Julie, as requested, please find attached a fucking terrible screenplay about robots returning a kettle. With, like, a week to spare.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FADE IN: INT SUPERMARKET - NIGHT
An almost entirely windowless joy void, glowing yellow-green with fluorescent misery.
PAN TO A number of stanley-knife wielding people, wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the legend "Work Experiencee", shuffle around the seasonal goods aisle, slicing mirthlessly at cardboard boxes & the occasional carotid artery. (Oh yeah, & also it's like the future & shit. So maybe the stanley-knives are, like, made of lasers or something, yeah? And the t-shirts are, like, all silver and have an inbuilt speaker system that, like, brays out stuff like "Join a union? What are you, an illegal immigrant?" & "If you worked harder maybe you'd be getting paid for doing this job". Inspirational stuff like that.)
EXTREME CLOSE UP on the under-clad hind quarters of a young lady who is making her way through this hapless crowd, swinging her hips with such wild abandon they render several onlookers unconscious.
CUT TO the front wall of the supermarket exploding inwards in a rainbow of breeze blocks, asbestos & sonic booms.
EXTREME CLOSE UP on lady arse again. A hand comes into shot briefly to fiddle with a gusset.
CUT TO the decimated shop front. ROBOT 1 & ROBOT 2, two enormous, poorly CGI'd robots, enter through the gaping maw & punch their way, through the bodies of around 100 dead & dying security guards, towards the customer service desk. ROBOT 1 is clutching a carrier bag in it's blood & brain spattered fist.
ZOOM IN on LATE NIGHT, a lady employee who inexplicably receives a wage for being no fucking help to anyone at all.
SUBLIMINAL FLASH of Coca-Cola logo projected onto an underclad bum.
LATE NIGHT (not looking up from magazine article about a woman who married her Dad who was also a convicted murderer & a ghost):
Yeah?
ROBOT 1: KETTLE BROKE.
ROBOT 2 (addressing ROBOT 1): The cigarette kiosk is closed.
ROBOT 1 (ignoring ROBOT 2): KETTLE BROKE. MONEY BACK. QUICK. WANT FUCK OFF HOME. EAT BISCUITS.
ROBOT 2 (addressing ROBOT 1): Mate, you said we would be able to get some Rizlas, yeah? But look mate, the kiosk.....it's all closed up or something, yeah?
LATE NIGHT (looking up from an article about twins separated at death): Yeah?
ROBOT 1 (smashing his human-pulping fist down on the counter): KETTLE. LEAKING. RECEIPT HERE.
(ROBOT 1 opens his brain matter flecked hand metal hand to reveal a tiny slip of paper. Made of lasers or something. It's the future)
ROBOT 2 (clawing at ROBOT 1's arm): Ask her about the Rizlas yeah?
LATE NIGHT (sighing her lungs up out of her body): safter6oclockeveryonegonehomecantdorefund.
ROBOT 1: RECEIPT. IN HUMAN PULPING FIST. MONEY BACK.
LATE NIGHT (her eyes slowly drifting down to gawk at photos of Kerry Katona's preserved head wearing a jar that makes her look fat): safter6oclockeveryonegonehomecantdorefundanywaythiskettlesbeenusedso nowayyougettinganymoneybackanywaysorry.
ROBOT 1: LAW SAY RETURN FAULTY PRODUCT WITH PACKAGING AND PROOF OF PURCHASE GET MONEY BACK. HERE IS PROOF OF PURCHASE. MONEY BACK.
ROBOT 2: Mate. Mate. MATE. Rizlas. Mate.
LATE NIGHT: safter6oclocknocustomerserviceeveryonegonehome....
ROBOT 1 (collapses across counter, weeping. His sobs sound like someone typing the word 'CRY' repeatedly into a Speak & Spell): CRY CRY CRY. JUST WANT FUCK OFF HOME. EAT BISCUITS. CRY CRY CRY.
