Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Creativity and Screenwriting in the time of Covid19.

“Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.”
― Anthony G. Oettinger

Well, if there was ever irrefutable evidence for Be careful what you wish for, then Lockdown is it. Who doesn’t want to spend every day at home instead of going into work? Erm, ‘Us’ screams a shrill nation having changed their opinion on this long-held view overnight.

How IS it going? The country is brimming with writers and creatives enjoying everything they ever wanted: time on their hands. No more crying into the soup that life gets in the way of creativity. But now there’s no life to write about, unless you’re a writer of pandemic apocalypses. Lockdown has broken society, and dragged all concept of time beneath the waves with it.

It started so well. Yay, it’s a holiday at home! Initially, and when I say initially, I mean for the first three minutes, lockdown seemed like the best thing since colour television. All those things you meant to do could finally be achieved, like watching WW2 movies during the day, lie in the garden, enjoy a proper hour-long tea break, (cough), I mean learn Spanish, practice magic tricks, paint the house, refine arguments against chlorinated chicken, etc. But before you could say ‘inevitable blanket bombing of homemade sourdough bread across all social media platforms’ the reality of lockdown kicked in like an injured moose at a final year ceramics show.

Somehow the more time there is, the less gets done. A groom can still arrive on time for his wedding if he’s overslept on the overnight sleeper to Carlisle whilst still wearing a sequinned tutu and Learner plate, but give him a fortnight and he’ll still be deliberating his sartorial choice of tie as he walks down the aisle. Meanwhile, during this time of coronavirus, the main activity of the day appears to be forwarding gifs from one wassap group you have no idea why you’re a member of to another.

The lockdown even temporally cured FOMO, everyone was at home doing the laundry, but then Zoom arrived – a kind of also-ran conferencing app that is currently upgrading its Christmas party from Basingstoke’s Harvester restaurant to Claridges. Now there’s always some Zoom party you’ve not been invited to. Although you’re not missing much, it basically involves waiting your turn to say something, which by the time the opportunity arrives your snappy comment is irrelevant, or someone else has just said it. You may as well send retorts by post.

So, in between bulletins on world leaders not really knowing what the fuck to do, while their economies tank in the background like it’s 1928, and medics sign off any death by respiratory disease as Covid19, this is the finest opportunity to feel guilty for not writing since the Christmas holidays. It has long been claimed that creativity is discovering your inner child, although the lockdown reveals the truth. Parents have been uncovering that the magical advice of being in touch with your inner child doesn’t actually involve fearlessly inventive playfulness, but hysterical tantrums when asked to do anything at all, such as going to a park, and eating the same thing everyday.

Writing needs inspiration, which is thin on the ground, unless you count TV boxsets, and no one needs a thinly disguised retread of Breaking Bad, although Ozark somehow successfully achieves this by transferring the concept of continual firefighting during the worst day ever to the verdant Missouri. It’s a greener Breaking Bad, but perhaps not in the way environmentalists might prefer. If your creative juices are more frozen than penguin slippers worry not, take inspiration where you can.

What an opportunity for writers to point well-sharpened pencils in the direction of a screenplay. Adapting from an already written book makes things easier as you have an established roadmap. Some writers already have this when writing novels, but like the sun its best not to look at them directly; it hurts. Of course a TV pilot episode might be the last desperate attempt to wring something from an idea that didn’t sell as a novel. It’s basically tilting the fridge on one side to decant the vestiges of milk spilt in the door shelf. Yet, there might be enough to make milkshake.

As with any writing a screenplay is never finished. Every read through finds minutiae changes until it’s tighter than a french beret. On the 5th read-through for my recent script the height of the fireplace in scene 34 was lowered an inch, the car was parked neater to the curb, and the removed comma was replaced in the bar scene so noisy that when filmed no one will hear the speech, much less the punctuation. But, what’s great is it’s a collaboration. This means that each party can take credit for the good lines, regardless as to whether they wrote them, and disown any poor writing as responsibility of the other person. It’s perfect. And with the raising demand in TV shows what better time to be writing one. At least that’s the theory.

The second Life Assistance Agency novel Unfinished Business is out now. It’s the most important book since How to Avoid Huge Ships by Cpt. John. W. Trimmer.’

April 30, 2020 1

PANDEMIC! What’s going on…

“The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.” Albert Camus.

What’s going on? One minute we’re clamouring for less time at work, the next we have so much time at home that we actually want to do some DIY, only we can’t because employees at homeware shops have been asked to stay at home. Now we can’t go there’s an almost palpable desire to attend work, so much so that employers must be wondering why they’ve been paying anyone. The world is upside down, or rather paused while its populous search for the TV remote down the back of the Atlantic. Parents have bought trampolines large enough to land helicopters on, and watching the Irishman becomes a good idea.

Only a few weeks ago shopping was something you did as vague necessity; a sort of blur in the side-vision of life. Now it’s of upmost interest; no one returns from the shops without a proper debrief as to what was purchased, what was left in the shop and whether the gentlemen’s relish was still there. It’s no longer shopping, it’s foraging.

