haven't got any!

PHIL

I ant got any either.

Karen rounds on him angrily.

KAREN

Well that's just as well innit, cos you're just as crap at maths as you are at telling the time. What happened to last months money?

PHIL

What you on about?

KAREN

You know exactly what I'm on about.

PHIL

I told you, the bank dropped a bollock. You'll get double this month.

KAREN

I hope for your sake we do. I don't see why Sean should suffer just because you can't get yourself organised.

PHIL

Suffer? He's hardly suffering is he?

KAREN

You will be if you don't sort that money out. I mean it Phil, I'm not chasing you every month.

She peers closely at Phil's forehead.

KAREN

What you done to your head?

PHIL

What?

KAREN

You got a lump on your head like an egg.

PHIL

Oh that. Bumped it this morning.

KAREN

Yeah well. Shame it didn't bump some sense into yer.

PHIL

Listen ...

KAREN

No, you listen Phil - if you miss another month we're back in court. I aren't joking.

PHIL

(correcting her)

I'm not joking.

She points at him.

KAREN

Don't you dare take the piss out of me. Sort yourself out mister, or we'll be having words, and they wont be pleasant ones either.

Beat

PHIL

I suppose this is a bad time to ask to lend a quid off yer?

KAREN

A what? A quid? Are you serious?

PHIL

Oh no, don't tell me you're skint as well.

KAREN

What do want a quid for?

PHIL

The bus.

She shakes her head at him.

KAREN

Walk. The exercise'll do yer good.

She turns to go back into the house.

PHIL

That's what I miss about you Karen.

She turns back to face him.

KAREN

What?

Beat

PHIL

Fuck all.

Karen slams the door shut.

Phil turns and starts walking back up the drive.

EXT. GATES AT TOP OF DRIVE - CONTINUOUS

Colin's Lexus turns into the drive. Colin gives the thumbs up as he drives past Phil. Phil returns the gesture.

He holds the "thumbs up" as Colin drives past and Phil walks out onto the road.

EXT. ROADSIDE - CONTINUOUS

Phil looks at his thumb and then sticks it out in a hitch hiking gesture as he starts to trudge down the road. Cars pass him without stopping.

EXT. ANOTHER ROAD SIDE - LATER

Phil is walking, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as cars pass him.

EXT. TOP OF PHIL'S STREET - LATER

Phil is walking towards his house. He sees a scruffy bloke banging on his door. It's his brother Eric. He's got a carrier bag with him.

PHIL

Oh marvelous.

He turns and starts walking in the opposite direction. But he's too late.

ERIC

Phil! Oi! Phil!

Phil stops in his tracks, rolls his eyes.

He turns back round.

Eric is waving a rolled up newspaper above his head in cheery greeting.

Phil sighs and begins walking back to his house.

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Eric is sat playing Grand Theft Auto on Phil's X Box. Phil enters with two cups of tea.

PHIL

Ere y'are Eric.

ERIC

Oh nice one our kid.

Phil puts it down next to him.

ERIC

This is ace this. I dint know you had this one.

PHIL

It's not mine, I borrowed it off Gladdy.

ERIC

They're dear to buy aren't they?

PHIL

Some of em are yeah.

ERIC

How much are they?

PHIL

Bout thirty quid I think.

ERIC

Fuckin hell! You can get a quarter of skunk for that! Die mother fucker!

P.O.V. TV SCREEN - CONTINUOUS

We see the game character in a gun battle with other gang members. He dies in a hail of bullets.

ERIC

Bastards! Smoked me.

He hands the controller to Phil.

PHIL

No you're alright. I've had enough senseless agression for one day.

ERIC

Why, what happened?

PHIL

Sunday innit.

ERIC

Is it?

PHIL

Yeah.

ERIC

What, today?

He looks at Eric.

PHIL

You literally don't know what day it is do yer?

ERIC

No.

Beat.

ERIC

Been to see the bain?

PHIL

Yeah.

ERIC

How is my favourite nephew?

PHIL

He's alright, it's her.

ERIC

She still got that giant icicle up her arse?

PHIL

Just a bit.

ERIC

Ah well, never mind.

Eric picks up the carrier bag he brought in and rummages around in it. He produces packets of bacon.

ERIC

Here you go.

PHIL

No ta.

ERIC

Four packets for a tenner.

PHIL

I'm alright ta.

ERIC

Good gear this. Maple smoked back bacon. Not shite this.

PHIL

I said no.

Eric throws the bacon back in the bag, pulls out a packet of razors.

ERIC

Razors?

PHIL

I dont want owt off yer Eric.

ERIC

Gillette! The best a man can get!

PHIL

Are they really.

ERIC

Five blades these bastards have got!

PHIL

Put em away.

Eric does so, crestfallen.

ERIC

The electricity's gone in me house.

PHIL

So what? You ant got a telly.

ERIC

Well can you lend us a tenner then?

PHIL

Piss off Eric. I aren't giving you a tenner for you to stick straight in yer arm.

ERIC

It's for a leccy token.

PHIL

I'm skint.

ERIC

I'm sat in the dark in our house!

PHIL

Nick some candles.

ERIC

Oh that's frigging charming innit. Me own brother and you can't even lend me a tenner to light me house and run a bath.

PHIL

I ant got any money Eric. Anyway, I thought you got your dole on Fridays. You ant spent it already have yer?

ERIC

I'm not on the dole, cheeky twat.

PHIL

Well whatever it is you get then. Emergency aid.

ERIC

Disability.

PHIL

Are you for real? What disability have you got apart from chronic hemorrhoids and a limp?

ERIC

I'm on the script aren't I.

PHIL

Script? You? You can barely friggin read!

ERIC

Methadone script.

PHIL

Oh I do beg your pardon. Anyway, you can sod off, you still owe me money.

ERIC

What? When was the last time I borrowed owt off you?

PHIL

Joking arent yer? Yer like a blind mans cane.

ERIC

You what?

PHIL

Tap tap tap.

ERIC

Oh yeah, that's right, take the piss out of blind people.

PHIL

Do yer know summat Eric? For a junkie you can be a right sanctimonious twat.

ERIC

You cheeky get, I'm not a junkie. I've been clean for ages now.

PHIL

How long this time?

Eric considers this question.

Beat.

ERIC

What day is it again?

PHIL

Sunday.

ERIC

Nearly two days.

PHIL

Wow.

ERIC

There's no need to be sarcastic.

PHIL

I wasn't actually. That's quite good for you Eric.

ERIC

That's what I thought.

PHIL

Congratulations.

ERIC

Ta. So can you lend us a tenner then?

PHIL

Can I frig.

ERIC

Right, I'll be off.

He stands up. He's clutching his track suit top awkwardly to himself. Phil stares down at him.

PHIL

Summat wrong?

ERIC

What?

Phil nods down at Eric's hand clutching at his stomach.

ERIC

Oh. Just a bit of belly ache.

PHIL

Oh no! You alright?

He reaches out to place a reassuring hand on Eric, but his brother dodges backwards.

ERIC

I'll be alright bro, I'll just get meself home and have a few temazzies. Alright, nice one, I'll be seeing yer, thanks for the cuppa ...

He turns quickly to go.

PHIL

Yeah, see yer Eric.

Phil bobs down behind his brother, and in one swift tug reaches and pulls Eric's trackie bottoms down. Three Xbox games clatter to the floor.

They both stare at them. Eric gives a sheepish grin.

ERIC

Can I ... er, can I borrow these?

PHIL

You need a machine to play em on.

ERIC

Right. Well in that case ... I wont bother then.

PHIL

Best not.

He nods towards the door. Eric pulls his trackie bottoms up.

EXT. PHIL'S FRONT DOOR. - MOMENTS LATER

ERIC

Ta ra Phil. Sorry about that bro. You know how it is.

PHIL

Yeah. Listen, have you been to see Mam.

ERIC

No. Why, has she got some money?

PHIL

No, I meant been to see her to ... y'now, just go and see her.

ERIC

What the fuck for?

Beat.

PHIL

Yeah. Alright, see yer Eric.

ERIC

Tara.

Phil watches his brother shuffle off up the street. At one point he kicks a discarded fag packet and picks it up, shakes it next to his ear, then throws it away again.

Phil closes the door.

INT. PHIL'S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Phil moves the Sunday paper that Eric has left to one side and switches the telly on, flicks through a few channels.