(LATE NIGHT continues reading magazine. CLOSE UP on horoscope. "Libra. There is a very good chance that you will die at the human pulping hands of a stoned robot. Call in sick")
ROBOT 2 (leaping across the sobbing frame of ROBOT 1 towards LATE NIGHT): Riiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzlaaaaaaas!
EXTREME CLOSE UP of LATE NIGHT'S face being pulped to meat paste by a giant robot fist forever & ever & ever & ever....
CUT TO the still sobbing body of ROBOT 1 exploding all over the place for some reason.
JUMP CUT to underclad lady backside for no discernible reason.
FADE TO BLACK.
FADE UP to lady bum.
FADE BACK TO BLACK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cut. Print. Shit.
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Shut Up A Minute
I am not what you could call a "people person".
In actual fact I believe I was born coated, not in your usual womb juices, but in actual people repellent.
I have the social skills of a damp face-cloth. Actually, a damp face-cloth quite probably has better social skills, evidenced by its occasional contact with an actual human face.
Small talk is beyond me. I'm not baffled by it or anything like that, I just can't do it. I can never think of a single thing to say. Nothing. This is particularly strange to me as my brain usually teems with the sort of inconsequential nonsense perfect for such situations all the live long day. In fact, my mind probably most closely resembles a busy ring-road heaving with tiny inanity & trivia stuffed vehicles going about their idiotic business. This road is so horrendously jammed with this flow of stupid traffic that any possibly intelligent or deep thoughts that may also come into being lie trapped beyond it, with no way out other than to chuck themselves in front of the juggernauts of dumb. And that is where nosebleeds come from. Or something. What am I? A fucking doctor?
What were we talking about?
Oh yes. I can't talk to people. So I don't have any friends. Oh, I managed to snag me a boyfriend some 126 years ago and it was such a relief to have done so that I have doggedly held onto him despite...well...let's just leave it at despite. Mostly my hanging on for dear life meant I didn't have to go through that whole awful meeting-and-talking-to-lots-of-different-people-until-you-find-someone-with-whom-you-think-you-could-discuss-mortgages-without-wanting-to-weep-at-the-loss-of-your-youth-before-turning-the-gun-on-yourself. Because that's a thing people look for in potential partners isn't it? But he is a rare exception. Mostly I have passed through life making no impression on anyone. If, for example, I was the focus of It's a Wonderful Life, Clarence would amble up to me as I clung on to the bridge, simply shrug and say "s'up to you mate".
And I have been at peace with this for quite some time.
But recently...I don't know. Not so much.
It's not that I'm lonely as such, more, soul-blackeningly bored and, thanks to that terrible, beautiful thing known as the internet, more aware than ever of how utterly without merit my existence is.
I may have mentioned that thing called the twitter? And that people go on there and they type out the contents of their heads and their stomachs and, quite often, their underwear? And that I have gone on there and tried to do the same? And because that's what everyone's doing, it should be a total piece of piss to join in and witter endlessly on about tits and ConDems fucking everything up and how much you hate the tv show you're watching? And that people will just read whatever shit your fingers fart out via the medium of keyboard and think you are awesome and chat to you and all that?
Except.
Except I go on that there twitter and am still somehow identifiably covered in people repellent.
I try being funny. I try being weird. I try being melancholy. I try listing stuff I like. I generously retweet other peoples' opinions that I think I would quite like to have had myself (if I could be remotely arsed to form opinions on anything whatsoever anymore. But that's a whole other load of old wank). And am pretty roundly ignored.
And I have stared to realize that the reason why, in the offline world, no one has ever really liked me or wished to be seen in public with me, the reason why people turn off the lights and pretend to be dead when I drop by isn't that I am some uniquely 'ungettable' specimen of humanity, that I am a dodecahedron of awesomeness forced into the round hole of humdrum existence. No. It is simply this.
I am a boring twat with nothing to say.
I am a boring twat with absolutely nothing to offer the universe.
I am a boring twat who lacks even the merest hint of a talent or skill.
I am a boring twat who has made it a point never to try because that way I can never, ever fail.
I am a boring twat who is paralyzed with terror at the thought of someone seeing me for who I am or, even worse, who I fervently dream of being.