Things have calmed down a little since a fortnight ago. It’s now almost disappointing to buy a loaf of break without elbowing someone in the face. There we were gleefully backing Securicor vans up to the door of Sainsbury’s for some crumpets and the last pack of dissolvable aspirin in damaged packaging, but now we can go shopping without requiring use of basic self defence skills.

When I say calmed down, I use that term loosely. We are all still in our houses instagramming photos of sourdough bread and becoming tech experts on Zoom, Houseparty and Skype. I prefer Houseparty because people are in circles as opposed to squares. This is the kind of preference that didn’t exist until yesterday. We now ring people up and ask which room they’re in. I mean how much longer can this go on before it all appears absurd? They closed the pubs for chrissakes.

I can’t remember people being so obedient, acquiescing and wearing facemarks while driving, not leaving their homes and queuing up in perfect 6 foot distances outside shops. I’ve spent most of my life wanting people to say ‘hey man. you got it.’ Now I’d prefer it if they don’t. Watching TV used to be a treat, now it’s routine. These precautions are important to reduce the spread of CO-19, but it’s mad nonetheless.

What is endearing is the sudden interest in the minutiae of lives. I rang someone up who was unable to talk because they were out getting dinner. I had to ask what hunting rifle they were using.

Ironically the only people who might have missed the current self-isolation are those who’ve been in isolation. They’ll be released from the high security wing to discover the planet is in CAP LOCKS Pandemic. It’s as though someone has tripped over the power cable to disconnect everything, and instead of admitting to it, have instead made up a huge cover story that no one has questioned. There’s no planes in the sky, no nightclubs, or pubs, or park table tennis, or brushing shoulders with strangers. Ok, I guess the last one is a good thing.

The greatest challenge is to not buy too much on line. Two rules in life are to not buy records online drunk – there should be breathalisers attached to laptops – and always have room for a helipad before buying a helicopter. Home lockdown certainly allows you to identify the most prized house items, namely the TV and a tin opener. And a telescope, to spy on the neighbours, not for any pervy reasons, but simply to ensure they’re not watching anything better on Netflix.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned its how little I miss cars and planes. It’s so quiet. Those living under the flightpath at Hounslow might be struggling to sleep having nightly braced themselves for planes landing every 45 seconds, but the peacefulness is almost bucolic. I’ve benefited too much from capitalism to denounce it – most of us have – despite its flaws it works – but my goodness it makes a racket. However, will more people die from the stalling of the global economy than of CO-19? Have we jumped off a cliff to escape a nasty wasp? Who knows. When all this dies down, which is exactly what you should not say during this time, I suspect there will be far more questions than answers, but when was that ever any different.

With all this time on your hands what a wonderful opportunity to read Unfinished Business – the sequel to the WHSmith Fresh Talent novel The Life Assistance Agency.

April 1, 2020 2

Coronavirus Lock-Down. How to Self Isolate…

“We don’t heal in isolation, but in community.” S. Kelley Harrell

*On no account should you follow this advice. It’s whimsical and whimsy can now kill.

Be careful what you wish for. Here we all are. All working from home due to Coronavirus, which my spellcheck already recognises. We are housebound like we’d prayed for every Monday morning since we started working; all those prayers for an extra day in bed have been answered. But, how will we survive? It’s all very well wanting time at home because you’re too hungover to get the post from the doormat, but sober? What are we going to do with all this time?

For most writers this is sort of self-isolation comes naturally, although having government-sanctioned marksmen on rooftops with L115A3 rifles trained on front doors to prevent you from leaving probably puts a different slant on staying at home to nail that 13th chapter. If it works writers will be privately securing the services of snipers to keep them indoors for years to come, although sadly, in light of publishing houses having no funds even for in-house editors, this expense is likely to hit the pocket of the writers themselves. But in this crisis writers FINALLY come into their own; the experienced veterans of solitariness. They are skilled.

Here is not the place to discuss whether government advice to stay at home is enforced or not, but rather to consider what to do if you are self-isolating. We are facing weeks, if not months, of living like Charlie’s grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In fact there’s so few people on the street that it’s now the safest place to be.

So, here is a brief list of useful advice on what to do during LockDown, which already sounds like a Dolph Lundgren movie.

TV:

It’s like a TV amnesty, where no one can ruin the latest boxset at the water cooler by giving away the ending. You can also make up your own mind as to what’s good, as opposed to what you’re supposed to be liking. It has been calculated by no one that there are enough TV shows available to keep mankind watching well into the next century, but only two months of it is any good.

Clearly the first thing that comes to mind is to actually watch the Irishman on Netflix; if you can deal with Robert De Niro looking odd, and Joe Pesci underfed. Perhaps after 4 weeks of home lockdown they’ll look normal. This will in fact keep you amused for at least half of the suggested 14 days, but what to do next?

Write a TV show:

Having watched everything decent on Netflix, and even C5 catch up, you’re in the perfect position to write a new TV series. It’s like you’ve been studying the art form. I’m saying this because I’ve just written the pilot episode of the Life Assistance Agency, but once the embargo is lifted no one is going to want to watch TV ever again, at least until there is something new on. So write it.

Learn how to distinguish between a full and half Windsor knot, and to tie the former.