He turns it off.

He picks the paper up and starts flicking through it.

His gaze settles on one page.

P.O.V. NEWSPAPER - LOTTO RESULTS.

Phil reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his Lottery ticket.

He checks the numbers.

He frowns.

He checks again.

P.O.V. LOTTERY TICKET HELD AGAINST THE NEWSPAPER PAGE. - CONTINUOUS

We see that the numbers match exactly.

CUT TO:

FULL SHOT OF PHIL'S FACE, FROZEN IN SHOCK.

PHIL

Oh. My. God.

TO BLACK

TO BE CONTINUED ....

The Surliness Of The Short Distance Runner

2009-07-06T01:09:00.000-07:00

I have recently taken to running round the park of a morning. Well, I say "running", it's probably more accurately described as staggering forwards like a dray horse that's just been hit by a tranquilizer dart alternated with short bursts of good old fashioned walking. I am a recent convert to al fresco running in public, having had a short burst of gym membership courtesy of an orange faced lady who offered me a six week trial period under the guise of an extended sun bed session. She seemed incapable of doing anything by the book. "I'll do you a deal" she urged, "I'll put you down as a senior citizen sun bed." The fact that I was neither a senior citizen or had any intention of using the sun bed was immaterial. All that mattered was that she got me signed up.

After a while I got disenchanted with the gym. For a start, I wasn't really getting the full advantage of all the amenities. All I wanted to do was run - I had no interest in any of the other gear in there, most of which seemed to be primarily designed to pelt you about with various degrees of discomfort. And then there was the running itself. Whoever decided to put up a bank of televisions in front of the treadmills wants fucking with an iron railing. And whoever decided to then tune all those televisions into Jeremy Kyle/Big Brother/Endless Pop Videos of Britney Spears wants fucking with an iron railing dipped in hydrochloric acid. It's bad enough having a searing pain in the back of your calves, but having one in each eyeball and both ears as well is like having your freshly ripped open wounds sprayed with industrial strength salt from a council road gritter. It makes an uncomfortable experience completely unbearable.

And then there's the treadmill itself. After a bit I realized it was entirely unsuitable for my needs. When you use a treadmill, you are not actually running. You are merely jumping up and down, usually in time to some heave inducing Euro-pop. I was paying twenty quid a month to jump up and down in front of a Girls Aloud video. Pointless. It was turning my knees to mush and my mind to water.

Added to this are the other people who use gyms. For a start, there was usually some class going on behind me, more often than not a load of divorcees on bikes being shouted at by some demented day-glo lycra clad midget screaming at them to "go to the limit" and "feel the burn". After twenty minutes of this I started having fantasies of burning his pert upturned lycra clad arse with a blowtorch, but this would only probably make him scream louder and longer. As well as the relentlessly demented staff, the other punters were either ridiculously aloof or alarmingly over familiar. One old gadge seemed to attach himself to me like a limpet, hovering at me shoulder in the changing room as I bent over to put me strides on, following me into the showers, lurking at me locker - everywhere I turned he was there, engaged in some rambling never ending anecdote about his recent heart attack and various hospital visits and dietary requirements. After the end of me six-week trial period, I felt I knew every inch of his colon intimately.

So I sacked the gym off and started lumbering round the park. It's free, it's convenient, and it's got no MTV tellies or surviving heart attack victims with verbal diarrhea. I don't know if it's doing me any more physical good. But it's certainly been more entertaining. For a start, parks are crucibles of human oddity, especially first thing in a morning. The added attraction with the park is that you are not on a treadmill and can therefore run away from them.

There are two fellows in particular who intrigue me. I don't know if they are brothers or have made a conscious effort to dress and look the same, but they both look like a cross between Keith Lemon and the fat one out of Junior Senior. They have matching yellow mustaches and black baseball caps and one of them drags a shopping trolley around. Most mornings I see them they are either rooting through the bins or sat at opposite ends of one of the wooden benches, pointedly ignoring each other. I usually give them a cheery nod as I stagger past, but am usually met with the blank impervious gaze of a basilisk. A basilisk with blond eyelashes and last night's dinner smeared round its gob.

I try and do three or four circuits of the park before admitting defeat. What I like about it most is the mental peace. After a bit, your mind goes blank and then all sorts of mad shit starts drifting into the empty spaces that the repetition of running seems to create. I usually start off by listening to music in me head (I have to do it in me head. I can’t wear them earplugs or use an iPod) usually Kraftwerk or something equally machine-like. Then I drift off into various inner landscapes as I go round and round. Occasionally I come across something intriguing. This morning I kicked aside something in me path, stopped to examine it – an elaborately bundled together collection of sticks and three miniature whisky bottles stuffed with leaves and grass and bits of mud. It was like an alcoholic’s version of The Blair Witch Project. Fuck knows what it meant, but I have now convinced meself I have evoked the demon of the park and will be chased round by an invisible banshee every morning from now on. Might be a good thing. Might make me run faster.

Too Hot.

2009-07-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

In the last few days I was gonna put posts up about flooding, Glastonbury, diets and tennis. But bollocks to it, it's far too hot to be sat in here.

Fuck The BNP - Everyone Is Special

2009-05-26T03:11:00.000-07:00

The first album I ever bought with my own money was the Specials eponymous debut album. The cover gave some indication of its contents - seven grim faced men in immaculate suits staring upwards in stark black and white. The lyrical subject matter was equally as intense, drawing upon inner city violence, alienation, racial tension, stupid marriages, blank expressions, nights spent pissed up the wall in grotty nightclubs - young lives wasted and gone to the dogs. It was like a snapshot of 1979, the newly ushered in Thatcher era promising little in the way of hope or enlightenment for the nations youth.

But if the words were harsh, the music itself was something else all together. As an eleven year old lad, I had not heard any ska outside of early seventies stuff like “My Boy Lollipop” or Desmond Dekker – the stuff they would play on the radio as “novelty” records. The Specials first album took the most jubilant elements of Jamaican ska and reggae and added a distinctly British punk rock twist. The result was like front line news reportage set to an electrifying dance soundtrack. Like most kids my age I was swept along by the entire Two Tone thing – I wanted to dress like The Specials, dance like them; fuck it, I wanted to be a Special.

Thirty years after doing the skinhead moonstomp in my local Youth Club I found myself in Millenium Square, Leeds, witnessing a part of my youth come back to life. The reformed Specials, far from being a cosy little nostalgia trip for the early forties set, have turned out to be very bit as vital and contemporary as they were in 1979.

Because the thing is, I’ve been a bit anxious lately, what with the re-emergence of the far right whispering in the ear of a new breed of voters who are too young to remember the British Movement or the NF. Combine this with the lack of a coherent voice on the left and the middle ground clogged up with careerist politicians on the fiddle who don’t even bother to lie anymore, and you could be forgiven for thinking that it’s the mid seventies all over again.

In Millennium Square, The Specials blew away my apathetic impotent despair and filled me full of hope again. I can’t remember a gig where the audience have been so joyously mixed, in terms of race, age and gender. I can’t remember such a genuine sense of celebration at an outside event.

The only question is, where are the new Specials? Where, when we need them more than ever, are the kids with attitudes and vision and songs, and a desire to shake up the party? If you have found them, please point them in my direction.

In the meantime, Fuck the BNP - Everyone Is Special.

Last Job Of The Night - A Short Film (Co-written with Mick Redmonds)

2009-05-12T15:14:00.001-07:00

Present Day - Ext -Night

A Taxi twists and turns through dark, wet streets. Hull, East Yorkshire

The Driver is glancing at the semi-detached council houses and street signs as they go by.

A red LED digital display clock in the interior tells us the time.

2.26 am,

Road sign

Saddleworth Close

North Bransholme, Hull. The street is dark and deserted. The taxi pulls up slowly to the kerb.

Music fades, becomes more tinny – from the car radio

The horn sounds twice. After roughly 20 seconds the driver shines a flashlight which scans a row of houses. It settles on a doorway to a house which, like all the others, is in darkness. The horn sounds again. The doorway opens, a man emerges. He is in his early 30’s and is dressed as if for a night out – shoes, trousers, short sleeved shirt. The driver kills the flash-light. The man walks to the taxi and opens the rear kerb-side door and gets in.

