20120224

Update

Here we are approaching the end of February and not one word from any of the applications I have sent off, auditions I have attended. The last two months have been almost annoyingly quiet. Apart from one job I did have at Warner Road Police Station where I was involved in an identity parade. That was before a collosal near-miscarriage of justice, which was cleared up in under three days, though I am pretty sure word got out to the grocers in the area.

It was during my sojourn in Warner Road I started to think about how famous people would survive in gaol. I don’t think there has been a convincing portrayal of Prison life; I mean that. I mean, there was The Green Mile, The Shawshank Redemption and Within These Walls, but no really gritty, socially combative exposure of life ‘inside’.

Which is why upon my release I started to write a new novel. I don’t see why not; Richard Fairbrass is not coming back to me about that audition for the West End, and he is leaving it a little late, considering it’s been on a week. And Penguin haven’t even replied to my idea about a book about the adventures of an amorous chair.

and so my mind is sharpened, my pen is ready. I say pen because I feel the writer works best when the process is not weighed down with the rigors of technology. Plus the electric has been cut off. This is what I have written thus far


Bob Crime is a garage proprietor from the east of London. Involved with some shady coves, he quickly becomes immersed in organised crime, and is involved in the notorious fruit stand caper, where he and his cohorts knock over a fruit stand. Alone and sentenced to four thousand years, he has time to think about the error of his ways. About his wife, and about sodomy. Not necessarily in that order. Anyway one of the convicts - or lags to use the parlance of the cells - tells him to do something or other which is totally contrary to the rules of the prison and thus presents a moral dilemma which is the main driver to the story. There is conflict as well with the prison big crime man called Mr Big, and for light relief a small scuffle over a pudding.


Glorious, gritty, real.

20120223

An Agents' Birthday

Today is Rhianna's birthday. Who is Rhianna? She is the delightful creature who has replaced Pamela who seems to be always at the dentist/on a course/skiing/up Mount Snowdon when I come in these days. She is much younger than Pamela, and I know I will regret typing this, much more efficient. Yet under her sultry greeting, behind those dark eyes, inside that mysterious feminine mind lies a throbbing, burning, passionate woman. I am sure of it. The way she asks me to sit in reception and then ignores me for an hour or two. It's obvious she likes me, the poor lamb. I made some enquiries and it appears she has changed her name and is now named after a pop star. I cannot remember which one. This just makes me even more intrigued. Who is this bewitching boudica? I need to know all I can.

I have therefore been going in to the office quite a lot, making excuses to be in her presence and watch her. Of course, I don't just sit there and stare. No. I have a magazine in front of my face with one hand and a small childs' periscope over the top. I am not sure she suspects. I have the inspiration for a poem:

Oh Rhianna
You type like Diana
She was a Princess
But you are a receptionist
Oh Rhianna
I hope a spanner
isn't in your works.
Because you wouldn't really need one
In the course of normal secretarial duties.

It's obviously a work in progress. But I am keen to know more about this sultry temptress. Not from a romantic point of view, although that would be nice and mean I hadn't wasted the money on the tablecloth, music and delicious food from the Harvester buffet. No, she has a strange aura.

Oh fickle love, what turmoil you are causing to my delicate, open heart? What strange emotion courses through my veins? This longing, this need, this burning? Although it could be the pickled onion I had earlier.


She coyly sighs when I ring; she seems indifferent when I enter the room; she hands me my script in preparation for my meeting with Audrey (my agent) without even looking up from her burrito.

They always say the ones who ignore you are the ones who like you most and she really, really ignores me. Could she be... the one? Is this the bewitching tickle of love in Tarquins' aching, lonely heart? Could we make it work, against the odds, against society, against the world?
















No.