This is to ensure you’re properly attired upon our release from house arrest. We risk all turning into Julian Assange and look how quickly the Venezuelan embassy, and even the Guardian, tired of him. If he hadn’t stopped brushing his hair this might have been avoided.

Think about the weather:

Who we should be feeling sorry for during all this is the weather. Remember that? It used to be at the centre of our lives. We would talk about it incessantly. We would even walk in it, bathe in it and run in it. it was our furry companion, our sepia-drenched memories and our childhood familiar; it was our ‘go to’ for dependable chat. It’s now tapping at the window saying “remember me?” It has spent the last two weeks watching the viewing figures of the Weather Forecast plummet through the fingers of its hands. There’s a new obsession in town.

Don’t get the acoustic guitar out.

Some poor lass in Bergamo Italy has a partner who is a folk singer. He is serenading her with acoustic guitar. She is nodding gamely along, but it’s only day one. I can only assume that he will wake up with it wrapped around his head before the week’s out if he carries on. To be fair he probably did announce he was a folk singer on their first date, if not in opening line of their first date, so she’s kind of culpable.

Play with yourself:

Lockdown is going to play havoc with – for Facebook censoring reasons – ‘self-loving’ patterns. Not having the house to yourself can curtail all sorts of behaviour. Biscuits accompanying tea will be halved, whilst the afternoon nap will be abolished in the name of purposefulness, whatever the hell that is. God, no one is going to want to work from home ever again. Or we’ll have become so Stockholm syndrome-d that we can never leave the house again.

Order a new phone:

What better opportunity to feel overwhelmed by the inability to transfer data from your old phone. I’ve delayed getting a new phone for so long that its battery lasts barely long enough for me to reach the station in the morning, but it’s been worth plugging it in every four yards to avoid accidentally deleting countless early pictures of the children on countless playground slides that I never look at when transferring to a new phone.

I want a dog:

Once we’re banned from the streets, for anything but essential activities we will need some excuse to go out, and what better than a dog. You won’t be allowed out without one. Owners can rent them out, as is happening in Italy already. Unless that was just made up. I’m sure I heard someone say it. Or write it. Anyway, tt does rather question why it’s crucial to exercise dogs and not humans, I guess this is covered in the small print.

Listen to the Ian Wright Desert Island Discs:

It is the most touching and honest 45 minutes you can have, with some great tunes. Even if you don’t like football it is well worth a listen. However, be warned, you might use up a day’s rations of toilet paper in lieu of tissues.

Go swimming:

The pools are empty, yet full of chlorine. I’m aware chlorine is enemy no.1 in some parts, but surely it kills the coronavirus. Just jump in. In fact the safest place to be is on a lilo in the middle of a large swimming pool with a rope pulley system for Deliveroo to deliver food.

Buy books:

I’m not going to shamelessly plug my novel quite yet, give that a few more lines, but embrace sitting in an armchair reading a book, as you always promise you do, but don’t. I’m aware that children will be squabbling over the TV remote and might be getting restless after 8 hours of PS4, but still, take a little time to de-screen. I recently finished Washington Black by Esi Edugyan, which was brilliant.

Lastly:

Keep washing your hands, preferably in 97% proof Brut aftershave, which also makes you smell like a 1950’s barbers. And stay sane. Stick your head out the window occasionally, check on elderly neighbours, and stay away well from acoustic guitars.

And here it is, the inevitable plug of my novels, that really are brilliant and a good way to spend Lockdown, at least once everything else runs out. It can even be used for waving at people across the street. The Life Assistance Agency was a WHSmith Fresh Talent novel, and it’s sequel Unfinished Business wasn’t, which is a shame because it’s also a cracking adventure read.

I can be purchased at Foyles here:

https://www.foyles.co.uk/witem/fiction-poetry/the-life-assistance-agency,tom-hocknell-9781911129035

And at Amazon here:

March 18, 2020 2

Never Give Up on Creativity.

“Always stop with a victory.”

Robert Greene, The 48 Laws of Power

What is it with starting things? We are constantly told how we should be doing more. And advice in leading fuller, more enriched lives invariably concerns starting something. Apart from cars. If they’re not starting you may as well buy a new one, they’re like kettles these days. The pressure to start something far outnumbers how to finish something 10 to, well, I’m not sure actually, I started that statistic with no idea how to complete it.

Every journey starts with a single step – before going back for your phone charger – but when should we stop? A journey might start on the London Underground’s Circle Line, but if we don’t get off we’re just going around in circles. Well, in fact we’re not because it isn’t really a circle, it’s more the shape of a small wading bird, but no one’s ever going to recommend you get the small wading bird line to Sloane Square. In fact, at closer inspection the Circle Line is the shape of Sandpiper, which now sounds like the best line on the network. It would also demand the phrase ‘I’m going around in bloody Sandpipers’ when frustrated.

Anyway, when to stop. We know all about starting, but how about stopping something. Giving it up. There came a time when spooning three table spoons of sugar into a mug of tea became socially unacceptable. Even builders appear to have reduced their sugars to two. One even had his own sweeteners, although sadly not mounted on his utility belt. it was a sad sight, those little dots of sucralose making as much of a splash in the tea as his daily calorie intake.