CUT TO INTERIOR

The taxi driver looks in the rear view mirror and regards his passenger.

DRIVER : Where to my mate?

PASSENGER : Hessle Square.

DRIVER : Okey Doke.

They drive in silence for a minute or so.

Outside – cut to scenery en-route, car tail lights in front, glisten on road

DRIVER : Been round town have yer?

The man stares out of the side window. No answer. Driver glances up at rear view mirror again, then puts his eyes back to the road.

Pause

PASSENGER : What?

DRIVER : Have yer been round town?

PASSENGER : Yeh.

DRIVER : Bit dead wannit? I was on me way home til I got your job. Mind you, week before pay day. Always a bit quiet…..

PASSENGER : Yeh, right.

Pause … they are driving through town and the remnants of night club stragglers are on the street,

DRIVER : Don’t know about you mate, but all that lot out there …. makes yer laugh dunnit. (Pause) I mean; every bastard working their balls off all week, lining some other bastard’s pockets; a week of fuckin misery, just waiting for that little hand to hit 5 on a Friday. (Pause) Spend all week looking forward to the weekend … then they go out and get so pissed up they don’t even remember it…(Laughs, Pause) Barmy innit? (looks in rear view mirror)

Passenger briefly catches his eye, shrugs

DRIVER : I reckon it’s a big conspiracy, me; designed to keep us all in our place. I mean, on the one hand they’re tryna lecture everyone about drinking aren’t they; y’know, all this … binge drinking. They have that silly cunt on GMTV don’t they, that doctor. Telling us all to slow down a bit … then you got the government putting a few pence on a pint every budget day. (Mirror – nothing)

Cut to passenger looking blankly out the window

DRIVER : Token gesture innit. Don’t you reckon? It’s always just enough to just … mildly piss you off innit? Never enough for you to seriously think “Fuck that!!” Just that annoying little bit, enough for us all to keep paying it, so we keep on getting rat-arsed. Keep on drinking our wages and our memories and our brains down the fuckin pan. …(Feigns a Big Brother style V.O.) Keep drinking Britain! Keep drinking! Keep putting yer hand in yer pocket, and don’t ask awkward fucking questions. Go out! Get pissed! Spend the fuckin lot and then get back to work to earn some more! Two for one! Happy Hour! Roll up, roll up! (shakes his head) Fuckin mental. (starts chuckling sardonically)

They stop at a pedestrian crossing.

Ext – On the street – from inside the car

An angry transvestite stomps into view, make-up running down his face; he carries a long blond wig in one hand and is shouting threats and obscenities at an out of view ‘friend’, all vestiges of femininity long since forgotten.

TRANSVESTITE: Alright then, you can Fuck off! See if I care. You don’t know what you want you. You’ve never known what you want ... fucking hypocrite ... just fuck right off…

Taxi pulls away and the voice becomes muffled, fades

Pause

PASSENGER : Will you turn that radio off, please.

(Looks in mirror again – passenger still staring out of window)

DRIVER : Whatever you say, blue. (Turns off radio) True though, innit. Take smoking as well.. They keep mekking out they give a shit; wasting tax payers’ money paying to all these ad. men to mek these … hard-hitting adverts … that reckon to be mekkin us all stop smoking.

DRIVER REACHES INTO HIS BREAST POCKET AND PULLS OUT A PACKET OF EMBASSY NUMBER ONE

DRIVER : Do yer mind? I know it’s illegal strictly speaking, what with this being me work place and everything …d’yer want one? Tries to catch his eye in the mirror and waves a fag at him – the passenger shakes his head, so the driver shrugs and lights up – winds the window down a bit) But how hard are they really trying to get us to stop? D’yer know what I mean? Are they really that bothered about people’s health? Are you wi’me? Why stop at making people go outside? If it’s that bad for yer, why not just ban the filthy fuckin things altogether, eh? Well, you know why, don’t yer. Cos us smokers pay through the nose, all our lives for this filthy habit. Then, when it’s time for us to retire and get a bit back, we drop down dead. Fuckin heart failure or lung cancer or some other horrific disease. Costs em fuck all in pensions. Very convenient. Never mind statues of Churchill, they should just erect a monument to Messrs Benson & Hedges, or Lambert & fuckin Butler… services fuckin rendered …

(Still no reaction in the back)

DRIVER : What do you reckon mate? Mad innit?

PASSENGER : Don’t smoke.

DRIVER : Very wise…

Long pause; Outside footage

They reach a deserted Hessle Square.

DRIVER : Was it just in the Square you wanted mate?

PASSENGER : What?

DRIVER : Do you want to be just in the Square or one of the streets off the Square?

PASSENGER : Er …. This one here .

DRIVER : Right you are.

The car turns into a narrow side street off Hessle Square

PASSENGER : Just here

Car stops

DRIVER : That’s …..

Driver switches on light on meter and looks

DRIVER : … Twelve quid please my mate.

Passenger gets a wallet out and extracts a fiver and a tenner, hands it over

DRIVER : Fifteen quid … hang on …

Driver reaches down for large leather bag full of coins

DRIVER : …. Two, two fifty … three quid …

As driver turns round to hand change over, the passenger is already getting out of the car. He slams the door shut and is gone.

Driver shrugs and puts the money back in the bag. He guns the car down to the end of the dead end street, does a three point turn and drives slowly back up the street. The Passenger is returning from a darkened doorway and stands in the middle of the road, staring up at the house. Driver slows to a halt.

Passenger turns, sees the car and walks to the passenger window, taps on it. Driver puts central locking on, winds the electric window down.

DRIVER : What’s up?

PASSENGER : Whereabouts is the Humber Bridge?

DRIVER : You want to go to the bridge?

PASSENGER : Is it near here?

DRIVER : It’s up on Boothferry Road.

PASSENGER: Is that far from here?

DRIVER : It’s a fair walk.

Silence.

PASSENGER : Which way is it?

DRIVER : Well, it’s …. Look, I can take you up there, if that’s where you want to be.

PASSENGER : I do. I want to be up there.

DRIVER : No problem.

He turns the central locking off, passenger gets in the back seat, the driver puts the car into gear and they move off. They drive to Boothferry Road. They near a roundabout and the sign indicates the exit for TOLL

DRIVER : Do you want to go actually over the Bridge?

PASSENGER : Silence

DRIVER : Well I can’t stop here mate, I either have to go over it or down into the car park

PASSENGER : Silence

DRIVER : Look, I’ll drop you off there shall I? In the car park?

PASSENGER – Anywhere here’ll do.

The car keeps going round the roundabout and off at the exit after TOLL

DRIVER: I had a mate you know…yeah, he went to Canada. The Niagara Falls. He says they dress you up in a huge rain mac, you know, like Deckie Learners used to wear at sea? Anyway, they’re stood there in these bright yellow capes an’ hats on a little ledge with the spray coming at em like a wet Wednesday in November. There’s some guide telling ‘em all about how high up it is, how much water goes over the edge per second and all that lark, and my mate looks down into the water below, turns round to this guide feller and asks him “ Do people jump off here often?” “No” says the guide…”just the once”…

They come to a stop. The car park is deserted except for a two cars in darkness adjacent to each other at the far side.

DRIVER : That’ll be ….. er, look, just..just call it another two quid,

The man gets his wallet out and extracts a note, proffers it over.

PASSENGER : Ere y’are.

The driver takes it and holds it up to the light. A tenner

DRIVER : Have you got owt smaller? I don’t think I’ve got enough change for that.

PASSENGER : Keep the change.

He opens the door.

Driver worriedly observes his passenger.

DRIVER: It’s a lot of change that fella, you know you’ve given me a tenner don’t yer?

PASSENGER: .Just keep it

DRIVER : Yeah? Nice one. How much more you got, then?

Passenger pauses halfway out the door

PASSENGER : You what?

DRIVER : How much you got in yer wallet?

PASSENGER : Ey?

DRIVER : Well you might as well give me the lot son. Come on…all of it.

Passenger, who was about to get out, turns back into the car but keeps his feet outside

PASSENGER : What are you on about you silly old twat?

DRIVER : Well you wont need it will yer? Not where you’re going? Might as well just give me the wallet. Is there any cards in it?

PASSENGER : Are you taking the fucking piss or what?