I am a boring twat who has no idea who they actually are, other than being a boring twat.
I am a boring twat who writes interminable, self-pitying, blog posts analyzing all the reasons why I am a boring, friendless, twat.
I am a boring twat who can't even furnish their blog post with a conclusion.
In actual fact I believe I was born coated, not in your usual womb juices, but in actual people repellent.
I have the social skills of a damp face-cloth. Actually, a damp face-cloth quite probably has better social skills, evidenced by its occasional contact with an actual human face.
Small talk is beyond me. I'm not baffled by it or anything like that, I just can't do it. I can never think of a single thing to say. Nothing. This is particularly strange to me as my brain usually teems with the sort of inconsequential nonsense perfect for such situations all the live long day. In fact, my mind probably most closely resembles a busy ring-road heaving with tiny inanity & trivia stuffed vehicles going about their idiotic business. This road is so horrendously jammed with this flow of stupid traffic that any possibly intelligent or deep thoughts that may also come into being lie trapped beyond it, with no way out other than to chuck themselves in front of the juggernauts of dumb. And that is where nosebleeds come from. Or something. What am I? A fucking doctor?
What were we talking about?
Oh yes. I can't talk to people. So I don't have any friends. Oh, I managed to snag me a boyfriend some 126 years ago and it was such a relief to have done so that I have doggedly held onto him despite...well...let's just leave it at despite. Mostly my hanging on for dear life meant I didn't have to go through that whole awful meeting-and-talking-to-lots-of-different-people-until-you-find-someone-with-whom-you-think-you-could-discuss-mortgages-without-wanting-to-weep-at-the-loss-of-your-youth-before-turning-the-gun-on-yourself. Because that's a thing people look for in potential partners isn't it? But he is a rare exception. Mostly I have passed through life making no impression on anyone. If, for example, I was the focus of It's a Wonderful Life, Clarence would amble up to me as I clung on to the bridge, simply shrug and say "s'up to you mate".
And I have been at peace with this for quite some time.
But recently...I don't know. Not so much.
It's not that I'm lonely as such, more, soul-blackeningly bored and, thanks to that terrible, beautiful thing known as the internet, more aware than ever of how utterly without merit my existence is.
I may have mentioned that thing called the twitter? And that people go on there and they type out the contents of their heads and their stomachs and, quite often, their underwear? And that I have gone on there and tried to do the same? And because that's what everyone's doing, it should be a total piece of piss to join in and witter endlessly on about tits and ConDems fucking everything up and how much you hate the tv show you're watching? And that people will just read whatever shit your fingers fart out via the medium of keyboard and think you are awesome and chat to you and all that?
Except.
Except I go on that there twitter and am still somehow identifiably covered in people repellent.
I try being funny. I try being weird. I try being melancholy. I try listing stuff I like. I generously retweet other peoples' opinions that I think I would quite like to have had myself (if I could be remotely arsed to form opinions on anything whatsoever anymore. But that's a whole other load of old wank). And am pretty roundly ignored.
And I have stared to realize that the reason why, in the offline world, no one has ever really liked me or wished to be seen in public with me, the reason why people turn off the lights and pretend to be dead when I drop by isn't that I am some uniquely 'ungettable' specimen of humanity, that I am a dodecahedron of awesomeness forced into the round hole of humdrum existence. No. It is simply this.
I am a boring twat with nothing to say.
I am a boring twat with absolutely nothing to offer the universe.
I am a boring twat who lacks even the merest hint of a talent or skill.
I am a boring twat who has made it a point never to try because that way I can never, ever fail.
I am a boring twat who is paralyzed with terror at the thought of someone seeing me for who I am or, even worse, who I fervently dream of being.
I am a boring twat who has no idea who they actually are, other than being a boring twat.
I am a boring twat who writes interminable, self-pitying, blog posts analyzing all the reasons why I am a boring, friendless, twat.
I am a boring twat who can't even furnish their blog post with a conclusion.