There’s as much art in knowing when to stop as there is in starting a project. Knowing when to stop editing a book is definitely an art; if you’re not watchful then editing can become simply reestablishing what was was removed the last time.

These days, from Facebook spats, to Twitter pile-ins, to sanctimonious cyclists, to the seemingly endless need to feel offended, no one seems to know when to stop. Most TV series suffer from this, even the highly rated Peaky Blinders, the recent series of which seems to involve Tommy Shelby wearing increasingly huge Baker-boy tweed caps and looking on moodily as rival gangs clash in a slo-mo videos for authentic rock music. It’s all very pretty to look at, until you realise that, bar the tailoring, that it all stopped making sense several seasons ago.

It can be the same with writing, and other creative endeavours. We are as sensitive to negative feedback as we are in need of approval and praise. Plenty of writers give up on novels, which is the sort of news sending optimists into a tailspin, as they desperately flick through positive-thinking prompt cards to counter such defeatist negativity. But, sometimes it might be a good idea.

Bad reviews can hurt. After attempting to drown himself in the sea Evelyn Waugh burned The Temple at Thatch, his unpublished first novel in 1925, after a friend gave it a bad review. Waugh got off lightly after being stung by a jelly fish. Harper Lee famously never followed up To Kill a Mocking Bird, until 55 years later when her Go Set a Watchman was published, which was effectively a first draft of her other book. She had said after her huge success that “When you’re at the top there’s only one way to go.” Her publisher should never have paid heed.

Writers are sometimes correct in giving up. Truman Capote’s follow up to In Cold Blood was Answered Prayers, which was posthumously published, and described by critics as: “It was never finished because it wasn’t going anywhere.” It also upset so many of his friends that it propelled him into depression. If only he’d left it in the drawer, or even better, his head.

Writing is a difficult beast. The absence of words can crush a writer, but beware of being creative for the sake of protecting yourself from not being creative. This might sound rather meta, but Richard Price abandoned his 1970s novel Home Fires because its impetus was panic about not having a novel to work on. It’s all very well banging away in the shed, but if you’re not making anything then it’s pointless.

So, when do you give up? Writing a novel is a big ask, which often appears to have no answer. You are making such tiny steps that they feel unrelated to any progression. Perhaps this is simply hitting the wall, as marathon runners put it; when you’ve had enough of slipping across ankle-deep plastic bottles and want to lie down under some kitchen foil. Is it something to overcome, or to embrace? No one can tell you, although there is the sense that Harper Lee and Capote’s instinct told them to abandon their books, but under pressure from their publishers did not.

Mind you, abandoned novels can be a crucial part of the process. John Updike wrote two thirds of the unpublished Willow, before abandoning it, although it bled into subsequent books. However, he did return to its themes in subsequent short stories. ‘A writer – I suppose any artist – will tackle something again and again until he sort of does it.’ He said, adding that the abandoned Willow was not a wasted effort, simply a premature one.

Starting something is celebrated, while stopping is heartbreaking and frowned upon. It’s your call, make it. But, it’s unlikely to be wasted time. Every tiny moment of our lives impacts upon us like dust on an old piano; you don’t notice but eventually it will bury us. And if it means occasionally throwing yourself in the sea then at least it cleans the dust off.

Unfinished Business is the sequel to the WHSmith Fresh Talent novel the Life Assistance Agency, and can be purchased here: it’s pure escapism, a rollicking read.

It is also available at Foyles, and local bookshops.

https://www.foyles.co.uk/witem/fiction-poetry/the-life-assistance-agency,tom-hocknell-9781911129035

March 9, 2020 5

Why do Writers like Walking..?

“My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She’s ninety-seven now and we don’t know where the hell she is.” Ellen De Generes.

BBC radio is currently hooked on programmes about walking, which can only be assumed were recorded at a time of year when rambling is a good idea, as opposed to February where the pull of the nearest pub or cafe marks the furthest reach of any expedition, unless you enjoy swearing at the rain.

It was news to me that writers even like walking. I thought they preferred thinking about that sort of extreme sport, rather than participate. But it’s good to hear that a harmless pastime is now identified as another symptom caused by compulsion to write join words together. I can see why writers might enjoy walking, as like skydiving it’s hard to write while you’re doing it, yet it is more accessible. Or, is it? Walking in the 1970s was popular because it was preferable to sitting in a Ford Cortina, where artic blasts at speeds above 20mph cut through all occupants from the rust-holed bodywork with the ease of a category 5 gale. It didn’t matter how hard you gripped the thermos flask; it was the sort of cold that you take to the grave, besides, the thermos negatively impacted the ability to steer.

Contrary to popular belief people walk more in the city than the countryside. I have no evidence for this beyond the fact that rural folk drive to their gym. However, I can’t believe the flow of people trampling across London Bridge into the City every morning are writers, all considering it as crucial reverie cueing up a day spent burning their fingertips in a haze of creative electricity. They’re all too preoccupied with why they didn’t stop at the Pound shop at the weekend to buy forks for the staff kitchen, the absence of which will make them furious at lunchtime. I’ve always liked walking. The lunchtime stroll made going into work worthwhile; I fell upon (not in) forgotten Victorian squares, private parks, and canals I’d never have visited otherwise.