DRIVER : Taking the piss? No son, just being realistic. Come on, have you got your cash card in there? Come on, what’s the problem? Gis yer wallet… and whilst yer at it, you might as well giz your other cards as well. Ey, and don’t forget to tell us your PIN number.

PASSENGER : Fuck off you cheeky old cunt!

DRIVER : What? Come on, I’m fuckin serious. Tell us your PIN number, then I can go and clean your account out. Why not? Won’t need it where your going, will yer? I tell you what as well…I like the look of them trainers…

PASSENGER : Fuck right off, cunt!

DRIVER : Why be like that? There’s just no need. Oh!! I get it! Spent it all have yer? Blown it all on one final piss up? You inconsiderate bastard!

PASSENGER : You what?

DRIVER : Planned this have yer? Just my fuckin luck. And here’s me thinking this was just an off the cuff thing.

PASSENGER : Off the cuff?

DRIVER : Well you’re not exactly dressed for it, are yer? Bloody cold in that water, you know. If it was me, I’d make sure I was wrapped up warm. You ant even got a jacket on! You’ve obviously not given it much thought.

PASSENGER : You don’t know … you know absolutely fuck all.

DRIVER : Correct. And what’s more I don’t care. Don’t give a fuck. But what I do know is, I aren’t just gonna sit here and watch a load of money disappear into the Humber. Now are you gonna give us that wallet or not?

PASSENGER : (voice thick with tears) You absolute cunt.

DRIVER : I’m just being realistic son. This world is designed for living people int it? Not dead bastards…

Silence except for the quiet weeping of the passenger

DRIVER : Come on son, shut the door.

Pause

DRIVER : Come on son.

The passenger shuts the door. He is crying. The driver starts the car up and moves off. They swing round the car park. As the headlights move across the two stationary cars we see a man and woman’s head peer briefly up from the back seat of one of them, and bob back down again

DRIVER : Wayhey! See that? Are they at it? They fucking are! Doggers! Ey it could be that potato headed fucker from Eastenders, what d’ye reckon mate? Or Collymore…!? WAYHEY! DIRTY BASTARDS! GOOO AAARRN!

He blasts his horn in a football chant rhythm The passenger laughs through his tears.

Pause

They get onto Boothferry Road.

DRIVER : Do you want to talk about it?

PASSENGER : No.

DRIVER : Do you mind if I put the radio back on, then?

PASSENGER : Do what you like.

CAMERA WATCHES CAR DRIVE AWAY – WE HEAR THE DRIVER BANGING ON, FADES DOWN AS CAR RECEDES INTO DISTANCE

Music: The Great Pretender – The Platters

DRIVER : Fuckin ‘ell, this is an old un, I remember this from when it was doing the rounds, 59 I reckon, no, tell a lie, it was 58, yeah definitely, 58 The Platters…they used to have this in Kevin Ballroom, you’ll be too young to remember Kevin Ballroom, it’s not there now, it’s …. Er … what’s there now? You know, that big building up Analby Road, next to Mecca Bingo, what’s it called, that? Been years since I went in there…

…… etc etc etc to fade

Lee Knows, La

2009-05-11T04:26:00.000-07:00

One Easter Bank Holiday Monday about twenty two years ago me and my pal were on the piss down Beverley Road after a horse we had backed had romped home at not inconsiderable odds. We were both on the Nat King Cole at the time, so although our stake had been modest, the return was handsome enough to keep us in Rizla’s and light ales until the next Giro day. We spent the afternoon in a happy haze of triumphant delirium, raggy of arse but comparatively rich in pocket for once. As we passed De Grey Street, we decided to call in at that most splendid of hostelries, The Adelphi Club, on the off chance of seeing some live music.

When we pushed our way into the back pool room it was immediately apparent that something special was afoot. The place was packed, and not just with the usual faces. And not only were a lot of the faces unfamiliar, they were speaking with Scouse accents. I asked this effervescent lad at the bar who they had come to see and he replied “We’re here with The La’s, la.”

I’d never heard of The Lazla, but according to this lad and his mates they were something very special indeed. If their wide-eyed babblings were to believed, The Lazla were the bands to end all bands. They were more than a band – they were a religious experience, like The Second Coming of The Beatles fronted by Jesus Christ. They played the music you had always wanted to hear, la. And no la, they weren’t called The Lazla, they were just called The La’s, as in all right la. Know what I mean la?

What’s so good about them, I asked. “They’re just dead on it. And it’s Lee. Lee knows, la. He just knows.”

Bemused and curious, we accompanied our new pals into the mobbed out main room were a definite buzz could be felt in the air. Some of it was coming from the array of vintage sixties guitars and valve amps, which were set up on the stage. Then, to a deafening roar that seemed more suitable to match day then a Monday night in a back street boozer, four young scallywags ambled out, plugged in and started up.

Halfway through the second song my mate turned to me and said, “Are they playing covers?” That’s exactly what I had been thinking. The first song had been a brisk Latin-inflected two-minute acoustic strum-along, which I could have sworn, I had heard on the radio in me youth, and the second tune sounded like an old Who number. And like that old Who song, the place was really jumping to the Hi-Watt amps. They crashed from one song to the next, didn’t speak to the audience save for the occasional “nice one” from the curly topped perma-grinning bass player. He seemed the most animated of the group, bouncing away on the right hand side of the tiny stage. The guitarist was a bespectacled young lad who stood to the left, eyes glued on the fret board of his huge red Gretsch semi acoustic. Between them, clutching a battered old acoustic at John Lennon height was the singer. This, I presumed, was Lee. He seemed to be in a world of his own, fierce thousand-yard stare fixed at some point in the distance above the heads of the crowd. He sang like a young Mick Jagger, a deep yearning blues wail that tugged at some forgotten-presumed-lost section of your heartstrings. He had the voice of an angel, but seemed to be possessed by a demon.

As the third song finished, I was transfixed. They were not playing cover versions – these were not obscure gems from the sixties dusted down and re-discovered, these were songs that were brand spanking new and original, but felt as old as time itself. Sixties influenced, yes, but this was not mere revisionism. These were melodies that had lurked inside your head for a lifetime, but had only just been released into the light of the day. Snatches of sea shanties, folk songs, nursery rhymes, power-pop, eastern European drinking songs, Indian raga’s, the blues, the greens, the reds, the pinks, purples, puces and a few other colours that hadn’t been invented yet.

This was the band I had waited all my life to hear.

The La’s played what I later discovered to be their debut album, more or less in the order it appeared on the vinyl. Each one of these songs was astonishing, absolutely jaw-droppingly perfect. And they played them as if their lives depended on them.

The final song, “Looking Glass” was like having your head turned inside out and your heart wrenched from your chest. The most plaintive of melodies that built and built with a raging intensity, finally imploding upon itself in a blur of feedback, wood and metal and electricity and the human voice raised skyward together in a white-knuckled climax. They left the stage; sweat dripping from the roof, the crowd stunned into silence for one brief second, like we were all holding our breath. Then we roared for more. But they were gone.

We stumbled outside, not talking, the music still throbbing in our bloodstream. I looked at my mate and he just nodded. “I know, I know.”

Anyone with an interest in this most rare and beautiful of groups knows what happened to the La’s. If you don’t, and you’re interested, get a book called "In Search Of The La's - A Secret Liverpool" by MW Macefield. Or better still, just go on Youtube or iTunes and get hold of as much as their music as possible. At it’s best, it taps into something mystical, something that truly transcends guitars and drums and singing. And at their peak, before the drugs and the bickering and the disillusionment and the scrapped recording sessions and record company fallouts and Lee Maver’s insane quest to capture the sound locked inside his head … for one brief and glorious period they burnt brighter than anyone before or since them.

I was there, la. I know.

SVENGALI

2009-05-05T10:27:00.000-07:00

A couple of pals of mine have put together an on-line comedy about a struggling rock n roll band manager and his adventures in the London Music Business. Starring Jonathan Owen and Roger Evans, written by Dean Cavanagh and directed by Philip John. Guest appearances from Alan McGee, Sally Phillips, Carl Barat and a whole host of others. Get on this, it's superb.

http://www.youtube.com./watch?v=F-b1ZuLwYGs

Do You Wanna Make Tea At The BBC ...