And you realise your plan is a not good one but carry on regardless
I am no longer afraid of dying.
And I am afraid of that.
And I am afraid of that.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Apropos Of Nothing
Hundreds of years ago, when the this here internet was all just fields, I used to work in a d.i.y. store. It was...let me see...hmmm...yes....the worst fucking job I ever had. You know, except for aaaaaall the others.
I hadn't been working there very long when one day a man came in & hung about the aisle with all the white spirit in it. He seemed quite sweet, in his clean if shabby tweed jacket and red bow tie. He walked straight up to me and began chatting.
He twinkled away to me about the weather and what promising adventures I might have lined up for the weekend, and as he did so he nonchalantly picked up a 2 large bottles of methylated spirit and put them in his trolley. He smiled and chuckled his way through a little more small talk before wending his merry way off to the checkouts.
And I said to myself, there goes the jolliest old soul I have ever encountered.
And later that afternoon, I passed by that same old man sprawled across a flowerbed near the store, shitfaced, with a half empty meths bottle under his arm.
I mention this for no special reason other than it is a memory that has been keeping me awake a bit lately. And I'm not really sure why.
I hadn't been working there very long when one day a man came in & hung about the aisle with all the white spirit in it. He seemed quite sweet, in his clean if shabby tweed jacket and red bow tie. He walked straight up to me and began chatting.
He twinkled away to me about the weather and what promising adventures I might have lined up for the weekend, and as he did so he nonchalantly picked up a 2 large bottles of methylated spirit and put them in his trolley. He smiled and chuckled his way through a little more small talk before wending his merry way off to the checkouts.
And I said to myself, there goes the jolliest old soul I have ever encountered.
And later that afternoon, I passed by that same old man sprawled across a flowerbed near the store, shitfaced, with a half empty meths bottle under his arm.
I mention this for no special reason other than it is a memory that has been keeping me awake a bit lately. And I'm not really sure why.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
I See What You've Done There
Whenever I hear this
I imagine this
I think we can all agree that my imagination is quite poorly.
I imagine this
I think we can all agree that my imagination is quite poorly.
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Converses With Idiots
A Screenplay. Based on events that happened and which were recounted in a furiously early in the morning phone-call to the writer who wasn't really awake yet.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FADE IN: INT. A SUPERMARKET - DAY
A strip-lit headache in chrome & despair.
People from everywalk of life episode of Jeremy Kyle you've ever seen mill about by the fag counter which also doubles as the customer service desk (probably so you can buy cigarettes with which to hasten your death after being on the receiving end of a customer service).
We PAN ALONG the huddle of people who apparently believe they are forming a queue and ZOOM IN on SOME WOMAN, a customer whose only desire is to return a cd, then fuck off home to eat biscuits.
SOME WOMAN (stepping up to the counter):
Hello there SATURDAY EMPLOYEE! Good to see you.
CLOSE UP of the blank face of SATURDAY EMPLOYEE who remains silent.
CUT TO face of SOME WOMAN who has just finished rolling her eyes.
SOME WOMAN: I would totally like to return this cd of Shrieking Harpy & The Steampunks please. And look, here is my receipt so there should be absolutely no problem here yeah?
CUT TO the blank face of SATURDAY EMPLOYEE
SATURDAY: Can't....Becaaaaaause...errrrrrrmmmm... Copyright law? Yeah. Copyright law.
CUT TO SOME WOMAN. Her face shows that she is trying to decide between laughing and killing herself, right there, by the Kit Kats.
SOME WOMAN: Er....lolwut?
SATURDAY (mercifully off-screen): Copyright law. Can't return CDs.
(turning to address MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY EMPLOYEE who is pretending to count boxes of Silk Cut and studiously ignoring the bellowing mass of increasingly irritated lottery ticket purchasees waiting to throw their pounds into the void)
Because of Somali pirates?
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (nodding as though her neck muscles know no fear): The copyright law.
SOME WOMAN: I don't believe you know what you are talking about. Did I mention my receipt?