Wordsworth was certainly a passionate walker, but of course the pastime du jour is cycling, where middle age men can publicly slap their balls against leather without the expense of a Mistress, although there’s so little change from £12, 000 for a Pinarello Dogma F12 Disc Sram Red eTap AXS 2020 that it’s easy to see why even successful writers like Wordsworth might prefer to walk. Besides, a climb up a fell providing views across lake Windermere is surely preferable to staring at ‘Dulwich Cycling Club’ on the back of the next cyclist’s lycra top, as alternative to watching a 50-year old male arse, and avoiding discarded plastic water bottles in the road.

So, what kind of walk is it that writers like? I’m sure their partners fully support such endeavours, so long as they grab some milk while they’re out. And unless one lives overlooking a Regents Park demanding a stroll, a walk, like life, requires purpose. Having a dog is a good start, although letting it off the lead so it disappears, leaving you ineffectually shouting its name for twenty minutes probably only inspires anyone within earshot to demand you pipe down. PG Wodehouse had dogs, but they were pekinese, so probably don’t count. Cats are probably better suited to writers – self-obsessed and with little need for exercise.

Apparently Karl Ove Knausgaard didn’t write a single line of literary prose in the time a dog was in his possession, for which some of us might grateful, and wish he had owned more. I have no issue with his writing, but it does need the sort of edit that the lack of writing due to canine distraction may have been helpful with. Editing seems to be rather passé, like parasols. Of course it’s important to remember at this point that Jane Smiley had a German shorthaired pointer, and Ian Fleming had several terriers presumably trained to not spill the 6pm martini at his Goldeneye villa. Let’s also not forget Arthur C Clarke had a monkey, and STILL wrote over a dozen books. So much for monkey business.

I’m currently getting so little writing done that owning a dog can’t impact upon it. I spend a lot of time alone, so it’ll be good to be tripping over something. I’m aware this is the kind of insane thing people say before the dog arrives and spend the next 10 years swearing at it persistently obstructing anywhere you want to go, like a mythical burden that won’t release you. Watch this space. If the blogs dry up you’ll know where I am: shouting a dog’s name at some bushes, before being asked to pipe down by passers-by looking for some peace.

The two novels I wrote before dog ownership are the Life Assistance Agency (which was awarded WHSmith Fresh Talent) and Unfinished Business and are available here:

February 14, 2020 4

Pet Shop Boys – Hot Spot : a review

“There comes a time in everyone’s life, when all of the parties every night, they’re not enough. You want something more.” Why don’t we live together?

Hotspot, the new Pet Shop Boys album arrives at an unusual time for the duo. They have found themselves feted by the younger generation like never before, yet coincides with what feels like a victory lap of a forthcoming greatest hits tour called the anodyne Dreamworld, where it should be called Our Early Stuff. This follows Neil Tennant’s 2018 book compiling his best lyrics. It almost feels as though the singer/lyricist knows his best years are behind him. Lyrically 2017’s Super certainly confirmed this, whilst the less said about 2019’s Agenda EP and its sanctimonious Give Stupidity A Chance the better. Renowned for their side-projects – a ballet, a musical, writing for Liza Minelli, Dusty, etc – it leaves Hotspot, their 14^thstudio album, as almost an aside to the project itself.

Unusually Led by 3 singles, what a Lucky Dip they have been. They’ve never released such a secession of disparate songs; the fluffy, almost too-effortless, pop of Dreamland with Years and Years, the brooding guitar and slightly slight rural folk of Burning the Heather, and the chunky groove of Monkey Business, which announces a welcome return to their roots, with what sounds like a non-double-tracked vocal, leaving the sort of raw Tennant not seen since the B-sides of their early career. It threatens to turn into 2002’s At Night by Shakedown and drives with genuine abandon. It’s the first bonafide dirty, back room, dance tune they’ve ever recorded.

They’ve become as strongly associated with B-sides as they have their (65!) singles. In fact, it’s become an almost depressingly familiar pattern, albums let down by the absence of songs relegated to flip-sides. It’s unclear why Neil and Chris’ song-writing was eclipsed by their poor judgement in album track selection, but it seems it have occurred around the time of 1996’s Bilingual.

It means only their closest fans know how even better they can be. This time it’s the b-side to Burning the Heather, the dirty-brooding synth heavy Decide, featuring vocoded and droll cool Chris Lowe vocals, conjuring up the dry-ice majesty of club nights, and capturing the blurry Hotspot imagery so closely, that should be included. And the Kygo influenced dreamy, tropical pop of An Open Mind; it’s got more riffs than a Now compilation. It’s the sort of return to form that few bands can ever muster, yet languishes on the b-side of Dreamland. It captures the vibe of Winner, but with less labour. The pop kids are back, but whoever decided An Open Mind wasn’t a single should be forever banned from album-track-listing meetings.

Hotspot is their Berlin album and only avoided being called that because of Lou Reed, and marks one the longest gaps between albums since the acoustic Release and return-to-form Fundamental in 2006.

However, it has been somewhat forgotten that they made a German (albeit not Berlin) album using analogue synths – some of which they had never seen before – in Munich circa 1990 with Harold Faltermeyer for Behaviour. And it clearly suits them, perhaps because just as in their early days, they are out of their comfort zone. This also includes producer Stuart Price.