2009-04-29T16:17:00.000-07:00

Today I applied to the BBC Drama Writer’s Workshop. If by some freak of fortune I get the gig, I estimate I will have had a different job for every year I’ve been on the planet. Which is rather a disheartening thought considering my main ambition at school was to be a lollipop man - mainly because you didn’t have to start work til you were sixty five. My idea of an ideal career at the age of sixteen was lounging about in a bed-sit playing the banjo and smoking copious amounts of homegrown weed. Which is hardly original, but it was an existence I felt I was ideally qualified for. Apart from the lack of musical talent and gardening skills that is. As Bukowski once observed, my ambition was hampered somewhat by laziness.

Personally, I have never understood the work ethic. It always seemed a bit of a con to me – breaking your neck to essentially make loads of coin for someone else. The eighties were an ideal time for someone of my limited aims. If you were surrounded by like-minded lollers you could easily scrape out an existence on the margins of society. I was on the dole for five years and I loved every single minute of it. It was mint. You could claim for all sorts then – cookers, carpets, fridges, false teeth, curtains, glass eyeballs. I just went without cookers and carpets and spent the money on the proper essentials, like cigarettes, guitar strings and daft hats. You could even claim you were incontinent and get extra money for rubber sheets. Marvellous times.

But I did get jobs, sometimes by accident. In those days the Nat King Cole would make you apply for jobs and if you didn’t play ball they’d stop your fortnightly cheque. The trick was to go through the motions of doing your best to be an upright citizen striving for the golden ticket, but at the same time drop subtle hints to any prospective employer that taking you on would result in their bankruptcy or on-going mental torment. Sometimes this could be done at the coalface itself, i.e., the dole office. One pal of mine, when challenged by the feller who signed him on to “apply for something today, here and now” picked up the phone on the desk, rang directory services, and asked to be put through to Yorkshire Television.

“Is that Emmerdale Farm? Yeah, I was wondering if you needed any extras? Acting experience? No not really, but I’m good at standing around in the background. I think I’d be ideal in the Woolpack. No? Oh, OK then, ta.”

Replaced the receiver and shrugged.

“They don’t need anyone”.

One interview I went for totally threw me for six. It was a job for HM Customs and Excise. The interrogation was a short one, and mainly involved me staring out of the window at a large trawler while an ageing chap in a dandruff dusted tweed jacket shuffled some papers and asked me what my hobbies were and if I’d ever been in trouble with the police. To my absolute astonishment he offered me the job there and then. Of course, I couldn’t decline else me green beer voucher would have been withheld, so I turned up the next morning on King George Dock East and was directed to a draughty pre-fabricated hut, where an obviously pissed up bloke with a nose like a burst blood orange outlined my duties.

“Right.. see these forms here? Split them up into three. Put a tick in that box there, that box there and that box there. Staple each of the three pieces to another three pieces of paper – a green ‘un, a white ‘un and a blue ‘un, here you are, in that box there, look. Then sign your name on the front of each one and put em in three separate files.”

And that was it. I lasted about six months until a mate of mine promised me half his Christmas tips on his window cleaning round. So I left a potentially glittering career in stapling and box ticking to spend freezing cold mornings barking me shins on a ladder and slopping lukewarm water down me sleeve, while foul mouthed Nana’s berated me for corners left un-cleaned

I was never a very good window cleaner, and when the festive season was over I gratefully handed me chamois leather back and resumed a life of blissful indolence.

I did hang on to me stapler though. I thought it best to keep at least one arrow in me quiver.

Is There Anybody There?

2009-04-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

I wrote a few sketches for a Tv show a couple of years ago. Here's one of the out-takes.

Grandson enters Nan’s front room. There is a man sat on the sofa with a cup of tea balanced on his knee. A silver haired man in his late fifties, a touch of the “care in the community” about him.

Grandson : Hello Nan .. (to man, inquiringly) Hello?

Nan : (clearly excited) Oh you’re just in time … this is Dennis. Remember I told you about him? He’s got the gift … he can speak to the other side!

Grandson : Wow! You’re a psychic?

Dennis : I’ve heard voices since I was a child. I always say .. it can be a gift .. or a curse. But we do what we can.

Nan : He’s gonna get in touch with my Sidney for me!

Dennis : Well we shall try Mrs Taylor … Remember, I can’t promise that we’ll get Sidney, we just have to make ourselves available to the spirit world and see what happens

Nan : Oh no, he’ll be here mark my words …… I can feel his presence already

Dennis : OK, well, we need to create the right ambience to encourage the spirits .. could you draw the curtains while I start my music.

PUTS ON HIS TAPE – “WIND BENEATH MY WINGS” PLAYED ON PAN PIPES. DENNIS SITS DOWN, SIGHS, ROLLS HIS EYES AND RELAXES INTO A SLUMP

Grandson (whispering) What’s happening?

Nana : (whispering) Shaddap! He’s creating an ambleance!

Grandson : I think he’s stopped breathing.

Nan : He better not have done, this is costing me thirty quid

Grandson : Thirty pounds?

Nan : Shat yer marf! Ere, look!

Dennis stirs from his slumber and sits bolt upright – TAPE FADES OUT

Nan : Sydney? … Sydney, is that you love?

DENNIS STARTS TALKING IN A SLOW DEEP AMERICAN DRAWL

Dennis : Howdy folks. Sure nice of y’all to ask me to join ya …

Nan : Oo the fack are you?!?!?!?

Dennis : Mah name is Silas Eugene Lewis The Third…

Nan : Lewis the third!?! What’s he talking about? Where’s Sidney?! (leans across to shake him) DENNIS! I THINK YOU GOT A CROSSED LINE LOVE!!!

Grandson : Nan, don’t touch him! It might be dangerous! Here. Let me talk to him – (addresses him in a loud and deliberate tone) WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

Dennis : I was born and raised in Memphis Tenessee …

Grandson : WHAT – DID – YOU – DO – THERE?

Nan : What you talking like that for? He’s facking dead not deaf!

Dennis : I lived on the farm with mah mah and mah pah … and they raised me right, to act like a gentleman and to always work hard and pay mah way and

Grandson : Wow! Was you a cowboy?

Dennis : Well you could say that little feller. We had a few cattle, a little livestock. Ah worked on the farm all the hours of the day that God would send … corn …. Barley …. Wheat … squash

Nan : (who has been looking increasingly unimpressed) Ere, I got a question (adopts the same deliberate loud tone of grandson) Ere, gobshite – What - have - you - done – with - my – husband?

Grandson : Nan!

Nan : Well! I arsked him for Sidney and we get Jerry Lee Fackin Lewis!

DENNIS STIRS - HE COMES OUT OF THE TRANCE

Nan : Ooh, hang about …

Dennis : (blinking his eyes open) Oh … Did Sidney come through Mrs Taylor? Did he speak to you?

Nan : Oh he did love! Clear as a bell! Wonderful it was, wonderful, oh you have made me so happy I can never thank you enough son …

Dennis : Oh I’m so glad because you know I did say I cant always control who comes through ..

Nan : Oh no it was my Sidney all right, don’t you worry about that … I couldn’t mistake that voice anywhere ….

Dennis : What did he say?

Nan : Oh, he said he was very happy and he said that heaven was wonderful and he’ll be waiting up there for me when it’s my turn … oh it was wonderful Dennis, what an amazing experience

Dennis : Oh I am so glad Mrs Taylor – well, I’ll best be off. It does take it out of you y’know, I think I’d best get back home and have a nice lie down..

Nan : Yes you get back to the home love, you have nice rest … Here you go – (gets her purse, gives him a handful of tenners – he says his goodbyes and leaves)

(pause)

Nan : WHAT A FACKING LIBERTY! The cheating conniving twisting little charlatan! Psychic my old arse! He must think I fell off a facking Christmas tree! And you! You were no use – sitting there grinning like a simpleton while THAT twisting robbing bastard takes advantage of a poor old pensioner! Oh I don’t think I’ll ever get over this!

Grandson : Come on Nan, don’t get upset …I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.

He goes into the kitchen and starts assembling cups, milk etc. We see Nan tip-toeing up behind, stifling a giggle.