SATURDAY: Copyright law. Illegal to refund cds because it...funds.....terrorism. You know, cuz of the...the....the pirates.
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (still nodding): Pirates.
SOME WOMAN (attempting to use humour to prevent herself from pelting SATURDAY with tic-tacs): Maybe I should've left the parrot at home today then! A Ha hahaha ha...ha ha......cough.
TRACKING SHOT of a tumbleweed rolling along the top of the counter separating SOME WOMAN from SATURDAY & MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY.
SOME WOMAN: So, listen. IANAL but AFAIK...
SATURDAY: You talk like an internet.
SOME WOMAN: Yes. I can sometimes pass as a kidz. Anyway, copyright law has nothing to do with anything. Copyright law is all sorts of crazy about who is able to collect royalties on creative works, where and when stuff can be sold and how much they should get paid and junk. Copyright law has nothing to say on the matter of refunding CDs. It is not relevant. What is relevant though is the Sale of Goods Act which does not in any way exempt retailers from refunding CDs. I do understand that you do not have to offer me a refund or an exchange, even with a receipt, unless the product is faulty which this is not. Except if you count the singing of Shrieking Harpy which most definitely is faulty. It is, however, generally viewed as good practice to offer refunds in other circumstances, especially if the customer is returning a quite clearly unused product in the state in which it was purchased accompanied by a BASTARD BLOODY RECEIPT LIKE THIS ONE!
SOME WOMAN holds receipt up to camera.
SATURDAY: Copyright law.
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (now nodding so viciously her head has become little more that a yellow/blue blur of perm & eyeshadow): Pirates. Pirates opened the packaging.
SOME WOMAN: YOU SOLD IT TO ME LIKE THIS!
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (her head now moving so fast it's addressing SATURDAY from another dimension): Look! You can see the hook marks on the box!
SOME WOMAN (weeping): All I wanted was to be able to fuck off home and eat biscuits!
SOME WOMAN throws herself across the counter where she lays sobbing loudly.
FADE TO BLACK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The most important thing to note here is that this screenplay passes the Bechdel Test. I expect the offers to direct to come pouring in any day now. Any day now.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FADE IN: INT. A SUPERMARKET - DAY
A strip-lit headache in chrome & despair.
People from every
We PAN ALONG the huddle of people who apparently believe they are forming a queue and ZOOM IN on SOME WOMAN, a customer whose only desire is to return a cd, then fuck off home to eat biscuits.
SOME WOMAN (stepping up to the counter):
Hello there SATURDAY EMPLOYEE! Good to see you.
CLOSE UP of the blank face of SATURDAY EMPLOYEE who remains silent.
CUT TO face of SOME WOMAN who has just finished rolling her eyes.
SOME WOMAN: I would totally like to return this cd of Shrieking Harpy & The Steampunks please. And look, here is my receipt so there should be absolutely no problem here yeah?
CUT TO the blank face of SATURDAY EMPLOYEE
SATURDAY: Can't....Becaaaaaause...errrrrrrmmmm... Copyright law? Yeah. Copyright law.
CUT TO SOME WOMAN. Her face shows that she is trying to decide between laughing and killing herself, right there, by the Kit Kats.
SOME WOMAN: Er....lolwut?
SATURDAY (mercifully off-screen): Copyright law. Can't return CDs.
(turning to address MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY EMPLOYEE who is pretending to count boxes of Silk Cut and studiously ignoring the bellowing mass of increasingly irritated lottery ticket purchasees waiting to throw their pounds into the void)
Because of Somali pirates?
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (nodding as though her neck muscles know no fear): The copyright law.
SOME WOMAN: I don't believe you know what you are talking about. Did I mention my receipt?
SATURDAY: Copyright law. Illegal to refund cds because it...funds.....terrorism. You know, cuz of the...the....the pirates.
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (still nodding): Pirates.
SOME WOMAN (attempting to use humour to prevent herself from pelting SATURDAY with tic-tacs): Maybe I should've left the parrot at home today then! A Ha hahaha ha...ha ha......cough.