Mind you, such long gestation, as they ascertained which synth did what, does nothing to explain their return to a 10 track album from 12, featuring in there vides again, single choices apparently plucked at random, and usually un-Pet Shop Boys song titles, such as Happy people, You are the One and I don’t wanna. The last particularly grates from a band renowned for clipped grammar.

The opening track steps boldly from the NYC sidewalk of their debut album into the bucolic mist. Will-o-the-Wisp. The title threatens progressive rock, but actually turns out to be a subtle chant-assisted electro-trance monster. It’s a strolling return to the streets of their youth, with a lush middle 8 of city sounds and nostalgia. It captures the sort of yearning that age is supposed to bury.

It leads perfectly into the birdsong of You Are the One, a brittle paean to a promising romantic liaison and the blossom of early love. It’s a little too close to the saccharine and underwritten The Only One from Nigtlife. Things are quickly salvaged by the proto-happy house of well, Happy People, which sounds not unlike St Etienne. The analogue synths of the Hansa studio shove to the fore for the wistful strings and loping rhythm Hoping for a Miracle. Life is a playground indeed. It swells with the hope it so tentatively dreams of. Alongside Only the dark it would fit perfectly on the high tide mark of 1990’s Behaviour album.

It is the closer, Wedding in Berlin, does its best to undo all the good work. It’s propulsive enough to (just about) get away with the rampant sample of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, but it tugs you back into the club when you might have been looking to call a taxi. It’s a novelty song that fits poorly as a coda to the warmth and mid-tempo reflective balladry that has gone before.

Over the years Pet Shop Boy’s allure has diminished, but then it has been 35 years. It has become impossible to separate the music from the people who made it, yet no one else makes pop like this, and they appear to have had a riot doing so. Hotspot fits together impossibly well, the shiny cold metal of Super replaced with rich mahogany; it’s the linking of arms on the way home, as opposed to the skipping there. You can sense the carpet in the studio. Most importantly it’s an intimate album that pulls you close, whereas its predecessor kept you at arms length. For those in the know it’s ironically more Elysium than it is Super; and that’s a good thing. Most importantly, unlike recent albums it survives the absence of b-sides (An open mind and Decide), yet would have been a masterpiece with them.

My two novels are available now on Urbane Publishing. The WHSmith Fresh Talent the Life Assistance Agency even features Rent by Pet Shop Boys, alongside many other pop references. If you like Douglas Adams. They were written as a romp. If you like them, please do leave a review – it all helps. There’s a lot of books out there – Hoping for a Miracle.

January 24, 2020 0

The Importance of being Creative.

‘Of course the BBC did not invent this system. They copied it from the Hollywood studios. The only difference is that in Hollywood the poor writer gets jerked around but ends up with a swimming pool.‘ Tony Garnett

I was recently driving behind a purple Lamborghini Huracán in city traffic, its V10 5.2 litre engine rumbling like a taxiing fighter plane, and I wondered where my life had taken a wrong turn. That was until I realised that the Christmas tree I was driving to deposit at the local park was a sort of impossible dream for the Lamborghini driver. He might have wheels as wide as a 1970s Ford Cortina, but any luggage larger than a powder case would have to be on his lap. And yes, let’s face it, it was a man driving. He had followed a childhood dream, and was now driving a car that makes 0-60 in 2.5 seconds – which takes less time than it does to say it – , yet is impossible to park without ground staff, struggles to negotiate speed bumps at speeds below 180mph, and cannot transport anything other than the clothes you are wearing. However, he had made a dream come true.

Dreams are important people, otherwise we can’t prove we were asleep. And it’s the time of year when you can’t swing a literary agent’s rejection letter without hitting a newspaper supplement advising on how to start writing that novel you’ve been promising you’d start. And it’s the usual advice – write everyday, avoid social media, find your voice, etc – that invariably avoids the difficulties involved. There are plentiful tips on how to climb the literary mountain from people who’ve been enjoying the summit’s glazed panoramic bar for so long that they can barely recall the climb up, nor what they have left at base camp. You can’t help wondering that they may not want any more people up there, blocking the view and overwhelming the bar staff.

Writing novel isn’t like rock climbing, and not just because you don’t need ropes, chalky fingers, and the sort of grip last seen in a 1950’s police officer on an urchin’s shoulder. No, writing is dissimilar to rock climbing because mountaineering is probably as hard as it looks, unlike writing, which looks easy but is bloody hard, it’s like cycling into the wind; you’re making concerted effort but not always getting anywhere.

I remember once meeting a millennial who told me how she wanted to do something creative. It was unclear what that was, simply that her aspirations were to be creative. I suspect she didn’t mean bathroom tiling or gardening, but something involving a large desktop computer screen festooned with woke stickers and an office of like-minded creatives hot-desking and doing creative things, whatever they are.

Of course, desire to be creative is a positive thing, it’s not something to be rid off like smoking, but enhances our sense of self, although nowadays creativity seems to be a badge entitling you to sweep into the priority queue of life and have something interesting to say at dinner parties. I’m unsure if you can decide to be creative. If you can then certainly not overnight; it takes a while for it to niggle into your marrow, by which point you’ll sometimes wish it never had. And you certainly need to work out how you want to be creative. Writing is more than doing, it is being.