Nan : “WOOOOOOOOHHHH!” (cackles manically)

V Festival Guide Intro 2007

2009-04-29T05:32:00.000-07:00

Hello. I’m Hugh Emlyn Hylands, Head of Hylands Estate, Seventh Earl of Chelmsford and World Renowned Wildlife Expert. Against all better judgement, I have agreed to host this years V Festival. Welcome to my land. This is mine – all of it. There may be some among you who are labouring under the hippy dippy notion that God owns all the land. Well, he may own some of it, or indeed most of it, but he certainly doesn’t own this bloody bit. And I have the correct legal deeds to prove it. Anyway, I won’t hide the fact that I know absolutely nothing about modern music, but I do know my wildlife. And having studied the landscape in advance, here is my invaluable guide to the some of the sights and sounds you may encounter this weekend:

Amy Winehouse Parrot – The outlandish plumage of the Amy Winehouse Parrot should make her easy to spot in the most shaded of solitary branches or the most packed of gatherings – wild, colourful, cock-a-hoop and exuberant, this wonderful bird is a born performer, especially when prompted with noodle soup and a mirror. Although the Winehouse can utter a few rudimentary words when prompted, it is most noted for its deep-throated bluesy wail. Especially when jostling for position at the watering hole.

Foo Fighter Stallion– There can be no more awe-inspiring sight than the Foo Fighter Stallion in full hurtling mane-tossing flow. Like the theme to Black Beauty played on screaming Gibson Flying Vees. Marvelous. Tried to capture one in oils once. Failed miserably I’m afraid. So I shot it and had it mounted above the fireplace.

Basement Jaxx – The natural habitat of the Basement Jack is of course indoors, in a basement. However, when wheedled blinking and nervous into the outside world, these little chaps waste no time mounting a tiny plastic wheel, a pair of headphones welded to their heads, pedaling furiously to a mind bending mix of punk funk disco and house.

Happy Mondays Monkey – A word of caution – as you pass through the thickest part of the woodland watch out for the mischievous Happy Monday Monkeys. Usually to be found lurking playfully near their friend the skunk, these lolling lolloping simians seem cute and endearing enough at first, but approach with caution. On no account must you offer them food or try to play with them. The amount of times those little buggers have had my deerstalker off and then pelted me with beer cans! It’s enough to make my blue blood boil!

Lilly Allen Butterfly – Emerging gently, blinking and wide eyed from Her Space, the Lilly Allen Butterfly flitters around the landscape in a state of perpetual drunken giddy joy. The only sound is the gentle beating of her wings. And her gob.

Primal Scream Wolf - If camping upon my land (57 acres), your evening may be punctured by the tortured howl of the Primal Scream Wolf. These hungry lean figures of the night gather in ragged packs and circle inviting campfire glow, eagerly seeking out any revelers foolish enough to stray. My advice is to ward the buggers off with fire. If that doesn’t work, try earplugs. Even if you do get dragged off and eaten alive, it should at least drown out the endless howling.

Damien Rice Owl – Blessed is the chap or young person that has the good fortune to have his evenings reverie suddenly sound-tracked by the mournful, haunting call of the Damien Rice Owl. Wise beyond its tender years, its anguished hoot offers a strangely stirring night song to the wistful dispossessed birds of the woodland. And all this from just two notes. Astonishing

Babyshambles – If you happen to pass a hedgerow and your ear is caught by a gentle slurred low pitched mumbling, do not be alarmed. You may have inadvertently disturbed a snoozing Baby Shamble Porcupine from his summer slumbers. Simply lift the hapless little fellow carefully from his bed, re-adjust his safety blanket of moss and bracken and lay him gently back down again. Watch out for the needles.

Anyway, that’s the local wildlife, in all its colourful cacophonous glory. Enjoy yourselves by all means, but don’t leave any mess behind for God’s sake. Have you any idea how much help costs these days? And don’t forget to shut the bloody gate behind you.

V Festival Guide Intro 2008

2009-04-29T05:27:00.000-07:00

How do. My name is Selwyn Gumstaff and I’m the Groundsman and Head Gamekeeper of the Hylands Estate. Now usually my job is to keep degenerate riff raff like you off this land, but the Gentleman of The House has obviously had his head turned by some fancy London media type. Against all my words of warning, he has decided to throw open our gates to all you rock and roller hippy traveller types. Seeing as how most of you will be strangers to the courteous ways of the country, it is my duty to introduce you to some of the wildlife that inhabits our grounds. You may see and hear some or all of these creatures during the course of your weekend “rave up”. These are your bedfellows for your weekend of ear splitting debauchery. Treat them with respect, and I wont fill you full of buckshot. Because mark my words, I will be watching you like a hawk. Oh yes. You wont see me. But I’ll see you.

KING LEON WOLF

Come nightfall, the King Leon Lupines can be heard howling mournfully at the moon in a heartfelt fraternal chorus. Although their mangy appearance may provoke pity in the casual visitor, do not be tempted to try and feed these undernourished canines. They may look like man’s best friend, but they’ll have your arm off and carry it away to a cave in the woods before you can say “Southern Fried Rock n Roll”

THE ASHCROFT OWL

Wise beyond his tender years, the Ashcroft Owl’s mournful hooting provides a yearning clarion call for the lost and disaffected wandering through the darkest glades of the modern urban landscape. This sage old bird has migrated from the festival scene many times, only to return when domesticity threatened to render his song mute and when he ran out of cig papers.

HOT CHIP MEERKATS

Have you seen them dancing? Really dancing? These cute little fellows may have the coy and wide-eyed demeanour of a bunch of bookish rodents, but when it gets dark you can spot entire troops of these endearing little fellows strutting their stuff in formation, emitting strange beeps and bleeps from their scrawny little throats.

MUSEOSAURUS

Dinosaurs may be extinct in the rest of the natural world, but someone forgot to tell the Museosaurus. Lumbering relentlessly around the globe like a gigantic touring Godzilla, every thundering footstep laid down by this three headed behemoth sends symphonic shock waves around the planet. Probably the only surviving beast of the ancient Progrockacious Era, the Museosaurus thrives in the wide-open spaces of the festival environment.

STEREOPHONIC PIT PONY

A trusty old work horse of the festival scene, the Stereophonic Pit Pony tends to trundle along in a trad rock furrow of it’s own distinct making. Unless of course it gets stung on the arse by a wasp, when it suddenly rears up into a flaming nostrilled stallion and goes galloping over the hillside in a screech of feedback and a thunder of hooves.

LENNY KRAVITZ

Lenny the Lion has been a fixture on the rock n roll landscape since the year dot. Tossing his mane proudly as he struts to the watering hole, this regal old feller has lost none of his charm and pizzazz. He may be a tad lead legged when it comes to rutting lady lions these days, but when it comes to natural showmanship there are none dandier than Len.

PEACH FACED GIRLS ALOUD LOVE BIRDS

Their delicate nature led many to believe that these gloriously plumaged birds would wither and fall from their perch in the harsh and unforgiving glare of the hardcore rock n roll woodland. Far from it – wherever a spotlight falls, these melodious songstresses positively flourish.

THE PRODIGY PEACOCK

With it’s garish plumage, bristling stance and shrill piercing shriek, the Prodigy Peacock is a bird of both beauty and menace. It’s natural habitat is the open fields of South East England strutting manically to a repetitive beat whilst gurning at all and sundry. Breathtaking in full flight, but tends to frighten very young children.

KING BROWN MONKEY

His shuffling gait and heavy lidded demeanour may lull the casual observer into thinking the King Brown Monkey spends his days lolling around in trees and scratching his hairy belly whilst staring up at the sky. But underestimate him at your peril – he may smoke his own bodyweight in vegetation every morning, but the King Brown Monkey is a keen exponent of simian martial arts. One false move and he’ll chop your hands off.

THE POGUE MAHONE PIG

Imported from the rolling green pastures of rural Ireland, there is nothing this aged beast likes better than wallowing in a field full of mud and swill whilst banging a tin tray repeatedly against it’s skull. Has been sent to the butchers on several occasions to be chopped up into bits of breakfast, only to escape to the nearest boozer and spend the day swilling from the trough and shitting itself.

Right, you’ve been warned. You might think you’re all hip and groovy, with your modern music and your “gear”, but remember – the countryside has a code. Break it at your peril. And if you or any of your bloody teepees are still here on Monday morning, I’ll set the bloody dogs on you.

When You Wake You're Still In A Dream

2009-04-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

Ever had Sleep Paralysis?

I've had two unhealthy doses.