TRACKING SHOT of a tumbleweed rolling along the top of the counter separating SOME WOMAN from SATURDAY & MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY.
SOME WOMAN: So, listen. IANAL but AFAIK...
SATURDAY: You talk like an internet.
SOME WOMAN: Yes. I can sometimes pass as a kidz. Anyway, copyright law has nothing to do with anything. Copyright law is all sorts of crazy about who is able to collect royalties on creative works, where and when stuff can be sold and how much they should get paid and junk. Copyright law has nothing to say on the matter of refunding CDs. It is not relevant. What is relevant though is the Sale of Goods Act which does not in any way exempt retailers from refunding CDs. I do understand that you do not have to offer me a refund or an exchange, even with a receipt, unless the product is faulty which this is not. Except if you count the singing of Shrieking Harpy which most definitely is faulty. It is, however, generally viewed as good practice to offer refunds in other circumstances, especially if the customer is returning a quite clearly unused product in the state in which it was purchased accompanied by a BASTARD BLOODY RECEIPT LIKE THIS ONE!
SOME WOMAN holds receipt up to camera.
SATURDAY: Copyright law.
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (now nodding so viciously her head has become little more that a yellow/blue blur of perm & eyeshadow): Pirates. Pirates opened the packaging.
SOME WOMAN: YOU SOLD IT TO ME LIKE THIS!
MONDAY TUESDAY THURSDAY SATURDAY & SUNDAY (her head now moving so fast it's addressing SATURDAY from another dimension): Look! You can see the hook marks on the box!
SOME WOMAN (weeping): All I wanted was to be able to fuck off home and eat biscuits!
SOME WOMAN throws herself across the counter where she lays sobbing loudly.
FADE TO BLACK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The most important thing to note here is that this screenplay passes the Bechdel Test. I expect the offers to direct to come pouring in any day now. Any day now.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
..then I took an arrow to the enjoyment centre of my brain
Here are a thing I enjoyed in 2011
Game of the Year - Pheasant.
A-ha-ha-ha.
But seriously.
Game of the Year - There's this game my 2 year old niece made up where we sit by the back door and scan the skies during daylight hours, looking for the moon. Should we be lucky enough to see it we have to shake our fists at it furiously and yell 'clear off you pesky moon'. We do this until the earth has spent enough hours turning away from said moon (quite possibly in disgust) that it disappears from view OR one of us (me) is asleep. There is also a slightly more complicated version of this game that requires me to purchase and then don various items of invisible space clothing first so I can go up into space to bust the moon right in its chops but the invisible equipment I am required to purchase from my niece is prohibitively expensive.
Anyway, the point is that playing this repetitive and strangely exhausting game with a toddler for hours and hours on end is still a more fun, more satisfying and less disappointing experience than playing any portion of Skyrim for any length of time whatsoever.
So, to reiterate, the 'shouting violent, if impotent, threats at an indifferent celestial body' game that sprang from the still developing brain of a tiny child is my pick for game of the year. And not Skyrim.
Game of the Year - Pheasant.
A-ha-ha-ha.
But seriously.
Game of the Year - There's this game my 2 year old niece made up where we sit by the back door and scan the skies during daylight hours, looking for the moon. Should we be lucky enough to see it we have to shake our fists at it furiously and yell 'clear off you pesky moon'. We do this until the earth has spent enough hours turning away from said moon (quite possibly in disgust) that it disappears from view OR one of us (me) is asleep. There is also a slightly more complicated version of this game that requires me to purchase and then don various items of invisible space clothing first so I can go up into space to bust the moon right in its chops but the invisible equipment I am required to purchase from my niece is prohibitively expensive.
Anyway, the point is that playing this repetitive and strangely exhausting game with a toddler for hours and hours on end is still a more fun, more satisfying and less disappointing experience than playing any portion of Skyrim for any length of time whatsoever.
So, to reiterate, the 'shouting violent, if impotent, threats at an indifferent celestial body' game that sprang from the still developing brain of a tiny child is my pick for game of the year. And not Skyrim.
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