Taking this time of year to start writing is a good a time as any, although it might be worth wondering what has stopped you from writing for so long; if indeed this is the case. Just read, read, read remains the best advice, because it at least it takes your mind off how poorly you’re getting on with your own book.

I published Unfinished Business last year, and it was well-received, but not well enough for me to seriously consider, at this moment in time, the idea of writing its sequel, which would be the concluding novel in the Life Assistance Agency trilogy. At least that was my initial thought, because once I had told my dearest reader of the news there was an outbreak of disappointment not seen since Nigel Mansell’s heartbreak at failing to finish the 1986 Australian Grand Prix and losing his title. I realised that a writer has a responsibility to the readers. To deliver words to be read.

In line with the ongoing motoring theme of this idle blog, being creative means having no choice, like the race driver Ken Miles in Le Mans ’66. Being creative means living with the lulls, alongside the white heat of the good days. There is one thing that holds true though. Writing is its own reward. And good advice is to keep it private and out of sight. Something to remember next time you’re stuck behind a Lamborghini Huracán better suited to loitering outside neon-splattered Miami night clubs than pot-holed roads of south London. Keep it subtle. Perhaps the best advice is don’t buy a car direct from the imagination of a 7-year old boy. Mind you, instead of aluminium and carbon fibre it might have been manufactured of marshmallows.

Idle blogs would suggest a good start to the new decade is to read the frankly brilliant, and occasionally quite funny, Unfinished Business, which has been described as the most important book since How to Avoid Huge Ships by John W. Trimmer, but we are biased. It is the sequel to the Life Assistance Agency

January 14, 2020 0

Writers – be inspired by H. G. Wells. Life is too short for plastic coat hangers.

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.

T. S. Elliot.

So, it’s 2020, and I’m already bored of the 2020 vision joke that I made last night unaware that I was distinguishing myself from the masses with all the distinction of a grey- finned penguin in a colony of 1/2 million black-finned brethren. I was gong to use Waddle as the alternative collective noun for penguins, but no one would believe me. Google it. I can guarantee this is a better start to a new year than attending the London fireworks early enough to claim a good spot only to find yourself unable to get a drink, or take a piss, for eight hours. Of course this is followed by £3m worth of pyrogenic self-congratulation to the soundtrack of people singing ‘Oh, Jeremy Corbyn’ to the already shit tune of White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army. They probably need to replace that with I’m Bound to Pack it Up from the White Stripes 2000 album De Stijl, but it’s too off message.

Of course it’s the time of year to make almighty public promises to yourself that you’ll fail to live up to. Things like learning how to basketweave, closing instead of minimising windows on your laptop, or to write a novel.

I had my most recent novel Unfinished Business published in 2019, and despite the hype of the first, has not spooked Lee Child or Thomas Harris in quite the way I had hoped. Mind you. while they still have a shoulder to look over it’s got to be worth persisting, so, it’s time to write another.

And there’s nothing quite so motivating than spending three days over the new year neighbouring a house that H.G. Wells once lived in; on the Kent coast overlooking the English Channel. This is the man who wrote 50 novels and an equal number of non-fiction books. This is clearly a man who justifies a blue plaque on any house he spent more than a five minutes in, as that was apparently long enough for him to smash out another 20, 000 words. In fact there should be a trail of blue plaques marking everywhere he walked, before he finally succumbed to liver failure in 1946.

The amount of time he must have spent alone is astonishing, although perhaps writing 50 novels in a 79 year life time is testament to the distraction of social media on the modern writer. At least that’s what I’m claiming. I can’t imagine he had any off-days, and if he had writer’s block then it’s best not think about how many more books he may have written. Sometimes you write on the strings of the literary gods, at others you hit the page with the grace of an egg in a bowl. He was clearly dangling on more inspirational strings than most.

Having said that, I can see how he may have written so many books staring at the English Channel – I know the French have tried to give it their own name, but no one knows what it is ;-. For what is purported to be the busiest shipping lane in the world, the Channel is utterly devoid of life. This morning a helicopter drilled past towards Folkestone at low altitude and there’s the sense it’ll be in the front page of the local Herald. It was so exciting that people hung around in the hope they might see its return journey. They did. H G. Wells didn’t even have that to distract him. Or TV, or the necessity to move his car every two hours to avoid a parking ticket – true story. Obviously, as a diabetic, what he did in his spare time was to co-found the charity The Diabetic Association in 1934, which has been now been rebranded Diabetes UK, presumably because the former was too complicated for most people to understand.

Anyway, 2020 is going to bring a few changes to Idle Blogs. Up to now I’ve resisted inserting too many photos into the text, which is of course recommended, but life is too short for plastic coat hangers. Therefore, in the spirit of simplifying The Diabetic Association there will be more photos, therefore making the blog posts more accessible.

So, what’re you waiting for? At this rate I’ll be writing novels quicker than you can read them, so don’t fall behind. The WHSmith Fresh Talent novel the Life Assistance Agency is out now, as is its sequel Unfinished Business . They can be bought here, and at small independent bookshops. But most importantly, I’d like to wish all the lovely readers of Idle Blogs a very happy new year to come.