The first one was about twenty years ago. I’d got back from Glastonbury after a weekend of general over-indulgence and very little kip. At that time I lived on the attic floor of a big old house. I spent the evening watching the box then turned in about half nine. I was kipping on a double mattress slung on the floor, the room was in bathed in that weird summer half-dusk twilight and for some reason, despite me extreme fatigue, I was finding it hard to drop off. I think I was “beyond meself”, as they say. I managed a few fitful naps, kept jolting awake and drifting off again. I put this down to the remnants of the weekends revellery still rampaging round me bloodstream, a gradual winding down, last orders for me metabolism, so to speak. The landlord inside me head was shouting “can we have your glasses please, do yer talking while yer walking” etc etc. After a bit I realised I was staring up at the ceiling, fully awake, the room now fallen fairly dark. All sorts of random stuff was racing through me noggin. Then, for some reason – and I remember this very very clearly – I thought “Hhhmm, Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller – what a strange couple that was” And with that I felt this sudden massive crushing on me chest, like some big strong fucker had suddenly dropped down with both palms onto me and was pinning me to the deck. Me first and most obvious instinct was that some cunt had got into the room, which wasn’t entirely unlikely as it was a shared house with more than it’s fair share of itinerant weirdo’s. I tried to get up but this fucking thing rammed me down with renewed vigour, as though sensing me resistance. It felt exactly like big heavy hands across me chest and shoulders. Me second instinct was to open me eyes. An that’s when I properly shat meself, cos in a heartbeat I realised that my eyes were wide open, I wasn’t having a dream and there was fucking no-one there. No one. But could I fuck raise meself against this overwhelming weight. And as soon as I realised that I was shot through with a bolt of absolute pure terror. I mean stark raw fear the likes of which I have never ever experienced before, a terror that is virtually impossible to put into words. I felt as though I was in the presence of something absolutely unspeakably evil and it was hell-bent on ripping my heart out of my chest and feeding it to the fucking hounds of hell. Writing this is making me break out into a sweat, I can still almost taste the fear of this evil evil motherfucker. I tried to shout out, but the sound was frozen dead in me throat.

And then, as suddenly as it had dropped down on me, the weight was lifted. And then I started fucking floating towards the bastard ceiling. I clearly remember thinking “Oh Jesus, this is happening, this is actually fucking happening.” It was like I was utterly weightless, full of helium. I could see the artex on the apex of the ceiling getting closer and closer. I remember thinking, if I look round I’ll see me own body on the bed, so I looked round over me shoulder and saw an empty bed, every detail of the sweat soaked sheets below me. That’s when I started properly sobbing. I remember thinking, am I going to heaven? Is this being dead? The ceiling got close enough to touch so I reached out and touched it and then I woke up in me bed blathered in sweat and shrieking and crying like an infant.

I pelted down the stairs. There was no one in the gaff, everyone was out. I turned a radio on to hear a human voice, some normality to bring me back down but all I could get was white noise. The clock said twenty past eleven. All of this is etched onto me memory cos I kept thinking, “Is this real? Is this real?” I was in a right two and eight. Eventually I got radio 4 and calmed down enough to make a cup of tea and take stock.

Over the next few days I was jittery as fuck. Everyone who I spoke to about it either thought I was lying, on drugs, or had just had a nightmare. Eventually I went to the library and did some looking up and found a few articles like the ones above. Then I realised I hadn’t imagined it and I wasn’t insane. Which was a relief, but for a few weeks after I was still a bit wary of bedtime and what it might bring.

The next episode was a fucking pearler. Around a year or so later, I’d got me own flat and was seeing this bird. We tended to have big dramatic rows and without boring you with the details, one of these culminated in me spending a fitful night kipping in a car outside me own flat. When I eventually got into me own quarters, I was cream crackered and decided to go to bed for the day and get some proper sleep. I got into the scratcher, completely exhausted and fell straight into the land of nod.

Woke up again some time later, same thing, Giant fuckin Haystacks on me chest. Broad daylight outside. The same sickening dread in the guts, the presence of sheer evil in the room like an ominous stink. But this time I knew what was going on. “You’re asleep, you’re asleep” I kept saying in me head. Then the weight lifted and the door opened and in strolled this fucker with a top hat and a bone through his nose and his face all blacked up with boot polish. A bastard voodoo man with a crazy fixed grin and leering eyes and the cunt was there right in front of me, clear as day, as solid 3-D real as the rest of the room. There was me wardrobe, there was me clothes on the floor, there was the door and the window and there was a jauntily dressed demonic cunt with a topper and a bone through his bugle, boot polish about an inch thick on his boat race. (years later, when I saw that DAAAAVE out of League Of Gentlemen I had a brief but horrific flashback. Seriously thought someone was taking the piss)

Anyway, this dude strolled up to me bedside and I was sat up in bed too frozen too move. He came right up next to me and bent down to stare into my eyes. “You’re not real,” I said. “Oh aren’t I?” he grinned. “Well, that means I can’t do this then” And he reached down and grabbed me wrist and twisted with both hands, gave me a Chinese burn.

I woke up shouting and screaming again, and I’d grabbed me own wrist and was twisting fuck out of it.

I can only conclude two things from these two carry-ons: one, there is a strange land halfway between consciousness and sleep which is more powerful than anything else on hell, heaven or earth. And two, I never ever want to have sleep paralysis again. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

I’m knackered after recalling all that now. I’m off for a lie down.

The Pen Is Mightier Than The Guitar

2009-04-28T16:34:00.000-07:00

“I can make it longer if you like the style

I can change it round and I wanna be a paperback writer”

Macca may have been having a sly dig at his song writing partner for having literary leanings, but John Lennon wasn’t the only rock n roller to recognise the powerful connection between pen and guitar. As well as being a public mocking of Lennon’s pretensions, Paperback Writer was perhaps also a grudging acknowledgement of his pioneering achievement. Lennon’s two books “Spaniard In The Works” and “In His Own Write” were not just the indulgences of a bored rock star. Both are absorbing and enjoyable collections of Joycean Gobbledygook and Goonish surrealism, both credible to the Academy and, crucially, made accessible to a new generation of readers by virtue of the rock superstar status of their author. This in itself was another of The Beatles small but important acts of revolution. Because although it may be a curious notion from today’s perspective, where top 40 CD’s and Nick Hornby novels sit happily side by side on the Virgin Mega Store shelf, back in the day they occupied very opposite ends of the social spectrum.

Back in the late fifties and early sixties, literature was supposed to be highbrow, intellectual, of the academy. Rock n roll’s triumph was to be the untutored scream from the street, the brazenly low-brow yelp that articulated a feeling wrenched up from the gut or groin. DH Lawrence never wrote a book called Tooty Frooty and Buddy Holly would never release a single called The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.

Rock and roll and literature first came together in the public consciousness with Jack Kerouac’s beat generation epic “On The Road”. Although the book had been first drafted in the early fifties and took as it’s narrative time frame the be-bop jazz of the immediate post war years of the late forties, it’s publication in 1957 perfectly coincided with the massive impact of Elvis Presley and the emerging teenage pop culture in Britain and the USA. As far as the mass public was concerned, “On The Road”, with its fast cars, wild music and tales of juvenile delinquency was the very first rock n roll novel. Kerouac’s love of jazz phrasing directly influenced his writing style, crafting epically long stream of consciousness sentences that meandered across the page like the joyful exhalations of a Charlie Parker saxophone solo. This method of writing to the rhythms of the current music of the times was echoed forty years later when Irvine Welsh laid down the brutal lines of Trainspotting to the hard repetitive beats of acid house.

The other writers that made up the loose collective of the Beat Generation – most notably William Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg – were to play a huge influence after the first primal beats of rock n roll had echoed from the swamp of a post Hiroshima America and evolved into the musical counter-culture that reverberated into the sixties, seventies and beyond. Ginsberg’s “Howl” was a massive influence on the young Bob Dylan, who soaked up and spat back out its angry political energy and vivid freewheeling verbosity on his own incendiary early releases. His self penned album sleeves were writ heavy with the hand of the Beats, all anarchic imagery and amphetamine-fuelled synapse. By 1972 Dylan had took the next logical step and published his own Beat Novel, the largely incomprehensible “Tarantula”. Unfortunately hardly anyone read it, and of those who did only the most determinedly devoted Dylan follower pretended to know what it was about. Thankfully Bob abandoned his literary career and kept his lyrical energy cooped up where it worked best, in three or four minute bursts of melodic bile.