My novels can be purchased from Foyles here:

https://bit.ly/35Svcrj

and from Amazon here: https://amzn.to/37VnsGP

January 2, 2020 0

Star Wars – Rise of Skywalker. A review. No spoilers.

Well, the Rise of Skywalker is here. It is the concluding episode from that galaxy far, far away. At least until the next one. Although there is the sense that Star Wars, despite its resurgence, is disappearing to lick its wounds over the underperforming Solo, and the (possibly unfairly) battered The Last Jedi, which released a plot hole the size of a MC85 Star Cruiser jumping to hyperspace through a Mega-class Star Dreadnought, and Luke Skywalker breast feeding from trunkless sea-elephants, or whatever they were called. For all those who shook early 1980s Christmas presents hopefully listening for the rattling of a Tauntaun, or a Land Speeder, well, part of your childhood is finally coming to an end.

There’s something about Star Wars that you either love, or think is sci-fi space twoddle of the lowest order. For all those who prefer their science fiction with generous scoops of Russian intellectualism matched only by the minimalism of the sets, there’s those busily calculating how much it would cost to build the franchise’s favourite spaceship, which is effectively a character. The Millennium Falcon would apparently cost £1,988,348,881 to build, even if technology like its hyper-drive have yet to be invented.

So, JJ Abrams having wrestled the franchise back from Rian Johnson, is back in the directing seat. There’s the sense that after Johnson took the helm and changed the direction of the trilogy Abrams is now wrestling the wheel of the car from a someone who apparently hadn’t seen a Star Wars film before, and thought a self-exiled jedi required fish nuns to do his steam-press ironing.

It’s a worrying start to Rise of Skywalker, as the familiar word crawl – a long time ago.. reveals an exclamation mark. I mean really? However, in contrast to recent outings, this time the set up is actually intriguing. It pulls no punches. (slight spoiler): but the suspected continued existence of the Emperor Palpatine pulls you in. You’re interested, as opposed to wondering why you should be interested in tax evasion in the outer rim.

The worst thing about the Last Jedi was nonsense like municipal droids such as BB8 blowing up high-grade military hardware like AT-STs. I know that sounds geeky, but it always felt like your burglar system chasing the perps down the garden path and arresting them. There’s so little of this buffoonery in episode 9 that you want to personally thank JJ Abrams for not being a dick. I mean the fact I’m even saying that tells you all you need to know about how far Star Wars had drifted from the hands of its fans. Abrams’ restraint is admirable, although that’s not to say that the fleet of hundreds of star destroyers floating in close planetary orbit doesn’t take your breath away; it does, and rightly so. The shadows threat of the floating fleet is utterly awesome in the old sense of the word, as opposed to simply liking a YouTube channel a lot.

Abrams has the challenge of wrapping up three trilogies, whilst undoing some of the events of previous ones so they fit together. There’s the appearance of so many characters that he manages to throw ten balls up before finding another 10. There’s some new characters, an early droid model called D-O, or Cone Head, and this time around there’s even purpose for C3-PIO, who has spent the last two films wandering around muttering to himself, much like committed Star Wars fans who had very different ideas of what should happen, but without access to Disney script meetings.

The Star Wars cinematic matte paintings were always impressive and the scope of this film takes so many references and scenes from the other films that it’s almost a guided tour of the ruined universe; Star Wars ruin porn if you will. And it doesn’t suffer from criticism aimed at the Force Awakens, which was seen as a re-run of the original A New Hope. This story feels new. There’s no bar scene this time, it’s replaced by a sort of Burning Man festival, and thankfully no stupid CGI horses, although there is a slightly idiotic cavalry charge along the decks of a Star Destroyer.

It’s far from perfect, some of the new characters still never really take hold, although Poe Dameron finds his feet, Daisy Ridley can barely act her way through a door, although she’s much better in this. Meanwhile Adam Driver finally gets to grip with the point of Kylo Ren, which at times is mesmerising. It’s also impossible to know who’s piloting the Millennium Falcon, and it’s prescient arrival when needed is no longer holds the surprise it once did as Han Solo hollered: ‘You’re all clear, kid! Now let’s blow this thing and go home!”

Previously there were too many crowd-pleasing scenes, if your crowd consists of 5-year-olds, but the Rise of Skywalker does a good job accepting its audience is now mainly adults, albeit ones that still collect toys and sketch Tatooine’s moisture evaporators during executive meetings. The gormless and cluttered prequels are all but buried by this film. And what’s probably most impressive is that the final predictable space battle is outshone by the events between Kylo Ren and Rey, which leads to an unexpected emotional finale concluding not only the nine films, but also the childhood of those who were once mesmerised by the events in a galaxy far far away.

The WHSmith Fresh Talent novel the Life Assistance Agency, and it’s follow up Unfinished Business, as thoroughly recommended for winter reading and can be purchased from Foyles here:

https://bit.ly/35Svcrj

and from Amazon here: https://amzn.to/37VnsGP

December 22, 2019 0

Journeys from the fax – concise thoughts on the modern world