Over in New York City, Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground didn’t so much as wear their literary influences on their sleeve as drag them around on a dog collar and lead. They were named after an S&M themed pulp fiction novel and sang songs inspired by the Marquis De Sade and the poet Delmore Schwartz. During his later solo career, Lou Reed made explicit his debt to hard boiled realist writers such as Hubert Selby Jnr and Raymond Chandler in his tough bitten tales of New York street life.

Later on, Burroughs perfected the “cut-up” – a method of writing that involved slashing an established page of text to pieces and re-assembling it at random in the name of spontaneous juxtaposition. By using the cut-up, the artist absolves himself of any authorial responsibility and restrains his own ego from directing the narrative flow.

This was an approach that hugely appealed to David Bowie who at the time was pretending to be a cold-blooded alien from outer space. The idea of formulating song lyrics from such a coldly dispassionate process fitted right in with his then remote outsider stance. When applied to the actual sonic fabric of music itself, the cut-up theory later found it’s natural correlation in the art of sampling. Much of the early hip-hop and electro music that came out of New York in the late seventies and early eighties was the musical equivalent of a Burroughs collage, plundering bass lines and beats from such disparate sources as ancient soul records, UK bubble gum pop and early seventies Krautrock.

After punk exploded, literature and rock music were locked in a loving embrace, never to be disentangled. Perhaps not surprisingly Irish and Anglo-Irish musicians have always dipped their pens in the deep inky tradition of their country’s lettermen and women, from The Pogues early Brendan Behan inspired suits, The Waterboys adaptation of WB Yeats poetry and Morrissey’s early insistence of being photographed with an Oscar Wilde Collection to hand. Other musicians noted for their lyrical prowess such as Nick Cave and Billy Bragg have took the next logical step and become credible published authors in their own right. The very best rock music and literature share much common ground – particularly the power to transport the human soul above the mundane. It’s a rich and fertile country. Someone should write a book about it.

Does The Devil Have All The Best Tunes?

2009-04-28T16:32:00.000-07:00

“The Devil Should Not Have All The Best Tunes” – The Reverend Rowland Hill, Pastor Of Surrey Chapel, London, 1884

Somewhere in the corner of heaven reserved for retired spokesmen, the ghost of an irate Reverend Hill must be stamping his cloud in fury. Over a hundred and twenty years since his earnest pulpit assertions, the Devil not only still has the best record collection, but he never even paid for it – he got it for free off Limewire. In Rock N Roll, bad equals good. The evidence is so overwhelming it hardly warrants repeating, but, just for the sake of argument, lets throw a couple of contrasting names into the cauldron: a) Shaun Ryder – The King Leer of Voodoo Rhythms, former smack head, petty thief and hooligan; leader of one of the most original and imitated bands of the last twenty years. Exemplified a sound and attitude that continues to send dark tremors throughout the rock n roll landscape to this day. b) Cliff Richard – 50’s Elvis Impersonator. Satin jacketed roller skater. Drinker of Barley Water. About as rock n roll as a Readers Digest Convention in Skegness. And before the self-righteous Mistletoe and Wine lovers of miffed Middle England reach for their scented pads of Basildon Bond, yes Cliff may have had more Number One’s and Royal Command Performances than anyone else in existence - but don’t tell me that he wouldn’t have traded all those wet Wimbledon Sing-a-longs and establishment pats on the back for one, just one cheeky half hour in a King Size Jacuzzi with three Penthouse Pets and a bottle of heavy metal mouthwash. No, lets face the facts, pop fans - the tablets that contain the Commandments of Pious Pop are based on Thou Shalt Not, and the Stones of His Satanic Majesty are engraved firmly with Do Whatever The Damn Thou Likest. And it’s the former that informs the true (un) Holy Spirit of Rock N Roll.

Ever since Robert Johnson handed his guitar over for re-tuning at that Mississippi Crossroads in 1936 to Potty Pete Docherty, Evil Pied Piper of the present day pop kids, the best music is always besmirched with the sticky stains of wickedness. Think Elvis’s banned Pelvis; Jimmy Page’s Crowley fixated pagan folk spells, Mick Jagger’s Samba Beat Sympathy, Johnny “I am the Anti-Christ!” Rotten, the crucifix kissing Miss Cicconne. The front pages of pop have always being plastered with lurid headlines of devilish outrage. SEX! DRUGS! ROCK N ROLL! It’s a heady and potent trinity, the beguiling magic of which is unlikely to be de-throned at this late stage of the game by the joys of staying in and having an early night with a good book and a mug of Horlicks.

But hold on just one God fearing minute!! What about the power of good? Alright, ripping up the rulebook can be enormous fun, but what about the positive properties of music? Can a tune not heal as well as destroy? What about the Reverend Al Green’s heart-felt testifying, Aretha Franklin’s white-hot pleas for salvation, Van Morrison’s transcendental Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart, Elvis Presley dropping to his knees and proclaiming How Great Thou Art? Granted, the more teeth gritting extremes of Christian Rock may well be tedious, but then so is Norwegian Death Metal. So, in the name of fair play, lets hear the case for the good guys who are actually really good - and not just goody-goody.

Well for a start, there’s Gospel music – the font in which all decent black music was baptised, and therefore most decent music full stop. Without the American Gospel Church as a training ground, modern popular music as we know it would simply not exist. Even the most sternly committed atheist could not deny the sheer emotional power of a gospel choir in full devotional flight. Richard Dawkins only wrote his book about the non-existence of God because he had never owned an album by the Voices Of East Harlem.

U2 are probably the biggest and most successful band in the last thirty years who have managed to maintain at least some measure of artistic credibility without recourse to shock theatrics or devilish outrage. A thirty-year career of both thrilling stadiums and lobbying parliament, the Dublin four piece have never made any secret of their Christian beliefs and deeply held humanitarian impulse. Bono’s preacher man bluster may bring a grimace to the cynical, but it could be argued that more kids become members of Amnesty International because of the U2 front man’s on-stage hollerings than any politician. Yes he may come across as a pious prat in wrap around shades but in setting himself up as singing civil rights activist Bono has arguably changed more hearts and minds than any amount of government backed initiatives. When it would have surely been easier to stay in his mansion and count his hat collection. Plus, apart from a late eighties blip when they forgot their sense of humour and released the pompously bloated Rattle and Hum, U2 have consistently weaved a genuinely inspired and inspirational noise from the sum of their trad-rock parts.

Heavy Metal is largely responsible for both placing the Devil centre stage in rock music and, ultimately, robbing him of his power to shock. Our forefathers in the seventies may well have genuinely believed that Black Sabbath had struck some sinister deal with Beelzebub in exchange for platinum album sales in America. But only the slackest jawed of fools could consider the present day Ozzy Ozbourne as being in league with the Devil. Unless of course you believe that the Devil’s present guise is that of a talent show judge. The Ozzy of 2008 has more in common with Dame Edna Everidge than the Prince Of Darkness. What seemed dark and dangerous thirty five years ago has now been stripped of virtually all it’s sinister mystique by reality TV and the over exposure of constant music channel rotation. Back then, it was easy to believe that a band like Led Zeppelin all lived together in a spooky castle and spent their evenings composing satanic incantations by firelight. Now we know full well that Marilyn Manson is actually a pantomime dame whose real name is Brian. Perhaps the final debunking of the Heavy Metal Devil Myth came in the Judas Priest 1987 trial in America, when the band were accused of disguising satanic messages in their music, encouraging their fans to commit suicide. As lead singer Rob Halford rightly pointed out from the witness stand, if they were going to place a subliminal message in their music it would be “Buy More Judas Priest Albums”.

At the end of the day, you can’t take any of it seriously. Not really. Mylo’s “Destroy Rock N Roll” features a sample of an enraged US Evangelist preacher reeling off a warning list of so-called “satanic” recording artists over an ominous house beat. These are meant to be the names to strike fear and dread into all pure and right thinking hearts. Around forty seconds into the track you’re rolling around on the floor in hysterics. Bonny Tyler? Huey Lewis and The News? Reo Speedwagon? The word “incredulous” springs to mind. There simply aren’t enough exclamation marks in existence. If the Devil has an iPod, he’s probably got Mylo on repeat. And he’s probably howling with satanic laughter.